A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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"Antoine Beeson has a good record, and she will do well," returned Pani
briefly.

"But I think it would not be easy to love him," protested Jeanne.

"Child, you are too young to talk about love. It is the parents who
decide such matters."

"And I have none. You could not make me marry anyone, Pani. And I do not
like these common men."

"Heaven forbid! but I might advise."

"I am not going to marry, you know. After all, maybe when I get old I
will be a sister. It won't be hard to wear a black gown then. But I
shall wait until I am _very_ old. Pani, did you ever dream of what might
happen to you?"

"The good God sends what is best for us, child."

"But--Monsieur Bellestre might come. And if he took me away then
Monsieur St. Armand might come. Pani, is Monsieur Bellestre as nice as
Monsieur St. Armand? I cannot seem to remember him."

"Little maids should not be thinking of men so often. Think of thy
prayers, Jeanne."

Sunday was a great time to walk on the parade ground, the young men
attired in their best, the demoiselles gay as butterflies with a mother
or married sister to guard them from too great familiarity. But there
was much decorous coquetting on both sides, for even at that period many
a young fellow was caught by a pair of smiling eyes.

Others went to walk in the woods outside the farms or sailing on the
river, since there was no Puritan strictness. They did their duty by the
morning mass and service, and the rest of the day was given over to
simple pleasure. There was a kind of half religious hilarity in the very
air.

And the autumn was so magnificently beautiful. The great hillsides with
their tracts of timber that looked as if they fenced in the world when
the sun dropped down behind them, but if one threaded one's way through
the dark aisles and came out on the other side there were wonderful
pictures,--small prairies or levels that suggested lakes and then a sort
of avenue stretching out until another was visible, undulating surfaces,
groves of pine, burr oak, and great stalwart hickories, then another
woody ridge, and so on and on through interminable tangles and over
rivers until Lake Michigan was reached. But not many of the habitans, or
even the English, for that matter, had traveled to the other side of the
state. The business journeys called them northward. There were Indian
settlements about that were not over friendly.

Jeanne liked the outside world better. She was not old enough for smiles
and smirks or an interest in fine clothes. So when she said, "Come,
Pani," the woman rose and followed.

"To the tree?" she asked as they halted a little.

"To the big woods," smilingly.

The cottages were many of them framed in with vines and high pickets,
and pear and apple orchards surrounded them, whose seed and, in some
instances, cuttings had been brought from France; roses, too, whose
ancestors had blossomed for kings and queens. Here and there was an oak
turned ruddy, a hickory hanging out slender yellow leaves, or a maple
flaunting a branch of wondrous scarlet. The people had learned to
protect and defend themselves from murderous Indian raids, or in this
vicinity the red men had proved more friendly.

Pierre De Ber came shambling along. He had grown rapidly and seemed
loose jointed, but he had a kindly, honest face where ignorance really
was simplicity.

"You fly over the ground, Jeanne!" he exclaimed out of breath. The day
was very warm for September. "Here I have been trying to catch up to
you--"

"Yes, Mam'selle, I am tired myself. Let us sit down somewhere and rest,"
said Pani.

"Just to this little hillock. Pani, it would make a hut with the
clearing inside and the soft mosses. If you drew the branches of the
trees together it would make thatching for the roof. One could live
here."

"O Mam'selle,--the Indians!" cried Pierre.

Jeanne laughed. "The Indians are going farther and farther away. Now,
Pani, sit down here. Then lean back against this tree. And now you may
take a good long rest. I am going to talk to the chipmunks and the
birds, and find flowers."

Pani drew up her knees, resting on her feet as a brace. The soft air had
made her sleepy as well, and she closed her eyes.

"It is so beautiful," sighed Jeanne. "Something rises within me and I
want to fly. I want to know what strange lands there are beyond the
clouds. And over there, far, farther than one can think, is a big ocean
no one has ever seen. It is on the map. And this way," inclining her
head eastward, "is another. That is where you go to France."

"But I shall never go to France," said the literal youth. "I want to go
up to Michilimackinac, and there is the great Lake Huron. That is
enough for me. If the ocean is any bigger I do not want to see it."

"It is, oh, miles and hundreds of miles bigger! And it takes more than a
month to go. The master showed me on a map."

"Well, I don't care for that," pulling the leaves off a branch he had
used for a switch.

The rough, rugged, and sometimes cross face of the master was better,
because his eyes had a wonderful light in them. What made people so
different? Apples and pears and ears of corn generally grew one like the
other. And pigs--she smiled to herself. And the few sheep she had seen.
But people could think. What gave one the thinking power? In the brain
the master said. Did every one have brains?

"Jeanne, I have something wonderful to tell you."

"Oh, I think I know it! Marie has a lover."

He looked disappointed. "Who told you?"

"No one really told me. I saw Monsieur Beeson walking home with your
father. And Marie was afraid--"

"Afraid!" the boy gave a derisive laugh. "Well, she is no longer afraid.
They are going to be betrothed on Michaelmas eve. Tony is a good
fellow."

"Then if Marie is--satisfied--"

"Why shouldn't she be satisfied? Father says it is a great chance, for
you see she can really have no dowry, there are so many of us. We must
all wait for our share until father has gone."

"Gone? Where?" She looked up in surprise.

"Why, when he is dead. Everybody has to die, you know. And then the
money they leave is divided."

Jeanne nodded. It shocked her in a vague sort of fashion, and she was
glad Pani had no money.

"And Tony Beeson has a good house and a good business. I like him," the
boy said, doggedly.

"Yes," assentingly. "But Marie is to marry him."

"Oh, the idea!" Pierre laughed immoderately. "Why a man always marries a
woman."

"But your liking wouldn't help Marie."

"Oh, Marie is all right. She will like him fast enough. And it will be
gay to have a wedding. That is to be about Christmas."

Jeanne was looking down the little slant to the cottages and the
wigwams, and speculating upon the queerness of marriage.

"I wish I had made as much fortune as Tony Beeson. But then I'm only a
little past sixteen, and in five years I shall be twenty-one. Then I am
going to have a wife and house of my own."

"O Pierre!" Jeanne broke into a soft laugh.

"Yes, Jeanne--" turning very red.

The girl was looking at him in a mirthful fashion and it rather
disconcerted him.

"You won't mind waiting, Jeanne--"

"I shan't mind waiting, but if you mean--" her cheeks turned a deeper
scarlet and she made a little pause--"if you mean marrying I should mind
that a good deal;" in a decisive tone.

"But not to marry me? You have known me always."

"I should mind marrying anyone. I shouldn't want to sweep the house, and
cook the meals, and wash, and tend babies. I want to go and come as I
like. I hated school at first, but now I like learning and I must crack
the shell to get at the kernel, so you see that is why I make myself
agree with it."

"You cannot go to school always. And while you are there I shall be up
to the Mich making some money."

"Oh," with a vexed crease in her forehead, "I told you once before not
to talk of this--the day we were all out in the boat, you remember. And
if you go on I shall hate you; yes, I shall."

"I shall go on," said the persistent fellow. "Not very often, perhaps,
but I thought if you were one of the maids at Marie's wedding and I
could wait on you--"

"I shall not be one of the maids." She rose and stamped her foot on the
ground. "Your mother does not like me any more. She never asks me to
come in to tea. She thinks the school wicked. And you must marry to
please her, as Marie is doing. So it will not be me;" she declared with
emphasis.

"Oh, I know. That Louis Marsac will come back and you will marry him."

The boy's eyes flamed with jealousy and his whole face gloomed over with
cruelty. "And then I shall kill him. I couldn't stand it," he
continued.

"I hate Louis Marsac! I hate you, Pierre De Ber!" she cried vehemently.

The boy fell at her feet and kissed the hem of her frock, for she
snatched away her hands.

"No, don't hate me. I'm glad to have you hate him."

"Get up, or I shall kick you," she said viciously.

"O Jeanne, don't be angry! I'll wait and wait. I thought you had
forgotten, or changed somehow. You have been so pleasant. And you smiled
so at me this morning. I know you have liked me--"

"If ever you say another word--" raising her hand.

"I won't unless you let me. You see you are not grown up yet, but
sometimes people are betrothed when they are little children--"

She put her fingers in her ears and spun round and round, going down the
little decline. Then she remembered Pani, who had fallen asleep. She
motioned to Pierre.

"Go home," she commanded as he came toward her. "And if you ever talk
about this to me again I shall tell your father. I am not for anybody. I
shall not mind if I am one of St. Catherine's maids."

"Jeanne--"

"Go!" She made an imperative motion with her hand.

He walked slowly away. She started like a mad thing and ran through the
woods at the top of her speed until her anger had vanished.

"Poor Pierre," she said. "This talk of marriage has set him crazy. But
I could never like him, and Madame Mere just hates me."

She went slowly back to Pani and sat down by her side. How tired she
looked!

"And I dragged her way up here," she thought remorsefully. "I'm glad she
didn't wake up."

So she sat there patiently and let the woman finish her nap. But her
beautiful thoughts were gone and her mind was shadowed by something
grave and strange that she shrank from. Then Pani stirred.

"O child, I've been sleeping stupidly and you have not gathered a
flower--" looking at the empty hands. "Have you been here all the time?"

"No matter. Pani, am I a tyrant dragging you everywhere?" Her voice was
touching with regret.

"No, _cherie_. But sometimes I feel old. I've lived a great many years."

"How many?"

"Oh, I cannot count them up. But I am rested now. Shall we walk about a
little and get my knees limber? Where is Pierre?"

"He went home. Pani, it is true Marie is to be betrothed to M'sieu
Beeson, and married at Christmastide."

"And if the sign holds good Madame De Ber will be fortunate in marrying
off her girls, for, if the first hangs on, it is bad for the rest. Rose
will be much prettier, and no doubt have lovers in plenty. But it is not
always the prettiest that make the best wives. Marie is sensible. They
will have a grand time."

"And I shall not be counted in," the child said proudly.

"Jeanne, little one--" in surprise.

"Madame does not like me because I go to the heretic school. And--I do
not sew nor spin, nor sweep the house--"

"There is no need," interrupted Pani.

"No, since I do not mean to have a husband."

And yet--how amusing it was--a boy and a man were ready to quarrel over
her. Did ever any little girl have two lovers?

"Ah, little one, smile over it now, but thou wilt change presently when
the right bird whistles through the forest."

"I will not come for any man's whistle."

"That is only a saying, dear."

They walked down the hill. Cheerful greetings met them and Pani was
loaded with fruit. At the hut of Wenonah, the mistress insisted upon
their coming in to supper and Jeanne consented for them both. For,
although the bell rang, the gates were no longer closed at six.

Marie De Ber made several efforts to see her friend, but her mother's
watchful eye nipped them in the bud. One Friday afternoon they met.
Wednesday following was to be the betrothal.

"I wanted to explain--" Marie flushed and hesitated. "There have been
many guests asked, and they are mostly older people--"

"Yes, I know. I am only a child, and your mother does not approve. Then
I go to the heretic school."

"She thinks the school a bad thing. And about the maids--"

"I could not be one of them," Jeanne said stiffly.

"Mother has chosen them, I had no say. She manages everything. When I
have my own home I shall do as I like and invite whom I choose. Mother
thinks I do not know anything and have no mind, but, Jeanne, I love you,
and I am not afraid of what you learn at school. Monsieur Beeson said it
was a good thing. And you will not be angry with me?"

"No, no, Marie." The child's heart was touched.

"We will be friends afterward. I shall tell M'sieu Beeson how long we
have cared for each other."

"You--like him?" hesitatingly.

"He is very kind. And girls cannot choose. I wish he were younger, but
it will be gay at Christmastide, and my own home will be much to me.
Yes, we will wait until then. Jeanne, kiss me for good luck. You are
quite sure you are not angry?"

"Oh, very sure."

The two girls kissed each other and Jeanne cried, "Good luck! good
luck!" But all the same she felt Marie was going out of her life and it
would leave a curious vacancy.

CHAPTER VIII.

A TOUCH OF FRIENDSHIP.

How softly the bells rang out for the service of St. Michael and All
Angels! The river flowing so tranquilly seemed to carry on the melody
and then bring back a faint echo. It was a great holiday with the
French. The early mass was thronged, somehow the virtue seemed greater
if one went to that. Then there was a procession that marched to the
little chapels outside, which were hardly more than shrines.

Pani went out early and alone. And though the good priest had said to
her, "The child is old enough and should be confirmed," since M.
Bellestre had some objections and insisted that Jeanne should not be
hurried into any sacred promises, and the child herself seemed to have
no desire, they waited.

"But you peril the salvation of her soul. Since she has been baptized
she should be confirmed," said Father Rameau. "She is a child of the
Church. And if she should die!"

"She will not die," said Pani with a strange confidence, "and she is to
decide for herself."

"What can a child know!"

"Then if she cannot know she must be blameless. Monsieur Bellestre was a
very good man. And, M'sieu, some who come to mass, to their shame be it
said, cheat their neighbors and get drunk, and tempt others to drink."

"Most true, but that doesn't lessen our duty."

M. Bellestre had not come yet. This time a long illness had intervened.

Jeanne went out in the procession and sang in the hymns and the rosary.
And she heard about the betrothal. The house had been crowded with
guests and Marie had on a white frock and a beautiful sash, and her hair
was curled.

In spite of her protests Jeanne did feel deeply hurt that she should be
left out. Marie had made a timid plea for her friend.

"We cannot ask all the children in the town," said her mother
emphatically. "And no one knows whether she has any real position. She
is a foundling, and no company for you."

Pani went down the river with her in the afternoon. She was gayety
itself, singing little songs and laughing over everything so that she
quite misled her nurse into thinking that she really did not care. Then
she made Pani tell some old legends of the spirits who haunted the lakes
and rivers, and she added to them some she had heard Wenonah relate.

"I should like to live down in some depths, one of the beautiful caves
where there are gems and all lovely things," said the child.

"As if there were not lovely things in the forests. There are no birds
in the waters. And fishes are not as bright and merry as squirrels."

"That is true enough. I'll stay on the earth a little while longer,"
laughingly. "But look at the lovely colors. O Pani, how many beautiful
things there are! And yet Berthe Campeau is going to Quebec to become a
nun and be shut out of it. How can you praise God for things you do not
see and cannot enjoy? And is it such a good thing to suffer? Does God
rejoice in the pain that he doesn't send and that you take upon
yourself? Her poor mother will die and she will not be here to comfort
her."

Pani shook her head. The child had queer thoughts.

"Pani, we must go and see Madame Campeau afterward. She will be very
lonely. You would not be happy if I went away?"

"O child!" with a quick cry.

"So I am not going. If Monsieur Bellestre wants me he will take you,
too."

Pani nodded.

They noted as they went down that a tree growing imprudently near the
water's edge had fallen in. There was a little bend in the river, and it
really was dangerous. So coming back they gave it a sensibly wide berth.

A canoe with a young man in it came flying up. The sun had gone down and
there were purple shadows about like troops of spirits.

"Monsieur," the child cried, "do not hug the shore so much. There is
danger."

A gay laugh came back to them and he flashed on, his paddle poised at a
most graceful angle.

"O Monsieur!" with eager warning.

The paddle caught. The dainty canoe turned over and floated out of reach
with a slight gust of wind.

"Monsieur"--Jeanne came nearer--"it was a fallen tree. It was so dusk I
knew you could not see it."

He was swimming toward them. "I wonder if you can help me recover my
boat."

"Monsieur, swim in to the shore and I will bring the canoe there." She
was afraid to risk taking him in hers. "Just down below to escape the
tree."

"Oh, thank you. Yes, that will be best."

His strokes were fine and strong even if he was encumbered by his
clothing. Jeanne propelled her canoe along and drove the other in to
shore, then caught it with a rope. He emerged from his bath and shook
himself.

"You have been very kind. I should have heeded your warning or asked you
what it meant. And now--I have lost my paddle."

"I have an extra one, Monsieur."

"You are a godsend certainly. Lend it to me."

He waded out, rescued his canoe and leaped adroitly into it. She was
interested in the ease and grace.

"That tree is a dangerous thing," he exclaimed.

"They will remove it, Monsieur. It must have recently fallen in. The
tide has washed the ground away."

"It was quite a mishap, but owing to your quick thought I am not much
the worse;" and he laughed. "I do not mind a wetting. As for the lost
paddle that will break no one's heart. But I shall remember you with
gratitude. May I ask your name?"

"It is Jeanne Angelot," she said simply.

"Oh, then I ought to know you--do know you a little. My father is the
Sieur St. Armand."

"Oh!" Jeanne gave a little cry of delight.

"And I have a message for you. I was coming to find you to-morrow."

"Monsieur may take cold in his wet clothes, Jeanne. We ought to go a
little faster," said Pani. "The air is getting chilly here on the
river."

"If you do not mind I will hasten on. And to-morrow I shall be glad to
come and thank you again and deliver my message."

"Adieu," responded Jeanne, with a delicious gayety.

He was off like a bird and soon out of sight. Jeanne drew her canoe up
to a quiet part of the town, below the gate. The day was ending, as
holidays often did, in a sort of carouse. Men were playing on fiddles,
crowds of men and boys were dancing. By some flaring light others were
playing cards or dominoes. The two threaded their way quickly along,
Jeanne with her head and face nearly hidden by the big kerchief that was
like a shawl.

"How queer it was, Pani!" and she laughed. Her eyes were like stars in
their pleasure. "And to think Monsieur St. Armand has sent me a message!
Do you suppose he is in France? I asked the master to show me France--he
has a map of these strange countries."

"A map!" gasped Pani, as if it were an evil spirit.

"Why, it is like a picture with lines all about it. This is France. This
is Spain. And England, where the English come from. I should think they
would--it is such a little place. Ever so many other countries as well.
But after all I don't understand about their going round--"

"Come and have some supper."

"We should have seen him anyhow if he had not fallen into the river. And
it was funny! If he had heeded what I said--it was lucky we saw the tree
as we went down."

"He will give due notice of it, no doubt. The water is so clear that it
can easily be seen in the daytime. Otherwise I should feel troubled."

Jeanne nodded with gay affirmation. She was in exuberant spirits, and
could hardly eat.

Then they sat out in the doorway, shaded somewhat by the clinging vines.
From below there was a sound of music. Up at the Fort the band was
playing. There was no moon, but the stars were bright and glittering in
strange tints. Now and then a party rather merry with wine and whisky
trolled out a noisy stave that had been imported from the mother country
years ago about Jacques and his loves and his good wine.

Presently the great bell clanged out. That was a signal for booths to
shut, for deerhide curtains to be drawn. Some obstreperous soldiers were
marched to the guardhouse. Some drunken revelers crept into a nook
beside a storage box or hid in a tangle of vines to sleep until
morning.

But in many of the better class houses merriment and gayety went on
while the outside decorousness was observed. There was a certain respect
paid to law and the new rulers were not so arbitrary as the English had
been. Also French prejudices were wearing slowly away while the real
characteristics of the race remained.

"I shall not go to school to-day," said Jeanne the next morning. "I will
tell the master how it was, and he will pardon me. And I will get two
lessons to-morrow, so the children will see that he does not favor me. I
think they are sometimes jealous."

She laughed brightly and went dancing about singing whatever sounds
entered her mind. Now it was a call of birds, then a sharp high cry,
anon a merry whistle that one might fancy came from the woods. She ran
out and in, she looked up and down the narrow street with its crooks
that had never been smoothed out, and with some houses standing in the
very road as it were. Everything was crowded in the business part.

Rose De Ber spied her out and came running up to greet her; tossing her
head consequentially.

"We had a gay time last night. I wish you could have peeped in the
windows. But you know it was not for children, only grown people. Martin
Lavosse danced ever so many times with me, but he moaned about Marie,
and I said, 'By the time thou art old enough to marry she will have a
houseful of babies, perhaps she will give you her first daughter,' and
he replied, 'I shall not wait that length of time. There are still good
fish in the lakes and rivers, but I am sorry to see her wed before she
has had a taste of true life and pleasure.' And, Jeanne, I have resolved
that mother shall not marry me off to the first comer."

Jeanne nodded approval.

"I do not see what has come over Pierre," she went on. "He was grumpy as
a wounded bear last night and only a day or two ago he made such a
mistake in reckoning that father beat him. And Monsieur Beeson and
mother nearly quarreled over the kind of learning girls should have. He
said every one should know how to read and write and figure a little so
that she could overlook her husband's affairs if he should be ill. Marie
is going to learn to read afterward, and she is greatly pleased."

It was true that ignorance prevailed largely among the common people.
The children were taught prayers and parts of the service and catechism
orally, since that was all that concerned their souls' salvation, and it
kept a wider distinction between the classes. But the jolly, merry
Frenchman, used to the tradition of royalty, cared little. His place was
at the end of the line and he enjoyed the freedom. He would not have
exchanged his rough, comfortable dress for all the satin waistcoats,
velvet small clothes and lace ruffles in the world. Like the Indian he
had come to love his liberty and the absence of troublesome
restrictions.

But the English had brought in new methods, although education with them
was only for the few. The colonist from New England made this a
specialty. As soon as possible in a new settlement schools were
established, but there were other restrictions before them and learning
of most kinds had to fight its way.

Jeanne saw her visitor coming up the street just as her patience was
almost exhausted. She was struck with a sudden awe at the sight of the
well dressed young man.

"Did you think I would not keep my word?" he asked gayly.

"But your father did," she answered gravely.

"Ah, I am afraid I shall never make so fine a man. I have seen no one
like him, Mam'selle, though there are many courageous and honorable men
in the world. But you know I have not met everybody," laughing and
showing white, even teeth between the red lips. "Good day!" to Pani, who
invited him in into the room where she had set a chair for him.

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