LOVE, LIKE THE ROSE, IS BRIERY.
Jeanne Angelot sat in the doorway in the moonlight silvering the street.
There were so many nooks and places in shadow that everything had a
weird, fantastic look. The small garrison were quiet, and many of them
asleep by nine o'clock. Early hours was the rule except in what were
called the great houses. But in this out of the way nook few pedestrians
ever passed in the evening.
"Child, are you not coming to bed? Why do you sit there? You said you
were tired."
Pani was crooning over a handful of fire. The May sunshine had not
penetrated all the houses, and her old blood had lost its heat.
"Yes, I was. What with the dancing and the walking about and all I was
very weary. I want to get rested. It is so quiet and lovely."
"You can rest in bed."
"I want to stay here a little while longer. Do not mind me, but go to
bed yourself."
The voice was tender, persuasive, but Pani did not stir. Now and then
she felt uncertain of the child.
"Was it not a happy day to you, _ma fille_?"
"Yes," with soft brevity.
Had it been happy? At different times during the past two years a
curious something, like a great wave, had swept over her, bearing her
away, yet slowly she seemed to float back. Only it was never quite the
same--the shores, the woods, the birds, the squirrels, the deer that
came and looked at her with unafraid eyes, impressed her with some new,
inexplicable emotion. What meaning was behind them?
But to-night she could not go back. She had passed the unknown boundary.
Her limited knowledge could not understand the unfolding, the budding of
womanhood, whose next change was blossoming. It had been a day of varied
emotions. If she could have run up the hillside with no curious eyes
upon her, sung with the birds, gathered great handfuls of daisies and
bell flowers, tumbled up the pink and yellow fungus that grew around the
tree roots, studied the bits of crisp moss that stood up like sentinels,
with their red caps, and if you trod on them bristled up again, or if
she could have climbed the trees and swung from branch to branch in the
wavering flecks of sunshine as she did only such a little while ago, all
would have been well. What was it restrained her? Was it the throng of
people? She had enjoyed startling them with a kind of bravado. That was
childhood. Ah, yes. Everybody grew up, and these wild antics no longer
pleased. Oh, could she not go back and have it all over again?
She had danced and laughed. Pierre had tried to keep her a good deal to
himself, but she had been elusive as a golden mote dancing up and down.
She seemed to understand what this sense of appropriating meant, and she
did not like it.
And then Martin Lavosse had been curious as well. Rose and he were not
betrothed, and Rose was like a gay humming bird, sipping pleasure and
then away. Madame De Ber had certainly grown less strict. But Martin was
still very young and poor, and Rose could do better with her pretty
face. Like a shrewd, experienced person she offered no opposition that
would be like a breeze to a smoldering flame. There was Edouard Loisel,
the notary's nephew, and even if he was one of the best fiddlers in
town, he had a head for business as well, and was a shrewd trader. M.
Loisel had no children of his own and only these two nephews, and if
Edouard fancied Rose before Martin was ready to speak--so the mother had
a blind eye for Rose's pretty coquetries in that direction; but Rose did
not like to have Martin quite so devoted to any other girl as he seemed
to be to Jeanne.
Jeanne had not liked it at all. She had been good friends and comrades
with the boys, but now they were grown and had curious ideas of holding
one's hand and looking into one's eyes that intensified the new feeling
penetrating every pulse. If only she might run away somewhere. If Pani
were not so old they would go to the other side of the mountain and
build a hut and live together there. She did not believe the Indians
would molest them. Anything to get away from this strange burthen
pressing down upon her that she knew not was womanhood, and be free once
more.
She rose presently and went in. Pani was a heap in the chimney corner,
she saw her by the long silver ray that fell across the floor.
"Pani! Pani!" she cried vehemently.
Her arms were around the neck and the face was lifted up, kissed with a
fervor she had never experienced before.
"My little one! my little one!" sighed the woman.
"Come, let us go to bed." There was an eagerness in the tone that
comforted the woman.
The next morning Detroit was at work betimes. There was no fashion of
loitering then; when the sun flung out his golden arrows that dispelled
the night, men and women were cheerfully astir.
"I must go and get some silk for Wenonah; she has some embroidery to
finish for the wife of one of the officers," exclaimed Jeanne. "And then
I will take it to her."
So if Pierre dropped in--
There were some stores down on St. Louis street where the imported goods
from Montreal and Quebec were kept. Laces and finery for the quality,
silks and brocades, hard as the times were. Jeanne tripped along gayly.
She would be happy this morning anyhow, as if she was putting off some
impending evil.
"Take care, child! Ah, it is Jeanne Angelot. Did I run over thee, or
thou over me?" laughing. "I have not on my glasses, but I ought to see a
tall slip of a girl like thee."
"Pardon, Monsieur. I was in haste and heedless."
"I have something for thee that will gladden thy heart--a letter. Let me
see--" beginning to search his pockets, and then taking out a great
leathern wallet. "No?" staring in surprise. "Then I must have left it on
my desk at home. Canst thou spend time to run up and get it?"
"Oh, gladly." The words had a ring of joy that touched the man's heart.
"It is well, Mam'selle, that it comes from the father, since it is
received with such delight."
She did not catch the double meaning. Indeed, Laurent was far from her
thoughts.
"Thank you a thousand times," with her radiant smile, and he carried the
bright face into his dingy warehouse.
She went on her way blithe as the gayest bird. A letter from M. St.
Armand! It had been so long that sometimes she was afraid he might be
dead, like M. Bellestre. The birds were singing. "A letter," they
caroled; "a letter, a l-e-t-t-e-r," dwelling on every sound with
enchanting tenderness.
The old Fleury house overlooked the military garden to the west, and the
river to the east. There had been an addition built to it, a wing that
placed the hall in the middle. It was wide, and the door at each end was
set open. At the back were glimpses of all kinds of greenery and the
fragrance of blossoming shrubs. A great enameled jar stood midway of the
hall and had in it a tall blooming rose kept through the winter indoors,
a Spanish rose growing wild in its own country. The floor was polished,
the fur rugs had been stowed away, and the curious Indian grass mats
exhaled a peculiar fragrance. A bird cage hung up high and its inmate
was warbling an exquisite melody. Jeanne stood quite still and a sense
of harmonious beauty penetrated her, gave her a vague impression of
having sometime been part and parcel of it.
"What is it?" demanded the Indian servant. There were very few negroes
in Detroit, and although there were no factories or mills, French girls
seldom hired out for domestics.
"Madame Fleury--Monsieur sent me for a letter lying on his desk," Jeanne
said in a half hesitating manner.
The servant stepped into the room to consult her mistress. Then she said
to Jeanne:--
"Walk in here, Mademoiselle."
The room was much more richly appointed than the hall, though the
polished floor was quite bare. A great high-backed settee with a carved
top was covered with some flowered stuff in which golden threads
shimmered; there was a tall escritoire going nearly up to the ceiling,
the bottom with drawers that had curious brass handles, rings spouting
out of a dragon's mouth. There were glass doors above and books and
strange ornaments and minerals on the shelves. On the high mantel, and
very few houses could boast them, stood brass candlesticks and vases of
colored glass that had come from Venice. There were some quaint
portraits, family heirlooms ranged round the wall, and chairs with
carved legs and stuffed backs and seats.
On a worktable lay a book and a piece of lace work over a cushion full
of pins. By it sat a young lady in musing mood.
She, too, said, "What is it?" but her voice had a soft, lingering
cadence.
Jeanne explained meeting M. Fleury and his message, but her manner was
shy and hesitating.
"Oh, then you are Jeanne Angelot, I suppose?" half assertion, half
inquiry.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," and she folded her hands.
"I think I remember you as a little child. You lived with an Indian
woman and were a"--no, she could not say "foundling" to this beautiful
girl, who might have been born to the purple, so fine was her figure,
her air, the very atmosphere surrounding her.
"I was given to her--Pani. My mother had died," she replied, simply.
"Yes--a letter. Let me see." She rose and went through a wide open
doorway. Jeanne's eyes followed her. The walls seemed full of arms and
hunting trophies and fishing tackle, and in the center of the room a
sort of table with drawers down one side.
"Yes, here. 'Mademoiselle Jeanne Angelot.'" She seemed to study the
writing. She was quite pretty, Jeanne thought, though rather pale, and
her silken gown looped up at the side with a great bow of ribbon, fell
at the back in a long train. Her movements were so soft and gliding that
the girl was half enchanted.
"You still live with--with the woman?"
"M. Bellestre gave her the house. It is small, but big enough for us
two. Yes, Mademoiselle. Thank you," as she placed the letter in Jeanne's
hand, and received in return an enchanting smile. With a courtesy she
left the room, and walked slowly down the path, trying to think. Some
girl, for there was gossip even in those days, had said that Mam'selle's
lover had proved false to her, and married some one else in one of the
southern cities. Jeanne felt sorry for her.
Lisa Fleury wondered why so much beauty had been given to a girl who
could make no use of it.
Jeanne hugged her letter to her heart. It had been so long, so long that
she felt afraid she would never hear again. She wanted to run every step
of the way, last summer she would have. She almost forgot Wenonah and
the silk, then laughed at herself, and outside of the palisades she did
run.
"You are so good," Wenonah said. "Look at this embroidery,--is it not
grand? And that I used to color threads where now I can use beautiful
silk. It shines like the sun. The white people have wonderful ways."
Jeanne laughed and opened her letter. She could wait no longer. Oh,
delightful news! She laughed again in sheer delight, soft, rippling
notes.
"What is it pleases thee so, Mam'selle?"
"It is my friend who comes back, the grand Monsieur with the beautiful
white beard, for whose sake I learned to write. I am glad I have learned
so many things. By another spring he will be here!"
Then Jeanne forgot the somber garment of womanhood that shadowed her
last night, and danced in the very gladness of her heart. Wenonah smiled
and then sighed. What if this man of so many years should want to marry
the child? Such things had been. And there was that fine young De Ber
just come home. But then, a year was a good while.
"I must go and tell Pani," and she was off like a bird.
Oh, what a glad day it was! The maypole and the dancing were as nothing
to it. After she had told over her news and they had partaken of a
simple meal, she dragged the Indian woman off to her favorite haunt in
the woods, where three great tree boles made a pretty shelter and where
Pani always fell asleep.
Bees were out buzzing, their curious accompaniment to their 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 good
son to you always, but I cannot make myself miserable by marrying one
woman when I love another;" and he kissed her fondly, caressing her with
his strong hands.
The storm blew over presently. That evening when Pere De Ber heard the
story he said, a little gruffly: "Let the boy alone. He is a fine son
and smart, and I need his help. I am not as stout as I used to be. And,
Marie, thou rememberest that thou wert my choice and not that of any
go-between. We have been happy and had fine children because we loved
each other. The girl is pretty and sweet."
They came to neighborly sailing after a while. Jeanne knew nothing of
the dispute, but one day on the river when Martin's canoe was keeping
time with hers, and he making pretty speeches to her, she said:--
"It is not fair nor right that you should pay such devotion to me,
Martin. Rose does not like it, and it makes bad friends. And I think you
care for her, so it is only a jealous play and keeps me uncomfortable."
"Rose does not care for me. She is flying at higher game. And if she
cannot succeed, I will not be whistled back like a dog whose master has
kicked him," cried the young fellow indignantly.
"Rose has said I coquetted with you," Jeanne exclaimed with a roseate
flush and courageous honesty.
"I wish it was something more. Jeanne, you are the sweetest girl in all
Detroit."
"Oh, no, Martin, nor the prettiest, nor the girl who will make the best
wife. And I do not want any lovers, nor to be married, which, I suppose,
is a queer thing. Sometimes I think I will stay in the house altogether,
but it is so warm and gets dreary, and out-of-doors is so beautiful with
sunshine and fragrant air. But if I cannot be friends with anyone--"
"We will be friends, then," said Martin Lavosse.