I GO TO MIDNIGHT MASS
"Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains."
In our room, making ready for midnight mass, which all the family,
including guests, were expected to attend, my captain told me what Dr.
Saugrain had said to him about mademoiselle. He had told her fully her
history and expectations (save only her exact rank and title, which he
had thought best still to withhold from her), and the plans of her
friends for her future. He had also told her very plainly that he had
suspected the chevalier of just such an attempt at her capture as he
had made, and for that reason had been so unwilling that she should go
to Chouteau's Pond.
Mademoiselle had listened, and had asked him many questions, and had
at last said that she could not doubt the truth of her guardian, but
she thought it possible the chevalier was honest also, and misjudged
Dr. Saugrain because he did not know him. The doctor had tried to
convince her of the chevalier's duplicity, and showed her the letter
of warning from France concerning him; but the doctor was not sure
that mademoiselle was convinced, and he had determined, as soon as
safe convoy could be found, to send her to her friends in Paris.
In the meantime mademoiselle did not seem happy, and the good doctor
was much puzzled to know whether it was, as he hoped, regret at
leaving his wife and himself, who had been father and mother to her,
or, as he feared, a secret regret for the chevalier, and a lurking
doubt of the Saugrains.
And now all my bitterness toward mademoiselle had suddenly vanished. I
seemed to understand fully the state of mind the poor girl was in, and
there was no room in my heart for anything but a great pity for her.
The remembrance of her face as I had seen it when the chevalier was
talking to her, the generous indignation changing to doubt, and then
the gradual kindling of a desire for the life depicted to her by the
chevalier (and, perhaps, a touch of a softer emotion for the chevalier
himself),--it was like reading an open book, and I said to myself:
"Mademoiselle is torn by conflicting emotions: her love for her
friends here whom she is to leave, and longing for the life in Paris
which may soon be hers, and, perhaps, love for the chevalier, whom she
feels she ought to despise. What does it matter if she sometimes vents
her irritation with herself upon me, whom she regards as but a boy? I
shall not resent it; but if I find a chance I will try to let her know
I understand."
But I had no chance on the way to mass. Madame Saugrain seemed to
take it for granted that Captain Clarke and the doctor would walk with
mademoiselle, and I was her peculiar property; and I suppose I had
given her the right to think so by always pointedly devoting myself to
her.
It was a solemn service at that midnight hour: the bare little church
made beautiful with our garlands of green, and the twinkle of many
candles around the altar; the heads bowed in prayer; the subdued
murmur of voices making the responses; the swelling note of triumph in
the Gregorian chant; and then coming out under the quiet stars and
exchanging greetings with friend and neighbor.
And last of all the quiet walk home, and, to my surprise, I was
walking by mademoiselle's side. I was surprised, for it was not of my
arranging, and it set my blood to leaping to think it was possibly of
hers. I made up my mind that no word of mine should mar the
friendliness of the act, and I plunged quickly into a lively
discussion of the ball that was to take place at Madame Chouteau's on
Christmas evening. But she interrupted me almost in the beginning,
and, as was her habit when she talked with me, she spoke in French. It
was only rarely she tried her English, though, when she did, it was
with such a witching grace I could have wished it oftener.
"Monsieur," she said, "I have been so unmaidenly as to inflict my
company upon you for the walk home when you had not solicited it, but
I had a reason for so doing. I hope," as if a sudden thought had
struck her, "I have not interfered with other plans. Had you desired
to escort some one else home?"
"Certainly not," I said coolly, for I was unaccountably irritated by
the suggestion. "And I did not solicit the honor of being your escort
only because I had reason to suppose it would not be agreeable to
you."
"It was for that I am here without an invitation," she answered
quickly. "I have many times given you occasion to think me entirely
without manners. I have often been very rude to you. I wish to ask
your pardon for my silly speeches at the table, and for all my
unamiability, and to assure you I have not forgotten your great
services to me, and I am not ungrateful. It is because I have
naturally a very bad temper; and now I believe I am not quite well, I
am so irritable of late."
Several times I had tried to interrupt her; I could not bear to have
her humiliate herself to me (for I was sure it must be a humiliation
to one of her haughty temper). But she would not listen to my
interruptions; she went steadily on with a voice so low and sweet and
sad it quite unmanned me.
Yet because I thought her voice trembled, and in the moonlight (for
the late moon was now well up in the sky) I was sure I saw something
bright glistening on her long lashes, and because my heart was torn
for her, and I was seized with a horrible fear that she might weep,
and I would not know what to do--for all these reasons I spoke quickly
and lightly:
"Mademoiselle, you have the temper of an angel, and if sometimes you
lose it, I fear it is because only an angel with wings could be
patient with a blundering giant like me."
"You are no blunderer, monsieur," she said gravely; "and if you are a
giant, you are one of the good kind who use their strength and their
courage in rescuing distressed damsels. I hope they will not all
requite you as badly as I have done."
"Mademoiselle,"--I spoke as gravely as she had spoken,--"I hope you
will not let the remembrance of any service I have been able to render
you prove a burden to you. I would risk much more in your service, if
the occasion offered, than I risked then, and find my delight in so
doing." And then I added: "I wish you would promise me that if you
should ever need such service again--if you are ever in peril of any
kind, and I am in reach--that you will call on me."
Mademoiselle hesitated a moment before she replied:
"You are heaping coals of fire on my head, monsieur; you are far
kinder to me than I deserve, but--I promise."
"Thank you, mademoiselle; you have given me my reward, and if you were
ever unamiable to me, you have fully atoned. Sometimes I think,
mademoiselle," I went on, inwardly trembling but determined, "that you
did not esteem it so great a service that I rendered you--that perhaps
you had rather not have been rescued. Am I wrong?"
I was looking down on her and watching her narrowly as I spoke. I
could see, even by the uncertain light of the moon, that she went
suddenly white, and there was a perceptible pause before she spoke.
"I hardly think, monsieur, that you have any right to ask me such a
question, but I am going to answer your question by another." And
slowly the color crept back into her face, and grew brighter and
brighter, but she went steadily on. "Did you overhear what the
Chevalier Le Moyne was saying to me in the glen?"
It was my time to wince. Must I confess to eavesdropping? It was hard
enough to do that under any circumstances--but she might think I had
listened too to the chevalier's wooing; it seemed to me I could not so
outrage her sense of delicacy as to let her think that. I had been
reared to revere the truth, but for once I thought it not wrong to
chip a little from its sharp edge.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I will confess to you. I missed you and the
chevalier from the dance. I had been warned that the chevalier might
attempt to carry you off, and I had given my word not to let you out
of my sight. Of course I went at once in search of you, and because I
believed the whippoorwills we had heard in the woods to be signal of
savages, I bade Yorke follow me with the horses. I heard voices, and
in following them came to the top of the bluff encircling the glen. I
would scorn to be an eavesdropper under ordinary circumstances, but a
chance word caught my ear, and when I found the chevalier was not
pleading a lover's cause, but maligning my friend Dr. Saugrain to the
maiden he loves as his own daughter, I felt it my duty to listen. Your
rejection with scorn of the chevalier's base insinuation against Dr.
Saugrain delighted my heart, but when I found that he was continuing
with devilish ingenuity to seek to undermine your faith in your
guardian, I concluded it was time for me to interfere. I told Yorke to
be ready with the horses, and myself went down to the entrance of the
glen, intending to interrupt the chevalier, and use my pledge to your
guardian as authority for requesting your return. Imagine my
astonishment to find Yorke, whom I had left in charge of the horses,
astride the chevalier's neck! What followed you know, and now you know
what I heard and why I listened. Was it wrong?"
Mademoiselle was silent for a minute. I think she was not quite sure
that I had not heard more than I confessed to, but she was willing to
hope I had not.
"Monsieur," she said, "you were no doubt justified in listening, if
one can ever be justified in listening to what is not intended for his
ears. But you have used some harsh expressions concerning the
chevalier, and I think it is possible you wrong him, even as he
wronged my guardian. I do not for one moment believe that my guardian
has had any but the best of motives in keeping from me all knowledge
of my rank and wealth; but I might still be ignorant of it, and I know
not for how much longer, if the chevalier had not revealed it to me.
Dr. Saugrain corroborated all that he has said. He only refuses to
believe that the chevalier was sent by my friends to take me back to
Paris. He accuses him of being in a plot to get possession of my
person and of my wealth. Yet that is exactly the accusation made by
the chevalier against Dr. Saugrain. Dr. Saugrain admits that all the
chevalier said about my present rank and future prospects is true. Why
should not the rest be true--that he had been sent by my friends to
bring me back to Paris? Can you not see that he does not necessarily
seem to me so black as he does to you and my guardian? And it seems a
hard thing to me that he should be a refugee among savages, leaving a
blackened reputation behind him (for there is no one in St. Louis who
does not vilify him), when he was actuated by most chivalrous motives,
however mistaken they might be; for he thought he was rescuing a
wronged maiden from those who had unlawful possession of her, and
restoring her to her friends. I cannot but feel shame and regret that
I should have caused the chevalier so great a journey, at such cost of
money and fatigue, in vain, and that he may be even now suffering all
kinds of exposure from wild savages, if not in peril of his life."
Now here was the opportunity I had desired to assure her of my
sympathy, and tell her that I understood the difficulties in which she
was placed; but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. When I
thought of that villain (for whatever mademoiselle might think, I
never for a moment doubted his villainy) my blood boiled, and,
instead, I blurted out roughly:
"Mademoiselle, 'tis incomprehensible to me how you can for one moment
give the word of such a man as the chevalier, whom you have known so
short a time, equal credence with the word of such a man as Dr.
Saugrain, thorough Christian gentleman in every fiber of his being,
and your lifelong friend and benefactor, your more than father."
But I had spoken beyond my right. Mademoiselle turned on me with cold
fury:
"Monsieur, I have not sought this interview that you should teach me
my duty to my guardian, nor criticize my attitude toward the
chevalier. I am sorry we have allowed the others to get so far ahead
of us, but if we hasten we may overtake them and I will relieve you
from further attendance." Whereupon she started ahead at a round pace.
"Mademoiselle!" I called to her, "I entreat you to listen to me for a
moment."
Mademoiselle stopped and turned toward me, and we stood facing each
other in the middle of the road, alone in the white moonlight, for the
others were quite out of sight around a bend in the road, and there
were no houses near. Below us lay the Mississippi, a white flood in
the moonlight, and far across the river the twinkling lights of
Cahokia, one of them, no doubt, in Mr. Gratiot's house, where I had
first seen mademoiselle. Her eyes were flashing scorn at me now, as
they flashed at me when she knelt with her arms around the great
shaggy brute, and, looking up in my face, called me "Bête!" There was
no doubt about it, mademoiselle could be a little fury at times, and
no doubt she would have liked to call me once more, "Bête!"
"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am so unhappy as to be always offending
you. From the moment when I made my descent of Mr. Gratiot's staircase
on the back of your dog, to the present moment, I seem to have been
able to make myself only ridiculous or offensive to you! I beg you to
believe that it is a matter of the deepest regret to me that this
should be so, and to believe that to offend you is ever farthest from
my desire. I realize that I was over-zealous for Dr. Saugrain, whom I
greatly admire and love, and that you certainly had never given me any
right to take such interest in you and your affairs as I just now
displayed. I beg you to believe that I shall never again offend in
like manner, mademoiselle la comtesse."
I saw her face slowly change from its expression of scorn to that same
wondering look I had noticed in the church, as if she were regarding
some one she did not know and was trying to understand. As I uttered
the last words, "mademoiselle la comtesse," another and a swift change
came over her. Her eyes fell, her head drooped. Still standing there
in the moonlight, she suddenly buried her face in her hands and sobs
shook her slender figure.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" I cried. "I beg, I implore, you to
forgive me. I am, indeed, a brute!" And as she continued to sob
drearily, I was beside myself. What could I do? She looked so like a
little child, and I was so big, to have hurt her seemed cruel and
shameful. I was in a state of desperation. I begged her and implored
her not to weep; but it seemed to me she only sobbed the harder. What
did one do, I wondered, with a weeping maiden? Had it only been a
child I would have known, for I had ever a way with children; but
before a weeping maiden I was helpless.
And still mademoiselle sobbed on, her sobs coming faster and harder,
until, in a paroxysm of grief (or I know not what), she flung herself
upon a low bank beside the road, moaning and crying aloud.
Instantly my courage returned to me. Mademoiselle was acting like a
child; I should treat her as one.
"Mademoiselle," I said firmly, "I cannot permit you to sit upon the
cold ground. I am very, very sorry for you, but you must at once arise
and dry your eyes and tell me what is the matter, so that I can help
you."
Mademoiselle but wept the louder. There was no help for it; at the
risk of being rude I must stop her weeping and make her rise from the
ground.
"Mademoiselle!" I said sternly, "you will oblige me by rising at once
from that cold ground or you will compel me to go for Madame Saugrain
and deliver you into her hands."
For a second, amazement at my tone of authority kept her silent, then
followed a storm of sobs and tears more violent than before.
"I am sorry, mademoiselle," I said, in a tone purposely cool and
cutting (though it was my own heart I stabbed with my coldness), "that
you compel me to treat you _comme enfant_. I shall wait one minute,
and if you do not rise from the ground in that time I shall call your
friends." Then I drew myself up tall and stiff, like a sentinel,
turned my back on mademoiselle, and took out my watch to note the time
by the moon-beams.
There was no answer, but the sobs grew less until there was only an
occasional convulsive catching of the breath. Then came a moment of
quiet. There were neither sobs nor moans. Then a small and plaintive
voice said gently:
"Monsieur, I will be good now."
I turned quickly. Mademoiselle was starting to rise from the low bank;
I grasped her hands and helped her to her feet and looked down upon
her. Her face was flushed with weeping; her hood had fallen back and
her dark curls were in wild disorder; she might have been a beautiful
child who had been naughty but was now subdued. She adjusted her hood
and her curls as best she could, and then walked quietly along beside
me. We neither of us spoke, and we walked rapidly and in a few minutes
overtook the others and came up to the house together, and into the
big living-room, where fresh logs piled in the great chimney-place
were blazing and crackling, and lighting every cranny of the long
room.
Mademoiselle was paler than usual, but otherwise there were no signs
of the tempest she had just been through, and I looked at her with
wonder. Madame Saugrain, noticing her pallor, and thinking she was
cold, put her down on the wooden settle in the chimney-place to warm
by the glowing fire, and bustled about helping Narcisse to bring in
plates of croquecignolles and cups of hot mulled gooseberry wine,
which was much to my satisfaction, for the frosty air and the lateness
of the hour had put a keen edge on an appetite that was ever ready for
trencher service.
Now the settle on which mademoiselle sat had a high back and was
turned away from the rest of us, so that, as we engaged in helping
Madame Saugrain, we might easily have forgotten the little figure
hidden away upon it. Perhaps the others did, but I did not. My mind
hovered around it all the time; but I was divided between a desire to
take her some cake and wine, which I was sure would do her good, and a
fear of my reception if I did, and a baser fear that I might thereby
lose my own toothsome cake and fragrant wine, which was at that moment
making most potent appeals to my inner man by way of the nostrils.
"For," I said to myself, "I know the ways of maidens. They like not to
see men eat. It seems in their minds a greater compliment to them if a
man do but nibble and sip and seem to be careless of his victuals and
drink, which I maintain is a great mistake, for a good trencherman is
ever a good lover, and a man to be trusted in all the serious business
of life."
To ease my conscience and my appetite at the same time, I disposed of
a croquecignolle and my steaming cup of wine with such haste that the
one stuck in my windpipe and liked to choke me, and the other burnt my
mouth well and might as well have been boiling water for all the
pleasure my palate got out of it. Then I pretended to suddenly
remember mademoiselle, and carried her a plate of cake and a cup of
wine with fear and trembling.
She refused them, as I thought she would, but looked up at me very
sweetly and asked me very gently to sit down beside her for a moment,
and I remember thinking as I did so that I had been wise to secure my
cake and wine first, else would I have gone hungry, since I could
scarce have the face to eat if mademoiselle would not eat with me. But
I still thought it would do her good to have at least a little of the
wine, and, remembering how well she had yielded to discipline when she
found she must, I set the wine on the hearth where it would keep warm
for further use, and then turned to hear what she had to say.
"I only want to say to you, Monsieur, that I am very much ashamed of
myself this evening, but I am very unhappy, and I have brooded upon my
unhappiness until I have become nervous and irritable, and, as you saw
to-night, incapable of self-control. Is that a sufficient excuse for
behaving like a spoiled child?"
"Mademoiselle," I said, "it is far more than sufficient, but I am more
distressed than I can tell you that you should be so unhappy. If you
would but tell me the cause perhaps I could help you. Is it anything
you can tell me?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" said Pelagie, hastily, and then seeing perhaps by my
face that it hurt me that she should think it impossible I could help
her, she added hesitatingly: "That is, I think not. Perhaps it might
be possible. I will think about it to-night and to-morrow, and perhaps
at Madame Chouteau's dance, if I have an opportunity, I may tell you.
I believe," still more slowly, "if any one could help me, you could."
I am sure I thanked her more with my eyes than with my voice, but I
know she understood, and then, thinking she had had more than enough
of serious converse for one evening, I resumed my rôle of stern
disciplinarian and made her eat a little of the cake and drink most of
the wine, pretending all the time that she was a naughty child to be
sternly dealt with. And I could see that the warm wine and the foolish
play were bringing back the color to her cheeks and the brightness to
her eyes and the gay ring to her voice, which pleased me greatly. Then
my captain called to me that it was high time to be saying good night
to the ladies, or rather good morning, and I rose to go, but I turned
first and leaned over the back of the tall settle:
"Mademoiselle, at the picnic on Chouteau's Pond I won the first dance
with you, I think somewhat against your will. If I should ask you for
the first dance to-morrow night, would you give it to me willingly?"
"Willingly, Monsieur," with a glance into my eyes (which were very
near her own) by far the sweetest I had yet had from hers.