A Daughter of the Forest

“Fifteen minutes, now. Only fifteen minutes!”

“They will never pass! They are longer than the fifteen years of my ignorance, when I didn’t know I had a father. My father. My father.”

Over and over, she said the words softly, caressingly, as if she could never have enough of all they meant to her; and the listening lad asked once, a trifle warningly:

“Are you not at all afraid, Margot, that this unknown father will be different from your anticipations? Remember, though so close of kin, you are still strangers.”

“Why, Adrian! My mother loved him and my uncle. I love him, too, unknowing; but I tell you now, this minute, if I found him all that was bad and repulsive, I should still love him and all the more. So love him that he would grow good again and forget all the evil he must have seen in that evil place. For he is my father, my father.”

“Have no fear, I only meant to try you. He is all that you dream and more. He has the noblest face I ever looked on; yes, not even excepting your uncle’s.”

“What? you – have seen him?”

“Yes. Yesterday;” at which she sat in silent wonder till he said: “Now come. We’re there!”

When they stepped out at the final station Adrian called for the swiftest horses waiting possible fares, and burst in upon his sister’s presence with the demand, almost breathlessly spoken:

“Number 526, at once, Kate. This is Margot – Ah! mother! Margot! The money’s found – Number 526 – quick!”

The excitement was all his by then. The girl to whom this moment was so much more eventful stood pale and quiet, with a luminous joy in her blue eyes that was more pathetic than tears.

“Adrian, are you crazy? Upon my word, I almost believe you are! Running away as you did last night and coming back again to-day, in this wild fashion. What do you mean? Who is this – this young person? And what in the world do you, can you, possibly, want of Number 526?”

He paid no attention to her many questions, nor even to his mother who clutched his arm in extreme agitation. He had caught the tones of a violin played softly, tenderly, and oh! so sadly.

“Yes, that’s Number 526, since you wish to see him, though it’s quite against the rules and – he’s practicing with his men – ”

“Come, Margot. Come.”

The player was in the little alcove behind the screen and palms, and did not even look up as the two entered his presence, for his own soul had floated far away from that dread place, on the strains of that music which no prison bars could confine.

“Father!”

The music ceased, but only for an instant. Once the player had heard a voice like that – clear, sweet, exquisitely modulated. The voice of the wife he had loved, silent in death these many years. But the tone had been sufficient to stir his soul to even deeper harmonies: and he stood there forgetful of his shaven head, his prison stripes, once more a man among men.

“Father! My father! I have come! Margot, baby Margot! Come to set you free!”

Her arms were about his neck, her wet face pressed close to his, her tender kisses poured upon his lips, his dazed, unseeing eyes, his trembling shoulders.

Then he put out his hand and held her from him, that he might the better see her fairness, hear her marvelous story – told in few words, and comprehend what was the merciful, the Heaven-sent bliss that had come to him.

“Cecily! Margot! My daughter with her mother’s face! Free! Free! Oh! God, support me!”

The indomitable courage which suffering had had no power to weaken failed in this supreme moment; and as, in his hours of darkness, he had clung to his music for sustenance so he turned to it now. He pressed his violin to his shoulder, leaned his cheek upon it, and from its quivering strings drew out in melody the story of his fifteen years. All the bitterness, the sadness, the sweetness; and that exalted faith which had made the mystery of his life, and his shame, almost divine.

Blinded by their own tears, one by one, the others left them, and when the last strain ended in a burst of joyous victory, there were but two to hear it – parent and child.

Adrian watched the train that bore them homeward roll away, with a heart both heavy and glad. In fancy he could see them reach that journey’s end; with brother clasping the hand of brother, the silent, wonderful forest receiving them into its restful solitude. He could see that great room which had waited for its occupant so many years, and which was now all aglow from its flame-filled fireplace, and redolent with wild flowers. He could see the wide couch drawn up before the hearth and a toil-worn man, who had not rested before in fifteen years, lying there with grateful, adoring eyes fixed upon that pictured Face of The Man of Sorrows.

There was a girl in the room, moving everywhere in needless, tender care that nothing should be wanting. As if anything ever could be wanting where Margot was! The innocent, great-hearted child of nature, whose love no obstacle could overcome, and who hesitated at no danger for love’s sweet sake.