A Daughter of the Forest by Evelyn Raymond (superbooks4u .TXT) 📕

“The master.”

“He wants me?”

Joe nodded and went out of doors. But it was noticeable that he merely walked around to the rear of the sick room and stationed himself beside the open window. Not that he might overhear the conversation within, but to be near if he were needed. He cast one stern look upon Margot, as he summoned her, and was evidently reassured by her own calmness.

Three days had passed since she had been given that fateful letter, and she had had time to think over its startling contents in every connection. There was now not the slightest blame of her guardian for having so long kept her in ignorance of her father’s existence; and, indeed, her love had been strengthened, if that were possible. The sick man had gained somewhat, though he was yet very weak and recovery was still a question. But, with improvement, came again the terrible restlessness and impatience with the circumstances which kept him a prisoner in bed, when, of all times in the year, he would be up and abroad.

When the child entered the room he was watching for her, eagerly, anxiously. How had she borne his news? How would she greet him?

Her first glance answered him. It was so tender, so pitiful, so strong.

“My darling! My own Margot! I—need not—have feared.”

“There is nothing to fear, dearest uncle. Fear must have been done with years ago, when—when—it happened. Now, now, it is time for hope, for confidence.”

He shook his head mournfully. Then he asked:

“You will let it make no difference in your love, your loyalty to him, when—when he comes? If he lives to come?”

“If he had been a father who did not come because he would not, then, maybe, I don’t know. But a father who could not come, who has been so cruelly, frightfully wronged—why, uncle! all my life, no matter how long, all my care and devotion, no matter how great, will never, never be able to express one-half of my love. And I bless you more for your faithfulness to him than for all you’ve ever done for me—yet even my debt to you is boundless.”

“My own impulsive, overgrateful Margot! As if it had not been also all my life, my happiness. Well, since I cannot go, you must write to him. For me and for yourself. Explaining why I cannot come, just yet, but that I will as soon as may be. Make it a letter such as you have talked just now and it will be better to his hungry heart than even a sight of his old friend and brother.”

“I will write as many letters for you as you please, but—I will deliver them in person.”

He did not get the full import of her words, at first, but when he did he frowned. It hurt him beyond expression that she should jest on such a subject, even for the laudable purpose of cheering himself.

Then he felt her cool hand on his wrist.

“Uncle, I mean it. I have thought it over and over. I have thought of nothing else, except that you were getting better, and I know I am right. I am going to see my father. I am going to get my father. I shall never come back without him. But I shall certainly come, and he with me. You cannot go. I can, I want to, beyond telling. I must.”

A thousand objections flashed through his mind and the struggle to comprehend just what were and were not valid ones wearied him. For some time neither of them spoke again, but clasped hands until he fell into a sudden sleep. Even then Margot did not release her hold, though her cramped position numbed her arm, and her impatience to make him see matters from her point of view was hard to control. But he awoke almost as suddenly as he had dozed, and with a clear idea of her meaning. After all, how simple it was! and what an infinite relief to his anxiety.

“Tell me what you think.”

“This: My father must not be disappointed. Your visit, the one link that connects him with his old life and happiness, is impossible. Each year you have taken him reports of me and how I grew. I’m going to show him whether you represented me as I am or as your partial eyes behold me. More than that, I must go. I must see him. I must put my arms about his neck and tell him that I love him, as my mother loved him, with all his child’s affection added. I must. It is my right.”

“But—how. You’ve never been beyond the forest. You are so young and ignorant of—everything.”

“Maybe I shall do all the better for that reason. ‘Know nothing, fear nothing,’ and I certainly am not afraid. We are looking for Pierre to come home, any day. He should have been here long ago. As soon as he comes I will start. Old Joseph shall go with me. He knows what I do not, of towns and routes, and all those troublesome things. You will give us the money it will cost; and enough to pay for my father’s coming home. I have made his room ready. There isn’t a speck or spot in it, and there are fresh flowers every day. There have been ever since I knew that room was his. I shall go to that city of New York where—where it happened, and I shall find out the truth. I shall certainly bring him home with me.”

It was absurd. He said that to himself, not once but many times; yet despite his common sense and his bitter experience, he could not but catch something of her hopefulness. Yet so much the more hard to bear would be her disappointment.

“Dear, I have no right, it may be, to stop you. It was agreed upon between us that, when you were sixteen years old, if nothing happened to make it unnecessary, you should be told. That is, if I believed you had a character which could endure sorrow and not turn bitter under it. I do so believe, I know. But though you may make the journey, if you wish and it can be arranged safely, you must not even hope to do more than see your father and that only for a brief time.”

Margot smiled. The same bright, unconvinced smile with which she had always received any astonishing statement. When, not much more than a baby, she had been told that fire would burn, she had laughed her unbelief that fire would burn, and had thrust her small hand into the flame. The fire had burned, but she had still smiled, and bravely, though her lips trembled and there were tears upon her cheeks.

“I must go, uncle. It is my right, and his. I must try this matter for myself. I shall never be happy else and I shall succeed. I shall. I trust in God. You have taught me that He never fails those who trust in Him.”

“Have I not trusted? Have I not prayed? Did I not labor till labor was useless? But, there, child. Not for me to darken your faith. His ways are not as our ways, else this had never come. But you shall go. You are right; and may He prosper your devotion!”

She saw that he was tired and, having gained his consent, went gladly away to Angelique, to consult with that disturbed person concerning her journey.

Angelique heard this strange announcement with incredulity. The master was delirious again. That was the explanation. Else he would never, never have consented for this outrageous journey from Pontius to Pilate, with only a never-say-anything old Indian for escort.

“But you’re part Indian yourself, sweet Angelique, so don’t abuse your own race. As for knowing nothing, who but Joe could have brought my uncle through this dreadful sickness so well? I believe it is all a beautiful plan.

“Well, we’ll see. If Adrian had not come, maybe my uncle would never have told me all he has. The letter was written, you know that, because he feared he might not live to tell it with his lips. And even when he was getting better he thought I still should learn the truth, and the written pages held it all. I’m so glad I know. Oh! Angelique, think! How happy, how happy we shall be when my father comes home!”

“’Tis that bad Pierre who should be comin’, yes. Wait till I get my hands about his ears.”

“Pierre’s too big to have his ears boxed. I don’t wonder he hates it. I think I would—would box back again if anybody treated me to that indignity.”

“Pst. Pouf! you are you, and Pierre is Pierre; and as long as he is in the world and I am, if his ears need boxin’, I shall box them. I, his mother.”

“Oh! very well. Suit yourself. But now, Angelique!”

“Well? I must go set the churn. Yes, I’ve wasted too much time, already, bein’ taught my manners by a chit of a thing like you. Yes. I have so. Indeed, yes.”

“Come, Angelique. Be good. When you were young, and lived in the towns, did the girls who went a-journeying wear bonnets?”

“Did they not? And the good Book that the master reads o’ nights, sayin’ the women must cover their heads. Hmm. I’ve thought a many time how his readin’ and his rearin’ didn’t go hand in glove. Bonnets, indeed! Have I not the very one I wore when I came to Peace Island. A charmin’ thing, all green ribbons and red roses. I shall wear it again, to my Pierre’s weddin’. ’Tis for that I’ve been savin’ it. And, well, because a body has no need to wear out bonnets on this bit of land in water. No.”

But Angelique was a true woman; and once upon the subject of dress her mind refused to be drawn thence. She recalled items of what had been her own trousseau, ignoring Margot’s ridicule of the clumsy Pierre as a bridegroom, and even her assertion that: “I should pity his wife, for I expect her ears would have to be boxed, also.”

“Come yon. I’ve that I will show you. ’Tis your mother’s own lovely clothes. Just as she wore them here, and carefully folded away for you till you needed them. Well, that is now, I suppose, if you’re to be let gad all over the earth, with as good a home as girl ever had right here in the peaceful woods.”

“Oh! show them to me, Angelique. Quick. Why have you never before? Of course, I shall need them now. And, Angelique! That is some more of the beautiful plan. The working out of the pattern. Else why should there be the clothes here when I need clothes? Answer me that, good Angelique, if you can.”

“Pst. ’Twas always a bothersome child for questions. But answer one yourself. If you had had them before would you have had them ready now, and the pleasure of them? No. No, indeed. But come. The clothes and then the churnin’. If that Pierre were here, ’twould not be my arms would have to ache this night with the dash, dash, dashin’. No. No, indeed, no. But come.”

Alas! Of all the carefully preserved and dainty garments there was not one which Margot could wear.

“Why, Angelique! What a tiny thing she must have been! I can’t get even my hand through the wrist of this sleeve. And look here. This skirt is away up as short as my own. If I’ve to wear short ones I’ll not change at all. In the pictures, I’ve seen lovely ladies with skirts on the ground and I thought that was