Hunter\'s Marjory

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

The man took no notice, and resumed his questioning.

"Isn't there a house on his property called the Low Farm? and can you
tell me who keeps it?"

Marjory wondered who this man could be. His manner was straightforward,
and from what she could see, his face was honest; still she felt
somewhat suspicious. There had been rumours lately of poachers being
about. Perhaps he was a thief, and would go to the Low Farm when all the
men had gone home from work, and Mrs. Shaw would be unprotected. She
reflected that if she withheld the information the man would probably
get it from some one else, and she decided that it would be better to
answer his questions, but to let him believe that Mrs. Shaw's husband
was at home, so she replied,--

"The Low Farm is down at the bottom of the hill, a little to the right,
and people of the name of Shaw keep it."

"Oh," said the man, as if taken aback, "there is a Mr. Shaw then?"

"Oh yes," replied Marjory, delighted that her bait had taken, as she
thought. Then she said quickly, "I must be going now."

"Good-night, miss, and thank you for the information. Please don't say
you've seen me, if you can help it."

Marjory thought that the man's voice sounded hard and fierce, and,
somewhat frightened, she hurried away without a look behind her. A
sudden thought struck her as she ran through the garden. Could this
stranger possibly be her father? Her absent father was continually in
her thoughts; often and often she pictured to herself various ways in
which he might return to her. This man had begun by asking for Dr.
Hunter. For one wild moment the impulse to turn back was upon her, and
then she told herself that it was impossible. She did not know many
people, but she felt sure that this man was not quite like her uncle, or
Mr. Forester, or Dr. Morison. Surely her father was not a rough-spoken
man like this! Besides, would she not have known him at once? No;
probably her first theory was the right one, and this was some poacher
or thief--and yet he did not seem quite like a bad man either. It was a
mystery, and she wished that Blanche or Alan had been with her.

Dr. Hunter was not at home for tea; he had gone to the minister's,
Lisbeth said, but would be back for supper.

When supper-time came Marjory gave her uncle an account of the day's
doings, but did not mention her encounter in the wood.

"You've had a most exciting day, on the whole," he said. "I didn't know
you could box, though; surely Miss Waspe doesn't teach you that as an
accomplishment!"

Marjory laughed rather shamefacedly.

"No," she replied; "Peter showed me, but only a little. He says he was
very good at it when he was a boy."

"So you knocked over this fourteen-year-old boy like a ninepin. Well, to
be sure, I _am_ surprised." And the doctor eyed his niece quizzically
over his spectacles. "You're quite a dangerous young person to meet on a
country road."

"Well, he called Blanche's hair 'carrots,'" said Marjory, flushing.

"Just like a boy. If he were a dozen years older he would be writing
sonnets to that same hair." And the doctor laughed.

Later on he said, "I heard from Mackenzie to-day that there is great
excitement in the neighbourhood about poachers. The men are going out
to-night to see if they can see anything of them. Mackenzie asked me to
join them, but I'm getting too old for that sort of thing. Mackenzie
isn't going himself, but I could see he was pretty keen about it. Of
course these fellows are a nuisance, and perhaps if I preserved I should
feel differently, but I must confess to a sneaking sympathy with them as
it is. Don't you tell Forester or Morison, Miss Marjory." And the doctor
laughed again.

But Marjory was thinking of the man in the wood What if he should be
suspected and taken? Somehow, although she had been suspicious of him,
there had been something in his manner, a true ring in his voice, which
belied her fears, and she felt that she would be sorry if he got into
any trouble. It was some hours since she had seen him, and he had
probably gone away by this time; but she felt uncomfortable about him,
and as soon as the doctor had finished his supper and gone to his study,
Marjory put on a cloak and slipped out.

It was a cold, frosty night, and there was no moon--just a night for
poaching work, Marjory decided. She had shut Silky in the house, in case
he might bark and attract attention, but once or twice she wished she
had brought him. She crept down the garden, and through the gate into
the wood, stopping now and then to listen. The night was intensely
still, and there were no signs of life; the silence was broken only by
the crunching of the frosty ground under her feet, until--listen!--what
was that? There was a sound as of some person or some animal in pain.
Oh, surely it was not some poor little rabbit or hare, or perhaps a dog,
caught in a trap! She must go nearer and see what it was. She walked on
in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and there, lying on the
ground, was the figure of a man--the man she had spoken to that
afternoon. This was dreadful. Marjory had not known that a grown-up man
could cry; his whole frame was heaving with convulsive sobs, and he
murmured something she could not understand. She felt at a loss in the
presence of such bitter grief, and did not know what to do or what to
say. At last she took courage and said gently, "Can I do anything to
help you?"

The man sprang up, startled by Marjory's voice.

"Nothing can cure my trouble," he said bitterly. "But how come you out
here this cold, dark night? I can't see you, but I know by your voice
that you are the young lady I spoke to this afternoon."

"I came out to tell you that the keepers and some of the gentlemen are
out after poachers to-night, and I--I thought--" Marjory stammered.

"You thought I was one of them," finished the man, with a short laugh.
"No, I haven't come to that yet, but I thank you for your kind thought.
It's a long time since anybody troubled as to what would become of me."
And his tone was very bitter.

"But you must be hungry and cold. Won't you come and have some food?"

"No, and thank you kindly. I am lodging at Hillcrest village, a matter
of only two miles from here, and I'd best be getting back. But don't you
worry about me, miss. I'm a rough man, but, thank God, I've been able to
keep straight and honest. I'm in a tight place just now, but I'm sorry
you should have found me as you did."

"I was once very miserable here in this same place," said Marjory shyly,
"and then something happened which made my whole life different. Perhaps
it will be the same with you."

"I'm afraid not; but I mustn't keep you here in the cold. Thank you
kindly, miss, for what you've done for a stranger. May I ask you not to
mention having seen me here? I have a good reason."

Marjory could no longer feel suspicious of the man, but at the same time
she could not help wondering why he should wish to keep his movements
secret.

"Very well; I won't speak of it," she promised, wondering if she were
right in so doing.

"God bless you, miss, and good-night to you."

The man strode away. She could hear his footsteps crackling through the
undergrowth as she turned back towards home. Suddenly she was aware of
approaching steps; in a moment the wood seemed full of dark figures, and
she could hear men's heavy breathing. She started to run, but before she
could reach the gate strong arms caught hold of her, a lantern flashed
into her face, and the voice of Mr. Forester cried, "Hallo, Marjory!
what are you doing here?"

CHAPTER XII.

MARJORY KEEPS A SECRET.

"She doeth little kindnesses
Which most leave undone, or despise;
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low esteemed in her eyes."

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Marjory had not thought of the possibility of the search-party being so
near, and Mr. Forester's sudden appearance quite bewildered her for a
moment. The men came crowding up, looking curiously at her.

She tried to free herself from Mr. Forester's grasp.

"No, you don't, my lady," said he, laughing, and tightening his hold
upon her arm. "Having found you, I am responsible for you; besides, I
don't approve of girls wandering about in the dark like this without
giving an account of themselves."

"I'm not accountable to you, anyway," replied Marjory, her temper
rising.

"Highty-tighty! so we're going to ride the high horse, eh? Well, I
consider it my duty to take you home and report upon your unlawful
doings." And, still holding Marjory's arm, he began to walk towards the
house. Silky, hearing the strange footsteps and voices, barked angrily;
and Dr. Hunter, disturbed by the unusual commotion, came out of his
study. Seeing that the dog seemed anxious to go out by the garden door,
he opened it just as Mr. Forester and Marjory reached it.

Mr. Forester had only been teasing Marjory, and had not really meant to
get her into trouble. He had intended to see her safely home and then to
leave her, but it was too late now.

The doctor, much surprised, called out, "Hallo, Marjory! where have you
been, and who's this with you?--Why, Forester, how do you do? Come in.
But what is the meaning of it all?"

"The truth is," said Mr. Forester, laughing, "that I've been out with
the keepers after poachers, and this," pointing to Marjory, "is the only
one we've found."

"But what was she doing out by herself at this time of night?" asked the
doctor.

Marjory said nothing. Her uncle looked at her, and Mr. Forester,
thinking that he had better leave them together, passed on into the
dining-room.

"I should like to know," said the doctor sternly.

Marjory, pale and tearful, remained silent.

"Did you go out to see after Brownie, or any of the animals?"

"No."

"Come, Marjory, I insist upon knowing the reason for this freak. The
truth is, I have let you have too much liberty to come and go, and now
you will not give an account of yourself."

Marjory raised her head, and looking at her uncle with fearless eyes,
she said,--

"I would rather not tell you why I went, but I don't think you would be
angry if you knew; it wasn't anything wrong."

Dr. Hunter looked steadily at his niece, but she did not flinch. There
was a look in her eyes, half appeal, half defiant challenge, which
reminded him of her father. Just so had he looked during their last
stormy interview.

"Very well, my child; I believe you," said the doctor. He had never
known Marjory to tell a lie, and he could trust her. Still, he could not
help wondering what secret she was keeping from him.

He was turning away with a sigh, when suddenly he felt the girl's arms
about his neck, and her wet cheek pressed to his. "Thank you, uncle
dear," she murmured; "you are very good to me."

He returned the caress very heartily. Surely, indeed, if slowly, the
better understanding was growing. They went into the dining-room to
join Mr. Forester, the doctor's arm still round Marjory's waist.

"Smoothed it all over, eh?" asked Mr. Forester, smiling. "It's
extraordinary the way the girls have of making their own tales good;
isn't it, doctor? There's my Blanche now--she can simply twist me round
her little finger, and make me say yes when I mean no, little beggar
that she is," laughing.

"Blanche is a good girl, and so is Marjory," said the doctor.

"There now; didn't I say so? That young witch has simply made you think
that to slip out on a dark night, get caught for a poacher, and then
refuse to give any explanation, is the action of a pattern girl. Poor
deluded old man!" And Mr. Forester shook his head and spread out his
hands with a gesture of despair. "I tell you, these girls will make a
fellow believe that the blackest of black is in reality the whitest of
white, if only he will look at it in the right way--their way, of
course."

"Don't you mind, Marjory; he's only teasing. We understand each other,
don't we? Run away to bed and leave him to me. You have had an exciting
day, and you must be tired and sleepy."

Marjory was tired, but she could not go to sleep. She was unable to
forget that man and his trouble. What could it be? Then, too, there was
Mrs. Shaw. She had learned to-day the cause of the stern expression in
those dark eyes and of the sometimes bitter tongue. There must surely be
a great deal of trouble in the world. Marjory was very sensitive to the
pain of others; her heart went out at once to any one who was suffering;
no matter who or where, she felt she must try to help them.

As she lay thinking about the stranger, a sudden light flashed across
her brain. What if he were Mrs. Shaw's husband? He might have come just
to see the place his wife lived in and the sort of people she worked
for. Feeling sure that she would not forgive him, perhaps he would not
try to see her, not knowing how her feelings towards him had changed.
Marjory sat up in bed, her heart beating fast as in imagination she
traced out this theory. The longer she thought about it the more sure
she felt that it was the right one. It would explain the man's piteous
grief and his bitter cry that nothing could ever help him. What was to
be done?

It did not take her long to decide that she would go to Hillcrest
village the next day, see the man, and boldly ask if he were Mr. Shaw;
and then, if her theory proved correct, she would tell him what she
knew--namely, that his wife had determined to write and ask him to come
home. How she would love to play the good fairy to these people, and to
see them happy after all their troubles!

Then her thoughts turned to her own affairs. She never ceased to long
for her father, although her life was much brighter and happier than it
used to be. Night and morning she prayed that he might be given to her.
She would lie awake picturing their happy meeting, and sometimes the
visions that she conjured up in the night were so lifelike that she
would wake in the morning almost expecting them to prove realities. But
the days and weeks went by, and nothing happened to bring any nearer
that longed-for day when he should come.

Next morning Marjory signalled to Blanche that she would like to ride
with her, and the answer came that she would be ready at eleven. Marjory
asked Peter to saddle Brownie early, so that she would have time to go
to Hillcrest before calling at Braeside.

Arrived at the village, she rode up to the post office, as being the
most likely place at which to gain information with regard to a
stranger, and asked the woman if she knew of any one lodging in
Hillcrest. "Yes," was the reply; "there was a man staying at 'English
Mary's' down the street."

Arrived at "English Mary's," Marjory made her inquiries.

"Yes, miss," replied the woman, "I did 'ave a lodger 'ere yesterday, but
'e up an' went this mornin' bright and early. Most respectable 'e
seemed, miss; but 'e come in last night in a orful pickle, 'is clothes
torn an' 'is face bleedin'; you never saw sich a sight as 'e was, miss.
I was glad to get rid on 'im; the p'lice would 'ave bin the next thing,
I s'pose. Paid 'is way though, 'e did, and 'e didn't make no bones about
the bill."

"Did he leave his name and address?" asked Marjory, as soon as she could
get in a word.

"Bless you, miss, I didn't want no address; the less I knows about 'im
the better, strikes me. But 'is name was 'Iggs--so 'e said; but that
might 'ave bin a _halibi_, for all I can tell--you do read sich things
in the papers nowadays. Might I ask if you was wantin' any odd jobs
done, miss? My old man's out o' work, an'--"

"Oh no, thank you," said Marjory, cutting the woman short; "I only
wanted to inquire." And she turned Brownie's head in the direction of
Braeside. "Good-morning. I'm much obliged to you."

Marjory was bitterly disappointed at the failure of her peacemaking
mission, for she had set out almost certain of success. She wondered
whether the man was really a bad character, and whether he had been set
upon by the keepers, and so got his clothes torn. So it wasn't Mr. Shaw
after all. It was very disappointing, and Marjory sighed. She smiled,
however, as she thought over English Mary's voluble explanation and her
queer language. The King would hardly recognize it as his.

Marjory found the study of the King's English very interesting. As Miss
Waspe presented it to her, it was not contained in a lifeless
grammar-book, the terror of many schoolgirls' lives, but it was a
wonderful living medium of expression--a means by which she could
translate her ideas and imaginings into musical phrases, and which
enabled her to understand the spoken and written thoughts of others.
Miss Waspe had a way of dressing up hard facts and tiresome rules in the
most attractive clothing, and like the dog who unconsciously and
gratefully swallows a pill in a succulent tit-bit, her pupil assimilated
both with excellent results.

Blanche said to Marjory one day, "I _can't_ think how you can like that
horrid grammar. If I was a boy, or, according to _it_, _were_ I a boy, I
should call it a beastly grind; but as mother doesn't like me to use
boys' words, I have to call it a horrid nuisance or some other tame
thing like that. Anyway, I feel it is a b-e-a-s-t-l-y g-r-i-n-d, so
there."

"I don't wonder your mother doesn't like you to use boys' words; you're
much too pretty," replied Marjory. "They are far more suitable for me,
because I am big and rough-looking, like a boy, and you are just like a
piece of thin china--like that Dresden shepherdess in the drawing-room.
You couldn't imagine her saying anything ugly."

"Why do you always make out that you're not pretty?" asked Blanche
indignantly. "I think you're better than pretty, you're _grand_, with
those great big stormy-looking eyes and your lovely wavy hair. I've
never seen such long hair."

Marjory laughed. "And what about my wide mouth, and my long nose crooked
at the point?"

"Well," admitted Blanche, "your mouth may be large, but it is a nice
shape, and your lips are beautifully red, and your nose is really only a
very tiny bit crooked; and so, Miss Marjory," triumphantly, "there's no
reason at all why you should be allowed to use boys' words if I
mustn't."

"I don't really know many; you see, I've hardly spoken to any boys
except the Morisons."

"I knew lots in London."

"It does seem queer to think that you have lived in great big London and
know all about it, while I have never been farther away than
Morristown."

"Perhaps you'll come to London with us some day. Wouldn't it be fun? I
wonder how you would feel."

Marjory thought over this conversation as she rode down the hill towards
Braeside. She sometimes longed to go away and see something of that
great world she had begun to realize of late. Her lessons were enlarging
her ideas. Geography fired her imagination with its tales of far
countries--their tropical beauty, or, it might be, their ice-bound
grandeur, High mountains, terrible volcanoes, placid lakes,
swift-flowing rivers--all these spoke to her of a wonderful world
outside her own; and she longed to spread her wings and to fly out and
away into its vastness. She often wondered how her uncle, who knew about
all these things, could be content to stay year in and year out in one
place, spending nearly all his time within the four walls of his own
study, and her heart would go out to that unknown father of hers with
his roving disposition; how well she could understand it! She would
weave romances, with him as hero and herself as heroine--romances which
always had the same happy ending; and then she would finish up by
wondering if she would ever see him, and whether he would be the least
bit like her pictures of him.

Marjory's thoughts wandered back to the man, and the mystery surrounding
his appearance and disappearance. What did the woman mean by "_halibi_"?
She supposed it must be a slang word, so it would be no use looking in a
dictionary; perhaps it meant pretence.

She reached Braeside just as Blanche's pony was being taken round to the
door by the groom, and to her surprise Alan Morison was there too,
mounted on a horse which was rather too big for him. He rode towards
Marjory with a somewhat sheepish expression on his face.

"I say," he said, "I hope you don't mind my coming with you. I ran over
this morning to see what you were going to do, and Blanche said I might
come." And he looked doubtfully at Marjory.

"What Blanche says, I say," she replied heartily.

"Right you are, then." And Alan looked relieved.

Blanche soon came out, a trim little figure in her neat riding-habit.
She called out "good-morning," and waved her hand to Mrs. Forester, who
had come to see the start; but Marjory saw at once that there was
something wrong--she even fancied that there were traces of recent tears
on her friend's cheeks. Blanche in tears was a sight which put Marjory
up in arms at once, and she was prepared to do instant battle with their
cause, be it any person or any thing.

They started off in silence, after having agreed upon the direction of
their ride, Marjory waiting for the explanation which she hoped would
soon come, and furtively watching her friend. She was glad to see that
the pale cheeks were gradually gaining colour from the exercise in the
keen frosty air.

At last the explanation came.

"I say, isn't it perfectly horrid? Aunt Katharine and my cousin Maud are
coming to stay. They've invited themselves because Uncle Hilary is away.
They'll be here for Christmas; nothing will be a bit nice, and it'll
spoil all our fun. They're coming the day after to-morrow. Mother says
she is very sorry for me, but I mustn't be selfish. I don't like Maud
much; she is older than we are, and she's a stuck-up thing,"
vehemently.

Here indeed was a blow. The three had planned many a happy day together,
and this addition to the party seemed likely to be a disturbing one.

"How old is she?" asked Marjory.

"She's fifteen, but looks older."

"But will she want to come with us if she's as old as that?" suggested
Alan.

"Oh yes, that's just what she likes--to come and lord it over other
people, and have everything her way. Just because she's been on the
Continent and been to theatres she thinks she knows everything. Aunt
Katharine gives her anything she wants, and Maud makes other people do
it too."

"How _devilish_!" said Alan emphatically.

"O Alan, don't swear," said Blanche, aghast.

"_That's_ not swearing, bless you."

"I thought that anything about the devil was swearing."

"Oh no, I don't think so," put in Marjory. "Peter often talks about the
'deil,' and he's not a bad man."

"But somehow 'deil' doesn't sound as bad as devil," argued Blanche. "I
think it is a horrid word; it frightens me."

"Very well, I won't say it again," said Alan consolingly. "But look
here; we must make some plan of campaign as to our doings when this
cousin of yours comes poking her beastly nose in. If there's anything I
can do to annoy her, I'm your man. I'm a regular corker at all sorts of
tricks, from apple-pie beds to booby traps. A little ragging sometimes
takes all the side out of fellows at school, and it might work with her.
Anyway I'm at your service, and it would be a good thing if we could
turn her out a decent girl."

"We'll never do that," said Blanche decidedly.

"_We'll see_," replied Alan, with a world of determination in his tone;
and then they started off at such a gallop across the moor that all
disagreeables were forgotten for the time being.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE OLD CHEST.

"What could be the wealth the casket held?...
Perhaps the red gold nestled there,
Loving and close as in the mine;
Or diamonds lit the sunless air,
Or rubies blushed like bridal wine.
Some giant gem, like that which bought
The half of a realm in Timour's day,
Might here, beyond temptation's thought,
Be hidden in safety; who could say?"

HENRY MORFORD.

Marjory obtained permission from her uncle to invite Blanche and Alan to
spend the next day with her. It would be the last before the arrival of
the unwished-for visitors, and they wanted to make the most of it. They
decided to have a rat hunt in the morning, and in the afternoon Marjory
intended to ask the doctor if they might try again to open the old
chest. She thought Alan might be a help.

Marjory did not much like the idea of killing even a rat. She was not
quite sure that it was right, but Peter had no such compunctions.

"Vermin o' the land, an' mischeevious reptiles they are, an' the mair
deid rats we see the morn's mornin' the better pleased Peter'll be,"
said the old man as they were planning the hunt.

Alan kept a ferret, which he offered to bring, and he thought he could
borrow his brother Herbert's fox-terrier, which was a famous ratter.

"That's a' richt," agreed the old man. "An' I can get the loan o'
anither dog frae the village, an' atween them a' they should create a
bit disturbance amang they lang-tailed rascals."

Alan looked at Marjory and grinned, remembering yesterday's
conversation.

Poor Peter's heart had been sorely tried by the depredations of his
long-tailed enemies. The hen-house, the barn, even the apple storehouse
had been visited by them with disastrous results, so he rejoiced at the
prospect of the coming conflict. The next morning, a stout stick in his
hand and war in his eye, he stood awaiting the arrival of the party.
Silky had been tied up, so that the ratters might have a clear field for
action.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16