HOPES REALIZED.
"A kind, true heart, a spirit high,
That would not fear and would not bow,
Were written in his manly eye
And on his manly brow."—Burns.
Home again at last! How good it was to see the doctor at the station, to drive with dear old Peter and Brownie along the familiar road, to breathe the sweet pure air scented with pine and heather!
"After all," Marjory said to her uncle, "there can't be any place in the world just like dear little old Heathermuir. I love every bit of it."
"'East, west, hame's best,'" quoted the doctor. "No, my dear, there's no place like it, not even New York!" with a smile at the recollection of his late experiences.
"What a lot you must have to tell me!" said Marjory. "And, uncle dear, I hope you haven't forgotten that to-morrow is my fifteenth birthday, and you've always promised to tell me everything I want to know on that day."
"Yes, yes," replied the doctor evasively. "By the way, Marjory, you'll find a surprise awaiting you at the Brae; we've a new member of our household," smiling.
"Who can it be?"
"Wait and see. It's a kind of a sort of a birthday present, but I am not sure that you will be altogether pleased."
Marjory laughed.
"It sounds as if it might be some sort of an animal. O uncle," in dismay, "I hope you haven't brought a monkey from America!"
"No," laughing.
"Perhaps it's a parrot, then, or—no—surely not a nigger!"
"No; it's not a coloured gentleman or lady, as I have lately been taught to call them."
"Oh dear, I do wonder what it is! But there's the house at last, and dear old Lisbeth's round smiling face, and my darling Silky. Oh, it is good to be at home again!" And Marjory nestled close to her uncle for a moment, and then sprang out of the cart and began hugging Lisbeth in the most boisterous fashion.
But who was this standing shyly in the background? Here was indeed a surprise. This girl with the smooth sleek head, the neat gown and spotless apron and cap, could it be Mary Ann Smylie, the rich miller's daughter? Yes, indeed it was. But what could it mean? Quite bewildered, Marjory held out her hand to the girl. "I am glad to see you, Mary Ann," she said.
Tears were in Mary Ann's eyes as she replied, "Thank you, Miss Marjory; I'm very glad to be here." And she disappeared at once in the direction of the kitchen.
"This is a surprise," said Marjory, looking inquiringly at her uncle and then at Lisbeth. Each seemed to expect the other to speak.
"Weel, it was this way," began Lisbeth. "Yon puir lassie's feyther, no content wi' bein' just a plain man like ony ither miller, must needs try to mak a big fortune, and some o' thae speculatin' deils—I canna ca' them by ony ither name—got hand o' the auld man, an' ae fine day his fortune's awa—the vera hoose he's livin' in no his ain, a' signed awa, an' he in debt. His puir silly wife was clean dementit, an' this girl wi' naething but her buik-learnin' an' sic like rubbish to stand by. There was naebody wantit her to teach their bairns, and yon grandee o' a schulemistress telt the puir lassie she wasna competent for teachin', an' that efter a' the guid money her feyther had spent upo' her learnin'. Weel, Mary Ann she comes to me, an' says, 'Will ye gie me wark at Hunters' Brae?' says she. 'The doctor's awa,' says I, but she begged that hard I couldna say no to the creature. 'I'm willin' to learn,' says she, 'an' if so's I could wait upo' Miss Marjory I'd be more nor set up.' She cried sae, and looked that peekit an' meeserable, I hadna the heart to send her off, sae I e'en kept her here, thinkin' the doctor, guid man, wouldna blame me for the bit she ate an' drank till he cam hame."
"Yes," put in the doctor, "when I got back yesterday I found Mary Ann comfortably settled. I suppose she thought that if she had won over Lisbeth the rest was easy," laughing. "I'm sorry for the girl, and I dare say she can be made useful here in many ways. As you are getting on, Marjory, it will be nice for you to have a maid of your own to look after your fallals; but the question is, Do you like the girl well enough to have her about you? This is your home, and I don't want to insist upon anything that would be unpleasant to you."
Marjory remembered her old grudge against Mary Ann, but she could hardly connect the quiet, subdued person who had just disappeared, weeping, with the frizzy-haired, overdressed, and affected girl at the post office.
"Poor Mary Ann! Let her stay, uncle. I'm sure we shall get on quite well."
"That's settled then," said the doctor, with relief. He had been a little afraid that Lisbeth's philanthropy might not be quite to Marjory's liking.
Dr. Hunter was strangely restless that evening—sad and merry by turns. Marjory herself felt very excited as she thought of the morrow.
When she went to bid her uncle good-night, he drew her to him very tenderly. "So you are really glad to be at home again, my child," he said, stroking her hair.
"Very, very glad," was the reply, and the dark eyes shone with tears.
"You love the old place, then?"
"Oh yes, I do; but it wouldn't be the same without you." And she rubbed her cheek against his.
"And you love your old uncle in spite of all his mistakes and queer ways?"
"I love you better than any one else in the whole world," she said simply.
He kissed her very tenderly, and then put her away from him with a sigh. "Go, my child, sleep well; to-morrow is a new day, and begins a new life for you."
"Better than any one else in the whole world," he repeated to himself when Marjory had left him. This had been his heart's desire, his scheme from the beginning—that his beloved sister's child should be his, and that he should be her all, and first in her affections; and now had come his punishment for that selfish wish. The child had made this open avowal of her feeling for him on the eve of the very day on which he must renounce her, must give her up to another with a better right than he to that first place in her love. He had done wrong; he had made what amends he could, and the rest was in God's hands. Would this girl, growing sweeter and more lovable year by year, take away her affection from the uncle and give it all to the father? Would she forget the old man and all his care for her? Then he thought of the honest eyes as they had looked into his, clear and steadfast. Surely he had caught a glimpse of the loving, faithful heart within; surely that heart would prove large enough for love of both. He could no longer expect to be first, but surely he was wronging the child and all that he knew of her by the mere suggestion that she would change towards him, and the memory of her look and her caress comforted him.
Marjory's fifteenth birthday had come at last, and she stood in her mother's room.
The sunlight streamed across the faded hangings and the panelled walls, flooding the place with brightness. It seemed hardly possible that it had been unused for so many years. Lisbeth had worked in it so faithfully week by week that, beyond the fading of the curtains and the rugs which lay about the polished floor, there was nothing to indicate that it had been unoccupied for so long.
There were flowers about the room; there was a work-basket on a small table by the window; and an embroidery frame with a half-finished piece of work in it stood near, just as if its owner might have been working at it yesterday. It was altogether a dainty apartment, and bore evidence in every corner of the girlish fancies of its former mistress. The pictures on the walls were all of a romantic description; the books on the shelves could almost have told the tale of Marjory Hunter's childhood and girlhood. Fairy tales there were in plenty, and the rest were of the tender, sentimental kind—love poems and the like. If Blanche Forester had been describing the collection, she would have said that there was not a single dry book amongst them—the word "dry" in her vocabulary meaning anything from uninteresting to instructive! Had the doctor only known it, he need not have feared the attraction of these books for his niece. Marjory required something stronger and more active in character—stories of great men and women, histories of the world and its wonders, something stirring and stimulating.
Marjory stood in her mother's room—alone. Her feelings as she entered this chamber of her dreams were those of awe and expectation of she knew not what. She gave one quick glance around, but she had eyes for nothing at present but a picture—a picture of a man with a strong, handsome face, and dark hair and eyes which she knew resembled her own. Beside it was another picture—that of a fair-haired girl, her mother. "How sweet she must have been!" thought Marjory, and her eyes turned again to the other picture.
That other picture, would the doctor have confessed it, was one of the chief reasons why he did not wish Marjory to enter her mother's room. With that speaking, impressive portrait of her father continually before her eyes, could the child be taught to ignore and forget him? The doctor had an almost superstitious dislike of having anything moved at Hunters' Brae. His sister had ordered Hugh Davidson's portrait to be hung in her room; there it must stay, but Marjory should not see it until he thought fit.
Marjory now stood gazing at the picture. This, then, was the hero of her dreams and hopes, that father who had been the central figure in many a tale of stirring adventure, hairbreadth escape, and brave deed—tales which she had told herself many a time. But this was a figure even more splendid than that of her imagination. The strong, square chin and determined mouth, the flashing, piercing eyes under the dark brows—all spoke of the strength and courage of a Cœur de Lion or a Napoleon.
She could not take her eyes off the picture. How proud of him she would have been! was her sad thought, but it seemed no use hoping any more. She must begin afresh to-day, and try to be content without him. It would be very hard, for the hope had been very dear to her.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a strange voice called, "May I come in, Marjory?"
Who could this be, calling her by her Christian name, and yet in a voice she did not know? She must be dreaming; but no—the voice called again, "May I come in, Marjory?"
"Come in," she said, turning towards the door with a puzzled and inquiring expression on her face.
"I've brought you a large and handsome birthday present," said the doctor's voice, as he almost pushed Mr. Davidson into the room. Then he shut the door, and left the father and daughter confronting each other.
There was a moment's silence. Marjory looked at the tall man with the noble gray head, the lined forehead that told of years of sorrow and care. Time had set its marks upon the face, but it was the face of the picture. At last—somehow, and from somewhere—her father had been brought to her. The man held out his arms, and she crept into them, sobbing with wonder and delight and other feelings to which she could not have given a name, as he murmured, "My own little girl, come to me."
That moment seemed to sweep away all the sad memories of her longings and yearnings. Never again would she feel that she was an orphan, really belonging to nobody. Her father, her very own, had come to her at last. How good it was!
It may well be imagined that these two had much to say to each other. Mr. Davidson told his child of her sweet young mother, as he took her round the room, showing her the various treasures, which were in their places just as they had been in the old time when he knew that room so well. In the work-basket was a dainty little garment which had been intended for Marjory. It was not finished; the rusty needle, with its thread yellow with age, was still in it, just as the worker had left it. Mr. Davidson took up the little bundle of muslin and lace and reverently kissed it.
"Thank God for you, my darling," he said, "and for this good day that gives you to me!" And he kissed Marjory again.
Marjory showed her father the locket and chain which she always wore. Yes, he knew it; it was one he had given to her mother. But he did not add that at that time it had contained a picture of himself. And the coin? Yes, he had the other half; and he told Marjory how he and that other Marjory had split it for luck, and how each had promised to wear it always.
There was much questioning and answering of questions between them, and at last came the inevitable one which Mr. Davidson had expected and dreaded,—
"Why did you never come before?"
He looked into his daughter's eyes.
"Can you trust me when I tell you that there was a reason I cannot explain which made it impossible until now, and when I tell you that it was not my fault, and that as soon as the reason was removed I came to you? Will you be content to believe me, and ask no more questions?"
Marjory returned her father's look, a world of trust and confidence in her eyes. "Yes," she replied; and from that moment they understood each other.
And Marjory never knew the answer to that question. Mrs. Forester kept her own counsel, and so did Mr. Hilary Forester, and they were the only people besides the principals themselves who knew the truth.
"My beloved did cross the sea, after all," said Marjory to her uncle, when they joined him later.
"Quite right; so he did," replied the doctor.
"And you believe the old prophecy now?" triumphantly.
The doctor laughed.
"I can hardly say that," he answered. "It has just happened so, that's all."
The doctor had persuaded Mr. Davidson to wait until Marjory's birthday before making himself known to her, in order that the day might be a red-letter one in her life. The Foresters had kept the secret carefully, Captain Shaw had kept his, and not a whisper had gone abroad of the wonderful event about to happen, and all had fallen out just as the doctor had planned and wished.
There were great rejoicings at Hunters' Brae that day, and in the evening there was a large and merry birthday party. Mr. and Mrs. Forester and Blanche, Mr. and Mrs. Hilary Forester and Maud, the Morisons, with Herbert and Alan, all came with a welcome for Mr. Davidson and congratulations for Marjory.
Earlier in the day, Captain and Mrs. Shaw had come together, as they had done once before, to be congratulated on their own happy reunion.
"There's nothing like the forgetting of old bygones," said the captain, as he wrung Mr. Davidson's hand, "and there's no happiness so sweet as when it's been long in coming, sir. I wish you and dear Miss Marjory many happy returns of the day."
The doctor had been wondering what Mr. Davidson's plans for the future would be. Would it be part of his punishment that the father would take his child to far-away Skaguay and keep her to himself? It would be natural enough, perhaps, but he thought with a pang of the difference it would make to him. Life at Hunters' Brae would be sad for him without the girl. This matter weighed heavily upon his mind, but he dared not speak upon the subject for fear of hastening a decision.
At last one day Mr. Davidson spoke his mind. He must go back to Alaska, and would take Marjory with him, but—and here Dr. Hunter's heart almost stopped beating—he would retire from business. He had enough and to spare for Marjory and himself, and he looked forward to settling down at home.
"Here, here!" interrupted the doctor then. "The Brae will eventually be Marjory's. If you can forgive the past, Hugh, make this your home. You shall not regret it, I promise you. I do believe I have laid that old ghost of jealousy at last. All I have is to be Marjory's. My old age would be comfortless indeed if I were doomed to spend it here alone. Perhaps that is what I deserve, but do give the old place a trial. The child loves it."
"It is associated in my mind with the happiest time of my life," replied Mr. Davidson earnestly. "No other place could seem so like home to me."
And so it was settled. Marjory was delighted at the idea of travelling with her father—of crossing that wonderful sea which had brought her beloved. She was enchanted by the prospect, but, as she said, it would not have been so delightful if she had not been able to look forward to coming home again at the end of her travels—home to her uncle at Hunters' Brae.
There was a certain clause in the doctor's will which he discussed with his niece and her father before they started on their journey. He had made the stipulation that, when the time came that Marjory should become possessor of Hunters' Brae, and of all that he had to leave, she should adopt the surname of Hunter. Marjory clapped her hands when she heard this.
"There's the prophecy again," she cried, quoting,—
"'The Hunters' line shall ne'er decline
Till the muir doth pass away.'"
"Nonsense!" replied the doctor. "It is merely a question of title and property. Had there been a male Hunter living, the Brae would have been his; and it is stated in the original deeds that, in the event of the sole descendant being a girl, she must take the family name, and give it to her husband when she marries. The person who wrote that rubbish probably knew of this when he scribbled his so-called prophecy."
"You are always so scornful about those prophecies, uncle dear," said Marjory, laughing. "I think they are so interesting and so true. I shall copy them out and put my notes to them, as my grandmother did."
So Marjory was quite happy at last. Her childhood had had its troubles—very real ones while they lasted. Then friendship had come to lighten them, and wise, loving words from a motherly woman, who had taught her to look away from self, to find happiness in thinking of others. In so doing, she had found her way into her uncle's heart, and the finding of it had brought ample reward. And now had come this crowning joy of all—the meeting with her father at last, the realization that he was all and more than all her fancy had painted him. She felt that her cup of happiness was full. Looking back over the past, she could sing with the poet,—
"What had I then? A hope that grew
Each hour more bright and dear,
The flush upon the eastern skies
That showed the sun was near.
Now night has faded far away,
My sun has risen, and it is day."