Hunter\'s Marjory

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"Are there many parties here at Christmas?" asked Maud.

"I don't know," replied Blanche.--"Are there, Marjory?"

"Not that I know of."

"What a dead-and-alive place to live in!" exclaimed Maud.

"It isn't!" said Blanche, firing up.

"Don't be so touchy, Blanche," said her cousin. "You don't seem to be at
all improved since I saw you."

Just then Silky, who had been sitting by the milestone as usual,
watching for his mistress, bounded forward to meet her, jumping and
barking round her with every sign of delight. In so doing he brushed
against Maud, and she was not at all pleased.

"What a horrid, rough dog!" she cried. "Do send him off, one of you! I
hate a great lumbering beast like that!"

"He isn't either horrid or rough," said Marjory indignantly, "but I
think I'd better go. Good-bye, Miss Hilary Forester.--Good-bye,
Blanche.--Come, Silky darling." And she walked on.

Maud laughed. "'Love me, love my dog,'" she quoted loudly, so that
Marjory might hear. And then to Blanche, "This friend you talk so much
about seems to be somewhat of a savage. I shall try to tame her,
though, for I rather like the look of her."

Marjory marched on, very indignant. It was hateful, she thought, that
this outsider, with her smart frocks and her superior ways, should come
and spoil their good time. She allowed herself to think very hardly of
Maud, although Miss Waspe's warning against hasty judgments came into
her mind more than once.

Marjory walked on, forgetting to look behind to see if her uncle were
coming. Some one called suddenly, "Miss Marjory!" She turned quickly,
and saw that Mary Ann Smylie was trying to catch up with her; so she
slackened her pace, and waited for her old enemy, wondering what she
might want.

Mary Ann, still self-conscious, still overdressed, nevertheless showed a
difference in her manner to Marjory.

"I only wanted to tell you something I thought you would like to know,"
she said, panting after her quick walk.

"What is it?" asked Marjory, curious to know what this something might
be.

"Mother told me that your uncle had sent a letter to foreign parts; she
wouldn't say who to, because she's not supposed to tell anything about
post-office business, you know. It was last Thursday, when she was
stamping the letters for the evening mail, suddenly she said 'Hallo!'
very surprised like. When I asked her what it was, she said, 'Hunter's
Marjory would like to see this,' but she wouldn't tell me any more
except that it was a foreign letter. It must have been to your father, I
believe, though I always thought he must be dead. Of course, I don't
know for certain that it was to him, only I thought I'd tell you about
it." And Mary Ann looked at Marjory with a deprecating little smile, as
much as to say, "I am trying to make amends for what I once said to
you."

Marjory thanked her, and then, remembering her uncle, she said that she
must wait for him.

"In that case," remarked Mary Ann, "I'll be off; he gives me the
shivers. Mind you, I don't know for certain about that letter; I only
think," she called back.

Marjory had plenty to think about as she sauntered back in the direction
of the church to meet her uncle. Could it possibly be that he had heard
something of her father? If so, how very unkind not to tell her. She had
a right to know; she _would_ know; and she worked herself into a very
excited state.

When her uncle joined her, she gave very short replies to his questions
and remarks, and at last she burst out, "Uncle, do you know anything
about my father?" in a very peremptory tone.

The doctor started. "My dear child," he said testily, "haven't I told
you over and over again that I have not heard one single word from your
father since I wrote and told him of your mothers death? I do not know
whether he is alive or dead, but I know this--he is dead to you." And
his voice rose with passion. Then, after a pause, he said rather sadly,
"Can't you be content, Marjory? Have I not done my best for you? I had
hoped that you were happier lately."

Marjory was touched by the feeling in his voice. "So I am, uncle, much
happier; but I can't help thinking and wondering about things
sometimes," she said wistfully. "No one can be exactly like a real
father and mother--at least, not quite," she added quickly, fearing to
wound her uncle afresh.

They finished their walk in silence, each busy with thoughts which,
could they have read each other's minds, would have filled them with
astonishment. The little storm blew over as other storms had done, but
Marjory could not forget what Mary Ann had told her about the letter.

Next day, when she went to Braeside, Marjory spent rather a painful
quarter of an hour with Mrs. Hilary Forester. Blanche and Maud had gone
out for a walk, and Marjory was shown into the morning-room to wait for
them. There she found the lady, sitting in a capacious armchair by the
fire, toasting her feet upon the fender, displaying elaborately-embroidered
stockings and many rustling frills.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Forester," said Marjory shyly.

"Mrs. _Hilary_ Forester, dear child," amended the lady. "Blanche's
mother is _Mrs._ Forester, having married the eldest son, and one must
be exact, you know."

"I beg your pardon," said Marjory, covered with confusion.

Blanche's Aunt Katharine looked at her critically. "I suppose your
mother plaits your hair in that pigtail to save trouble, but they are
not worn in town, you know."

"My mother is dead," said Marjory stolidly.

"Dear, dear, yes, of course, now I remember Rose--that's Mrs. Forester,
you know--Rose did say something to that effect, but my memory fails me
so often; it is a great affliction. Well, it's a good thing your poor
father has you left to comfort him. My darling Maud is my one comfort,
I'm sure, while her father is away in those dreadful foreign places.
Perhaps I spoil her a little," complacently; "but then I dare say,"
playfully, "that your father spoils you."

"I haven't got a father either," said poor Marjory dully.

Mrs. Hilary carefully adjusted her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and looked at
Marjory over the top of them.

"Well, to be sure, I certainly understood--at least I thought--but
there, my memory does fail me at times; still, I was certainly under the
impression that your father was Dr. Hunter--_the_ great Dr. Hunter."

"No, he is my uncle; my name is Davidson," explained Marjory.

"Oh yes, yes, to be sure, now I come to think of it, Rose did say
something about it, and I remember wondering whether you belonged to
_the_ Davidsons, you know."

"I don't know," said Marjory doubtfully, wishing that Blanche and Maud
would come to her rescue.

"I must look it up for you, dear child. It is such a comfort to know
that one belongs to _the_ branch of a family, you know. As I tell Maud,
it makes all the difference to a young girl in these days when mere
money, that root of all evil, is so much thought of; not but that it is
a comfort too, in its way--in its way," she continued thoughtfully; "but
at this time of year one ought to think of doing little kindnesses,
leaving money out of the question--I mean we should not let it be our
sole comfort at such a time, you understand."

Marjory did not understand, and as she did not know what to reply to
this harangue, she said nothing. But silence did not suit Mrs. Hilary.

"You are very quiet for a girl of your age," she said. "Now my Maud has
a continual flow of merry chatter, and I encourage the darling. I think
it is so nice for a young girl to have plenty to say, and to have her
own little opinions about things. For instance, Maudie chooses all her
own hats and frocks, and decides what we shall do and where we shall go.
It is perfectly delightful for me, and saves me so much thought and
worry; I suffer so with my bad memory, you know. Come now, can't you
chat to me? Any little village gossip or small happenings at home?"
("atome," as she pronounced it). "No? Well, dear me, what was it that
darling Maud said about you? I know she said something, but my memory is
_such_ a trial. Oh yes, there was something about a dog; and you called
Maud a savage, and she rather liked you for it. Dear child, she has such
a sweet, forgiving nature."

"I never called her a savage," protested Marjory. "I--"

At that moment Blanche and Maud came bursting into the room.

"What's that about calling names?" cried Maud. "I called _her_ a
savage," nodding at Marjory, "but I didn't mean any harm, and you've got
it all mixed up, you dear darling old muddle-head of a mother." And she
rushed upon Mrs. Hilary and hugged her until the poor lady had no breath
left with which to protest.

Marjory looked on in wonder. When Maud had done with her mother she
turned to Marjory.

"Now, _don't_ look at me like that," she said plaintively; "you're going
to like me in the end; I'm going to make you. I know just exactly what
you're thinking--that I'm a horrid, stuck-up, thoroughly spoilt and
disagreeable girl. So I am; but I'm all right when you know me, though
you've got to know me first, as the song says. True, I don't like
dogs--nasty lumbering things that spoil one's best clothes; but that's
not a crime--it's an opinion. I always have my own way, everybody gives
in to me, and so long as I can 'boss the show,' as our American cousins
say, I can be quite charming. Now you look as if you liked bossing shows
yourself, Miss Marjory--people with long noses always do; so one of us
will have to give in. I wonder which it will be. But I must have you
like me; I am perfectly miserable if people aren't fond of me." And she
looked at Marjory with a comic yet pathetic appeal in her eyes.

"Dear Maudie has such quaint little sayings," said her mother. "I don't
know how she can remember them all."

"Well, which is it to be?" demanded Maud, dramatically striking an
attitude. "Is it peace or war?"

"Oh, peace, I suppose," replied Marjory, laughing; and then as an
afterthought--"for the present."

This girl with her airs and graces and her comical ways was something
quite new to Marjory, and she stood contemplating this wonderful and
puzzling creature, when the creature suddenly seized her round the
waist, waltzing out of the room with her, and calling Blanche to come
too.

"Darling Maud has such wonderfully high spirits," murmured Mrs. Hilary
to the empty air. She had probably forgotten that there was no one left
in the room.

CHAPTER XV.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

"And hopes, perfumed and bright,
So lately shining wet with dew and tears,
Trembling in the morning light--
I saw them change to dark and anxious fears
Before the night!"--ADELAIDE PROCTER.

Blanche had told her cousin something of Marjory's history, and Maud was
prepared to be much interested in her, for her life had been so unusual,
so different from that of ordinary girls.

"I've never met anybody just like you," she said to Marjory as they
walked across the park, "and I want to know all about you and your
belongings, and above all, I ache to find out what is in that forbidden
room, and why you mustn't go into it."

This was a sore subject with Marjory. She felt more than half ashamed of
her uncle's eccentricity in this matter.

"I don't think there is anything in it except my mother's things," she
replied. "Everything that belonged to her is there, except this chain
with the locket and coin on it that she said she wanted me to have and
to wear always. Lisbeth says I used to wear it when I was a tiny baby."
And she pulled the chain outside her coat to show it to Maud.

"Oh, how sweet!" cried Maud as she opened the locket and saw the face of
Marjory's mother. "How I wish you'd got her now!" impulsively squeezing
Marjory's arm. "And what's this?" looking at the other trinket which
hung on the chain.

"It's the half of a coin with a hole bored through it."

"So it is. And look, there's one-half of the date on it--87. Let's see.
This is 1902. That's" (and she counted rapidly on her fingers, contrary
to all approved systems of mental arithmetic) "fifteen years ago--before
you were born, and of course the very year I was born. It was the
Queen's Jubilee year, and that's why I was called Victoria--Maud
Victoria my name is. Think it's pretty?" she asked, with her head
coquettishly on one side.

"I like Maud," said Marjory. "Victoria sounds rather too grand for an
ordinary person."

"But I'm not an ordinary person. Well, don't mind me; let's think about
this coin. The question is, Where's the other half? Somebody must have
got it. More mystery. Why, Marjory, you are like a girl in a book where
all sorts of impossible things can happen. _I'm_ going to write a book
some day--from a girl's point of view--and I intend to make all parents
and guardians and governesses, _et cetera_, sit up. Why should boys
have everything jolly, while girls are made to be so prim and proper?
Read a boys' book and you will find it full of fun and adventures and
excitement, but girls are supposed to care about nothing but wish-wash,
about self-denial and being good, and all that. Course I know we ought
to try to be good, keep our promises, and never do mean things, or tell
stories; every decent girl tries; but we don't want it continually poked
down our throats till we're sick of it. My theory is that girls ought to
have just as good a time all round as boys, if not a better." And the
irrepressible Maud laughed merrily.

"Here comes Alan," said Blanche, secretly wondering what he would think
of the visitor. When she heard the announcement, Maud gave a tilt to her
hat and a toss to her hair, which she wore hanging, as if to prepare
herself for an encounter.

Alan approached the girls rather shyly, introductions were made, and
after a little consultation Maud decided that they would make an
expedition to the pond. Strange to say, by the time the pond was
reached, Alan had dismissed all thoughts of booby traps and apple-pie
beds, for Miss Maud had quite won him over by her expressions of opinion
upon things in general and upon boys in particular. He felt that it was
more than possible, without loss of dignity, to "chum up" with such a
girl. The only thing he did not like about her was the way she waggled
her skirts, and he decided that some one ought to tell her not to do it,
although he would have hesitated long had such a task devolved upon
himself.

So the Triple Alliance became a quadruple one, and on the whole things
went well with its members. It must be admitted that Marjory understood
Maud much better than did her cousin Blanche. Blanche was an
unimaginative, rather matter-of-fact little person, and was apt to take
all Maud's sayings literally. For instance, when her cousin said, as she
often did, "Don't I look sweet in this dress?" or "this hat?" as the
case might be, Blanche would think her vain and conceited, and feel
ashamed of her, whereas Marjory would know at once that it was only
Maud's fun, and would laugh at these sayings of hers.

As the days went by, Marjory found herself really liking this bright,
merry girl with all her airs and nonsense. She noticed her devotion to
her mother, and saw that in spite of her talk about always taking her
own way, she very seldom did anything that was really in opposition to
her mother's wishes. True, she laughed at her indulgent muddle-headed
parent; but though it shocked poor Blanche's ideas of what was fitting,
this laughter was nothing more than affectionate raillery and a sign in
itself of the excellent understanding which existed between mother and
daughter. "Mamma does forget so," she would say. "Papa says sometimes he
believes she forgets that he ever existed."

To Dr. Hunter, Maud was an entirely new phenomenon, and he studied her
with curiosity. He had not been much better pleased than the children
when he heard of the expected visitors, for he still wished to keep
Marjory away from strangers if possible; but he had not the heart to
separate her from her friend at Christmas time, and so he allowed her to
go to Braeside just as usual.

Maud conquered the doctor as she had conquered Alan. For calm
self-assurance, irrepressible spirits, and undoubted charm he thought he
had never seen her equal, and, compared with the girl of his former
experience, seemed an inhabitant of another world.

Mrs. Hilary, too, was quite a new specimen of womanhood to him,
good-natured incapacity personified, as she was. Sometimes, when she
made some more than usually foolish remark, the doctor would catch
Maud's eye, and they would enjoy the joke together. Then he would rebuke
himself and inform himself that it was altogether out of order that he
should countenance such disrespect, and, what was worse, that he should
thoroughly enjoy the fun himself.

On Christmas evening, when he was first introduced to Mrs. Hilary, he
was quite bewildered by the vagueness of her conversation. Endeavouring
to make himself agreeable, he began to make inquiries as to the
whereabouts of Mr. Hilary Forester, who was travelling abroad.

"Well, I had a letter from him two days ago," she replied, "from Texas,
or Mexico--those foreign names are so alike, and I never was good at
geography, and the letters take such a long time to come that by the
time they get here the place is different--I mean, he has gone somewhere
else, so that I really never know exactly where he is." The doctor
murmured something sympathetic, and Mrs. Hilary continued, "I hope Texas
or Mexico, which ever it is, is a British possession. I always feel
safer about Hilary when he is under his own country's protection, for
one never knows what foreigners are going to do, there are such dreadful
stories in the papers nowadays." And she beamed upon the bewildered man
of science. "And then there's the climate, too, to be considered," she
went on; "some of these foreign places have their winter while we have
summer, or is it the other way round? I never know, it is so dreadfully
confusing, especially to me with my bad memory; perhaps it is that they
have summer while we have winter, but anyway I think the English
arrangement is much to be preferred. I am a good Conservative, you know;
besides, I think it is so charming to love one's own country, and all
that. By the way, about that letter.--Maudie darling," she called to her
daughter, "just go and fetch me daddy's last letter; it's the top one on
the left-hand side of where the papers are--not the bill side, darling,
but the other one. You'll find it at the back, under my handkerchief
sachet; and mind, dearest, that you don't crush my lace collar; it's
just been cleaned--if it's there."

To the doctor's astonishment Maud went off obediently. Mrs. Hilary's
instructions had conveyed nothing to him.

"It is so much better to decide things at once," said that lady, with a
charming smile. "I shall feel quite worried now till I know whether
Hilary is in Mexico or Texas--at least, when the letter was written; one
can't expect to know where he is now," with a sigh. "I was so hoping
that the new postmaster-general might make some better arrangement;
but I dare say he is much worried, poor man, so we must hope and trust
for the best."

Maud returned with the letter, and the question was settled. Mr. Hilary
Forester had written from Galveston, Texas, and his wife was relieved
when the others laughingly assured her that he was not amongst savages
or wild beasts, and that the arrangement of the seasons was much the
same as in England.

There was to be a real party at Braeside on Twelfth Night. All the young
people of the neighbourhood had been invited, and after much persuasion
on Mrs. Forester's part, the doctor had consented to let Marjory go. She
looked forward to it with much pleasure, for she felt that with Blanche,
Maud, and Alan as allies she could face the strangers with confidence.
Mrs. Forester, with her usual tact, had asked her to arrange some of the
games for the younger children, so that she might feel that she was
being useful--a feeling which gives confidence to the shyest of girls.

The doctor had ordered her a new white frock for the occasion, with
stockings and shoes to match. Lisbeth was in raptures over it, and how
it would become her little mistress; and it must be confessed that
Marjory could not think of the fairy-like contents of a certain long
drawer without a thrill of pleasure.

The day came, and Lisbeth, who insisted that she must dress Marjory for
her first party, spread all the finery on the bed quite early in the
afternoon. She lighted the fire to make the room cheerful, and she
brought an extra pair of candles so that Marjory should have plenty of
light.

Poor Peter had been very bad with rheumatism the last day or two, and
could do nothing but sit in his armchair in the kitchen watching Lisbeth
or doing little jobs for her, such as cutting skewers or "sorting" her
string bag. He was much interested in the party, and Marjory promised to
go to the kitchen and show herself when she was all ready.

Lisbeth was much concerned to see her husband so crippled, but she would
not allow anything more than that he was "just a wee bit colded," and
blamed the weather as being the cause. She was afraid her master might
be inclined to find fault with Peter for his helplessness. "Rain and
snaw, and frost and fog, and wind like newly-sharpened knives--a body
doesna ken what's coming next," she said indignantly when she went to
tell the doctor about it. He reassured Lisbeth by his kindly sympathy,
and the old woman wept with joy when he told her that so long as he was
alive there would be a home for his faithful servants at Hunters' Brae,
whether they were past work or not.

The party was to begin at seven o'clock, and Mrs. Forester had promised
to send a carriage for Marjory at half-past six, so that she should be
there in good time and feel at home before the other guests arrived.

But things were to turn out very differently from all expectations.
Contrary to his usual habit, Dr. Hunter had not appeared at early dinner
that day, nor had he left any message; but it was concluded that he had
gone to the Morisons', or to the minister's, perhaps. He did not return
during the afternoon, and when tea-time came and still he did not
appear, Marjory began to feel anxious. He never went out for so long a
time without telling her or leaving a message.

Lisbeth asked the man who brought the afternoon's milk from the farm if
he would go to the doctor's and the minister's and inquire whether her
master were there, and he good-naturedly agreed to do so--perhaps with
visions of a reward in the shape of a good cup of tea in the Hunters'
Brae kitchen on his return.

He came back with no news of the doctor; he had not been seen out that
day.

Marjory had her tea alone, and a feeling of dread weighed upon her. It
seemed so strange for her uncle to be away so long, and on this
particular day too. He had been so interested about the party, and her
frock, and all the arrangements. What could it mean?

Suddenly, as she sat puzzling over it, a thought struck her. Quick as
lightning she ran to the hall, took up a candle, and went along the
passage to the old wing. It was about five o'clock, and the place was
dark as night. Her footsteps echoed through the empty rooms and passages
till she reached the place where the secret chamber was. Tremblingly she
felt along the wall. Would she be able to find the spring? She now felt
almost certain that she would find her uncle here. Perhaps he would be
angry with her for disturbing him; he might be finishing some very
important experiment. Should she go in? She hesitated, but only for a
moment; something seemed to urge her on. After some searching she found
the spring; the door flew open, and, holding her candle high, she went
in. She could not suppress a cry of terror when she saw that her uncle
lay stretched upon the floor. He moaned a little as she went towards
him, and she was thankful to hear his voice. Broken glass was strewed
upon the floor, and there was an unpleasant chemical odour in the room.
She knelt beside her uncle, and found that his head and face were cut,
that blood was flowing freely, and that his poor hands had suffered in
some dreadful way. She took her handkerchief and gently tried to wipe
his face. He murmured faintly, "Brandy--my cupboard--keys," and she
understood what he wished. She felt in his pocket for the keys, and,
saying that she would be back directly, she took the candle and went
quickly to the study, found the brandy, and got back again without being
seen. She did not call Lisbeth, as she felt sure that the doctor would
be very sorry if his hiding-place became known, and she hoped that he
might be able to get to his study before she gave the alarm.

Dr. Hunter swallowed some brandy, and it revived him. After a little
while Marjory asked him if he thought he could go to his study, and he
replied, "Yes, lassie; but you must help me."

Marjory's heart beat fast and her hands trembled as she assisted him to
rise. The least movement of his injured hands made him wince. Very
slowly and painfully the two made their way down the stairs and across
the old hall, till at last they reached the doctor's study. The exertion
had been too much for him, and he fainted. Marjory rushed to call
Lisbeth, saying that the doctor had come home, and that there had been
an accident.

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