clung to his new bow and arrow.
“But that is forbidden,” cried Deedee.
“I’ll shoot straight up. I promise it.” Philippe was almost in tears.
“Well! Have care!”
And Philippe began by having care. For full two minutes which seemed at least two hours, he shot into the air. But it would be so amusing to frighten Deedee! She was stalking about as a chieftain. How she would jump if an arrow should graze her braid!
The arrow found Andy, smiling in his little homemade chariot. With a terrible exactness, as though intent upon making a dimple, it pierced his softly bulging cheek.
There was a spurt of blood. Deedee dropped to her knees, her eyes black as coals in her face. Choking and gasping, he clung to her neck and the blood ran down her dress. Oh, Andy, Andy! She secured him passionately and struggled to her feet.
The others ran on ahead of her, calling their mother. There was no answer, and the cabin when they reached it was empty. Indian Annie came out of her shanty to tell them that Denis and Jacques had gone to Black Dog’s village, and Tess had been summoned to the fort.
Painfully detaching Andy and giving him to the squaw, Deedee ran for the fort. Her long brown legs scissored over the ground. She ducked under the arm of her friend the sentry, and made for Captain Frenshaw’s quarters. She knew, of course, that Mrs. Frenshaw was expecting. That would be where her mother had gone. The rending cries of a woman in labor came out to her as she ran.
The reason for the nearness of the DuGay cabin to the fort—and it was nearer than any squatter home—was Tess DuGay’s value when the ladies were confined. She had a natural gift in such affairs. She was moving with more than her usual placid competence about Mrs. Frenshaw’s bed, however. Deedee saw that as soon as she opened the outer door. And she noted that the ladies, hovering in the doorway between parlor and bedroom, had pale faces. Some of them looked tearful and disheveled, but Mrs. Boles, who detached herself from the group, was as cool and immaculate as usual.
“Your mother can’t possibly be spared,” she said when Deedee finished her story.
“She’d want to come.”
“But, you see, the doctor is away. He went to Black Dog’s village with some others. We’ve sent a runner, but he can’t get back in time.”
Deedee pondered in anguish. She knew that Mrs. Boles was right. Her mother would not leave Mrs. Frenshaw because Andy had been hit by an arrow. And yet —that blood—and he was so little—Mrs. Boles didn’t need to be so sure! She didn’t care, that was all. She didn’t care what happened to Andy, in spite of her sweet tone.
“I’ll speak to my ma, if you please,” cried Deedee, over a painful knob in her throat. To her chagrin, for she was a proud child, tears of wrath and worry began pouring down her face.
“Now, now,” said Eva Boles, not unkindly. “I am trying to think what is best. I’ll go to your brother, and you run for M’sieu Page. He’s almost as good as a doctor.”
M’sieu Page! Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of him herself?
Deedee fled through the big gate and down the hill, her brown braids level behind her. She did not take the path, but went like a frightened rabbit, skimming the stubble, threading the trees. The ferryman was dozing at his post but he sprang to his paddles at the sight of her. In an incredibly short space of time she was running up the path which led to the trading post.
She had never been here before, but there was no time to think of that. There was no time to think of anything. Having started to cry, she could not stop, and sobs were coming like beads on a string.
M’sieu Page was examining a pack of muskrat skins. When he saw her in the doorway, he put them down and came toward her.
“Why, it’s the little DuGay!”
“M’sieu Page! That Andy—he’s the baby—and ma is with Mrs. Frenshaw—”
He took her hand and led her to a chair. “I’ll go at once. You stay here till I get back.”
“No, no. I’ll go with you.”
“I know which cabin it is. You just tell me what’s the matter, so I’ll know what to take.”
He made up a packet of cloths and bottles. Deedee dried her face on her sleeve.
“Please, M’sieu Page. I’m all right now, and Andy—”
“I’ll take care of Andy,” he said. “But you need someone to take care of you.”
For all his side whiskers, his paternal air sat oddly upon his young face. Deedee, however, was impressed. She submitted silently as he opened the door which led from the store room.
“Mme. Elmire!” he called. “Mme. Elmire!”
And so, on Mme. Elmire’s small and capable hand, Deedee went into M’sieu Page’s house.
Book 1-Chapter 4
IV
IN one end of her long kitchen, under the westerly windows, Mme. Elmire kept a narrow little sofa. It was a convenient little sofa where she could nap with an eye on the dogs, a nose for the soup kettle, and an ear to M’sieu Page’s summons. She kept a wool couvre-pied, knitted in rainbow stripes, folded in readiness over its back, and often dropped down without removing her cap.
It was on this sofa, tucked under the couvre-pied, that the glory of her situation dawned on Deedee. Andy was all right. M’sieu Page himself had gone to him. For her own part she was rested, she was warm. Lifting her head to investigate the warmness, she discovered a great open fire. She lifted herself further, on one arm. A wet snow had begun, and the many-paned windows did not frame familiarity but were blanks of white. The kitchen, with its glowing fire, its rag rugs, its burnished pewter utensils, and Mme. Elmire stirring something in a kettle, was like a scene from one of Fronchet’s stories, foreign and mysterious.
“Mme. Elmire!”
“Yes, my child.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Deedee in the politest French Fronachet had taught her, “that I might look into M’sieu Page’s parlor?”
“Perhaps. If you wait until I can leave the pilau.”
Mme. Elmire would not by too ready a consent lessen the value of the privilege. Deedee dropped back to stare at the ceiling in bliss.
“M’sieu Page,” said Mme. Elmire, stirring slowly, “said that you were to stay here to dinner.”
“Truly?” cried Deedee. She sat up again, throwing back the couvre-pied. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly,” said Mme. Elmire.
She was an awesome figure as she stirred. This was not the small, plump, garrulous one who drank crust coffee in the DuGay cabin. Perhaps the starched mob cap made the difference? Perhaps the snowy apron? Perhaps the important little movements that she made as she stirred and sniffed and ground up pepper?
“I will set a table for you and me here by the fire,” she said.
When she had set the table, she opened a wash stand and told Deedee to wash. Deedee marveled silently at the china bowl and pitcher, at the fine white towel. She scrubbed with a will, although she had learned that the brown never came off. She shook out her loosened braids of shining, straight brown hair and rebraided them tightly, tying the red rags at the ends.
Mme. Elmire approved her with a nod. She was fond of the DuGay daughter, so bright-eyed and long-legged, so quiet even now, when most children would have been squealing.