A Little Girl in Old Detroit Part 49

Indeed, I have been almost jealous."

St. Armand smiled, and bowed gracefully.

"I believe I shall prove to you that I had a right, and, if my discovery holds good, we are of some distant kin. When I first heard her name a vague memory puzzled me, and when I went to France I resolved to search for a family link almost forgotten in the many turns there have been in the old families in my native land. Three generations ago a Gaston de la Touche Angelot gave his life for his religious faith. Those were perilous times, and there was little chance for freedom of belief."

"He was my grandfather," returned the Sieur Angelot gravely. "We have been Huguenots for generations. More than one has died for his faith."

"And he was a cousin to my father. I am, as you see, in the generation before you. And I am glad fate or fortune, as you will, has brought about this meeting. When I learned this fact I said: 'As soon as I return to America I shall search out this little girl in Old Detroit and take her under my care. There will be no one to object, no one who will have a better right.' I am all curiosity to know how on your side you made the discovery."

There was a rustle of silken trains in the hall. Madame Fleury entered in a stiff brocade and a sparkle of jewels, Mam'selle in a softer, though still elegant attire, and Jeanne, who stood amazed at the eyes bent upon her; even her father was mute from very surprise.

"Oh, my sweet Jeanne," began M. St. Armand, smilingly, "thou hast strangely outgrown the little girl I used to know. Memory hath cheated me in the years. For the child that kept such a warm place in my heart hath grown into a woman, and not only that, but hath a new friend and will not need me."

"Monsieur, no one with remembrance in her heart can so easily give up an old friend who made life brighter and happier for her, and who kindled the spark of ambition in her soul. I think even my father owes you a great debt. I might still have been a wild thing, haunting the woods and waters Indian fas.h.i.+on, and, as one might say, despising civilized life,"

smiling with a bewitching air. "I thank you, Monsieur, for your interest in me. For it has given me a great deal of happiness, and no doubt saved me from some foolish mistakes."

She had proffered him her dainty hand at the beginning of her speech, and now with a charming color she raised her eyes to her father. One could trace a decided likeness between them.

"Monsieur St. Armand has done still more," subjoined her father. "He has taken pains while in France to hunt up bygone records, and found that the families are related. So you have not only a friend but a relative, and I surely will join you in grat.i.tude."

"I am most happy." She glanced smilingly from one to the other.

Mam'selle Fleury watched her with surprise. The grace, ease, and presence of mind one could hardly have looked for. "It is in the blood,"

she said to herself, and she wished, too, that she had made herself a friend of this enchanting girl.

Then they moved toward the dining room. M. Fleury took in Jeanne as the honored guest, and seated her at his right. The Sieur Angelot was beside the hostess. The conversation in the nature of the startling incidents was largely personal and between the two men. Mam'selle Fleury was deeply interested in the adventures of the Sieur Angelot, detailed with spirit and vivacity. Jeanne's varying color and her evident pride in her father was delightful to witness. That he and this elegant St. Armand should have sprung from the same stock was easy to believe. While the gentlemen sat over their wine and cigars Mam'selle took Jeanne to the pretty sitting room that she had once visited with such awe. It was odorous with the evening dew on the vines outside and the peculiar fragrance of sweetbrier.

"What an odd thing that you should have been carried off by Indians and taken to your father's house!" she began. "And this double marriage--though the Church had annulled your mother's. We have heard of the White Chief, but no one could have guessed you were his child. It is said--your mother desires you--" Mam'selle hesitated as if afraid to trench on secret matters, and not sure of the conclusion.

"She wishes me to go into the convent. But I am not like Berthe Campeau.

I should fret and be miserable like a wild beast in a cage. If she were ill and needed a nurse and affection, I should be drawn to her. And then, I am not of the same faith."

"But--a mother--"

"O Mam'selle, she doesn't seem like my mother. My father kissed me and held me in his arms at once and my whole heart went out to him. I feel strange and far away from her, and she thinks human love a snare to draw the soul from G.o.d. O Mam'selle, when he has made the world so beautiful with all the varying seasons, the singing birds and the blooms and the leaping waters that take on wonderful tints at sunrise and sunset, how could one be shut away from it all? There is so much to give thanks for in the wide, splendid world. It must be better to give them with a free, grateful heart."

"I have had some sorrow, and once I looked toward convent peace with secret longing. But my mother and father said, 'Wait, we both shall need thee as we grow older.' There is much good to be done outside. And one can pray as I have learned. I cannot think human ties are easily to be cast aside when G.o.d's own hand has welded them."

"And she sent me to my father. I feel that I belong to him;" Jeanne declared, proudly.

"He is a man to be fond of, so gracious and n.o.ble. And his island home is said to be most beautiful."

Jeanne gave an eloquent description of it and the two handsome boys with their splendid mother. Mam'selle wondered that there was no jealousy in her young heart. What a charming character she had! Why had not she taken her up as well, instead of feeling that M. St. Armand's interest was much misplaced? She might have won this sweet child's affection that had been lavished upon an old Indian woman. At times she had hungered for love. Her sister was away, happily married, with babies clinging to her knees, and the sufficiency of a gratified life.

Jeanne was sitting upon a silken covered stool, her round arm daintily reclining on the other's knee. The elder bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

"You belong to love's world," she said.

Then the gentlemen entered. Mam'selle played on the harpsichord, and there was conversation until it was time to go.

"You will come again," she exclaimed. "I shall want to see you, though I know what your decision will be, and I think it right. And now will you keep this gown as a little gift from me? You may want to go elsewhere.

My mother and I will be happy to chaperon you."

Jeanne looked up, wide-eyed and grateful. "Every one has always been so good to me," she rejoined. "Then I will not take it off. It will be such a pleasure to Pani. I never thought to look so lovely."

Both gentlemen attended her home, and gave her a tender good night.

Pleasant as the evening was Pani hovered over a handful of fire. Jeanne threw some fir twigs and broken pieces of birch bark on the coals, and the blaze set the room in a glow. "Look, Pani!" she cried, and then she went whirling round the room, her eyes s.h.i.+ning, her rose red lips parted with a laugh.

"It is a spirit." Pani shook her head and her eyes, distended, looked frightened in the gleam of the fire. "Little Jeanne has gone, has gone forever."

Yes, little Jeanne had gone. She felt that herself. She was gay, eager, impetuous, but something new had stolen mysteriously over her.

"Little Jeanne can never go away from you, Pani. Make room in your lap, so; now put your arms about me. Never mind the gown. Now, am I not your little one?"

Pani laughed, the soft, broken croon of old age.

"My little one come back," she kept repeating in a delighted tone, stroking the soft curls.

The next morning M. St. Armand came for a long call. There was so much to talk over. He felt sorry for the poor mother, but he, too, objected strenuously to Jeanne being persuaded into convent life. He praised her for her perseverance in studying, for her improvement under limited conditions. Then he wondered a little about her future. If he could have the ordering of it!

That afternoon Father Rameau came for her. A s.h.i.+p was to sail the next day for Montreal, and her mother would return in it. But when he looked in the child's eyes he knew the mother would go alone. Had he been derelict in duty and let this lamb wander from the fold? Father Gilbert blamed him. Even the mother had rebuked him sharply. Looking into the child's radiant face he understood that she had no vocation for a holy life. Was not the hand of G.o.d over all his children? There were strange mysteries no one could fathom. He uttered no word of persuasion, he could not. G.o.d would guide.

To Jeanne it was an almost heart-breaking interview. Impa.s.sioned tenderness might have won, to lifelong regret, but it was duty, the salvation of her soul always uppermost.

"Still I should not be with you," said Jeanne. "I should take up a strange life among strangers. We could not talk over the past, nor be the dearest of human beings to each other--"

"That is the cross," interrupted the mother. "Sinful desires must be nailed to it."

And all her warm, throbbing, eager life, her love for all human creatures, for all of G.o.d's works.

Jeanne Angelot stood up very straight. Her laughing face grew almost severe.

"I cannot do it. I belong to my father. You sent me to him once. I--I love him."

The mother turned and left the room. At that instant she could not trust herself to say farewell.

CHAPTER XX.

THE LAST OF OLD DETROIT.

The Sieur Angelot was gladly consulted on many points. The British still retained the command of the Grand Portage on Lake Superior, and the Ottawa river route to the upper country. By presents and subsidies they maintained an influence over the savages of the Northwest. The different Indian tribes, though they might have disputes with each other, were gradually being drawn together with the desire of once more sweeping the latest conquerors out of existence.

The fur company endeavored to keep friendly with all, and the Indians were well aware that much of their support must be drawn from them. The new governor was expected shortly, and Detroit was to be his home.

The Sieur Angelot advised better fortifications and a larger garrison.