Part 26 (2/2)

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 fas.h.i.+on 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 gla.s.ses, 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 gra.s.s 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.

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