LOVERS AND LOVERS.
There were days when Jeanne Angelot thought she should smother in the
stuffy school, and the din of the voices went through her head like the
rushing noise of a whirlwind. She had stolen out of the room once or
twice and had not been called to an account for it. Then one day she saw
a boy whipped severely for the same thing. Children were so often beaten
in those days, and yet the French habitans were very fond of their
offspring.
Jeanne lingered after the children made their clumsy bows and shuffled
out.
"Well, what is it?" asked the gruff master.
"Monsieur, you whipped the Dorien boy for running away from school."
"Yes, and I'll do it again. I'll break up the bad practice. Their
parents send them to school. They do a mean, dishonest thing and then
they lie about it. Don't come sniveling to me about Dorien."
"Monsieur, I was not going to snivel for anybody. You were right to keep
your word. If you had promised a holiday and not given it to us we
should have felt that you were mean and not of your word. So what is
right for one side is right for the other."
He looked over the tops of his glasses, and he made deep wrinkles in
his forehead to do it. His eyes were keen and sharp and disconcerted
Jeanne a little.
"Upon my word!" he ejaculated.
Jeanne drew a long breath and was almost afraid to go on with her
confession. Only she should not feel clean inside until she had uttered
it.
"There'd be no trouble teaching school if the pupils could see that.
There'd be little trouble in the world if the people could see it. It is
the good on my side, the bad shoved off on yours. Who taught you such a
sense of fairness, of honesty?"
If he could have gotten his grim face into smiling lines he would have
done it. As it was it softened.
"Monsieur, I wanted to tell you that I had not been fair. I ran out of
school the second day. It was like daggers going through my head and
there were stars before my eyes and such a ringing in my ears! So I ran
out of doors, clear out to the woods and stayed there up in a high tree
where the birds sang to me and the wind made music among the leaves and
one could almost look through the blue sky where the white boats went
sailing. I thought I would not come to school any more."
"Well--you did though." He was trying to think who this strange child
was.
"You see I had promised. And I wanted to learn English and many other
things that are not down in the prayers and counting beads. Pani said it
was wrong. So I came back. You did not know I had run away, Monsieur."
"No, but there was no rule then. I should have been glad if half of them
had run away."
He gave a chuckle and a funny gleam shone out of his eye, and there was
a curl in his lip as if the amusement could not get out.
Jeanne wanted to smile. She should never be afraid of him again.
"And there was another time--"
"How many more?"
"No more. For Pani said, 'Would you like to tell Monsieur St.
Armand?'--and I knew I should be ashamed."
A delicate flush stole over her face, going up to the tangle of rings on
her forehead. What a pretty child she was!
"Monsieur St. Armand?" inquiringly.
"He was here in the summer. He has gone to Paris. And he wanted me to
study. It is hard and sometimes foolishness, but then people are so much
nicer who know a great many things."
"Oh," he said thoughtfully, "you live with an Indian woman up by the
barracks? It is Monsieur Loisel's protegee?" and he gave her an
inquiring look.
"Monsieur, I would like to know what a protegee is," with a puzzled
look.
"Some one, generally a child, in whom you take an interest."
She gave a thoughtful nod, then a quick joy flamed up in her face. She
was Monsieur St. Armand's protegee and she was very glad.
"You are a courageous child. I wish the boys were as brave. I hate
lying;" the man said after a pause.
"O M'sieu, there are a great many cowardly people--do you not think so?"
she returned naively.
He really smiled then, and gave several emphatic nods at her youthful
discrimination.
"And you think you will not run away any more?"
"No, Monsieur, because--it is wrong."
"Then we must excuse you."
"Thank you, Monsieur. I wanted you to know. Now I can feel light
hearted."
She made a pretty courtesy and half turned.
"If you did not mind I should like to hear something about your Monsieur
St. Armand, that is, if you are not in a hurry to get home to your
dinner."
"Oh, Pani will wait."
She told her story eagerly, and he saw the wish to please this friend
who had shown such an interest in her was a strong incentive. But she
had a desire for knowledge beside that. So many of the children were
stupid and hated study. He would watch over her and see that she
progressed. This, no doubt, was the friend M. Loisel had spoken of.
"You have been very good to me, M'sieu," she said with another courtesy
as she turned away.
Several days had elapsed before she saw Marie again, for Madame De Ber
rather discountenanced the intimacy now. She had not much opinion of the
school; the sisters and the priests could teach all that was necessary.
And Jeanne still ran about like a wild deer, while Marie was a woman.
On Sunday Antoine Beeson came to pay his respects to Madame, the mamma.
He surely could not be considered a young girl's ideal,--short, stout,
red-faced from exposure to wind and water and sun, his thick brown hair
rather long, though he had been clean shaven the evening before. He wore
his best deerskin breeches, his gray sort of blouse with a red belt, and
low, clumsy shoes with his father's buckles that had come from France,
and he was duly proud of them. His gay bordered handkerchief and his
necktie were new for the occasion.
Monsieur De Ber had satisfied himself that he would make a good
son-in-law.
"For you see there is the house all ready, and now the servant has no
head and is idle and wasteful. I cannot stand such work. I wish your
daughter was two or three years older, since I cannot go back myself,"
the admirer exclaimed rather regretfully.
"Marie will be fifteen in the spring. She has been well trained, being
the eldest girl, and Madame is a thrifty and excellent housekeeper. Then
we all mend of youth. You will have a strong, healthy woman to care for
you in your old age, instead of a decrepit body to be a burthen to you."
"That is well thought of, De Ber;" and the suitor gave a short chuckle.
There was wisdom in the idea.
Madame had sent Marie and Rose out to walk with the children. She knew
she should accept the suitor, for her husband had said:--
"It is quite a piece of luck, since there are five girls to marry off.
And there's many a one who would jump at the chance. Then we shall not
have to give Marie much dowry beside her setting out. It is not like
young people beginning from the very hearthstone."
She met the suitor with a friendly greeting as if he were an ordinary
visitor, and they talked of the impending changes in the town, the
coming of the Americans, the stir in business prospects, M. Beeson was
not much of a waster of words, and he came to the point presently.
"It will be hard to spare Marie," she said with an accent of regret.
"Being the eldest she has had a great deal of experience. She is like a
mother to the younger ones. She has not been spending her time in
fooling around idly and dancing and being out on the river, like so many
girls. Rose is not worth half of Marie, and I do not see how I shall
ever get the trifler trained to take Marie's place. But there need be no
immediate haste."
"O Madame, we can do our courting afterward. I can take Mam'selle out to
the booths Saturday night, and we can look at the dancing. There will be
all day Sunday when I am at liberty. But you see there is the house
going to wrack, the servant spending my money, and the discomfort. I
miss my sister so much. And I thought we would not make a long story.
Dear Madame, you must see the need."
"It is sad to be sure. But you see Marie being so young and kept rather
close, not having any admirers, it takes us suddenly. And the wedding
gear--"
"Mam'selle always looks tidy. But I suppose a girl wants some show at
the church and the maids. Well, one doesn't get married many times in
one's life. But I would like it to be by Christmas. It will be a little
dull with me no doubt, and toward spring it is all hurry and drive,
Antoine here and Antoine there. New boats and boats to be patched and
canoes and dugouts. Then the big ships are up for repairs. I have worked
moonlight nights, Madame. And Christmas is a pleasurable time."
"Yes, a pleasant time for a girl to remember. I was married at
Pentecost. And there was the great procession. Dear! dear! It is not
much over seventeen years ago and we have nine children."
"Pierre is a big lad, Madame, and a great help to his father. Children
are a pleasure and comfort in one's old age if they do well. And thine
are being well brought up. Marie is so good and steady. It is not wisdom
for a man like me to choose a flighty girl."
"Marie will make a good wife," returned Madame, confidently.
And so when Marie returned it was all settled and Antoine had been
invited to tea. Marie was in a desperate flutter. Of course there was
nothing for her to say and she would not have had the courage to say it
if there had been. But she could not help comparing him with Martin
Lavosse, and some of the young men who greeted her at church. If his
face were not quite so red, and his figure so clumsy! His hands, too,
were broad with stubby ends to the fingers. She looked at her own; they
were quite shapely, for youth has a way of throwing off the marks of
toil that are ready enough to come back in later life.
"_Ma fille_," said her mother when the lover had wished them all good
night, rather awkwardly, and her father had gone out to walk with him;
"_ma fille_, Monsieur Beeson has done us the honor to ask for thy hand.
He is a good, steady, well-to-do man with a nice home to take thee to.
He does not carouse nor spend his money foolishly, but will always stay
at home with thee, and make thee happy. Many a girl will envy thy lot.
He wants the wedding about Christmas time, so the betrothal will be
soon, in a week or so. Heaven bless and prosper thee, my child! A good
daughter will not make an ill wife. Thy father is very proud."
Rose and Marie looked unutterable things at each other when they went to
bed. There were little pitchers in the trundle-bed, and their parents in
the next room.
"If he were not so old!" whispered Rose.
"And if he could dance! But with that figure!"
"Like a buffalo!" Marie's protest forced its way up from her heart. "And
I have just begun to think of things that make one happy. There will be
dances at Christmastide."
"I wonder if one is sure to love one's husband," commented Rose.
"It would be wicked not to. But how does one begin? I am so afraid of
his loud voice."
"Girls, cease whispering and go to sleep. The night will be none too
long," called their mother.
Marie wiped some tears from her eyes. But it was a great comfort to her
when she was going to church the next Sunday and walking behind the
Bronelle girls to hear Hortense say:--
"I have my cap set for Tony Beeson. His sister has kept close watch of
him, but now he is free. I was down to the dock on Friday, and he was
very cordial and sent a boy over the river with me in a canoe and would
take no pay. Think of that! I shall make him walk home with me if I
can."
Marie De Ber flushed. Some one would be glad to have him. At first she
half wished he had chosen Hortense, then a bit of jealousy and a bit of
triumph surged through her slow pulses.
Antoine Beeson walked home on the side of M. De Ber. The children old
enough to go to church were ranged in a procession behind. Pierre
guarded his sisters. Jeanne was on the other side of the street with
Pani, but the distance was so small that she glanced across with
questioning eyes. Marie held her head up proudly.
"I do believe," began Jeanne when they had turned out of St Anne's
street, "that Marie De Ber is going to be betrothed to that rough boat
builder who walks beside her father."
"Antoine Beeson has a good record, and she will do well," returned Pani
briefly.
"But I think it would not be easy to love him," protested Jeanne.
"Child, you are too young to talk about love. It is the parents who
decide such matters."
"And I have none. You could not make me marry anyone, Pani. And I do not
like these common men."
"Heaven forbid! but I might advise."
"I am not going to marry, you know. After all, maybe when I get old I
will be a sister. It won't be hard to wear a black gown then. But I
shall wait until I am _very_ old. Pani, did you ever dream of what might
happen to you?"
"The good God sends what is best for us, child."
"But--Monsieur Bellestre might come. And if he took me away then
Monsieur St. Armand might come. Pani, is Monsieur Bellestre as nice as
Monsieur St. Armand? I cannot seem to remember him."
"Little maids should not be thinking of men so often. Think of thy
prayers, Jeanne."
Sunday was a great time to walk on the parade ground, the young men
attired in their best, the demoiselles gay as butterflies with a mother
or married sister to guard them from too great familiarity. But there
was much decorous coquetting on both sides, for even at that period many
a young fellow was caught by a pair of smiling eyes.
Others went to walk in the woods outside the farms or sailing on the
river, since there was no Puritan strictness. They did their duty by the
morning mass and service, and the rest of the day was given over to
simple pleasure. There was a kind of half religious hilarity in the very
air.
And the autumn was so magnificently beautiful. The great hillsides with
their tracts of timber that looked as if they fenced in the world when
the sun dropped down behind them, but if one threaded one's way through
the dark aisles and came out on the other side there were wonderful
pictures,--small prairies or levels that suggested lakes and then a sort
of avenue stretching out until another was visible, undulating surfaces,
groves of pine, burr oak, and great stalwart hickories, then another
woody ridge, and so on and on through interminable tangles and over
rivers until Lake Michigan was reached. But not many of the habitans, or
even the English, for that matter, had traveled to the other side of the
state. The business journeys called them northward. There were Indian
settlements about that were not over friendly.
Jeanne liked the outside world better. She was not old enough for smiles
and smirks or an interest in fine clothes. So when she said, "Come,
Pani," the woman rose and followed.
"To the tree?" she asked as they halted a little.
"To the big woods," smilingly.
The cottages were many of them framed in with vines and high pickets,
and pear and apple orchards surrounded them, whose seed and, in some
instances, cuttings had been brought from France; roses, too, whose
ancestors had blossomed for kings and queens. Here and there was an oak
turned ruddy, a hickory hanging out slender yellow leaves, or a maple
flaunting a branch of wondrous scarlet. The people had learned to
protect and defend themselves from murderous Indian raids, or in this
vicinity the red men had proved more friendly.
Pierre De Ber came shambling along. He had grown rapidly and seemed
loose jointed, but he had a kindly, honest face where ignorance really
was simplicity.
"You fly over the ground, Jeanne!" he exclaimed out of breath. The day
was very warm for September. "Here I have been trying to catch up to
you--"
"Yes, Mam'selle, I am tired myself. Let us sit down somewhere and rest,"
said Pani.
"Just to this little hillock. Pani, it would make a hut with the
clearing inside and the soft mosses. If you drew the branches of the
trees together it would make thatching for the roof. One could live
here."
"O Mam'selle,--the Indians!" cried Pierre.
Jeanne laughed. "The Indians are going farther and farther away. Now,
Pani, sit down here. Then lean back against this tree. And now you may
take a good long rest. I am going to talk to the chipmunks and the
birds, and find flowers."
Pani drew up her knees, resting on her feet as a brace. The soft air had
made her sleepy as well, and she closed her eyes.
"It is so beautiful," sighed Jeanne. "Something rises within me and I
want to fly. I want to know what strange lands there are beyond the
clouds. And over there, far, farther than one can think, is a big ocean
no one has ever seen. It is on the map. And this way," inclining her
head eastward, "is another. That is where you go to France."
"But I shall never go to France," said the literal youth. "I want to go
up to Michilimackinac, and there is the great Lake Huron. That is
enough for me. If the ocean is any bigger I do not want to see it."
"It is, oh, miles and hundreds of miles bigger! And it takes more than a
month to go. The master showed me on a map."
"Well, I don't care for that," pulling the leaves off a branch he had
used for a switch.
The rough, rugged, and sometimes cross face of the master was better,
because his eyes had a wonderful light in them. What made people so
different? Apples and pears and ears of corn generally grew one like the
other. And pigs--she smiled to herself. And the few sheep she had seen.
But people could think. What gave one the thinking power? In the brain
the master said. Did every one have brains?
"Jeanne, I have something wonderful to tell you."
"Oh, I think I know it! Marie has a lover."
He looked disappointed. "Who told you?"
"No one really told me. I saw Monsieur Beeson walking home with your
father. And Marie was afraid--"
"Afraid!" the boy gave a derisive laugh. "Well, she is no longer afraid.
They are going to be betrothed on Michaelmas eve. Tony is a good
fellow."
"Then if Marie is--satisfied--"
"Why shouldn't she be satisfied? Father says it is a great chance, for
you see she can really have no dowry, there are so many of us. We must
all wait for our share until father has gone."
"Gone? Where?" She looked up in surprise.
"Why, when he is dead. Everybody has to die, you know. And then the
money they leave is divided."
Jeanne nodded. It shocked her in a vague sort of fashion, and she was
glad Pani had no money.
"And Tony Beeson has a good house and a good business. I like him," the
boy said, doggedly.
"Yes," assentingly. "But Marie is to marry him."
"Oh, the idea!" Pierre laughed immoderately. "Why a man always marries a
woman."
"But your liking wouldn't help Marie."
"Oh, Marie is all right. She will like him fast enough. And it will be
gay to have a wedding. That is to be about Christmas."
Jeanne was looking down the little slant to the cottages and the
wigwams, and speculating upon the queerness of marriage.
"I wish I had made as much fortune as Tony Beeson. But then I'm only a
little past sixteen, and in five years I shall be twenty-one. Then I am
going to have a wife and house of my own."
"O Pierre!" Jeanne broke into a soft laugh.
"Yes, Jeanne--" turning very red.
The girl was looking at him in a mirthful fashion and it rather
disconcerted him.
"You won't mind waiting, Jeanne--"
"I shan't mind waiting, but if you mean--" her cheeks turned a deeper
scarlet and she made a little pause--"if you mean marrying I should mind
that a good deal;" in a decisive tone.
"But not to marry me? You have known me always."
"I should mind marrying anyone. I shouldn't want to sweep the house, and
cook the meals, and wash, and tend babies. I want to go and come as I
like. I hated school at first, but now I like learning and I must crack
the shell to get at the kernel, so you see that is why I make myself
agree with it."
"You cannot go to school always. And while you are there I shall be up
to the Mich making some money."
"Oh," with a vexed crease in her forehead, "I told you once before not
to talk of this--the day we were all out in the boat, you remember. And
if you go on I shall hate you; yes, I shall."
"I shall go on," said the persistent fellow. "Not very often, perhaps,
but I thought if you were one of the maids at Marie's wedding and I
could wait on you--"
"I shall not be one of the maids." She rose and stamped her foot on the
ground. "Your mother does not like me any more. She never asks me to
come in to tea. She thinks the school wicked. And you must marry to
please her, as Marie is doing. So it will not be me;" she declared with
emphasis.
"Oh, I know. That Louis Marsac will come back and you will marry him."
The boy's eyes flamed with jealousy and his whole face gloomed over with
cruelty. "And then I shall kill him. I couldn't stand it," he
continued.
"I hate Louis Marsac! I hate you, Pierre De Ber!" she cried vehemently.
The boy fell at her feet and kissed the hem of her frock, for she
snatched away her hands.
"No, don't hate me. I'm glad to have you hate him."
"Get up, or I shall kick you," she said viciously.
"O Jeanne, don't be angry! I'll wait and wait. I thought you had
forgotten, or changed somehow. You have been so pleasant. And you smiled
so at me this morning. I know you have liked me--"
"If ever you say another word--" raising her hand.
"I won't unless you let me. You see you are not grown up yet, but
sometimes people are betrothed when they are little children--"
She put her fingers in her ears and spun round and round, going down the
little decline. Then she remembered Pani, who had fallen asleep. She
motioned to Pierre.
"Go home," she commanded as he came toward her. "And if you ever talk
about this to me again I shall tell your father. I am not for anybody. I
shall not mind if I am one of St. Catherine's maids."
"Jeanne--"
"Go!" She made an imperative motion with her hand.
He walked slowly away. She started like a mad thing and ran through the
woods at the top of her speed until her anger had vanished.
"Poor Pierre," she said. "This talk of marriage has set him crazy. But
I could never like him, and Madame Mere just hates me."
She went slowly back to Pani and sat down by her side. How tired she
looked!
"And I dragged her way up here," she thought remorsefully. "I'm glad she
didn't wake up."
So she sat there patiently and let the woman finish her nap. But her
beautiful thoughts were gone and her mind was shadowed by something
grave and strange that she shrank from. Then Pani stirred.
"O child, I've been sleeping stupidly and you have not gathered a
flower--" looking at the empty hands. "Have you been here all the time?"
"No matter. Pani, am I a tyrant dragging you everywhere?" Her voice was
touching with regret.
"No, _cherie_. But sometimes I feel old. I've lived a great many years."
"How many?"
"Oh, I cannot count them up. But I am rested now. Shall we walk about a
little and get my knees limber? Where is Pierre?"
"He went home. Pani, it is true Marie is to be betrothed to M'sieu
Beeson, and married at Christmastide."
"And if the sign holds good Madame De Ber will be fortunate in marrying
off her girls, for, if the first hangs on, it is bad for the rest. Rose
will be much prettier, and no doubt have lovers in plenty. But it is not
always the prettiest that make the best wives. Marie is sensible. They
will have a grand time."
"And I shall not be counted in," the child said proudly.
"Jeanne, little one--" in surprise.
"Madame does not like me because I go to the heretic school. And--I do
not sew nor spin, nor sweep the house--"
"There is no need," interrupted Pani.
"No, since I do not mean to have a husband."
And yet--how amusing it was--a boy and a man were ready to quarrel over
her. Did ever any little girl have two lovers?
"Ah, little one, smile over it now, but thou wilt change presently when
the right bird whistles through the forest."
"I will not come for any man's whistle."
"That is only a saying, dear."
They walked down the hill. Cheerful greetings met them and Pani was
loaded with fruit. At the hut of Wenonah, the mistress insisted upon
their coming in to supper and Jeanne consented for them both. For,
although the bell rang, the gates were no longer closed at six.
Marie De Ber made several efforts to see her friend, but her mother's
watchful eye nipped them in the bud. One Friday afternoon they met.
Wednesday following was to be the betrothal.
"I wanted to explain--" Marie flushed and hesitated. "There have been
many guests asked, and they are mostly older people--"
"Yes, I know. I am only a child, and your mother does not approve. Then
I go to the heretic school."
"She thinks the school a bad thing. And about the maids--"
"I could not be one of them," Jeanne said stiffly.
"Mother has chosen them, I had no say. She manages everything. When I
have my own home I shall do as I like and invite whom I choose. Mother
thinks I do not know anything and have no mind, but, Jeanne, I love you,
and I am not afraid of what you learn at school. Monsieur Beeson said it
was a good thing. And you will not be angry with me?"
"No, no, Marie." The child's heart was touched.
"We will be friends afterward. I shall tell M'sieu Beeson how long we
have cared for each other."
"You--like him?" hesitatingly.
"He is very kind. And girls cannot choose. I wish he were younger, but
it will be gay at Christmastide, and my own home will be much to me.
Yes, we will wait until then. Jeanne, kiss me for good luck. You are
quite sure you are not angry?"
"Oh, very sure."
The two girls kissed each other and Jeanne cried, "Good luck! good
luck!" But all the same she felt Marie was going out of her life and it
would leave a curious vacancy.