Hunter\'s Marjory

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

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In spite of her happy life, Marjory never lost her longing for her
father. She dreamed of him, planned a future for herself in which he was
always the prominent figure, and determined that if she ever were her
own mistress she would travel from country to country in search of him,
for since the day when Mrs. Forester had quoted her old friend's words,
"A fine fellow Hugh Davidson was. I always feel that he may turn up
again some day," she had never quite lost hope.

Easter fell early that year; the season was very mild, and there were
lovely sunny days for being out of doors when the holidays began.

Maud Forester and her mother were at Braeside again, and the Morison
boys were at home, so the party was a merry one. Herbert's admiration
for Maud still flourished, and he joined the girls in all their doings.

All went well until one day when Alan was taken by his mother to
Morristown to be measured for some new clothes, much to his disgust, for
he would have preferred to sacrifice the clothes rather than one of his
precious holidays. Dr. Hunter had gone there too on business. Before
leaving in the morning he had charged Marjory not to go on the loch
during his absence--not that he expected bad weather, but he never felt
quite comfortable about her going out when he was away, although she was
quite capable of managing the boat. Many a time they had sailed from one
end of the loch to the other, and she had done everything from start to
finish as well as he could have done it himself.

Marjory readily promised; she had quite expected this, for her uncle
never left Heathermuir for a whole day without giving her this
injunction. She was to spend the day at Braeside, and she went down
there after driving her uncle to the station.

When she entered the morning-room she found Mrs. Hilary finishing a late
breakfast, with Mrs. Forester, Blanche, and Maud in attendance. Mrs.
Hilary was saying, "Yes, he's really coming home at last, after being
away more than a year, on the _Campania_, he says--the White Star Line,
you know, or is it the Cunard? I really never remember. One lot always
end in '_ic_,' and the other in '_ia_,' and it is so confusing. It would
be so much better if they didn't give them these long classical names,
wouldn't it? I never was good at the classics, you know. Ah, here's
Marjory. Good-morning, child; how rosy and healthy you look, quite a
picture, and your dark hair makes a nice contrast with the other girls."

Marjory became rosier still, and sat down as much out of sight as
possible.

"Yes, as I was saying," continued Mrs. Forester, thoughtfully gazing at
a piece of toast, "he's been to Brazil, and Morocco, and Mexico, and
Alaska, and all the well-known places that it's proper to go to, and all
through the United States too. He must be a regular walking geography by
this time, if he doesn't forget it all on that dreadful voyage. One gets
so confused with those foreign places--at least I do; and really, by the
time I've crossed from Calais to Dover, I've gone through such terrors
of mind and body that I'm quite upset, and I can hardly remember what
I've seen or where I've been. That's where I think a guide-book such a
comfort. One can put a mark against each place one goes to, and that
makes it quite certain, you know. I wonder if Hilary has a guide-book.
But men are different, I suppose," she said, with a sigh of resignation
at the superiority of the sterner sex.

The girls slipped away as soon as they conveniently could. They had no
very definite plans for the day, and one suggestion after another was
made as they walked towards the park.

Herbert Morison soon joined them, and they continued to stroll somewhat
aimlessly through the park, the dogs at their heels. There seemed to be
a spirit of depression upon them that morning, which was a most unusual
experience for them.

"We miss Alan, don't we?" remarked Maud, after one of the awkward
silences which seemed inevitable that morning.

The other girls agreed, but Herbert said nothing, as he did not quite
see what difference a "kid" like Alan could make.

Suddenly Maud clapped her hands. "I know," she cried; "we'll all go on
the loch; it'll be just lovely." She had caught sight of the water
shining silvery blue through the trees, and certainly it did look
inviting. "Come on," cried Maud excitedly; "you'll take us, won't you,
Marj?"

Marjory reddened. "I'm sorry I can't. I promised uncle that I wouldn't
go on the loch to-day."

"What rubbish! Why, it's as calm as a mill pond."

"Not quite; there's a bit of a wind; besides, uncle said I wasn't to."

"We needn't sail; we could row," suggested Herbert.

"Oh, rowing's no fun; besides, it's such hard work.--I'll make it all
right with the doctor, Marj. You see, he didn't know Herbert would be
here."

Herbert looked decidedly uncomfortable and as if he wished he were not
there. The truth was that he did not feel by any means at home in a
sailing-boat, and would have very much preferred to row, or, better
still, not to go on the water at all. However, if Maud wished it, there
was no more to be said. The Foresters had a rowing-boat which would
quite well have accommodated the party, but Maud had made up her mind
for a sail, and a sail she would have, or nothing.

Blanche felt very much divided between her duty to her guest and to her
friend. She was half ashamed that Maud should suggest taking possession
of Dr. Hunter's boat against his orders, and was inclined to wish that,
if Maud insisted upon going, Marjory would give in and go too.

"Come, Marjory," coaxed Maud, "don't be silly. It'll be all right, I
promise you."

"It's no use; I won't come," replied Marjory stoutly.

"Well, I call it very selfish of you," said Maud, her temper rising.
"And I'm sure the doctor never meant that you were not to go at all,
only that you were not to go alone; and I'm also quite sure that if he
were here he would let us have the boat this minute."

"Yes, if he were here and could go with you himself," retorted Marjory.

"Oh, very well, if you won't take us, Herbert will.--Won't you?" And
Maud turned appealingly to him.

Poor Herbert was in a tight place, as he would have expressed it. First
and foremost, he was anxious to please Maud and to stand well in her
estimation, but he had no confidence in his own powers of managing a
sailing-boat; besides, he knew something of the loch and its ways, and
how storms little and big could rise suddenly and without warning.
Another thing--he did not much like the idea of going off in Dr.
Hunter's boat without his permission, for although pretty, spoiled Maud
had no dread of the stern, eccentric doctor, Herbert did not by any
means share her fearless attitude towards him.

Poor Herbert was hesitating on the side of prudence, when Maud decided
matters by saying with a pout,--

"You don't seem very keen either. I must say I think it's awfully mean
of you two.--Come on, Blanche; you and I will go, and it'll be their
fault if we're drowned."

Thus hard pressed, Herbert said he would go. After all, it was a lovely
day, and the water looked calm enough. True, there was the little
breeze that Marjory had spoken of; but if it didn't come to any more,
he might pull through all right. Thus once again was illustrated the
truth of the old saying that "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread."
How many lives are lost through ignorance and foolhardiness!

Poor Marjory was in a state of mind bordering on distraction. Ought she
to disobey her uncle and go with them? She felt sure that, although he
would not confess it, Herbert was a novice in the art of sailing, and
she feared what might happen should the wind increase. She could only
hope that this would not be the case, that Maud would soon tire of her
whim, and that they would all come back safe and sound.

They started off gaily, Maud waving her hand to Marjory.

"Good-bye, you dear little monument of obedience," she cried. "You won't
enjoy your morning half as much as we shall."

Blanche looked inquiringly at Marjory, and for the first time in the
course of their friendship her look met with no answering smile. Marjory
was too anxious, and besides, she felt inclined to blame Blanche for
yielding to her cousin's persuasions; while Blanche, on her part,
thought that Marjory might have stretched a point and gone with them.

However, the start was made in fine style, and all went well at first.
The sun shone and the skies were blue; the fresh green of spring was
showing everywhere, and the young people's spirits rose as the pretty
little boat sped on.

Marjory walked slowly along by the loch, with Silky and Curly for
company. Had she done right or wrong? The question repeated itself over
and over again in her mind, until she felt too confused to think. Her
anxiety was growing. She would hardly admit it to herself, but she
feared that each quarter of an hour brought increased force to the
breeze that had been blowing when they started. She watched the white
sails getting smaller and smaller. How she wished that they would turn
back! Once when a bend of the shore hid the boat from sight, she turned
sick and faint with fear for its safety; and then, when it appeared
again, she scolded herself for being so foolish.

The wind was certainly rising. There was an angry-looking cloud on the
horizon, and the sunshine, once so brilliant, was now faint and fitful.

At last the boat turned, but with the turn Herbert's difficulties began.
Things were getting serious. Marjory watched Herbert's every movement
with eager anxiety. Would he do it? _Could_ he do it? She looked at her
watch. It was just half-past twelve, and all the men about Braeside
would have gone to their dinner; besides, it would take her some time to
run there for help. The Low Farm was perhaps a little nearer, but not
much, and something, she hardly dared to think what, might happen while
she was gone.

A sudden gust of wind lifted her hat from her head. This, at any other
time, would have been a mere frolic to this child of the moors, but now
it caused her real alarm. This same wind that played with her hat and
her hair, and that swept her petticoats about her, could do far more
mischief to the little boat with its flapping sails. It was nearly
opposite to her now, and still about half a mile from the landing-stage.
Marjory put her hands to her mouth.

"Shorten sail!" she called. "Shorten sail!"

Herbert appeared to be losing control of the boat and of his own wits,
and the boat seemed at the mercy of the wind.

Marjory called frantically to them to take in a certain sail and reef
another--directions which, even if they could have heard them, would
have been as Greek to the occupants of the boat; but the wind carried
her voice away, and she stood helpless, watching Herbert's bungling
attempts. Another moment, and the mast was broken, and in falling dealt
Herbert a blow on the head which stunned him for the time being.

Quick as thought, Marjory threw off her coat and boots and was in the
water, calling Silky to come too. Curly had been well trained, and was a
very clever, sensible dog by this time, and she ordered him to go home
and fetch his master, hoping that he might attract some one's notice.

Straining every nerve, Marjory swam towards the boat. "Throw out the
towline!" she screamed to the girls as soon as she was near enough for
them to hear her. Maud, now thoroughly frightened, did as she was bid,
and Marjory called to Silky, "Seize it, good dog! seize it!" The water
was not very rough, but she knew that it was deep in this particular
place, and the boat was being driven like a bird with a broken wing.

Silky, good dog that he was, got hold of the rope, which happily had
some floats attached to it, and began swimming steadily back towards his
mistress. Marjory caught the rope, and by its means drew herself to the
boat, carefully got into it, and in a very few minutes, having done what
was necessary, she took to the oars. Blanche was lying in Maud's arms,
overcome by terror, and Herbert was quite stupefied by the knock on his
head.

Help was nearer than Marjory had imagined. Looking to the shore to see
if she could put in at once without having to row against the wind all
the way to the landing-stage, she saw a man waving his arms as a signal
to her. She bent all her strength to her task, and it was no light one.

The man on shore, having taken off his coat and his boots, was wading
in, ready to receive the boat. The storm was coming on apace, great
drops of rain began to fall, and the sky was dark and lowering.

A few more strokes were all that was needed to bring them within reach
of strong arms; but why did Marjory feel so tired, and as if she could
not go on? She _must_ go on! How thankful she felt that there was some
one at hand if she should fail--if--One last stroke, and then a confused
sound of shouting, a grating noise as if some one were shooting a load
of stones. It must be Peter in the garden, and she was dreaming--dreaming.

Curly had trotted off obediently in the direction of Braeside. Mr.
Forester, strolling across the park, expecting to meet the girls
returning home for lunch, was very much surprised to meet the dog, who
behaved in such a way as to arouse his fears of something being wrong.
To begin with, Blanche and her dog were inseparable companions, as a
rule, and it was strange that Curly should come home alone. Besides, he
seemed in such an excited state; he kept jumping up at Mr. Forester, and
then running forward and barking as if he wished his master to follow.
Curious, and somewhat alarmed, Mr. Forester went after the dog, and
arrived upon the scene just in time to see the boat come in. An
exclamation of dismay broke from him as he saw the condition of its
occupants, and he rushed forward to help the man to draw it up on
shore.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STRANGER RETURNS.

"We fell out, my wife and I,
And kissed again with tears."

TENNYSON.

Marjory was the only one of the four who suffered seriously from that
day's doings. Blanche soon came to herself in her father's arms; Maud,
though thoroughly frightened, had kept her head, and escaped without
even a wetting; and Herbert's bruises, though painful, were nothing to
be alarmed about as soon as he had recovered from the stunning effect of
the blow on his head.

The stranger who had so unexpectedly come to their aid produced a flask
from his pocket, and Blanche and Marjory were each given a dose of
brandy.

Marjory thought she must still be dreaming when she opened her eyes and
saw her friend the tramp or poacher--for it was he--bending over her
anxiously.

To Mr. Forester's inquiries she replied that she felt all right now. He
wished to take Blanche home as quickly as possible, and the man assured
him that he and Herbert would see Marjory safely up to Hunters' Brae, at
the same time asking that a groom might be sent to fetch the doctor, as
he was sure one would be needed.

Mr. Forester thanked the man, promising to send for Dr. Morison, though
he thought it was hardly so serious as all that, for Marjory was such a
strong, sturdy girl, so different from his delicate little Blanche, he
thought, as he pressed his precious child closer to him. He bade Marjory
good-bye, saying that he must take Blanche home to her mother, and that
Maud had better come too. Maud would have liked to stay with Marjory,
but feeling that taking her own way had caused enough trouble already,
she reluctantly obeyed her uncle.

Although Marjory had said she felt all right, she found that when she
tried to stand up and walk she felt strangely weak, and there was a
sharp pain in her side, so that she was very glad to lean on the arm of
her mysterious friend. She was too tired to be curious, and she accepted
his help and kindness without question.

He and Herbert between them managed to get her home, and then handed her
over to Lisbeth's care. She, poor woman, was too much taken aback to ask
the stranger who he was, and he slipped away unnoticed and unthanked.

Herbert decided to wait until his father came, so that he might give him
an account of the true state of affairs; and it was well that he did
so, for, even had she been able, it is doubtful whether Marjory would
have been willing to say much about her own part in the day's
happenings.

Herbert did not spare himself to his father, but told the story as
quickly as he could, and then waited anxiously for the doctor to come
back from his patient.

"Well, my boy," he said, when at last he appeared, "I'm afraid she'll be
worse before she's better, as the saying is. Curious thing--an old
weakness of her childhood, which her uncle and I both thought she had
outgrown! That swim in her clothes, straining every nerve, then rowing
back, wind against her, four of you in the boat--too much--caused
strain. This will mean weeks of lying up, poor child; seems worried
too--wants to know if she did right. Bless her! she did more than fifty
girls in her place would have done. But come along, boy. It might have
been worse; she'll get over it all right. Come; you need a good square
meal after all this, and a little doctoring too." And he patted his son
on the shoulder affectionately, for he felt sorry for the boy's
distress.

He drove him home, and then, without waiting for anything to eat
himself, the good man was off again to Braeside to see if anything were
wanted there. He found that the girls were not much the worse for their
adventure--a little hysterical and excited, but that was all. He was
pleased to find that Maud, who had been the first cause of all the
mischief, had given a true and honest account of the whole thing, and
was now bitterly sorry for the part she had taken.

"Promise you won't scold Herbert," she pleaded; "it was all my fault. I
made him do it. He didn't want to himself; I know he didn't."

"Don't you worry about him; I've just taken him home to a good dinner,"
said the doctor, smiling. "And now I'm going back to dress those bruises
of his. He looks more like a defeated prize-fighter than the handsome,
elder son of a celebrated country practitioner that he was when he left
home this morning. I must do something for him before his poor mother
comes home," laughing, "or she won't recognize her son." And the genial
doctor hurried off again.

Dr. Hunter was surprised and disappointed when he saw that Peter had
come to the station to meet him, for he had expected Marjory; but when
he learned the reason, he was very much concerned--concerned and grieved
too, for he could not but gather from Peter's account that Marjory had
gone on the loch in spite of his prohibition. He remembered the girl's
face as she had given her promise--the dark eyes looking so honestly
into his, the expression of the mouth so firm and steadfast. He sighed,
and tried to make excuses for her in his own mind, but try as he would
he could only feel bitterly disappointed. He went straight to her room
when he arrived. Marjory met his look appealingly. "I couldn't help it,"
she murmured, as he sat down by the bedside and took her hand.

"Never mind to-night, child," he said gently, patting her hand; "you
shall tell me all about it to-morrow."

But Marjory, since her better understanding of her uncle, had grown very
sensitive to his moods and feelings, and she felt a shadow of
displeasure in spite of his caresses. She was too weak and tired to
talk, and after he left her she lay dreaming and thinking and wishing
that he knew. She thought of Blanche too, and the look that had passed
between them when the boat started. This was the first real trouble
there had been since their friendship began. How she wished that she
could explain everything!

But help came in the person of Dr. Morison, who called again in the
evening to see how his patient was getting on. He was able to tell the
doctor the whole story, with those particulars which poor old Peter did
not know. Marjory was greatly relieved when her uncle said to her, "Dr.
Morison has told me all about it. You're a good girl, Marjory, and I'm
proud of you."

Marjory was greatly soothed and comforted by these words, and though she
was very wakeful through the night, her mind was at rest.

Next morning Blanche and Maud came to see her, tearful and sorry for the
trouble they had thoughtlessly caused. Blanche admitted that at first
she had blamed Marjory and thought it selfish of her not to go with
them, but that she knew now that Marjory had been right in obeying her
uncle.

"But what I think so awfully hard is that we were the ones who deserved
to suffer, and yet you who were so good and brave have to be ill like
this." And Maud burst into tears. "It was only yesterday," she
continued, between her sobs, "that mother remarked how healthy and rosy
you looked, and now you are so pale; I can't bear it." And she hid her
face in her hands.

"Please don't cry," Marjory said. "I'm not very ill, you know; only Dr.
Morison says I shall have to lie down a lot until I get quite all right
again. Everybody is so kind to me, it's not a bit hard. Please don't
cry." And she stretched out her hand towards Maud, who seized it and
covered it with impulsive kisses.

"I hope I shall never, never do such a thing again," said Maud. "It was
all through me wanting my own way; it's like a sort of mania that gets
hold of me sometimes. Oh, I do feel such a beast, I can't bear myself;
and poor mother is so cut up about it, and talked to me so this morning.
She's awful sweet, my mother, really, though she does forget so, and
says such funny things."

The girls' visit did not last long, as Marjory was to be kept quiet for
a few days. They had all been wondering who the friendly stranger could
be who had helped them the day before, but no one had been able to give
any information about him.

Soon after the girls left, Dr. Hunter came into Marjory's room, his face
beaming with pleasure.

"There are visitors downstairs," he said, "but I'm afraid I mustn't let
them come to see you to-day; perhaps they could come again to-morrow.
Who do you think they are?"

Marjory suggested the Foresters, the Mackenzies, Mrs. Morison; but
no--it was none of these.

"Do tell me," she begged of the doctor.

"Well, it's Captain and Mrs. Shaw from the Low Farm. It was he who
carried you home yesterday. I declare it's quite a romance. Mrs. Shaw is
absolutely transformed; I never saw such a change in any one in such a
short time. Certainly happiness is a great beautifier."

"Oh, I _am_ glad. Then she's forgiven him? I expect that's what makes
her feel so happy."

Dr. Hunter looked serious. Perhaps he was thinking of some one else who
had nourished hard feelings against another for many years.

"Do ask them to come back to-morrow, uncle," said Marjory. "I should
love to see them."

Captain and Mrs. Shaw came again next day, and Marjory was allowed to
receive them. As her uncle had said, Mrs. Shaw was a very
different-looking woman from the one she had hitherto known. She came
into the room smiling, followed by her husband, who hung back, fearing
lest he should intrude.

"Please come in," said Marjory; "I do so want to talk to you. Please
tell me all about everything," she said, when they had finished their
inquiries as to herself, and she had thanked the captain for his timely
assistance.

"I've not got much to tell," began Mrs. Shaw. "I wrote to him to the
care of the company in Liverpool which he used to belong to, but the
letter didn't get there till he'd started on a long voyage. I didn't
write it that day I said I would. I couldn't make up my mind to do it
somehow. Well, the company forwarded the letter, and it followed him
from one place to another, and I heard nothing of him till he came to my
door the night before your accident, and glad I was to see him, as I
needn't tell you. The next day he was strolling about the place, waiting
for me to get ready to come up here, when he saw you in the water; and a
good thing he was there to see." And she beamed upon the captain.--"Now
it's your turn," she said.

"Well," said he, "that night after you left me, miss, I had a very
narrow shave. I was just upon caught for a poacher." And he laughed
heartily at the remembrance. "You see," he continued, "what put me
altogether out in my bearings was you saying that 'people' of the name
of Shaw kept the Low Farm; and when I said, 'There is a husband, then?'
you said 'Oh yes' so quick and pat that I made quite a mistake. Of
course you didn't say he was there, but I took it up so, and, like a
fool, I thought she'd forgot me and married again, as she hadn't seen me
for so many years. If it hadn't been for that I should have gone to her
then."

"I am so very sorry," said Marjory. "I thought you might be a--" She
hesitated, wondering what she could say, and how she could ever have
taken this man for anything but the honest British seaman that he was.

Captain Shaw laughed his big hearty laugh.

"Took me for a burglar--shouldn't wonder. I begin to see," as he noted
the flush on Marjory's cheek, "ha, ha, ha!" And he threw his head back
and thumped his knee. "Well, to be sure; so you thought I was a bad
character, and wanted to put me off the scent. Clear as daylight and
very cleverly done, but you made a little mistake, miss, as we're all
liable to do." And he laughed again. Then he continued, "It was very
good of you to come and give me warning about the keepers. I've often
thought about the sweet young lady who came out in the dark and the cold
to speak to me. I was very miserable then, and you wanted to do me a
good turn, though you had done me a bad one all unbeknown to yourself or
me either, and I want to thank you heartily, miss."

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