A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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There was a roadway about the palisades with two gates near either end,
then a curiously laid up stone wall where the natural rocks had failed.
Here on this plateau were cottages and lodges. Canadians, some trusty
Indians, and a sprinkling of half-breeds made a settlement, it would
seem. There were gardens abloom, fruit trees and grapevines, making a
pleasant odor in the early autumnal sun. There were sheep pasturing, a
herd of tame, beautiful deer, cows in great sheds, and fowl
domesticated, while doves went circling around overhead. Still another
wall almost hid the home of the White Chief, the name he was best known
by, and as one might say at that time a name to conjure with, for he was
really the manipulator of many of the Indian tribes, and endeavored to
keep the peace among them and deal fairly with them in the fur trading.
To the English he had proved a trusty neighbor, to the French a true
friend, though his advice was not always palatable.

"Oh, it is beautiful!" cried Jeanne. "Something like the farms outside
of the palisades at home. Inside--" she made a pretty gesture of
dissatisfaction,--"the town is crowded and dirty and full of bad smells,
except at the end where some of the officers and the court people and
the rich folk live. They are building some new places up by the military
gardens and St. Anne's Church, and beside the little river, where
everything keeps green and which is full of ducks and swans and herons.
And the great river is such a busy place since the Americans came. But
they have not so many soldiers in the garrison, and we miss the glitter
of the scarlet and the gold lace and the music they used to have. Still
the flag is beautiful; and most people seem satisfied. I like the
Americans," Jeanne said proudly.

The dame shook her head, but not in disapprobation altogether.

"The world is getting much mixed," she said. "I think the English still
feel bitter, but the French accept. Loudac hears the White Chief talk of
a time when all shall live together peaceably and, instead of trying to
destroy each other and their cities and towns, they will join hands in
business and improvement. For that is why the Indians perish and leave
so few traces,--they are bent upon each other's destruction, so the
villages and fields are laid waste and people die of starvation. There
are great cities in Europe, I have heard, that have stood hundreds of
years, and palaces and beautiful churches, and things last through many
generations. Loudac was in a town called Paris, when he was a little
boy, and it is like a place reared by fairy hands."

"Oh, yes, Madame, it is a wonderful city. I have read about it and seen
pictures," said Jeanne, eagerly.

"There are books and pictures up at the great house. And here comes
Loudac."

"Ha! my bright Morning Star, you look the better for a night's sleep. I
have been telling Miladi about our frightened refugee, and she wishes to
see you. Will it please you to come now?"

Jeanne glanced from one to the other.

"Oh, you need not feel afraid, you that have escaped Indians and crossed
the lake in the night. For Miladi, although the wife of the great White
Chief, and grand enough when necessary, is very gentle and kindly; is
she not, dame?"

The dame laughed. "Run along, _petite_," she said. "I must attend to the
house."

Inside this inclosure there was a really beautiful garden, a tiny park
it might be justly called. Birds of many kinds flew about, others of
strange plumage were in latticed cages. The walks were winding to make
the place appear larger; there was a small lake with water plants and
swans, and beds of brilliant flowers, trees that gave shade, vines that
distributed fragrance with every passing breeze. Here in a dainty nest,
that was indeed a vine-covered porch, sat a lady in a chair that
suggested a throne to Jeanne, who thought she had never seen anyone so
beautiful. She was not fair like either English or French, but the
admixture of blood had given her a fine, creamy skin and large brownish
eyes that had the softness of a fawn's. Every feature was clearly cut
and perfect. Jeanne thought of a marble head that stood on the shelf of
the minister's study at Detroit that was said to have come from a far
country called Italy.

As for her attire, that was flowered silk and fine lace, and some jewels
on her arms and fingers in golden settings that glittered like the rays
of sunrise when she moved them. There were buckles of gems on her
slippers, and stockings of strangely netted silk where the ivory flesh
shone through.

Jeanne dropped on her knees at the vision, and it smiled on her. No
saint at the Recollet house was half as fair.

"This is the little voyager cast upon our shore, Miladi," explained
Loudac with a bow and a touch of his hand to his head. "But Wanita did
not wreck her, only left her in our safe keeping until she can be
returned to her friends."

"Sit here, Mam'selle," and Miladi pointed to a cushion near her. Her
French was musical and soft. "It is quite a story, and not such an
unusual one either. Many maidens, I think, have been taken from home and
friends, and have finally learned to be satisfied with a life they would
not have chosen. You came from Detroit, Loudac says."

"Yes, Miladi," Jeanne answered, timidly.

"Do not be afraid." The lady laughed with ripples like a little stream
dropping over pebbly ways. "There is a story that my mother shared a
like fate, only she had to grow content with strange people and a
strange land. How was it? I have a taste for adventures."

Jeanne's girlish courage and spirits came back in a flash. Yet she told
her story carefully, bridging the little space where so much was left
out.

"Owaissa is a courageous maiden. It is said she carries a dagger which
she would not be afraid to use. She has some strange power over the
Indians. Her father was wronged out of his chieftaincy and then
murdered. She demanded the blood price, and his enemies were given up to
the tribe that took her under their protection. Yet I wonder a little
that she should choose Louis Marsac. The White Chief, my husband, does
not think him quite true in all his dealings, especially with women. But
if he trifled with her there would be a tragedy."

Jeanne shuddered. The tragedy had come so near.

Miladi asked some questions hard for Jeanne to answer with truth; how
she had come up the lake, and if her captors had treated her well.

"It seems quite mysterious," she said.

Then they talked about Detroit, and Jeanne's past life, and Miladi was
more puzzled than ever.

A slim young Indian woman brought in the baby, a dainty girl of two
years old, who ran swiftly to her mother and began chattering in French
with pretty broken words, and looking shyly at the guest. Then there was
a great shout and a rush as of a flock of birds.

"I beat Gaston, maman, six out of ten shots."

"But two arrows broke. They were good for nothing," interrupted the
second boy.

"And can't Antoine take us out fishing--" the boy stopped and came close
to Jeanne, wonderingly.

"This is Mademoiselle Jeanne," their mother said, "Robert and Gaston.
Being twins there is no elder."

They were round, rosy, sunburned boys, with laughing eyes and lithe
figures.

"Can you swim?" queried Robert.

"Oh, yes," and a bright smile crossed Jeanne's face.

"And paddle a canoe and row?"

"Yes, indeed. Many a time in the Strait, with the beautiful green shores
opposite."

"What strait, Mackinaw?"

"Oh, no. It is the river Detroit, but often called a strait."

"You can't manage a bow!" declared Robert.

"Yes. And fire a pistol. And--run."

"And climb trees?" The dark eyes were alight with mirth.

"Why, yes." Then Jeanne glanced deprecatingly at Miladi, so elegant, so
refined, if the word had come to her, but it remained in the chaos of
thought. "I was but a wild little thing in childhood, and there was no
one except Pani--my Indian nurse."

"Then come and run a race. The Canadians are clumsy fellows."

Robert grasped her arm. Gaston stood tilted on one foot, as if he could
fly.

"Oh, boys, you are too rough! Mam'selle will think you worse than wild
Indians."

"I should like to run with them, Miladi." Jeanne's eyes sparkled, and
she was a child again.

"As thou wilt." Miladi smiled and nodded. So much of the delight of her
soul was centered in these two handsome, fearless boys beloved by their
father. Once she remembered she had felt almost jealous.

"I will give you some odds," cried Jeanne. "I will not start until you
have reached the pole of the roses."

"No! no! no!" they shouted. "Girls cannot run at the end of the race.
There we will win," and they laughed gayly.

They were fleet as deer. Jeanne did not mean to outstrip them, but she
was seized with enthusiasm. It was as if she had wings to her feet and
they would not lag, even if the head desired it. She was breathless,
with flying hair and brilliant color, as she reached the goal and turned
to see two brave but disappointed faces.

"I told you it was not fair," she began. "I am larger than you, taller
and older. You should have had odds."

"But we can always beat Berthe Loudac, and she is almost as big as you.
And some of the Indian boys."

"Let us try it again. Now I will give you to the larch tree."

They started off, looking back when they reached that point and saw her
come flying. She was not so eager now and held back toward the last.
Gaston came in with a shout of triumph and in two seconds Robert was at
the goal. She laughed joyously. Their mother leaning over a railing
laughed also and waved her handkerchief as they both glanced up.

"How old are you?" asked Robert.

"Almost sixteen, I believe."

"And we are eight."

"That is twice as old."

"And when we are sixteen we will run twice as fast, faster than the
Indians. We shall win the races. We are going up North then. Don't you
want to go?"

Jeanne shook her head.

"But then girls do not go fur hunting. Only the squaws follow, to make
the fires and cook the meals. And you would be too pretty for a squaw.
You must be a lady like maman, and have plenty of servants. Oh, we will
ask father to bring you a husband as strong and nice and big as he is!
And then he will build you a lodge here. No one can have such a splendid
house as maman; he once said so."

"Come down to the palisade."

They ran down together. The inhabitants of the cottages and lodges
looked out after them, they were so gay and full of frolic. The gate was
open and Robert peered out. Jeanne took a step forward. She was anxious
to see what was beyond.

"Don't." Gaston put out his arm to bar her. "We promised never to go
outside without permission. Only a coward or a thief tells lies and
breaks his word. If we could find Loudac."

Loudac had gone over to Manitou. The dame had been baking some brown
bread with spice seeds in it, and she gave them all a great slice. How
good it tasted! Then they were off again, and when they reached the
house their mother had gone in, for the porch was hot from the sun.

Jeanne had never seen anything like it. The walls seemed set with
wonderful stones and gems, some ground to facets. Long strips of
embroidery in brilliant colors and curious designs parted them like
frames. Here a border of wampum shells, white, pale grayish, pink and
purple; there great flowers made of shells gathered from the shores of
lakes and rivers. At the far end of the room were two Indian girls
working on bead embroidery, another sewing rows of beautiful feathers in
a border.

The boys were eager to rehearse their good time.

"If they have not tired you to death," said their mother.

Jeanne protested that she had enjoyed it quite as much.

"It is a luxury to have a new playfellow now that their father is away.
They are so fond of him. Sometimes we all go."

"When will he return, Madame?"

"In a fortnight or so. Then he takes the long winter journey. That is a
more dreary time, but we shut ourselves up and have blazing fires and
work and read, and the time passes. There is the great hope at the end,"
and she gave an exquisite smile.

"But--Miladi--how can I get back to Detroit?"

"Must thou go?" endearingly. "If there are no parents--"

"But there is my poor Pani! And Detroit that I am so familiar with. Then
I dare say they are all wondering."

"Loudac will tell us when he comes back."

Loudac had a budget of news. First there had been a marriage that very
morning on the "Flying Star," the pretty boat of Louis Marsac, and
Owaissa was the bride. There had been a feast given to the men, and the
young mistress had stood before them to have her health drunk and
receive the good wishes and a belt of wampum, with a lovely white
doeskin cloak that was like velvet. Then they had set sail for Lake
Superior.

Jeanne was very glad of the friendly twilight. She felt her face grow
red and cold by turns.

"And the maiden Owaissa will be very happy," she said half in assertion,
half inquiry.

"He is smart and handsome, but tricky at times, and overfond of brandy.
But if a girl gets the man she wants all is well for a time, at least."

The next bit of news was that the "Return" would go to Detroit in four
or five days.

"Not direct, which will be less pleasant. For she goes first over to
Barre, and then crosses the lake again and stops at Presque Isle. After
that it is clear sailing. A boat of hides and freight goes down, but
that would not be pleasant. To-morrow I will see the captain of the
'Return.'"

"Thou wouldst not like a winter among us here?" inquired the dame. "It
is not so bad, and the boys at the great house are wild over thee."

"Oh, I must go," Jeanne said, with breathless eagerness. "I shall
remember all your kindness through my whole life."

"Home is home," laughed good-humored Loudac.

Very happy and light-hearted was Jeanne Angelot. There would be nothing
more to fear from Louis Marsac. How had they settled it, she wondered.

Owaissa had said that she sent the child home under proper escort. Louis
Marsac ground his teeth, and yet--did he care so much for the girl only
to gratify a mean revenge for one thing?--the other he was not quite
sure of. At all events Jeanne Angelot would always be the loser. The
Detroit foundling,--and he gave a short laugh like the snarl of a dog.

Delightful as everything was, Jeanne counted the days. She was up at the
great house and read to its lovely mistress, sang and danced with baby
Angelique, taking hold of the tiny hands and swinging round in graceful
circles, playing games with the boys and doing feats, and trying to
laugh off the lamentations, which sometimes came near to tears.

"How strange," said Miladi the last evening, "that we have never heard
your family name. Or--had you none?"

"Oh, yes, Madame. Some one took good care of that. It was written on a
paper pinned to me; and," laughing, "pricked into my skin so I could not
deny it. It is Jeanne Angelot. But there are no Angelots in Detroit."

Miladi grasped her arm so tightly that Jeanne's breath came with a
flutter.

"Are there none? Are you quite sure?" There was a strained sound in her
voice wont to be so musical.

"Oh, yes. Father Rameau searched."

Miladi dropped her arm.

"It grows chilly," she said, presently. "Shall we go in, or--" Somehow
her voice seemed changed.

"I had better run down to the dame's. Good night, Miladi. I have been so
happy. It is like a lovely dream of the summer under the trees. I am
sorry I cannot be content to stay;" and she kissed the soft hand, that
now was cold.

Miladi made no reply. Only she stood still longer in the cold, and
murmured, "Jeanne Angelot, Jeanne Angelot." And then she recalled a
laughing remark of Gaston's only that morning:--

"Jeanne has wintry blue eyes like my father's! Look, maman, the frost
almost sparkles in them. And he says his came from the wonderful skies
above the Arctic seas. Do you know where that is?"

No, Jeanne did not know where that was. But there were plenty of
blue-eyed people in Detroit.

She ran down the steps in the light of the young crescent moon, and
rubbed her arm a little where the fingers had almost made a dent.

The next day the "Return" touched at the island. It was not at all out
of her way, and the captain and Loudac were warm friends. The boys clung
to Jeanne and would hardly let her go.

"I wish my father could buy you for another sister," exclaimed Gaston
hanging to her skirt. "If he were here he would not let you go, I am
quite sure. It will take such a long while for Angelique to grow up, and
then we shall be men."

Did Miladi give her a rather formal farewell? It seemed as if something
chilled Jeanne.

Loudac and the dame were effusive enough to make amends. The "Return"
was larger but not as jaunty as the "Flying Star," and it smelled
strongly of salt fish. But Jeanne stepped joyously aboard--was she not
going to La Belle Detroit? All her pulses thrilled with anticipation.
Home! How sweet a word it was!

CHAPTER XVII.

A PAEAN OF GLADNESS.

Jeanne's little cabin was very plain, but the window gave a nice lookout
and could be opened at will. They would cross the lake and go down to
Barre on the Canada side, and that would give a different view. Was the
ocean so very much larger, she wondered in her inexperienced fashion.

They passed a few boats going up. It was curiously lonely, with great
reaches of stunted pines and scrubby hemlocks, then a space of rather
sandy shore and wiry grasses that reared themselves stiffly. There was
nothing to read. And now she wished for some sewing. She was glad enough
when night came. The next morning the sky was overcast and there was a
dull, threatening wind.

"If we can make Barre before it storms," said Captain Mallard. "There is
a good harbor, and a fierce east wind would drive us back to the other
side."

They fortunately made Barre before the storm broke in all its
fierceness, but it was terrible! There was a roar over the lake as if a
drove of bisons were tearing madly about. The great waves pounded and
battered against the sides of the vessel as if they would break through,
and the surf flew up from the point that jutted out and made the harbor.
Gulls and bitterns went screaming, and Jeanne held her breath in very
terror. Earth and lake and sky were one vast picture of desolation, for
where the eye stopped the mind went on.

All night and all the next day the storm continued beating and bruising.
But at evening the wind fell, and Jeanne gave thanks with a hearty and
humble mind, and slept that night. When she woke the sun was struggling
through a sky of gray, with some faint yellow and green tints that came
and went as if not sure of their way. By degrees a dull red commingled
with them and a sulky sun showed his face.

"It is well we were in a safe port, Mam'selle, for the storm has been
terrible," explained the worthy captain. "As it is, in the darkness we
have lost one man overboard, and a day must be spent in repairing. The
little town is not much, but it might be a rest to go ashore."

"Yes," said Jeanne, rather absently.

"If you have a good blanket--the cold has sprung up suddenly. It is
squaw winter, which comes sooner you know, like a woman's temper, and
spends itself, clearing the way for smiles again."

Dame Loudac had given her a fur cap with lappets that made a hood of it.
She had Owaissa's blanket, and some warm leggings. The captain helped
her ashore, but it was a most uncheerful outlook. A few streets with
roughly built cottages, some shops at the wharf, a packing house with
the refuse of fish about, and a wide stretch of level land on which the
wind had swept the trees so fiercely that most of them leaned westward.

"Oh, how can anyone live here!" cried Jeanne with a shiver, contrasting
it with the beautiful island home of the White Chief.

The inhabitants were mostly French, rugged, with dull faces and clumsy
figures. They looked curiously at Jeanne and then went on with their
various employments.

But the walk freshened her and dispelled the listlessness. She gathered
a few shells on one strip of sandy beach, and watched many curious
creeping things. A brown lizard glided in and out of some tufts of sedge
grass; a great flock of birds high up in the air went flying southward.
Many gulls ran along with their shrill cries.

Oh, if she were at home! Would she ever reach there? For now gay-hearted
Jeanne seemed suddenly dispirited.

All the day kept cold, though at sunset the western sky blazed out with
glory and the wind died down. Captain Mallard would not start until
morning, however, and though the air had a keenness in it the sun gave
out a promising warmth.

Then they made Presque Isle, where there was much unloading, and some
stores to be taken on board. After that it grew warmer and Jeanne
enjoyed being on deck, and the memory of how she had come up the lake
was like a vague dream. They sailed past beautiful shores, islands where
vegetation was turning brown and yellow; here marshes still a vivid
green, there great clumps of trees with scarlet branches dancing in the
sun, the hickories beginning to shrivel and turn yellow, the evergreens
black in the shady places. At night the stars came out and the moon
swelled in her slender body, her horns losing their distinct outlines.

But Jeanne had no patience even with the mysterious, beautiful night.
The autumn was dying slowly, and she wondered who brought wood for Pani;
if she sat by the lonely fire! It seemed months since she had been taken
away.

Yes, here was the familiar lake, the shores she knew so well. She could
have danced for very gladness, though her eyes were tear-wet. And here
it narrowed into the river, and oh, was there ever such a blessed sight!
Every familiar point looked beautiful to her. There were some boats
hurrying out, the captains hoping to make a return trip. But the
crowded, businesslike aspect of summer was over.

They pushed along to the King's wharf. It seemed to her all were strange
faces. Was it really Detroit? St. Anne's bell came rolling down its
sweet sound. The ship crunched, righted itself, crunched again, the rope
was thrown out and made fast.

"Mam'selle," said the captain, "we are in."

She took his hand, the mute gratitude in her eyes, in her whole face;
its sweetness touched him.

"I hope you will find your friends well."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, with a long drawn breath. "Yes, that is my
prayer."

He was handing her off. The crowd, not very large, indeed, was all a
blur before her eyes. She touched the ground, then she dropped on her
knees.

"No, no," to some one who would have raised her. "I must say a prayer,
for I have come back to my own loved Detroit, my home. Oh, let me give
thanks."

"The saints be praised! It is Jeanne Angelot."

She rose as suddenly as she had knelt. Up the narrow street she ran,
while the astonished throng looked after her.

"Holy Mother defend us!" and a man crossed himself devoutly. "It is no
living being, it is a ghost."

For she had disappeared. The wondering eyes glanced on vacancy,
stupefied.

"I said she was dead from the first. She would never have gone off and
left the poor Pani woman to die of grief. She sits there alone day after
day, and now she will not eat, though Dame Margot and the Indian woman
Wenonah try to comfort her. And this is Jeanne's spirit come for her.
You will find her dead body in the cottage. Ah, I have seen the sign."

"It was a strange disappearance!"

"The captain can tell," said another, "for if she was rescued from the
Indians he must have brought her down."

"Yes, yes," and they rushed in search of the captain, wild with
superstition and excitement.

It was really Jeanne Angelot. She had been rescued and left at Bois
Blanc, and then taken over to another island. A pretty, sweet young girl
and no ghost, Jeanne Angelot by name.

Jeanne sped on like a sprite, drawing her cap over her face. Ah, the
familiar ways and sights, the stores here, the booths shut, for the
outdoors trade was mostly over, the mingled French and English, the
patois, the shouts to the horses and dogs and to the pedestrians to get
out of the way. She glanced up St. Anne's street, she passed the
barrack, where some soldiers sat in the sunshine cleaning up their
accouterments. Children were playing games, as the space was wider here.
The door of the cottage was closed. There was a litter on the steps,
dead leaves blown into the corners and crushed.

"O Pani! Pani!" she cried, and her heart stood still, her limbs
trembled.

The door was not locked. The shutter had been closed and the room was
dark, coming out of the sunshine. There was not even a blaze on the
hearth. A heap of something at the side--her sight grew clearer, a
blanketed bundle, oh, yes--

"Pani! Pani!" she cried again, all the love and longing of months in her
voice--"Pani, it is I, Jeanne come back to you. Oh, surely God would not
let you die now!"

She was tearing away the wrappings. She found the face and kissed it
with a passion of tenderness. It was cold, but not with the awful
coldness of death. The lips murmured something. The hands took hold of
her feebly.

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