Part 27 (1/2)
”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 s.h.i.+mmered; there was a tall escritoire going nearly up to the ceiling, the bottom with drawers that had curious bra.s.s handles, rings spouting out of a dragon's mouth. There were gla.s.s doors above and books and strange ornaments and minerals on the shelves. On the high mantel, and very few houses could boast them, stood bra.s.s candlesticks and vases of colored gla.s.s 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 cus.h.i.+on 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 a.s.sertion, 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 b.u.t.terflies 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.