A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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"It is not to be wondered at," said the new priest to many of his flock.
"One could hardly tell what you are. There must be better regulations."

"But we pay our tithes regularly. And Father Rameau--"

"I am tired of Father Rameau!" said the priest angrily. "And the
fiddling and the dancing!"

"I do not like the quarreling," commented Jeanne. "And in the little
chapel they all agree. They worship God, and not the Saints or the
Virgin."

"But the Virgin was a woman and is tender to us, and will intercede for
us," interposed Pani.

Jeanne went to the English school that winter but the children were not
much to her mind.

And now it was May, and Jeanne suddenly decided that she was tired of
school.

"Pierre has come home!" almost shouted Rose to the two sitting in the
doorway. "And he is a big man with a heavy voice, and, would you
believe, he fairly lifted mother off her feet, and she tried to box his
ears, but could not, and we all laughed so. He will be at the Fete
to-morrow."

"Come, Pani," Jeanne said quite early, "we will hunt for some flowers.
Susette Mass said we were to bring as many as we could."

"But--there will be the procession and the blessings--"

"And you will like that. Then we can be first to put some flowers on the
shrines, maybe."

That won Pani. So together they went. At the edge of the wood wild
flowers had begun to bloom, and they gathered handfuls. Little maple
trees just coming up had four tiny red leaves that looked like a
blossom.

There under a great birch tree was a small wooden temple with a
weather-beaten cross on top, and on a shelf inside, raised a little from
the ground, stood a plaster cast of the Virgin. Jeanne sprinkled the
white blossoms of the wild strawberry all around. Pani knelt and said a
little prayer.

Susette Mass ran to meet them.

"Oh, how early you are!" she cried. "And how beautiful! Where did you
find so many flowers? Some must go to the chapel."

"There will be plenty to give to the chapel. There is another shrine
somewhere."

"And they say you are not a good Catholic!"

"I would like to be good. Sometimes I try," returned Jeanne, softly, and
her eyes looked like a saint's, Susette thought.

Pani led the way to the other shrine and while the child scattered
flowers and stood in silent reverence, Pani knelt and prayed. Then the
throng of gayly dressed girls and laughing young men were coming from
several quarters and the procession formed amid much chattering.

Afterward there were games of various sorts, tests of strength, running
and jumping, and the Indian game of ball, which was wilder and more
exciting than the French.

"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed Rose De Ber. On one side was Martin
Lavosse, a well-favored young fellow, and on the other a great giant, it
seemed to Jeanne. For a moment she felt afraid.

"Why, it isn't Jeanne Angelot?" Pierre caught both hands and almost
crushed them, and looked into the deep blue eyes with such eagerness
that the warm color flew to Jeanne's forehead. "Oh, how beautiful you
have grown!"

He bent down a little and uttered it in a whisper. Jeanne flushed and
then was angry at herself for the rising color.

Pierre was fascinated anew. More than once in the two years he had
smiled at his infatuation for the wild little girl who might be half
Indian so far as anyone knew. No, not half--but very likely a little.
What a temper she had, too! He had nearly forgotten all her charms. Of
course it had been a childish intimacy. He had driven her in his dog
sledge over the ice, he had watched her climb trees to his daring, they
had been out in his father's canoe when she _would_ paddle and he was
almost afraid of tipping over. Really he had run risks of his life for
her foolishness. And his foolishness had been in begging her to promise
to marry him!

He had seen quite a good deal of the world since, and been treated as a
man. In his slow-thoughted fashion he saw her the same wild, willful,
obstinate little thing. Rose was a young lady, that was natural, but
Jeanne--

"They are going to dance. Hear the fiddles! It is one of the great
amusements up there," indicating the North with his head. "Only half the
time you dance with boys--young fellows;" and he gave a chuckling laugh.
"You see there is a scarcity of women. The Indian girls stand a good
chance. Only a good many of the men have left wives and children at
home."

"Did you like it?" Jeanne asked with interest.

Pierre shrugged his broad shoulders.

"At first I hated it. I would have run away, but if I had come back to
Detroit everybody would have laughed and my father would have beaten me.
Now he looks me over as if he knew I was worth something. Why, I am
taller than he! And I have learned a great deal about making money."

They were done tuning up the violins and all the air was soft with the
natural melody of birds and whispering winds. This was broken by a
stentorian shout, and men and maids fell into places. Pierre grasped
Jeanne's hand so tightly that she winced. With the other hand he caught
one of the streamers. There was a great scramble for them. And when, as
soon as the dancing was in earnest, a young fellow had to let his
streamer go in turning his partner, some one caught it and a merry shout
rang through the group.

"How stupid you are!" cried Rose to Martin. "Why did you not catch that
streamer? Now we are on the outside." She pouted her pretty lips. "Are
you bewitched with Pierre and Jeanne?"

"How beautifully she dances, and Pierre for a clumsy, big fellow is not
bad."

Hugh Pallent had caught a streamer and held out his hand to Rose.

"Well, amuse yourself with looking at them, Monsieur," returned Rose
pettishly. "As for me, I came to dance," and Pallent whisked her off.

Martin's eyes followed them, other eyes as well.

Pierre threw his streamer with a sleight of hand one would hardly have
looked for, and caught it again amid the cheers of his companions. Round
they went, only once losing their place in the whole circle. The violins
flew faster, the dancing grew almost furious, eyes sparkled and cheeks
bloomed.

"I am tired," Jeanne said, and lagging she half drew Pierre out of the
circle.

"Tired! I could dance forever with you."

"But you must not. See how the mothers are watching you for a chance,
and the girls will be proud enough to have you ask them."

"I am not going to;" shrugging his square shoulders.

"Oh, yes, you are!" with a pretty air of authority.

Jeanne saw envious eyes wandering in her direction. She did not know how
she outshone most of the girls, with an air that was so different from
the ordinary. Her white cotton gown had a strip of bright, curiously
worked embroidery above the hem and around the square neck that gave her
exquisite throat full play. The sleeves came to the elbow, and both
hands and arms were beautiful. Her skin was many shades fairer, her
cheeks like the heart of a rose, and her mouth dimpled in the corners.
Her lithe figure had none of the squareness of the ordinary habitan, and
every movement was grace itself.

"If you will not dance, let us walk, then. I have so much to say--"

"There will be all summer to say it in. And there is only one May dance.
Susette!"

Susette came with sparkling eyes.

"This young man is dance bewitched. See how he has changed. We can
hardly believe it is the Pierre we used to run races and climb trees
with in nutting time. And he knows how to dance;" laughing.

Pierre held out his hand, but there was a shade of reluctance in his
eyes.

"I thought you were never going to throw over that great giant," said
Martin Lavosse. "I suppose every girl will go crazy about him because he
has been up north and made some money. His father has planned to take
him into business. Jeanne, dance with me."

"No, not now. I am tired."

"I should think you would be, pulled around at that rate. Look, Susette
can hardly keep up, and her braids have tumbled."

"Did I look like that?" asked Jeanne with sudden disapprobation in her
tone.

"Oh, no, no! You were like--like the fairies and wood things old Mere
Michaud tells of. Your hair just floated around like a cloud full of
twilight--"

"No, the black ones when the thunderstorm is coming on," she returned
mischievously.

"It was beautiful and full of waves. And you are so straight and slim.
You just floated."

"And you watched me and lost your streamer twice. Rose did not like it."

He was a little jealous and a little vexed at Rose giving him the go by
in such a pointed manner. He would get even with her.

"Why did you go off so early? We all went up for you."

"I wanted to gather flowers for the shrines."

"But we could have gone, too."

"No, it would have been too late. It was such a pleasure to Pani. She
can't dance, you know."

"Let us walk around and see the tables."

They were being spread out on the green sward, planks raised a foot or
so, for every one would sit on the grass. Some of the Indian women had
booths, and were already selling birch and sassafras beer, pipes and
tobacco, and maple sugar. Little ones were running helter-skelter,
tumbling down and getting up without a whimper. Here a knot of men were
playing cards or dominoes. It was a pretty scene, and needed only
cavaliers and the glittering, stately stepping dames to make it a
picture of old France.

They were all tired and breathless with the dance presently, and threw
themselves around on the grass for a bit of rest. There was laughing and
chattering, and bright eyes full of mirth sent coquettish glances first
on this side, then on that. Susette had borne off her partner in triumph
to see her mother, and there were old neighbors welcoming and
complimenting Pierre De Ber.

"Pierre," said a stout fellow banteringly, "you have shown us your
improvement in dancing. As I remember you were a rather clumsy boy, too
big for your years. Now they are going to try feats of skill and
strength. After that we shall have some of the Indian women run a race.
Monsieur De Ber, we shall be glad to count you in, if you have the
daring to compete with the stay-at-homes."

"For shame, Hugh! What kind of an invitation is that? Pierre, you do not
look as if you had spent all your prowess in dancing;" glancing
admiringly at the big fellow.

"You will see. Give me a trial." Pierre was nettled at the first
speaker's tone. "I have not been up on the Mich for nothing. You fellows
think the river and Lake St. Clair half the world. You should see Lake
Michigan and Lake Superior."

"Yes, Pierre," spoke up another. "You used to be good on a jump. Come
and try to distance us stay-at-homes, if you haven't grown too heavy."

They were marking off a place for the jumping on a level, and at a short
distance hurdles of different heights had been put up.

Pierre had been the butt of several things in his boyish days, but,
though a heavy lad, often excelled in jumping. The chaffing stirred his
spirit. He would show what he could do. And Jeanne should see it. What
did he care for Susette's shining eyes!

Two or three supple young fellows, two older ones with a well-seasoned
appearance, stood on the mark. Pierre eyed it.

"No," he said, "it is not fair. I'm a sight heavier than those. And I
won't take the glory from them. But if you are all agreed I'll try the
other."

"Why, man, the other is a deal harder."

Pierre nodded indifferently.

The first started like a young athlete; a running jump and it fell
short. There was a great laugh of derision. But the second was more
successful and a shout went up. The next one leaped over the mark. Four
of them won.

Rose was piqued that Martin should sit all this while on the grass
chatting to Jeanne. She came around to them.

"Pierre is going to jump," she announced. "I'm sorry, but they badgered
him into it. They were really envious of his dancing."

Jeanne rose. "I do wonder where Pani is!" she said. "Shall we go
nearer?"

"Oh, Pani is with the Indian women over there at the booths. No, stay,
Jeanne," and Rose caught her hand. "Look! look! Why, they might almost
be birds. Isn't it grand? But--Pierre--"

She might have spared her anxiety. Pierre came over with a splendid
flying leap, clearing the bar better than his predecessor. A wild shout
went up and Pierre's hand was clasped and shaken with a hearty approval.
The girls crowded around him, and all was noisy jollity. Jeanne simply
glanced up and he caught her eye.

"I have pleased her this time," he thought.

The racing of the squaws, though some indeed were quite young girls, was
productive of much amusement. This was the only trial that had a prize
attached to it,--a beautiful blanket, for money was a scarce commodity.
A slim, young damsel won it.

"Jeanne," and Pierre bent over her, for, though she was taller than the
average, he was head and almost shoulders above her, "Jeanne, you could
have beaten them all."

She flushed. "I do not run races anymore," she returned with dignity.

He sighed. "That was a happy old time. How long ago it seems!
Jeanne--are you glad to see me? You are so--so grave. And all the time I
have been thinking of the child--I forgot you were to grow."

Some one blew a horn long and loud that sent echoes among the trees a
thousand times more beautiful than the sound itself. The tables, if they
could be called that, were spread, and in no time were surrounded by
merry, laughing, chatting groups, who brought with them the appetites of
the woods and wilds, hardly leaving crumbs for the birds.

After that there was dancing again and rambling around, and Pierre was
made much of by the mothers. It was a proud day for Madame De Ber, and
she glanced about among the girls to see whom of them she would choose
for a daughter-in-law. For now Pierre could have his pick of them all.

CHAPTER XI.

LOVE, LIKE THE ROSE, IS BRIERY.

Jeanne Angelot sat in the doorway in the moonlight silvering the street.
There were so many nooks and places in shadow that everything had a
weird, fantastic look. The small garrison were quiet, and many of them
asleep by nine o'clock. Early hours was the rule except in what were
called the great houses. But in this out of the way nook few pedestrians
ever passed in the evening.

"Child, are you not coming to bed? Why do you sit there? You said you
were tired."

Pani was crooning over a handful of fire. The May sunshine had not
penetrated all the houses, and her old blood had lost its heat.

"Yes, I was. What with the dancing and the walking about and all I was
very weary. I want to get rested. It is so quiet and lovely."

"You can rest in bed."

"I want to stay here a little while longer. Do not mind me, but go to
bed yourself."

The voice was tender, persuasive, but Pani did not stir. Now and then
she felt uncertain of the child.

"Was it not a happy day to you, _ma fille_?"

"Yes," with soft brevity.

Had it been happy? At different times during the past two years a
curious something, like a great wave, had swept over her, bearing her
away, yet slowly she seemed to float back. Only it was never quite the
same--the shores, the woods, the birds, the squirrels, the deer that
came and looked at her with unafraid eyes, impressed her with some new,
inexplicable emotion. What meaning was behind them?

But to-night she could not go back. She had passed the unknown boundary.
Her limited knowledge could not understand the unfolding, the budding of
womanhood, whose next change was blossoming. It had been a day of varied
emotions. If she could have run up the hillside with no curious eyes
upon her, sung with the birds, gathered great handfuls of daisies and
bell flowers, tumbled up the pink and yellow fungus that grew around the
tree roots, studied the bits of crisp moss that stood up like sentinels,
with their red caps, and if you trod on them bristled up again, or if
she could have climbed the trees and swung from branch to branch in the
wavering flecks of sunshine as she did only such a little while ago, all
would have been well. What was it restrained her? Was it the throng of
people? She had enjoyed startling them with a kind of bravado. That was
childhood. Ah, yes. Everybody grew up, and these wild antics no longer
pleased. Oh, could she not go back and have it all over again?

She had danced and laughed. Pierre had tried to keep her a good deal to
himself, but she had been elusive as a golden mote dancing up and down.
She seemed to understand what this sense of appropriating meant, and she
did not like it.

And then Martin Lavosse had been curious as well. Rose and he were not
betrothed, and Rose was like a gay humming bird, sipping pleasure and
then away. Madame De Ber had certainly grown less strict. But Martin was
still very young and poor, and Rose could do better with her pretty
face. Like a shrewd, experienced person she offered no opposition that
would be like a breeze to a smoldering flame. There was Edouard Loisel,
the notary's nephew, and even if he was one of the best fiddlers in
town, he had a head for business as well, and was a shrewd trader. M.
Loisel had no children of his own and only these two nephews, and if
Edouard fancied Rose before Martin was ready to speak--so the mother had
a blind eye for Rose's pretty coquetries in that direction; but Rose did
not like to have Martin quite so devoted to any other girl as he seemed
to be to Jeanne.

Jeanne had not liked it at all. She had been good friends and comrades
with the boys, but now they were grown and had curious ideas of holding
one's hand and looking into one's eyes that intensified the new feeling
penetrating every pulse. If only she might run away somewhere. If Pani
were not so old they would go to the other side of the mountain and
build a hut and live together there. She did not believe the Indians
would molest them. Anything to get away from this strange burthen
pressing down upon her that she knew not was womanhood, and be free once
more.

She rose presently and went in. Pani was a heap in the chimney corner,
she saw her by the long silver ray that fell across the floor.

"Pani! Pani!" she cried vehemently.

Her arms were around the neck and the face was lifted up, kissed with a
fervor she had never experienced before.

"My little one! my little one!" sighed the woman.

"Come, let us go to bed." There was an eagerness in the tone that
comforted the woman.

The next morning Detroit was at work betimes. There was no fashion of
loitering then; when the sun flung out his golden arrows that dispelled
the night, men and women were cheerfully astir.

"I must go and get some silk for Wenonah; she has some embroidery to
finish for the wife of one of the officers," exclaimed Jeanne. "And then
I will take it to her."

So if Pierre dropped in--

There were some stores down on St. Louis street where the imported goods
from Montreal and Quebec were kept. Laces and finery for the quality,
silks and brocades, hard as the times were. Jeanne tripped along gayly.
She would be happy this morning anyhow, as if she was putting off some
impending evil.

"Take care, child! Ah, it is Jeanne Angelot. Did I run over thee, or
thou over me?" laughing. "I have not on my glasses, but I ought to see a
tall slip of a girl like thee."

"Pardon, Monsieur. I was in haste and heedless."

"I have something for thee that will gladden thy heart--a letter. Let me
see--" beginning to search his pockets, and then taking out a great
leathern wallet. "No?" staring in surprise. "Then I must have left it on
my desk at home. Canst thou spend time to run up and get it?"

"Oh, gladly." The words had a ring of joy that touched the man's heart.

"It is well, Mam'selle, that it comes from the father, since it is
received with such delight."

She did not catch the double meaning. Indeed, Laurent was far from her
thoughts.

"Thank you a thousand times," with her radiant smile, and he carried the
bright face into his dingy warehouse.

She went on her way blithe as the gayest bird. A letter from M. St.
Armand! It had been so long that sometimes she was afraid he might be
dead, like M. Bellestre. The birds were singing. "A letter," they
caroled; "a letter, a l-e-t-t-e-r," dwelling on every sound with
enchanting tenderness.

The old Fleury house overlooked the military garden to the west, and the
river to the east. There had been an addition built to it, a wing that
placed the hall in the middle. It was wide, and the door at each end was
set open. At the back were glimpses of all kinds of greenery and the
fragrance of blossoming shrubs. A great enameled jar stood midway of the
hall and had in it a tall blooming rose kept through the winter indoors,
a Spanish rose growing wild in its own country. The floor was polished,
the fur rugs had been stowed away, and the curious Indian grass mats
exhaled a peculiar fragrance. A bird cage hung up high and its inmate
was warbling an exquisite melody. Jeanne stood quite still and a sense
of harmonious beauty penetrated her, gave her a vague impression of
having sometime been part and parcel of it.

"What is it?" demanded the Indian servant. There were very few negroes
in Detroit, and although there were no factories or mills, French girls
seldom hired out for domestics.

"Madame Fleury--Monsieur sent me for a letter lying on his desk," Jeanne
said in a half hesitating manner.

The servant stepped into the room to consult her mistress. Then she said
to Jeanne:--

"Walk in here, Mademoiselle."

The room was much more richly appointed than the hall, though the
polished floor was quite bare. A great high-backed settee with a carved
top was covered with some flowered stuff in which golden threads
shimmered; there was a tall escritoire going nearly up to the ceiling,
the bottom with drawers that had curious brass handles, rings spouting
out of a dragon's mouth. There were glass doors above and books and
strange ornaments and minerals on the shelves. On the high mantel, and
very few houses could boast them, stood brass candlesticks and vases of
colored glass that had come from Venice. There were some quaint
portraits, family heirlooms ranged round the wall, and chairs with
carved legs and stuffed backs and seats.

On a worktable lay a book and a piece of lace work over a cushion full
of pins. By it sat a young lady in musing mood.

She, too, said, "What is it?" but her voice had a soft, lingering
cadence.

Jeanne explained meeting M. Fleury and his message, but her manner was
shy and hesitating.

"Oh, then you are Jeanne Angelot, I suppose?" half assertion, half
inquiry.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," and she folded her hands.

"I think I remember you as a little child. You lived with an Indian
woman and were a"--no, she could not say "foundling" to this beautiful
girl, who might have been born to the purple, so fine was her figure,
her air, the very atmosphere surrounding her.

"I was given to her--Pani. My mother had died," she replied, simply.

"Yes--a letter. Let me see." She rose and went through a wide open
doorway. Jeanne's eyes followed her. The walls seemed full of arms and
hunting trophies and fishing tackle, and in the center of the room a
sort of table with drawers down one side.

"Yes, here. 'Mademoiselle Jeanne Angelot.'" She seemed to study the
writing. She was quite pretty, Jeanne thought, though rather pale, and
her silken gown looped up at the side with a great bow of ribbon, fell
at the back in a long train. Her movements were so soft and gliding that
the girl was half enchanted.

"You still live with--with the woman?"

"M. Bellestre gave her the house. It is small, but big enough for us
two. Yes, Mademoiselle. Thank you," as she placed the letter in Jeanne's
hand, and received in return an enchanting smile. With a courtesy she
left the room, and walked slowly down the path, trying to think. Some
girl, for there was gossip even in those days, had said that Mam'selle's
lover had proved false to her, and married some one else in one of the
southern cities. Jeanne felt sorry for her.

Lisa Fleury wondered why so much beauty had been given to a girl who
could make no use of it.

Jeanne hugged her letter to her heart. It had been so long, so long that
she felt afraid she would never hear again. She wanted to run every step
of the way, last summer she would have. She almost forgot Wenonah and
the silk, then laughed at herself, and outside of the palisades she did
run.

"You are so good," Wenonah said. "Look at this embroidery,--is it not
grand? And that I used to color threads where now I can use beautiful
silk. It shines like the sun. The white people have wonderful ways."

Jeanne laughed and opened her letter. She could wait no longer. Oh,
delightful news! She laughed again in sheer delight, soft, rippling
notes.

"What is it pleases thee so, Mam'selle?"

"It is my friend who comes back, the grand Monsieur with the beautiful
white beard, for whose sake I learned to write. I am glad I have learned
so many things. By another spring he will be here!"

Then Jeanne forgot the somber garment of womanhood that shadowed her
last night, and danced in the very gladness of her heart. Wenonah smiled
and then sighed. What if this man of so many years should want to marry
the child? Such things had been. And there was that fine young De Ber
just come home. But then, a year was a good while.

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