A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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But the three years had allowed him to escape from the woman's memory,
as any event they might expect again in their lives. Hugh de Marsac had
turned into something of an explorer, beside his profitable connection
with the fur company. The copper mines on Lake Superior had stirred up a
great interest, and plans were being made to work them to a better
advantage than the Indians had ever done. Fortunes were the dream of
mankind even then; though this was destined to end in disappointment.

Jeanne chose her canoe and they pushed out. She was in no haste, and few
people were going down the river, not many anywhere except on business.
The numerous holy days of the Church, which gave to religion an hour or
two in the morning and devoted to pleasure the rest of the day, set the
river in a whirl of gayety. Ordinary days were for work.

The air was soft and fragrant. Some sea gulls started from a sandy nook
with disturbed cries, then returned as if they knew the girl. A fishhawk
darted swiftly down, having seen his prey in the clear water and
captured it. There were farms stretching down the river now, with rough
log huts quite distinct from the whitewashed or vine-covered cottages of
the French. But the fields betrayed a more thrifty cultivation. There
were young orchards nodding in the sunshine, great stretches of waving
maize fields, and patches of different grains. Little streams danced out
here and there and gurgled into the river, as if they were glad to be
part of it.

"Pani, do you suppose we could go ever so far down and build a tent or a
hut and live there all the rest of the summer?"

"But I thought you liked the woods!"

"I like being far away. I am tired of Detroit."

"Mam'selle, it would hardly be safe. There are still unfriendly Indians.
And--the loneliness of it! For there are some evil spirits about, though
Holy Church has banished them from the town."

Occasionally her old beliefs and fears rushed over the Indian woman and
shook her in a clutch of terror. She felt safest in her own little nest,
under the shadow of the Citadel, with the high, sharp palisades about
her, when night came on.

"Art thou afraid of Madame De Ber?" she asked, hesitatingly. "For of a
truth she did not want you for her son's wife."

"I know it. Pierre made them all agree to it. I am sorry for Pierre, and
yet he has the blindness of a mole. I am not the kind of wife he wants.
For though there is so much kissing and caressing at first, there are
dinners and suppers, and the man is cross sometimes because other things
go wrong. And he smells of the skins and oils and paints, and the dirt,
too," laughing. "Faugh! I could not endure it. I would rather dwell in
the woods all my life. Why, I should come to hate such a man! I should
run away or kill myself. And that would be a bitter self-punishment, for
I love so to live if I can have my own life. Pani, why do men want one
particular woman? Susette is blithe and merry, and Angelique is pretty
as a flower, and when she spins she makes a picture like one the
schoolmaster told me about. Oh, yes, there are plenty of girls who would
be proud and glad to keep Pierre's house. Why does not the good God give
men the right sense of things?"

Pani turned her head mournfully from side to side, and the shrunken lips
made no reply.

Then they glided on and on. The blue, sunlit arch overhead, the waving
trees that sent dancing shadows like troops of elfin sprites over the
water, the fret in one place where a rock broke the murmurous lapping,
the swish somewhere else, where grasses and weeds and water blooms
rooted in the sedge rocked back and forth with the slow tide--how
peaceful it all was!

Yet Jeanne Angelot was not at peace. Why, when the woods or the river
always soothed her? And it was not Pierre who disturbed the current, who
lay at the bottom like some evil spirit, reaching up long, cruel arms to
grasp her. Last summer she had put Louis Marsac out of her life with an
exultant thrill. He would forget all about her. He would or had married
some one up North, and she was glad.

He had come back. She knew now what this look in a man's eyes meant. She
had seen it in a girl's eyes, too, but the girl had the right, and was
offering incense to her betrothed. Oh, perhaps--perhaps some other one
might attract him, for he was very handsome, much finer and more manly
than when he went away.

Why did not Pani say something about him? Why did she sit there half
asleep?

"Wasn't it queer, Pani, that we should go so near the wharf, when we
were trying to run away--"

She ended with a short laugh, in which there was neither pleasure nor
mirth.

Pani glanced up with distressful eyes.

"Eh, child!" she cried, with a sort of anguish, "it is a pity thou wert
made so beautiful."

"But there are many pretty girls, and great ladies are lovely to look
at. Why should I not have some of the charm? It gives one satisfaction."

"There is danger for thee in it. Perhaps, after all, the Recollet house
would be best for thee."

"No, no;" with a passionate protest. "And, Pani, no man can make me
marry him. I would scream and cry until the priest would feel afraid to
say a word."

Pani put her thin, brown hand over the plump, dimpled one; and her eyes
were large and weird.

"Thou art afraid of Louis Marsac," she said.

"Oh, Pani, I am, I am!" The voice was tremulous, entreating. "Did you
see something in his face, a curious resolve, and shall I call it
admiration? I hope he has a wife. Oh, I know he has not! Pani, you must
help me, guard me."

"There is M. Loisel, who would not have thee marry against thy will. I
wish Father Rameau were home--he comes in the autumn."

"I do not want to marry anyone. I am a strange girl. Marie Beeson said
some girls were born old maids, and surely I am one. I like the older
men who give you fatherly looks, and call you child, and do not press
your hand so tight. Yet the young men who can talk are pleasant to meet.
Pani, did you love your husband?"

"Indian girls are different. My father brought a brave to the wigwam and
we had a feast and a dance. The next morning I went away with him. He
was not cruel, but you see squaws are beasts of burthens. I was only a
child as you consider it. Then there came a great war between two tribes
and the victors sold their prisoners. It is so long ago that it seems
like a story I have heard."

The young wives Jeanne knew were always extolling their husbands, but
she thought in spite of their many virtues she would not care to have
them. What made her so strange, so obstinate!

"Pani," in a low tone scarce above the ripple of the water, "M. Marsac
is very handsome. The Indian blood does not show much in him."

"Yes, child. He is improved. There is--what do you call it?--the grand
air about him, like a gentleman, only he was impertinent to thee."

"You will not be persuaded to like him? It was different with Pierre."

Jeanne made this concession with a slight hesitation.

"Oh, little one, I will never take pity on anyone again if you do not
care for him! The Holy Mother of God hears me promise that. I was sorry
for Pierre and he is a good lad. He has not learned to drink rum and is
reverent to his father. It is a thousand pities that he should love you
so."

Pani kissed the hand she held; Jeanne suddenly felt light of heart
again.

Down the river they floated and up again when the silver light was
flooding everything with a softened glory. Jeanne drew her canoe in
gently, there was no one down this end, and they took a longer way
around to avoid the drinking shops. The little house was quiet and dark
with no one to waylay them.

"You will never leave me alone, Pani," and she laid her head on the
woman's shoulder. "Then when M. St. Armand comes next year--"

She prayed to God to keep him safely, she even uttered a little prayer
to the Virgin. But could the Divine Mother know anything of girls'
troubles?

CHAPTER XIII.

AN UNWELCOME LOVER.

Louis Marsac stood a little dazed as the slim, proudly carried figure
turned away from him. He was not much used to such behavior from women.
He was both angry and amused.

"She was ever an uncertain little witch, but--to an old friend! I dare
say lovers have turned her head. Perhaps I have waited too long."

There was too much pressing business for him to speculate on a girl's
waywardness; orders to give, and then important matters to discuss at
the warehouse before he made himself presentable at the dinner. The
three years had added much to Marsac's store of knowledge, as well as to
his conscious self-importance. He had been in grand houses, a favored
guest, in spite of the admixture of Indian blood. His father's position
was high, and Louis held more than one fortunate chance in his hand.
Developing the country was a new and attractive watchword. He had no
prejudices as to who should rule, except that he understood that the
French narrowness and bigotry had served them ill. Religion was, no
doubt, an excellent thing; the priests helped to keep order and were in
many respects serviceable. As for the new rulers, one need to be a
little wary of too profound a faith in them. The Indians had not been
wholly conquered, the English dreamed of re-conquest.

Detroit was not much changed under the new regime. Louis liked the great
expanse at the North better. The town was only for business.

He had a certain polish and graceful manner that had come from the
French side, and an intelligence that was practical and appealed to men.
He had the suavity and deference that pleased women, if he knew little
about poets and writers, then coming to be the fashion. His French was
melodious, the Indian voice scarcely perceptible.

In these three years there had been months that he had never thought of
Jeanne Angelot, and he might have let her slip from his memory but for a
slender thread that interested him, and of which he at last held the
clew. If he found her unmarried--well, a marriage with him would advance
her interests, if not--was it worth while to take trouble that could be
of no benefit to one's self?

Was it an omen of success that she should cross his path almost the
first thing, grown into a slim, handsome girl, with glorious eyes and a
rose red mouth that he would have liked to kiss there in the public
street? How proud and dignified she had been, how piquant and daring and
indifferent to flattery! The saints forfend! It was not flattery at all,
but the living truth.

The next day he was very busy, but he stole away once to the great oak.
Some children were playing about it, but she was not there. And there
was a dance that evening, given really for his entertainment, so he
must participate in it.

The second day he sauntered with an indifferent air to the well known
spot. A few American soldiers were busy about the barracks. How odd not
to see a bit of prancing scarlet!

The door was closed top and bottom. The tailor's wife sat on her
doorstep, her husband on his bench within.

"They have gone away, M'sieu," she said. "They went early this morning."

He nodded. Monsieur De Ber had met him most cordially and invited him to
drop in and see Madame. They were in the lane that led to St. Anne's
street; he need not go out of his way.

He was welcomed with true French hospitality. Rose greeted him with a
delighted surprise, coquettish and demure, being under her mother's
sharp eye. Yes, here was a pretty girl!

"My husband was telling about the wonderful copper mines," Madame began
with great interest. "There was where the Indians brought it from, I
suppose, but in the old years they kept very close about it. No doubt
there are fortunes and fortunes in them;" glancing up with interest.

"My father is getting a fortune out of them. He has a large tract of
land thereabout. If there should be peace for years there will be great
prosperity, and Detroit will have her share. It has not changed much
except about the river front. Do you like the Americans for neighbors as
well as the English?"

Madame gave a little shrug. "They do not spend their money so readily,
my husband says."

"They have less to spend," with a short laugh. "Some of the best English
families are gone. I met them at Quebec. Ah, Madame, there is a town for
you!" and his eyes sparkled.

"It is very gay, I suppose," subjoined Rose.

"Gay and prosperous. Mam'selle, you should be taken there once to show
them how Detroit maids bloom. There is much driving about, while here--"

"The town spreads outside. There are some American farmers, but their
methods are wild and queer."

"You have a fine son, Madame, and a daughter married, I hear. Mam'selle,
are many of the neighborhood girls mated?"

"Oh, a dozen or so," laughed Rose. "But--let me see, the wild little
thing, Jeanne Angelot, that used to amuse the children by her pranks,
still roams the woods with her Pani woman."

"Then she has not found a lover?" carelessly.

"She plays too much with them, Monsieur. It is every little while a new
one. She settles to nothing, and I think the schooling and the money did
her harm. But there was no one in authority, and it is not even as if M.
Loisel had a wife, you see;" explained Madame, with emphasis.

"The money?" raising his brows, curiously.

"Oh, it was a little M. Bellestre left," and a fine bit of scorn crossed
Madame's face. "There was some gossip over it. She has too much liberty,
but there is no one to say a word, and she goes to the heretic chapel
since Father Rameau has been up North. He comes back this autumn. Father
Gilbert is very good, but he is more for the new people and the home for
the sisters. There are some to come from the Ursuline convent at
Montreal, I hear."

Marsac was not interested in the nuns. After a modicum of judicious
praise to Madame, he departed, promising to come in again.

When a week had elapsed and he had not seen Jeanne he was more than
piqued, he was angry. Then he bethought himself of the Protestant
chapel. Pani could not bring herself to enter it, but Jeanne had found a
pleasing and devoted American woman who came in every Sunday and they
met at a point convenient to both. Pani walked to this trysting spot for
her darling.

And now she was fairly caught. Louis Marsac bowed in the politest
fashion and wished her good day in a friendly tone, ranging himself
beside her. Jeanne's color came and went, and she put her hands in a
clasp instead of letting them hang down at her side as they had a moment
before. Her answers were brief, a simple "yes" or "no," or "I do not
know, Monsieur."

And Pani was not there! Jeanne bade her friend a gentle good day and
then holding her head very straight walked on.

"Mam'selle," he began in his softest voice, though his heart was raging,
"are we no longer friends, when we used to have such merry times under
the old oak? I have remembered you; I have said times without number,
'When I go back to La Belle Detroit, my first duty will be to hunt up
little Jeanne Angelot. If she is married I shall return with a heavy
heart.' But she is not--"

"Monsieur, if thy light-heartedness depends on that alone, thou mayst go
back cheerily enough," she replied formally. "I think I am one of St.
Catharine's maids and in the other world will spend my time combing her
hair. Thou mayst come and go many times, perhaps, and find me Jeanne
Angelot still."

"Have you forsworn marriage? For a handsome girl hardly misses a lover."

He was trying to keep his temper in the face of such a plain denial.

"I am not for marriage," she returned briefly.

"You are young to be so resolute."

"Let us not discuss the matter;" and now her tone was haughty,
forbidding.

"A father would have authority to change your mind, or a guardian."

"But I have no father, you know."

He nodded doubtfully. She felt rather than saw the incredulous half
smile. Had he some plot in hand? Why should she distrust him so?

"Jeanne, we were such friends in that old time. I have carried you in my
arms when you were a light, soft burthen. I have held you up to catch
some branch where you could swing like a cat. I have hunted the woods
with you for flowers and berries and nuts, and been obedient to your
pretty whims because I loved you. I love you still. I want you for my
wife. Jeanne, you shall have silks and laces, and golden gauds and
servants to wait on you--"

"I told you, Monsieur, I was not for marriage," she interrupted in the
coldest of tones.

"Every woman is, if you woo her long enough and strong enough."

He tried very earnestly to keep the sneer out of his voice, but hardly
succeeded. His face flushed, his eyes shone with a fierce light. Have
this girl he would. She should see who was master.

"Monsieur, that is ungentlemanly."

"_Monsieur!_ In the old time, it was Louis."

"We have outgrown the old times," carelessly.

"I have not. Nor my love."

"Then I am sorry for you. But it cannot change my mind."

The way was very narrow now. She made a quick motion and passed him. But
she might better have sent him on ahead, instead of giving him this
study of her pliant grace. The exquisite curves of her figure in its
thin, close gown, the fair neck gleaming through the soft curls, the
beautiful shoulders, the slim waist with a ribbon for belt, the light,
gliding step that scarcely moved her, held an enthralling charm. He had
a passionate longing to clasp his arms about her. All the hot blood
within him was roused, and he was not used to being denied.

There was one little turn. Pani was not sitting before the door. Oh,
where was she? A terror seized Jeanne, yet she commanded her voice and
moved just a trifle, though she did not look at him. He saw that she had
paled; she was afraid, and a cruel exultation filled him.

"Monsieur, I am at home," she said. "Your escort was not needed," and
she summoned a vague smile. "There is little harm in our streets, except
when the traders are in, and Pani is generally my guard. Then for us the
soldiers are within call. Good day, Monsieur Marsac."

"Nay, my pretty one, you must be gentler and not so severe to make it a
good day for me. And I am resolved that it shall be. See, Jeanne, I have
always loved you, and though there have been years between I have not
forgotten. You shall be my wife yet. I will not give you up. I shall
stay here in Detroit until I have won you. No other demoiselle would be
so obdurate."

"Because I do not love you, Monsieur," and she gave the appellation its
most formal sound. "And soon I shall begin to hate you!"

Oh, how handsome she looked as she stood there in a kind of noble
indignation, her heart swelling above her girdle, the child's sweetness
still in the lines of her face and figure, as the bud when it is just
about to burst into bloom. He longed to crush her in one eager embrace,
and kiss the nectar of her lovely lips, even if he received a blow for
it as before. That would pile up a double revenge.

Pani burst from the adjoining cottage.

"Oh," she cried, studying one and the other. "_Ma fille_, the poor
tailor, Philippe! He had a fit come on, and his poor wife screamed for
help, so I hurried in. And now the doctor says he is dying. O Monsieur
Marsac, would you kindly find some one in the street to run for a
priest?"

"I will go," with a most obliging smile and inclination of the head.

Jeanne clasped her arms about Pani's neck, and, laying her head on the
shrunken bosom, gave way to a flood of tears.

"_Ma petite_, has he dared--"

"He loves me, Pani, with a fierce, wicked passion. I can see it in his
eyes. Afterward, when things went wrong, he would remember and beat me.
He kissed me once on the mouth and I struck him. He will never forget.
But then, rather than be his wife, I would kill myself. I will not, will
not do it."

"No, _mon ange_, no, no. Pierre would be a hundred times better. And he
would take thee away."

"But I want no one. Keep me from him, Pani. Oh, if we could go away--"

"Dear--the good sisters would give us shelter."

Jeanne shook her head. "If Father Rameau were but here. Father Gilbert
is sharp and called me a heretic. Perhaps I am. I cannot count beads any
more. And when they brought two finger bones of some one long dead to
St. Anne's, and all knelt down and prayed to them, and Father Gilbert
blessed them, and said a touch would cure any disease and help a dying
soul through purgatory, I could not believe it. Why did it not cure
little Marie Faus when her hip was broken, and the great running sore
never stopped and she died? And he said it was a judgment against
Marie's mother because she would not live with her drunken brute of a
husband. No, I do not think Pere Gilbert would take me in unless I
recanted."

"Oh, come, come," cried Pani. "Poor Margot is most crazed. And I cannot
leave you here alone."

They entered the adjoining cottage. There were but two rooms and
overhead a great loft with a peaked roof where the children slept.
Philippe lay on the floor, his face ghastly and contorted. There were
some hemlock cushions under him, and his poor wife knelt chafing his
hands.

"It is of no use," said the doctor. "Did some one summon the priest?"

"Immediately," returned Pani.

"And there is poor Antoine on the Badeau farm, knowing nothing of this,"
cried the weeping mother.

The baby wailed a sorrowful cry as if in sympathy. It had been a puny
little thing. Three other small ones stood around with frightened faces.

Jeanne took up the baby and bore it out into the small garden, where she
walked up and down and crooned to it so sweetly it soon fell asleep. The
next younger child stole thither and caught her gown, keeping pace with
tiny steps. How long the moments seemed! The hot sun beat down, but it
was cool here under the tree. How many times in the stifling afternoons
Philippe had brought his work out here! He had grown paler and thinner,
but no one had seemed to think much of it. What a strange thing death
was! What was the other world like--and purgatory? The mother of little
Marie Faus was starving herself to pay for the salvation of her
darling's soul.

"Oh, I should not like to die!" and Jeanne shuddered.

The priest came, but it was not Father Gilbert. The last rites were
performed over the man who might be dead already. The baby and the
little girl were brought in and the priest blessed them. There were
several neighbors ready to perform the last offices, and now Jeanne took
all the children out under the tree.

Louis Marsac returned, presently, and offered his help in any matter,
crowding some money into the poor, widowed hand. Jeanne he could see
nowhere. Pani was busy.

The next day he paid M. Loisel a visit, and stated his wishes.

"You see, Monsieur, Jeanne Angelot is in some sort a foundling, and many
families would not care to take her in. That I love her will be
sufficient for my father, and her beauty and sweetness will do the rest.
She will live like a queen and have servants to wait on her. There are
many rich people up North, and, though the winters are long, no one
suffers except the improvident. And I think I have loved Mam'selle from
a little child. Then, too," with an easy smile, "there is a suspicion
that some Indian blood runs in Mam'selle's veins. On that ground we are
even."

Yes, M. Loisel had heard that. Mixed marriages were not approved of by
the better class French, but a small share of Indian blood was not
contemned. When it came to that, Louis Marsac was not a person to be
lightly treated. His father had much influence with the Indian tribes
and was a rich man.

So the notary laid the matter before Pani and his ward, when the funeral
was over, though he would rather have pleaded for his nephew. It was a
most excellent proffer.

But he was not long in learning that Jeanne Angelot had not only dislike
but a sort of fear and hatred for the young man; and that nothing was
farther from her thoughts. Yet he wondered a little that the fortune and
adoration did not tempt her.

"Well, well, my child, we shall not be sorry to have you left in old
Detroit. Some of our pretty girls have been in haste to get away to
Quebec or to the more eastern cities. Boston, they say, is a fine place.
And at New York they have gay doings. But we like our own town and have
all the pleasure that is good for one. So I am glad to have thee stay."

"If I loved him it would be different. But I think this kind of love has
been left out of me," and she colored daintily. "All other loves and
gratitude have been put in, and oh, M'sieu, such an adoration for the
beautiful world God has made. Sometimes I go down on my knees in the
forest, everything speaks to me so,--the birds and the wind among the
trees, the mosses with dainty blooms like a pin's head, the velvet
lichens with rings of gray and brown and pink. And the little lizards
that run about will come to my hand, and the deer never spring away,
while the squirrels chatter and laugh and I talk back to them. Then I
have grown so fond of books. Some of them have strange melodies in them
that I sing to myself. Oh, no, I do not want to be a wife and have a
house to keep, neither do I want to go away."

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