Chapter XVIII: In the Hour of Darkness

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

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!”