A Little Girl in Old Detroit by Amanda Minnie Douglas (e reader comics .txt) 📖

cold weather. The winter comes early here, and yet it is not so cold as one would think, with plenty of furs and fire."

"And the--the queen--" hesitatingly.

The dame laughed heartsomely.

"Thou shalt see her. She is our delight, our dear mistress, and has many names given her by her loving chief. It is almost ten years ago that he found her up North, a queen then with a little band of braves who adored her. They had come from some far country. She was not of their tribe; she is as white almost as thou, and tall and handsome and soft of voice as the sweetest singing bird. Then they fell in love with each other, and the good pere at Hudson Bay married them. He brought her here. She bought the island because it seemed fortified with the great rocks on two sides of it. Often they go away, for he has a fine vessel that is like a palace in its fittings. They have been to Montreal and out on that wild, strange coast full of islands. Whatever she wishes is hers."

Jeanne sighed a little, but not from envy.

"There are two boys, twins, and a little daughter born but two years ago. The boys are big and handsome, and wild as deer. But their father will have them run and climb and shout and play ball and shoot arrows, but not go out alone in a boat. Yet they can swim like fishes. Come, if you can eat no more breakfast, let us go out. I do not believe Detroit can match this, though it is larger."

There was a roadway about the palisades with two gates near either end, then a curiously laid up stone wall where the natural rocks had failed. Here on this plateau were cottages and lodges. Canadians, some trusty Indians, and a sprinkling of half-breeds made a settlement, it would seem. There were gardens abloom, fruit trees and grapevines, making a pleasant odor in the early autumnal sun. There were sheep pasturing, a herd of tame, beautiful deer, cows in great sheds, and fowl domesticated, while doves went circling around overhead. Still another wall almost hid the home of the White Chief, the name he was best known by, and as one might say at that time a name to conjure with, for he was really the manipulator of many of the Indian tribes, and endeavored to keep the peace among them and deal fairly with them in the fur trading. To the English he had proved a trusty neighbor, to the French a true friend, though his advice was not always palatable.

"Oh, it is beautiful!" cried Jeanne. "Something like the farms outside of the palisades at home. Inside--" she made a pretty gesture of dissatisfaction,--"the town is crowded and dirty and full of bad smells, except at the end where some of the officers and the court people and the rich folk live. They are building some new places up by the military gardens and St. Anne's Church, and beside the little river, where everything keeps green and which is full of ducks and swans and herons. And the great river is such a busy place since the Americans came. But they have not so many soldiers in the garrison, and we miss the glitter of the scarlet and the gold lace and the music they used to have. Still the flag is beautiful; and most people seem satisfied. I like the Americans," Jeanne said proudly.

The dame shook her head, but not in disapprobation altogether.

"The world is getting much mixed," she said. "I think the English still feel bitter, but the French accept. Loudac hears the White Chief talk of a time when all shall live together peaceably and, instead of trying to destroy each other and their cities and towns, they will join hands in business and improvement. For that is why the Indians perish and leave so few traces,--they are bent upon each other's destruction, so the villages and fields are laid waste and people die of starvation. There are great cities in Europe, I have heard, that have stood hundreds of years, and palaces and beautiful churches, and things last through many generations. Loudac was in a town called Paris, when he was a little boy, and it is like a place reared by fairy hands."

"Oh, yes, Madame, it is a wonderful city. I have read about it and seen pictures," said Jeanne, eagerly.

"There are books and pictures up at the great house. And here comes Loudac."

"Ha! my bright Morning Star, you look the better for a night's sleep. I have been telling Miladi about our frightened refugee, and she wishes to see you. Will it please you to come now?"

Jeanne glanced from one to the other.

"Oh, you need not feel afraid, you that have escaped Indians and crossed the lake in the night. For Miladi, although the wife of the great White Chief, and grand enough when necessary, is very gentle and kindly; is she not, dame?"

The dame laughed. "Run along, _petite_," she said. "I must attend to the house."

Inside this inclosure there was a really beautiful garden, a tiny park it might be justly called. Birds of many kinds flew about, others of strange plumage were in latticed cages. The walks were winding to make the place appear larger; there was a small lake with water plants and swans, and beds of brilliant flowers, trees that gave shade, vines that distributed fragrance with every passing breeze. Here in a dainty nest, that was indeed a vine-covered porch, sat a lady in a chair that suggested a throne to Jeanne, who thought she had never seen anyone so beautiful. She was not fair like either English or French, but the admixture of blood had given her a fine, creamy skin and large brownish eyes that had the softness of a fawn's. Every feature was clearly cut and perfect. Jeanne thought of a marble head that stood on the shelf of the minister's study at Detroit that was said to have come from a far country called Italy.

As for her attire, that was flowered silk and fine lace, and some jewels on her arms and fingers in golden settings that glittered like the rays of sunrise when she moved them. There were buckles of gems on her slippers, and stockings of strangely netted silk where the ivory flesh shone through.

Jeanne dropped on her knees at the vision, and it smiled on her. No saint at the Recollet house was half as fair.

"This is the little voyager cast upon our shore, Miladi," explained Loudac with a bow and a touch of his hand to his head. "But Wanita did not wreck her, only left her in our safe keeping until she can be returned to her friends."

"Sit here, Mam'selle," and Miladi pointed to a cushion near her. Her French was musical and soft. "It is quite a story, and not such an unusual one either. Many maidens, I think, have been taken from home and friends, and have finally learned to be satisfied with a life they would not have chosen. You came from Detroit, Loudac says."

"Yes, Miladi," Jeanne answered, timidly.

"Do not be afraid." The lady laughed with ripples like a little stream dropping over pebbly ways. "There is a story that my mother shared a like fate, only she had to grow content with strange people and a strange land. How was it? I have a taste for adventures."

Jeanne's girlish courage and spirits came back in a flash. Yet she told her story carefully, bridging the little space where so much was left out.

"Owaissa is a courageous maiden. It is said she carries a dagger which she would not be afraid to use. She has some strange power over the Indians. Her father was wronged out of his chieftaincy and then murdered. She demanded the blood price, and his enemies were given up to the tribe that took her under their protection. Yet I wonder a little that she should choose Louis Marsac. The White Chief, my husband, does not think him quite true in all his dealings, especially with women. But if he trifled with her there would be a tragedy."

Jeanne shuddered. The tragedy had come so near.

Miladi asked some questions hard for Jeanne to answer with truth; how she had come up the lake, and if her captors had treated her well.

"It seems quite mysterious," she said.

Then they talked about Detroit, and Jeanne's past life, and Miladi was more puzzled than ever.

A slim young Indian woman brought in the baby, a dainty girl of two years old, who ran swiftly to her mother and began chattering in French with pretty broken words, and looking shyly at the guest. Then there was a great shout and a rush as of a flock of birds.

"I beat Gaston, maman, six out of ten shots."

"But two arrows broke. They were good for nothing," interrupted the second boy.

"And can't Antoine take us out fishing--" the boy stopped and came close to Jeanne, wonderingly.

"This is Mademoiselle Jeanne," their mother said, "Robert and Gaston. Being twins there is no elder."

They were round, rosy, sunburned boys, with laughing eyes and lithe figures.

"Can you swim?" queried Robert.

"Oh, yes," and a bright smile crossed Jeanne's face.

"And paddle a canoe and row?"

"Yes, indeed. Many a time in the Strait, with the beautiful green shores opposite."

"What strait, Mackinaw?"

"Oh, no. It is the river Detroit, but often called a strait."

"You can't manage a bow!" declared Robert.

"Yes. And fire a pistol. And--run."

"And climb trees?" The dark eyes were alight with mirth.

"Why, yes." Then Jeanne glanced deprecatingly at Miladi, so elegant, so refined, if the word had come to her, but it remained in the chaos of thought. "I was but a wild little thing in childhood, and there was no one except Pani--my Indian nurse."

"Then come and run a race. The Canadians are clumsy fellows."

Robert grasped her arm. Gaston stood tilted on one foot, as if he could fly.

"Oh, boys, you are too rough! Mam'selle will think you worse than wild Indians."

"I should like to run with them, Miladi." Jeanne's eyes sparkled, and she was a child again.

"As thou wilt." Miladi smiled and nodded. So much of the delight of her soul was centered in these two handsome, fearless boys beloved by their father. Once she remembered she had felt almost jealous.

"I will give you some odds," cried Jeanne. "I will not start until you have reached the pole of the roses."

"No! no! no!" they shouted. "Girls cannot run at the end of the race. There we will win," and they laughed gayly.

They were fleet as deer. Jeanne did not mean to outstrip them, but she was seized with enthusiasm. It was as if she had wings to her feet and they would not lag, even if the head desired it. She was breathless, with flying hair and brilliant color, as she reached the goal and turned to see two brave but disappointed faces.

"I told you it was not fair," she began. "I am larger than you, taller and older. You should have had odds."

"But we can always beat Berthe Loudac, and she is almost as big as you. And some of the Indian boys."

"Let us try it again. Now I will give you to the larch tree."

They started off, looking