Hunter\'s Marjory

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"He _isn't_," indignantly. "He's a very clever, celebrated man."

Mary Ann went off into peals of laughter.

"Oh dear! who told you that?" she cried at last.

"Lisbeth," defiantly.

Another peal of laughter greeted this statement.

"It really is too funny; you little simpleton, to believe such a thing.
Why, if he was celebrated, he would be rich enough to send you to
school, and he wouldn't let you sew and dust the way you do, just like
any village girl. I _never_ dust; mamma doesn't wish me to." And Mary
Ann looked at her white hands admiringly, and shot a glance, which
Marjory felt rather than saw, at the brown ones nervously clasping and
unclasping themselves.

"I wonder," continued her tormentor, "that you don't insist on being
sent to school, so that you could learn to earn your own living. I've
heard mamma say your uncle gets no money for your keep; no letters ever
come from foreign parts from your father. It must be strange to have a
father you've never seen. It must be horrid to be like you, because,
really, when you come to think of it, you are no better off than a
charity child, are you?"

But Mary Ann had gone too far. A tempest was raging in Marjory's heart,
and as soon as she could find her voice, which seemed suddenly to have
deserted her, she cried,--

"You are a beast, Mary Ann Smylie, and I hate you; and although I
haven't been to school, I don't say 'if he was,' and 'don't' instead of
doesn't." And with this parting shot Marjory rushed through the shop and
jumped into the cart; and Brownie, infected by his mistress's
excitement, galloped nearly all the way home, his unusual haste and
Silky's sympathetic barking causing quite a commotion in the sleepy,
quiet village.

Arrived home, Marjory ran to her uncle's study, knocked loudly at the
door, and hardly waiting for permission, went in, leaving Silky,
breathless and panting, outside.

The doctor was sitting in his armchair in his favourite attitude--his
legs crossed, the tips of his fingers meeting, his eyes fixed upon them,
but his thoughts far away. As a matter of fact he was thinking of
Marjory at this very moment, of his visit to the Foresters, and the
plans they had been making for the two girls.

"Well, Marjory, what is it?" he asked kindly, as the excited girl stood
before him. She was trembling with agitation, her cheeks were scarlet,
and her dark eyes flashed upon her uncle as she replied,--

"I want you to send me to school. I don't want to live on your charity
any longer. I never knew I was till to-day," with a sob; then,
piteously, "Won't you send me to school, Uncle George?"

"My dear child!" exclaimed the doctor, "what is all this? Who has been
talking to you and putting such nonsense into your head?" looking at his
niece in astonishment.

The quiet, usually almost sullen girl was transformed into a passionate
little fury for the time being, and her uncle hardly recognized her. She
burst out again,--

"Mary Ann Smylie looks down on me because I don't go to school. She says
I can't ever be a lady; and she says that you get no money for my keep,
and that I am no better than a charity child. I want to learn what other
girls learn. I want you to send me to school, and I want you to tell me
about my father, and to let me go into my mother's room!"

The child almost screamed these last words, and stamped upon the floor
to emphasize them.

The doctor, now thoroughly aroused, rose from his chair, saying very
sternly,--

"Marjory, I cannot alter my decision upon these matters. I do not wish
you to go to school. I refuse to tell you any more than you have already
been told about your father. I have promised that you shall go into your
mother's room and take possession of it on your fifteenth birthday. That
is enough. I am grieved that you should have listened to vulgar gossip
about our affairs; but I may tell you that your mother left money to
provide for you ten times over, if need be."

"Then you are unkind and cruel not to use it to send me to school and
let me have what other girls have," cried Marjory passionately.

"Marjory," said her uncle quietly, "I cannot listen to you while you are
in this mood. You had better go, and come back again when you can talk
more reasonably."

"Yes, I will go, and I wish I need never come back. I hate everything,
and I wish I were dead."

With these words she flung out of the room, rushed blindly through the
house into the garden and on into the wood, where she threw herself down
under a tree, and sobbed out her grief to the faithful Silky until Mrs.
Forester found her.

Dr. Hunter was very much troubled and puzzled by his niece's behaviour.
Never before had she given way to such an outburst. He had not believed
her capable of such a storm of passion, and felt himself quite at a
loss. He was grieved and shocked beyond measure by Marjory's words.
"Unkind, cruel," he muttered to himself. "Surely not. I love the little
thing as though she were my own." And while Marjory was weeping bitterly
under the tree in the wood, her uncle, very sorrowful and thoughtful,
was pacing up and down his study wondering what he could do for the
best. It seemed all the more grievous as, only that afternoon, he had
been making plans for Marjory with Mrs. Forester--that she should share
Blanche's lessons and enjoy her companionship.

Mrs. Forester had heard much of the doctor and his niece from the mutual
friend in London who had written to the doctor, and she knew exactly how
to manage things, so that in the course of one short hour plans were
made which were to alter Marjory's whole existence.

But she, poor child, knew nothing of this, and her grief was bitter--the
more so as she slowly realized that she had been wrong to give way to
her passion. First, she had called Mary Ann Smylie a beast. Well, she
had been very much shocked once to hear a child in the street use that
word to another, but she herself had used it quite easily, and still
felt as if she would like to use it again; but, worst of all, she had
called her uncle unkind and cruel. Thinking over the scene in the study,
she remembered the look on his face as she said these words. "It was as
if I had struck him," she thought; and then came more tears and sobs.

Mrs. Forester's motherly heart yearned over the girl as she made her
confession. Brokenly and with many tears the story was told, and relief
came to Marjory in the telling of it. Blanche, with instinctive tact,
had walked away a little distance with Silky, so that Marjory should
feel free to talk to her mother. When the recital was over, Mrs.
Forester said cheerfully, "I told you I thought I should be able to help
you. First of all, I have got some delightful news for you. Only to-day
your uncle and I have been making plans for you to share in Blanche's
lessons. You are to learn everything that she does, _including_ French
and music," with a smile at the recollection of her battle against the
doctor's prejudices.

A breathless "oh" was all that Marjory could say.

Mrs. Forester continued,--

"Blanche has a very good, kind governess. Unfortunately, she has rather
an ugly name, and it may make you smile. It is Waspe--W, a, s, p,
e--not pretty, is it? But she is as sweet as she can be, and very
accomplished, and Blanche gets on nicely with her. It will be much more
interesting for Blanche to have some one to share her lessons with, and
good for you too, won't it?"

"Oh, indeed it will!" replied Marjory, bewildered by this wonderful
piece of news.

"And in return for this I want you to teach Blanche all you can."

"I?" asked Marjory in surprise.

"Yes, you," with a smile at the girl's puzzled expression. "Blanche is a
little too much like her name at present; she isn't very strong. Living
in London didn't suit her, and it is for her sake that we have come to
live here. I want you to show her all your favourite nooks and corners,
to teach her all you know about the birds and flowers, and to let her
help you in your garden. Will you do this, and keep her out of doors as
much as you can?"

"I shall love it!" cried Marjory emphatically. "It's like a dream, and
seems too good to be true."

"Now, my child," continued Mrs. Forester seriously, "listen to me. I
think you have been doing your uncle a great injustice. You say you
called him unkind and cruel; he is neither the one nor the other."

"I know," replied Marjory in a low voice.

"He is very fond of you," said Mrs. Forester.

Marjory looked up quickly.

"He never says so," she objected.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Forester, "now we have got to the root of the whole
matter. So, then, just because her uncle doesn't say, 'Marjory, I am
very fond of you,' therefore Marjory thinks that he doesn't care for her
very much."

Marjory nodded.

"My dear child, you never made a greater mistake. It is not in your
uncle's nature to say much; he is content with doing things for you.
This afternoon he talked of nothing but his plans for you, his ideas for
your education--how his first care has been that you should grow strong
and healthy amongst those outdoor things that you love. For your sake he
has been content to stay in this obscure place, when he would receive
the recognition he is entitled to if he went more into the world. His
very meals he takes at times which he considers best for you. Look at
your frock. Perhaps you don't think much of it, but let me tell you it
is made of the very best tweed that Scotland can produce. Your boots are
strong and sensible-looking, but they are of the finest quality of
leather; your stockings are the best that money can buy. Let me see your
handkerchief. Ah! I thought so," as Marjory obediently produced from her
pocket the little hard, wet ball her tears had made. "This is a plain
handkerchief, but so fine that it is fit for a princess to use. I don't
suppose you ever thought about these things; but it must mean a great
deal of trouble and care to your uncle to get them for you. He told me
he looks after your wardrobe himself. Now, haven't I proved that he
thinks about you a great deal?"

Marjory nodded.

"Don't you believe that, even if your mother had not left you provided
for, your uncle would have been glad to keep you--that he would never
have felt you a burden?"

"I don't know," said Marjory slowly. She was beginning to see her uncle
in a new light, but she could not see him as he really was just yet.

"Well, you will know some day. There are many things which you are too
young to understand, and you must try to trust in your uncle's knowing
what is best for you in the matter of your father, who will return to
you some day, I hope."

"Oh! do you really think that is possible?" cried Marjory. "Could it
ever happen?"

"Certainly it might. I don't see any reason at all why you shouldn't
hope for his coming. And if you will promise to be very patient, and to
hope for the best, I will tell you something very nice that I heard said
about your father a little while ago."

Marjory's eyes grew big with wonder. "Oh, _do_ tell me. Indeed I will
try to be patient."

"Well, an old friend of mine in London, who knows your uncle, and met
your father long ago, said to me, 'A fine fellow was Hugh Davidson. I
always feel that he may turn up again some day.'"

Mrs. Forester did not repeat other words said at the same time--namely,
that "Hunter was always jealous, and would see no good in him;" but she
felt justified in telling Marjory what she did, for she well knew how
the girl would treasure the words, and how they might often comfort and
encourage her.

"Oh! that _is_ good," said Marjory. "I do thank you for telling me." And
she squeezed her friend's hand.

"Now you must try to be very patient and hopeful. If God sees fit, be
sure that He will give your father to you for your very own some day. In
the meantime you must do all you can to be the sort of girl that a
father would be proud of; and, Marjory, I have been thinking that your
uncle might say the same of you as you do of him. You are fond of him,
really, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course," assented Marjory.

"Well, do you ever tell him so?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I shouldn't dare to."

"Nonsense! I suppose you would quite like it if he were to put his arms
round you and call you his dear little Marjory?"

"Yes." Marjory was quite sure that she would like it very much, but she
could hardly imagine such a thing happening.

"Well, do you ever go near enough to him to let him do it if he wanted
to, or do you simply give him your cheek to kiss, morning and evening,
and nothing more?"

"Yes, that's just what I do," confessed Marjory, laughing.

"Then perhaps your poor uncle thinks that you consider yourself too big
to be kissed and hugged, and so he doesn't do it. You can't blame him,
you know; if you just give him a little peck, and run away, you don't
give him a chance. You take my advice: try to be a little more loving in
your manner towards him, and it will soon make a difference. Perhaps you
don't like a stranger to speak so plainly to you, but I have heard so
much about you that I don't feel like a stranger at all. But I must be
going now. Dr. Hunter has invited Blanche to come to tea with you
to-morrow, and I hope this will be the beginning of a brighter life for
you, my child. Good-bye, dear," kissing her.--"Come, Blanche; we must be
going now."

The girls bade each other good-bye somewhat shyly, while Silky looked on
approvingly, wagging his tail, as if he knew that in some way these
strangers had been good to his mistress; and when they were gone he
turned to Marjory and rubbed his soft, wet nose against her hand as if
to say, "It's all right now, isn't it?" Marjory returned the dog's
caress, and walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the house.

CHAPTER III.

UNCLE AND NIECE.

"If thou art worn and hard beset
With troubles that thou wouldst forget,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears."

LONGFELLOW.

One thing showed itself very clearly to Marjory's mind--she must tell
her uncle at once that she was sorry for what she had said, though how
she was to bring herself to do so she did not know. She had never had to
do such a thing before, and now that she was calm again it seemed
impossible that she could have spoken those wild words. She realized how
these feelings against her uncle had been gathering force for a long
time. Very slowly, very gradually they had grown, to arrive at their
full strength as she listened to Mary Ann Smylie's tormenting
suggestions. She had grown to hate even the name by which she was known
in and about Heathermuir. Why did people call her "Hunter's Marjory"?
Why couldn't they give her her own name--her father's name? Some of
these feelings still rankled in her heart; but she was truly sorry for
her outburst, and made up her mind to tell her uncle so. She determined
to go at once to his study; and, once inside it and in his presence,
perhaps she would know what to say and do. So accordingly she went and
knocked at the study door. There was no answer. She knocked again
louder, and still there was no answer. Then she opened the door
cautiously and looked in, thinking her uncle might be asleep; but
no--the room was empty. Disappointed, she turned away, and going towards
the kitchen, called,--

"Lisbeth, where's Uncle George?"

The reply came in shouts from the distant kitchen,--

"He's awa to the doctor's. He winna be in to supper the nicht, and ye're
to gang awa early to yer bed."

The shouts came nearer as Lisbeth, wiping her floury hands on the large
apron she always wore when cooking, came bustling along the passage.

"Gude save us!" she cried, when she saw Marjory's face; "what's wrang
wi' the bairn--eyes red and face peekit like a wet hen? Come yer ways
in, lambie, an' Lisbeth'll gie ye some nice supper, for nae tea ye've
had. But I've got scones just newly bakit, an' I'll mak ye a cup o' fine
coffee. Come awa."

"Dear old Lisbeth," cried Marjory, "I would kiss you if you weren't so
floury. But I'm really quite happy, except that I wanted to see Uncle
George to tell him something."

"Weel, if yon's the way ye look when ye're quite happy, I wunner how
ye'll look when ye're quite meeserable. Havers," said the old woman
contemptuously, "_somebuddy's_ been tormentin' ye. Come awa."

The good cheer which Lisbeth provided was much appreciated by Marjory,
who did ample justice to the scones and cookies. She had been without
food for several hours, and was really quite hungry now that she had got
over the worst of her trouble. She listened to Lisbeth's cheerful
chatter as she bustled about the room, encouraging her "bairn" to try a
piece of this, a "wee bit scrappie" of that, till Marjory told her that
she simply couldn't eat any more.

"I'm going out to say good-night to Peter, and to give Silky his supper,
and then I'm going to bed," she announced.

"Peter, indeed!" said the old woman wrathfully. "It's little I've seen
o' him the day. Mony's the wee bit job I've wanted him to dae; but na,
na, no the day, he must be lookin' after the vine, he says." And Lisbeth
tossed her head.

"Well, you know, Peter isn't as young as he once was, and when he has to
climb up the steps to reach the top bits of the vine, it takes him a
long time," said Marjory, with a view to calming the old woman's wrath.

Lisbeth flounced round. "Don't you go for to say my Peter's slow at his
work. It's little ye ken how hard he's at it, nicht an' day, slavin' for
you an' the doctor, miss; and he's nane sae auld neither, an' ye needna
be ca'in' him an auld rheumaticky body that canna climb a lether."

"O Lisbeth, I _didn't_," reproachfully.

"You did so."

"I did nothing of the kind; I tried to make excuses for him because you
were so cross with him."

"_Me_ cross! Me cross wi' Peter!" ejaculated Lisbeth. "Me that's never
been cross wi' my man in a lifetime o' years! What next?"

"Just that you're a dear, funny old thing, and I'm going to bed."

"Ye're a peart-mouthed lassie, that's what ye are. Ye'd best get awa to
yer bed."

It was always thus with Lisbeth and Peter. Did any one cast the
slightest shadow of blame on either, the other was up in arms at once;
and though each might blame the other for some omission or commission,
as soon as any third person agreed in laying blame, that person found
himself in very hot water indeed.

Marjory went out to give Silky his supper. He always had his food in the
stable, but his bed was on a mat outside Marjory's bedroom door. Then
she went down the garden to find Peter.

She found him just putting away his tools for the night.

"Good-night, Peter," she said. "I just came to tell you I've got a
friend, and also that Lisbeth's cross."

"_She_ cross! Na, na; that canna be, Miss Marjory. Weary maybe wi' her
cookin' an' siclike for you an' the doctor, but no cross; na, na."

"Well, but, Peter, didn't you hear me say I've found a friend? Aren't
you glad?"

"Glad indeed I am. That's a bonnie bit news. An' what like is she?"

"She's the sweetest, prettiest girl you ever saw," said Marjory
enthusiastically.

"Ay, maybe she's that," replied the old man doubtfully, looking
significantly at Marjory.

"But I tell you she _is_, Peter, and her mother is so kind and gentle.
Their name is Forester, and they've just come to live at Braeside."

"Oh, _they_," said the old man.

The Foresters, being newcomers, did not hold a very high place in
Peter's estimation as yet.

"That's quick wark, Miss Marjory," he continued; and then, as if to
atone for his want of enthusiasm, "I'm glad to hear it, for whiles it
must be a bit lonesome here for a lassie the likes o' you."

"And, Peter darling, you'll be good to her, like you are to me, won't
you? And you'll show her the birds' eggs, and where to look for nests;
and you'll tell us stories on wet days, won't you?"

Peter looked guilty. He knew his master disapproved of fairy stories;
and his tales, although he would declare they were true ones and was
always careful to point them with an excellent moral, dealt largely with
the old Scottish fairy folk, and with the many superstitions handed down
from generation to generation amongst the peasantry.

"Na, na, Miss Marjory; ye're gettin' ower auld for Peter's stories; they
are but bairnie's tales."

"Now, Peter, you mustn't be obstinate. You must try to remember some
nice new ones."

"Aweel, gin I must, I must," said the old man, with a twinkle in his
eye, for if there was one thing he enjoyed above another, it was to see
Marjory sitting wide-eyed and open-mouthed drinking in some tale of
olden times.

"That's a good Peter. Now, remember, the first wet day that comes you're
engaged to us in the wood-shed. Good-night."

It was a beautiful still evening. July was not yet ended, and roses,
lilies, and mignonette breathed their fragrance upon the air. Overhead
one clear star was shining; like the star of promise that shone of old,
it seemed to Marjory an omen of a new life for her. Peace entered into
her soul as she gazed upwards. Away to the west the last lingering
tints of a late sunset were still to be seen; the whole world seemed at
rest. She, too, would lie down and sleep, calm after the storm, and
to-morrow she would begin a new day. She would tell her uncle she was
sorry, and would try to follow Mrs. Forester's advice. Loving words that
she would say to the doctor came into her mind, and she fell asleep
thinking of him with tenderness and gratitude.

When the morrow came, Marjory awoke with a confused sense that something
unusual was to happen that day. She gradually remembered her resolution
of the night before; but the loving words she had planned to say seemed
frozen inside her, and she felt as if she did not dare to speak to her
uncle.

She went down to breakfast dreading the meeting with him; but Dr. Hunter
said good-morning as usual, just as if nothing had happened. Marjory
noticed, with a pang of self-reproach, that he looked tired, and that
his eyes had a weary expression that was not usually there. He ate his
breakfast in silence, but that was nothing out of the common, for they
often sat through a meal with little or no conversation. Marjory hated
this state of things, and yet she had never had the courage to try to
alter it. She would sit and rack her brains for something to say, and
then decide that it was impossible that anything she could say would
interest a grown-up man, and a man so stern and silent as Uncle George.
Lately she had actually come to dreading meal-times, and would be
thankful when they were over and she could escape. All this was very
foolish on her part, no doubt, but it arose entirely from her
misunderstanding of her uncle.

Contrary to her usual custom, she hovered about the dining-room after
breakfast was over that morning, trying to make up her mind to speak.
She watched her uncle wind the clock on the mantelpiece, saying to
herself that she would speak when he left off turning the key, but she
let the opportunity slip by. Then the doctor gathered up his letters and
papers and went to his study without a word or a look in her direction.
In fact, he was quite unconscious of her presence for the time being; he
was thinking deeply over a scientific problem which absorbed his whole
attention.

Marjory despised herself for being so weak and timid, and at last
scolded herself into a determination to go and knock boldly at the study
door. She would be obliged to go in then; there could be no turning back
or putting off.

Her heart beating very quickly, she went and knocked at the door; and in
response to her uncle's "Come in," she opened it and walked across to
the table at which the doctor was sitting.

Interested as he was in his work, when he saw who was the cause of this
unusual disturbance, he smiled at her, asking,--

"Well, Marjory, what is it?"

The girl turned white to the lips and said, her voice low and
trembling,--

"I am very sorry about yesterday; will you forgive me?"

"Of course I will, and gladly," said the doctor heartily. "My dear
child, you didn't understand; you don't know that I only wish to do what
is for your good. I may have made mistakes. I was told yesterday that I
have made some big ones," sadly, "but I intend to try to rectify them
now. Things are going to be different, little one. You are to have a
companion, and you are to learn some of the things you are so anxious
about. Will that please you?"

"Oh yes," eagerly.

"And you take back those words, 'unkind and cruel'? I never thought to
hear my dear sister's child use such words to me."

Marjory's answer was a storm of tears.

"There, there, my child; don't cry. You won't think so hardly of me
again. Come, let us forget all our troubles." And the doctor took out
his handkerchief, and began to dry Marjory's tears, clumsily, it must be
owned, but with the kindest intention.

"See, Marjory, the sun is shining, and everything out of doors looks
bright and happy; you must be happy too. Follow the example of the
flowers. They droop under a storm of rain, but when the rain leaves off
and the sun begins to shine, they hold up their heads as straight as
ever."

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