A HIDDEN FOE.
Ah, what a day it was to Jeanne Angelot! They had gone early in the
morning and taken some food with them in a pretty basket made of birch
bark. How good it was to be alive, to be free! The sunshine had never
been so golden, she thought, nor danced so among the branches nor shook
out such dainty sprites. How they skipped over the turf, now hold of
hands, now singly, now running away and disappearing, others coming in
their places!
"The very woods are alive," she declared in glee.
Alive they were with the song of birds, the chirp of insects, the
murmuring wind. Back of her was a rivulet fretting its way over pebbles
down a hillside, making an irregular music. She kept time to it, then
she changed to the bird song, and the rustle among the pines.
"It is so lovely, Pani. I seem to be drinking in a strange draught that
goes to my very finger tips. Oh, I wonder how anyone can bear to die!"
"When they are old it is like falling asleep. And sometimes they are so
tired it makes them glad."
"I should only be tired of staying in the house. But I suppose one
cannot help death. One can refuse to go into a little cell and shut out
the sunlight and all the beauty that God has made. It is wicked I
think. For one can pray out of doors and sing hymns. I am sure God will
hear."
They ate their lunch with a relish; Jeanne had found some berries and
some ripe wild plums. There was a hollow tree full of honey, she could
tell by the odorous, pungent smell. She would tell Wenonah and have some
of the boys go at night and--oh, how hard to rob the poor bees, to
murder and rob them! No, she would keep their secret.
She laid her head down in Pani's lap and went fast asleep; and the
Indian woman's eyes were touched with the same poppy juice. Once Pani
started, she thought she heard a step. In an instant her eyes were bent
inquiringly around. There was no one in sight.
"It was the patter of squirrels," she thought.
The movement roused Jeanne. She opened her eyes and smiled with
infantine joy.
"We have both been asleep," said the woman. "And now is it not time to
go home?"
"Oh, look at the long shadows. They are purple now, and soft dark green.
The spirits of the wood have trooped home, tired of their dancing."
She rose and gave herself a little shake.
"Pani," she exclaimed, "I saw some beautiful flowers before noon, over
on the other side of the stream. I think they were something strange. I
can easily jump across. I will not be gone long, and you may stay here.
Poor Pani! I tired you out."
"No, Mam'selle, you were asleep first."
"Was I? It was such a lovely sleep. Oh, you dear woods;" and she clasped
her hands in adoration.
Long, flute-like notes quivered through the branches--birds calling to
their mates. Pani watched the child skipping, leaping, pulling down a
branch and letting it fly up again. Then she jumped across the brook
with a merry shout, and a tree hid her.
Pani studied the turf, the ants and beetles running to and fro, the
strange creatures with heavy loads. A woodpecker ran up a tree and
pulled out a white grub. "Tinkle, tinkle, bu-r-r-r," said the little
stream. Was that another shout?
Presently Pani rose and went toward the stream. "Jeanne! Jeanne!" she
called. The forest echoes made reply. She walked up, Jeanne had gone in
that direction. Once it seemed as if the voice answered.
Yes, over yonder was a great thicket of bloom. Surely the child would
not need to go any farther. Presently there was a tangle of underbrush
and wild grapevines. Pani retraced her steps and going farther down
crossed and came up on the other side, calling as she went. The woods
grew more dense. There was a chill in the air as if the sun never
penetrated it. There was no real path and she wandered on in a thrill of
terror, still calling but not losing sight of the stream.
And now the sun dropped down. Terrified, Pani made the best of her way
back. What had happened? She had seen no sign of a wild animal, and
surely the child could not be lost in that brief while!
She must give an alarm. She ran now until she was out of breath, then
she had to pause until she could run again. She reached the farms. They
were mostly all long strips of land with the houses in reach of the
stockade for safety.
"Andre Helmuth," she cried, "I have lost the child, Jeanne. Give an
alarm." Then she sank down half senseless.
Dame Helmuth ran out from the fish she was cooking for supper. "What is
it?" she cried. "And who is this?" pointing to the prostrate figure.
"Jeanne Angelot's Pani. And Jeanne, she says, is lost. It must be in the
woods. But she knows them so well."
"She was ever a wild thing," declared the dame. "But a night in the
woods alone is not such a pleasant pastime, with panthers, and bears
have been seen. And there may be savages prowling about. Yes, Andre,
give the alarm and I will look after the poor creature. She has always
been faithful to the child."
By the time the dame had restored her, the news had spread. It reached
Wenonah presently, who hastened to the Helmuths'. Pani sat bewildered,
and the Indian woman, by skillful questioning, finally drew the story
from her.
"I think it is a band of roving Indians," she said. "I am glad now that
Paspah is at home. He is a good guide. But we must send in town and get
a company."
"Yes, yes, that is the thing to do. A few soldiers with arms. One cannot
tell how many of the Indians there may be. I will go at once," and Andre
Helmuth set off on a clumsy trot.
"And the savory fish that he is so fond of, getting spoiled. But what
is that to the child's danger? Children, come and have your suppers."
They wanted to linger about Pani, but the throng kept increasing.
Wenonah warded off troublesome questions and detailed the story to
newcomers. The dame brought her a cup of tea with a little brandy in it,
and then waited what seemed an interminable while.
The alarm spread through the garrison, and a searching party was ordered
out equipped with lanterns and well armed. At its head was Jeanne's
admirer, the young lieutenant.
Tony Helmuth had finished his supper.
"Let me go with them," he pleaded. "I know every inch of the way. I have
been up and down the creek a hundred times."
Pani rose. "I must go, too," she said, weakly, but she dropped back on
the seat.
"Thou wilt come home with me," began Wenonah, with gentle
persuasiveness. "Thou hast not the strength."
She yielded passively and clung piteously to the younger woman, her feet
lagging.
"She was so glad and joyous all day. I should not have let her go out of
my sight," the foster mother moaned. "And it was only such a little
while. Heaven and the blessed Mother send her back safely."
"I think they will find her. Paspah is good on a trail. If they stop for
the night and build a fire that will surely betray them."
She led Pani carefully along, though quite a procession followed.
"Let her be quiet now," said the younger squaw. "You can hear nothing
more from her, and she needs rest. Go your ways."
Pani was too much exhausted and too dazed to oppose anything. Once or
twice she started feebly and said she must go home, but dropped back
again on the pine needle couch covered with a blanket. Between waking
and sleep strange dreams came to her that made her start and cry out,
and Wenonah soothed her as one would a child.
All the next day they waited. The town was stirred with the event, and
the sympathy was universal. The pretty Jeanne Angelot, who had been left
so mysteriously, had awakened romantic interest anew. A few years ago
this would have been a common incident, but why one should want to carry
off a girl of no special value,--though a ransom would be raised readily
enough if such a thing could save her.
On the second day the company returned home. No trace of any marauding
party had been found. There had been no fires kindled, no signs of any
struggle, and no Indian trails in the circuit they had made. The party
might have had a canoe on Little river and paddled out to Lake St.
Clair; if so, they were beyond reach.
The tidings utterly crushed Pani. For a fortnight she lay in Wenonah's
cabin, paying no attention to anything and would have refused sustenance
if Wenonah had not fed her as a child. Then one day she seemed to wake
as out of a trance.
"They have not found her--my little one?" she said.
Wenonah shook her head.
"Some evil spirit of the woods has taken her."
"Can you listen and think, Pani?" and she chafed the cold hand she held.
"I have had many strange thoughts and Touchas, you know, has seen
visions. The white man has changed everything and driven away the
children of the air who used to run to and fro in the times of our
fathers. In her youth she called them, but the Church has it they are
demons, and to look at the future is a wicked thing. It is said in some
places they have put people to death for doing it."
Pani's dark eyes gave a glance of mute inquiry.
"But I asked Touchas. At first she said the great Manitou had taken the
power from her. But the night the moon described the full circle and one
could discern strange shapes in it, she came to me, and we went and sat
under the oak tree where the child first came to thee. There was great
disturbance in Touchas' mind, and her eyes seemed to traverse space
beyond the stars. Presently, like one in a dream, she said:--
"'The child is alive. She was taken by Indians to the _petite_ lake, her
head covered, and in strong arms. Then they journeyed by water,
stopping, and going on until they met a big ship sailing up North. She
is in great danger, but the stars watch over her; a prisoner where the
window is barred and the door locked. There is a man between two women,
an Indian maiden, whose heart hungers for him. She comes down to meet
him and follows a trail and finds something that rouses her to fierce
anger. She creeps and creeps, and finds the key and unlocks the door.
The white maiden is afraid at first and cowers, for she reads passion in
the other's eyes. O great Manitou, save her!' Then Touchas screamed and
woke, shivering all over, and could see no further into the strange
future. 'Wait until the next moon,' she keeps saying. But the child will
be saved, she declares."
"Oh, my darling, my little one!" moaned the woman, rocking herself to
and fro. "The saints protect thee. Oh, I should have watched thee
better! But she felt so safe. She had been afraid, but the fear had
departed. Oh, my little one! I shall die if I do not see thee again."
"I feel that the great God will care for her. She has done no evil; and
the priests declare that he will protect the good. And I thought and
thought, until a knowledge seemed to come out of the clear sky. So I did
not wait for the next moon. I said, 'I have little need for Paspah,
since I earn bread for the little ones. Why should he sit in the wigwam
all winter, now and then killing a deer or helping on the dock for a
drink of brandy?' So I sent him North again to join the hunters and to
find Jeanne. For I know that handsome, evil-eyed Louis Marsac is at the
bottom of it."
"Oh, Wenonah!" Pani fell on her shoulder and cried, she was so weak and
overcome.
"We will not speak of this. Paspah has a grudge against Marsac; he
struck him a blow last summer. My father would have killed him for the
blow, but the red men who hang around the towns have no spirit. They
creep about like panthers, and only show their teeth to an enemy. The
forest is the place for them, but this life is easier for a woman."
Wenonah sighed. Civilization had charms for her, yet she saw that it was
weakening her race. They were driven farther and farther back and to the
northward. Women might accept labor, they were accustomed to it in the
savage state but a brave could not so demean himself.
Pani's mind was not very active yet. For some moments she studied
Wenonah in silence.
"She was afraid of him. She would not go out to the forest nor on the
river while he was here. But he went away--"
"He could have planned it all. He would find enough to do his bidding.
But if she has been taken up North, Paspah will find her."
That gave some present comfort to Pani. But she began to be restless and
wanted to return to her own cottage.
"You must not live alone," said Wenonah.
"But I want to be there. If my darling comes it is there she will search
for me."
When Wenonah found she could no longer keep her by persuasion or
entreaty, she went home with her one day. The tailor's widow had taken
some little charge of the place. It was clean and tidy.
Pani drew a long, delighted breath, like a child.
"Yes, this is home," she exclaimed. "Wenonah, the good Mother of God
will reward you for your kindness. There is something"--touching her
forehead in piteous appeal--"that keeps me from thinking as I ought. But
you are sure my little one will come back, like a bird to its nest?"
"She will come back," replied Wenonah, hardly knowing whether she
believed it herself or not.
"Then I shall stay here."
She was deaf to all entreaties. She went about talking to herself, with
a sentence here and there addressed to Jeanne.
"Yes, leave her," said Margot. "She was good to me in my sorrow, and
_petite_ Jeanne was an angel. The children loved her so. She would not
go away of her own accord. And I will watch and see that no harm happens
to Pani, and that she has food. The boys will bring her fagots for fire.
I will send you word every day, so you will know how it fares with her."
Pani grew more cheerful day by day and gained not only physical
strength, but made some mental improvement. In the short twilight she
would sit in the doorway listening to every step and tone, sometimes
rising as if she would go to meet Jeanne, then dropping back with a
sigh.
The soldiers were very kind to her and often stopped to give her good
day. Neighbors, too, paused, some in sympathy, some in curiosity.
There were many explanations of the sudden disappearance. That Jeanne
Angelot had been carried off by Indians seemed most likely. Such things
were still done.
But many of the superstitious shook their heads. She had come queerly as
if she had dropped from the clouds, she had gone in the same manner.
Perhaps she was not a human child. All wild things had come at her
call,--she had talked to them in the woods. Once a doe had run to her
from some hunters and she had so covered it with her girlish arms and
figure that they had not dared to shoot. If there were bears or panthers
or wolves in the woods, they never molested her.
They recalled old legends, Indian and French, some gruesome enough, but
they did not seem meet for pretty, laughing Jeanne, who was all
kindliness and sweetness and truth. If she was part spirit, surely it
was a good spirit and not an evil one.
Then Pani thought she would go to Father Gilbert, though she had never
felt at home with him as she did with good Pere Rameau. There might be
prayers that would hasten her return. Or, if relics helped, if she could
once hold them in her hand and wish--
The old missionaries who had gone a century or two before to plant the
cross along with the lilies of France had the souls of the heathen
savages at heart. Since then times had changed and the Indians were not
looked upon as such promising subjects. Father Gilbert worked for the
good and the glory of the Church. One English convert was worth a dozen
Indians. So the church had been improved and made more beautiful. There
were singers who caught the ear of the casual listener, and he or she
came again. The school, too, was improved, the sisters' house enlarged,
and a retreat built where women could spend days of sorrow and go away
refreshed. Sometimes they preferred to stay altogether.
Father Gilbert listened rather impatiently to the prolix story. He might
have heard it before, he did not remember. There were several Indian
waifs in school.
"And this child was baptized, you say? Why did you not bring her to
church?" he asked sharply.
"Good Pere, I did at first. But M. Bellestre would not have her forced.
And then she only came sometimes. She liked the new school because they
taught about countries and many things. She was always honest and truth
speaking and hated cruel deeds--"
"But she belonged to the Church, you see. Woman, you have done her a
great wrong and this is sent upon you for punishment. She should have
been trained to love her Church. Yes, you must come every day and pray
that she may be returned to the true fold, and that the good God will
forgive your sin. You have been very wicked and careless and I do not
wonder God has sent this upon you. When she comes back she must be given
to the Church."
Pani turned away without asking about the relics. Her savage heart rose
up in revolt. The child was hers, the Church had not all the right. And
Jeanne had come to believe like the chapel father, who had been very
friendly toward her. Perhaps it was all wrong and wicked, but Jeanne was
an angel. Ah, if she could hold her in her old arms once more!
Father Gilbert went to see M. Loisel. What was it about the money the
Indian woman and the child had? Could not the Church take better care of
it? And if the girl was dead, what then?
M. Loisel explained the wording of the bequest. If both died it went
back to the Bellestre estate. Only in case of Jeanne's marriage did it
take the form of a dowry. In June and December it came to him, and he
sent back an account of the two beneficiaries.
Really then it was not worth looking after, Father Gilbert decided, when
there was so much other work on hand.
Madame De Ber and her coterie, for already there were little cliques in
Detroit, shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyebrows when Jeanne
Angelot was mentioned.
She was such a coquette! And though she flouted Louis Marsac to his
face, when he had really taken her at her word and gone, she might have
repented and run after him. It was hardly likely a band of roving
Indians would burthen themselves with a girl. Then she was fleet of foot
and had a quick brain, she could have eluded them and returned by this
time.
Rose De Ber had succeeded in captivating her fine lover and sent Martin
about with a bit of haughtiness that would have become a queen. It was
a fine wedding and Jeanne was lost sight of in the newer excitement.
Pani rambled to and fro, a grave, silent woman. When she grew strong
enough she went to the forest and haunted the little creek with her
plaints. The weather grew colder. Furs and rugs were brought out, and
warm hangings for winter. Martin Lavosse came in and arranged some
comforts for Pani, looked to see that the shutters would swing easily
and brought fresh cedar and pine boughs for pallets. Crops were being
gathered in, and there were merrymakings and church festivals, but the
poor woman sat alone in her room that fronted the street, now and then
casting her eyes up and down in mute questioning. The light of her life
had gone. If Jeanne came not back all would be gone, even faith in the
good God. For why should he, if he was so great and could manage the
whole world, let this thing happen? Why should he deliver Jeanne into
the hands of the man she hated, or perhaps let her be torn to pieces by
some wild beast of the forest, when, by raising a finger, he could have
helped it? Could he be angry because she had not sent the child to be
shut up in the Recollet house and made a nun of?
Slavery and servitude had not extinguished the love of liberty that had
been born in Pani's soul. She had succumbed to force, then to a certain
fondness for a kind mistress. But it seemed as if she alone had
understood the child's wild flights, her hatred of bondage. She had done
no harm to any living creature; she had been full of gratitude to the
great Manitou for every flower, every bird, for the golden sun that set
her pulses in a glow, for the moon and stars, and the winds that sang to
her. Oh, surely God could not be angry with her!