A Little Girl in Old Detroit - Amanda Minnie Douglas (children's ebooks online txt) 📗

her faith in the good God who watches over and will keep her from all harm if she puts her trust in him.'"

Jeanne gave a long sigh. "O Monsieur, it is wonderful that people can talk this way on paper. I have tried, but the master could not help laughing and I laughed, too. It was like a snail crawling about and the pen would go twenty ways as if there was an evil sprite in my fingers. But I shall keep on although it is very tiresome and I have such a longing to be out in the fields and woods, chasing squirrels and singing to the birds, which sometimes light on my shoulder. And I know a good many English words, but the reading looks so funny, as if there were no sense to it!"

"But there is a great deal. You will be very glad some day. Then I may take a good account to him and tell him you are trying to obey his wishes?"

"Yes, Monsieur, I shall be very glad to. And he will write me the letter that he promised?"

"Indeed he will. He always keeps his promises. And I shall tell him you are happy and glad as a bird soaring through the air?"

"Not always glad. Sometimes a big shadow falls over me and my breath throbs in my throat. I cannot tell what makes the strange feeling. It does not come often, and perhaps when I have learned more it will vanish, for then I can read books and have something for my thoughts. But I am glad a good deal of the time."

"I don't wonder my father was interested in her," Laurent St. Armand thought. He studied the beautiful eyes with their frank innocence, the dainty mouth and chin, the proud, uplifted expression that indicated nobleness and no self-consciousness.

"And now I must bid thee good-by with my own and my father's blessing. We shall return to America and find you again. You will hardly go away from Detroit?"

She was quite ready at that moment to give up M. Bellestre's plans for her future.

He took her hand. Then he pressed his lips upon it with the grave courtesy of a gentleman.

"Adieu," he said softly. "Pani, watch well over her."

The woman bowed her head with a deeper feeling than mere assent.

Jeanne sat down on the doorstep, leaning her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. Grave thoughts were stirring within her, the awakening of a new life on the side she had seen, but never known. The beautiful young women quite different from the gay, chattering demoiselles, their proudly held heads, their dignity, their soft voices, their air of elegance and refinement, all this Jeanne Angelot felt but could not have put into words, not even into thought. And this young man was over on that side. Oh, all Detroit must lie between, from the river out to the farms! Could she ever cross the great gulf? What was it made the difference--education? Then she would study more assiduously than ever. Was this why Monsieur St. Armand was so earnest about her trying?

She glanced down at her little brown hand. Oh, how soft and warm his lips had been, what a gentle touch! She pressed her own lips to it, and a delicious sensation sped through her small body.

"What art thou dreaming about, Jeanne? Come to thy dinner."

She glanced up with a smile. In a vague way she had known before there were many things Pani could not understand; now she felt the keen, far-reaching difference between them, between her and the De Bers, and Louis Marsac, and all the people she had ever known. But her mother, who could tell most about her, was dead.

It was not possible for a glad young thing to keep in a strained mood that would have no answering comprehension, and Jeanne's love of nature was so overwhelming. Then the autumn at the West was so glowing, so full of richness that it stirred her immeasurably. She could hardly endure the confinement on some days.

"What makes you so restless?" asked the master one noon when he was dismissing some scholars kept in until their slow wits had mastered their tasks. She, too, had been inattentive and willful.

"I am part of the woods to-day, a chipmunk running about, a cricket which dares not chirp," and she glanced up into the stern eyes with a merry light, "a grasshopper who takes long strides, a bee who goes buzzing, a glad, gay bird who says to his mate, 'Come, let us go to the unknown land and spend a winter in idleness, with no nest to build, no hungry, crying babies to feed, nothing but just to swing in the trees and laugh with the sunshine.'"

"Thou art a queer child. Come, say thy lesson well and we will spend the whole afternoon in the woods. Thou shalt consort with thy brethren the birds, for thou art brimming over."

The others were dismissed with some added punishment. The master took out his luncheon. He was not overpaid, he had no family and lived by himself, sleeping in the loft over the school.

"Oh, come home with me!" the child cried. "Pani's cakes of maize are so good, and no one cooks fish with such a taste and smell. It would make one rise in the middle of the night."

"Will the tall Indian woman give me a welcome?"

"Oh, Pani likes whomever I like;" with gay assurance.

"And dost thou like me, child?"

"Yes, yes." She caught his hand in both of hers. "Sometimes you are cross and make ugly frowns, and often I pity the poor children you beat, but I know, too, they deserve it. And you speak so sharp! I used to jump when I heard it, but now I only give a little start, and sometimes just smile within, lest the children should see it and be worse. It is a queer little laugh that runs down inside of one. Come, Pani will be waiting."

She took his hand as they picked their way through the narrow streets, having to turn out now and then for a loaded wheelbarrow, or two men carrying a big plank on their shoulders, or a heavy burthen, one at each end. For there were some streets not even a wagon and two horses could get through.

To the master's surprise Pani did not even seem put out as Jeanne explained the waiting. Had fish toasted before the coals ever tasted so good? The sagamite he had learned to tolerate, but the maize cakes were so excellent it seemed as if he could never get enough of them.

The golden October sun lay warm everywhere and was tinting the hills and forests with richness that glowed and glinted as if full of life. Afar, one could see the shine of the river, the distant lake, the undulations where the tall trees did not cut it off. Crows were chattering and scolding. A great flock of wild geese passed over with their hoarse, mysterious cry, and shaped like two immense wings each side of their leader.

"Now you shall tell me about the other countries where you have been," and Jeanne dropped on the soft turf, motioning him to be seated.

In all his journeying through the eastern part of the now United Colonies, he thought he had never seen a fairer sight than this. It warmed and cheered his old heart. And sure he had never had a more enraptured listener.

But in a brief while the glory of wood and field was gone. The shriveled leaves were blown from the trees by the fierce gusts. The beeches stood like bare, trembling ghosts, the pines and firs with their rough dark tops were like great Indian wigwams and were enough to terrify the beholder. Sharp, shrill cries at night of fox and wolf, the rustle of the deer and the slow, clumsy tread of the bear, the parties of Indians drawing nearer civilization, braves who had roamed all summer in idleness returning to patient squaws, told of the approach of winter.

New pickets were set about barns and houses, and coverings of skin made added warmth. The small flocks were carefully sheltered from marauding Indians. Doors and windows were hung with curtains of deer skins, floors were covered with buffalo or bear hide, and winter garments were brought out. Even inside the palisade one could see a great change in apparel and adornment. The booths were no longer invitingly open, but here and there were inns and places of evening resort where the air was not only enough to stifle one, but so blue with smoke you could hardly see your neighbor's face. No merry parties sang songs upon the river nor went up to the lake in picnic fashion.

Still there was no lack of hearty good cheer. On the farms one and another gave a dance to celebrate some special occasion. There was husking corn and shelling it, there were meats and fish to be salted, some of it dried, for now the inhabitants within and without knew that winter was long and cold.

They had sincerely mourned General Wayne. A new commandant had been sent, but the general government was poor and deeply in debt and there were many vexed questions to settle. So old Detroit changed very little under the new regime. There was some delightful social life around the older or, rather, more aristocratic part of the town, where several titled English people still remained. Fortnightly balls were given, dinners, small social dances, for in that time dancing was the amusement of the young as card playing was of the older ones.

Then came days of whirling, blinding snow when one could hardly stir out, succeeded by sunshine of such brilliance that Detroit seemed a dazzle of gems. Parties had merry games of snowballing, there were sledging, swift traveling on skates and snowshoes, and if the days were short the long evenings were full of good cheer, though many a gruesome story was told of Pontiac's time, and the many evil times before that, and of the heroic explorers and the brave fathers who had gone to plant the cross and the lilies of France in the wilderness.

Jeanne wondered that she should care so little for the defection of the De Bers. Pierre passed her with a sullen nod when he met her face to face and sometimes did not notice her at all. Marie was very important when she recovered from the surprise that a man should want to marry her, and that she should be the first of Delisse Graumont's maids to marry, she who was the youngest of them all.

"I had a beau in my cup at the tea drinking, and he was holding out his hand, which was a sign that he would come soon. And, Rose, I mean to have a tea drinking. I hope you will get the beau."

"I am in no hurry," and Rose tossed her pretty head.

Marie and her mother went down to the Beeson house to see what plenishings were needed. It was below the inclosure, quite a farm, in the new part running down to the river, where there was a dock and a rough sort of basin, quite a boat yard, for Antoine Beeson had not yet aspired to anything very grand in ship building. They pulled out the great fur rugs and hangings and put the one up and the other down, and Antoine coming in was so delighted with the homelikeness