Hunter\'s Marjory

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

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"Yes; but they aren't wicked like people are; they haven't got things to
be sorry for."

"Tut, tut, child; now you want to argue. That opens up a very large
field for discussion, and little girls have no business arguing. Run
away into the garden and play with Peter or Silky, or both, for both
dearly love an excuse for a game."

Marjory obeyed, saying to herself as she went, "Why will he always treat
me as such a child? I'm nearly thirteen, and I want to know about
things. I should like to know why people were made so that they can so
easily be naughty, and so suddenly too, without really wanting to." And
she thought of yesterday. "I suppose Uncle George knows everything; but
grown-up people always say that you wouldn't understand, and they won't
tell you anything. I wonder if trees and flowers are really as good as
they look. I know birds and insects, and even little tiny ants, are
naughty, because I've seen them quarrelling. I do wonder about the
flowers, because they are just as much alive as people or animals."

Turning over this problem in her mind, she went slowly down the garden
to Peter, who was at work again in his beloved vinery.

"Peter," she said, "do you think that flowers and trees and vegetables
are ever naughty?"

The old man paused in his work and scratched his head thoughtfully.

"Aweel, Miss Marjory," he said, "I'm thinkin' not. Seems to me that the
bonnie flowers hae been gien us for a gude example. They aye bloom as
best they can. Sunshine an' shade, rain an' wind, they tak them a' as
God Almichty sends them, an' are aye sweet, an' aye content just to dae
their best. I dinna ken for certain, Miss Marjory, but that's what I'm
thinkin'."

"I think so too, Peter. They certainly don't look as if they were ever
naughty. My new friend is just like a lovely white rose, and she doesn't
look as if she could ever be naughty either."

"H'm," remarked Peter, "she's no mortal, lassie, then."

"Peter, you're not a bit nice about the Foresters. I tell you they are
just as sweet as they can be, both Blanche and her mother."

"It's just this," replied Peter, thus admonished. "I'm no a man that can
gae heid ower ears a' in a meenit; I must prove folks first. These
Foresters, they're English for ae thing, an' maybe they'll bring new
fangles to Braeside, which, bein' a Scotsman, I canna gie my approbation
to. I'm no sayin' they _wull_, but they _micht_. Na, na, Miss Marjory; I
maun prove them first."

"You're an obstinate old thing; but you can begin proving, as you call
it, this very afternoon, for Blanche is coming to tea; and I say,
Peter, will you spare time to take us down to the Low Farm after tea?
Blanche comes from London, and I'm sure she would love to see over it."

"_London_," muttered Peter in a voice that meant volumes of disapproval.

"Now, _do_ be nice, and promise," coaxed Marjory. "I'm going to ask
Lisbeth a favour too, and I'm sure _she'll_ say yes."

Not to be outdone in good nature by his wife, the old man at last gave
his promise.

"Gin the doctor can spare me," he said.

Marjory smiled, for she well knew that Peter had had his own way at
Hunters' Brae for many a long year, and the doctor had very little to do
with the disposal of his time; but Peter was faithful to the smallest
detail, his duty was his life, and the doctor could trust him.

Marjory then betook herself to the kitchen to try her powers of
persuasion upon Lisbeth.

The kitchen at Hunters' Brae was a picture to see. A large room, bright
and airy, plates in orderly rows upon the dresser, copper pans that
shone like mirrors, spotless table and spotless floor, a big open fire
throwing out a cheerful glow--such was Lisbeth's domain. To complete the
picture, there was Lisbeth herself, a most wholesome hearty-looking old
lady, with rosy cheeks and kindly eyes. Her dress was made of
lilac-coloured print, and her apron was an immense size. She wore a
round cap with a goffered frill and strings which tied under her chin.
She was firmly convinced that no finer family than the Hunters of
Hunters' Brae ever existed, and that the world did not contain such
another man as her Peter--two beliefs which went a long way towards
maintaining that domestic peace which was the rule at Hunters' Brae.

"Weel, Marjory, what is't?" she asked, as Marjory entered the kitchen.
Lisbeth had never adopted the formal "Miss" in her mode of addressing
Marjory, the baby she had seen grow up. She had determined that when the
"bairn" should reach the age of fifteen, then would be time enough to
begin it.

"I want to ask you a favour," said Marjory.

"Ask awa," replied Lisbeth, her arms akimbo.

"Will you do it?"

"No till I hear what it is."

"Well, I want you to make some shortbread for tea."

"Shortbread the day?" asked the old woman in surprise; "the morn's no
the Sawbath."

"I know; but Blanche Forester, my new friend, is coming to tea, and I
want her to taste it. You know very well that you make the best
shortbread and wear the biggest aprons in Heathermuir. You will make us
some, won't you? Peter has promised to do what I asked him," added
naughty Marjory.

"I suppose I micht just as weel, though there's scones and cookies
enough for a regiment only bakit yesterday."

"That's a good Lisbeth," said Marjory, delighted with the result of her
mission, and feeling that the success of the afternoon's entertainment
was assured.

CHAPTER IV.

TEA AT HUNTERS' BRAE.

"They looked upon me from the pictured wall;
They--the great dead--
Stood still upon the canvas while I told
The glorious memories to their ashes wed."

E. B. BROWNING.

The day passed very slowly for Marjory until four o'clock, which was the
time appointed for the arrival of her visitor. She wondered whether
Uncle George would have tea with them, and, it must be confessed, she
secretly hoped that he would not, telling herself that it would be much
nicer without him, because Blanche and she would then feel free to talk
to each other. It must not be supposed that a better understanding of
her uncle could be reached by leaps and bounds. The change from the
confidence of the baby child to the constraint and awkwardness of the
older girl had been gradual, and the return to that fearless confidence
must be gradual too; but Marjory had taken a step in the right direction
that morning, and she really meant to try hard.

The girl had never had a friend of her own age to tea in her life, and
she felt how delightful it would be if they could be alone together.

There were occasional tea-parties at Hunters' Brae, but they were
dreaded rather than looked forward to by Marjory. The company usually
consisted of the minister and his wife and the doctor and his wife, and
it seemed to Marjory that these parties had been exactly the same in
every detail for years. The guests made the same flattering remarks
about Lisbeth's scones, cookies, and shortbread; they told the same
tales, and they put Marjory through the same catechism. How old was she
now? How was she getting on with her lessons? Could she sew her seam
nicely? Could she turn the heel of a sock? When these questions were
asked and answered, there would be long silences, broken only by the
crunching of shortbread and the swallowing of tea. To Marjory these
silences caused the most acute pain. She felt helpless and inclined to
run away, or scream, or do something to create a diversion. She would
watch the hands of the clock, hoping that each minute might bring a
remark from somebody. But the other people did not seem to mind the lack
of conversation; and once she counted ten whole minutes during which no
one said anything except what was necessary in passing and handing
eatables! How different her tea-party might be, she thought, if
only--But then she stopped, thinking of her new resolves. Still, it was
a great relief when the doctor said,--

"I'm going to Morristown this afternoon, Marjory, so you must entertain
your visitor yourself. Do you think you can manage it?"

There was a twinkle of mischief in the doctor's eyes as he asked the
question, but Marjory did not see it. She was looking at the ground,
blushing rather guiltily as she realized how pleased she was to hear of
this plan.

"Oh yes," she replied, "I shall manage quite well, Uncle George."

"Then just go and tell Peter I want him at once to drive me to the
station."

"Oh, mayn't I drive you?" asked Marjory eagerly.

"Of course you may," replied the doctor, looking at his niece in some
surprise. This was the first time she had ever suggested such a thing,
and he was more pleased than he cared to own even to himself. As for
Marjory, the words had slipped out almost before she knew what she was
saying; and when she had spoken them she felt half afraid of their
effect, and wholly surprised at herself.

The doctor, who did nothing by halves, had planned this trip to
Morristown for himself, so as to leave the coast quite clear for the two
girls to enjoy themselves in their own way. It was a most considerate
action on his part, for he disliked railway travelling, and at that time
was much engrossed in the study of the scientific problem before
mentioned. He told himself that if he were to stay anywhere in the
neighbourhood of Heathermuir he would not be able to keep away from his
study for long, so he decided to banish himself to Morristown.

Marjory drove her uncle to the station, and was back in plenty of time
to prepare for the reception of her guest. She could see the house at
Braeside very well from her bedroom, and, perched on the window-sill,
she watched for Blanche's coming. At last she saw two figures--a small
one and a tall one--coming out of the house. The tall one was a man, and
must be Mr. Forester she decided; and in that case she would not go to
meet them--she felt too shy. She watched them coming across the park
which surrounded their house; then they were lost to sight in the wood
which was at the end of the Hunters' Brae garden. The doctor must have
told them to come this way, as it was much nearer than coming by the
road.

Marjory was rather relieved to see that when at last the garden gate
opened Blanche was alone. She rushed downstairs and through the garden,
eager to welcome her visitor; but when she reached Blanche she felt
almost tongue-tied, and all she could say was, "How do you do?" which
sounded very stiff and formal, compared with what she felt.

But Blanche was equal to the occasion.

"How nice of you to come and meet me!" she said. "Dr. Hunter told us we
might come this way, as it is so much nearer. But how did you know just
when to come?"

"I was watching from my bedroom window."

"Then I believe we can see each other's bedroom windows, because mine
looks to the front of the house. How lovely! We shall be able to signal
to each other. Won't that be fun?"

"Yes, indeed it will. We shall be able to say 'good-night' and
'good-morning' to each other, and all sorts of things." And Marjory's
busy brain at once began to devise methods of signalling.

"What a lovely garden!" exclaimed Blanche as they walked towards the
house. "Ours is all weeds and rubbish, it has been left alone so long.
Nobody seems to have bothered about the garden while the house was
empty."

"It will soon begin to look nice, now you've come," said Marjory
consolingly; and, indeed, it seemed to her as if the very flowers in the
garden must grow to greet the coming of her friend.

"What a lot there is to see here!" said Blanche enthusiastically. "Where
shall we begin?"

"Well, let's have tea first," suggested Marjory. "Then we can go over
the house, then the garden; and then Peter has promised to take us to
the Low Farm--that is, if you would like it," she added, looking shyly
at her companion.

"I shall simply love it all," Blanche replied emphatically; and then,
in a burst of confidence, "I say, I'm awfully glad you haven't got on
your best frock--at least," quickly, "it's the same one you had on
yesterday. Mother said she didn't think I need put mine on; that we
might be in the garden, perhaps, and I should enjoy it better if I
didn't have to think about my frock."

"I never put my best one on unless I'm obliged to," said Marjory. "I
always feel so boxed up in it, and it always reminds me of sermons and
tea-parties."

Blanche laughed merrily. "Oh!" she cried, "are the sermons very long
here?"

"Well," laughing too, "they are not very short; but that's not why I
dislike them. It's because uncle likes me to write them down
afterwards."

"Oh, how _dreadful_! And do you manage to do it?"

"I try to. Sometimes it's easier than others; but sometimes there are so
many firstlies and secondlies divided into other firstlies and
secondlies that I get into a regular muddle. Uncle always says that it's
a very good exercise for the memory, as well as teaching me about Church
things. Sometimes Mr. Mackenzie preaches a sermon for children in the
afternoon, and then it's quite different; I could remember every word.
But the funny thing is that uncle never wants me to write them!"

"Too easy, I suppose!"

Blanche laughed again, such a joyous laugh that Marjory was infected by
it and laughed too. Blanche was a child of most unusual beauty, though
she herself seemed quite unconscious of it. Her face in repose wore an
expression of innocent loveliness which went straight to the heart. Her
skin was fair and soft, her eyes large and dark and of an indescribable
colour, neither brown nor gray, and her hair was like burnished copper,
with pretty waves in it, and the dearest little fine tendrils curling
about her neck and ears. Her childhood had been very happy. Surrounded
and protected by the loving care of devoted parents, she had grown to
look out upon the world with happy eyes, and her sunshiny disposition
made pleasure for herself and for others. Marjory had fallen in love
with her at first sight, and felt that she could never tire of looking
at her friend's sweet face.

They found tea laid for them in the dining-room. It was a pleasant room,
long and low-ceilinged, with oak beams and high panelled doors. At one
end of it stood an old-fashioned dresser, its shelves decorated with
precious china and silver. On the walls were pictures of bygone Hunters
in various costumes, Marjory's favourite being a dashing young cavalier,
with hat and feather, collar and frills of costly lace, and all the
other appointments of the period. Marjory used to amuse herself trying
to imagine her Uncle George dressed in such a style. There was the
admiral in cocked hat and gold lace; the minister in black gown and
orthodox white bands; there was the brave young soldier who had died for
Prince Charlie; and there were many others, most of them celebrated in
some way, for the Hunters had been a race of strong men.

Lisbeth, resplendent in a black silk dress, with muslin apron and cap in
honour of the occasion, stood at the door to meet the girls. On such a
day as this, Jean, the young maid, gave place to her superior.

"This is Blanche Forester," said Marjory by way of introduction; and
turning to Blanche, "This is dear old Lisbeth."

"I'm pleased to see ye," said the old lady graciously, nodding with
satisfaction, her eyes fixed upon Blanche's flower-like face. "Ye're a
bit ower white like for health," she remarked.

Shyness was not a failing that afflicted either Lisbeth or Peter: they
were both apt to say exactly what they thought, regardless of time,
place, or person.

Marjory was delighted by Lisbeth's evident approval of her friend, and
felt very grateful to the old woman for putting on her "silk," which
only came out on great occasions; and when she saw the table daintily
spread with all sorts of good things, her satisfaction was complete.

"If ye want onything, just ring the bell and I'll come," said Lisbeth,
and she rustled slowly out of the room. That was what Marjory called
Lisbeth's "silk walk." Dressed in her ordinary gown she bustled and
clattered about, but in the silk she was as stately and dignified as a
duchess.

"I _am_ glad it isn't a ladies' tea," said Blanche as they took their
seats, Marjory at the head of the table to "pour out."

Marjory looked at her questioningly.

"I mean where there's nothing to sit up to--no place to put your cup and
plate except your own knee; and if you want to blow your nose or cough,
you're sure to spill your tea; and the bread and butter is always so
thin that it drops to pieces before you can fold it up. But this is
_lovely_; and it is so nice to have it all to ourselves!" And she
settled herself comfortably in her chair.

Marjory felt quite at her ease by this time, and the two girls chattered
gaily while they disposed of Lisbeth's good things.

Tea over, they started on a tour of inspection round the house. It had
been built by a Hunter long ago, and Hunters had lived in it ever since,
and had added to it in many ways; but there was still part of the
original building left--an old wing which was now unused. There were
various stories told in the village about this old part of the house.
Footsteps were heard sometimes, it was said, and lights had been seen in
the night by belated passers-by. Lisbeth and Peter knew of the tales
and wild rumours that were current in the neighbourhood, but they were
careful to say nothing to Marjory or the doctor, and also very careful
to lock themselves in at night, as they were by no means free from
foolish fears and superstitions.

First of all, the girls examined the portraits in the dining-room.
Blanche inquired why there were no ladies amongst them.

"Don't they count as ancestors?" she asked.

"Oh yes," replied Marjory, laughing, "but they are all in the
drawing-room. I've often thought it would be much nicer to hang them up
in pairs, but Uncle George won't hear of it. He says they always have
been kept separate, and he doesn't like to have anything altered. Come
and see the ladies."

To the drawing-room accordingly they went. It was a large room, and
contained many treasures in the way of beautiful and valuable old
furniture and china. As a rule it was kept shrouded in dust-sheets, but
to-day Lisbeth had uncovered everything in preparation for the visitor.
There was a faint, delicious scent of potpourri about the room, the
recipe of which had been handed down from one generation of Hunter
ladies to the next, and was a speciality of the house. On the walls hung
the portraits of these same ladies, smiling serenely down upon the room
they had known so well. On the rare occasions when Marjory spent any
time in this room, she used to study the faces of these dames, and try
to trace some likeness to herself amongst them; but not one of them had
the curly hair and dark eyes that were her portion, and the child
sometimes felt sad to think that she was so unlike all the rest of her
family.

Blanche was delighted, and studied all the portraits to the last
one--that of Marjory's grandmother.

"But isn't there one of your mother?" she asked.

Marjory blushed. "Yes, there is one," she replied, "but it's in another
room."

Somehow she felt ashamed of that shut-up, silent room with its hidden
treasures that she had never seen.

"But," she continued, "I've got a picture of her when she was a girl,
inside this locket." And she unfastened a small, old-fashioned trinket
which she wore on a fine gold chain round her neck.

"Oh, how pretty!" cried Blanche; "but not a bit like you, is she?" And
then, somewhat confused lest Marjory should misunderstand her, she
continued, "I don't mean that you're not pretty, because you are; only
it's so funny that you are so dark and your mother was so fair."

"I often and often wish I were fair," said Marjory wistfully. "I should
love to be."

"Oh, but your hair is so curly and nice, it's just as good as fair hair.
Mother always says that all young girls are pretty so long as they keep
themselves tidy and fresh and try to be good. I used to be very cross
with my hair, especially when boys in London would call 'carrots' after
me, until at last mother made me understand that it is really quite
wrong not to be pleased with whatever hair or eyes God has given us, and
now I'm more content with it."

"It is lovely hair, and I would kick any boy that called it carrots,"
cried Marjory stoutly; and she took hold of a strand of it and kissed it
impulsively. "Oh, I do think you're such a darling!" she said. "I'm
going to be so happy now I've got you!"

This from quiet, self-contained Marjory! Here indeed was a revelation.

Marjory was just putting her locket back inside the neck of her dress,
where she always kept it hidden, when Blanche's attention was attracted
by something else which hung on the chain.

"What's this silver thing?" she asked; and Marjory explained that it was
the half of a sixpence with a hole in it. "Lisbeth says my mother wore
it for luck, so I always wear it too."

"How interesting! I wonder where the other half is."

"Lisbeth doesn't know; she says she never saw or heard of the other
half."

"If you were in a fairy tale, you'd make all the knights that wanted to
marry you go all over the world to find the other half; and then most
likely the person that had it would turn out to be a king's son, and he
would marry you, and you would be a queen, and be happy ever after."

Marjory laughed. "You shall make a story of it and tell it to me some
day; but come now and see my bedroom."

On the way to Marjory's bedroom they had to pass the locked chamber, and
of course Blanche had to inquire what it was, and Marjory had to
explain, which she did in an apologetic, shamefaced way.

"But how romantic--much better than a fairy tale! How you must long to
be fifteen and go in and see it!"

"Yes, I do. I wish it every day. But it takes such a lot of days to make
a year, and there are still two more years to come." And Marjory sighed.

"Oh, they'll soon go," said Blanche cheerfully, "now that you've got to
have lessons and be so busy."

When they reached the bedroom the girls went straight to the window, and
were delighted to find that Blanche's room could be seen from it, so
that the proposed signalling could easily be managed. They arranged that
it should be done by waving white handkerchiefs. Four waves were to mean
"Can you come out?" One wave in reply was to mean "No," and a lot of
little waves "Yes." If either had to go out elsewhere, or should be
prevented in any way from waiting till the other appeared at her window,
the handkerchief was to be hung on a nail outside. They agreed that
they would always go to signal directly after breakfast every morning.

All this took some time to plan, and Marjory said that if they were to
see the garden and the farm they must leave the old part of the house
till another day. Blanche agreed, and they went out into the garden.

CHAPTER V.

A VISIT TO THE LOW FARM.

"The blossom's scent
Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees
With low, vexed song from rose to lily went;
A gentle wind was in the heavy trees."

W. MORRIS.

The garden at Hunters' Brae was a charming place. Like the house, it had
been the care and pleasure of generations of the Hunters. Its lawns were
soft and velvety. The impertinent daisy and the pushing dandelion had
never been allowed their way amongst the tender grass, and it was smooth
and springy to walk on. It was Peter's pride that no such lawns could be
shown anywhere in or around Heathermuir. There was nothing stiff or
formal in this garden, no chessboard patterns or stripes of colour round
the borders, but there were lovely masses of luxuriant blooms, radiant
colourings, delicious scents, and all in such harmony that the result
was a charm which no more regular arrangement could have produced.

One of Marjory's favourite walks was a narrow grass path bordered on
each side by stately hollyhocks. When she was a little girl she used to
wonder how long it would be before she grew as tall as they were. This
walk led to the rose garden, which had always had a great attraction for
the lonely child. A real rose garden it was, with low stone walls, gold
and green with the mossy growth of many years. There was a sundial in
the centre of it, which had seen many a sunny day since it had been set
up to mark the passing of time for the visitors to the rose garden. Here
were roses of many sorts and colours, some rare, some common, but all
sweet, as only roses can be. Peter knew their secrets--knew just how to
treat these lovely queens among flowers--knew, too, that, above all,
they like to have undisputed possession of the ground, for they are
exclusive these royal ladies, and do not care to share with all and
sundry; and they rewarded the old man's care and consideration by
blooming early and late and in the most wonderful profusion.

It would take many pages to tell of all the delights of the Hunters'
Brae garden, with its unexpected turns and nooks and corners, its rustic
seats in shady places for hot days, in sunny places for cold ones, and
even in many pages it would be impossible to convey the old-world charm
pervading it, its stately dignity and the aspect of long-established
well-being over all. Peter seemed to know every inch of it, every plant
in it was as a child to him, and not the tiniest seedling was
overlooked, for--

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