A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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"There is another kind of seriousness, my child, and a thought of the
future that is not mere pleasure. You will outgrow this gay childhood.
You may even find it necessary to go to some other country. There may be
friends awaiting you that you know nothing of now. You would no doubt
like to have them pleased with you, proud of you. And for this and true
living you need some training. You must learn to read, to speak English,
and you will find great pleasure in it. Then you will enjoy talking to
older people. You see you will be older yourself."

His eyes were fixed steadily on hers and would not allow them to waver.
She felt the power of the stronger mind.

"I have been talking with M. Bellestre's notary. He thinks you should go
to school. There are to be some schools started as soon as the autumn
opens. You know you wanted to learn why the world was round, and about
the great continent of Europe and a hundred interesting subjects."

"But, Monsieur, it is mostly prayers. I do not so much mind Sunday, for
then there are people to see. But to have it every day--and the same
things over and over--"

She gave a yawn that was half ridiculous grimace.

"Prayers, are very good, Mam'selle. While I am away I want you to pray
for me that sometime God will bring me back safe and allow me to see
you again. And I shall say when I see the sun rising on the other side
of the world, 'It is night now in old Detroit and there is a little girl
praying for me.'"

"O Monsieur, would you be glad?" Her eyes were suffused with a mistlike
joy. "Then I will pray for you. That is so different from praying for
people you don't know anything about, and to--to saints. I don't know
them either. I feel as if they sat in long rows and just nodded to you."

"Pray to the good God, my child," he returned gravely. "And if you learn
to read and write you might send me a letter."

Her eyes opened wide in amazement. "Oh, I could never learn enough for
that!" she cried despairingly.

"Yes, you can, you will. M. Loisel will arrange it for you. And twice a
week you will go to the sisters, I have promised Father Rameau. There
will be plenty of time to run and play besides."

Jeanne Angelot looked steadily down on the ground. A caterpillar was
dragging its length along and she touched it with her foot.

"It was once a butterfly. It will spin itself up in a web and hang
somewhere all winter, and in the spring turn to a butterfly again."

"That ugly thing!" in intense surprise.

"And how the trees drop their leaves in the autumn and their buds are
done up in a brown sheath until the spring sunshine softens it and the
tiny green leaf comes out, and why the birds go to warmer countries,
because they cannot stand snow and sleet, and return again; why the bee
shuts himself up in the hollow tree and sleeps, and a hundred beautiful
things. And when I come back we will talk them over."

"O Monsieur!" Her rose lips quivered and the dimple in her chin deepened
as she drew a long breath that stirred every pulse of her being.

He had touched the right chord, awakened a new life within her. There
was a struggle, yet he liked her the better for not giving up her
individuality in a moment.

"Monsieur," she exclaimed with a new humility, "I will try--indeed I
will."

"That is a brave girl. M. Loisel will attend to the matter. And you will
be very happy after a while. It will come hard at first, but you must be
courageous and persevering. And now I must say good-by for a long while.
Pani I know will take excellent care of you."

He rose and shook hands with the woman, whose eyes were full of love for
the child of her adoption. Then he took both of Jeanne's little brown
hands in his and pressed them warmly.

She watched him as he threaded his way through the narrow street and
turned the corner. Then she rushed into the house and threw herself on
the small pallet, sobbing as if her heart would break. No one for whom
she cared had ever gone out of her life before. With Pani there was
complete ownership, but Monsieur St. Armand was a new experience.
Neither had she really loved her playmates, she had found them all so
different from herself. Next to Pani stood Wenonah and the grave
brown-faced babies who tumbled about the floor when they were not
fastened to their birch bark canoe cradle with a flat end balancing it
against the wall. She sometimes kissed them, they were so quaint and
funny.

"_Ma mie, ma mie_, let me take thee to my bosom," Pani pleaded. "He will
return again as he said, for he keeps his word. And thou wilt be a big
girl and know many things, and he will be proud of thee. And M.
Bellestre may come."

Jeanne's sobs grew less. She had been thrust so suddenly into a new
world of tender emotion that she was frightened. She did not want to go
out again, and sat watching Pani as she made some delicious broth out of
fresh green corn, that was always a great treat to the child.

It was true there was a new stir in the atmosphere of old Detroit. For
General Wayne with the prescience of an able and far-sighted patriot had
said, "To make good citizens they must learn the English language and
there must be schools. Education will be the corner stone of this new
country."

Governor St. Clair had a wide territory to look after. There were many
unsettled questions about land and boundaries and proper laws. New
settlements were projected, but Detroit was left to adjust many
questions for itself. A school was organized where English and various
simple branches should be taught. It was opposed by Father Gilbert, who
insisted that all the French Catholics should be sent to the Recollet
house, and trained in Church lore exclusively. But the wider knowledge
was necessary since there were so many who could not read, and the laws
and courts would be English.

The school session was half a day. The better class people had a few
select schools, and sometimes several families joined and had their
children taught at the house of some parent and shared expenses.

Jeanne felt like a wild thing caught and thrust into a cage. There were
disputes and quarrels, but she soon established a standing for herself.
The boys called her Indian, and a name that had been flung at her more
than once--tiger cat.

"You will see that I can scratch," she rejoined, threateningly.

"I will learn English, Pani, and no one shall interfere. M. Loisel said
if I went to the sisters on Wednesday and Friday afternoons that Father
Rameau would be satisfied. He is nice and kindly, but I hate Father
Gilbert. And," laughingly, "I think they are all afraid of M. Bellestre.
Do you suppose he will take me home with him when he comes? I do not
want to leave Detroit."

Pani sighed. She liked the old town as well.

Jeanne flew to the woods when school was over. She did envy the Indian
girls their freedom for they were not trained in useful arts as were the
French girls. Oh, the frolics in the woods, the hunting of berries and
grapes, the loads of beautiful birch and ash bark, the wild flowers that
bloomed until frost came! and the fields turning golden with the
ripening corn, secure from Indian raids! The thrifty French farmers
watched it with delight.

Marie De Ber had been kept very busy since the spinning began. Madame
thought schooling shortsighted business except for boys who would be
traders by and by, and must learn how to reckon correctly and do a
little writing.

They went after the last gleaning of berries one afternoon, when the
autumn sunshine turned all to gold.

"O Marie," cried Jeanne, "here is a harvest! Come at once, and if you
want them don't shout to anyone."

"O Jeanne, how good you are! For you might have called Susanne, who goes
to school, and I have thought you liked her better than you do me."

"No, I do not like her now. She pinched little Jacques Moet until he
cried out and then she laid it to Pierre Dessau, who was well thrashed
for it, and I called her a coward. I am afraid girls are not brave."

"Come nearer and let us hide in this thicket. For if I do not get a big
lot of berries mother will send Rose next time, she threatened."

"You can have some of mine. Pani will not care; for she never scolds at
such a thing."

"Pani is very good to you. Mother complains that she spoils you and that
you are being brought up like a rich girl."

Jeanne laughed. "Pani never struck me in my life. She isn't quite like a
mother, you see, but she loves me, loves me!" with emphasis.

"There are so many for mother to love," and the girl sighed.

"Jeanne," she began presently, "I want to tell you something. Mother
said I must not mention it until it was quite settled. There is--some
one--he has been at father's shop and--and is coming on Sunday to see
mother--"

Jeanne stood up suddenly. "It is Martin Lavosse," she said. "You danced
with him. He is so gay. O Marie!" and her face was alight.

"No, it is not Martin. I would not mind if it were. But he is so young,
only eighteen."

"You are young, too."

Marie sighed again. "You have not seen him. It is Antoine Beeson. He is
a boat builder, and has been buying some of the newly surveyed land down
at the southern end. Father has known him quite a long while. His sister
has married and gone to Frenchtown. He is lonely and wants a wife."

"But there are many girls looking for husbands," hesitated Jeanne, not
knowing whether to approve or oppose; and Marie's husband was such a new
idea.

"So father says. And we have five girls, you know. Rose is as tall as I
and has a prettier face and dances like a sprite. And there are so many
of the fur hunters and traders who drink and spend their money, and
sometimes beat their wives. Margot Beeson picked out a wife for him, but
he said she was too old. It was Lise Moet."

Jeanne laughed. "I should not want to live with her, her voice goes
through your head like a knife. She is little Jacques' aunt and the
children are all afraid of her. How old is Antoine?"

"Twenty-eight!" in a low, protesting tone.

"Just twice as old as you!" said Jeanne with a little calculation.

"Yes, I can't help but think of it. And when I am thirty he will be an
old man sixty years old, bent down and wrinkled and cross, maybe."

"O no, Marie," cried Jeanne, eagerly. "It is not that way one reckons.
Everything does not double up so fast. He is fourteen years older than
you, and when you are thirty he can only be fourteen years older than
you. Count up on your ten fingers--that makes forty, and four more, he
will be forty-four."

Marie's mouth and eyes opened in surprise. "Are you quite sure?" with an
indrawn breath.

"O yes, sure as that the river runs to the lake. It is what they teach
at school. And though it is a great trouble to make yourself remember,
and you wonder what it is all about, then at other times you can use the
knowledge and are happy and glad over it. There are so many queer
things," smiling a little. "And they are not in the catechism or the
prayers. The sisters shake their heads over them."

"But can they be quite right?" asked Marie in a kind of awesome tone.

"Why they seem right for the men to know," laughed Jeanne. "How else
could they be bartering and counting money? And it is said that Madame
Ganeau goes over her husband's books every week since they found Jules
Froment was a thief, and kept wrong accounts, putting the money in his
own pocket."

Jeanne raised her voice triumphantly.

"Oh, here they are!" cried Cecile followed by a string of girls. "And
look, they have found a harvest, their pails are almost full. You mean,
selfish things!"

"Why you had the same right to be hunting everywhere," declared Jeanne
stoutly. "We found a good place and we picked--that is all there is of
it."

"But you might have called us."

Jeanne laughed in a tantalizing manner.

"O Jeanne Angelot, you think yourself some great things because you live
inside the stockade and go to a school where they teach all manner of
lies to the children. Your place is out in some Indian wigwam. You're
half Indian, anyhow."

"Look at us!" Jeanne made a sudden bound and placed herself beside
Cecile, whose complexion was swarthy, her hair straight, black, and
rather coarse, and her dark eyes had a yellowish tinge, even to the
whites. "Perhaps I am the descendant of some Indian princess--I should
be proud of it, for the Indians once held all this great new world; and
the French and English could not hold it."

There was a titter among the girls. Never had Jeanne looked prouder or
handsomer, and Cecile's broad nose distended with anger while her lips
were purple. She was larger but she did not dare attack Jeanne, for she
knew the nature and the prowess of the tiger cat.

"Let us go home; it gets late," cried one of the girls, turning her
companion about.

"O Jeanne," whispered Marie, "how splendid you are! No husband would
ever dare beat you."

"I should tear out his eyes if he did."

CHAPTER VII.

LOVERS AND LOVERS.

There were days when Jeanne Angelot thought she should smother in the
stuffy school, and the din of the voices went through her head like the
rushing noise of a whirlwind. She had stolen out of the room once or
twice and had not been called to an account for it. Then one day she saw
a boy whipped severely for the same thing. Children were so often beaten
in those days, and yet the French habitans were very fond of their
offspring.

Jeanne lingered after the children made their clumsy bows and shuffled
out.

"Well, what is it?" asked the gruff master.

"Monsieur, you whipped the Dorien boy for running away from school."

"Yes, and I'll do it again. I'll break up the bad practice. Their
parents send them to school. They do a mean, dishonest thing and then
they lie about it. Don't come sniveling to me about Dorien."

"Monsieur, I was not going to snivel for anybody. You were right to keep
your word. If you had promised a holiday and not given it to us we
should have felt that you were mean and not of your word. So what is
right for one side is right for the other."

He looked over the tops of his glasses, and he made deep wrinkles in
his forehead to do it. His eyes were keen and sharp and disconcerted
Jeanne a little.

"Upon my word!" he ejaculated.

Jeanne drew a long breath and was almost afraid to go on with her
confession. Only she should not feel clean inside until she had uttered
it.

"There'd be no trouble teaching school if the pupils could see that.
There'd be little trouble in the world if the people could see it. It is
the good on my side, the bad shoved off on yours. Who taught you such a
sense of fairness, of honesty?"

If he could have gotten his grim face into smiling lines he would have
done it. As it was it softened.

"Monsieur, I wanted to tell you that I had not been fair. I ran out of
school the second day. It was like daggers going through my head and
there were stars before my eyes and such a ringing in my ears! So I ran
out of doors, clear out to the woods and stayed there up in a high tree
where the birds sang to me and the wind made music among the leaves and
one could almost look through the blue sky where the white boats went
sailing. I thought I would not come to school any more."

"Well--you did though." He was trying to think who this strange child
was.

"You see I had promised. And I wanted to learn English and many other
things that are not down in the prayers and counting beads. Pani said it
was wrong. So I came back. You did not know I had run away, Monsieur."

"No, but there was no rule then. I should have been glad if half of them
had run away."

He gave a chuckle and a funny gleam shone out of his eye, and there was
a curl in his lip as if the amusement could not get out.

Jeanne wanted to smile. She should never be afraid of him again.

"And there was another time--"

"How many more?"

"No more. For Pani said, 'Would you like to tell Monsieur St.
Armand?'--and I knew I should be ashamed."

A delicate flush stole over her face, going up to the tangle of rings on
her forehead. What a pretty child she was!

"Monsieur St. Armand?" inquiringly.

"He was here in the summer. He has gone to Paris. And he wanted me to
study. It is hard and sometimes foolishness, but then people are so much
nicer who know a great many things."

"Oh," he said thoughtfully, "you live with an Indian woman up by the
barracks? It is Monsieur Loisel's protegee?" and he gave her an
inquiring look.

"Monsieur, I would like to know what a protegee is," with a puzzled
look.

"Some one, generally a child, in whom you take an interest."

She gave a thoughtful nod, then a quick joy flamed up in her face. She
was Monsieur St. Armand's protegee and she was very glad.

"You are a courageous child. I wish the boys were as brave. I hate
lying;" the man said after a pause.

"O M'sieu, there are a great many cowardly people--do you not think so?"
she returned naively.

He really smiled then, and gave several emphatic nods at her youthful
discrimination.

"And you think you will not run away any more?"

"No, Monsieur, because--it is wrong."

"Then we must excuse you."

"Thank you, Monsieur. I wanted you to know. Now I can feel light
hearted."

She made a pretty courtesy and half turned.

"If you did not mind I should like to hear something about your Monsieur
St. Armand, that is, if you are not in a hurry to get home to your
dinner."

"Oh, Pani will wait."

She told her story eagerly, and he saw the wish to please this friend
who had shown such an interest in her was a strong incentive. But she
had a desire for knowledge beside that. So many of the children were
stupid and hated study. He would watch over her and see that she
progressed. This, no doubt, was the friend M. Loisel had spoken of.

"You have been very good to me, M'sieu," she said with another courtesy
as she turned away.

Several days had elapsed before she saw Marie again, for Madame De Ber
rather discountenanced the intimacy now. She had not much opinion of the
school; the sisters and the priests could teach all that was necessary.
And Jeanne still ran about like a wild deer, while Marie was a woman.

On Sunday Antoine Beeson came to pay his respects to Madame, the mamma.
He surely could not be considered a young girl's ideal,--short, stout,
red-faced from exposure to wind and water and sun, his thick brown hair
rather long, though he had been clean shaven the evening before. He wore
his best deerskin breeches, his gray sort of blouse with a red belt, and
low, clumsy shoes with his father's buckles that had come from France,
and he was duly proud of them. His gay bordered handkerchief and his
necktie were new for the occasion.

Monsieur De Ber had satisfied himself that he would make a good
son-in-law.

"For you see there is the house all ready, and now the servant has no
head and is idle and wasteful. I cannot stand such work. I wish your
daughter was two or three years older, since I cannot go back myself,"
the admirer exclaimed rather regretfully.

"Marie will be fifteen in the spring. She has been well trained, being
the eldest girl, and Madame is a thrifty and excellent housekeeper. Then
we all mend of youth. You will have a strong, healthy woman to care for
you in your old age, instead of a decrepit body to be a burthen to you."

"That is well thought of, De Ber;" and the suitor gave a short chuckle.
There was wisdom in the idea.

Madame had sent Marie and Rose out to walk with the children. She knew
she should accept the suitor, for her husband had said:--

"It is quite a piece of luck, since there are five girls to marry off.
And there's many a one who would jump at the chance. Then we shall not
have to give Marie much dowry beside her setting out. It is not like
young people beginning from the very hearthstone."

She met the suitor with a friendly greeting as if he were an ordinary
visitor, and they talked of the impending changes in the town, the
coming of the Americans, the stir in business prospects, M. Beeson was
not much of a waster of words, and he came to the point presently.

"It will be hard to spare Marie," she said with an accent of regret.
"Being the eldest she has had a great deal of experience. She is like a
mother to the younger ones. She has not been spending her time in
fooling around idly and dancing and being out on the river, like so many
girls. Rose is not worth half of Marie, and I do not see how I shall
ever get the trifler trained to take Marie's place. But there need be no
immediate haste."

"O Madame, we can do our courting afterward. I can take Mam'selle out to
the booths Saturday night, and we can look at the dancing. There will be
all day Sunday when I am at liberty. But you see there is the house
going to wrack, the servant spending my money, and the discomfort. I
miss my sister so much. And I thought we would not make a long story.
Dear Madame, you must see the need."

"It is sad to be sure. But you see Marie being so young and kept rather
close, not having any admirers, it takes us suddenly. And the wedding
gear--"

"Mam'selle always looks tidy. But I suppose a girl wants some show at
the church and the maids. Well, one doesn't get married many times in
one's life. But I would like it to be by Christmas. It will be a little
dull with me no doubt, and toward spring it is all hurry and drive,
Antoine here and Antoine there. New boats and boats to be patched and
canoes and dugouts. Then the big ships are up for repairs. I have worked
moonlight nights, Madame. And Christmas is a pleasurable time."

"Yes, a pleasant time for a girl to remember. I was married at
Pentecost. And there was the great procession. Dear! dear! It is not
much over seventeen years ago and we have nine children."

"Pierre is a big lad, Madame, and a great help to his father. Children
are a pleasure and comfort in one's old age if they do well. And thine
are being well brought up. Marie is so good and steady. It is not wisdom
for a man like me to choose a flighty girl."

"Marie will make a good wife," returned Madame, confidently.

And so when Marie returned it was all settled and Antoine had been
invited to tea. Marie was in a desperate flutter. Of course there was
nothing for her to say and she would not have had the courage to say it
if there had been. But she could not help comparing him with Martin
Lavosse, and some of the young men who greeted her at church. If his
face were not quite so red, and his figure so clumsy! His hands, too,
were broad with stubby ends to the fingers. She looked at her own; they
were quite shapely, for youth has a way of throwing off the marks of
toil that are ready enough to come back in later life.

"_Ma fille_," said her mother when the lover had wished them all good
night, rather awkwardly, and her father had gone out to walk with him;
"_ma fille_, Monsieur Beeson has done us the honor to ask for thy hand.
He is a good, steady, well-to-do man with a nice home to take thee to.
He does not carouse nor spend his money foolishly, but will always stay
at home with thee, and make thee happy. Many a girl will envy thy lot.
He wants the wedding about Christmas time, so the betrothal will be
soon, in a week or so. Heaven bless and prosper thee, my child! A good
daughter will not make an ill wife. Thy father is very proud."

Rose and Marie looked unutterable things at each other when they went to
bed. There were little pitchers in the trundle-bed, and their parents in
the next room.

"If he were not so old!" whispered Rose.

"And if he could dance! But with that figure!"

"Like a buffalo!" Marie's protest forced its way up from her heart. "And
I have just begun to think of things that make one happy. There will be
dances at Christmastide."

"I wonder if one is sure to love one's husband," commented Rose.

"It would be wicked not to. But how does one begin? I am so afraid of
his loud voice."

"Girls, cease whispering and go to sleep. The night will be none too
long," called their mother.

Marie wiped some tears from her eyes. But it was a great comfort to her
when she was going to church the next Sunday and walking behind the
Bronelle girls to hear Hortense say:--

"I have my cap set for Tony Beeson. His sister has kept close watch of
him, but now he is free. I was down to the dock on Friday, and he was
very cordial and sent a boy over the river with me in a canoe and would
take no pay. Think of that! I shall make him walk home with me if I
can."

Marie De Ber flushed. Some one would be glad to have him. At first she
half wished he had chosen Hortense, then a bit of jealousy and a bit of
triumph surged through her slow pulses.

Antoine Beeson walked home on the side of M. De Ber. The children old
enough to go to church were ranged in a procession behind. Pierre
guarded his sisters. Jeanne was on the other side of the street with
Pani, but the distance was so small that she glanced across with
questioning eyes. Marie held her head up proudly.

"I do believe," began Jeanne when they had turned out of St Anne's
street, "that Marie De Ber is going to be betrothed to that rough boat
builder who walks beside her father."

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