A PAEAN OF GLADNESS.
Jeanne's little cabin was very plain, but the window gave a nice lookout
and could be opened at will. They would cross the lake and go down to
Barre on the Canada side, and that would give a different view. Was the
ocean so very much larger, she wondered in her inexperienced fashion.
They passed a few boats going up. It was curiously lonely, with great
reaches of stunted pines and scrubby hemlocks, then a space of rather
sandy shore and wiry grasses that reared themselves stiffly. There was
nothing to read. And now she wished for some sewing. She was glad enough
when night came. The next morning the sky was overcast and there was a
dull, threatening wind.
"If we can make Barre before it storms," said Captain Mallard. "There is
a good harbor, and a fierce east wind would drive us back to the other
side."
They fortunately made Barre before the storm broke in all its
fierceness, but it was terrible! There was a roar over the lake as if a
drove of bisons were tearing madly about. The great waves pounded and
battered against the sides of the vessel as if they would break through,
and the surf flew up from the point that jutted out and made the harbor.
Gulls and bitterns went screaming, and Jeanne held her breath in very
terror. Earth and lake and sky were one vast picture of desolation, for
where the eye stopped the mind went on.
All night and all the next day the storm continued beating and bruising.
But at evening the wind fell, and Jeanne gave thanks with a hearty and
humble mind, and slept that night. When she woke the sun was struggling
through a sky of gray, with some faint yellow and green tints that came
and went as if not sure of their way. By degrees a dull red commingled
with them and a sulky sun showed his face.
"It is well we were in a safe port, Mam'selle, for the storm has been
terrible," explained the worthy captain. "As it is, in the darkness we
have lost one man overboard, and a day must be spent in repairing. The
little town is not much, but it might be a rest to go ashore."
"Yes," said Jeanne, rather absently.
"If you have a good blanket--the cold has sprung up suddenly. It is
squaw winter, which comes sooner you know, like a woman's temper, and
spends itself, clearing the way for smiles again."
Dame Loudac had given her a fur cap with lappets that made a hood of it.
She had Owaissa's blanket, and some warm leggings. The captain helped
her ashore, but it was a most uncheerful outlook. A few streets with
roughly built cottages, some shops at the wharf, a packing house with
the refuse of fish about, and a wide stretch of level land on which the
wind had swept the trees so fiercely that most of them leaned westward.
"Oh, how can anyone live here!" cried Jeanne with a shiver, contrasting
it with the beautiful island home of the White Chief.
The inhabitants were mostly French, rugged, with dull faces and clumsy
figures. They looked curiously at Jeanne and then went on with their
various employments.
But the walk freshened her and dispelled the listlessness. She gathered
a few shells on one strip of sandy beach, and watched many curious
creeping things. A brown lizard glided in and out of some tufts of sedge
grass; a great flock of birds high up in the air went flying southward.
Many gulls ran along with their shrill cries.
Oh, if she were at home! Would she ever reach there? For now gay-hearted
Jeanne seemed suddenly dispirited.
All the day kept cold, though at sunset the western sky blazed out with
glory and the wind died down. Captain Mallard would not start until
morning, however, and though the air had a keenness in it the sun gave
out a promising warmth.
Then they made Presque Isle, where there was much unloading, and some
stores to be taken on board. After that it grew warmer and Jeanne
enjoyed being on deck, and the memory of how she had come up the lake
was like a vague dream. They sailed past beautiful shores, islands where
vegetation was turning brown and yellow; here marshes still a vivid
green, there great clumps of trees with scarlet branches dancing in the
sun, the hickories beginning to shrivel and turn yellow, the evergreens
black in the shady places. At night the stars came out and the moon
swelled in her slender body, her horns losing their distinct outlines.
But Jeanne had no patience even with the mysterious, beautiful night.
The autumn was dying slowly, and she wondered who brought wood for Pani;
if she sat by the lonely fire! It seemed months since she had been taken
away.
Yes, here was the familiar lake, the shores she knew so well. She could
have danced for very gladness, though her eyes were tear-wet. And here
it narrowed into the river, and oh, was there ever such a blessed sight!
Every familiar point looked beautiful to her. There were some boats
hurrying out, the captains hoping to make a return trip. But the
crowded, businesslike aspect of summer was over.
They pushed along to the King's wharf. It seemed to her all were strange
faces. Was it really Detroit? St. Anne's bell came rolling down its
sweet sound. The ship crunched, righted itself, crunched again, the rope
was thrown out and made fast.
"Mam'selle," said the captain, "we are in."
She took his hand, the mute gratitude in her eyes, in her whole face;
its sweetness touched him.
"I hope you will find your friends well."
"Oh, thank you!" she cried, with a long drawn breath. "Yes, that is my
prayer."
He was handing her off. The crowd, not very large, indeed, was all a
blur before her eyes. She touched the ground, then she dropped on her
knees.
"No, no," to some one who would have raised her. "I must say a prayer,
for I have come back to my own loved Detroit, my home. Oh, let me give
thanks."
"The saints be praised! It is Jeanne Angelot."
She rose as suddenly as she had knelt. Up the narrow street she ran,
while the astonished throng looked after her.
"Holy Mother defend us!" and a man crossed himself devoutly. "It is no
living being, it is a ghost."
For she had disappeared. The wondering eyes glanced on vacancy,
stupefied.
"I said she was dead from the first. She would never have gone off and
left the poor Pani woman to die of grief. She sits there alone day after
day, and now she will not eat, though Dame Margot and the Indian woman
Wenonah try to comfort her. And this is Jeanne's spirit come for her.
You will find her dead body in the cottage. Ah, I have seen the sign."
"It was a strange disappearance!"
"The captain can tell," said another, "for if she was rescued from the
Indians he must have brought her down."
"Yes, yes," and they rushed in search of the captain, wild with
superstition and excitement.
It was really Jeanne Angelot. She had been rescued and left at Bois
Blanc, and then taken over to another island. A pretty, sweet young girl
and no ghost, Jeanne Angelot by name.
Jeanne sped on like a sprite, drawing her cap over her face. Ah, the
familiar ways and sights, the stores here, the booths shut, for the
outdoors trade was mostly over, the mingled French and English, the
patois, the shouts to the horses and dogs and to the pedestrians to get
out of the way. She glanced up St. Anne's street, she passed the
barrack, where some soldiers sat in the sunshine cleaning up their
accouterments. Children were playing games, as the space was wider here.
The door of the cottage was closed. There was a litter on the steps,
dead leaves blown into the corners and crushed.
"O Pani! Pani!" she cried, and her heart stood still, her limbs
trembled.
The door was not locked. The shutter had been closed and the room was
dark, coming out of the sunshine. There was not even a blaze on the
hearth. A heap of something at the side--her sight grew clearer, a
blanketed bundle, oh, yes--
"Pani! Pani!" she cried again, all the love and longing of months in her
voice--"Pani, it is I, Jeanne come back to you. Oh, surely God would not
let you die now!"
She was tearing away the wrappings. She found the face and kissed it
with a passion of tenderness. It was cold, but not with the awful
coldness of death. The lips murmured something. The hands took hold of
her feebly.
"It is Jeanne," she cried again, "your own Jeanne, who loves you with
all her heart and soul, Jeanne, whom the good God has sent back to you,"
and then the tears and kisses mingled in a rain on the poor old wrinkled
face.
"Jeanne," Pani said in a quavering voice, in which there was no
realizing joy. Her lifeless fingers touched the warm, young face, wet
with tears. "_Petite_ Jeanne!"
"Your own Jeanne come back to you. Oh, Pani, you are cold and there is
no fire. And all this dreary time--but the good God has sent me back,
and I shall stay always, always--"
She ran and opened the shutter. The traces of Pani's careful
housekeeping were gone. Dust was everywhere, and even food was standing
about as Wenonah had brought it in last night, while piles of furs and
blankets were lying in a corner, waiting to be put up.
"Now we must have a fire," she began, cheerily; and, shivering with the
chill herself, she stirred the embers and ashes about. There was no lack
of fuel. In a moment the flames began a heartsome sound, and the scarlet
rays went climbing and racing over the twigs. There was a fragrant
warmth, a brightness, but it showed the wan, brown face, almost ashen
color from paleness, and the lack-luster eyes.
"Pani!" Jeanne knelt before her and shook back the curls, smiled when
she would fain have cried over the pitiful wreck, and at that moment she
hated Louis Marsac more bitterly than ever. "Pani, dear, wake up. You
have been asleep and dreamed bad dreams. Wake up, dear, my only love."
Some consciousness stirred vaguely. It was as if she made a great
effort, and the pale lips moved, but no sound came from them. Still the
eyes lost some of their vacancy, the brow showed lines of thought.
"Jeanne," she murmured again. "_Petite_ Jeanne. Did some one take you
away? Or was it a dream?"
"I am here, your own Jeanne. Look at the fire blaze. Now you will be
warm, and remember, and we will both give thanks. Nothing shall ever
part us again."
Pani made an attempt to rise but fell back limply. Some one opened the
door--it was Margot, who uttered a cry of affright and stood as if she
was looking at a ghost, her eyes full of terror.
"I have come back," began Jeanne in a cheerful tone. "Some Indians
carried me away. I have been almost up to the Straits, and a good
captain brought me home. Has she been ill?" motioning to Pani.
"Only grief, Mam'selle. All the time she said you would return until a
week or so ago, then she seemed to give up everything. I was very busy
this morning, there are so many mouths to feed. I was finishing some
work promised, there are good people willing to employ me. And then I
came in to see--"
"Jeanne has come home," Pani exclaimed suddenly. "Margot has been so
good. I am old and of no use any more. I have been only a trouble."
"Yes, yes, I want you. Oh, Pani, if I had come home and found you dead
there would have been no one--and now you will get well again."
Pani shook her head, but Jeanne could discern the awakening
intelligence.
"Mam'selle!" Margot seemed but half convinced. Then she glanced about
the room. "M. Garis was in such haste for his boy's clothes that I have
done nothing but sew and sew. Marie has gone out to service and there
are only the little ones. My own house has been neglected."
"Yes. Heaven will reward you for your goodness to her all this dreadful
time, when you have had to work hard for your own."
Margot began to pick up articles and straighten the room, to gather the
few unwashed dishes.
"Oh, Mam'selle, it made a great stir. The neighbors and the guards went
out and searched. Some wild beast might have devoured you, but they
found no trace. And they thought of Indians. Poor Pani! But all will be
well now. Nay, Mam'selle," as Jeanne would have stopped her, "there will
be people in, for strange news travels fast."
That was very likely. In a brief while they had the room tidy. Then
Jeanne fixed a seat at the other side of the fireplace, spread the fur
rug over it, and led the unresisting Pani thither, wrapped her in a
fresh blanket, and took off the cap, smoothing out the neglected hair
that seemed strangely white about the pale, brown face. The high cheek
bones left great hollows underneath, but in spite of the furrows of age
the skin was soft.
The woman gave a low, pleased laugh, and nodded.
"Father Rameau will come," she said.
"Father Rameau! Has he returned?" inquired the girl.
"Oh, yes, Mam'selle, and so glad to get back to Detroit. I cannot tell
you all his delight. And then his sorrow for you. For we were afraid you
were no longer living. What a strange story!"
"It has happened before, being carried away by Indians. Some time you
shall hear all, Margot."
The woman nodded. "And if you do not want me, Mam'selle--" for there was
much to do at home.
"I do not need you so much just now, but come in again presently. Oh, I
can never repay you!"
"Wenonah has done more than I."
In the warmth of the fire and the comfortable atmosphere about her, Pani
had fallen asleep. Jeanne glanced into the chamber. The beds were spread
up, and, except dust, things were not bad, but she put them in the olden
order. Then she bathed her face and combed the tangles out of her hair.
Here was her blue woolen gown, with the curious embroidery of beads and
bright thread, that Wenonah had made for her last winter, and she
slipped into it. Now she felt like herself. She would cook a little
dinner for herself and Pani. And, as she was kneeling on the wide
hearthstone stirring some broth, the woman opened her eyes.
"Jeanne," she said, and there was less wandering in her voice, "Jeanne,
it was a dream. I have been asleep many moons, I think. The great evil
spirits have had me, dragged me down into their dens, and I could not
see you. Pani's heart has been sore distressed. It was all a dream,
little one."
"Yes, a dream!" Jeanne's arms were about her neck.
"And you will never go away, not even if M. Bellestre sends for you!"
she entreated.
"I shall never go away from La Belle Detroit. Oh, Pani, there may be
beautiful places in the world," and she thought of the island and
Miladi, "but none so dear. No, we shall stay here always."
But the news had traveled, and suddenly there was an influx; M. De Ber
going home to his midday meal could not believe until he had seen Jeanne
with his own eyes. And the narrow street was filled as with a
procession.
Jeanne kept to the simple story and let her listeners guess at motives
or mysterious purposes. They had not harmed her. And a beautiful Indian
maiden with much power over her red brethren had gained her freedom and
sent her to a place of safety. Captain Mallard and the "Return" had
brought her to the town, and that was all.
It was almost night when Father Rameau came. He had grown strangely old,
it seemed to her, and the peaceful lines of his face were disturbed. He
had come back to the home of years to find himself curiously supplanted
and new methods in use that savored less of love and more of strict
rule. He had known so much of the hardness of the pioneer lives, of the
enjoyment and courage the rare seasons of pleasure gave them, of the
ignorance that could understand little of the higher life, of the strong
prejudices and superstitions that had to be uprooted gently and perhaps
wait for the next generation. Truth, honesty, and temperance were rare
virtues and of slow growth. The new license brought in by the English
was hard to combat, but he had worked in love and patience, and now he
found his methods condemned and new ones instituted. His heart ached.
But he was glad enough to clasp Jeanne to his heart and to hear her
simple faith in the miracle that had been wrought. How great it was, and
what her danger had been, he was never to know. For Owaissa's sake and
her debt to her she kept silence as to that part.
Certainly Jeanne had an ovation. When she went into the street there
were smiles and bows. Some of the ladies came to speak to her, and
invited her to their houses, and found her extremely interesting.
Madame De Ber was very gracious, and both Rose and Marie were friendly
enough. But Madame flung out one little arrow that missed its mark.
"Your old lover soon consoled himself it seems. It is said he married a
handsome Indian girl up at the Strait. I dare say he was pledged to
her."
"Yes. It was Owaissa who freed me from captivity. She came down to Bois
Blanc and heard the story and sent me away in her own canoe with her
favorite servant. Louis Marsac was up at St. Ignace getting a priest
while she waited. I cannot think he was at all honest in proposing
marriage to me when another had the right. But there was a grand time it
was said, and they were very happy."
Madame stared. "It was a good thing for you that you did not care for
him. I had a distrust for him. He was too handsome. And then he believed
nothing and laughed at religion. But the Marsacs are going to be very
rich it is said. You did not see them married?"
"Oh, no." Jeanne laughed with a bitterness she had not meant to put into
her voice. "He was away when Owaissa came to me and heard my plight. And
then there was need of haste. I had to go at once, and it would not have
been pleasant even if I could have waited."
"No, no. Men are much given to make love to young girls who have no one
to look after them. They think nothing of it."
"So it was fortunate that it was distasteful to me."
Jeanne had a girl's pride in wanting this woman to understand that she
was in no wise hurt by Marsac's recreancy. Then she added, "The girl was
beautiful as Indian girls go, and it seems a most excellent marriage.
She will be fond of that wild northern country. I could not be content
in it."
Jeanne felt that she was curiously changed, though sometimes she longed
passionately for the wild little girl who had been ready for every kind
of sport and pleasure. But the children with whom she had played were
grown now, boys great strapping fellows with manners both coarse and
shy, going to work at various businesses, and the girls had lovers or
husbands,--they married early then. So she seemed left alone. She did
not care for their chatter nor their babies of which they seemed so
proud.
So she kept her house and nursed Pani back to some semblance of her
former self. But often it was a touch of the childhood of old age, and
she rambled about those she had known, the De Longueils and Bellestres,
and the night Jeanne had been left in her arms.
Jeanne liked the chapel minister and his wife very much. The lady had so
many subjects to converse about that never led to curious questions. The
minister lent her books and they talked them over afterward. This was
the world she liked.
But she had not lost her love for that other world of freedom and
exhilaration. After a brief Indian summer with days of such splendor
that it seemed as if the great Artist was using his most magnificent
colors, winter set in sharp and with a snap that startled every one.
Snow blocked the roads and the sparkling expanse of crust on the top was
the delight of the children, who walked and slid and pulled each other
in long loads like a chain of dogs. And some of the lighter weight young
people skated over it like flying birds. In the early evening all was
gayety. Jeanne was not lacking in admirers. Young Loisel often called
for her, and Martin Lavosse would easily have verged on the sentimental
if Jeanne had not been so gay and unconscious. He was quite sore over
the defection of Rose De Ber, who up in one of the new streets was
hobnobbing with the gentry and quite looking down on the Beesons.
Then the minister and his wife often joined these outdoor parties. Since
he neither played cards, danced, nor drank in after-dinner symposiums,
this spirited amusement stirred his blood. Pani went to bed early, and
Margot would bring in her sewing and see that nothing untoward happened.
Few of the stores were open in the evenings. Short as the day was, all
the business could be done in it. Now and then one saw a feeble light in
a window where a man stayed to figure on some loss or gain.
Fleets were laid up or ventured only on short journeys. From the
northern country came stories of ice and snow that chilled one's marrow.
Yet the great fires, the fur rugs and curtains and soft blankets kept
one comfortable within.
There were some puzzling questions for Jeanne. She liked the freedom of
conscience at the chapel, and then gentle Father Rameau drew her to the
church.
"If I had two souls," she said one day to the minister, "I should be
quite satisfied. And it seems to me sometimes as if I were two different
people," looking up with a bright half smile. "In childhood I used to
lay some of my wildnesses on to the Indian side. I had a curious fancy
for a strain of Indian blood."
"But you have no Indian ancestry?"
"I think not. I am not so anxious for it now," laughing gayly. "But that
side of me protests against the servitude Father Gilbert so insists
upon. And I hate confession. To turn one's self inside out, to give away
the sacred trusts of others--"
"No, that is not necessary," he declared hastily.
"But when the other lives are tangled up with yours, when you can only
tell half truths--"
He smiled then. "Mademoiselle Jeanne, your short life has not had time
to get much entangled with other lives, or with secrets you are aware
of."
"I think it has been curiously entangled," she replied. "M'sieu
Bellestre, whom I have almost forgotten, M. Loisel--and the old
schoolmaster I told you of, who I fancy now was a sad heretic--"
She paused and flushed, while her eyes were slowly downcast. There was
Monsieur St. Armand. How could she explain this to a priest? And was not
Monsieur a heretic, too? That was her own precious, delightful secret,
and she would give it into no one's keeping.
She was very happy with all this mystery about her, he thought, very
simple minded and sweet, doing the whole duty of a daughter to this poor
Indian woman in return for her care. And when Pani was gone? She was
surely fitted for some other walk in life, but she was unconsciously
proud, she would not step over into it, some one must take her by the
hand.
"But why trouble about the Church, as you call it? It is the life one
leads, not the organization. Are these people down by the wharves and
those holes on St. Louis street, where there is drunkenness and gambling
and swearing, any the better for their confession and their masses, and
what not?"
"If I was the priest they should not come unless they reformed," and her
eyes flashed. "But when I turn away something calls me, and when I go
there I do not like it. They want me to go among the sisters, to be a
nun perhaps, and that I should hate."
"At present you are doing a daughter's duty, let that suffice. Pani
would soon die without you. When a new work comes to hand God will make
the way plain for you."
Jeanne gave an assenting nod.
"She is a curious child," the minister said to his wife afterward, "and
yet a very sweet, simple-hearted one. But to confine her to any routine
would make her most unhappy."
There were all the Christmas festivities, and Jeanne did enjoy them.
Afterward--some of the days were very long it seemed. She was tired of
the great white blanket of snow and ice, and the blackness of the
evergreens that in the cold turned to groups of strange monsters. Bears
came down out of the woods, the sheep dogs and their masters had fights
with wolves; there were dances and the merry sounds of the violin in
every household where there were men and boys. Then Lent, not very
strictly kept after all, and afterward Easter and the glorious spring.
Jeanne woke into new life. "I must go out for the first wild flowers,"
she said to Pani. "It seems years since I had any. And the robin and the
thrush and the wild pigeons have come back, and the trees bud with the
baths of sunshine. All the air is throbbing with fragrance."
Pani looked disturbed.
"Oh, thou wilt not go to the woods?" she cried.
"I will take Wenonah and one of the boys. They are sturdy now and can
howl enough to scare even a panther. No, Pani, there is no one to carry
me away. They would know that I should slip through their fingers;" and
she laughed with the old time joyousness.