A Daughter of the Forest by Evelyn Raymond (best classic novels txt) 📖

“Oh! child, child! Don’t ask me. It is not for me——”

“If uncle cannot and you can, and there is no other person, Angelique—you must!”

“This much, then. It is in a far, far away city, or town, or place, he lives. I know not, I. This much I know. He is good, a ver’ good man. And he have enemies. Yes. They have done him much harm. Some day, in many years, maybe when you have grown a woman, old like me, he will come to Peace Island and forget. That is why we wait. That is why the master goes, once each summer, on the long, long trip. When Joseph comes, and the bad Pierre to stay. I, too, wait to see him though I never have. And when he comes, we must be ver’ tender, me and you, for people who have been done wrong to, they—they—— Pouf! ’Twas anger I was that the master could put the evil-come into that room, yes.”

“Angelique! Is that my father’s room? Is it? Is that why there are the very best things in it? And that wonderful picture? And the fresh suits of clothing? Is it?”

Angelique slowly nodded. She had been amazed to find that Margot knew thus much of a long withheld history, and saw no harm in adding these few facts. The real secret, the heart of the matter—that was not yet. Meanwhile, let the child accustom herself to the new ideas and so be prepared for what she must certainly learn, should the master’s illness be a fatal one.

“Oh! then, hear me. That room shall always now be mine to care for. I haven’t liked the housewifery, not at all. But if I have a father and I can do things for him—that alters everything. Oh! you can’t mean that it will be so long before he comes. You must have been jesting. If he knew uncle was ill he would come at once, wouldn’t he? He would, I know.”

Poor Angelique turned her face away to hide its curious expression, but in her new interest concerning the “friend’s room,” as it had always been called, Margot did not notice this. She was all eagerness and loving excitement.

“To think that I have a father who may come, at any minute, for he might, Angelique, you know that, and not be ready for him. Your best and newest broom, please; and the softest dusters. That room shall, indeed, be cleaned better than anybody else could do it. Just hurry, please, I must begin. I must begin right away.”

She trembled so that she could hardly braid and pin up her long hair out of the way, and her face had regained more than its old-time color. She was content to let all that was still a mystery remain for the present. She had enough to think about and enjoy.

Angelique brought the things that would be needed and, for once, forbore advice. Let love teach the child—she had nought to say. In any case she could not have seen the dust, herself, for her dark eyes were misty with tears, and her thoughts on matters wholly foreign to household cares.

Margot opened the windows and began to dust the various articles which could be set out in the wide passage, and did not come round to the heavy dresser for some moments. As she did so, finally, her glance flew instantly to a bulky parcel, wrapped in sheets of white birch-bark, and bearing her own name, in Adrian’s handwriting.

“Why, he did remember me, then!” she cried, delightedly, tearing the package open. “Pictures! the very ones I liked the best. Xanthippé and Socrates, and oh! that’s Reynard! Reynard! Reynard, ready to speak! The splendid, beautiful creature! and the splendid, generous boy to have given it. He called it his ‘masterpiece’ and, indeed, it was by far the best he ever did here. Harmony Hollow—but that’s not so fine. However, he meant to make it like, and—— Why, here’s a note. Why didn’t I come in here before? Why didn’t I think he would do something like this? Forgive me, Adrian, wherever you are, for misjudging you so. I’m sorry uncle didn’t like you and sorry—for lots of things. But I’m glad, glad you weren’t so rude and mean as I believed. If I ever see you I’ll tell you so. Now, I’ll put these in my own room and then get to work again. This room you left so messed shall be as spotless as a snowflake before I’m done with it.”

For hours she labored there, brushing, renovating, polishing; and when all was finished she called Angelique to see and criticise—if she could! But she could not; and she, too, had something now of vital importance to impart.

“It is beautiful’ done, yes, yes. I couldn’t do it more clean myself, I, Angelique, no. But, my child! Hear, hear, and be calm! The master is himself! The master has awoke, yes, and is askin’ for his child! True, true. Old Joe, he says, ‘Come. Quick, soft, no cry, no laugh, just listen.’ Yes. Oh! now all will be well.”

Margot almost hushed her very breathing. Her uncle awake, sane, asking for her! Her face was radiant, flushed, eager, a face to brighten the gloom of any sick room, however dark.

But this one was not dark. Joe knew his patient’s fancies. He had forgotten none. One of them was the sunshine and fresh air; and though in his heart he believed that these two things did a world of harm, and that the ill-ventilated and ill-lighted cabins of his own people were more conducive to recovery, he opposed nothing which the master desired. He had experimented, at first, but finding a close room aggravated Mr. Dutton’s fever, reasoned that it was too late to break up the foolish habits of a man’s lifetime; and as the woodlander had lived in the sunlight so he would better die in it, and easier.

If she had been a trained nurse Margot could not have entered her uncle’s presence more quietly, though it seemed to her that he must hear the happy beating of her heart and how her breath came fast and short. He was almost too weak to speak at all, but there was all the old love, and more, in his whispered greeting:

“My precious child!”

“Yes, uncle. And such a happy child because you are better.”

She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but softly, oh! so softly, and he smiled the rare sweet smile that she had feared she’d never see again. Then he looked past her to Angelique in the doorway and his eyes moved toward his desk in the corner. A little fanciful desk that held only his most sacred belongings and had been Margot’s mother’s. It was to be hers some day, but not till he had done with it, and she had never cared to own it since doing so meant that he could no longer use it. Now she watched him and Angelique wonderingly.

For the woman knew exactly what was required. Without question or hesitation she answered the command of his eyes by crossing to the desk and opening it with a key she took from her own pocket. Then she lifted a letter from an inner drawer and gave it into his thin fingers.

“Well done, good Angelique. Margot—the letter—is yours.”

“Mine? I am to read it? Now? Here?”

“No, no. No, no, indeed! Would you tire the master with the rustlin’ of paper? Take it else. Not here, where ever’thin’ must be still as still.”

Mr. Dutton’s eyes closed. Angelique knew that she had spoken for him and that the disclosure which that letter would make should be faced in solitude.

“Is she right, uncle, dearest? Shall I take it away to read?”

His eyes assented, and the tender, reassuring pressure of his hand.

“Then I’m going to your own mountain top with it. To think of having a letter from you, right here at home! Why, I can hardly wait! I’m so thankful to you for it, and so thankful to God that you are getting well. That you will be soon; and then—why, then—we’ll go a-fishing!”

A spasm of pain crossed the sick man’s wasted features and poor Angelique fled the place, forgetful of her own caution to “be still as still,” and with her own dark face convulsed with grief for the grief which the letter would bring to her idolized Margot.

But the girl had already gone away up the slope, faster and faster. Surely a letter from nobody but her uncle and at such a solemn time must concern but one subject—her father. Now she would know all, and her happiness should have no limit.

But it was nightfall when she, at last, came down from the mountain, and though there were no signs of tears upon her face neither was there any happiness in it.