A Daughter of the Forest

by Evelyn Raymond

  CHAPTER XVII

  IN THE HOUR OF DARKNESS

  "No sign yet?"

  "No sign." Margot's tone was almost hopeless. Day after day, manytimes each day, she had climbed the pine-tree flagstaff and peeredinto the distance. Not once had anything been visible, save that widestretch of forest and the shining lake.

  "Suppose you cross again, to old Joe's. He might be back by this time.I'll fix you a bite of dinner, and you better. Maybe----"

  The girl shook her head and clasped her arms about old Angelique'sneck. Then the long repressed grief burst forth in dry sobs that shookthem both, and pierced the housekeeper's faithful heart with a painbeyond endurance.

  "Pst! Pouf! Hush, sweetheart, hush! 'Tis nought. A few days more andthe master will be well. A few days more and Pierre will come---- Ah!but I had my hands about his ears this minute! That would teach him,yes, to turn his back on duty, him. The ingrate! Well, what the Lordsends the body must bear."

  Margot lifted her head, shook back her hair, and smiled wanly. Theveriest ghost of her old smile, it was, yet even such a delight to theother's eyes.

  "Good. That's right. Rouse up. There's a wing of a fowl in thecupboard, left from the master's broth----"

  "Angelique, he didn't touch it, to-day. Not even touch it."

  "'Tis nought. When the fever is on the appetite is gone. Will be allright once that is over."

  "But, will it ever be over? Day after day, just the same. Always thattossing to and fro, the queer, jumbled talk, the growing thinner--allof the dreadful signs of how he suffers. Angelique, if I could bear itfor him! I am so young and strong and worth nothing to this worldwhile he's so wise and good. Everybody who ever knew him must be thebetter for Uncle Hughie."

  "'Tis truth. For that, the good Lord will spare him to us. Of that besure."

  "But I pray and pray and pray, and there comes no answer. He is neverany better. You know that. You can't deny it. Always before when Ihave prayed the answer has come swift and sure, but now----"

  "Take care, Margot. 'Tis not for us to judge the Lord's strange ways.Else were not you and me and the master shut up alone on this island,with no doctor near, and only our two selves to keep the dumb thingsin comfort, though, as for dumbness, hark yonder beast!"

  "Reynard! Oh! I forgot. I shut him up because he would hang about thehouse and watch your poor chickens. If he'd stay in his own forestnow, I would be so glad. Yet I love him----"

  "Aye, and he loves you. Be thankful. Even a beastie's love is of God'ssending. Go feed him. Here. The wing you'll not eat yourself."

  There were dark days now on the once sunny island of peace.

  That day when Mr. Dutton had said: "Your father is still alive,"seemed now to Margot, looking back, as one of such experiences aschange a whole life. Up till that morning she had been a thoughtless,unreflecting child, but the utterance of those fateful words alteredeverything.

  Amazement, unbelief of what her ears told her, indignation that shehad been so long deceived--as she put it--were swiftly followed by adreadful fear. Even while he spoke, the woodlander's figure swayed andtrembled, the hoe-handle on which he rested wavered and fell, and he,too, would have fallen had not the girl's arms caught and eased hissudden sinking in the furrow he had worked. Her shrill cry of alarmhad reached Angelique, always alert for trouble and then more thanever, and had brought her swiftly to the field. Between them they hadcarried the now unconscious man within and laid him on his bed. He hadnever risen from it since; nor, in her heart, did Angelique believe heever would, though she so stoutly asserted to the contrary beforeMargot.

  "We have changed places, Angelique, dear," the child often said. "Itused to be you who was always croaking and looking for trouble. Nowyou see only brightness."

  "Well, good sooth. 'Tis a long lane has no turnin', and better latenor never. Sometimes 'tis well to say 'stay good trouble lest worsercomes,' eh? But things'll mend. They must. Now, run and climb thetree. It might be this ver' minute that wretch, Pierre, was on his wayacross the lake. Pouf! But he'll stir his lazy bones, once he touchesthis shore! Yes, yes, indeed. Run and hail him, maybe."

  So Margot had gone, again and again, and had returned to sit besideher uncle's bed, anxious and watchful.

  Often, also, she had paddled across the narrows and made her wayswiftly to a little clearing on her uncle's land, where, among gianttrees, old Joseph Wills, the Indian guide and faithful friend of allon Peace Island, made one of his homes. Once Mr. Dutton had nursedthis red man through a dangerous illness, and had kept him in his ownhome for many weeks thereafter. He would have been the very nurse theynow needed, in their turn, could he have been found. But his cabin wasclosed, and on its doorway, under the family sign-picture of a turtleon a rock, he had printed in dialect, what signified his departure fora long hunting trip.

  Now, as Angelique advised, she resolved to try once more; and hurryingto the shore, pushed her canoe into the water and paddled swiftlyaway. She had taken the neglected Reynard with her and Tom had invitedhimself to be a party of the trip; and in the odd but sympatheticcompanionship, Margot's spirits rose again.

  "It must be as Angelique says. The long lane will turn. Why have Ibeen so easily discouraged? I never saw my precious uncle ill before,and that is why I have been so frightened. I suppose anybody gets thinand says things, when there is fever. But he's troubled aboutsomething. He wants to do something that neither of us understand.Unless---- Oh! I believe I do understand! My head is clearer out hereon the water, and I know, I know! it is just about the time of yearwhen he goes away on those long trips of his. And we've been soanxious we never remembered. That's it. That surely is it. Then, ofcourse, Joe will be back now or soon. He always stays on the islandwhen uncle goes and he'll remember. Oh! I'm brighter already, and Iguess, I believe, it is as Angelique claims--God won't take away sogood a man as uncle and leave me alone. Though--I am not alone! I havea father! I have a father, somewhere, if I only knew--all in goodtime--and I'm growing gladder and gladder every minute."

  She could even sing to the stroke of her paddle and she skimmed thewater with increasing speed. Whatever the reason for her growingcheerfulness, whether the reaction of youth or a prescience ofhappiness to come, the result was the same; she reached the furthershore flushed and eager eyed, more like the old Margot than she hadbeen for many days.

  "Oh! he's there. He is at home. There is a smoke coming out thechimney. Joseph! Oh! Joseph, Joseph!"

  She did not even stop to take care of her canoe but left it to floatwhither it would. Nothing mattered, Joseph was at home. He had canoesgalore, and he was help indeed.

  She was quite right. The old man came to his doorway and waited herarrival with apparent indifference, though surely no human heartcould have been unmoved by such unfeigned delight. Catching hisunresponsive hands in hers she cried:

  "Come at once, Joseph! At once!"

  "Does not the master trust his friend? It is the time to come.Therefore I am here."

  "Of course. I just thought about that. But, Joseph, the master is ill.He knows nothing any more. If he ever needed you he needs you doublynow. Come, come at once."

  Then, indeed, though there was little outward expression of it, wasold Joseph moved. He stopped for nothing, but leaving his fire burningon the hearth and his supper cooking before it, went out and closedthe door. Even Margot's nimble feet had ado to keep pace with his longstrides and she had to spring before him to prevent his pushing offwithout her.

  "No, no. I'm going with you. Here. I'll tow my own boat, with Tom andReynard--don't you squabble, pets!--but I'll paddle no more whileyou're here to do it for me."

  Joseph did not answer, but he allowed her to seat herself where shepleased and with one strong movement sent his big birch a longdistance over the water.

  Margot had never made the passage so swiftly, but the motion suitedher exactly, and she leaped ashore almost before it was reached, tospeed up the hill and call out to Angelique wherever she might be:

  "All is well
! All will now be well--Joseph has come."

  The Indian reached the house but just behind her and acknowledgedAngelique's greeting with a sort of grunt; yet he paused not at all toask the way or if he might enter the master's room, passing directlyinto it as if by right.

  Margot followed him, cautioning, with finger on lip, anxious lest herpatient should be shocked and harmed by the too sudden appearance ofthe visitor.

  Then and only then, when her beloved child was safely out of sight didAngelique throw her apron over her head and give her own despairingtears free vent. She was spent and very weary; but help had come; andin the revulsion of that relief nature gave way. Her tears ceased, herbreath came heavily, and the poor woman slept, the first refreshingslumber of an unmeasured time.

  When she waked at length, Joseph was crossing the room. The fire haddied out, twilight was falling, she was conscious of duties leftundone. Yet there was light enough left for her to scan the Indian'simpassive face with keen intensity, and though he turned neither tothe right nor left but went out with no word or gesture to satisfy hercraving, she felt that she had had her answer:

  "Unless a miracle is wrought my master is doomed."