THE LETTER
From the moment of his entrance to the sick room, old Joe assumed all
charge to it, and with scant courtesy banished from it both Angelique
and Margot.
"But he is mine, my own precious uncle. Joe has no right to keep me
out!" protested Margot, vehemently.
Angelique was wiser. "In his own way, among his own folks, that Indian
good doctor. Leave him be. Yes. If my master can be save', Joe
Wills'll save him. That's as God plans; but if I hadn't broke----"
"Angelique! Don't you ever, ever let me hear that dreadful talk again!
I can't bear it. I don't believe it. I won't hear it. I will not. Do
you suppose that our dear Lord is--will----"
She could not finish her sentence and Angelique was frightened by the
intensity of the girl's excitement. Was she, too, growing feverish
and ill? But Margot's outburst had worked off some of her own
uncomprehended terror, and she grew calm again. Though it had not been
put into so many words, she knew from both Angelique's and Joseph's
manner that they anticipated but one end to her guardian's illness.
She had never seen death, except among the birds and beasts of the
forest, and even then it had been horrible to her; and that this
should come into her own happy home was unbearable.
Then she reflected. Hugh Dutton's example had been her instruction,
and she had never seen him idle. At times when he seemed most so,
sitting among his books, or gazing silently into the fire, his brain
had been active over some problem that perplexed or interested him.
"Never hasting, never wasting," time, nor thought, nor any energy of
life. That was his rule and she would make it hers.
"I can, at least, make things more comfortable out of doors. Angelique
has let even Snowfoot suffer, sometimes, for want of the grooming and
care she's always had. The poultry, too, and the poor garden. I'm glad
I'm strong enough to rake and hoe, even if I couldn't lift uncle as
Joe does."
Her industry brought its own reward. Things outside the house took
on a more natural aspect. The weeds were cleared away, and both
vegetables and flowers lifted their heads more cheerfully. Snowfoot
showed the benefit of the attention she received, and the forgotten
family in the Hollow chattered and gamboled in delight at the
reappearance among them of their indulgent mistress. Margot herself
grew lighter of heart and more positive that, after all, things would
end well.
"You see, Angelique dismal, we might as well take that broken glass
sign to mean good things as evil. That uncle will soon be up and
around again; Pierre be at home; and the 'specimen' from the old cave
prove copper or something just as rich; and--everybody be as happy as
a king."
Angelique grunted her disbelief, but was thankful for the other's
lighter mood.
"Well, then, if you've so much time and strength to spare, go yonder
and clean up the room that Adrian left so untidy. Where he never
should have been, had I my own way; but one never has that in this
world; hey, no. Indeed, no. Ever'thin' goes contrary, else I'd have
cleared away all trace long sin'. Yes, indeed, yes."
"Well, he is gone. There's no need to abuse him, even if he did not
have the politeness to say good-bye. Though, I suppose, it was my
uncle who put a stop to that. What uncle has to do he does at
once. There's never any hesitation about uncle. But I wish--I
wish--Angelique Ricord, do you know something? Do you know all the
history of this family?"
"Why should I not, eh?" demanded the woman, indignantly. "Is it not my
own family, yes? What is Pierre but one son? I love him, oh! yes.
But----"
"You adore him, bad and trying as he is. But there is something you
must tell me. If you know it. Maybe you do not. I did not, till that
awful morning when he was taken ill. But that very minute he told me
what I had never dreamed. I was angry; for a moment I almost hated him
because he had deceived me, though afterward I knew that he had done
it for the best and would tell me why when he could. So I've tried to
trust him just the same and be patient. But--he may never be able--and
I must know. Angelique, where is my father?"
The housekeeper was so startled that she dropped the plate she was
wiping and broke it. Yet even at that fresh omen of disaster she could
not remove her gaze from the girl's face nor banish the dismay of her
own.
"He told--you--that--that----"
"That my father is still alive. He would, I think have told me more;
all that there may be yet to tell, if he had not so suddenly been
stricken. Where is my father?"
[Illustration: "WHERE IS MY FATHER?"]
"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. Xanthippe 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.