Hunter\'s Marjory

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

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"The gardener, in his old brown hands,
Turns over the brown earth
As if he loves and understands
The flowers before their birth;
The fragile, childish little strands
He buries in the earth."

Dr. Hunter was often quite astonished at the amount of work the old man
would get through. Certainly he had two or three assistants, but they
were young and raw and had to be watched and told what to do; but Peter
always said he preferred them young, because "They didna hae quite sic a
gude conceit o' theirsels," and any young man who could get his training
under Peter thought himself very fortunate. Everything with him was done
in due season and for love of his work; there was no rushing or
hurrying--it was indeed a garden of peace.

Marjory loved the garden. It was here that the happiest hours of her
life had been spent; here that she had watched the ways of birds and
flowers and insects; here that she had listened to Peter's tales of
olden times; and here that she had dreamed dreams of her father, and
built many a castle in the air. She was glad when she saw that this
beloved garden was casting its charm upon her friend. It was looking
very lovely in the afternoon sunshine. Butterflies were flitting
amongst the flowers, and the hum of bees and many insects made the air
musical with sound of happy life. A gorgeous dragon-fly sailed past
them, wheeling round as if to show its wonderful glittering colours to
the best advantage in the sunshine. Blanche had never seen such a thing
in her life, and after it had gone she lingered many minutes hoping that
it might pass back again. But it did not come, and the time was slipping
away. Marjory spied the bent back of Peter in the distance, and the two
girls went towards him, Marjory calling to him to come and take them to
the farm.

Peter was not to be hurried; he was tying up a carnation plant, and he
continued his job with only a nod at the girls. He finished the last
knot just as they reached him, and straightening himself and raising his
hat, he said, "I'm ready noo."

Marjory said to Blanche, "This is Peter;" and then turning to Peter,
"This is Miss Forester. Aren't you pleased to see her?"

"I am that," replied the old man, looking at Blanche for the first time;
and then, as if satisfied with what he saw, he repeated much more
enthusiastically, "'Deed an' I am that," with a nod and a smile at
Blanche.

Marjory felt great satisfaction in the assurance that her friend had
found favour in the eyes of the two very important personages in the
Brae household--Lisbeth and Peter.

The girls chatted gaily to the old man as they went down the hill on the
other side of the wood to Low Farm.

Marjory never liked to go to the farm without Peter or Lisbeth or her
uncle, for she was a little afraid of the woman who managed it. Mrs.
Shaw was very tall and strongly built, with black hair turning gray
about the temples, and dark, deep-set, piercing eyes, and eyebrows which
Marjory always thought looked long enough to comb. This gave Mrs. Shaw,
as she was called, a somewhat forbidding look, and, added to her quick,
decided, almost rough way of speaking, made her more feared than loved.
No one knew anything of her life before she came to Heathermuir; but the
story went that her husband had gone away to foreign parts and never
come back again, and that her temper was soured in consequence. Be that
as it might, she was an excellent manager; everything at the Low Farm
was in spick-and-span order, and fit for inspection at any time of the
day. Maids and men alike knew that they must do their work, or Alison
Shaw would demand the reason of any neglect or unpunctuality; and with
those black eyes fixed upon them it was impossible to prevaricate or
offer excuses.

The young ladies' visit must have been expected, for when they were
ushered by Mrs. Shaw into the little parlour, there was a tray on the
table with glasses on it, and a bottle of gooseberry wine and a cake of
shortbread.

Mrs. Shaw poured out some wine for each of the girls, eyeing them
critically as she did so. When at last she spoke it was not with the
broad accent usual amongst the people of Heathermuir--a fact which in
itself proclaimed her as not one of them, and added not a little to
their respect for her, and to the mystery which surrounded her.

"So you've come to see the farm, Miss Forester," she said in her deep
but musical voice. "What do you wish to see first?"

Blanche, conscious of the earnest scrutiny of those dark eyes, blushed
rosy red, and, bewildered by this sudden question, looked appealingly at
Marjory, who, unfortunately, had a mouthful of shortbread at that
moment; then, feeling that she must say something, Blanche stammered,
"Oh, I don't know--er--have you any pigs?" She did not in the least wish
to see pigs more than any other animal, but they were the only living
things she could think of at the moment as appropriate to a farm.

Marjory laughed, but Mrs. Shaw did not move a muscle.

"Yes," she said, "we have pigs; you shall see them first if you please."

"Thank you," said Blanche; and then, thinking that she ought to try to
be polite and friendly, "What very nice wine this is!"

"Yes, it is," responded Mrs. Shaw. "I made it myself."

Blanche was somewhat abashed by the reply, and could think of no further
remark. She did not yet know that there was not a shadow of pretence
about Mrs. Shaw. Her reply had no savour of conceit; it was honest, that
was all. She knew the wine was good, because she had made it herself and
could vouch for it; therefore, why should she deny or disclaim it?

Blanche would have liked to linger in the little parlour to examine some
of the curiosities which had caught her eye. Pieces of dried seaweed,
scraps of coral, strings of queer-looking beads, and even dried and
stuffed fish, were arranged on the mantelpiece and on every available
bracket and shelf. She was eager to know where all these treasures had
come from, and how they had found their way to the Low Farm, but she did
not dare to question Mrs. Shaw. All Marjory knew about them was, as she
told Blanche afterwards, that it was said they came from "foreign
parts," which was the general term applied by the people of Heathermuir
to any country outside of the British Isles. It was said that a
mysterious parcel came regularly every Christmas to Mrs. Shaw, that she
never spoke of its contents to any one, but that the collection of
curiosities grew larger every year.

Mrs. Shaw was ready for the business of the moment, and as soon as the
girls had finished their refreshment, she led the way out of the house
into the little garden which surrounded it, where Peter and Silky were
patiently waiting for them. Silky was quite to be trusted in the
farmyard; he had paid many visits to it, and always behaved as a pattern
of propriety.

The first things to attract Blanche's attention were three pretty straw
beehives. Mrs. Shaw was proud of her honey and fond of her bees, and
seemed to understand them in some curious, sympathetic way. It was her
boast that she had never been stung; and as she was a very honest
person, there is no reason to doubt her word.

The hives stood at some distance from the house, at the end of the farm
garden, and there were beds of lemon, thyme, sage, mignonette, and other
sweet flowers near the hives for the bees to feed on; and a border of
tall sunflowers along the garden path seemed to be very much appreciated
by them too.

Mrs. Shaw was very much pleased by Blanche's interest in her bees, and
she actually gave an invitation to the two girls to come again when it
was time to take the honey, and she would tell them all about it. This
was a most unusual action on her part, for, although she was always
ready to receive visitors, she was seldom known to invite them. Peter's
face wore a curious smile as he heard the invitation given and
accepted.

But they must pass the bees and go on to something else. Mrs. Shaw led
the way, remarking to Peter,--

"Miss Forester wishes to see the pigs; we'll go to them first."

Peter's smile broadened into a grin, and he stole a glance at Blanche
which caused her to laugh outright. Marjory joined in, and, wonderful to
relate, even Mrs. Shaw smiled. Blanche tried to explain.

"Mrs. Shaw asked me what I would like to see, and I could only think of
pigs just then," she said, blushing and laughing.

"'Deed, then, an' Mrs. Shaw's pigs are a bonnie lot, I can tell ye, an'
worth seein', Miss Blanche," said Peter.

They soon arrived at the sties, and although they were all that they
should be--and no doubt the pigs were well-bred and well-conducted
animals--Blanche did not take to them with much enthusiasm, except in
the case of one perky little black-and-white fellow, who seemed to be
the life and soul of the family party.

They next went to the poultry-yard, where there were many varieties of
fowls, and one or two families of charming little yellow balls of
chickens promenading the yard with their proud mothers.

It was getting near milking time, and the sleek, well-fed cows were
sauntering one by one into the yard. They scarcely needed any driving:
a man stood at the yard gate, whistling a long, peculiar note, and the
animals knew what to do, though they never hurried themselves in the
doing of it.

Blanche had never been quite so near to cows before, and it must be
admitted that she felt a little frightened of them; their horns looked
so very large and pointed, now that they were so close! Marjory, of
course, was quite accustomed to them, and had no idea that they were a
real terror to her town-bred friend.

One great beast, bearing the innocent name of Daisy, but with an immense
pair of horns, and eyes that seemed to Blanche to be rolling with fury
directed towards herself, came through the gate, and she instinctively
went closer to Mrs. Shaw for protection. Quick as thought, the woman
caught her hand and gently led her farther away.

"They won't hurt you," she whispered. "Daisy's as gentle as she can be.
You must come again and make friends with her."

Blanche gave Mrs. Shaw a grateful look, and squeezed the hand that held
hers. The pressure was returned, and any one who had happened to look at
Mrs. Shaw at that moment would have seen a suspicious moisture in the
black eyes and a little quiver on the set lips; for Mrs. Shaw had a
heart, and Blanche had somehow found her way into it.

A dairymaid came to ask if the young ladies would be waiting for a
drink of the new milk. Marjory said, "Yes, please," at once. She liked
the new milk, frothy and warm. But Blanche said quickly,--

"Oh no, thank you; I would really rather not. You're very kind, but I'm
sure I shouldn't like it."

"It would be good for ye, Miss Blanche," remarked Peter, "and maybe help
to put some colour into yon white cheeks o' yours."

The cheeks were rosy red for a minute as Blanche repeated her refusal.
She did not want to be rude, but, oh dear! could she ever bring herself
to drink milk like that? She did not think she possibly could.

"Never mind; she shan't be bothered," said Mrs. Shaw, to Blanche's
relief. "She shall come to the dairy and have some curds and cream--I've
some nicely set--or a drink of the other milk, if she likes that
better." And, still holding Blanche's hand, she led the way to the
dairy, across the yard and along a shady path.

What a refreshingly cool place the dairy was, with its rows of shining
white pans, and its tiled walls and floor! Everything looked so fresh
and spotless, it was a pleasure to see it.

Blanche was glad to have a glass of the milk here. It was very
different, ladled out of one of those beautiful white pans with a nice
white ladle!

Mrs. Shaw showed them the churn and the pats of yellow butter. There
were cheeses too, and pots of cream--one and all of the best and
freshest.

The dairy was the last sight; and the girls, very much pleased with all
they had seen, said good-bye to Mrs. Shaw, receiving a hearty invitation
to come again soon--in fact, to come any time they liked.

Marjory walked with Blanche from the farm to a small gate which led into
the Braeside park, Peter watching them, waiting for Marjory's return,
and then walking home with her.

"She's a bonnie lassie yon," said Peter, as he walked stiffly up the
hill beside Marjory. "I'm weel pleased wi' her."

"Yes, isn't she a darling, Peter? I do feel so happy now I've got a
friend, and such a friend. Did you notice how Mrs. Shaw kept looking at
her?"

"Ay," replied Peter, "I did that."

Dr. Hunter was at home when they arrived. They found him sitting on one
of the garden seats smoking.

"I'm taking a holiday too, you see," he called to Marjory. "Come and
tell me about yours."

Marjory obeyed, and was surprised that she felt able to tell her uncle
quite freely about what she and Blanche had been doing; and he, on his
part, was glad to see the light in Marjory's eyes, and to hear the ring
of pleasure in her voice, both of which had been rare of late.

As for Marjory, she went to bed full of contentment, and with a sense
of general well-being. Often she had got up in the morning with a
feeling of dullness, as if there were nothing to look forward to. She
was sure that such a feeling would never come to her again, now that she
had some one to share her days, to share her pleasures and her
troubles--for even girls have troubles of their own, and very real ones
sometimes.

"Everything will be different now," was her thought as she lay down to
sleep. "I shall be glad when to-morrow comes."

CHAPTER VI.

CONFIDENCES.

"'Tis the Land of Little People, where the happy children play,
And the things they know and see there are so wonderful and grand--
Things that wiser, older folks cannot know or understand.
In the woods they meet the fairies, find the giants in their caves,
See the palaces of cloudland, and the mermen in the waves,
Know what all the birdies sing of, hear the secrets of the flowers--
For the Land of Little People is another world than ours."

ANON.

So this is the little gypsy Blanche has been telling me about!"

Such was Mr. Forester's greeting to Marjory when she went to Braeside on
a return visit.

Marjory was not sure that she liked being called a gypsy. That dark hair
of hers was always a sore point, but she was quite certain that she did
not like the kiss which Mr. Forester bestowed upon her in all kindness
of heart. To begin with, she did not like being kissed by strangers; and
secondly, if the said strangers happened to possess moustaches, it made
their offence the greater. Mr. Forester was a stranger, and, moreover,
was the proud owner of a long and silky moustache, so Marjory felt that
she had some excuse for her resentment.

"'Don't like being called a gypsy, and don't like being kissed' written
large all over her face--eh, Blanche?" said Mr. Forester mischievously.

"Papa, you are a horrid tease. Go away and leave us in peace. I don't
wonder Marjory doesn't like your nasty, tickly kisses."

"Oh dear, please don't send me away," he said in mock dismay. "Mayn't I
stay if I promise to be very, very good?"

"You must ask Marjory."

Marjory's reply was to burst out laughing.

"Ah, that's better," said Mr. Forester. "Now we're all quite happy. Sit
down, both of you, and listen to me."

The girls obeyed, and Mr. Forester continued,--

"Guess what I brought from Morristown to-day?"

"Sweets!" cried Blanche.

"No. Guess again."

"Anything to eat?"

"I should be very sorry to eat it, but some people might like to."

"Lesson books," hazarded Marjory.

"No; nothing so useful, I'm afraid."

"Does mother know?"

"No. Nobody knows but me."

"Oh, do tell us, papa."

"Well, you are a pair of duffers. I thought you would have been sure to
guess, but I'll go and fetch it."

Mr. Forester returned carrying a small hamper. There was straw poking
out of it in places, and it was labelled, "This side up, with care."

"Oh, it's a new tea-set for the schoolroom," cried Blanche. "Mother said
we needed one."

"No, it's not a new tea-set for the schoolroom, Miss Clever. There's a
new pupil, and that's quite enough for any schoolroom. You're no good as
a guesser, and yet you've been worrying my life out for weeks about this
very thing."

Mr. Forester meanwhile was untying the string which fastened down the
lid of the hamper. He slowly raised it, and there, curled up in the
straw, lay a little black retriever puppy, its baby face puckered up
partly in fear and partly in interest over this new experience.

"What a perfect little darling!" cried Blanche. "Oh, isn't he sweet? But
how could you say some people might like to eat him, papa?"

"Well, I've heard of the Chinese eating puppy-dog stew; it comes after
birds'-nest soup, you know."

"Papa!" indignantly.

Mr. Forester lifted the little fellow out of the basket and set him on
the floor. He began running along with such a queer little waddle that
they all laughed. Then he stopped and contemplated them questioningly,
as much as to say, "What are you laughing at?"

"There, Miss Blanche," said her father, "you've got your work cut out
for you to train that small person in the way he should go. Don't make a
fool of him, dear; love him as much as you like, but make him obey
orders. He's a game little beggar, isn't he?"

Blanche was delighted. "O papa, thank you a thousand times. Is he really
for my very own, like Marjory has Silky? Oh, I am so glad to have him!
You darling!" she cried, catching up the dog and hugging him close.

"I thought _I_ was the darling," said Mr. Forester comically. "In fact,
I'm sure I am, for thinking of it all myself."

"So you are--the dearest, darlingest papa in all the world." And the
girl sprang into her father's arms.

This scene made Marjory a little bit sad.

"If only I had my father too, how happy I should be!" she thought. "But
I don't even know if I've got one." And she sighed.

Blanche noticed the cloud on her friend's face, and instinctively felt
what had caused it. Tears of sympathy rushed to her eyes, and she picked
up the puppy and put him into Marjory's arms.

"Now," she said, with a look which Marjory understood, it was so full
of sympathy, "you must christen him."

Marjory looked attentively at the little fat ball of a dog, and then
said thoughtfully,--

"What would you think of 'Curly'? He is one of the curly kind, different
from Silky."

"Yes, that will do beautifully. We'll call him Curly. Do you agree,
papa?"

"Right you are," replied Mr. Forester. "But it doesn't matter so much
what you call him as whether he comes when he's called; that's the chief
thing." And so saying he left the girls to enjoy the new treasure by
themselves.

Marjory was quite as enthusiastic as Blanche. She was passionately fond
of animals, and the young ones always charmed her. She was able to give
Blanche instructions as to how Curly should be fed; and they made a set
of very strict rules for his training, which was to begin at once.

Their consultation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Forester. She
had been out driving, and was very beautifully dressed. Marjory thought
she had never seen such a lovely lady before. She kissed the girl
tenderly, and, putting her arms round her, said,--

"I am very glad to welcome you here, little Marjory, and I hope this
will soon feel like a second home to you. Now," brightly, "I've got a
great piece of news for you. Miss Waspe writes that she would be very
glad to have an extra week's holidays till the eighteenth of September.
What do you say?"

Blanche clapped her hands. "Oh, how jolly! a whole week more to do as we
like! Do let her have it, mother."

Mrs. Forester laughed. "Yes, I think we must let her have it. She will
be just as pleased as you, no doubt. Well, then, you will begin lessons
on the eighteenth of September.--Will that suit you, Marjory?"

"Oh yes, it's my birthday."

"In that case, wouldn't you rather wait until the next day, dear? It
won't make any difference to us."

"Oh no, thank you. I think it would be splendid to begin on my birthday.
I've wanted to learn things for such a long time, it will be a kind of
present," said Marjory.

"How funny you are!" cried Blanche. "I should hate to have lessons on my
birthday. I always have a holiday. Mine is in June, and Waspy and I
always have a treat of some kind."

"Miss Waspe also says, Marjory, that she is very glad indeed that you
are going to be her pupil, and is looking forward to the term's work
with two of you to teach."

Marjory blushed with pleasure. "She is very kind. I am looking forward
too."

Mrs. Forester turned to go, saying that she hoped the girls would enjoy
their tea and have a nice time. Marjory followed her as she left the
room, and when they were outside the door asked,--

"Do you think I ought to say I'm sorry for calling Mary Ann Smylie a
beast?"

Mrs. Forester smiled in spite of herself at Marjory's solemn face.

"Do you feel sorry?" she asked.

Marjory looked down. Her conscience had pricked her several times about
it, but she could not honestly say that she felt really sorry. In fact,
she felt quite sure that if Mary Ann were to say the same thing again,
she would feel inclined to call her names again.

"I see," said Mrs. Forester, "you don't feel very sorry. Well, do you
think it was a nice, lady-like way to speak?"

"Oh no," replied Marjory quickly.

"Then you are sorry that you used an unbecoming word, but you still
think Mary Ann richly deserved some punishment for her unkind words?"

"Yes, that's just it," said Marjory, wondering how it was that Mrs.
Forester understood her so well.

"But you still feel uncomfortable when you think about Mary Ann?"

"Yes."

"Well, if I were you, I should go to Mary Ann and say, 'I am sorry I
used an ugly word to you, but I still think you were very unkind in what
you said.' Then, if she is a nice girl, she will say she wishes she
hadn't said what she did; and if not--well, you must just leave it,
dear. I will go with you if you like. We can all drive to the village
to-morrow afternoon."

"Oh, how good of you! Thank you so much." And Marjory, much relieved,
went back to Blanche.

As a matter of fact Mrs. Forester had her own reasons for going herself
with Marjory, for that very afternoon Mrs. Smylie, by way of
ingratiating herself with the newcomer, had been making unkind remarks
about Marjory and her bringing-up, and warning Mrs. Forester that she
would not be a suitable companion for her daughter. Mrs. Forester had
known very well how to reply to these statements, but she thought it
would be a very good thing to show the Smylies that their spiteful,
unkind words had no weight with her.

Mrs. Smylie's ambition knew no bounds as far as her daughter was
concerned. She was conscious of the fact that she herself was a plain,
ordinary, country woman, and would never be anything else; but with her
daughter it was different. With her looks and education she ought to be
able to associate with the best of people. Such was this foolish
mother's dream, and she had thought to curry favour with the lady of
Braeside by her remarks on what she considered should be the behaviour
of a well-brought-up young lady, and what she had always aimed at in the
education of her daughter. Mary Ann would have laughed could she have
read her mother's mind and seen to what heights her ambition rose.

Marjory forgot about her for the time being. Blanche had so many
treasures to show her and so much to say to her that the afternoon
passed all too quickly.

They had tea by themselves in the room Mrs. Forester had chosen as a
schoolroom--comfortable and cheerful, with windows looking over the
garden. A new set of shelves had been put up, and all Blanche's books
were arranged on them--her story books on the top and her lesson books
on the lower shelves.

Marjory feasted her eyes upon the collection. Here were Blanche's old
favourites, amongst them Grimm's "Fairy Tales," and Hans Andersen's,
"Alice in Wonderland," "Black Beauty," and many others. One after
another she took them down to show to Marjory.

"You must read every one of them," she said, "and then your mind inside
will be just like mine."

"I should love to read them all, but I wouldn't be allowed to read the
fairy tales," with a sigh.

"Why not?"

"Uncle doesn't approve of them."

"What a pity!" cried Blanche. "I wonder why. Do you think he would let
you if I were to ask him? I could take him my 'Grimm' and show him what
splendid tales they are."

"Would you dare to?" asked Marjory, awestruck by her friend's bold plan.

"Dare to? Of course I should. I can't think why you are so frightened of
Dr. Hunter, he looks such a dear old thing. If he were a cow or a bull
it would be different," laughing; "but you don't seem a bit afraid of
them, with their great horns and bulging, glaring eyes."

"That's just where we're different," said Marjory, laughing too. "You're
afraid of animals and not of people, and I'm afraid of people and not of
animals."

"Well, anyway, I'm not afraid to ask about the fairy tales. I shall tell
him that of course we don't really believe in them in our everyday
heads, but they are nice to think about, and to think perhaps some day a
fairy thing might happen."

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