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.