A Little Girl in Old Detroit by Amanda Minnie Douglas (best new books to read .txt) 📕

work. Or were they scolding because flowers were not sweeter? Yellow butterflies made a dazzle in the air, that was transparent to-day. The white birches were scattering their last year's garments, and she gathered quite a roll. Ah, what a wonderful thing it was to live and breathe this fragrant air! It exhilarated her with joy as drinking wine might another. The mighty spirit of nature penetrated every pulse.

From a little farther up she could see the blue waters, and the distant horizon seemed to bound the lake. Would she ever visit the grand places of the world? What was a great city such as Quebec like? Would she stay here for years and years and grow old like Pani? For somehow she could not fancy herself in a home with a husband like Marie Beeson, or Madelon Freche, or several of the girls a little older than herself. The commonplaces of life, the monotonous work, the continual admiration and approval of one man who seemed in no way admirable would be slow death.

"Which is a warning that I must not get married," she thought, and her gay laugh rippled under the trees in soft echoes.

She felt more certain of her resolve that evening when Pierre came.

"Where were you all the afternoon?" he said, almost crossly. "I was here twice. I felt sure you would expect me."

Jeanne flushed guiltily. She knew she had gone to escape such an infliction, and she was secretly glad, yet somehow her heart pricked her.

"Oh, you surely have not forgotten that I live half the time in the woods;" glancing up mischievously.

"Haven't you outgrown that? There was enough of it yesterday," he said.

"You ought not to complain. What a welcome you had, and what a triumph, too!"

"Oh, that was not much. You should see the leaping and the wrestling up north. And the great bounds with the pole! That's the thing when one has a long journey. And the snowshoes--ah, that is the sport!"

"You liked it up there?"

"I was desperately homesick at first. I had half a mind to run away. But when I once got really used to the people and the life--it was the making of me, Jeanne."

He stretched up proudly and swelled up his broad chest, enjoying his manhood.

"You will go back?" she asked, tentatively.

"Well--that depends. Father wants me to stay. He begins to see that I am worth something. But pouf! how do people live in this crowded up town in the winter! It is dirtier than ever. The Americans have not improved it much. You see there is Rose and Angelique, before Baptiste, and he is rather puny, and father is getting old. Then, I could go up north every two or three years. Well, one finds out your worth when you go away."

He gave a loud, rather exultant laugh that jarred on Jeanne. Why were these rough characteristics so repellant to her? She had lived with them all her short life. From whence came the other side of her nature that longed for refinement, cultivated speech, and manners? And people of real education, not merely the business faculty, the figuring and bargain making, were more to her taste. M. Fleury was a gentleman, like M. St. Armand.

Pierre stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet, then slipped his hands into his pockets. He seemed to take up half the room.

"What have you been doing all the time I was away?" he said, when the awkwardness of the silence began to oppress him.

Jeanne made a little crease in her forehead, and a curl came to the rose red lip.

"I went to school until Christmas, then there was no teacher for a while. And when spring was coming I decided not to go back. I read at home. I have some books, and I write to improve myself. I can do it quite well in English. Then there is some one at the Fort, a sort of minister, who has a class down in the town, St. Louis street, and I go there."

"Is the minister a Catholic?"

"No," she answered, briefly.

"That is bad." He shook his head disapprovingly. "But you go to church?"

"There is a little chapel and I like the talk and the singing. I know two girls who go there. Sometimes I go with Pani to St. Anne's."

"But you should go all the time, Jeanne. Religion is especially for women. They have the children to bring up and to pray for their husbands, when they are on voyages or in dangers."

Pierre delivered this with an unpleasant air of masculine authority which Jeanne resented in her inmost soul. So she exclaimed rather curtly:--

"We will not discuss religion, Monsieur Pierre."

The young man looked amazed. He gave the fringe on his deerskin legging a sharp twitch.

"You are still briery, Mam'selle. And yet you are so beautiful that you ought to be gentle as well."

"Why do people want to tell me that I am beautiful? Do they not suppose I can see it?" Jeanne flung out, impatiently.

"Because it is a sweet thing to say what the speaker feels. And beauty and goodness should go hand in hand."

"I am for myself alone;" she returned, proudly. "And if I do not suit other people they may take the less of me. There are many pretty girls."

"Oh, Mam'selle," he exclaimed, beseechingly, "do not let us quarrel immediately, when I have thought of you so often and longed to see you so much! And now that my mother says pleasant things about you--she is not so opposed to learning since Tony Beeson has been teaching Marie to read and write and figure--and we are all such friends--"

Ah, if they could remain only friends! But Jeanne mistrusted the outcome of it.

"Then tell me about the great North instead of talking foolishness; the Straits and the wonderful land of snow beyond, and the beautiful islands! I like to hear of countries. And, Pierre, far to the south flowers bloom and fruit ripens all the year round, luscious things that we know nothing about."

Pierre's descriptive faculties were not of a high order. Still when he was once under way describing some of the skating and sledging matches he did very well, and in this there was no dangerous ground.

The great bell at the Fort clanged out nine.

"It is time to go," Jeanne exclaimed, rising. "That is the signal. And Pani has fallen asleep."

Pierre rose disconcerted. The bright face was merry and friendly, that was all. Yesterday other girls had treated him with more real warmth and pleasure. But there was a certain authority about her not to be gainsaid.

"Good night, then," rather gruffly.

"He loves thee, _ma mie_. Hast thou no pity on him?" said Pani, looking earnestly at the lovely face.

"I do not want to be loved;" and she gave a dissentient, shivering motion. "It displeases me."

"But I am old. And when I am gone--"

The pathetic voice touched the girl and she put her arms around the shrunken neck.

"I shall not let you go, ever. I shall try charms and get potions from your nation. And then, M. St. Armand is to come. Let us go to bed. I want to dream about him."

One of the pitiful mysteries never to be explained is why a man or a woman should go on loving hopelessly. For Pierre De Ber had loved Jeanne in boyhood, in spite of rebuffs; and there was a certain dogged tenacity in his nature that fought against denial. A narrow idea, too, that a girl must eventually see what was best for her, and in this he gained Pani's sympathy and good will for his wooing.

He was not to be easily daunted. He had improved greatly and gained a certain self-reliance that at once won him respect. A fine, tall fellow, up in business methods, knowing much of the changes of the fur trade, and with shrewdness enough to take advantage where it could be found without absolute dishonesty, he was consulted by the more cautious traders on many points.

"Thou hast a fine son," one and another would say to M. De Ber; and the father was mightily gratified.

There were many pleasures for the young people. It was not all work in their lives. Jeanne joined the parties; she liked the canoeing on the river, the picnics to the small islands about, and the dances often given moonlight evenings on the farms. For never was there a more pleasure loving people with all their industry. And then, indeed, simple gowns were good enough for most occasions.

Jeanne was ever on the watch not to be left alone with Pierre. Sometimes she half suspected Pani of being in league with the young man. So she took one and another of the admirers who suited her best, bestowing her favors very impartially, she thought, and verging on the other hand to the subtle dangers of coquetry. What was there in her smile that should seem to summon one with a spell of witchery?

Madame De Ber was full of capricious moods as well. She loved her son, and was very proud of him. She selected this girl and that, but no, it was useless.

"He has no eyes for anyone but Jeanne," declared Rose half angrily, sore at Martin's defection as well, though she was not sure she wanted him. "She coquets first with one, then with another, then holds her head stiffly above them all. And at the Whitsun dance there was a young lieutenant who followed her about and she made so much of him that I was ashamed of her for a French maid."

Rose delivered herself with severe dignity, though she had been very proud to dance with the American herself.

"Yes, I wish Pierre would see some charm elsewhere. He is old enough now to marry. And Jeanne Angelot may be only very little French, though her skin has bleached up clearer, and she puts on delicate airs with her accent. She will not make a good wife."

"You are talking of Jeanne," and the big body nearly filled the window, that had no hangings in summer, and the sash was swung open for air. Pierre leaned his elbows on the sill, and his face flushed deeply. "You do not like her, I know, but she is the prettiest girl in Detroit, and she has a dowry as well."

"And that has a tint of scandal about it," rejoined the mother scornfully.

"But Father Rameau disproved that. And, whatever she is, even if she were half Indian, I love her! I have always loved her. And I shall marry her, even if I have to take her up north and spend my whole life there. I know how to make money, and we shall do well enough. And that will be the upshot if you and my father oppose me, though I think it is more you and Rose."

"Did ever a French son talk so to his mother before? If this is northern manners and respect--"

Madame De Ber dropped into a chair and began to cry, and then, a very unusual thing it must be confessed, went into hysterics.

"Oh, you have killed her!" screamed Rose.

"She is not dead. Dead people do not make such a noise. Maman, maman," the endearing term of childhood, "do not be so vexed. I will be a