A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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"Thou art a strange child."

M. Loisel leaned over and kissed her on the crown of her head where the
parting shone white as the moon at its full. Lips and rosy mouths were
left for lovers in those days.

"And you will make him understand?"

"I will do my best. No one can force a damsel into marriage nowadays."

Opposition heightened Louis Marsac's desires. Then he generally had his
way with women. He did not need to work hard to win their hearts. Even
here in spite of Indian blood, maids smiled on the handsome, jaunty
fellow who went arrayed in the latest fashion, and carried it off with
the air of a prince. There was another sort of secret dimly guessed at
that would be of immense advantage to him, but he had the wariness of
the mother's side as well as the astuteness of the father.

A fortnight went by with no advantage. Pani never left her charge alone.
The rambles in the woods were given up, and the girl's heart almost died
within her for longing. She helped poor Margot nurse her children, and
if Marsac came on a generous errand they surrounded her and swarmed
over her. He could have killed them with a good will. She would not go
out on the river nor join the girls in swimming matches nor take part in
dances. Sometimes with Pani she spent mornings in the minister's study,
and read aloud or listened to him while his wife sat sewing.

"You are not easily tempted," said the good wife one day. "It is no
secret that this young trader, M. Marsac, is wild for love of you."

"But I do not like him, how then could I give him love?" and she glanced
out of proud, sincere eyes, while a soft color fluttered in her face.

"No, that could not be," assentingly.

The demon within him that Louis Marsac called love raged and rose to
white heat. If he could even carry her off! But that would be a foolish
thing. She might be rescued, and he would lose the good opinion of many
who gave him a flattering sympathy now.

So the weeks went on. The boats were loaded with provision, some of them
started on their journey. He came one evening and found Jeanne and her
protector sitting in their doorway. Jeanne was light-hearted. She had
heard he was to sail to-morrow.

"I have come to bid my old playmate and friend good-by," and there was a
sweet pathos in his voice that woke a sort of tenderness in the girl's
heart, for it brought back a touch of the old pleasant days before he
had really grown to manhood, when they sat under her oak and listened to
Pani's legendary stories.

"I wish you _bon voyage_, Monsieur."

"Say Louis just once. It will be a bit of music to which I shall sail up
the river."

"Monsieur Louis."

The tone was clear and no warmth penetrated it. He could see her face
distinctly in the moonlight and it was passive in its beauty.

"Thou hast not forgiven me. If I knelt--"

"Nay!" she sprang up and stood at Pani's back. "There is nothing to
kneel for. When you are away I shall strive to forget your insistence--"

"And remember that it sprang from love," he interrupted. "Jeanne, is
your heart of marble that nothing moves it? There are curious stories of
women who have little human warmth in them--who are born of strange
parents."

"Monsieur, that is wrong. Jeanne hath ever been loving and fond from the
time she put her little arms around my neck. She is kindly and
tender--the poor tailor's lonely woman will tell you. And she spent
hours with poor Madame Campeau when her own daughter left her and went
away to a convent, comforting her and reading prayers. No, she is not
cold hearted."

"Then you have taken all her love," complainingly.

"It is not that, either," returned the woman.

"Jeanne, I shall love thee always, cruel as thou hast been. And if thou
art so generous as to pray for others, say a little prayer that will
help me bear my loneliness through the cold northern winter that I had
hoped might be made warm and bright by thy presence. Have a little pity
if thou hast no love."

He was mournfully handsome as he stood there in the silvery light.
Almost her heart was moved. She said a special prayer for only one
person, but Louis Marsac might slip into the other class that was "all
the world."

"Monsieur, I will remember," bowing a little.

"Oh, lovely icicle, you are enough to freeze a man's soul, and yet you
rouse it to white heat! I can make no impression I see. Adieu, adieu."

He gave a sudden movement and would have kissed her mouth but she put
her hand across it, and Pani, divining the endeavor, rose at the same
instant.

"Mam'selle Jeanne Angelot, you will repent this some day!" and his tone
was bitter with revenge.

Then he plunged down the street with an unsteady gait and was lost in
the darkness.

"Pani, come in, bar the door. And the shutter must be fastened;" pulling
the woman hastily within.

"But the night will be hot."

"It is cooler now. There has been a fresh breeze from the river. And--I
am sore afraid."

It was true that the night dews and the river gave a coolness to the
city at night, and on the other side was the great sweep of woods and
hills.

Nothing came to disturb them. Jeanne was restless and had bad dreams,
then slept soundly until after sunrise.

"Antoine," she said to the tailor's little lad, "go down to the wharf
and watch until the 'Flying Star' sails up the river. The tide is
early. I will reward you well."

"O Mam'selle, I will do it for love;" and he set off on a trot.

"There are many kinds of love," mused Jeanne. "Strange there should be a
kind that makes one afraid."

At ten the "Flying Star" went up the river.

"Thou hast been a foolish girl, Jeanne Angelot!" declared one of the
neighbors. "Think how thou mightst have gone up the river on a wedding
journey, and a handsome young husband such as falls to the lot of few
maids, with money in plenty and furs fit for a queen. And there is, no
doubt, some Indian blood in thy veins! Thou hast always been wild as a
deer and longing to live out of doors."

Jeanne only laughed. She was so glad to feel at liberty once more. For a
month she had virtually been a prisoner.

Madame De Ber, though secretly glad, joined the general disapproval. She
had half hoped he might fancy Rose, who sympathized warmly with him. She
could have forgiven the alien blood if she had seen Rose go up the
river, in state, to such a future.

And though Jeanne was not so much beyond childhood, it was settled that
she would be an old maid. She did not care.

"Let us go out under the oak, Pani," she exclaimed. "I want to look at
something different from the Citadel and the little old houses,
something wide and free, where the wind can blow about, and where there
are waves of sweetness bathing one's face like a delightful sea. And
to-morrow we will take to the woods. Do you suppose the birds and the
squirrels have wondered?"

She laughed gayly and danced about joyously.

Wenonah sat at her hut door making a cape of gull's feathers for an
officer's wife.

"You did not go north, little one," and she glanced up with a smile of
approval.

For to her Jeanne would always be the wild, eager, joyous child who had
whistled and sung with the birds, and could never outgrow childhood. She
looked not more than a dozen years old to-day.

"No, no, no. Wenonah, why do you cease to care for people, when you have
once liked them? Yet I am sorry for Louis. I wish he had loved some one
else. I hope he will."

"No doubt there are those up there who have shared his heart and his
wigwam until he tired of them. And he will console himself again. You
need not give him so much pity."

"Wenonah!" Jeanne's face was a study in surprise.

"I am glad, Mam'selle, that his honeyed tongue did not win you. I wanted
to warn, but the careful Pani said there was no danger. My brave has
told some wild stories about him when he has had too much brandy. And
sometimes an Indian girl who is deserted takes a cruel revenge, not on
the selfish man, but on the innocent girl who has trusted him, and is
not to blame. He is handsome and double of tongue and treacherous.
See--he would have given me money to coax you to go out in the canoe
with me some day to gather reeds. Then he could snatch you away. It was
a good deal of money, too!"

"O Wenonah!" She fell on the woman's neck and kissed the soft, brown
cheek.

"He knew you trusted me, that was the evil of him. And I said to Pani,
'Do not let her go out on the river, lest the god of the Strait put
forth his hand and pull her down to the depths and take her to his
cave.' And Pani understood."

"Yes, I trust you," said the girl proudly.

"And I have no white blood in my veins."

She went down to the great oak with Pani and they sat shaded from the
afternoon sunshine with the lovely river stretching out before them. She
did not care for the old story any more, but she leaned against Pani's
bosom and patted her hand and said: "No matter what comes, Pani, we
shall never part. And I will grow old with you like a good daughter and
wait on you and care for you, and cook your meals when you are ill."

Pani looked into the love-lit, shining eyes.

"But I shall be so very, very old," she replied with a soft laugh.

CHAPTER XIV.

A HIDDEN FOE.

Ah, what a day it was to Jeanne Angelot! They had gone early in the
morning and taken some food with them in a pretty basket made of birch
bark. How good it was to be alive, to be free! The sunshine had never
been so golden, she thought, nor danced so among the branches nor shook
out such dainty sprites. How they skipped over the turf, now hold of
hands, now singly, now running away and disappearing, others coming in
their places!

"The very woods are alive," she declared in glee.

Alive they were with the song of birds, the chirp of insects, the
murmuring wind. Back of her was a rivulet fretting its way over pebbles
down a hillside, making an irregular music. She kept time to it, then
she changed to the bird song, and the rustle among the pines.

"It is so lovely, Pani. I seem to be drinking in a strange draught that
goes to my very finger tips. Oh, I wonder how anyone can bear to die!"

"When they are old it is like falling asleep. And sometimes they are so
tired it makes them glad."

"I should only be tired of staying in the house. But I suppose one
cannot help death. One can refuse to go into a little cell and shut out
the sunlight and all the beauty that God has made. It is wicked I
think. For one can pray out of doors and sing hymns. I am sure God will
hear."

They ate their lunch with a relish; Jeanne had found some berries and
some ripe wild plums. There was a hollow tree full of honey, she could
tell by the odorous, pungent smell. She would tell Wenonah and have some
of the boys go at night and--oh, how hard to rob the poor bees, to
murder and rob them! No, she would keep their secret.

She laid her head down in Pani's lap and went fast asleep; and the
Indian woman's eyes were touched with the same poppy juice. Once Pani
started, she thought she heard a step. In an instant her eyes were bent
inquiringly around. There was no one in sight.

"It was the patter of squirrels," she thought.

The movement roused Jeanne. She opened her eyes and smiled with
infantine joy.

"We have both been asleep," said the woman. "And now is it not time to
go home?"

"Oh, look at the long shadows. They are purple now, and soft dark green.
The spirits of the wood have trooped home, tired of their dancing."

She rose and gave herself a little shake.

"Pani," she exclaimed, "I saw some beautiful flowers before noon, over
on the other side of the stream. I think they were something strange. I
can easily jump across. I will not be gone long, and you may stay here.
Poor Pani! I tired you out."

"No, Mam'selle, you were asleep first."

"Was I? It was such a lovely sleep. Oh, you dear woods;" and she clasped
her hands in adoration.

Long, flute-like notes quivered through the branches--birds calling to
their mates. Pani watched the child skipping, leaping, pulling down a
branch and letting it fly up again. Then she jumped across the brook
with a merry shout, and a tree hid her.

Pani studied the turf, the ants and beetles running to and fro, the
strange creatures with heavy loads. A woodpecker ran up a tree and
pulled out a white grub. "Tinkle, tinkle, bu-r-r-r," said the little
stream. Was that another shout?

Presently Pani rose and went toward the stream. "Jeanne! Jeanne!" she
called. The forest echoes made reply. She walked up, Jeanne had gone in
that direction. Once it seemed as if the voice answered.

Yes, over yonder was a great thicket of bloom. Surely the child would
not need to go any farther. Presently there was a tangle of underbrush
and wild grapevines. Pani retraced her steps and going farther down
crossed and came up on the other side, calling as she went. The woods
grew more dense. There was a chill in the air as if the sun never
penetrated it. There was no real path and she wandered on in a thrill of
terror, still calling but not losing sight of the stream.

And now the sun dropped down. Terrified, Pani made the best of her way
back. What had happened? She had seen no sign of a wild animal, and
surely the child could not be lost in that brief while!

She must give an alarm. She ran now until she was out of breath, then
she had to pause until she could run again. She reached the farms. They
were mostly all long strips of land with the houses in reach of the
stockade for safety.

"Andre Helmuth," she cried, "I have lost the child, Jeanne. Give an
alarm." Then she sank down half senseless.

Dame Helmuth ran out from the fish she was cooking for supper. "What is
it?" she cried. "And who is this?" pointing to the prostrate figure.

"Jeanne Angelot's Pani. And Jeanne, she says, is lost. It must be in the
woods. But she knows them so well."

"She was ever a wild thing," declared the dame. "But a night in the
woods alone is not such a pleasant pastime, with panthers, and bears
have been seen. And there may be savages prowling about. Yes, Andre,
give the alarm and I will look after the poor creature. She has always
been faithful to the child."

By the time the dame had restored her, the news had spread. It reached
Wenonah presently, who hastened to the Helmuths'. Pani sat bewildered,
and the Indian woman, by skillful questioning, finally drew the story
from her.

"I think it is a band of roving Indians," she said. "I am glad now that
Paspah is at home. He is a good guide. But we must send in town and get
a company."

"Yes, yes, that is the thing to do. A few soldiers with arms. One cannot
tell how many of the Indians there may be. I will go at once," and Andre
Helmuth set off on a clumsy trot.

"And the savory fish that he is so fond of, getting spoiled. But what
is that to the child's danger? Children, come and have your suppers."

They wanted to linger about Pani, but the throng kept increasing.
Wenonah warded off troublesome questions and detailed the story to
newcomers. The dame brought her a cup of tea with a little brandy in it,
and then waited what seemed an interminable while.

The alarm spread through the garrison, and a searching party was ordered
out equipped with lanterns and well armed. At its head was Jeanne's
admirer, the young lieutenant.

Tony Helmuth had finished his supper.

"Let me go with them," he pleaded. "I know every inch of the way. I have
been up and down the creek a hundred times."

Pani rose. "I must go, too," she said, weakly, but she dropped back on
the seat.

"Thou wilt come home with me," began Wenonah, with gentle
persuasiveness. "Thou hast not the strength."

She yielded passively and clung piteously to the younger woman, her feet
lagging.

"She was so glad and joyous all day. I should not have let her go out of
my sight," the foster mother moaned. "And it was only such a little
while. Heaven and the blessed Mother send her back safely."

"I think they will find her. Paspah is good on a trail. If they stop for
the night and build a fire that will surely betray them."

She led Pani carefully along, though quite a procession followed.

"Let her be quiet now," said the younger squaw. "You can hear nothing
more from her, and she needs rest. Go your ways."

Pani was too much exhausted and too dazed to oppose anything. Once or
twice she started feebly and said she must go home, but dropped back
again on the pine needle couch covered with a blanket. Between waking
and sleep strange dreams came to her that made her start and cry out,
and Wenonah soothed her as one would a child.

All the next day they waited. The town was stirred with the event, and
the sympathy was universal. The pretty Jeanne Angelot, who had been left
so mysteriously, had awakened romantic interest anew. A few years ago
this would have been a common incident, but why one should want to carry
off a girl of no special value,--though a ransom would be raised readily
enough if such a thing could save her.

On the second day the company returned home. No trace of any marauding
party had been found. There had been no fires kindled, no signs of any
struggle, and no Indian trails in the circuit they had made. The party
might have had a canoe on Little river and paddled out to Lake St.
Clair; if so, they were beyond reach.

The tidings utterly crushed Pani. For a fortnight she lay in Wenonah's
cabin, paying no attention to anything and would have refused sustenance
if Wenonah had not fed her as a child. Then one day she seemed to wake
as out of a trance.

"They have not found her--my little one?" she said.

Wenonah shook her head.

"Some evil spirit of the woods has taken her."

"Can you listen and think, Pani?" and she chafed the cold hand she held.
"I have had many strange thoughts and Touchas, you know, has seen
visions. The white man has changed everything and driven away the
children of the air who used to run to and fro in the times of our
fathers. In her youth she called them, but the Church has it they are
demons, and to look at the future is a wicked thing. It is said in some
places they have put people to death for doing it."

Pani's dark eyes gave a glance of mute inquiry.

"But I asked Touchas. At first she said the great Manitou had taken the
power from her. But the night the moon described the full circle and one
could discern strange shapes in it, she came to me, and we went and sat
under the oak tree where the child first came to thee. There was great
disturbance in Touchas' mind, and her eyes seemed to traverse space
beyond the stars. Presently, like one in a dream, she said:--

"'The child is alive. She was taken by Indians to the _petite_ lake, her
head covered, and in strong arms. Then they journeyed by water,
stopping, and going on until they met a big ship sailing up North. She
is in great danger, but the stars watch over her; a prisoner where the
window is barred and the door locked. There is a man between two women,
an Indian maiden, whose heart hungers for him. She comes down to meet
him and follows a trail and finds something that rouses her to fierce
anger. She creeps and creeps, and finds the key and unlocks the door.
The white maiden is afraid at first and cowers, for she reads passion in
the other's eyes. O great Manitou, save her!' Then Touchas screamed and
woke, shivering all over, and could see no further into the strange
future. 'Wait until the next moon,' she keeps saying. But the child will
be saved, she declares."

"Oh, my darling, my little one!" moaned the woman, rocking herself to
and fro. "The saints protect thee. Oh, I should have watched thee
better! But she felt so safe. She had been afraid, but the fear had
departed. Oh, my little one! I shall die if I do not see thee again."

"I feel that the great God will care for her. She has done no evil; and
the priests declare that he will protect the good. And I thought and
thought, until a knowledge seemed to come out of the clear sky. So I did
not wait for the next moon. I said, 'I have little need for Paspah,
since I earn bread for the little ones. Why should he sit in the wigwam
all winter, now and then killing a deer or helping on the dock for a
drink of brandy?' So I sent him North again to join the hunters and to
find Jeanne. For I know that handsome, evil-eyed Louis Marsac is at the
bottom of it."

"Oh, Wenonah!" Pani fell on her shoulder and cried, she was so weak and
overcome.

"We will not speak of this. Paspah has a grudge against Marsac; he
struck him a blow last summer. My father would have killed him for the
blow, but the red men who hang around the towns have no spirit. They
creep about like panthers, and only show their teeth to an enemy. The
forest is the place for them, but this life is easier for a woman."

Wenonah sighed. Civilization had charms for her, yet she saw that it was
weakening her race. They were driven farther and farther back and to the
northward. Women might accept labor, they were accustomed to it in the
savage state but a brave could not so demean himself.

Pani's mind was not very active yet. For some moments she studied
Wenonah in silence.

"She was afraid of him. She would not go out to the forest nor on the
river while he was here. But he went away--"

"He could have planned it all. He would find enough to do his bidding.
But if she has been taken up North, Paspah will find her."

That gave some present comfort to Pani. But she began to be restless and
wanted to return to her own cottage.

"You must not live alone," said Wenonah.

"But I want to be there. If my darling comes it is there she will search
for me."

When Wenonah found she could no longer keep her by persuasion or
entreaty, she went home with her one day. The tailor's widow had taken
some little charge of the place. It was clean and tidy.

Pani drew a long, delighted breath, like a child.

"Yes, this is home," she exclaimed. "Wenonah, the good Mother of God
will reward you for your kindness. There is something"--touching her
forehead in piteous appeal--"that keeps me from thinking as I ought. But
you are sure my little one will come back, like a bird to its nest?"

"She will come back," replied Wenonah, hardly knowing whether she
believed it herself or not.

"Then I shall stay here."

She was deaf to all entreaties. She went about talking to herself, with
a sentence here and there addressed to Jeanne.

"Yes, leave her," said Margot. "She was good to me in my sorrow, and
_petite_ Jeanne was an angel. The children loved her so. She would not
go away of her own accord. And I will watch and see that no harm happens
to Pani, and that she has food. The boys will bring her fagots for fire.
I will send you word every day, so you will know how it fares with her."

Pani grew more cheerful day by day and gained not only physical
strength, but made some mental improvement. In the short twilight she
would sit in the doorway listening to every step and tone, sometimes
rising as if she would go to meet Jeanne, then dropping back with a
sigh.

The soldiers were very kind to her and often stopped to give her good
day. Neighbors, too, paused, some in sympathy, some in curiosity.

There were many explanations of the sudden disappearance. That Jeanne
Angelot had been carried off by Indians seemed most likely. Such things
were still done.

But many of the superstitious shook their heads. She had come queerly as
if she had dropped from the clouds, she had gone in the same manner.
Perhaps she was not a human child. All wild things had come at her
call,--she had talked to them in the woods. Once a doe had run to her
from some hunters and she had so covered it with her girlish arms and
figure that they had not dared to shoot. If there were bears or panthers
or wolves in the woods, they never molested her.

They recalled old legends, Indian and French, some gruesome enough, but
they did not seem meet for pretty, laughing Jeanne, who was all
kindliness and sweetness and truth. If she was part spirit, surely it
was a good spirit and not an evil one.

Then Pani thought she would go to Father Gilbert, though she had never
felt at home with him as she did with good Pere Rameau. There might be
prayers that would hasten her return. Or, if relics helped, if she could
once hold them in her hand and wish--

The old missionaries who had gone a century or two before to plant the
cross along with the lilies of France had the souls of the heathen
savages at heart. Since then times had changed and the Indians were not
looked upon as such promising subjects. Father Gilbert worked for the
good and the glory of the Church. One English convert was worth a dozen
Indians. So the church had been improved and made more beautiful. There
were singers who caught the ear of the casual listener, and he or she
came again. The school, too, was improved, the sisters' house enlarged,
and a retreat built where women could spend days of sorrow and go away
refreshed. Sometimes they preferred to stay altogether.

Father Gilbert listened rather impatiently to the prolix story. He might
have heard it before, he did not remember. There were several Indian
waifs in school.

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