Hunter\'s Marjory

M >> Margaret Bruce Clarke >> Hunter\'s Marjory

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Marjory went down the hill to meet Blanche, and they arrived upon the
scene just as Alan, punctual to the appointed time, came up with his
ferret in a small bag, and his brother's dog, Jock, on a leash.

"He's awfully keen," Alan explained. "He only had half his usual last
night, and nothing this morning; so I put him on the leash in case he
might go tearing off after some rabbit, and I couldn't get him back
again."

There was some hitch about getting the other dog; it could not be found
when the time came. Alan was secretly pleased that Jock should have to
fight single-handed, for then all the honour and glory would fall to his
share.

As for Jock, he was indeed keen. He seemed to know that there was
excitement in store for him, and he was pulling and straining at the
leash, jumping up and down, and giving little short yelps and barks.

"We'll try the barn first," ordered Peter, the commander-in-chief.

Alan handed Jock over to Marjory, and they went to the barn as directed.
Alan put his ferret into a well-used hole.

"Let go!" he shouted to Marjory.

Jock was let loose, and the fun began. It was a most exciting
time--scratching, scrambling, racing, leaping. In and out of barns and
outbuildings went Jock, his heart in his work. The ferret, too, did his
duty quite nobly. The spectators, waving their sticks and shouting
encouragement, ran and scrambled too.

Old Peter, capless, his hair and beard streaming in the wind, danced and
capered like a boy whenever Jock appeared victoriously shaking a rat
between his teeth. The girls, too, kept in the thick of the fight,
Marjory forgetting all her doubts in the excitement of the moment.

One very large rat gave Jock a great deal of trouble. In and out of the
barn it went, Jock in full cry after it, through the hen-run, scattering
the flustered fowls screeching in all directions, round and round the
yard it leaped rather than ran. At last it ran up the side of a large
empty barrel and went over the edge in a second. Quick as thought Jock
sprang after it; then came a terrific scrambling and scratching, a
vicious scream from the rat, a yelp of pain from Jock, and, last, a
moment's silence before the scrambling was renewed. They all went and
peeped over the edge of the barrel, and there was Jock with the big rat
in his mouth, making frantic efforts to scale the sides of his prison.

"Well done," shouted Alan in delight. "Isn't he a game little beast?"
And he stretched over the top to give Jock a lift.

In his efforts to reach the dog he overbalanced, the barrel tipped over
and rolled from side to side, and for a few minutes all that could be
seen was a kicking tangle of boy, dog, and rat, for Jock would not let
go his prey.

Peter stood shouting with laughter, holding his sides, and quite
helpless, and the two girls were much in the same condition. Marjory was
just trying as best she could to stop the barrel rolling and to help
Alan out of it, though she was so weak with laughing that her hands
seemed to have no strength in them, when the doctor's voice said,
"Come, children, didn't you hear the dinner-bell?"

They all, including Peter, straightened up as if by magic. Dinner
already! They had never given it a thought. They stood irresolute, a
queer-looking company, while Jock glanced around the group, as much as
to say, "What's the matter with you all? Just look at my lovely rat."

The doctor stood leaning on his stick, contemplating his guests. Alan
was the worst. His face was scratched, and blood and dust together had
streaked it in a most unbecoming way; his clothes were torn, his cap was
gone, and his never very tidy hair stood in a shock above his forehead.
The girls, too, showed unmistakable signs of the fray. Their hair
ribbons were gone, wisps of straw and hay were sticking to their
clothes, and their cheeks were scarlet with exercise and excitement.
Even Jock had one eye bunged up, but he was the coolest and most
unconcerned of the party. He saved the situation by trotting across to
the doctor, laying the rat at his feet, and then looking up at him with
his only available eye, as if for approval.

The doctor could not resist this appeal. He stooped and patted the dog,
saying kindly, "Well done, little man." And then turning to the
children, "Now then, you three graces, be off with you. Go and wash
yourselves clean, if you can, and don't keep me waiting any longer for
my dinner. A hungry man's an angry man, you know." And he sent them off
with a flourish of his stick.

When they came to the dining-room the change in their appearance caused
the doctor's eyes to twinkle, but he made no remark. Alan's face
positively shone with soap, for though the application of it had made
his many scratches smart, he had manfully persisted in the most vigorous
cleansing operations. He had soaked his hair with water to make it lie
down, but there was one lock in the region of the crown of his head
which had refused to accept his ministrations. The girls, too, had
smoothed their hair, brushed their clothes, and composed their
countenances. All three looked as solemn as judges as they took their
seats.

Marjory was afraid that their unpunctuality boded ill for the chance of
getting the doctor's consent to their trying to open the old chest. They
sat demurely, taking their soup in silence. After a little while sounds
were heard like the fizzling of ginger beer in hot weather, and at last
Blanche burst into a peal of laughter. Marjory looked anxiously at Dr.
Hunter to see what he thought of this disturbance, but to her relief and
surprise he was laughing too. Really her Uncle George was getting much
nicer than he used to be, she thought.

"Well, Blanche, what's the joke?" he asked.

As soon as she could speak she replied,--

"It's Alan; he does look so _dreadfully_ funny--one bit of hair
sticking up, and the rest all plastered so smooth and meek-looking, and
his face--oh dear!" And she laughed again. "I'm sure he was never meant
to look so solemn."

Alan instinctively put up his hand to try to persuade the offending lock
of hair to keep its proper place, but as soon as he took away his hand
up jumped the hair again. He blushed deeply, realizing that the
attention of the party, and especially of the doctor, who, to him, was a
most awesome personage, was fixed upon himself; but in the end he joined
in the laugh against his appearance as heartily as the rest.

Thus the ice was broken, and conversation began to flow, soon developing
into a graphic account of the rat hunt.

"I saw Peter careering about like a youngster," said the doctor,
laughing. "He'll be sorry enough to-morrow when he's as stiff as a
board, but I believe he enjoyed the fun as much as any of you." And he
laughed again.

Marjory thought that this would be a good opportunity for her to make
her request.

"May we try again to open the chest, please, uncle?" she asked.

"What chest, child?"

"Why, the oak chest in the old wing. We do so want to see what's in it."

"Nonsense, Marjory. I tell you it has been there ever since I can
remember, and there's nothing in it as far as I know." Seeing the
disappointment in the young people's faces as he said this, he relented,
saying, "Well, well, I suppose I must let you have your way. You may try
if you like, but I won't have you using any tools. It's a fine old piece
of wood, and I don't want it spoiled."

They readily promised not to do any harm to the box, and as soon as
dinner was over they hurried off to the old part of the house, Alan
feeling rather flattered by Marjory's suggestion that he might be able
to find some way of opening the chest.

There was no sign of any lock except the one in front, which they had
tried before, and in which none of the keys would turn. The lid fitted
firmly and smoothly, and so tightly that its joining with the box was
hardly visible. It was a magnificent specimen of cabinet work.

"Of course it may have a spring," said Marjory, "if only we knew where
to find it."

At this suggestion they all set to work to push and thump and press, but
as before their efforts were of no avail.

Marjory wondered to herself whether the same ingenious person who had
contrived the secret door upstairs might have made this box.

"Suppose we turn it round, and see what the hinges look like," said
Alan.

They managed to drag it out from the wall, bringing with it masses of
black cobwebs and the dust of many years.

Alan's idea was a good one; but there were no hinges to be seen.

"I believe the lock and the hasps are nothing but false ones to put
people off the scent," said Alan. "What a beastly mess," rubbing the
cobwebs off his hands on to his knickerbockers. "I believe this is a
puzzle chest, and it opens in some secret way like Mrs. Shaw's box.
We're having quite a run of secrets."

How Blanche longed to tell Alan of the room upstairs! It was all she
could do to prevent herself from speaking of it.

Hot and breathless from their efforts in moving the box, the three sat
down to rest and to consult as to their next attempt.

"I don't believe there is a lock at all," Alan repeated, and he began
once more to examine the lid of the chest. After some little time he
suddenly exclaimed, "I believe I've got it; look here!" He showed the
girls that the construction of the lid at two of the corners was
slightly different from the other two. "It's something to do with these
corners, I'll be bound," he cried excitedly. "Here it comes!"

The girls looked on with intense interest. The big brass nails at the
two corners came out, it seemed, and one side of the lid came right off.
The row of nails all round the rest of it were long enough to go
through the depth of it, and they fitted into corresponding holes in the
box itself, so that once the one side was undone the whole thing simply
lifted off. It was a most ingenious contrivance, and calculated to
baffle even the most clever and curious person.

The girls danced with excitement when they saw that, far from being
empty, the trunk had all sorts of things in it. They had been very
neatly and carefully packed amongst layers of paper. First came some
dresses, amongst them a lilac-flowered muslin, which Marjory recognized
as the very one which her great-grandmother Hunter wore in the big
picture which hung in the drawing-room. It had probably been kept for
that reason. The dress did not seem to have suffered very much from its
long imprisonment. The ground of it had turned yellow, but the lilac
flowers were as fresh as ever. It was made entirely by hand, and it had
a very short-waisted bodice and a frilled skirt. Rolled up with it was a
pair of silk stockings and some dainty satin shoes, all yellow with age.

With a feeling of awe the girls unfolded these treasures of a bygone
day, as if they feared lest the owners of them might rise up and forbid
them to go on.

"Fancy uncle never knowing that all these lovely things were here!"
cried Marjory. "Oh, what's this?" as she lifted out a bundle wrapped in
linen.

"I believe it's somebody's wedding-dress," said Blanche, as she helped
to undo the wrappings.

It was a wedding dress, and there was a veil with it, and a wreath of
myrtle. Fastened to the wreath with white ribbon was a lace-edged paper,
with the following words written on it in a fine Italian hand, "Alison
Grant married John Hunter, October 15, 1843."

"That's my grandmother," said Marjory. "Uncle George says she was very
beautiful and very good. I expect she must have put all these things
here. It seems funny, though, that she put her wedding dress away when
it was quite fresh; it doesn't look as if it had been worn."

"Perhaps she meant to keep it for her daughter," suggested Blanche.
"Old-fashioned people used to do that. My mother didn't. She wore hers
when she went to parties, and then had it dyed and made into a
petticoat!"

"My mother was the only girl of the family who lived to grow up, and
grandmother died when she was a little girl, so of course nobody knew
about the dress being here."

Alan was more interested in the next find, which was a complete court
suit--silk stockings, buckled shoes, and all. Then came an old uniform,
moth-eaten long before Dame Alison's careful hands had folded it away.
Its gold lace was tarnished almost beyond recognition, and on it was a
label written in the same delicate handwriting, "Worn by General James
Hunter at the battle of Waterloo, June 18, 1815, where he was mortally
wounded."

"Isn't it ripping?" exclaimed Alan. "I should have liked to see the old
chap who wore this."

At the bottom of the chest were some fencing-sticks, a couple of old
pistols, a box with some tarnished medals once the pride of a soldier's
heart, a bundle of letters, and, last of all, a worn portfolio tied with
ribbon; and inside was written, in the handwriting of Alison Hunter,
Marjory's grandmother, "Chronicles of the Hunter family." She had
evidently meant to arrange them in book form some day. There were old
letters, newspaper cuttings, and a genealogical tree traced in the same
fine hand. Inside the sheet of paper containing this there was another
paper which appeared to have verses of some sort written on it. The
light was growing dim, and Marjory could hardly decipher the words,
"Copied from the County Records at Corrisdale Castle, through the
kindness of Sir Alexander Reid, being ancient prophecies concerning the
Hunter family."

Here indeed was a find. This piece of paper appealed more to Marjory's
imagination than did the dresses or even the uniform. What a pity it was
getting so dark! It must be near tea-time, and they must put away the
things. They did so very reluctantly, laying them all back as they had
found them, with the exception of the portfolio, which Marjory
determined to carry off to her bedroom, where she could read its
contents at her leisure. Alan showed her how to fix the lid of the box
on again, and exactly how to undo the nails in order to take it off.
Regretfully they left their treasure trove and went to tea.

Dr. Hunter did not appear until Mr. Forester came to fetch Blanche; but
when he did come he was overwhelmed by excited descriptions of the
wonders that had been found in the old chest.

As he and Blanche were leaving, Mr. Forester remarked, "Our fellows had
a bit of a brush with a man the other night," with a meaning look at
Marjory; "but he managed to give them the slip somehow, and made off,
the thieving rascal."

Marjory coloured, but said nothing, and the doctor remarked cheerfully,
"Well, well, he'll live to fight another day."

"Yes, and to poach too," said Mr. Forester good-humouredly. "I begin to
think that Hunters' Brae favours these fellows," he called over his
shoulder as he left the house with Blanche and Alan.

"Perhaps he's right--eh, Marjory?" asked the doctor in a bantering tone
as he shut the door.

"He _wasn't_ a poacher," declared Marjory stoutly; and then, realizing
what a slip she had made, she bit her lip and coloured again.

"Oh, ho! then there _was_ a man," said her uncle quickly. "The cat's out
of the bag now. Ah, Marjory, there's no mistaking you for anything but
a Hunter; it's in the blood, my dear. Good-night." And he went laughing
to his study.

Marjory was very grateful to her uncle for his trust in her with regard
to her escapade, and felt much relieved that even to-night, when the
subject was revived by Mr. Forester, he had not questioned her. It made
her feel that she could never wish to deceive him or to abuse his
confidence.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE PROPHECIES.

"According to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings."

SHAKESPEARE.

Marjory went to bed with a glow of happiness in her heart. Her uncle had
called her a true Hunter. How often had she brooded over those looks of
hers, which could not be said to resemble in any feature those of the
Hunters whose portraits hung on the walls of the old house! How many
times had she wished herself a boy who could carry out the traditions of
the family! Foolish troubles these were, no doubt, but they were real
enough to the lonely child, living with her own fancies for company.
True, she had not thought about them so much of late; but although they
were not uppermost in her mind, they were still there. And now those
words of the doctor's brought comfort for the memory of many a lonely
wakeful hour, when Marjory should have been sleeping the untroubled
sleep of childhood. A true Hunter!--in spite of that unknown father,
perhaps long dead; in spite of her ignorance; in spite of her looks. A
true Hunter! How her heart thrilled at the words!

Fired with these thoughts, she took out the old portfolio and began to
read the copy of the prophecies about her family. As she sat alone with
these old-time records, the candlelight flickering on their pages, she
felt almost as if she were in the presence of these ancestors of hers.

She found her grandmother's writing rather difficult to read, it was so
fine and delicate, and time had faded the ink to a pale gray.

As for the old prophecies, they were nothing but a set of doggerel
verses which any sensible person would probably have laughed at, but
they were made serious and impressive to Marjory by the fact that her
grandmother had thought it worth while to copy them, and had made notes
of her own as to the fulfilment of their predictions.

With great difficulty Marjory deciphered the following lines:--

"Come list to me, whoe'er ye be,
Who care for sayings true,
For, sooth to say, me trust ye may--
Prophesy these things I do:

"Since days of old the Hunters bold
Upon the muir held sway;
The Hunters' line shall ne'er decline
Till the muir doth pass away.

"By land and sea these brave men free
Their king shall nobly serve;
Their blood shall flow, their riches go
For the sovereign's cause they love.

"When bright days shine, the Stuart line
Shall hold these Hunters dear.
Should storms befall, a Hunter shall
Take his death-blow without fear.

"_N.B._--Fulfilled after the battle of Culloden in 1746, when
Colonel George Hunter was executed for his devotion to the cause of
the Young Pretender.

"In Church and State these Hunters great
A foremost place shall take;
With words as bold as theirs of old,
They shall speak for conscience' sake.

"_N.B._--Probably refers to speeches made by Alexander Hunter in
the House of Commons against the taxation of the Colonies, in 1765,
and to the Reverend John Hunter, a famous divine who lived in the
reign of George the Second.

"Should Hunter of this noble race
Pride of his house forget,
Ancestors grim shall punish him,
Till his fault he doth regret.

"_N.B._--Perhaps this refers to that James Hunter who, through his
reckless extravagance, sank deeply into debt, and was confined for
many months in the old Canongate Tolbooth in the city of Edinburgh,
during the reign of George the Third. His debts were paid by his
elder brother, who sold a great part of his property for that
purpose--notably that portion of his lands to the south of the
loch, and that on which the mansion of the Murray family now
stands."

"Fancy that!" said Marjory to herself. "I never knew that all that land
once belonged to us. No wonder if the ancestors did punish James; they
wouldn't like to see their property disappearing."

Then came a verse which caused the girl's heart to beat fast and her
face to flush:--

"The ladies fine of Hunter line
Are fair as fair can be.
Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."

A note followed:--

"It is a curious thing that among all the written descriptions and
the paintings at my disposal I can find no record of a dark-haired
daughter of the house; fair hair and blue eyes are the rule.--A. H."

It is easy to see that any one of these so-called predictions was more
than likely to be fulfilled under any circumstances, and that very
probably the whole thing was written in the first place as a joke.
Moreover, Marjory was not a Hunter by name, being the child of a
daughter of the house and not of a son. Still, she took this saying to
mean herself: she, Marjory Davidson, and no other, must be the
dark-haired maiden whose beloved must cross the sea. It must mean that,
sooner or later, her father would come to her across the sea.

It was little wonder, then, that she tossed and turned upon her pillow
that night, and that, when at last she did fall asleep, her dreams were
a confused mixture--rats flying from a terrier of impossible size,
shadowy processions of ancestors in their picture-frames, and a long row
of ladies with flaxen locks pointing at her and calling to her, "Tresses
dark a maiden mark."

Next morning, full of enthusiasm, she showed her uncle the portfolio,
directing his attention to the copied verses. Contrary to all her
expectations, he only laughed at them, and made no remark about the
dark-haired maiden. It was not that he did not notice that particular
verse, but he did not wish Marjory to think that there was any reason
why she should apply it to herself, and he did not wish her head to be
filled with romantic nonsense. So he took away the portfolio, much to
Marjory's disgust, for she had looked forward to showing it to Blanche
and Alan. Still, she had a good memory, and could repeat every word of
it by heart, and was not likely to forget it.

"Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."

The words repeated themselves over and over again in her head. She could
not get rid of them, or of the thoughts and fancies to which they gave
rise.

Marjory did not see the Braeside visitors till the Sunday morning, when
they met in the churchyard. Mrs. Hilary Forester was a very grand
personage, but looked good-natured. Her daughter Maud, whom she
considered to be little short of an angel, certainly did not look like
one just then. Something must have put her out that morning, for the
look she gave Marjory as the introductions were made was not by any
means calculated to make a good impression upon that young person,
already predisposed to dislike the new arrival.

Marjory saw the eyes of mother and daughter travel over her person from
head to foot--or rather, as she expressed it to herself, from hat to
shoes--and she felt as if that cold scrutiny would shrivel her up. She
herself, although she did not stare, quickly took in the details of Mrs.
Hilary Forester's very fashionable attire. She had never seen anything
like it in Heathermuir before. The ladies at Morristown always seemed to
her to be very grandly dressed, but nothing like this.

"I wonder if she is at all religious," was Marjory's mental comment. To
her mind, a display of finery was not compatible with what she called
religion.

Then her eyes fell upon Blanche's mother. She too was richly dressed,
but Marjory knew without being told that her clothes were in much better
taste than those of her visitor. Still, Marjory had never looked upon
Mrs. Forester as very religious; for the child had somehow come to
understand the word as being synonymous with sour looks, long faces,
unattractive clothes, and disapproval of most pleasant things. Mrs.
Forester was sweet and good and kind, and much nicer than any of the
people whom Lisbeth had pointed out to her as "releegious."

Marjory had yet to learn that religion is a life, not a profession; that
in its reality it is a wellspring of cheerfulness, of love and charity
for others, of praise and thanksgiving--a life which, instead of
holding itself aloof from the world as a wicked place, lives in it,
works for its good, believing that nothing which God has created can be
altogether wicked. Mrs. Forester and Miss Waspe were gradually
suggesting these new ideas to the girl, more perhaps by example than by
precept.

Marjory followed Miss Maud into church. She did not much like the look
of her, she decided. Waspy had said one must never judge hastily of
people, but she did not feel that she was going to like this girl; even
her back view looked stuck-up!

It really did; for Maud could never forget that she was Miss Hilary
Forester, and she gave a self-satisfied little waggle to her skirts as
she walked, which said very plainly, "Look at me! Don't I strike you as
being more attractive than most girls?"

This attitude on Maud's part was hardly to be wondered at, seeing that
she had been spoiled and petted all her life. Everything that she said
and did was extravagantly praised by her adoring mother, and she had
grown up with exaggerated ideas of her cleverness, her looks, and her
own importance. What wonder, then, that the poor child held her head
high and waggled her skirts? But Marjory knew nothing of these causes,
and, seeing only their effects, her feelings towards the newcomer had
not softened at all by the time church was over.

The three girls walked together as far as the turning to Braeside, and
conversation flagged considerably.

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