A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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"Monsieur Bellestre did not want me to become a nun, then?"

Jeanne asked the question gravely as a woman.

"It seems not, Mam'selle. He thinks some one may come to claim you, but
that is hardly probable after all these years;" and there was a dryness
in the notary's tone. "You are to be educated, but I think the sisters
know better what is needful for a girl. There are no restrictions,
however. I am to see that the will is carried out, and the new court is
to appoint what is called a guardian. The money is to be sent to me
every six months. It surely is a great shame Mam'selle has no male
relatives."

"Shall we have to change, Monsieur?" asked Pani with a dread in her
voice.

"Oh, no; unless Mam'selle should--" he looked questioningly at the girl.

"I shall never leave Pani." She came and stretching up clasped her arms
about the woman's neck as she had in her babyhood. "And I like to go to
school to the master."

"M. Bellestre counts this way, that you were three years old when you
came to Detroit. That was nine years ago. And that you are twelve now.
So there are four years--"

"It looks a long while, but the past does not seem so. Why, last winter
is like the turn of your hand," and she turned hers over with a smile.

"Many things may happen in four years." No doubt she would have a lover
and marry. "Let me go over it again."

They both listened, Jeanne wide-eyed, Pani nodding her head slowly.

"I must tell you that M. Bellestre left fifty pounds to Father Rameau
for any purpose he considered best. And now the court will take it in
hand, but these new American courts are all in confusion and very slow.
Still, as there is to be no change, and the money will come through me
as before, why, there will be no trouble."

Pani nodded again but made no comment. She could hardly settle her mind
to the fact of Monsieur Bellestre's death.

"Allow me to congratulate you, Mam'selle, on having so sincere a
friend." M. Loisel held out his hand.

"If he had but come back! I do not care for the money."

"Still, money is a very good thing. Well, we will have several more
talks about this. Adieu, Mam'selle. My business is ended at present."

He bowed politely as he went out; but he thought, "It is a crazy thing
leaving her to the care of that old Indian woman. Surely he could not
have distrusted Father Rameau? And though the good father is quite
sure--well, it does not do for anyone to be too sure in this world."

Father Rameau came that very afternoon and had a long talk with Pani. He
did not quite understand why M. Bellestre should be so opposed to the
Church taking charge of the child, since she was not in the hands of any
relative. But he had promised Pani she should not be separated from her,
indeed, no one had a better right to her, he felt.

M. Bellestre's family were strong Huguenots, and had been made to suffer
severely for their faith in Old France, and not a little in the new
country. He had not cordially loved the English, but he felt that the
larger liberty had been better for the settlement, and that education
was the foe to superstition and bigotry, as well as ignorance. While he
admitted to himself, and frankly to the town, the many excellencies of
the priest, it was the system, that held the people in bondage and
denied enlightenment, that he protested against. It was with great pain
that he had discovered his wife's gradual absorption, but knowing death
was at hand he could not deny her last request. But the child should
choose for herself, and, if under Pani's influence she should become a
Catholic, he would not demur. From time to time he had accounts from M.
Loisel, and he had been pleased with the desire of the child for
education. She should have that satisfaction.

And now spring was coming again. The sense of freedom and rejoicing
broke out anew in Jeanne, but she found herself restrained by some
curious power that was finer than mere propriety. She was growing older
and knowledge enlarged her thoughts and feelings, stirred a strange
something within her that was ambition, though she knew it not; she had
not grown accustomed to the names of qualities.

The master was taking great pride in her, and gave her the few
advantages within his reach. Detroit was being slowly remodeled, but it
was discouraging work, since the French settlers were satisfied with
their own ways, and looked with suspicion on improvements even in many
simple devices for farming.

With the fur season the town was in wild confusion and holiday jollity
prevailed. There were Indians with packs; and the old race of the
_coureurs des bois_, who were still picturesque with their red sashes
and jaunty habiliments. They were wild men of the woods, who had thrown
off the restraints of civilized life and who hunted as much for the
pleasure as the profit. They could live in a wigwam, they could join
Indian dances, they were brave, hardy, but in some instances savage as
the Indians themselves and quite as lawless. A century ago they had been
the pioneers of the fur hunters, with many a courageous explorer among
them. The newer organizations of the fur companies had curtailed their
power and their numbers had dwindled, but they kept up their wild
habits, and this was the carouse of the whole year.

It was a busy season. There was great chaffering, disputing, and not a
few fights, though guards were detailed along the river front to keep
the peace as far as was possible. Boats were being loaded for Montreal,
cargoes to be shipped down the Hudson and from thence abroad, with mink
and otter and beaver, beautiful fox furs, white wolf and occasionally a
white bear skin that dealers would quarrel about.

Then the stores of provisions to be sent back to the trappers and
hunters, the clothes and blankets and trinkets for the Indians, kept
shopkeepers busy day and night, and poured money into their coffers. New
men were going out,--to an adventurous young fellow this seemed the
great opportunity of his life.

Jeanne Angelot's fortune had been noised abroad somewhat, though she
paid little attention to it even in her thoughts. But she was a girl
with a dowry now, and she was not only growing tall but strangely pretty
as well. Her skin was fairer, her hair, which still fell in loose
curls, was kept in better order. Coif she would not wear, but sometimes
she tied a bright kerchief under her chin and looked bewitching.

French mothers of sons were never averse to a dowry, although men were
so in want of wives that few went begging for husbands. Women paused to
chat with Pani and make kindly inquiries about her charge. Even Madame
De Ber softened. She was opposed to Pierre's going north with the
hunters, but he was so eager and his father considered it a good thing.
And now he was a strapping big fellow, taller than his father, slowly
shaping up into manhood.

"Thou hast not been to visit Marie?" she said one day on meeting Jeanne
face to face. "She has spoken of it. Last year you were such a child,
but now you have quite grown and will be companionable. All the girls
have visited her. Her husband is most excellent."

"I have been busy with lessons," said Jeanne with some embarrassment.
Then, with a little pride--"Marie dropped me, and if I were not to be
welcome--"

"Chut! chut! Marie had to put on a little dignity. A child like you
should bear no malice."

"But--she sent me no invitation."

"Then I must chide her. And it will be pleasant down there in the
summer. Do you know that Pierre goes back with the hunters?"

"I have heard--yes."

"It is not my wish, but if he can make money in his youth so much the
better. And the others are growing up to fill his place. Good day to
thee, Jeanne."

That noon Madame De Ber said to her husband, "Jeanne Angelot improves
greatly. Perhaps the school will do her no harm. She is rather sharp
with her replies, but she always had a saucy tongue. A girl needs a
mother to correct her, and Pani spoils her."

"She will have quite a dowry, I have heard," remarked her husband.

Pierre flushed a little at this pleasant mention of her name. If Jeanne
only walked down in the town like some of the girls! If Rose might ask
her to go!

But Rose did not dare, and then there was Martin ready to waylay her.
Three were awkward when you liked best to have a young man to yourself.

How many times Pierre had watched her unseen, her lithe figure that
seemed always atilt even when wrapped in furs, and her starry eyes
gleaming out of her fur hood. Not even Rose could compare with her in
that curious daintiness, though Pierre would have been at loss to
describe it, since his vocabulary was limited, but he felt it in every
slow beating pulse. He had resolved to speak, but she never gave him the
opportunity. She flashed by him as if she had never known him.

But he must say good-by to her. There was Madelon Dace, who had
quarreled with her lover and gone to a dance with some one else and held
her head high, never looking to the right or the left, and then as
suddenly melted into sweetness and they would be married. Yet Madelon
had said to his sister Marie, "I will never speak to him, never!" What
had he done to offend Jeanne so deeply? Girls were not usually angered
at a man falling in love with them.

So Pierre's pack was made up. In the autumn they could send again. He
took tea the last time with Marie. The boats were all ready to start up
the Huron.

He went boldly to the little cottage and said courageously to Pani,
though his heart seemed to quake almost down to his feet, "I am going
away at noon. I have come to say good-by to Jeanne--and to you," put in
as an afterthought.

"What a great fellow you are, Pierre! I wish you good luck. Jeanne--"

Jeanne had almost forgotten her childish anger, and the love making was
silly, even in remembrance.

"Surely I wish thee good luck, Pierre," she said formally, with a smile
not too warm about her rosy lips. "And a fortunate hunting and trading."

"A safe return, Mam'selle, put that in," he pleaded.

"A safe return."

Then they shook hands and he went his way, thinking with great comfort
that she had not flouted him.

It was quite a great thing to see the boats go out. Sweethearts and
wives congregated on the wharves. Some few brave women went with their
husbands. Other ships were setting out for Montreal well loaded, and one
or two were carrying a gay lot of passengers.

After a few weeks, quiet returned, the streets were no longer crowded
and the noisy reveling was over for a while. The farmers were busy out
of doors, cattle were lowing, chanticleer rang out his call to work in
the early morn, and busy hens were caroling in cheerful if unmusical
voices. Trees budded into a beautiful haze and then sprang into leaf,
into bloom. The rough social hilarity was over for a while.

A few of the emigrant farmers laughed at the clumsy, wasteful French
methods and tried their own, which were laughed at in turn, but there
was little disputing.

Easter had fallen early and it had been cold, but Whitsuntide made
amends, and was, if anything, a greater festival. For a procession
formed at St. Anne's, young girls in gala attire, smart, middle-aged
women with new caps and kerchiefs, husbands and sons, and not a few
children, and marched out of the Pontiac gate, as it was called in
remembrance of the long siege. Forty years before Jacques Campeau had
built the first little outside chapel on his farm, which had a great
stretch of ground. The air was full of the fragrance of fruit blossoms
and hardly needed incense. Ah, how beautiful it was in a sort of
pastoral simplicity! And after saying mass, Father Frechette blessed and
prayed for fertile fields and good crops and generous hearts that tithes
might not be withheld, and the faithful rewarded. Then they went to the
Fulcher farm, where, in a chapel not much more than a shrine, the
service was again said with the people kneeling around in the grass. The
farmers and good housewives placed more faith in this than in the
methods of the newcomers with their American wisdom. But it was a
pleasing service. The procession changed about a little,--the young men
walking with the demoiselles and whispering in their listening ears.

Jeanne was with them. Madame De Ber was quite gracious, and Marie Beeson
singled her out. It had been a cold winter and a backward spring and
Marie had not gone anywhere. Tony was so exigent, and she laughed and
bridled. It was a very happy thing to be married and have some one care
for you. And soon she would give a tea drinking and she would send for
Jeanne, who must be sure to come.

But Jeanne had a strange, dreary feeling. She seemed between everything,
no longer a child and not a woman, not a part of the Church, not a part
of anything. She felt afraid of the future. Oh, what was her share of
the bright, beautiful world?

CHAPTER X.

BLOOMS OF THE MAY.

The spring came in with a quickening glory. A fortnight ago the snow was
everywhere, the skaters were still out on the streams, the young fellows
having rough snowballing matches, then suddenly one morning the white
blanket turned a faint, sickly, soft gray, and withered. The pallid
skies grew blue, the brown earth showed in patches, there were cheerful
sounds from the long-housed animals, rivulets were all afloat running in
haste to swell the streams, and from thence to the river and the lakes.

The tiny rings of fir and juniper brightened, the pine branches swelled
with great furry buds, bursting open into pale green tassels that moved
with every breath of wind. The hemlocks shot out feathery fronds, the
spruce spikes of bluish green, the maples shook around red blossoms and
then uncurled tiny leaves. The hickories budded in a strange, pale
yellow, but the oaks stood sturdy with some of the winter's brown leaves
clinging to them.

The long farms outside the stockade awoke to new vigor as well.
Everybody set to work, for the summer heats would soon be upon them, and
the season was short. There was a stir in the town proper, as well.

And now, at mid-May, when some of the crops were in, there was a day of
merrymaking, beginning with a procession and a blessing of the fields,
and then the fiddles were taken down, for the hard work lasting well
into the evening made both men and women tired enough to go to bed
early, when their morning began in the twilight.

The orchards were abloom and sweetened all the air. The evergreens sent
out a resinous, pungent fragrance, the grass was odorous with the night
dews. The maypole was raised anew, for generally the winter winds
blowing fiercely over from the great western lake demolished it, though
they always let it stand as long as it would, and in the autumn again
danced about it. It had been the old French symbol of welcome and good
wishes to their Seigneurs, as well as to the spring. And now it was a
legend of past things and a merrymaking.

The pole had bunches of flowers tied here and there, and long streamers
that it was fun to jerk from some one's hand and let the wind blow them
away. Girls and youths did this to rivals, with mischievous laughter.

The habitans were in their holiday garb, which had hardly changed for
two hundred years except when it was put by for winter furs, clean blue
tunics, scarlet caps and sashes, deerskin breeches trimmed with yellow
or brown fringe, sometimes both, leggings and moccasins with bead
embroidery and brightly dyed threads.

There were shopkeepers, too, there were boatmen and Indians, and some of
the quality with their wives in satin and lace and gay brocades.
Soldiers as well in their military gear, and officers in buff and blue
with cocked hats and pompons.

The French girls had put on their holiday attire and some had festooned
a light skirt over one of cloth and placed in it a bright bow. Gowns
that were family heirlooms, never seeing day except on some festive
occasion, strings of beads, belts studded with wampum shells,
high-heeled shoes with a great buckle or bow, but not as easy to dance
in as moccasins.

Two years had brought more changes to the individual, or rather the
younger part of the community, than to the town. A few new houses had
been built, many old ones repaired and enlarged a little. The streets
were still narrow and many of them winding about. The greatest signs of
life were at the river's edge. The newer American emigrant came for land
and secured it outside. Every week some of the better class English who
were not in the fur trade went to Quebec or Montreal to be under their
own rulers.

There was not an entire feeling of security. Since Pontiac there had
been no great Indian leader, but many subordinate chiefs who were very
sore over the treaties. There was an Indian prophet, twin brother to the
chief Tecumseh who afterward led his people to a bloody war, who used
his rude eloquence to unite the warring tribes in one nation by wild
visions he foresaw of their greatness.

Marauding tribes still harassed parties of travelers, but about Detroit
they were peaceable; and many joined in the festivities of a day like
this. While as farm laborers they were of little worth, they were often
useful at the wharves, and as boatmen.

Two years had brought a strange, new life to Jeanne, so imperceptibly
that she was now a puzzle to herself. The child had disappeared, the
growing girl she hardly knew. The wild feats that had once been the
admiration of the children pleased her no longer. The children had grown
as well. The boys tilled the fields with their fathers, worked in shops
or on the docks, or were employed about the Fort. Some few, smitten with
military ardor, were in training for future soldiers. The field for
girls had grown wider. Beside the household employments there were
spinning and sewing. The Indian women had made a coarse kind of lace
worked with beads that the French maidens improved upon and disposed of
to the better class. Or the more hoydenish ones delighted to work in the
fields with their brothers, enjoying the outdoor life.

For a year Jeanne had kept on with her master, though at spring a wild
impulse of liberty threatened to sweep her from her moorings.

"Why do I feel so?" she inquired almost fiercely of the master.
"Something stifles me! Then I wish I had been made a bird to fly up and
up until I had left the earth. Oh, what glorious thing is in the bird's
mind when he can look into the very heavens, soaring out of sight?"

"There is nothing in the bird's mind, except to find a mate, build a
nest and rear some young; to feed them until they can care for
themselves, and, though there is much romance about the mother bird,
they are always eager to get rid of their offspring. He sings because
God has given him a song, his language. But he has no thought of
heaven."

"Oh, he must have!" she cried passionately.

The master studied her.

"Art thou ready to die, to go out of the world, to be put into the dark
ground?"

"Oh, no! no!" Jeanne shuddered. "It is because I like to live, to
breathe the sweet air, to run over the grass, to linger about the woods
and hear all the voices. The pines have one tone, the hemlocks and
spruces another, and the soft swish of the larches is like the last
tender notes of some of the hymns I sing with the sisters occasionally.
And the sun is so glorious! He clasps the baby leaves in his unseen
hands and they grow, and he makes the blades of grass to dance for very
joy. I catch him in my hands, too; I steep my face in the floods of
golden light and all the air is full of stars. Oh, no, I would not,
could not die! I would like to live forever. Even Pani is in no haste to
die."

"Thou art a strange child, surely. I have read of some such in books.
And I wonder that the heaven of the nuns does not take more hold of
thee."

"But I do not like the black gowns, and the coifs so close over their
ears, and the little rooms in which one is buried alive. For it seems
like dying before one's time, like being half dead in a gay, glad world.
Did not God give it to us to enjoy?"

The master nodded. He wondered when she was in these strange moods. And
he noticed that the mad pranks grew less, that there were days when she
studied like a soul possessed, and paid little heed to those about her.

But when a foreign letter with a great waxen seal came to her one day
her delight knew no bounds. It was not a noisy joy, however.

"Let us go out under the oak," she said to Pani.

The children were playing about. Wenonah looked up from her work and
smiled.

"No, children," said Jeanne with a wave of the hand, "I cannot have you
now. You may come to-morrow. This afternoon is all mine."

It was a pleasant, grave, fatherly letter. M. St. Armand had found much
to do, and presently he would go to England. Laurent was at a school
where he should leave him for a year.

"Listen," said Jeanne when they were both seated on the short turf that
was half moss, "a grown man at school--is it not funny?" and she laughed
gayly.

"But there are young men sent to Quebec and Montreal, and to that
southern town, New York. And young women, too. But I hope thou wilt know
enough, Jeanne, without all this journeying."

Pani studied her with great perplexity.

"But he wants me to know many things--as if I were a rich girl! I know
my English quite well and can read in it. And, Pani, how wonderful that
a letter can talk as if one were beside you!"

She read it over and over. Some words she wondered at. The great city
with its handsome churches and gardens and walks and palaces, how
beautiful it must be! It was remarkable that she had no longing, envious
feeling. She was so full of delight there was no room.

They sat still a long while. She patted the thin, brown hand, then laid
her soft cheek on it or made a cradle of it for her chin.

"Pani," she said at length, "how splendid it would be to have M. St.
Armand for one's father! I have never cared for any girl's father, but
M. St. Armand would be gentle and kind. I think, too, he could smooth
away all the sort of cobweb things that haunt one's brain and the
thoughts you cannot make take any shape but go floating like drifts in
the sky, until you are lost in the clouds."

Pani looked over toward the river. Like the master, the child's strange
thoughts puzzled her, but she was afraid they were wrong. The master
wished that she could be translated to some wider living.

It took Jeanne several days to answer her letter, but every hour was one
of exultant joy. It gave her hardly less delight than the reception of
his. Then it was to be sent to New York by Monsieur Fleury, who had
dealings back and forth.

There had been a great wedding at the Fleury house. Madelon had married
a titled French gentleman and gone to Montreal.

"Oh!" cried Jeanne to Monsieur Fleury, "you will be very careful and not
let it get lost. I took so much pains with it. And when it gets to New
York--"

"A ship takes it to France. See, child, there is all this bundle to go,
and there are many valuable papers in it. Do not fear;" and he smiled.
"But what has M. St. Armand to say to you?"

"Oh, many things about what I should learn. I have already studied much
that he asked me to, and he will be very glad to hear that."

M. Fleury smiled indulgently, and Jeanne with a proud step went down the
paved walk bordered with flowers, a great innovation for that time. But
his wife voiced his thoughts when she said:--

"Do you not think it rather foolish that Monsieur St. Armand should
trouble his head about a child like that? No one knows to what sort of
people she has belonged. And she will marry some habitan who cares
little whether she can write a letter or not."

"She will have quite a dowry. She ought to marry well. A little learning
will not hurt her."

"M. Bellestre must have known more than he confessed," with suspicion in
her voice.

M. Fleury nodded assentingly.

Jeanne had been quite taken into Madame De Ber's good graces again. The
money had worked wonders with her, only she did not see the need of it
being spent upon an education. There was Pierre, who would be about the
right age, but would she want Pierre to have that kind of a wife?

Rose and Jeanne became very neighborly. Marie was a happy, commonplace
wife, who really adored her rough husband, and was always extolling
him. He had never learned to dance, but he was a swift skater, and could
row with anybody in a match. Then there was a little son, not at all to
Jeanne's liking, for he had a wide mouth and no nose to speak of.

"He is not as pretty as Aurel," she said.

"He will grow prettier," returned the proud grandmother, sharply.

That autumn the old schoolmaster did not come back. Some other schools
had been started. M. Loisel sounded his charge as to whether she would
not go to Montreal to school, but she decisively declined.

And now another spring had come, and Jeanne was a tall girl, but she
would not put up her hair nor wear a coif. Father Rameau had been sent
on a mission to St. Ignace. The new priest that came did not agree very
well with Father Gilbert. He wanted to establish some Ursulines on a
much stricter plan than the few sisters had been accustomed to, and
there were bickerings and strained feelings. Beside, the Protestants
were making some headway in the town.

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