A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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"And this child was baptized, you say? Why did you not bring her to
church?" he asked sharply.

"Good Pere, I did at first. But M. Bellestre would not have her forced.
And then she only came sometimes. She liked the new school because they
taught about countries and many things. She was always honest and truth
speaking and hated cruel deeds--"

"But she belonged to the Church, you see. Woman, you have done her a
great wrong and this is sent upon you for punishment. She should have
been trained to love her Church. Yes, you must come every day and pray
that she may be returned to the true fold, and that the good God will
forgive your sin. You have been very wicked and careless and I do not
wonder God has sent this upon you. When she comes back she must be given
to the Church."

Pani turned away without asking about the relics. Her savage heart rose
up in revolt. The child was hers, the Church had not all the right. And
Jeanne had come to believe like the chapel father, who had been very
friendly toward her. Perhaps it was all wrong and wicked, but Jeanne was
an angel. Ah, if she could hold her in her old arms once more!

Father Gilbert went to see M. Loisel. What was it about the money the
Indian woman and the child had? Could not the Church take better care of
it? And if the girl was dead, what then?

M. Loisel explained the wording of the bequest. If both died it went
back to the Bellestre estate. Only in case of Jeanne's marriage did it
take the form of a dowry. In June and December it came to him, and he
sent back an account of the two beneficiaries.

Really then it was not worth looking after, Father Gilbert decided, when
there was so much other work on hand.

Madame De Ber and her coterie, for already there were little cliques in
Detroit, shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyebrows when Jeanne
Angelot was mentioned.

She was such a coquette! And though she flouted Louis Marsac to his
face, when he had really taken her at her word and gone, she might have
repented and run after him. It was hardly likely a band of roving
Indians would burthen themselves with a girl. Then she was fleet of foot
and had a quick brain, she could have eluded them and returned by this
time.

Rose De Ber had succeeded in captivating her fine lover and sent Martin
about with a bit of haughtiness that would have become a queen. It was
a fine wedding and Jeanne was lost sight of in the newer excitement.

Pani rambled to and fro, a grave, silent woman. When she grew strong
enough she went to the forest and haunted the little creek with her
plaints. The weather grew colder. Furs and rugs were brought out, and
warm hangings for winter. Martin Lavosse came in and arranged some
comforts for Pani, looked to see that the shutters would swing easily
and brought fresh cedar and pine boughs for pallets. Crops were being
gathered in, and there were merrymakings and church festivals, but the
poor woman sat alone in her room that fronted the street, now and then
casting her eyes up and down in mute questioning. The light of her life
had gone. If Jeanne came not back all would be gone, even faith in the
good God. For why should he, if he was so great and could manage the
whole world, let this thing happen? Why should he deliver Jeanne into
the hands of the man she hated, or perhaps let her be torn to pieces by
some wild beast of the forest, when, by raising a finger, he could have
helped it? Could he be angry because she had not sent the child to be
shut up in the Recollet house and made a nun of?

Slavery and servitude had not extinguished the love of liberty that had
been born in Pani's soul. She had succumbed to force, then to a certain
fondness for a kind mistress. But it seemed as if she alone had
understood the child's wild flights, her hatred of bondage. She had done
no harm to any living creature; she had been full of gratitude to the
great Manitou for every flower, every bird, for the golden sun that set
her pulses in a glow, for the moon and stars, and the winds that sang to
her. Oh, surely God could not be angry with her!

CHAPTER XV.

A PRISONER.

Jeanne Angelot climbed a slight ascent where great jagged stones had
probably been swept down in some fierce storm and found lodgment. Tufts
of pink flowers, the like of which she had not seen before, hung over
one ledge. They were not wild roses, yet had a spicy fragrance. Here the
little stream formed a sort of basin, and the overflow made the cascade
down the winding way strewn with pebbles and stones worn smooth by the
force of the early spring floods. How wonderfully beautiful it was! To
the north, after a space of wild land, there was a prairie stretching
out as far as one could see, golden green in the sunlight; to the east
the lake, that seemed to gather all sorts of changeful, magical tints on
its bosom.

She had never heard of the vale of Enna nor her prototype who stooped to
pluck

"The fateful flower beside the rill,
The daffodil! The daffodil!"

as she sprang down to gather the blossoms. The stir in the woods did not
alarm her. Her eyes were still over to the eastward drinking in that
fine draught of celestial wine, the true nectar of life. A bird piped
overhead. She laughed and answered him. Then a sudden darkness fell upon
her, close, smothering. Her cry was lost in it. She was picked up,
slung over some one's shoulder and borne onward by a swift trot. Her
arms were fast, she could only struggle feebly.

When at length she was placed on her feet and the blanket partly
unrolled, she gave a cry.

"Hush, hush!" said a rough voice in Chippewa. "If you make a noise we
shall kill you and throw you into the lake. Be silent and nothing shall
harm you."

"Oh, let me go!" she pleaded. "Why do you want me?"

The blanket was drawn over her head again. Another stalwart Indian
seized her and ran on with such strides that it nearly jolted the breath
out of her body, and the close smell of the blanket made her faint. When
the second Indian released her she fell to the ground in a heap.

"White Rose lost her breath, eh?"

"You have covered her too close. We are to deliver her alive. The white
brave will have us murdered if she dies."

One of them brought some water from a stream near by, and it revived
her.

"Give me a drink!" she cried, piteously. Then she glanced at her
abductors. Four fierce looking Indians, two unusually tall and powerful.
To resist would be useless.

"Whither are you going to take me?"

A grunt was the only reply, and they prepared to envelop her again.

"Oh, let me walk a little," she besought. "I am stiff and tired."

"You will not give any alarm?"

Who could hear in this wild, solitary place?

"I will be quiet. Nay, do not put the blanket about me, it is so warm,"
she entreated.

One of the Indians threw it over his shoulder. Two others took an arm
with a tight grasp and commenced a quick trot. They lifted her almost
off her feet, and she found this more wearying than being carried.

"Do not go so fast," she pleaded.

The Indian caught her up and ran again. Her slim figure was as nothing
to him. But it was better not to have her head covered.

There seemed a narrow path through these woods, a trail the Indians
knew. Now and then they emerged from the woods to a more open space, but
the sunlight was mostly shut out. Once more they changed and now they
reached a stream and put down their burthen.

"We go now in a canoe," began the chief spokesman. "If the White Rose
will keep quiet and orderly no harm will come to her. Otherwise her
hands and feet must be tied."

Jeanne drew a long breath and looked from one to the other. Their faces
were stolid. Questioning would be useless.

"I will be quiet," she made answer.

They spread the blanket about and seated her in the middle. One man took
his place behind her, one in front, and each had two ends of the
blanket to frustrate any desperate move. Then another stood up to the
paddle and steered the canoe swiftly along the stream, which was an arm
of a greater river emptying into the lake.

What could they want of her? Jeanne mused. Perhaps a ransom, she had
heard such tales, though it was oftener after a battle that a prisoner
was released by a ransom. She did not know in what direction they were
taking her, everything was strange though she had been on many of the
small streams about Detroit. Now the way was narrow, overhung with
gloomy trees, here and there a white beech shining out in a ghostly
fashion. The sun dropped down and darkness gathered, broken by the
shrill cry of a wild cat or the prolonged howl of a wolf. Here they
started a nest of waterfowl that made a great clatter, but they glided
swiftly by. It grew darker and darker but they went silently with only a
low grunt from one of the Indians now and then.

Presently they reached the main stream. This was much larger, with the
shores farther off and clearer, though weird enough in the darkness.
Stars were coming out. Jeanne watched them in the deep magnificent blue,
golden, white, greenish and with crimson tints. Was the world beyond the
stars as beautiful as this? But she knew no one there. She wondered a
little about her mother--was she in that bright sphere? There was
another Mother--

"O Mother of God," she cried in her soul, "have pity upon me! I put
myself in thy care. Guard me from evil! Restore me to my home!"

For it seemed, amid these rough savages, she sorely needed a mother's
tender care. And she thought now there had been no loving woman in her
life save Pani. Madame Bellestre had petted her, but she had lost her
out of her life so soon. There had been the schoolmaster, that she could
still think of with affection for all his queer fatherly interest and
kindness; there was M. Loisel; and oh, Monsieur St. Armand, who was
coming back in the early summer, and had some plans to lay before her.
Even M. De Ber had been kindly and friendly, but Madame had never
approved her. Poor Madame Campeau had come to love her, but often in her
wandering moments she called her Berthe.

The quiet, the lapping of the waves, and perhaps a little fatigue
overcame her at length. She dropped back against the Indian's knee, and
her soft breath rose and fell peacefully. He drew the blanket up over
her.

"Ugh! ugh!" he ejaculated, but she heard it not. "The tide is good, we
shall make the Point before dawn."

The others nodded. They lighted their pipes, and presently the Indian at
the paddle changed with one of his comrades and they stole on and on,
both wind and tide in their favor. Several times their charge stirred
but did not wake. Youth and health had overcome even anxiety.

There was dawn in the eastern sky. Jeanne roused.

"Oh, where am I?" she cried in piercing accents; and endeavored to
spring up.

"Thou art safe enough and naught has harmed thee," was the reply. "Keep
quiet, that is all."

"Oh, where do you mean to take me? I am stiff and cold. Oh, let me
change a little!"

She straightened herself and pulled the blanket over her. The same
stolid faces that had refused any satisfaction last night met her gaze
again in blankness.

There was a broad, open space of water, no longer the river. She glanced
about. A sudden arrow of gold gleamed swiftly across it--then another,
and it was a sea of flame with dancing crimson lights.

"It is the lake," she said. "Lake Huron." She had been up the
picturesque shores of the St. Clair river.

The Indian nodded.

"You are going north?" A great terror overwhelmed her like a sudden
revelation.

The answer was a solemn nod.

"Some one has hired you to do this."

Not a muscle in any stolid face moved.

"If I guess rightly will you tell me?"

There was a refusal in the shake of the head.

Jeanne Angelot at that moment could have leaped from the boat. Yet she
knew it would be of no avail. A chill went through every pulse and
turned it to the ice of apprehension.

The canoe made a turn and ran up an inlet. A great clump of trees hid a
wigwam until they were in sight of it There was a smoke issuing from
the rude chimney, and a savory smell permeated the air. Two squaws had
been squatted before the blaze of the stone-built fireplace. They both
rose and came down the narrow strip of beach. They were short, the older
one had a squat, ungainly figure of great breadth for the height, and a
most forbidding face. The other was much younger.

Jeanne did not understand the language, but from a few words she guessed
it was Huron. It seemed at first as if there was fierce upbraiding from
some cause, but it settled satisfactorily it would seem. She was helped
out of the canoe. Oh, how good it was to stand free on the ground again!

The Indian who appeared to be the leader of the party took her arm and
led her up to the inclosure, the back of which seemed rocks, one piled
upon another. The wigwam was set against them. The rude shelter outside
was the kitchen department, evidently. A huge kettle had been lifted
from the coals and was still steaming. A bark platter was piled high
with deliciously browned fish, and in spite of her terror and distrust
she felt that she was hungry.

"If I might have some water," she asked hesitatingly,--"a drink and some
to bathe my face and hands?"

The drink was offered her in a gourd cup. Then the younger woman led her
within the wigwam. There was a rough earthen bowl filled with water, a
bit of looking-glass framed in birch bark, a bed, and some rounds of
logs for seats. Around hung articles of clothing, both native made and
bought from the traders.

"I understand Chippewa," announced Jeanne looking inquiringly at the
woman.

She put her finger on her lip. Then she said, almost breathlessly, "We
are not to talk to the French demoiselle."

"But tell me, am I to stay here?"

She gave a negative shake of the head.

"Am I to go--farther north?"

An affirmative nod this time.

"Wanee! Wanee!" was called sharply from without.

Jeanne sank on her knees.

"O Holy Mother of Christ, have pity on me and save me!" she cried. For
the vague suspicion that had haunted her since waking, crystallized into
a certainty. Part of a rosary came to her:--

"Heart of Jesus, refuge of sinners;
Heart of Jesus, fortitude of the just;
Heart of Jesus, comfort the afflicted."

Then she rose and made a brief toilet. She shook out her long hair,
passing her damp hands over it, and it fell in curls again. She
straightened her dress, but she still felt chill in the cool morning
air. There was a cape of gull's feathers, hanging by the flap of the
wigwam, and she reached it down making a sign to the woman asking
permission.

She nodded assentingly.

It felt good and warm. Jeanne's breakfast was spread on a board resting
on two stones. The squaw had made coffee out of some parched and ground
grains, and it had a comforting flavor. The plate of fish was set before
her and cakes of honey bread, and her coffee poured in a gourd bowl. The
birds were singing overhead, and she could hear the lap of the tide in
the lake, a soft tone of monotony. The beauty of it all penetrated her
very soul. Even the group around the great kettle, dipping in their
wooden spoons and gravely chatting, the younger woman smiling and one
might almost imagine teasing them, had a picturesque aspect, and
softened the thought of what might happen to-morrow.

They lolled on the turf and smoked pipes afterward. Jeanne paced up and
down within sight of their glances that she knew were fixed upon her in
spite of the half-closed lids. It was so good to be free in the fragrant
air, to stretch her cramped limbs and feel the soft short grass under
her feet. Dozens of wild plans flashed through her brain. But she knew
escape was impossible, and she wondered what was to be the next move.
Were they awaiting the trader, Louis Marsac?

Plainly they were not. When they were rested and had eaten again and had
drunk a thick liquid made of roots and barks and honey, they rose and
went toward the canoe, as if discussing some matter. They parleyed with
the elder woman, who brought out two blankets and a pine needle cushion,
which they threw in the boat, then a bottle of water from the spring, a
gourd cup and some provisions.

"Come," the leader said, not unkindly. "Thou hast had a rest. We must be
on our journey."

Pleading would be in vain, she recognized that. The women could not
befriend her even if they would. So she allowed herself to be helped
into the canoe, and the men pushed off amid the rather vociferous jargon
of the women. She was made much more comfortable than before, though so
seated that either brave could reach out his long arm and snatch her
from any untoward resolve.

She looked down into the shining waters. Did she really care to try
them? The hope of youth is unbounded and its trust in the future
sublime. She did not want to die. Life was a glad, sweet thing to her,
even if full of vague dreams, and she hoped somehow to be delivered from
this danger, to find a friend raised up for her. Stories of miracles and
wonderful rescues floated through her mind. Surely God would not let her
fall a prey to this man she both feared and hated. She could feel his
one hot, vicious kiss upon her lips even yet.

The woods calmed and soothed her with their grays and greens, and the
infrequent birches, tall and slim, with circles of white still about
them. Great tree boles stood up like hosts of silent Indian warriors,
ready to pounce down on one. They hugged the shore closely, sometimes it
was translucent green, and one could almost catch the darting fishes
with one's hand. Then the dense shade rendered it black, and it seemed
bottomless.

So gliding along, keeping well out of the reach of other craft, the
hours growing more tiresome to Jeanne, they passed the Point Aux Barques
and steered across Saginaw bay. Once they had stopped for a little rest
and a tramp along the shore. Then another evening dropped down upon
them, another night, and Jeanne slept from a sort of exhaustion.

The next forenoon they landed at one of the islands, where a trading
vessel of considerable size and fair equipment lay at anchor. A man on
deck with a glass had been sighting them. She had not noted him
particularly, in fact she was weary and disheartened with her journey
and her fears. But they made a sudden turn and came up to the vessel,
poled around to the shore side, when she was suddenly lifted up by
strong arms and caught by other arms with a motion so rapid she could
not have struggled if she had wished. And now she was set down almost
roughly.

"Welcome, my fair demoiselle," said a voice whose triumph was in no
degree disguised. "How shall I ever thank you for this journey you have
taken to meet me? I could have made it pleasanter for you if you would
have consented a little earlier. But a willful girl takes her own way,
and her way is sweet to the man who loves her, no matter how briery the
path may be."

Jeanne Angelot was stunned. Then her worst fears were realized. She was
in the power of Louis Marsac. Oh, why had she not thrown herself into
the river; why had she not seized the knife with which they had been
cutting venison steak yester morn and ended it all? She tried to
speak--her lips were dry, and her tongue numb as well as dumb.

He took her arm. As if deprived of resistance she suffered herself to be
led forward and then down a few steps. He opened a door.

"See," he said, "I have arranged a pretty bower for you, and a servant
to wait upon you. And now, Mam'selle Angelot, further refusal is
useless. To-morrow or next day at the latest the priest will make us man
and wife."

"I will never be your wife alive," she said. Every pulse within her
shrank from the desecration.

"Oh, yes, you will," and he smiled with a blandness that was maddening.
"When we are once married I shall be very sweet and gentle. I shall wait
with such patience that you will learn to pity me at first. My devotion
will be so great that even a heart of marble could not resist.
Mam'selle, the sun and the rain will wear away the stoutest rocks in
time, and in the split crevices there grows some tiny flower. That is
the way it is with the most resolute woman's heart. And you are not much
more than a child. Then--you have no lover."

Jeanne stood spellbound. Was it possible that she should ever come to
love this man? Yet in her childhood she had been very fond of him. She
was a great puzzle to herself at this moment. All the old charms and
fascinations that had been part of the lore of her childhood, weird
stories that Touchas had told, but which were forbidden by the Church,
rushed over her. She was full of terror at herself as well as of Louis
Marsac.

He read the changes in her countenance, but he did not understand her
shrinking from an abhorred suitor, nor the many fine and delicate lines
of restraint that had come to hedge her about, to impress a peculiar
responsibility of her own soul that would be degraded by the bondage.
She had seen some of it in other girls mated to coarse natures.

"My beautiful bird shall have everything. We will go up to the head of
the great lake where my father has a lodge that is second only to that
of the White Chief. I am his only son. He wishes for my marriage.
Jeanne, he will give thee such a welcome as no woman ever had. The
costliest furs shall be thine, jewels from abroad, servants to come at
the bidding of thy finger--"

"I do not want them!" she interrupted, vehemently. "I have told you I do
not want to be the wife of any man. Give me the freedom you have stolen
from me. Send me back to Detroit. Oh, there must be women ready to marry
you. Let me go."

Her voice had a piercing sweetness. Even anger could not have made it
harsh. She dropped on her knees; she raised her beautiful eyes in
passionate entreaty.

There was much of the savage Indian in him. He would enjoy her
subjugation. It would begin gently, then he would tighten the cord until
she had paid back to the uttermost, even to the blow she had given him.
But he was too astute to begin here.

"Thou shalt go back in state as my wife. Ere long my father will be as
big a magnate as the White Chief. Detroit will be proud to honor us
both, when we shall be chiefs of the great copper country. Rise, Star of
the Morning. Then, whatever thou shalt ask as my wife shall be granted
to thee."

She rose only to throw herself on the pile of hemlock cushions, face
downward to shut him out of her sight. Was he some strange, evil spirit
in a man's shape?

Noko, an old woman, waited on her. If she knew Chippewa or French she
would not use them. She cooked savory messes. At night she slept on the
mat of skins at the door; during the day she was outside mostly. The
door was bolted and locked beside, but both bolt and lock were outside.
The window with its small panes of greenish glass was securely fastened.

Jeanne could tie a band about her neck and choke herself to death. It
would be horrible to strangle, and she shuddered. She had no weapon of
any kind. The woman watched her while she ate and took away all the
dishes when she was through.

The cabin was not large, but arranged with much taste. The sides were
covered with bark and long strips of Indian embroidery, and curious
plates or tiles of polished stone secured by the corners. On one side a
roomy couch raised above the floor, fragrant with newly gathered balsam
of fir and sweet grass, and covered with blankets of fine weaves, and
skins cured to marvelous softness. Two chairs that were also hung with
embroidery done on silk, and a great square wooden seat covered with
mottled fawn skin. Bunches of dried, sweet herbs were suspended in the
corners, with curious imitation flowers made of dainty feathers, bits of
bark, and various colored leaves.

Sometimes she raged like a wild creature in her cage. She would not
speak when Louis entered the room. She had a horrible fear of his
blandishments. There were days and nights,--how many she did not know
for there was the torture of hundreds comprised in them. Then she wept
and prayed. There was the great Manitou Touchas and many of the Indian
women believed in; there was the good God the schoolmaster had talked
about, and the minister at the chapel, who had sent his Son to save all
who called upon him, and why not be saved in this world as well as the
next? In heaven all would be safe--yes, it was here that people needed
to be saved from a thousand dangers. And there was the good God of the
Church and the Holy Mother and all the blessed saints. Oh, would they
not listen to one poor little girl? She did not want to die. All her
visions of life and love were bounded by dear Detroit, La Belle Detroit.

"O Holy Father, hear me!
O Blessed Mother of God, hear me!
O Precious Son of Mary, hear me!"

she cried on her knees, until a strange peace came to her soul. She
believed there would be some miracle for her. There had been for
others.

At noon, one day, they came to a landing. There was some noise and
confusion, much tramping and swearing. She heard Marsac at the door
talking to Noko in French and the woman answering him. Her heart beat so
that it well-nigh strangled her. But he did not come in. Presently the
rumbling and unloading were over, and there was no sound but the
oscillation of the vessel as it floundered in the tide with short beats,
until the turning, and then the motion grew more endurable. If she could
only see! But from her window there was nothing save an expanse of
water, dotted with canoes and some distant islands. The cabin was always
in semi-twilight.

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