A Little Girl in Old Detroit Part 48

"But there is all the beautiful river, and the air comes sweeping down from the hills. And the canoeing. Oh, it is not to be despised," she insisted.

"I shall cherish it because it has cherished thee. And now I must say adieu for awhile. I am to talk over some matters with your officers, and then--" there was the meeting with his wife. "And at five I will come again. Child, thou art rarely sweet; much too sweet for convent walls."

"Is it unkind in me? I cannot make her seem my mother. Oh, I should love her, pity her!"

There were tears in Jeanne's eyes, and her breath came with a great, sorrowful throb.

"We will talk of all that to-morrow."

"Thou wilt not go?" Pani gave her a frightened, longing look, as if she expected her to follow her father.

"Oh, not now. It is all so wonderful, Pani, like some of the books I have read at the minister's. And M. St. Armand has come back, or will when the boat is in. Oh, what a pity to be no longer a child! A year ago I would have run down to the wharf, and now--"

Her face was scarlet at the thought. What made this great difference, this sense of reticence, of waiting for another to make some sign? The frank trust was gone; no, it was not that,--she was overflowing with trust to-day. All the world was loveliness and love. But it must come to her; she could not run out to it. There was one black shadow; and then she shivered.

She told Pani the story of the morning.

The Indian woman shook her head. "She is not a true mother. She could not have left thee."

"But she thought she was dying. And if I had died there in the woods!

Oh, Pani, I am so glad to live! It is such a joy that it quivers in me from head to foot. I am like my father."

She laughed for very gladness. Her mercurial temperament was born of the sun and wind, the dancing waters and singing birds.

"He will take thee away," moaned the woman like an autumnal blast.

"I will not go, then," defiantly.

"But fathers do as they like, little one."

"He will be good to me. I shall never leave you, _never_."

She knelt before Pani and clasped the bony hands, looked up earnestly into the faded eyes where the keen lights of only a few years ago were dulling, and she said again solemnly, "I will never leave you."

For she recalled the strange change of mood when she had repeated her full name to Miladi of the island. She was her father's true wife now, and though Jeanne could not comprehend the intricacies of the case, she could see that her father's real happiness lay in this second marriage.

It took an effort not to blame her own mother for giving him up. That handsome woman glowing with life in every pulse, ready to dare any danger with him, proud of her motherhood, and, oh, most proud of her husband, making his home a temple of bliss, was his true mate. But though Jeanne could not have explained jealousy, she felt Miladi would not love her for being the Sieur Angelot's daughter. It would be better for her to remain here with Pani.

The Sieur had a deeper gravity in his face when he returned to the cottage.

The interview with Sister Veronica had been painful to both, yet there was the profounder pity on Angelot's side. For even before her husband had gone to the North she had begun to question the religious aspect of her marriage. If it was unholy, then she had no right to live in sin.

And during almost two years' absence her morbid faith had grown stronger. She would go to him and ask to be released. She would leave her child in her place to make amends for her sad mistake.

Circ.u.mstances had brought about the same ending by different means. Her nurse and companion on her journey had strengthened her faith in her resolve. Arrived at Montreal she received still further confirmation of the righteousness of her course. She had been an unlawful wife. She had sinned in taking the marriage vow. It was no holy sacrament, and she could be absolved. So she began her novitiate and was presently received into the order. She fasted and prayed, she did penance in her convent cell, she prayed for the Sieur Angelot that he might be converted to the true faith. It was not as her husband, but as one might wrestle for any sinful soul. And that the child would be well brought up. She had known Berthe Campeau, sister Mary Constantia, a long while before she heard the story of the little girl who had come so mysteriously to Detroit, and who had been wild and perverse beyond anything. One day her name had been mentioned. Then she asked the Abbe to communicate with Father Rameau for particulars and had been answered. Here was a new work for her, to s.n.a.t.c.h this child from evil ways and bring her up safely in the care of the Church. She gained permission to go for her, and here again circ.u.mstances seemed to play at cross purposes.

The Sieur Angelot understood in a little while that whatever love had inspired her that night she had besought him to rescue her from a life that looked hateful to her young eyes, the pa.s.sion that influenced her then was utterly dead, abhorrent to her. Better, a thousand times better, that it should be so. He could not make that eager, impetuous girl, whose voice trembled with emotion, whose kisses answered his, whose soft arms clung to his neck, out of this pale, attenuated, bloodless woman. Perhaps it was heroic to give all to her Church. Even men had done this.

"And thou art happy and satisfied in this calling, Mignonne," he half a.s.sumed, half inquired.

Did the old term of endearment touch some chord that was not quite dead, after all? A faint flush brought a wavering heat to her face.

"It is my choice. And if I can have my child to train, to keep from evil--" her voice trembled.

He shook his head. "Nay, I cannot have her bright young life thrust into the shadow for which she has no taste. She would pine and die."

"I thought so once. I should have died sooner in the other life. It is G.o.d and his holy Son who give grace."

"She will not forsake her duty to the one who has taken such kindly care of her, the Pani woman."

"She can come, too. Give me my child, it is all I ask of you. Surely you do not need her."

Her voice was roused to a certain intensity, her thin hands worked. But it seemed to him there was something almost cruel in the motion.

"I cannot force her will. It is as she shall choose."

And seeing Jeanne all eager interest in the doorway of the old cottage, he knew that she would never choose to shut herself out of the radiant sunlight.

"Here is the old gift for you, my child;" and he clasped the chain with its little locket round her neck.

Pani came and looked at it. "Yes, yes," she said. "It was on thy baby neck, little one. And there are the two letters--"

"It was cruel to p.r.i.c.k them in the soft baby flesh," the Sieur said, smilingly. "I wonder I had the courage. They alone would prove my right.

And now there is no time to waste. Will you make ready--"

"I am not often asked among the quality," and her face turned scarlet.

"I have no fine attire. Wilt thou be ashamed of me?"

She looked so radiant in her girlish beauty, that it seemed to him at the moment there was nothing more to desire. And the delicious archness in her tone captivated him anew. Consign her to convent walls--never!

Mam'selle Fleury took charge of Jeanne at once and led her through the large hall to a side chamber. Not so long ago she was a gay, laughing girl, now she was a gravely sweet woman, nursing a sorrow.

"It was a sudden summons," she explained. "And we could not expect to know just when the child grew into a maiden. Therefore you will not feel hurt, that I, having a wider experience, prepared for the occasion. Let me arrange your costume now. I had this frock when I was of your age, though I was hardly as slim. How much you are like your father, child!"

"I think he was a little hurt that I had nothing to honor you with,"

Jeanne said, simply.

"Monsieur Loisel was saying that you needed a woman's hand, now that you were outgrowing childhood."

She drew off Jeanne's plain gown; and though this was simple for the fashion of the day, it transformed the child into a woman. The long, pointed bodice, the square neck, with its bordering of handsome lace, showing the exquisite throat sloping into the shoulders and chest, the puffings that fell like waves about the hips and made ripples as they went down the skirt, the sleeves ending at the elbow with a fall of lace, and her hair caught up high and falling in a cascade of curls, tied with a great bow that looked like a b.u.t.terfly, changed her so that she hardly knew herself.

"O, Mam'selle, you have made me beautiful!" she cried, in delight. "I shall be glad to do you honor, and for the sake of M. St. Armand; but my father would love me in the plainest gown."

Mam'selle smiled over her handiwork. But Jeanne's beauty was her own.

She had grown many shades fairer during the winter, and had not rambled about so much nor been on the water so often. Her slim figure, in its virginal lines, was as lissome as the child's, but there was an exquisite roundness to every limb and it lent flexibility to her movements. A beautiful girl, Mademoiselle Fleury acknowledged to herself, and she wondered that no one beside M. St. Armand had seen the promise in her.

The Sieur Angelot had been presented to the guest so lately returned from abroad.

"I desire to thank you most heartily, Monsieur St. Armand," M. Angelot began, "for an unusual interest in my child that I did not know was living until a few weeks ago. She is most enthusiastic about you.