A Little Girl in Old Detroit Part 32

"Then I am sorry for you. But it cannot change my mind."

The way was very narrow now. She made a quick motion and pa.s.sed him. But she might better have sent him on ahead, instead of giving him this study of her pliant grace. The exquisite curves of her figure in its thin, close gown, the fair neck gleaming through the soft curls, the beautiful shoulders, the slim waist with a ribbon for belt, the light, gliding step that scarcely moved her, held an enthralling charm. He had a pa.s.sionate longing to clasp his arms about her. All the hot blood within him was roused, and he was not used to being denied.

There was one little turn. Pani was not sitting before the door. Oh, where was she? A terror seized Jeanne, yet she commanded her voice and moved just a trifle, though she did not look at him. He saw that she had paled; she was afraid, and a cruel exultation filled him.

"Monsieur, I am at home," she said. "Your escort was not needed," and she summoned a vague smile. "There is little harm in our streets, except when the traders are in, and Pani is generally my guard. Then for us the soldiers are within call. Good day, Monsieur Marsac."

"Nay, my pretty one, you must be gentler and not so severe to make it a good day for me. And I am resolved that it shall be. See, Jeanne, I have always loved you, and though there have been years between I have not forgotten. You shall be my wife yet. I will not give you up. I shall stay here in Detroit until I have won you. No other demoiselle would be so obdurate."

"Because I do not love you, Monsieur," and she gave the appellation its most formal sound. "And soon I shall begin to hate you!"

Oh, how handsome she looked as she stood there in a kind of n.o.ble indignation, her heart swelling above her girdle, the child's sweetness still in the lines of her face and figure, as the bud when it is just about to burst into bloom. He longed to crush her in one eager embrace, and kiss the nectar of her lovely lips, even if he received a blow for it as before. That would pile up a double revenge.

Pani burst from the adjoining cottage.

"Oh," she cried, studying one and the other. "_Ma fille_, the poor tailor, Philippe! He had a fit come on, and his poor wife screamed for help, so I hurried in. And now the doctor says he is dying. O Monsieur Marsac, would you kindly find some one in the street to run for a priest?"

"I will go," with a most obliging smile and inclination of the head.

Jeanne clasped her arms about Pani's neck, and, laying her head on the shrunken bosom, gave way to a flood of tears.

"_Ma pet.i.te_, has he dared--"

"He loves me, Pani, with a fierce, wicked pa.s.sion. I can see it in his eyes. Afterward, when things went wrong, he would remember and beat me.

He kissed me once on the mouth and I struck him. He will never forget.

But then, rather than be his wife, I would kill myself. I will not, will not do it."

"No, _mon ange_, no, no. Pierre would be a hundred times better. And he would take thee away."

"But I want no one. Keep me from him, Pani. Oh, if we could go away--"

"Dear--the good sisters would give us shelter."

Jeanne shook her head. "If Father Rameau were but here. Father Gilbert is sharp and called me a heretic. Perhaps I am. I cannot count beads any more. And when they brought two finger bones of some one long dead to St. Anne's, and all knelt down and prayed to them, and Father Gilbert blessed them, and said a touch would cure any disease and help a dying soul through purgatory, I could not believe it. Why did it not cure little Marie Faus when her hip was broken, and the great running sore never stopped and she died? And he said it was a judgment against Marie's mother because she would not live with her drunken brute of a husband. No, I do not think Pere Gilbert would take me in unless I recanted."

"Oh, come, come," cried Pani. "Poor Margot is most crazed. And I cannot leave you here alone."

They entered the adjoining cottage. There were but two rooms and overhead a great loft with a peaked roof where the children slept.

Philippe lay on the floor, his face ghastly and contorted. There were some hemlock cushions under him, and his poor wife knelt chafing his hands.

"It is of no use," said the doctor. "Did some one summon the priest?"

"Immediately," returned Pani.

"And there is poor Antoine on the Badeau farm, knowing nothing of this,"

cried the weeping mother.

The baby wailed a sorrowful cry as if in sympathy. It had been a puny little thing. Three other small ones stood around with frightened faces.

Jeanne took up the baby and bore it out into the small garden, where she walked up and down and crooned to it so sweetly it soon fell asleep. The next younger child stole thither and caught her gown, keeping pace with tiny steps. How long the moments seemed! The hot sun beat down, but it was cool here under the tree. How many times in the stifling afternoons Philippe had brought his work out here! He had grown paler and thinner, but no one had seemed to think much of it. What a strange thing death was! What was the other world like--and purgatory? The mother of little Marie Faus was starving herself to pay for the salvation of her darling's soul.

"Oh, I should not like to die!" and Jeanne shuddered.

The priest came, but it was not Father Gilbert. The last rites were performed over the man who might be dead already. The baby and the little girl were brought in and the priest blessed them. There were several neighbors ready to perform the last offices, and now Jeanne took all the children out under the tree.

Louis Marsac returned, presently, and offered his help in any matter, crowding some money into the poor, widowed hand. Jeanne he could see nowhere. Pani was busy.

The next day he paid M. Loisel a visit, and stated his wishes.

"You see, Monsieur, Jeanne Angelot is in some sort a foundling, and many families would not care to take her in. That I love her will be sufficient for my father, and her beauty and sweetness will do the rest.

She will live like a queen and have servants to wait on her. There are many rich people up North, and, though the winters are long, no one suffers except the improvident. And I think I have loved Mam'selle from a little child. Then, too," with an easy smile, "there is a suspicion that some Indian blood runs in Mam'selle's veins. On that ground we are even."

Yes, M. Loisel had heard that. Mixed marriages were not approved of by the better cla.s.s French, but a small share of Indian blood was not contemned. When it came to that, Louis Marsac was not a person to be lightly treated. His father had much influence with the Indian tribes and was a rich man.

So the notary laid the matter before Pani and his ward, when the funeral was over, though he would rather have pleaded for his nephew. It was a most excellent proffer.

But he was not long in learning that Jeanne Angelot had not only dislike but a sort of fear and hatred for the young man; and that nothing was farther from her thoughts. Yet he wondered a little that the fortune and adoration did not tempt her.

"Well, well, my child, we shall not be sorry to have you left in old Detroit. Some of our pretty girls have been in haste to get away to Quebec or to the more eastern cities. Boston, they say, is a fine place.

And at New York they have gay doings. But we like our own town and have all the pleasure that is good for one. So I am glad to have thee stay."

"If I loved him it would be different. But I think this kind of love has been left out of me," and she colored daintily. "All other loves and grat.i.tude have been put in, and oh, M'sieu, such an adoration for the beautiful world G.o.d has made. Sometimes I go down on my knees in the forest, everything speaks to me so,--the birds and the wind among the trees, the mosses with dainty blooms like a pin's head, the velvet lichens with rings of gray and brown and pink. And the little lizards that run about will come to my hand, and the deer never spring away, while the squirrels chatter and laugh and I talk back to them. Then I have grown so fond of books. Some of them have strange melodies in them that I sing to myself. Oh, no, I do not want to be a wife and have a house to keep, neither do I want to go away."

"Thou art a strange child."

M. Loisel leaned over and kissed her on the crown of her head where the parting shone white as the moon at its full. Lips and rosy mouths were left for lovers in those days.

"And you will make him understand?"

"I will do my best. No one can force a damsel into marriage nowadays."

Opposition heightened Louis Marsac's desires. Then he generally had his way with women. He did not need to work hard to win their hearts. Even here in spite of Indian blood, maids smiled on the handsome, jaunty fellow who went arrayed in the latest fashion, and carried it off with the air of a prince. There was another sort of secret dimly guessed at that would be of immense advantage to him, but he had the wariness of the mother's side as well as the astuteness of the father.

A fortnight went by with no advantage. Pani never left her charge alone.

The rambles in the woods were given up, and the girl's heart almost died within her for longing. She helped poor Margot nurse her children, and if Marsac came on a generous errand they surrounded her and swarmed over her. He could have killed them with a good will. She would not go out on the river nor join the girls in swimming matches nor take part in dances. Sometimes with Pani she spent mornings in the minister's study, and read aloud or listened to him while his wife sat sewing.

"You are not easily tempted," said the good wife one day. "It is no secret that this young trader, M. Marsac, is wild for love of you."

"But I do not like him, how then could I give him love?" and she glanced out of proud, sincere eyes, while a soft color fluttered in her face.

"No, that could not be," a.s.sentingly.

The demon within him that Louis Marsac called love raged and rose to white heat. If he could even carry her off! But that would be a foolish thing. She might be rescued, and he would lose the good opinion of many who gave him a flattering sympathy now.

So the weeks went on. The boats were loaded with provision, some of them started on their journey. He came one evening and found Jeanne and her protector sitting in their doorway. Jeanne was light-hearted. She had heard he was to sail to-morrow.

"I have come to bid my old playmate and friend good-by," and there was a sweet pathos in his voice that woke a sort of tenderness in the girl's heart, for it brought back a touch of the old pleasant days before he had really grown to manhood, when they sat under her oak and listened to Pani's legendary stories.