Hunter\'s Marjory

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

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CHAPTER XX.

THE DOCTOR'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

"Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises."--SHAKESPEARE.

Dr. Hunter attended the most important meetings of the Congress of
Scientists which was being held in New York. He was quite unprepared for
the reception that was given him there. Of a very quiet and retiring
disposition, and having lived the life of a recluse for many years,
known to the world only by his writings, it never seemed to have
occurred to him that his name was a famous one in other countries as
well as his own. His first appearance was greeted with acclamation as
soon as his name was mentioned, and during his stay in New York
invitations were showered upon him, reporters called upon him at his
hotel, and paragraphs referring to him appeared in all the papers,
although he steadily refused to be interviewed.

He was thankful when the day of his departure came, as he shrank from so
much publicity. He remarked afterwards that he felt as a hunted
criminal might who saw in every casual passer-by a possible detective.

He was careful not to mention his destination to any one but the clerk
from whom he purchased his ticket, but next day in a paper which he
bought in the train he saw the inevitable paragraph,--

"Dr. Hunter, the famous scientist of London, England, left this city
to-day for Montreal, _en route_ for the North-West."

The learned gentleman might have been heard to mutter words not usually
included in his vocabulary when he read this. As he had only taken a
ticket to Montreal, the latter part of the announcement, although it
happened to be true, was an absolute invention on the part of the
light-hearted paragraphist who had penned it.

Escaped from New York and the social obligations his position had
entailed upon him, Dr. Hunter gave himself up to the enjoyment of his
trip. From Montreal he travelled on the wonderful Canadian Pacific
Railway, and he never ceased to wonder at its construction--the amazing
manner in which difficulties that appeared to be insuperable had been
overcome, and the way in which the brain of man had enabled him to carve
a path for himself up and through mighty mountains.

"To think that one can be climbing the Rockies and at the same time
partaking of an excellent dinner served as in a first-class hotel!" he
remarked to a fellow-traveller.

"Yes indeed, we make ourselves pretty comfortable in these times," was
the reply. "My father was a pioneer and crossed the plains in '47. He
has some rare tales to tell of roughing it in the old days." And the
friendly stranger entertained the doctor with an account of some of
those early experiences.

The doctor was struck by the geniality of his fellow-travellers for the
most part, and the very intelligent way in which they answered his
inquiries. He was able to say on his return that he had met with nothing
but kindness from beginning to end of his trip.

He was greatly looking forward to his meeting with Hugh Davidson. How
surprised he would be! The doctor's feelings had changed so completely
that a meeting with this man now seemed of all things the most
desirable. He had purposely refrained from sending any notice of his
visit beforehand, taking an almost childish delight in the idea of
suddenly and unexpectedly appearing before his brother-in-law.

At last the long journey was accomplished, and he found himself outside
the offices of the A1 Shipping and Transportation Company at Skaguay.

Stirred by unusual feelings, he went in rather nervously.

"Can I see the manager?" he inquired of a clerk who came forward. The
young man opened a door with a flourish and ushered him into the
manager's room.

A man rose from a desk, but it was not Hugh Davidson. This was a
youngish man, fair haired and clean shaven.

Much taken aback, the doctor murmured, "I beg your pardon; I expected to
find Mr. Davidson here."

"Mr. Davidson is not here at present," said the man courteously. "Is
there anything I can do for you in his place?"

"Oh no, thank you; my visit is purely a personal one. As a matter of
fact, I am his brother-in-law, and intended paying him a surprise visit.
Here is my card; perhaps you can tell me when he is likely to be in."

An expression of concern passed over the other man's face.

"I am exceedingly sorry," he said, "to inform you that Mr. Davidson
sailed from New York for England this very morning. You must have passed
each other on the way. _Most_ unfortunate," he added sympathetically.

The doctor was nonplussed for the moment. Here was an unexpected turn of
events; he had not contemplated such a possibility, and was undecided as
to his own best course of action. At last he said, with an attempt at a
smile, "Business, I suppose;" but the other replied, "No, I should
gather that it was principally upon private affairs that he has gone to
England; but Mr. Davidson is a very reticent man, and he gave me no
particulars. I represent him here until he returns, and beyond that it
is really no business of mine; but I certainly received the impression
that some personal matter was calling him."

Somewhat dismayed, the doctor asked himself if it were possible that
after all his brother-in-law had heard of his child's existence from an
outsider. In such a case his own conduct would appear blacker than ever.

The manager's representative was really sorry for the doctor's
disappointment. The old man seemed to him a pathetic figure, weary with
many days of travelling only to find that his journey had been taken in
vain, so far as its chief object was concerned. He suggested a cable
message. "You could send it from Victoria, to the care of the Steamship
Company, or to his private address in London--perhaps the latter would
be the better plan." And he took a paper from the desk and read, "Care
of Hilary Forester, Esq., 50 Royal Gate, London, S.W."

A smothered exclamation escaped the doctor. "I'll send a message," he
said. "When is there a steamer back to Victoria?"

"Well, if you don't much mind what you go in, there is one to-morrow,
but it won't travel quicker than eight knots an hour in smooth water,"
with a laugh.

"I'll take it," said Dr. Hunter decidedly. "It is important that I should
get back as soon as possible."

Poor old man, he had been so anxious to tell his tale himself to Hugh
Davidson, to throw himself upon the generosity of the man he had
injured. He had wished to entreat him not to tell Marjory of the part he
had played; he could not bear that her memory of him should be
embittered by the knowledge of that wrong--that wrong which by reason of
his biassed mind had seemed right, until the fearless words of a good
and gentle woman had aided the voice of his own conscience and
pronounced it wrong.

But now Marjory would hear the story from other lips, and what would he
seem in her eyes? Would she banish him from his place in her heart?
Would she think bitterly of him and reproach him with those fifteen
years of silence? Would she not blame him for keeping her away from the
world, even from the knowledge of the true personality of her mother,
into whose room he had not allowed her to penetrate, in case that what
she saw there might influence the childish mind in a way her uncle did
not wish. It was not to be expected that the girl should understand his
reasons.

He determined to start on his homeward journey the next day, and to
send the cable message from the first possible point.

Meanwhile his new friend offered the hospitality of his home to Dr.
Hunter, and the invitation was given in such a hearty way that it would
have seemed ungracious to refuse it. He thought that evening that many
people at home would open their eyes were they able to see the
well-appointed table at which he was a guest, and the charming and
cultured woman who presided over it, and he felt glad that he had been
allowed to have this glimpse of home life in that far-away corner of the
world. It was a peaceful home life, all the more attractive in that its
background was rough-and-ready Skaguay--a plain town enough to look at,
but one full of thrilling human interest, of tragedy and comedy. Through
its streets had passed a motley procession of men--some on their way to
fortune, some to disappointment, but all battling with the realities of
life. The doctor was struck by the simple and straightforward outlook of
these people, their sincerity, and the pleasure they found in their
life; far as it was from any of the great world centres, every hour of
every day seemed to be full of interest.

They spoke of Mr. Davidson, and there was nothing but praise of his
sterling integrity, his upright and honourable life, his unfailing
kindness and charity towards others.

"There's not a man in this town, or, for that matter, in the whole of
this vast district, who doesn't know and honour the name of Hugh
Davidson," said the manager's representative enthusiastically; "and as
for myself, sir," thumping the table with his closed fist, "I am proud
to be associated with such a man."

The doctor's heart smote him. This then was the black sheep--the man he
had not considered fit to have the care of his own child!

He started off again next morning, and the journey back seemed long and
tedious by reason of his impatience, although he could not but be struck
by the beauty of the scenery as the ship steamed slowly along, threading
its way amongst the many islands which lie across the course of the
inland passage, as it is called.

After the doctor had dispatched his message, his one thought was, Would
they wait for his return before telling Marjory what had happened? If
only they would. And yet, after his conduct in the past, he could hardly
expect any consideration from Hugh Davidson. To his great relief he
received a message at New York from Mr. Davidson saying that he would
await him in London.

Meanwhile Marjory, unconscious of the coming change in her fortunes, was
enjoying new sights and experiences. She was not yet allowed to walk
much or to exert herself in any way. They spent a week in London with
the Hilary Foresters before going to the seaside. Marjory felt a mild
surprise when she heard it remarked on all sides that "town was very
empty." To her it seemed full to overflowing, and more like one of the
anthills that were Peter's abhorrence in the garden than anything else.
The continuous stream of human beings flowing in all directions was a
never-ending source of wonder to her.

"Every single one of these people must have a story, you know," she said
to the others one day. "Some are good and some are wicked, I suppose."

"I think they're all much of a muchness," replied Maud thoughtfully.
"Good people can be bad, and bad people can be good. The best nurse I
ever had turned out to be a thief, and I was so sorry when she went
away. I tell you I loved that thief. You've no idea what a good, kind
nurse she was; and it was found that she stole for the sake of somebody
else who was poor."

"Well, but it can't be right to steal," argued Blanche.

"No, of course not, silly. But what I mean is that even wicked people
may have some good in them. I've always thought that there ought to be
something between sheep and goats--not quite so good and not quite so
bad as either; or they might have points, such as length of horn, or
silkiness of coat and thickness of fleece, and so on."

"Would an extra fine goat be an extra wicked person, or a shade better
than an ordinary goat?" asked Marjory, laughing.

"Of course he would be better. A wretched, thin, mangy animal would be
the worst, and they would gradually go on improving till the best goat
was just the next thing to the worst sheep." Maud laughed.

Blanche was rather shocked. "I don't think you ought to make fun of
those things, Maud," she said, reddening.

"I'm not making fun, my serious little cousin. I only mean to show that
I think it's very hard to decide where the good begins and the bad
leaves off, and that everybody has some of each. You see, I'm older than
you, and I do think sometimes, although you might not guess it to look
at me--eh?"

"Miss Waspe quoted some rather nice lines to us one day," said Marjory.
"They were by Robert Louis Stevenson, I think. I don't know if I can
remember them properly, but they were something like this,--

'There's so much bad in the best of us,
And so much good in the most of us,
That it hardly becomes any of us
To talk evil of the rest of us.'"

"Awfully jolly," agreed Maud. "I couldn't have put it better myself;
it's exactly what I think."

The passing crowd was a never-failing source of interest to Marjory, and
one of her favourite occupations was to go to Kensington Gardens or to
the Park and watch the people, weaving their life-stories in her
imagination. Driving about, shopping with Mrs. Forester in such shops as
threw the most important establishments in Morristown far into the
shade, in the streets, or even looking out of the windows at 50 Royal
Gate, there was this never-ending procession to speculate upon; so,
although the time was spent quietly, there was not a dull moment in that
week.

Then came another move, the excitement of another railway journey, and
then at last the sea. Marjory's wonder and delight were indescribable.
She had dreamed of the sea all her life. Her uncle had always promised
that some day he would take her to the seaside. He had always vaguely
said to himself that the child should be taken about when she was old
enough; but the years had slipped by until she was nearly fifteen, and
yet she had never seen the sea till now.

"Her beloved must cross the sea," she whispered to herself, as she stood
at the water's edge for the first time, looking over its shining
expanse, dancing and sparkling in the sun like myriads of diamonds in a
setting of blue. Nothing but the sea as far as the eye could reach--what
a sense of freedom and space and unbounded possibility! How she loved to
watch the rise and fall of the waves with their fringes of white, to
listen for the clatter of the shingle as it rushed along, keeping pace
with each receding wave! But, best of all, she loved to stand
barefooted on the shining sand when the tide was low, and to feel the
water lapping gently over her ankles.

The three girls (for Maud had begged her mother to spend at least half
their holiday at the little, unfashionable place Mrs. Forester had
chosen) spent long days by the sea--days of delight for all, and of the
gathering of health and strength for Marjory.

In the mornings the other two would usually bathe, Marjory looking on
from her deck-chair, and finding much amusement in the antics of the
bathers. She liked to watch Blanche in her pretty bathing suit, her hair
rippling over her shoulders, and Maud, too, with her coquettish little
cap amongst her fair curls. Thanks to her friend's tuition, Blanche was
now quite a good swimmer, and was endeavouring to teach Maud, and they
had great fun over it. Marjory herself was not allowed to bathe; she
might only wade sometimes at low tide.

The girl would lie and dream of what the sea might bring her if dreams
could ever come true, but her visions showed her nothing of a great ship
with precious freight for her on board which one day very soon was to
come from the New World to the Old, and make the old one new for her.
Marjory knew nothing of this, and yet she was strangely content and
happy in these days as she lay dreaming in the sunshine and listening to
the singing of the sea.

CHAPTER XXI.

HOPES REALIZED.

"A kind, true heart, a spirit high,
That would not fear and would not bow,
Were written in his manly eye
And on his manly brow."--BURNS.

Home again at last! How good it was to see the doctor at the station, to
drive with dear old Peter and Brownie along the familiar road, to
breathe the sweet pure air scented with pine and heather!

"After all," Marjory said to her uncle, "there can't be any place in the
world just like dear little old Heathermuir. I love every bit of it."

"'East, west, hame's best,'" quoted the doctor. "No, my dear, there's no
place like it, not even New York!" with a smile at the recollection of
his late experiences.

"What a lot you must have to tell me!" said Marjory. "And, uncle dear, I
hope you haven't forgotten that to-morrow is my fifteenth birthday, and
you've always promised to tell me everything I want to know on that
day."

"Yes, yes," replied the doctor evasively. "By the way, Marjory, you'll
find a surprise awaiting you at the Brae; we've a new member of our
household," smiling.

"Who can it be?"

"Wait and see. It's a kind of a sort of a birthday present, but I am not
sure that you will be altogether pleased."

Marjory laughed.

"It sounds as if it might be some sort of an animal. O _uncle_," in
dismay, "I _hope_ you haven't brought a monkey from America!"

"No," laughing.

"Perhaps it's a parrot, then, or--no--_surely_ not a nigger!"

"No; it's not a coloured gentleman or lady, as I have lately been taught
to call them."

"Oh dear, I do wonder what it is! But there's the house at last, and
dear old Lisbeth's round smiling face, and my darling Silky. Oh, it is
good to be at home again!" And Marjory nestled close to her uncle for a
moment, and then sprang out of the cart and began hugging Lisbeth in the
most boisterous fashion.

But who was this standing shyly in the background? Here was indeed a
surprise. This girl with the smooth sleek head, the neat gown and
spotless apron and cap, could it be Mary Ann Smylie, the rich miller's
daughter? Yes, indeed it was. But what could it mean? Quite bewildered,
Marjory held out her hand to the girl. "I am glad to see you, Mary Ann,"
she said.

Tears were in Mary Ann's eyes as she replied, "Thank you, Miss Marjory;
I'm very glad to be here." And she disappeared at once in the direction
of the kitchen.

"This _is_ a surprise," said Marjory, looking inquiringly at her uncle
and then at Lisbeth. Each seemed to expect the other to speak.

"Weel, it was this way," began Lisbeth. "Yon puir lassie's feyther, no
content wi' bein' just a plain man like ony ither miller, must needs try
to mak a big fortune, and some o' thae speculatin' deils--I canna ca'
them by ony ither name--got hand o' the auld man, an' ae fine day his
fortune's awa--the vera hoose he's livin' in no his ain, a' signed awa,
an' he in debt. His puir silly wife was clean dementit, an' this girl
wi' naething but her buik-learnin' an' sic like rubbish to stand by.
There was naebody wantit her to teach their bairns, and yon grandee o' a
schulemistress telt the puir lassie she wasna competent for teachin',
an' that efter a' the guid money her feyther had spent upo' her
learnin'. Weel, Mary Ann she comes to me, an' says, 'Will ye gie me wark
at Hunters' Brae?' says she. 'The doctor's awa,' says I, but she begged
that hard I couldna say no to the creature. 'I'm willin' to learn,' says
she, 'an' if so's I could wait upo' Miss Marjory I'd be more nor set
up.' She cried sae, and looked that peekit an' meeserable, I hadna the
heart to send her off, sae I e'en kept her here, thinkin' the doctor,
guid man, wouldna blame me for the bit she ate an' drank till he cam
hame."

"Yes," put in the doctor, "when I got back yesterday I found Mary Ann
comfortably settled. I suppose she thought that if she had won over
Lisbeth the rest was easy," laughing. "I'm sorry for the girl, and I
dare say she can be made useful here in many ways. As you are getting
on, Marjory, it will be nice for you to have a maid of your own to look
after your fallals; but the question is, Do you like the girl well
enough to have her about you? This is your home, and I don't want to
insist upon anything that would be unpleasant to you."

Marjory remembered her old grudge against Mary Ann, but she could hardly
connect the quiet, subdued person who had just disappeared, weeping,
with the frizzy-haired, overdressed, and affected girl at the post
office.

"Poor Mary Ann! Let her stay, uncle. I'm sure we shall get on quite
well."

"That's settled then," said the doctor, with relief. He had been a
little afraid that Lisbeth's philanthropy might not be quite to
Marjory's liking.

Dr. Hunter was strangely restless that evening--sad and merry by turns.
Marjory herself felt very excited as she thought of the morrow.

When she went to bid her uncle good-night, he drew her to him very
tenderly. "So you are really glad to be at home again, my child," he
said, stroking her hair.

"Very, very glad," was the reply, and the dark eyes shone with tears.

"You love the old place, then?"

"Oh yes, I do; but it wouldn't be the same without you." And she rubbed
her cheek against his.

"And you love your old uncle in spite of all his mistakes and queer
ways?"

"I love you better than any one else in the whole world," she said
simply.

He kissed her very tenderly, and then put her away from him with a sigh.
"Go, my child, sleep well; to-morrow is a new day, and begins a new life
for you."

"Better than any one else in the whole world," he repeated to himself
when Marjory had left him. This had been his heart's desire, his scheme
from the beginning--that his beloved sister's child should be his, and
that he should be her all, and first in her affections; and now had come
his punishment for that selfish wish. The child had made this open
avowal of her feeling for him on the eve of the very day on which he
must renounce her, must give her up to another with a better right than
he to that first place in her love. He had done wrong; he had made what
amends he could, and the rest was in God's hands. Would this girl,
growing sweeter and more lovable year by year, take away her affection
from the uncle and give it all to the father? Would she forget the old
man and all his care for her? Then he thought of the honest eyes as they
had looked into his, clear and steadfast. Surely he had caught a glimpse
of the loving, faithful heart within; surely that heart would prove
large enough for love of both. He could no longer expect to be first,
but surely he was wronging the child and all that he knew of her by the
mere suggestion that she would change towards him, and the memory of her
look and her caress comforted him.

* * * * *

Marjory's fifteenth birthday had come at last, and she stood in her
mother's room.

The sunlight streamed across the faded hangings and the panelled walls,
flooding the place with brightness. It seemed hardly possible that it
had been unused for so many years. Lisbeth had worked in it so
faithfully week by week that, beyond the fading of the curtains and the
rugs which lay about the polished floor, there was nothing to indicate
that it had been unoccupied for so long.

There were flowers about the room; there was a work-basket on a small
table by the window; and an embroidery frame with a half-finished piece
of work in it stood near, just as if its owner might have been working
at it yesterday. It was altogether a dainty apartment, and bore evidence
in every corner of the girlish fancies of its former mistress. The
pictures on the walls were all of a romantic description; the books on
the shelves could almost have told the tale of Marjory Hunter's
childhood and girlhood. Fairy tales there were in plenty, and the rest
were of the tender, sentimental kind--love poems and the like. If
Blanche Forester had been describing the collection, she would have said
that there was not a single dry book amongst them--the word "dry" in her
vocabulary meaning anything from uninteresting to instructive! Had the
doctor only known it, he need not have feared the attraction of these
books for his niece. Marjory required something stronger and more active
in character--stories of great men and women, histories of the world and
its wonders, something stirring and stimulating.

Marjory stood in her mother's room--alone. Her feelings as she entered
this chamber of her dreams were those of awe and expectation of she knew
not what. She gave one quick glance around, but she had eyes for nothing
at present but a picture--a picture of a man with a strong, handsome
face, and dark hair and eyes which she knew resembled her own. Beside it
was another picture--that of a fair-haired girl, her mother. "How sweet
she must have been!" thought Marjory, and her eyes turned again to the
other picture.

That other picture, would the doctor have confessed it, was one of the
chief reasons why he did not wish Marjory to enter her mother's room.
With that speaking, impressive portrait of her father continually before
her eyes, could the child be taught to ignore and forget him? The doctor
had an almost superstitious dislike of having anything moved at Hunters'
Brae. His sister had ordered Hugh Davidson's portrait to be hung in her
room; there it must stay, but Marjory should not see it until he thought
fit.

Marjory now stood gazing at the picture. This, then, was the hero of her
dreams and hopes, that father who had been the central figure in many a
tale of stirring adventure, hairbreadth escape, and brave deed--tales
which she had told herself many a time. But this was a figure even more
splendid than that of her imagination. The strong, square chin and
determined mouth, the flashing, piercing eyes under the dark brows--all
spoke of the strength and courage of a Coeur de Lion or a Napoleon.

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