A QUESTION OF APPAREL
"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 the way I should look if I
ever went into the world."
"Eh? What? Lovely? You? Hmm. Lovely is that lovely does. Vanity is a
disgrace to any woman. Has not the master said that often and often?"
Margot flushed. She was not conscious of vanity, yet she did not
question Angelique's opinion. But she rallied.
"I don't think I should feel at all vain if I put on any of these
things. That is, if I could even get them on. I should all the time be
thinking how uncomfortable I was. Well, that's settled. I wear my own
clothes, and not even my dear mother's. Hers I will always keep for
her sake; but to her great daughter they are useless. And I'll go
bareheaded just as here. Why not? I certainly don't need a bonnet,
with all this hair."
Now Margot's hair was Angelique's especial pride. Indeed, it was a
wonderful glory upon that shapely young head; but again this was not
to be admitted.
"Hair! What's hair? Not but you've enough of it for three women, for
that matter. But it will not do to go that way. It must be braided and
pinned fast. Here is a bonnet, not so gay as mine, and I would trust
you with that--only----"
"I wouldn't wear it, dear Angelique. It's lovely and kind for you to
even think of offering. You must keep that for Pierre's wife, and----"
"I should like to see her with it on! Huh! Indeed! Pouf!"
"There are hats enough of my own mother's, and to wear one may be
another piece of your 'good luck.' I shall wear this one. It is all
blue like my frocks, and the little brown ribbon is the color of my
shoes. Adrian would say that was 'artistic,' if he were here. Oh!
Angelique! When I go to that far city, do you suppose I shall see
Adrian? Do you?"
"Do you go there to break your uncle's heart again? 'Tis not Adrian
you will see, ever again, I hope. No. Indeed, no. See. This shawl. It
goes so;" and Angelique adjusted the soft, rich fabric around her own
shoulders, put a hat jauntily upon her head, and surveyed the effect
with undisguised admiration, as reflected in the little mirror in the
lid of the big trunk.
"Angelique! Angelique, take care! 'Vanity is a disgrace to any woman!'
What if that misguided Pierre should see you now? What would he think
of his----"
Hark! What was that? How dared old Joseph tramp through the house at
such a pace, with such a noise? and the master still so weak. Why----
The indignant house-mistress disappeared with indignation blazing in
her eyes.
Margot, also, stood still in the midst of her finery, listening and
almost as angry as the other; till there came back to her another
sound so familiar and reassuring that her fears were promptly
banished, while one more anxiety was lifted from her heart.