as the sun rose, margot came out of her own room, fresh from her plunge that had washed all drowsiness away, as the good sleep had also banished all perplexities. happy at all times, she was most so at morning, when, to her nature-loving eyes, the world seemed to have been made anew and doubly beautiful. the gay little melodies she had picked up from pierre, or angelique—who had been a sweet singer in her day—and now again from adrian, were always on her lips at such an hour, and were dear beyond expression to her uncle’s ears.
but this morning she seemed to be singing them to the empty air. there was nobody in the living room, nor in the “study-library,” as the housekeeper called the room [pg 121]of books, nor even in the kitchen. that was oddest of all! for there, at least, should angelique have been, frying, or stewing, or broiling, as the case might be. yet the coffee stood simmering, at one corner of the hearth and a bowl of eggs waited ready for the omelet which angelique could make to perfection.
“why, how still it is! as if everybody had gone away and left the island alone.”
she ran to the door and called: “adrian!”
no answer.
“pierre! angelique! where is everybody?”
then she saw angelique coming down the slope and ran to meet her. with one hand the woman carried a brimming pail of milk and with the other dragged by his collar the reluctant form of reynard, who appeared as guilty and subdued as if he had been born a slave not free. to make matters more difficult, meroude was surreptitiously helping herself to a breakfast from the pail [pg 122]and thereby ruining its contents for other uses.
“oh! the plague of a life with such beasts! and him the worst o’ they all. the ver’ next time my pierre goes cross-lake, that fox goes or i do! there’s no room on the island for the two of us. no. indeed no. the harm comes of takin’ in folks and beasties and friendin’ them ’at don’t deserve it. what now, think you?”
margot had run the faster, as soon as she descried poor reynard’s abject state, and had taken him under her own protection, which immediately restored him to his natural pride and noble bearing.
“i think nothing evil of my pet, believe that! see the beauty now! that’s the difference between harsh words and loving ones. if you’d only treat the ‘beasties’ as well as you do me, angelique dear, you’d have less cause for scolding. what i think now is—speckled rooster. right?”
“aye. dead as dead; and the feathers [pg 123]still stickin’ to the villain’s jaws. what’s the life of such brutes to that o’ good fowls? pst! meroude! scat! well, if it’s milk you will, milk you shall!” and, turning angrily about, snowfoot’s mistress dashed the entire contents of her pail over the annoying cat.
margot laughed till the tears came. “why, angelique! only the other day, in that quaint old ‘book of beauty’ uncle has, i read how a queen of naples, and some noted parisian beauties, used baths of milk for their complexions; but poor meroude’s a hopeless case, i fear.”
angelique’s countenance took on a grim expression. “mistress meroude’s got a day’s job to clean herself, the greedy. it’s not her nose’ll go in the pail another mornin’. no. no, indeed.”
“and it was so full. yet that’s the same snowfoot who was to give us no more, because of the broken glass. angelique, where’s uncle?”
[pg 124]
“how should i tell? am i set to spy the master’s ins and outs?”
“funny angelique! you’re not set to do it, but you can usually tell them. and where’s adrian? i’ve called and called, but nobody answers. i can’t guess where they all are. even pierre is out of sight, and he’s mostly to be found at the kitchen door when meal time comes.”
“there, there, child. you can ask more questions than old angelique can answer. but the breakfast. that’s a good thought. so be. whisk in and mix the batter cakes for the master’s eatin’. ’tis he, foolish man, finds they have better savor from margot’s fingers than mine. simple one, with all his wisdom.”
“it’s love gives them savor, sweet angelique! and the desire to see me a proper housewife. i wonder why he cares about that, since you are here to do such things.”
“ah! the ‘i wonders!’ and the ‘is its?’ of a maid! they set the head awhirl. the [pg 125]batter cakes, my child. i see the master comin’ down the hill this minute.”
margot paused long enough to caress tom, the eagle, who met her on the path, then sped indoors, leaving reynard to his own devices and angelique’s not too tender mercies. but she put all her energy into the task assigned her and proudly placed a plate of her uncle’s favorite dainty before him when he took his seat at table. till then she had not noticed its altered arrangement, and even her guardian’s coveted: “well done, little housekeeper!” could not banish the sudden fear that assailed her.
“why, what does it mean? where is adrian? where pierre? why are only dishes for three?”
“pst! my child! hast been askin’ questions in the sleep? sure, you have ever since your eyes flew open. say your grace and eat your meat, and let the master rest.”
“yes, darling. angelique is wise. eat [pg 126]your breakfast as usual, and afterward i will tell you all—that you should know.”
“but, i cannot eat. it chokes me. it seems so awfully still and strange and empty. as i should think it might be, were somebody dead.”
angelique’s scant patience was exhausted. not only was her loyal heart tried by her master’s troubles, but she had had added labor to accomplish. during all that summer two strong and, at least one, willing lads had been at hand to do the various chores pertaining to all country homes, however isolated. that morning she had brought in her own supply of fire-wood, filled her buckets from the spring, attended the poultry, fed the oxen, milked snowfoot, wrestled over the iniquity of reynard and grieved at the untimely death of the speckled rooster: “when he would have made such a lovely fricasee, yes. indeed, ’twas a sinful waste!”
though none of these tasks were new or arduous to her, she had not performed them [pg 127]during the past weeks, save and except the care of her cow. that she had never entrusted to anybody, not even the master; and it was to spare him that she had done some of the things he meant to attend to later. now she had reached her limit.
“angelique wants her breakfast, child. she has been long astir. after that the deluge!” quoted mr. dutton, with an attempt at lightness which did not agree with his real depression.
margot made heroic efforts to act as usual but they ended in failure, and as soon as might be her guardian pushed back his chair and she promptly did the same.
“now i can ask as many questions as i please, can’t i? first, where are they?”
“they have gone across the lake, southward, i suppose. toward whatever place or town adrian selects. he will not come back but pierre will do so, after he has guided the other to some safe point beyond the woods. how soon i do not know, of course.”
[pg 128]
“gone! without bidding me good-bye? gone to stay? oh! uncle, how could he? i know you didn’t like him but i did. he was——”
margot dropped her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. then ashamed of her unaccustomed tears she ran out of the house and as far from it as she could. but even the blue herons could give her no amusement, though they stalked gravely up the river bank and posed beside her, where she lay prone and disconsolate in harmony hollow. her squirrels saw and wondered, for she had no returning chatter for them, even when they chased one another over her prostrate person and playfully pulled at her long hair.
“he was the only friend i ever had that was not old and wise in sorrow. it was true he seemed to bring a shadow with him and while he was here i sometimes wished he would go, or had never come; yet now that he has—oh! it’s so awfully, awfully lonesome. nobody to talk with about my dreams and [pg 129]fancies, nobody to talk nonsense, nobody to teach me any more songs—nobody but just old folks and animals! and he went, he went without a word or a single good-bye!”
it was, indeed, margot’s first grief; and the fact that her late comrade could leave her so coolly, without even mentioning his plan, hurt her very deeply. but, after awhile, resentment at adrian’s seeming neglect almost banished her loneliness; and, sitting up, she stared at xanthippé, poised on one leg before her, apparently asleep but really waiting for anything which might turn up in the shape of dainties.
“oh! you sweet vixen! but you needn’t pose. there’s no artist here now to sketch you, and i don’t care, not very much, if there isn’t. after all my trying to do him good, praising and blaming and petting, if he was impolite enough to go as he did—— well, no matter!”
while this indignation lasted she felt better, but as soon as she came once more in sight of [pg 130]the clearing and of her uncle finishing one of adrian’s uncompleted tasks, her loneliness returned with double force. it had almost the effect of bodily illness and she had no experience to guide her. with a fresh burst of tears she caught her guardian’s hand and hid her face on his shoulder.
“oh! it’s so desolate. so empty. everything’s so changed. even the hollow is different and the squirrels seem like strangers. if he had to go, why did he ever, ever come!”
“why, indeed!”
mr. dutton was surprised and frightened by the intensity of her grief. if she could sorrow in this way for a brief friendship, what untold misery might not life have in store for her? there must have been some serious blunder in his training if she were no better fitted than this to face trouble; and for the first time it occurred to him that he should not have kept her from all companions of her own age.
[pg 131]
“margot!”
the sternness of his tone made her look up and calm herself.
“y-es, uncle.”
“this must stop. adrian went by my invitation. because i could no longer permit your association. between his household and ours is a wrong beyond repair. he cannot help that he is his father’s son, but being such he is an impossible friend for your father’s daughter. i should have sent him away, at my very first suspicion of his identity, but—i want to be just. it has been the effort of my life to learn forgiveness. until the last i would not allow myself even to believe who he was, but gave him the benefit of the chance that his name might be of another family. when i did know—there was no choice. he had to go.”
margot watched his face, as he spoke, with a curious feeling that this was not the loved and loving uncle she had always known but a stranger. there were wrinkles and scars she [pg 132]had never noticed, a bitterness that made the voice an unfamiliar one, and a weariness in the droop of the figure leaning upon the hoe which suggested an aged and heart-broken man.
why, only yesterday, it seemed, hugh dutton was the very type of a stalwart woodlander, with the grace of a finished and untiring scholar, making the man unique. now—— if adrian had done this thing, if his mere presence had so altered her beloved guardian, then let adrian go! her arms went around the man’s neck and her kisses showered upon his cheeks, his hands, even his bent white head.
“uncle, uncle! don’t look like that! don’t. he’s gone and shall never come back. everything’s gone, hasn’t it? even that irreparable past, of which i’d never heard. why, if i’d dreamed, do you suppose i’d even ever have spoken to him? no, indeed. why you, the tip of your smallest finger, the smallest lock of your hair, is worth more than a thousand adrians! i was sorry he’d treated me so rudely. but now i’m glad, glad, glad. [pg 133]i wouldn’t listen to him now, not if he said good-bye forever and ever. i love you, uncle, best of all the world, and you love me. let’s be just as we were before any strangers came. come, let’s go out on the lake.”
he smiled at her extravagance and abruptness. the times when they had gone canoeing together had been their merriest, happiest times. it seemed to her that it needed only some such outing to restore the former conditions of their life.
“not to-day, dearest.”
“why not? the potatoes won’t hurt and it’s so lovely.”
“there are other matters, more important than potatoes. i have put them off too long. now—margot, do you love me?”
“why—uncle!”
“because there is somebody whom you must love even more dearly. your father.”
“my—father! my father? of course; though he is dead.”
“no, margot. he is still alive.”
