A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

A DAUGHTER OF THE FORESTBy Evelyn Raymond

By Evelyn Raymond

Brought up in the forests of northern Maine, and seeing few persons excepting her uncle and Angelique, the Indian housekeeper, Margot Romeyn knows little of life beyond the deep hemlocks. Naturally observant, she is encouraged in her out-of-door studies by her uncle, at one time a college professor. Through her woodland instincts, she and her uncle are enabled to save the life of Adrian Wadislaw, a youth who, lost and almost overcome with hunger, has been wandering in the neighboring forest. To Margot the new friend is a welcome addition to her small circle of acquaintances, and after his rapid recovery she takes great delight in showing him the many wonders of the forest about her home. But finally, after many weeks, the uncle decides, because of reasons which will be known later, that it would be better for Margot if Adrian left them. Accordingly, he puts the matter before the young man, who, although reluctant to leave his new friends, volunteers to go. Under the guidance of Pierre Ricord, a young Indian, the lad sets out for the nearest settlement. After many adventures, including a narrow escape from the dangerous rapids, in which the travelers lost the canoe and nearly all their possessions, the two reach Donovan’s, their destination. Here they separate, Adrian going straight to New York and the home which he left seemingly so long ago. We leave him on the threshold of his father’s city mansion, wondering what welcome there will be for the prodigal. Pierre returns to Peace Island, where, with Margot and her uncle, we again take up the story.

“No sign yet?”

“No sign.” Margot’s tone was almost hopeless. Day after day, many times each day, she had climbed the pine-tree flagstaff and peered into the distance. Not once had anything been visible, save that wide stretch 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’s neck. Then the long repressed grief burst forth in dry sobs that shook them both, and pierced the housekeeper’s faithful heart with a pain beyond endurance.

“Pst! pouf! Hush, sweetheart, hush! ’Tis nought. A few days more, and the 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 Lord sends the body must bear, and if the broken glass—”

Margot lifted her head, shook back her hair, and smiled wanly. The veriest ghost of her old smile it was, yet, even such, a delight to the other’s eyes.

“Good. That’s right. Rouse up. There’s a wing of a fowl in the cupboard, left from the master’s broth—”

“Angel, he didn’t touch it, to-day. Not even touch it.”

“’Tis naught. When the fever is on the appetite is gone. Will be all right once that is over.”

“But, will it be over? Day after day, just the same. Always that tossing to and fro, the queer, jumbled talk, the growing thinner—all of the dreadful signs of how he suffers. Angelique, if I could bear it for him. I am so young and strong and worth nothing to this world, while he’s so wise and good. Everybody who ever knew him must be the better for Uncle Hughie, Angelique.”

“’Tis truth. For that, the good God will spare him to us. Of that be sure.”

“But I pray and pray and pray, and there comes no answer. He is never any better. You know that. You can’t deny it. Always before, when I have 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 things in comfort. Though, as for dumbness, hark yonder beast!”

“Reynard! Oh! I forgot. I shut him up because he would hang around the house and watch your poor chickens. If he’d stay in his own forest, now, I would be so glad. Yet I love him—”

“Aye, and he loves you. Be thankful. Even a beastie’s love is of God’s sending. Go feed him. Here—the wing you’ll not eat yourself.”

They 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 as change a whole life. Up till that morning she had been a thoughtless, unreflecting child, but the utterance of those fateful words altered everything.

Amazement, unbelief of what her ears told her, indignation that she had been so long deceived, as she put it, were swiftly followed by a dreadful fear. Even while he spoke, the woodlander’s figure swayed and trembled, 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 his sudden sinking in the furrow he had worked. Her shrill cry of alarm had reached Angelique, always alert for trouble and then more than ever, and had brought her swiftly to the field. Between them they had carried the now unconscious man within and laid him on his bed. He had never risen from it since; nor, in her heart, did Angelique believe he ever would, though she so stoutly asserted to the contrary before Margot.

“We have changed places, Angelique, dear,” the child often said. “It used to be you who was always croaking and looking for trouble. Now you see only brightness.”

“Well, good sooth. ’Tis a long lane has no turnin’, and better late nor never. Sometimes ’tis well to say, ‘Stay, good trouble, lest worser comes,’ eh? But things’ll mend. They must. Now, run and climb the tree. It might be this ver’ minute that wretch, Pierre, was on his way across the lake. Pouf! but he’ll stir his lazy bones, once he touches this shore! Yes, yes, indeed. Run and hail him, maybe.”

So Margot had gone, again and again, and had returned to sit beside her uncle’s bed, anxious and watchful.

Often, also, she had paddled across the narrows and made her way swiftly to a little clearing on her uncle’s land, where,among giant trees, old Joseph Wills, the Indian guide, and faithful friend of all on Peace Island, made one of his homes. Once Mr. Dutton had nursed this red man through a dangerous illness, and had kept him in his old home for many weeks thereafter. He would have been the very nurse they now needed, in their turn, could he have been found. But his cabin was closed, and on its doorway, under the family sign-picture of a turtle on a rock, he had printed, in dialect, what signified his departure for a long hunting trip.

Now, as Angelique advised, she resolved to try once more; and, hurrying to the shore, pushed her canoe into the water and paddled swiftly away. She had taken the neglected Reynard with her, and Tom had invited himself to be a party of the trip; and in the odd but sympathetic companionship Margot’s spirits rose again.

“It must be as Angelique says. The long lane will turn. Why have I been so easily discouraged? I never saw my precious uncle ill before, and that is why I have been so frightened. I suppose anybody gets thin and says things when there is fever. But he’s troubled about something. He wants to do something that neither of us understand. Unless—oh! I believe I do understand. My head is clearer out here on the water, and I know, I know! It is just about the time of year when he goes away on those long trips of his. And we’ve been so anxious we never remembered. That’s it. Surely it is. Then, of course, Joe will be back now or soon. He always stays on the island when uncle goes, and he’ll remember. Oh! I’m brighter already, and I guess, I believe, it is as Angelique claims—God won’t take away so good a man as uncle and leave me alone. Though I am not alone. I have a father! I have a father somewhere, if I only knew—all in good time—and I’m growing gladder and gladder every minute.”

She could even sing to the stroke of her paddle, and she skimmed the water with increasing speed. Whatever the reason for her growing cheerfulness, whether the reaction of youth or a prescience of happiness to come, the result was the same; she reached the further shore flushed and eager-eyed, more like the old Margot than she had been for many days.

“Oh! he’s there. He is at home. There is smoke coming out of the chimney. Joseph! Oh, Joseph! Joseph!”

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

She was quite right. The old man came to his doorway and waited her arrival with apparent indifference, though surely no human heart could have been unmoved by such unfeigned delight. Catching his unresponsive 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 doubly now. Come, come at once.”

Then, indeed, though there was little outward expression of it, was old Joseph moved. He stopped for nothing, but leaving his fire burning on the hearth and his supper cooking before it, went out and closed the door. Even Margot’s nimble feet had ado to keep pace with his long strides, and she had to spring before him to prevent his pushing off without her.

“No, no. I’m going with you. Here—I’ll tow my own boat, with Tom and Reynard—don’t you squabble, pets—but I’ll paddle no more while you’re here to do it for me.”

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

Margot had never made the passage so swiftly, but the motion suited her exactly; and she leaped ashore almost before it was reached, to speed 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 acknowledged Angelique’s greeting with a sort of grunt; yet he paused not at all to ask the way or if he might enter the master’s room, passing directly into it as if by right.

Margot followed him, cautioning, with finger on lip, anxious lest her patient should be shocked and harmed by the too-sudden appearance of the visitor.

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

When she waked, at length, Joseph was crossing the room. The fire had died out, twilight was falling, she was conscious of duties left undone. Yet there was light enough left for her to scan the Indian’s impassive face with keen intensity; and though he turned neither to the right nor left, but went out with no word or gesture to satisfy her craving, she felt that she had had her answer.

“Unless a miracle is wrought, my master is doomed. Oh, the broken glass—the broken glass!”

From the moment of his entrance to the sick room, old Joe assumed all charge of 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 both from 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 meangood 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 redde 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 decency to say good-by. Though, I suppose it was my uncle 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—”

“WHERE IS MY FATHER?”

“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?”

“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 and 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 and further 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 maycome, 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 ‘redded’—though uncle says nobody but a few people like you ever use that word, nowadays—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, forebore 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, 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’ve 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, ma p’tite I 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 hadfeared she’d never see again. Then he looked past her to Angelique, in the doorway, and his eyes roved 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.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight;But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.—Longfellow.

The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight;But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.

The heights by great men reached and kept

Were not attained by sudden flight;

But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

—Longfellow.

The following are the “State flowers,” as adopted by the several States. In Maine, Michigan, and Oklahoma Territory the decision was made by the Legislature, in the other cases by the votes of the scholars in the public schools.

Alabama, goldenrod; Arkansas, aster; California, California poppy; Colorado, columbine; Delaware, peach blossom; Idaho, syringa; Iowa, wild rose; Maine, pine cone and tassel; Michigan, apple blossom; Minnesota, moccasin flower; Missouri, goldenrod; Montana, bitterroot; Nebraska, goldenrod; New Jersey (State tree, maple); New York, rose (State tree, maple); North Dakota, goldenrod; Oklahoma Territory, mistletoe; Oregon, Oregon grape; Rhode Island, violet; Vermont, red clover; Washington, rhododendron. In Kansas, the sunflower is usually known as the State flower.

The largest bell in the world is the great bell at Moscow, at the foot of the Kremlin. Its circumference is nearly 68 feet, and its height more than 21 feet. It is 23 inches thick in its stoutest part, and weighs 433,722 pounds. It has never been hung.

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