Hunter\'s Marjory

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"Such news!" she cried. "Something so exciting to tell you. You'll never
guess."

"What is it? Please don't make me guess. I can't wait." And Marjory
caught hold of her friend's arm, trying to make her stand still and tell
her news--a difficult task, for Blanche was almost beside herself with
excitement, and was also bent upon tantalizing Marjory. But Marjory's
arms were stronger than Blanche's, and she succeeded in making her stop
dancing about.

"There now, tell me," she cried, when Blanche was fairly pinioned
between her arms. "I shan't let you go till you do."

"Oh dear; then I must tell you, I suppose. Well, Marjory, what do you
think?" very slowly and provokingly. "Mother--says--that--"

A shake from Marjory produced the end of the sentence more quickly.

"Oh!" and Blanche's laugh rang out; "don't, Marjory. Mother and father
want to go to London for a few days, so can I come and stay here?"

A shriek of delight was Marjory's reply, and the two girls were
executing a kind of war-dance round the hall, when suddenly the study
door opened, and the doctor put his head out. He had a book in his hand,
and was wearing his spectacles, which always made him look more
formidable. Marjory wished that the floor might open and swallow her;
but it was no use--they were fairly caught.

"Dear me," said the doctor when he saw them, "what is all this
disturbance about?"

Blanche ran forward.

"Please don't scold Marjory," she said; "it is all my fault. I came to
tell her something very exciting, and we were both so pleased that we
quite forgot we oughtn't to make a noise. You see, there isn't anybody
learned like you in our house, so I haven't got into the way of
remembering not to disturb you. I am very sorry." And Blanche looked
confidingly at the doctor.

He smiled and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead.

"You haven't told me this exciting piece of news, though--the wonderful
information that was the cause of this disturbance of the peace."

"Mother was coming to tell you--that is, to ask you about it. It depends
on you, you see." And Blanche looked up into the doctor's face.

Marjory stood by, a silent listener. She quite expected a scolding, and
was amazed at Blanche's boldness.

"Well, suppose _you_ tell me, now you are here."

Blanche looked again at the doctor. She was afraid that this might not
be a very good time to make her request. She could not quite tell by
his face what he was thinking, but she took courage and said,--

"Father wants mother to go to London with him for a few days, and she
says she will if you will be so good as to let me come and stay with
Marjory."

"What! A noisy little person like you!" The doctor was only in fun, but
Blanche's face fell, and her eyes slowly filled with tears.

Marjory spoke up. "O uncle, she isn't really noisy. I made just as much
noise as she did; and if only you will say yes, we will promise to be
very quiet.--Won't we, Blanche?"

"Yes," faltered Blanche.

"Tut, tut," said the doctor; "I don't want you to be quiet; it isn't
natural for young things. Yes, my child; come and stay as long as you
like, and make as much noise as you like. I was only teasing you, but
you didn't like my little joke," laughing.

"Oh, how good you are!" cried Blanche, and she put her arms round the
doctor's neck and kissed him, her tears leaving little wet places on his
cheeks.

Marjory looked on in wonder. How could Blanche dare to be so familiar
with her uncle? she thought; and, stranger and still more unexpected
than that, her uncle seemed to like it. She watched him take out his
handkerchief and wipe the wet places, also his own eyes, and then take
off his spectacles and polish them vigorously, asking Blanche meanwhile
which day her parents would be leaving. It would be the next day,
Tuesday, she replied; and the doctor told Marjory she had better see
Lisbeth at once, and ask her to make the necessary preparations. Marjory
gave her uncle a grateful look, which was meant to make up for the
formal "Thank you, uncle," which was all that she could find to say.

The girls went to the kitchen, where Lisbeth was working. Lisbeth having
set the laundrymaid to work, was once more her usual smiling self, and
was quite pleased to hear the news. She made no difficulties, and
promised that Jean should put a second bed into Marjory's room, as that
was what they said they would like best.

As they left the kitchen Lisbeth called to Marjory to be sure and not
forget to tidy her wardrobe and drawers, and to see that there was room
for Miss Blanche's things.

"Isn't she a dear old thing?" exclaimed Blanche, when they were out of
hearing. "She seemed quite pleased for me to come. Some servants are so
cross if there is anything extra, that it makes you feel quite
uncomfortable."

"Lisbeth's not a bit like that. Besides, anybody would be glad to have
you," said Marjory, looking at her friend with intense admiration, of
which Blanche seemed quite unconscious.

"Yes," she said, "people are very kind. Mother says there are far more
kind people in the world than unkind ones."

Marjory looked at the sweet face beside her, and thought that it would
be a very unkind person indeed who could be unkind to Blanche. Then she
said, rather sadly,--

"Uncle George seems quite a different person with you."

"O Marj, he's a dear old thing. I felt sure he was directly I saw him. I
can't think why you are so afraid of him."

"I am," with a sigh.

"I'm sure you needn't be. Think of him just now. He was busy in his
study, and we made all that noise, and he wasn't a bit cross. Most
people would have been, even if they had only been writing a letter; and
daddy says that Dr. Hunter's work is most important and valuable, and
that he is a great man. You must be very proud of him, aren't you?"

"Yes; only I don't quite know what it is that he does."

"Neither do I; but, anyway, he is very clever. Daddy says so, and he
says he considers himself very fortunate in being able to know Dr.
Hunter."

This was quite a new aspect of affairs to Marjory. She had been used to
the idea that she and her uncle were rather shunned than otherwise by
other people, that her uncle was a stern old man with whom no one wanted
to be friendly. But now that a man like Mr. Forester, from the great
far-away world of London, should consider her uncle's acquaintance a
privilege--this was indeed something new, and it gave Marjory food for
thought and speculation.

Mr. and Mrs. Forester went to London, and Blanche to Hunters' Brae.
Marjory and Peter fetched her in the pony-cart, and she brought Curly
with her, as she could not bear to leave him for other people to look
after. Silky was delighted with the puppy, and allowed the little fellow
to take all sorts of liberties with him. It was a pretty picture--the
big dog fondling the small one and playing with him.

Lisbeth had done as she had promised, and a second bed had been put up
in Marjory's room. Such a pretty room it was--the best in the house, and
looking out upon the garden. It was pretty by reason of its shape--long
and low, with beams across the ceiling, and casement windows--and not
from any extra decoration or those many knick-knacks which most girls
contrive to collect around them. There were dainty white muslin curtains
and covers, everything was spotless, but there were no ornaments or
trifles lying about. On the bookshelf were Marjory's Bible and
Psalm-book and a copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress"--no other books. These
were all that the doctor considered it necessary for Marjory to have.
There was a glass bowl on the chest of drawers, which was kept filled
with flowers all the year round, and that was the only ornament in the
room. Some might have thought it bare, but it had a simple charm of its
own, with its spotless whiteness and its faint odour of lavender,
stronger when the wardrobe or the drawers were open.

Marjory had been struck by the difference between Blanche's bedroom and
hers when she had paid her first visit to Braeside. There the walls were
covered with pictures of all sorts and sizes, the table was littered
with silver toilet articles, photographs and trinkets, and the bookshelf
was filled with books. Most of these things were presents from her
father and mother, or from relations or acquaintances, and spoke for
themselves of the difference in the lives of the two girls--the one
solitary and simple in a remote country place, the other in the midst of
friends and relations in the rush and hurry of a great city.

"How sweet your room is!" said Blanche as they went in.

"It isn't like yours, though," replied Marjory doubtfully. "You have
such a lot of pretty things."

"Oh, but I love this!" cried Blanche enthusiastically, sniffing the
lavender-scented air and walking to the window; "and what a lovely view!
I could sit and look out all day."

They decided to wait till the next night to watch for the ghost, for
they thought it would be better to pay a visit to the old wing in the
daylight first, and to explore it thoroughly, so that they should both
be well acquainted with the staircases and the various rooms. They spent
some time in discussing their plans, and Blanche's cheeks flushed and
her eyes grew bright as they talked them over.

"Isn't it exciting?" she cried. "I do hope the light will come, so that
we shall be able to see it. I hope I shan't feel frightened when the
time comes, but I don't think I shall with you, Marj. You don't seem to
be afraid of anything."

"Except Uncle George," amended Marjory.

"Yes; and I can't think why. Fancy being less afraid of a thing that
might be a ghost than you are of a real flesh-and-blood uncle, who is
really quite a dear old man!"

"It does seem silly," admitted Marjory, "but it's no good pretending it
isn't true, because it is."

They went to the old wing next morning. It consisted of a large square
hall, from which led a wide staircase to a gallery above, and two or
three other rooms on the ground floor. From the gallery led several
narrow corridors, with many turns and corners, steps up and steps down,
which were traps for the unwary visitor. It was seldom that any one came
to the old wing; its tenants were rats and spiders. Birds built their
nests in the crumbling walls, and it smelt damp and musty, as if it had
seen no sunlight for many a day.

The girls' footsteps and voices echoed through the empty rooms and
passages. The old place had a fascination for Marjory, and yet she could
never go through it without a shiver of something like awe. What had
these mouldering walls seen? What tales could they tell if they could
speak? Then her heart would swell with pride at the thought that she
came of a long line of Hunters who had lived here and made the name
famous. She, too, must do her part. Sometimes she would wish that she
bore the old name; then she would rebuke herself for the thought, which
was like treason to that unknown father of hers.

They went carefully through each room. There was nothing unusual in any
of them; old boxes, pieces of broken furniture, rusty bits of iron
strewed the place. One thing took Blanche's fancy. It was in a tiny room
opening out of one of the large ones, and was so big that it almost
filled it. It was an immense chest, studded with nails, and ornamented
with handsome brass hasps.

"It's like the chest in the 'Mistletoe Bough,'" cried Blanche. "Do let's
try to open it."

But try as they would, they could make no impression upon it. It was
locked, and to break it open would require greater strength than theirs.

"I do wish we could get it open," said Blanche, when at last they gave
up trying. "Do you think Peter could do it?"

"He doesn't much like coming here," was the reply. "He always says the
old walls might fall in at any time; but since you told me about the
lights being seen, I've been thinking that perhaps he has heard about
them too, and that's why he won't come here if he can help it. But we
can ask him. What is the 'Mistletoe Bough'? Is it a story about a
chest?"

"Haven't you heard it?" asked Blanche, surprised. "I believe I can
repeat it to you. Let's sit on the old box and pretend it is the one."

They scrambled up on to the chest, regardless of dust and cobwebs, and
Blanche began,--

"'The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,'"--

and went on through the ballad.

Marjory sat entranced, listening to the story of Lord Lovel and his
bride, and the fateful game of hide-and-seek, which ended in the lovely
lady being shut into the old oak chest, which none of the distracted
seekers thought of opening, and which did not disclose its grim secret
until many years afterwards, when at last it was opened.

"How _dreadful_!" exclaimed Marjory. "Fancy being shut up in a box like
this! I wonder if this one has a spring lock. I wish we knew what is
inside it."

They made up their minds to ask Dr. Hunter about it, and went on with
their investigation of the rooms, until both felt that they knew every
door and passage in the place.

Blanche was of the opinion that it would be of no use going to look for
the ghost until after midnight. The time passed very slowly after they
went to bed. They talked in whispers, Blanche telling all the ghost
stories she had ever heard, which came chiefly from servants and from
her young cousins in London.

"But mother says," she repeated several times, as if to reassure both
herself and Marjory, "that there is nothing more to do us harm at night
than there is in the daytime; that everything belongs to God, and so we
are just as safe in the dark as in the light. But I don't feel the same
at night as I do in the daylight; do you?"

"Well, I'm not afraid of the dark," said Marjory, and this was quite
true. She was fearless with regard to all natural things; storms, gales,
all Nature's moods she could meet without flinching. Animals of all
kinds had no terrors for her; neither had the dark--that land of
blackness peopled with horrors for so many children. It was only in her
dealings with her fellows that fear entered, and with her uncle
especially.

They listened to the church clock at Heathermuir chiming the hours and
half-hours. They watched the moon rising, glorious in its fullness, till
it flooded their room with light. At last the clock boomed out its
twelve echoing strokes. The time had come!

Each put on a dressing-gown and slippers, and then they started upon
their enterprise. Marjory went in front, carrying a lighted candle.
Very gently she opened the bedroom door and stood listening. There was
not a sound to be heard. Silky looked questioningly at his mistress, as
if wondering what her business could be at this time of night, and why
she was thus disturbing his slumbers. Marjory beckoned to Blanche, and
as she came out of the room, pushed the dog in, whispering, "Good dog,
Silky. Be quiet and keep watch till we come back." Then she cautiously
shut the door.

They crept along the corridor on tiptoe, every creak of the boards as
they went causing their hearts to beat quickly. They had to pass Dr.
Hunter's bedroom, and Marjory fancied that she could hear some movement
within. Full of apprehension, she hurried on, Blanche following close at
her heels.

Once in the old part of the house, they could breathe more freely,
feeling safe from discovery by any of the other inmates.

The deserted hall looked shadowy and mysterious as they passed through
it, the pale moonlight casting weird shapes across its walls. Blanche
caught Marjory's sleeve. "Look!" she whispered, pointing to a window
where something like an arm and hand, with fingers outstretched, was
waving up and down.

"It's only the branch of a tree," Marjory whispered back.

Everything looked so eerie and unfamiliar in the moonlit darkness that
Blanche began to wish she had not come; but as the expedition had been
her suggestion from the first, she felt in honour bound to proceed.

Up the stairs they went, and round the gallery. Not a sign of anything
unusual did they discover. There was no light, no sound of any kind.
Something flitted across Blanche's face; she gave a little stifled
scream.

"Oh! what can that be?" she panted.

Marjory turned and held up the candle. It came again, and she saw what
it was.

"It's only a bat," she said reassuringly; "it won't hurt you."

"A bat!" echoed Blanche. "Oh, how horrible! They bite, don't they?"

"Oh no, they are quite harmless. Dear little soft things they are when
you see them in the daylight, although they aren't pretty."

"O Marj, I don't like it; you won't let it come near me, will you?" And
Blanche clung to her friend.

"No, you needn't be frightened; I'll keep it away."

Marjory could not exactly understand Blanche's fears, but she saw that
they were real. She could see nothing to be afraid of in a tiny little
bat, but the feeling that she was able to protect some one weaker than
herself made her very tender towards her friend.

"We'll go back if you like," she whispered.

"No, no," replied Blanche breathlessly; "let's go on, now we've come so
far."

On they went. They passed the door of the room which contained the old
chest. Nothing was to be seen; but, turning a sharp corner at the end of
one passage leading to another which was apparently a blind alley, they
stopped suddenly.

There before them, at the end of this passage, was a faint seam of
light, hardly perceptible. There it was, looking as if it came from
under a door, but they knew that no door was there. Where could it come
from? They looked all round, but could find no clue to the mystery.
Marjory shaded the candle with her hand, in case the light might in some
way be reflected from it; but no--there was the straight narrow seam,
shining as before.

They crept along the passage until they stood in front of the wall. They
felt cautiously for a handle, but there was none--no sign of anything in
the shape of a door or entrance of any kind.

A thought struck Blanche.

"Perhaps it's a secret sliding panel," she whispered. "I've read about
them in books. They go by a spring in some way. You have to press in one
place, and it slides back. Shall we try?" she said, breathing fast, her
eyes large with mingled fear and excitement.

"Yes, if you're quite sure you're not frightened. It might do you harm
to be frightened," said Marjory, whispering very softly. "I could take
you back and come again by myself."

"No, I'm not frightened--at least, not much--and we _must_ try. What
_can_ it be?"

They began to press cautiously against the wall above the crack which
showed the light. They tried for some time--it seemed hours to
them--when suddenly, neither of them knowing who had touched the spring,
there was a sharp _click_, the panel flew back, and a flood of light
shone out upon them. Blanche's theory had been correct. It was a secret
door, designed by some bygone Hunter in dangerous times.

CHAPTER IX.

PETER'S STORY.

"We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm wind;
We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil.
Thou leadest, O God: all's well with Thy troopers that follow."

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.

Dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, the girls stood as if petrified.
All they could see at first was a tall figure dressed in what seemed to
be a long black gown, and wearing a cap on its head. It appeared to be
surrounded by a cloud of vapour which gave off a sickly odour. As the
mist cleared away, which it did in a few seconds, and as Marjory's eyes
became accustomed to the light, she saw, to her surprise and terror,
that the black figure was no other than her uncle, Dr. Hunter. Was he
indeed mad, as Mary Ann had told her? What could he be doing here in the
dead of night?

On a table in front of him lay piles of bones, some large, some small.
There were skulls too, of different shapes and sizes, and in one corner
of the room was a skeleton on a stand. What did it all mean?

[Illustration: Two queer little figures they looked.]

Instead of thinking about her own share in the escapade and its probable
consequences, Marjory's mind was occupied by speculations as to her
uncle. She felt Blanche's arms clinging round her, but was only roused
to the remembrance of herself when her uncle said, "What is the meaning
of this, Marjory?" His voice was cold and stern, and all her old fear of
him rushed upon Marjory with tenfold force.

"We--that is--I," she stammered.

"Speak out, child," said the doctor.

"We wanted to find out what the light was," she said, with a great
effort.

Blanche was sobbing by this time, and as she had not provided herself
with a handkerchief, she was hiding her face in Marjory's dressing-gown.
Two queer little figures they looked, their hair hanging about their
faces, and their bare ankles showing beneath their dressing-gowns.

Something in their appearance must have tickled the doctor's fancy, for
he actually laughed and said,--

"You're a pretty pair of monkeys, I must say, and you've just managed to
spoil an experiment I have been working on for weeks."

"O _uncle_!" cried Marjory in dismay.

"I'm"--sob--"very"--sob--"sorry" came from poor Blanche. This was a most
unexpected ending to their romantic expedition.

"Well, the only thing is for you two young people to come with me to my
study, and then I shall consider what is to be done with you."

The words were sternly said, but Blanche looked up and caught just the
suspicion of a twinkle in the doctor's eye, and, as he busied himself
putting away some of his apparatus, she whispered to Marjory, "He's not
cross."

Marjory, however, did not feel by any means reassured. How could he be
anything but angry? Had he not just told them that they had spoiled his
experiment? She dully wondered what their punishment would be--wondered
whether Blanche, being a guest, would share in it. Could a visitor be
punished?

"Now then, Mischief, in front," said the doctor, having put away his
things; "give me that candle."

Marjory delivered up the candle with trembling hands, and the two
delinquents passed out of the strange apartment, having no heart to look
round at its curious contents. The doctor held the candle high to light
the way, and they went in silence along the passages, down the wide
staircase into the old hall, and from thence to the study, a strange
little procession, the old man in dressing-gown and cap, and the two
girls in their night-clothes.

"Now then, sit down and tell me all about it," commanded the doctor when
they had reached the study. "Marjory, you're responsible; you must do
the talking."

Hurriedly and in a low voice Marjory told how Mrs. Forester's maid had
spread the story about the strange lights seen at Hunters' Brae; how
Blanche and she had determined to try to find out their cause and see
for themselves if there were indeed a ghost in the old wing; how they
had laid their plans beforehand, and how at last they had come upon the
lighted crack in the wall.

"Well," said the doctor, rubbing his hands, "you've found the ghost, and
he is a pretty substantial one, eh? Marjory, you deserve a whipping for
being so thoughtless as to bring a delicate little thing like Blanche
out of her bed at this time of night."

Marjory cowered in her chair. Would her uncle really resort to such
stern measures? Surely girls were never whipped!

But Blanche stood up and faced the doctor with flushed face and shining
eyes.

"You will be very unjust if you whip Marjory," she said. "It was all my
fault from the beginning. I told her what Crossley said about lights
being seen, and I suggested that we should try to see the ghost; and
then mother went away and I came here, and it all fitted in so nicely,
and--" Here Blanche broke down again. "Please, _please_ don't whip her;
I never thought you would be so cruel." And she put her arms round
Marjory as if to protect her from her uncle's vengeance.

The doctor could keep a straight face no longer.

"You foolish children," he said, laughing, "do you suppose for one
moment that I should be likely to whip either of you? Come here."

They went obediently and stood in front of him, and then, wonder of
wonders, he put an arm round each, and drew them down till he had one on
each knee.

"Now listen. I think it would have been wiser and better if you had told
me about the village tales. I could have explained them to you--at least
partly," he added with a smile. "I shouldn't have told you _all_ the
secrets that you have found out for yourselves. Instead of telling me,
however, you lie awake for hours, then you creep about, shivering and
shaking, half frightened out of your wits, perhaps catching colds and
coughs and all the rest of it, and you find that this wonderful ghost is
nothing but a foolish old man who thinks that he can do what better men
than he have failed in doing"--this with a sigh. "I will tell you why I
have kept that room and its contents a secret from the rest of the
household. One reason was that I didn't wish to frighten any one with my
skulls and skeletons, my bones and bottles. Another reason was that I
wished to be absolutely alone and uninterrupted when making my
experiments; and yet another reason--I wished no housemaid, zealous with
her duster, to enter my domain. When it is cleaned," with a smile, "I do
it myself. What, then, could be better for my purpose than the secret
chamber in the old wing? Hitherto I have been undiscovered; but now,"
in comical dismay, "two long tongues will be wagging over what they have
seen, and my secret is mine no longer. You've spoilt my secret, and I've
spoilt your ghost, so we're quits."

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