Hunter's Marjory

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[Illustration: "My dear child, what is wrong?"]

Hunter's Marjory

A STORY FOR GIRLS

BY

MARGARET BRUCE CLARKE

_Author of "The Little Heiress," etc., etc._

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
_London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York_
1907

CONTENTS.

_I. Tears,_ 9
_II. A Friend in Need,_ 23
_III. Uncle and Niece,_ 38
_IV. Tea at Hunters' Brae,_ 52
_V. A Visit to the Low Farm,_ 66
_VI. Confidences,_ 79
_VII. Marjory's Apology,_ 94
_VIII. The Secret Chamber,_ 108
_IX. Peter's Story,_ 124
_X. Marjory's Birthday,_ 144
_XI. The Mysterious Stranger,_ 160
_XII. Marjory keeps a Secret,_ 175
_XIII. The Old Chest,_ 188
_XIV. The Prophecies,_ 202
_XV. Twelfth Night,_ 218
_XVI. Miss Waspe gives Good Advice,_ 232
_XVII. On the Loch,_ 246
_XVIII. The Stranger Returns,_ 259
_XIX. Important Letters,_ 274
_XX. The Doctor's Disappointment,_ 288
_XXI. Hopes Realized,_ 300

HUNTER'S MARJORY.

CHAPTER I.

TEARS.

"A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love."--WORDSWORTH.

Marjory was lying under a tree in the wood beyond her uncle's garden;
her head was hidden in the long, soft coat of a black retriever, and she
was crying--sobbing bitterly as if her heart would break, and as if
nothing could ever comfort her again.

"O Silky," she moaned, "if you only knew, you would be so sorry for me."

The faithful dog knew that something very serious was the matter with
his young mistress, but he could only lick her hands and wag his tail as
well as he was able with her weight upon his body.

A fresh burst of grief shook the girl; and Silky, puzzled by this
unusual behaviour on Marjory's part, began to make little low whines
himself. Suddenly the whines were changed to growls, the dog shook
himself free from the girl's clasping arms and stood erect, staring into
the wood beyond.

Marjory was too much overcome by her grief to notice Silky's doings, and
it was not until she heard a voice quite close to her saying, "You poor
little thing, what is the matter?" that she realized that she was not
alone.

She looked up, startled, wondering who this stranger could be making
free of her uncle's woods. She saw a lady, tall and fair, looking kindly
at her, and a girl who might have stepped out of a picture, so sweet and
fresh and pretty she looked in her white frock and shady hat.

For one minute Marjory gazed at her in admiration, and then, conscious
of her tear-stained face and tumbled dress, let her head droop again and
sobbed afresh.

The lady spoke again: "My dear child, what is wrong?"

"Nothing," sobbed Marjory--"nothing that I can tell you."

She felt ashamed of being seen in such a plight, and had an instinctive
dislike of showing her feelings to a stranger, for Marjory was an
extremely shy girl.

"But, my dear," remonstrated the lady, "I cannot leave you like this;
besides," with a smile most winning, if only Marjory could have seen it,
"I believe you are trespassing upon our newly-acquired property."

Marjory raised her head at this, and said quickly, and perhaps just a
little proudly,--

"Oh no, I'm not; this is my uncle's ground."

"Oh dear; then Blanche and I are the trespassers, though quite innocent
ones. And you must be Marjory Davidson, I think--Dr. Hunter's niece; and
if so, I know a great deal about you, and we are going to be friends,
and you must let me begin by helping you now."

So saying, the lady seated herself on the ground beside Marjory, her
daughter looking on, at the same time stroking and patting Silky, who
seemed much more disposed to be friendly than his mistress.

"Can't you tell me what the trouble is, Marjory? I am Mrs. Forester, and
this is my daughter Blanche. We have just come to live at Braeside. Your
uncle called on us to-day, and told us about you. Blanche and I have
been looking forward to seeing you and making friends.--Haven't we,
Blanche?"

"Yes, I've thought of nothing else since I heard about you," said the
girl, rather shyly, the colour coming into her face as she spoke.

Marjory stole another glance at her, and she thought she had never seen
or imagined any one so sweet and pretty as this girl.

"Blanche," she thought--"that means white; I know it from the names of
roses and hyacinths. I've seen it on the labels. And she is just like
her name--like a beautiful white rose with the tiniest bit of pink in
it."

"Come now, Marjory dear," coaxed Mrs. Forester; "won't you take us for
friends, and tell me a little about this trouble of yours? Won't you let
me try to help you out of it?"

"No, you can't help me; nobody can. It's very kind of you," stammered
Marjory, "but it's no use."

"Suppose you tell me, and let me judge whether I can help you or not."
And Mrs. Forester took hold of one of Marjory's little brown hands and
stroked it gently.

The soft touch and the gentle voice won Marjory's heart at last, and she
said brokenly, between her sobs,--

"It's about--learning things--and going to school--and uncle--won't let
me, and--and he won't tell me about my father, and I don't belong to
anybody."

"Poor child, poor little one, don't cry so. Try to tell me all about it.
I don't quite understand, but I am sure I shall be able to help you."

Bit by bit the story came out. The poor little heart unburdened itself
to sympathetic ears, and the girl could hardly believe that it was
she--Marjory Davidson--who was talking like this to a stranger. She felt
for the first time in her life the relief of confiding in some one who
really understands, and she experienced the comfort that sympathy can
give. She felt as though she were dreaming, and that this gentle woman,
whose touch was so loving and whose voice was so tender, might be the
mother whom, alas! she had never seen but in her dreams.

Marjory's mother had died when her baby was only a few days old, and all
that the child had ever been told about her father was that he was away
in foreign parts at the time of her mother's death, and that he had
never been seen or heard of since. Many and many a time did she think of
this unknown father. Was he still alive? Did he never give a thought to
his little girl? Would he ever come home to see her?

The true story was this: Dr. Hunter had been devotedly fond of his
sister Marjory--the only one amongst several brothers and sisters who
had lived to grow up. Many years younger than himself, she had been more
like a daughter to him than a sister. On the death of their parents he
had been left her sole guardian, and she had lived with him and been the
light and joy of his home. The doctor might seem hard and cold to
outsiders, wrapped up in his scientific studies and pursuits, giving
little thought or care to any other affairs, but he had an intense
capacity for loving, and he lavished his affection upon his young
sister, leaving nothing undone that might increase her happiness or her
comfort.

All went well until she married Hugh Davidson, handsome, careless, and
of a roving disposition, as the doctor pronounced him to be. They loved
each other, and the doctor had to take the second place.

Mr. and Mrs. Davidson made their home in England for a few months after
their marriage; then he received an imperative summons from the other
side of the world requiring his presence. He was needed to look after
some mining property in the far away North-West in the interests of a
company to which he belonged. He bade a hurried farewell to his wife,
promising to be back in six months. She went home to her brother at
Hunters' Brae, and lived with him until her death. She never recovered
from the shock of the parting. Her husband's letters were of necessity
few and far between. She had no idea of the difficulties and hardships
of his life, and although she defended his long silences when the doctor
made comment upon them, still she felt it was very hard that he should
write so seldom, and when he did write that the letters should be so
short. Could she have seen him struggling through an ice-bound country,
enduring hardships and even privations such as are unknown to the
traveller of to-day; could she have seen all this, she could never have
blamed him, she could only have praised him for his faithful service to
those who had sent him, and the cheerful tone of his letters to her,
with no word of personal complaint.

But Mrs. Davidson slowly lost her strength. She faded away as a
beautiful fragile lily might, and Hunters' Brae was once more left
desolate--yet not quite desolate, for there was the baby girl; and,
thinking of her, the doctor resolved that she should take her mother's
place with him. He would devote himself to her, he would try to avoid
all the mistakes he had made with his sister, and, above all, her father
should not even know of her existence. He would keep her all to himself,
she should know no other care but his, and thus her whole affection
should be his alone.

It must be owned that jealousy had blinded Dr. Hunter to his
brother-in-law's good qualities. He had never troubled to inquire into
the circumstances of his going abroad. Enough for him that the man had
left his wife alone only a few months after their marriage, and he
obstinately refused to hear one word in his defence, and would believe
no good of him. He was quite honest in his desire to do the best that
was possible for the child, and in the feeling that it would be better
to keep all knowledge of her father from her. He looked upon Hugh
Davidson as a black sheep. A black sheep could do no good to any one;
therefore, he argued, he should not come near this precious child.

Acting upon this determination, he wrote a very curt note to Mr.
Davidson, acquainting him with the fact of his wife's death, and telling
him that it was entirely his fault--that he had practically killed her
by leaving her alone--but making no mention of the child.

Poor Mr. Davidson received this letter just at a time when he dared to
hope that his work was nearly done and he could allow himself to think
of going home, and his grief was pitiable. He had no near relatives,
having been the only child of his parents, who had been dead many years.
His wandering life had cut him adrift from the acquaintances and
surroundings of his youth. He and his wife had lived in a world of their
own during those few short months, and she had been his only
correspondent in the old country when he left it. Thus it came about
that there was no one to give him the information which Dr. Hunter
withheld; and the poor man, thinking himself alone in the world, with no
ties, no friends, never had the heart to return home to the scenes of
his former happiness; and thus it was that he never knew, never thought
of his little girl growing up in that remote Scottish home, lonely like
himself, longing for and dreaming of things that seemed beyond her
reach.

In the first weeks after his sister's death Dr. Hunter derived much
consolation from the thought of the child. He had named her Marjory
after her mother, and took it for granted that she would be just such
another Marjory--fair-haired and blue-eyed--and he pictured her growing
up gentle and quiet, as her mother had been. Certainly the infant's
eyes were blue at first, and there was no hair to be seen on her head to
trouble the doctor's visions by its unexpected colour; but slowly and
surely it showed itself dark--black as night--crisp, and curly like her
father's. The eyes deepened and deepened till they too were dark,
liquid, and shining, with a look of appeal in them, even in those early
days.

To say that Dr. Hunter was disappointed would be a most inadequate
description of his feelings. He was dismayed at first when he realized
the total reversal of his expectations, and finally enraged to think
that this living image of the man he disliked, and whom his conscience
at times would insist he had wronged, would be constantly before him to
remind him of things he would prefer to forget.

But these feelings passed, and the child soon found her way into her
uncle's heart--the heart that was really so big and so loving, though
the way to it might be hard and rough. The little toddling child knew no
fear of her stern old uncle; it was only as she grew up that shyness,
restraint, and awkwardness in his presence took possession of Marjory.

Dr. Hunter had looked after her education himself. She had been a
delicate little child, and he had not troubled about any lessons in the
ordinary sense of the word for some years. He wished her body to grow
strong first, so she had spent her days in the garden, on the hills, or
on the lake with him; she had learned the ways of birds and flowers and
animals, and meanwhile had grown sturdy and healthy. Her uncle had not
allowed her to make friends with any of the children in the
neighbourhood; he himself was intimate with none of his neighbours
except the minister, Mr. Mackenzie, and the doctor, Dr. Morison. The
minister had no children, and the doctor's two boys were at school, so
that Marjory only saw them occasionally in the holidays. She had no
playmates of her own age, and the children of the village looked upon
her as an alien amongst them, regarding her almost with dislike,
although it was not her fault that she was obliged to hold aloof from
them.

Dr. Hunter had a theory that his sister had been too dreamy and
romantic; that he had petted her and given in to her too much, instead
of insisting upon her learning to be more practical. He blamed the fairy
tales of her childhood, the influence of her school companions, the
poetry and novels of later years as the chief causes of what he called
her dreamy ways and romantic nonsense, and he determined that Marjory
should be very differently brought up. She must learn to cook and to sew
and to be useful in the house. She should not be allowed to read fairy
tales or poetry, nor should she be sent to school; he himself would
teach her what it was necessary for her to learn; he would be very
careful before allowing her to make any friendships; and with all these
precautionary measures he felt that she must grow into a good, strong,
sensible, capable girl.

So Lisbeth the housekeeper was ordered to teach the child to dust and to
sew and other useful things; and Peter, her husband, must teach her to
hoe and to rake, to sow seeds in her little garden and keep it tidy. The
doctor's own part in the programme was to teach her to read and write
and cast up figures. That would be enough, he considered, for the
present. Music, languages, and poetry were to be left out as being
likely to lead to romantic ideas and dreams and unrealities. "Time
enough for them when she is older," he decided. "When the foundation of
common-sense has been laid, there will be no danger. Till then I shall
keep her to facts and nothing else."

The doctor did his best to carry out these plans, which he honestly
believed to be for the child's good in every possible way. Lisbeth and
Peter, grown old in service at Hunters' Brae, were warned on no account
to talk to Marjory about her father or old times, or to encourage her in
doing so; and they tried hard to do as their master bade them, though it
was difficult sometimes to resist those pleading eyes when the child
would say, "Won't you tell me about my father, Lisbeth dear?" or "Peter
darling," as the case might be. Peter was a gardener and
man-of-all-work, and his hands were sometimes very dirty, but he was a
darling all the same to Marjory, and indeed he was a good old man. If he
and his wife had known the truth, that Mr. Davidson had never been told
about his child, it is likely that Peter's strict sense of justice would
have prompted him to right that wrong. But, like every one else, he took
it for granted that the news had gone to Mr. Davidson, and in his kind
old heart was often tempted to blame the seemingly careless father.

"Could he but see the bonnie lamb," he would say sometimes to his wife,
"the vera picter o' himsel', he wouldna hae the heart to leave her. I've
wondered whiles if the doctor wouldna send him a bit photograph, just to
show him what like she is."

Lisbeth would reply, "Peter, it's just nae manner o' use thinkin' o' ony
sic a thing. The doctor he's that set against Mr. Davidson that ye micht
as weel try to move Ben Lomond itsel' as to move him."

These conversations usually ended in an admonition from Lisbeth to Peter
to eat his meat and no blether. The suggestion was never made to the
doctor, no word ever reached Mr. Davidson, and things went on much in
the same way year after year; and although at times the doctor would
question the efficacy of his plans for Marjory's education, on the
whole he was fairly satisfied with them.

The day on which this story opens had seen the doctor take a most
unusual step. Hearing from an old acquaintance in London--a scientific
man and student like himself whose opinion he considered worth
something--that some friends of his had bought Braeside, the property
adjoining Hunters' Brae, he determined to do his duty as a neighbour,
and go to welcome the newcomers as soon as they arrived. His friend had
written, "Mrs. Forester is a most charming woman, Forester himself a
thoroughly good fellow, and their little girl Blanche one of the
sweetest children I have ever seen. She will make a good companion for
your niece, poor little thing."

This letter had set the doctor thinking. First, he was nettled by his
friend's use of the words "poor little thing." Why should Marjory be
pitied as a poor little thing? Had he not done everything he possibly
could for her? Then came one of those painful stabs of conscience which
insisted now and then on being felt. What about her father? Have you
done right in that matter?

He salved his conscience for the time being by making up his mind to go
and see the Foresters, and if they were indeed all that his friend had
said, there could be no reason why he should not encourage a friendship
between the two girls. Marjory certainly had been very quiet and
inclined to mope of late, and it would be a good thing for her to be
roused by this new interest. The child was seldom out of his thoughts
for long together; he loved her as his own; and yet Marjory was not
happy--she was lonely, she did not understand her uncle and misjudged
him, and he found her cold and unresponsive. There was something wanting
between them; both were conscious of this want, yet neither knew how to
supply it and so mend matters.

CHAPTER II.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

"Have hope, though clouds environ now,
And gladness hides her face in scorn;
Put thou the shadow from thy brow--
No night but has its morn."--SCHILLER.

Things had come to a climax that afternoon. Marjory had driven by
herself to the village to get some things that Lisbeth wanted, and also
to buy some stamps for her uncle. Peter usually accompanied her on these
expeditions, but to-day he was busy in the vine-house, and excused
himself from attending upon his little mistress. She was quite
accustomed to driving, however, and Brownie, the pony, was a very
steady, well-behaved little animal, and a great pet of Marjory's; so she
started off in good spirits, Silky running beside the cart as usual. She
did her errands in the village, finishing up at the post office, which
was also the bakery and the most important building in the place. Mrs.
Smylie, the baker's wife and postmistress, served her with the stamps,
and Marjory was about to say good-afternoon and leave the shop, when
Mrs. Smylie opened a door and called out,--

"Mary Ann, here's Hunter's Marjory; maybe ye'd like to see her." And
turning to Marjory, she explained, "Mary Ann's just hame frae the schule
for a wee bit."

The Smylies were the most important people in the village of
Heathermuir. Their mills supplied the countryside with flour, and their
bakery was the only one of any size in the district. They had built
their own house; it had a garden attached to it and a greenhouse; and,
to crown all, their only child Mary Ann was to be brought up as a lady.
With this object in view, the ambitious parents had sent the girl to a
"Seminary for Young Ladies" at Morristown, some twenty miles away, and
were greatly pleased with the result, feeling that Mary Ann was really
quite a lady. That young person was delighted to come home and be
worshipped by her admiring parents; and their idea that a real lady
should never soil her fingers by household work, or indeed by work of
any kind, suited her very well.

Mrs. Smylie, bursting with pride as her daughter appeared, watched the
meeting between the two girls. Mary Ann's dress was very much
overtrimmed, her hair was frizzed into a spiky bush across her forehead,
and her somewhat freckled face was composed into an expression of serene
self-complacency. She was the only girl in the village who was at a
boarding-school; not even Hunter's Marjory, with all her airs, could
boast this advantage, she thought; and Mary Ann felt her superiority,
and gloried in it.

Mrs. Smylie noted with great pride that the hand her daughter held out
to Marjory was white and delicate--in great contrast to Marjory's brown
one. "But then," she reflected, "the puir bairn hasna got her mither to
watch her like oor Mary Ann has. Bless me! how the lassie glowers! Mary
Ann has the biggest share o' manners onyways."

It must be confessed that Marjory was "glowering." She regarded the
overdressed girl with aversion, answered her mincingly-spoken "How do
you do, Marjory?" very curtly, and continued to "glower," as Mrs. Smylie
described it, without saying another word.

"Won't you come into the house?" asked Mary Ann, and Marjory went.

She did not care about these people; she had never liked Mary Ann, and
could hardly bear to look at her now, or listen to her affected way of
talking. Still, she did not wish to be rude, so she followed Mary Ann
through the shop into the house, and was ushered into the sitting-room,
or parlour as it was called. The room was like Mary Ann's dress--full of
all sorts of bright colours and gaudy ornaments of poor quality.

There was one thing about Mary Ann which interested Marjory profoundly,
and that was her school experience. She felt that she would like to
question the girl about it, and yet was too proud to betray her
curiosity by bringing up the subject. Mary Ann, however, saved her the
trouble, for as soon as they were seated she began at once,--

"Why don't your uncle send you to school? Any one would think a great
girl like you ought to be sent to school. Why don't he send you?"

"Uncle doesn't wish me to go to school."

"Maybe he don't want to pay the fees," said Mary Ann.

Marjory said nothing.

"I learn French and German and music. I'm getting on fine with the
piano, and papa's going to buy me one of my own soon. You haven't got a
piano at Hunters' Brae, have you?"

"No," said Marjory shortly.

As a matter of fact there was a piano at Hunters' Brae, but it was kept
in the room that had been her mother's--a room that Marjory was not
allowed to enter. For reasons of his own the doctor had forbidden
Marjory to go into it. She should do so on her fifteenth birthday, but
not before. Lisbeth went in once a week with pail, broom, and duster,
but she always carefully locked the door behind her, and Marjory knew
nothing of the room or its contents. "Some bonnie day," was all that the
old woman would say when she questioned her.

Mary Ann continued,--

"It seems a shame you can't be made a lady of too."

"I can be a lady without going to school," said Marjory sulkily.

The other looked at her in surprise.

"Oh no, you can't. Who is there to teach you? You have to learn manners
and deportment and accomplishments and all that sort of thing first. I
don't see that you've got any chance here, you poor little thing,"
patronizingly.

"I don't care," said Marjory, knowing in her heart that she did care
beyond everything, and that her greatest desire was to learn all sorts
of things. "I don't care a pin," she repeated.

"Yes, you do, or you wouldn't get so red," said Mary Ann provokingly.
Then she continued, "Your uncle's queer, isn't he?"

"What do you mean by 'queer'?"

"Well--queer--in his head, you know. People say he is, and, anyhow, he
does queer things--keeping that room shut up, and all that. I should say
he _must_ be a little bit mad."

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