Hunter\'s Marjory

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"I went to Hillcrest the next morning to see you," said Marjory shyly,
"for I suddenly thought perhaps you might be Mrs. Shaw's husband. I
can't think now why I didn't know it when I first met you. When I got
there you had gone away, and English Mary said your name was 'Iggs, and
she quite thought you were a poacher, although you did pay your bill!"

Captain Shaw laughed again.

"You see, miss," he explained, "I didn't want it to get about the place
that Captain Shaw was here, if Mrs. Shaw didn't feel inclined to take
any notice of him. Higgs was my mother's name and is my second one, so I
thought no harm, and it was to save her," nodding towards his wife. "But
did you indeed take all that trouble for a poor man you didn't know, and
had reason to believe was a suspicious character? Well, all I can say is
that my wife and I," looking at Mrs. Shaw, "are deeply grateful to you
for your goodwill."

"But you haven't finished your story, quite," suggested Marjory,
flushing at his praise.

"Well," he continued, "I'd made up my mind that if the wife would have
nothing to say to me, I'd take an offer I'd had--good ship, long voyage,
and three days to think it over. Off I went, and I didn't get her letter
for some time. When I did get it I didn't answer it--I don't quite know
why, except that I'm not much good when it comes to writing down my
feelings--and I thought the best answer would be myself at her door.
What with one thing and another, I was away longer than I expected. Then
we were quarantined for fourteen days--no end of a tiresome business.
But I got here at last, and found a warm welcome. 'All's well that ends
well,' miss, and now I'm sure we've bothered you long enough.--Come
along, missus."

"But you _must_ let me thank you for all you did for me; you were more
than kind."

Captain Shaw was marshalling his wife out of the room, and he turned and
said, "I don't want any thanks--it was little enough I did; besides, one
good turn deserves another, you know. Think of those keepers!" laughing
again at Marjory's poacher theory. "All we want is to see you up and
about again, miss; and the sooner we can welcome you at the Low Farm the
better pleased we'll be--eh, Alison?"

Left to herself, Marjory lay thinking. How happy these two seemed now
that they were together! How thankful she was that things had come right
for them in the end! She had so often reproached herself for that
suggestion of a lie. What very serious consequences it might have
had--indeed had, for it had added another year to the separation of
these two good people! Then she fell to musing over the great happenings
that may come from apparently small causes.

Marjory had plenty of time to think in those days. After the first week
she did not feel ill, only tired and rather weak, but she was ordered to
be continually on her back. A great doctor came from Edinburgh to see
her, and he only confirmed what Dr. Morison had said--that she would be
quite well in time, but that complete rest was the only cure; she must
not try to walk or move about.

Poor Marjory--she had begun very bravely, saying it was not at all hard,
but indeed she found it to be very hard, especially when she began to
feel much better and stronger, and still had to keep lying down.

Blanche had to begin her lessons alone this term, and she and Miss Waspe
missed Marjory very much; the schoolroom did not seem the same place
without her, they said. The governess loved Blanche, sweet-natured as
she was, and good and industrious too; but she did miss her other pupil,
with her bright, eager ways, and her intense interest in things. Miss
Waspe liked to watch the light of understanding flash into Marjory's
eyes as she explained some intricate question, and the instinctive
comprehension of something said or read which might have meant
difficulty to a slower mind.

At last, after much wheedling and coaxing, the doctor gave permission
for the lessons to be given at Hunters' Brae, Blanche and Miss Waspe
going up every morning. This arrangement was very satisfactory to all
parties, and Blanche remarked that, apart from the "jolliness" of being
together, she would have an easy time, because, as Marjory was an
invalid, there could be no scoldings.

Captain Shaw came frequently to see his little friend, and told her many
tales about his travels. It was he who helped the doctor to carry her
out into the garden on the great day when she was first allowed to go.
Peter, too, whiled away many an hour for the invalid with his stories
and old legends.

No father could have been more devoted than Dr. Hunter was to his niece
during this time. Anything and everything that he could do to brighten
the days for her was done; it was his greatest pleasure to grant her
slightest wish. It seemed as if he could not do enough for her. He
behaved like a delighted schoolboy the first time she was allowed to
walk a little.

During this time there had been frequent conferences between Mrs.
Forester and Dr. Hunter. Marjory felt rather curious to know what they
were about. She was soon to know, and the knowledge caused her some
dismay.

"Would you like to go to London, Marjory?" asked her uncle one day.

"To London?" echoed Marjory. "Not without you," decidedly.

"To London, and then to the seaside with the Foresters. You would like
to go with them, wouldn't you?"

"And leave you alone here? No, I don't want to go away," she pleaded.

"Dr. Morison thinks it would be good for you."

"Dr. Morison knows nothing at all about it," said naughty Marjory. "I
won't go. I don't want to go away from you."

Her uncle kissed her.

"My dear child," he said, "I am going away myself abroad, to America,
and these good people have promised to take care of you until I come
back." And he watched Marjory's face.

"To America!" she repeated, much surprised. "O uncle, what for?"

For one brief moment she thought of her father. Could the doctor be
going to find him? But the answer came,--

"There is a science congress to be held in New York which I should very
much like to attend; and there will be one or two men there who are
studying the same subjects as I am, with whom I wish to compare notes.
Will you allow me to go, little one?"

"I suppose I must," grudgingly.

"I thought you would have liked to see London and go to the seaside; you
used to be so anxious to travel."

"Yes, but I'd rather go to America with you," wistfully.

"That is out of the question," said the doctor decidedly, "on account
of your health; besides, what should I do with you while I went to my
meetings and sat on my commissions, _et cetera_? No, no; you must be
content, and perhaps you'll go next time." And he kissed Marjory,
feeling that the affair was settled.

CHAPTER XIX.

IMPORTANT LETTERS.

"Circumstances are like clouds, continually gathering and
bursting."

KEATS.

The manager of the A1 Shipping and Transportation Company was sitting in
his office in the largest building in the main street of the town of
Skaguay in the far-away North-West. That office was the centre of the
business activities of an immense district, and the work of its manager
demanded much time and energy.

He was not an old man, but his hair was gray and his forehead lined and
furrowed. A pair of piercing dark eyes looked from beneath thick
grizzled eyebrows. It was a strong and striking face, severe in its
lines, but when lit up by one of its rare smiles the hardness
disappeared in a wonderful way. He was sitting at his desk apparently
studying some papers that lay before him, but there was a dreamy,
far-away look in his eyes which told that his thoughts had travelled
beyond the walls of his office and the business of the day.

"Two of them," he muttered, turning over the papers. He took one up and
began to read as follows:--

* * * * *

"DEAR DAVIDSON,--You were good enough to say that you would be
glad to hear from me when I had reached home again, and the suggestion
was one more addition to the numerous kindnesses I received from you
during my visit to your part of the world, and for which I once more
thank you most heartily. Through your instrumentality I was enabled to
see into the life of the country and to catch the spirit of its people
in a way which I could not otherwise have done, and I am very grateful
to you.

"I do not intend to talk about myself, however, but about you. Do you
remember the one and only occasion on which you allowed me to see
something of the real man beneath the outer shell of the genial manager
of the A1 S. and T. Co.? Pardon me if I hurt your feelings by alluding
to a painful subject, but I have my reasons, as you will see later. On
that occasion I remember that I, like a blundering fool, got on to the
subject of my return home to my wife and child, and I began telling you
of my Maud--her sweet ways, her looks, her cleverness, and all that. You
had confessed to feeling a bit 'under the weather' that day, and I said,
'Why don't you take a holiday and pay a visit to the old country with
me?' 'The old country!' you said. 'Why, man, I haven't seen it for
fifteen years. It has no attractions for me now. If I had a child
living, I would be a different man.' And there was such a world of
sadness in your tone that I'm blest if I didn't have to get up and look
out of the window. Then you told me how your wife had died, back in the
old country, and how all your hopes had died with her; and from the way
you spoke I guessed that you were not in the habit of telling your
story, and I felt honoured by your confidence. Then you showed me a
locket with a picture of your wife inside it, and attached to the locket
was the half of a coin. 'We split this for luck when we were young and
foolish,' you said, and your laugh was one of the most heartbreaking
sounds I ever heard in my life. Well now, having got to my point at
last, it is my firm belief that you have a child living, and by all
accounts as sweet a little maiden as the heart of man could wish, and
the discovery came about in a very simple way.

"Some two years ago my brother took a place in Scotland, at Heathermuir,
near Morristown. While I was on my travels my wife and daughter went up
there to visit them twice, and Maud made the acquaintance of a girl
named Marjory Davidson. She goes by the nickname of 'Hunter's
Marjory'--I suppose, because she lives with an old uncle at his place
called Hunters' Brae. I did not pay much attention to Maud's chatter,
for it was a great mixture of shut-up rooms, ghosts, old houses, oak
chests, boating, drowning, and all the rest of it. Of course I never
for one moment connected this child with you in any way--that is, not
until yesterday. There had been some talk about summer holiday plans,
and wonderings as to what my brother was going to do, for there had been
vague rumours of his coming south with his wife and girl.

"'By the way, Maud,' said my wife, 'before we leave town I want to buy a
really nice present for Marjory.'

"'A reward for saving my precious life, I suppose,' said mischievous
Maud. This Marjory did some very plucky thing when they were out boating
together. I don't quite know what it was, but it doesn't matter at
present.

"'No,' said my wife, 'not that exactly, but a little keepsake--something
that will last.'

"'You're afraid she'll forget, like you do, mother dear.'

"At this juncture, with a feeble attempt at correction, I intimated to
Miss Maud that she was impertinent to her mother.

"'Mother understands--don't you, darling?' was the reply; and mother was
immediately nearly hugged to death, and I got nothing but a crushing
look. But to resume.

"'What would you think of a gold chain?' asked my wife.

"'She's got one.'

"'I never saw her wear one.'

"'No; because she wears it inside her dress. She showed it to me once,
and there is a dear little locket on it, with a picture of her mother
inside, and a half coin with a hole in it--a Jubilee one.'

"I started up at this, and gave those two such a cross-examining as they
never had in their lives. They thought at first that I had taken leave
of my senses. But I've got the whole story now, and I am quite convinced
that this Marjory Davidson, whose father's name was Hugh, and who has
lived in hopes, ever since she could think, that her father might turn
up, is your daughter, though it is a mystery to me why you did not know
of her existence. But come and see for yourself. I made my wife and
daughter promise to say nothing. I gather that there was some trouble
between you and the old man, so it's best for us to keep our own counsel
for the present. I hope you won't think me an interfering ass, but I
haven't a doubt in my mind that it is as I say--you have got a child to
live for, and the sooner you come and see her the better. Let me know
when to expect you, and I'll come and look after you. Make your
headquarters with us as long as you like.--Believe me yours faithfully,

HILARY FORESTER."

* * * * *

Mr. Davidson laid this letter aside and took up another one. It was
written in a large, irregular hand, and ran as follows:--

* * * * *

"THE LOW FARM, HEATHERMUIR,
NORTHSHIRE, SCOTLAND.

"DEAR SIR,--I take the liberty of writing you this letter,
hoping it finds you well, as it leaves me at present. I wish to tell you
that it's all serene now with me and my wife, she having forgiven all
bygones and let them be. Your kindness to me whilst I was laid up at
your God-forsaken place--begging your pardon, sir, but I was anxious to
be off again, as you know--but your kindness, as I say, and good advice,
was such that I make bold to dare and ask you to forgive bygones, like
as my good wife has done. I'm sure your Miss Marjory is as sweet a young
lady as you could wish to see, and your living image, eyes and hair and
all. It is said about here--begging your pardon, sir--that, because the
old man was rough on you, you won't acknowledge or take notice of your
child. They say he's too proud to ask you to come home; and she, poor
lamb, don't even know that she has a father. Things ain't as they ought
to be altogether in this world, but you can do a deal to put some of
them straight, sir, if I may make bold to say so. It is some time since
I seen you, but directly my wife told me Miss Marjory's name and story,
I knew you was her father. I haven't breathed of this to any one, let
alone Miss Marjory herself, but I am sure that if you was to come you
would see that I am right. I do beg your pardon if anything I have
written is not as it should be betwixt you and me, sir; but I am now so
happy myself through the forgiving of old bygones that I am all for
trying to make things straight; which, hoping you will soon do, I am
your obedient servant,

"SAMUEL HIGGS SHAW."

* * * * *

Mr. Davidson smiled as he put down Captain Shaw's letter. He had
received both the communications within a mail of each other, and one
supplied information that the other lacked. He had turned the matter
over in his mind this way and that, and he now felt very little doubt
that this Marjory Davidson was indeed his child. And yet why should the
fact that he had a child have been kept from him all these years? What
reason could his brother-in-law have had for withholding the knowledge
from him? It was all a mystery. He looked back over the lonely years
since his wife's death, remembering how in the bitterness of his grief
he had thrown himself heart and soul into his work, and had laid the
foundations of a fortune. He thought of the time when the rush of
gold-seekers to the Klondike had first started, and he had left the
company he then represented to start on his own account in the shipping
and transportation business, seeing at once that here was a certain road
to success. And so it had proved, for to-day his was the best-known and
most highly-respected name in all that broad region. But there had been
times such as that to which Mr. Hilary Forester had alluded in his
letter--when money, success, popularity, all seemed as nothing compared
with a wife, a home, a child to love him. He envied the poorest labourer
with these blessings. He now felt like a man in a dream. Fifteen years!
He saw in fancy the little child he would have loved to take upon his
knee; the growing girl learning her first lessons. How he would have
cared for her and watched over her, trying to be both father and mother
to the motherless child! Now she was growing quickly to womanhood, and
he knew nothing of her, nor she of him. A great wave of indignation
against his brother-in-law swept over him; it was a downright crime to
have kept him in ignorance all these years, and the man should be
brought to book. All the old bitterness against his wife's unreasonable
brother took hold of him, and Captain Shaw's suggestion as to the
forgetting of bygones seemed for a time little likely to be acted upon.
But this mood passed, and then a great tenderness towards this unknown
daughter of his welled up in his heart, and he made up his mind. He
would go as soon as he could, and find out the truth.

Other influences were at work to bring about this meeting of father and
child. Dr. Hunter, yielding at last to the voice of conscience, had
written to Hugh Davidson, but he had sent the letter to the care of the
company to which he had belonged in the old days. This company had since
gone out of existence, and the letter had come back, as Mary Ann had
told Marjory, and nothing more was done for a time.

Mrs. Forester, ever since the beginning of their acquaintance, had made
periodical attacks upon the doctor, declaring that it was his duty to
take steps to bring back Marjory's father. It must be remembered that
Mrs. Forester knew nothing of the part Dr. Hunter had played, and blamed
the cold-heartedness of a man who could leave his child unclaimed for
fifteen years.

While Marjory was ill, Mrs. Forester renewed the attack with many
arguments. At last one day, in a moment of expansion, the doctor
confessed what he had done. In the face of Mrs. Forester's amazed
displeasure, his reasons for his conduct seemed absurdly inadequate. She
told him in no measured terms exactly what she thought of him, and
indignantly reproached him for the course which he had taken. She quite
pooh-poohed the suggestion that Hugh Davidson might be dead, as the
letter had come back.

"I know he isn't dead," she protested. "I feel it as strongly as if he
were standing before me at this moment. _That child's father is alive_,
Dr. Hunter, and you have got to find him!"

The doctor made a mental reflection as to the "queerness" of women,
with their intuitions and unfounded assertions, without reason or logic
to guide them, but before he and Mrs. Forester parted that day he had
promised to take steps at once. In the end he decided to go to America
and meet face to face the man he had wronged, and ask his forgiveness.
It was the least he could do. One stipulation he made: Marjory must not
know the real object of his journey, in case nothing came of it.

The first step was to find out where Hugh Davidson was likely to be
found, if alive. Dr. Hunter felt as though he were beginning to search
for the proverbial needle in a haystack; but by Mrs. Forester's advice
he entrusted the matter to his lawyers, and in an incredibly short space
of time he heard from them that the man he wanted was now the manager of
the A1 Shipping and Transportation Company at Skaguay, Alaska, the
largest organization of its kind in that part of the world.

So the doctor made up his mind to go in search of his brother-in-law.
His friends the Foresters (he told no one else of his real intentions)
tried to dissuade him, representing to him the length of the journey and
its fatigues, the heat at that time of the year, and any and every
reason they could think of to alter his purpose. But the doctor did
nothing by halves, and having once realized the great wrong he had done,
he would not spare himself anything till he had tried to make
reparation, and it seemed that a personal meeting could do more in that
direction than any number of letters.

"Besides," he said, "it'll do me good. I begin to think that I've kept
myself and Marjory shut up too long. I shall never be anything but an
old fogey, but a little change and knocking about may make me a more
agreeable one."

The scientific meetings at New York served as a plausible excuse for his
going, and the Foresters kept his secret.

Marjory felt as if she were living in a dream, such impossible things
seemed to be happening. Could it be true that she was going to London,
and her uncle to New York? One thing she begged of the doctor: that they
might both be at home again in time for her birthday--that important
fifteenth one when she was to see and know so much; and her uncle
promised that it should be so if possible.

If the skies had suddenly fallen, Lisbeth and Peter could hardly have
been more surprised than they were when the doctor announced his plans
for his and Marjory's departure. Such a thing had never happened before,
and they felt doubtful that they would ever see their master again if he
went to "foreign parts." But when they became more accustomed to the
idea, it lost some of its terrors, and they began to take a keen
interest in the preparations for departure.

The house was to be left in charge of Lisbeth and Peter, who, as their
master knew, would take care of it as if it were their own.

"Look after Miss Marjory's room," he said to Lisbeth one day.

"Ay, an' I will that," responded the old woman. "It's to be Marjory's
ain come she's fifteen, an' that's no sae lang."

The doctor had always spoken of his sister as Miss Marjory; he had never
got into the habit of speaking of her as Mrs. Davidson to his servants,
and it was always "Miss Marjory's room" to them.

There was quite a little crowd at the station to see them off on the day
of their departure. The Foresters and Marjory and her uncle all went
together to Liverpool, so that Marjory might be able to see the doctor
start on his voyage.

It was a time of wonder to the country girl, who had never seen any
place larger than Morristown. The long journey, as it seemed to her, the
many crowded streets of the city, the noise and bustle of the docks,
bewildered her, and she hardly knew whether she enjoyed these new
sensations or not, they were so overpowering.

When at last it was time to say good-bye to her uncle, she clung to him,
begging him not to go and leave her. "Take me with you," she sobbed.
Poor Marjory! it was her first parting, and she had not realized what it
would mean. This great ship towering above her like a monster ready to
swallow her uncle out of her sight, the unknown miles of ocean that lay
between him and his destination--all this seemed terrible to the girl.
She could not let him go without her.

The doctor folded her in his arms, kissing her many times. "There,
there, my child; it won't be very long before I come back, and I hope
you will be very glad to see me. Be brave now, and wish me a good
voyage. Good-bye, my own little girl." And he was obliged to put her
from him. She was led down the gangway by Mr. Forester; blinded by her
tears, she could not see the way before her. People crowded behind them,
there was much shouting of good-byes, the clatter of gangways being
withdrawn, a straining and creaking of ropes, a throbbing of engines,
and the great ship began to move--stealthily, it seemed to Marjory, as
though it knew the heartaches it was causing, and felt ashamed of its
part in tearing so many people away from their friends.

"Come, cheer up, Marjory," urged Mrs. Forester. "Give your uncle a smile
to take with him. Wave your handkerchief--quick! they're off!"

Marjory's kind friends stayed with her until nothing more could be seen.
She watched the tall, bent figure standing at the rail until it merged
into the misty outline of the ship. She strained her eyes to the very
last, and then she turned away, white and trembling and tearful.

"I didn't know I should care so much," she whispered half apologetically
to Mrs. Forester.

"You see, you are such good friends with your uncle now, dear, that it
is very hard to part with him, I know; but cheer up, and look forward to
his coming home. It won't be very long."

Blanche had thoroughly enjoyed her visit to the docks. Mr. Forester had
taken her over the ship; she had seen the saloons and staterooms, and
had been on to the captain's bridge, and thought it great fun. She was
sorry for Marjory's trouble, but she could hardly see the reason for its
intensity. She had often been parted from her father for more than two
months, which was all the time the doctor expected to be away. Dr.
Hunter never made much fuss over Marjory that she could see--"Nothing
like daddy does over me," she reflected. Still, it was very sweet of
Marjory to care so much.

Yes, Marjory did care. She had grown to love dearly the silent, stern
man who had been father and mother to her. He was gone. Her life would
be strangely empty without him, and she would count the days until he
came back to her.

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