IX.AN UNANSWERABLE QUESTION
IT was weeks afterward when they were again surrounded by the many wonderful inhabitants of the forest that Adrian mentioned his own parents. Their talk drifted from vexing subjects to merry anecdotes of his childhood, in the home where he had been the petted, only brother of a half-dozen elder sisters. But while they laughed and Margot listened, her fingers were busy weaving a great garland of wild laurel, and when it was finished she rose and said:
“It’s getting late. There’ll be just time to take this to the grave. Will you go with me?”
“Yes.”
But this was another of the puzzling things he found at Peace Island. In its very loveliest nook was the last resting-place of Cecily Romeyn, and the sacred spot was always beautiful with flowers, or, in the winter, with brilliant berries. Both the master and the girl spoke of their dead as if she were still present with them; or, at least, lived as if she were only removed from sight but not from their lives.
When Margot had laid the fresh wreath upon the mound, she carefully removed the faded flowers of the day before, and a thought of his own mother stirred Adrian’s heart.
“I wish I could send a bunch of such blossoms to the mater!”
“How can you live without her, since she is still alive?”
His face hardened again.
“You forget. I told you that she, too, turned against me at the last. It was a case of husband or son, and she made her choice.”
“Oh! no. She was unhappy. One may do strange things then, I suppose. But I tell you one thing: if I had either father or mother, anywhere in this world; no matter if either was bad—had done everything that is sinful!—nothing should ever, ever make me leave them. Nothing. I would bear anything, do anything, suffer anything—but I would be true to them. I could not forget that I was their child, and if I had done wrong to them my whole life would be too short to make atonement.”
She spoke strongly, as she felt. So early orphaned, she had come to think of her parents as the most wonderful blessing in the power of God to leave one. She loved her Uncle Hugh like a second father, but her tenderest dreams were over the pictured faces of her dead.
“Where is your father buried?”
It was the simplest, most natural question.
“I—don’t—know.”
They stared at one another. It was proof of her childlike acceptance of her life that she had never asked—had never thought to do so, even. She had been told that he had passed out of sight before they came to Peace Island and the forest, and had asked no further concerning him. Of his character and habits she had heard much. Her uncle was never weary in extolling his virtues; but of his death he had said only what has been written.
“But—I must know right away!”
In her eagerness she ran, and Adrian followed as swiftly. He was sorry for his thoughtless inquiry, but regret came too late. He tried to call Margot back, but she would not wait.
“I must know—I must know right away. Why have I never thought before?”
Hugh Dutton was resting after a day of study and mental labor, and his head leaned easily upon his cushioned chair. Yet as his dear child entered his room he held out his arms to draw her to his knee.
“In a minute, uncle. But Adrian has asked me something and it is the strangest thing that I cannot answer him. Where is my father buried?”
If she had dealt him a mortal blow he could not have turned more white. With a groan that pierced her very heart, he stared at Margot with wide, unseeing eyes; then sprang to his feet and fixed upon poor Adrian a look that scorched.
“You! you!” he gasped, and, sinking back, covered his face with his hands.