MARJORY'S BIRTHDAY.
"I wish her beauty
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie."
Crashaw.
The eighteenth of September dawned at last. The sun shone in at Marjory's window, waking her to her birthday, as if impatient for her to begin this new year of her life.
She was soon up and dressed—dressed very carefully, in case the eyes of the governess should find anything amiss; but she would have been critical indeed could she have done so, for, when Marjory's toilet was completed, she looked the pink of neatness: Her abundant dark hair was plaited smoothly and tied with ribbon, new for the occasion, and she wore a new frock of soft, warm material, for the autumn days were chilly now and giving warning of the coming winter.
Marjory looked at herself in the glass very anxiously—a most unusual proceeding on her part. As a rule she spent little thought upon her personal appearance, but to-day things were different. She found herself wondering what impression Miss Waspe was likely to have of her at first sight. This was characteristic of Marjory, who was over-sensitive with regard to other people and their opinions of her. In this case it was not, "Shall I like Miss Waspe?" but, "Will Miss Waspe like me?"
Marjory always looked forward to her birthday. Her uncle never forgot to give her some gift in remembrance of the day; in fact, he made it a rule to give her two presents. She often wondered why he did so, but had never found courage to ask his reasons. The truth was that this was a curious way the doctor had of trying to satisfy that conscience which would continually prick him with regard to Mr. Davidson, and the second gift represented Marjory's father.
To-day was no exception to the rule. As Marjory went half eagerly, half shyly to the breakfast-table, there, by her place, were several parcels. The first she opened was a nice leather satchel for carrying her books to and from Braeside. This was from her uncle. Then came another with the words "To Marjory" written on it in the doctor's handwriting. It looked like a small square box, and as she took off the paper wrappings it proved to be a leather case containing a pretty little gold watch and chain. Her initials and the date were engraved on the back of it.
Dr. Hunter came in just as Marjory was examining this new treasure, and as she ran forward to thank him he said,—
"Like it, Marjory? That's right. But I think I am a foolish old man to give a watch to a young thing like you, for you'll only go and drop it down the first rabbit-hole you and Silky go scratching into; but I thought it might be useful in keeping you up to time with that governess of yours. No excuse for being late, eh? The date too—an important one, isn't it? Well, my child, I wish you many happy years."
Of the other parcels, one was raspberry toffee from Lisbeth, and the other, a curiously shaped one, was from Peter, and contained a trowel. Its somewhat prosaic appearance was relieved by the handle being decorated with Marjory's initial inside a heart of uncertain proportions, executed by poor old Peter's shaky hand with a red-hot skewer.
"Dear old Peter!" exclaimed Marjory. "He must have noticed that my old one is worn out. How good of him!"
"Come, child, eat your breakfast," was the doctor's only comment. Marjory's enthusiasm was quenched in a moment, and she sat down in silence. Dr. Hunter was anxious that Marjory should have a good breakfast before starting for Braeside. He spoke abruptly, giving no reason for his admonition, and Marjory thought he was cross—whether with her or with Peter and his present she did not know; anyhow he was cross, and her old thoughts and feelings against her uncle came crowding in upon her. "Yet," the better voice whispered, "do not these gifts show that he has thought of you and prepared for this day? Surely that was good and kind of him."
Lisbeth and Peter were hovering about in order to see Marjory after breakfast, anxious to know how their presents had been appreciated. Marjory's thanks left no doubt upon the subject. Both the presents were just what she liked and wanted.
Lisbeth eyed her critically.
"Yon's a fine new frock," she said. "But what way is't yer hair's no hingin' the day? Are ye no gaun to yon governess leddy?"
"Yes, but I never thought of letting my hair loose; it isn't Sunday."
"Na, but I would hae thocht ye micht hae dune it just this first day, an' yer birthday too. Yer hair's some bittie langer than Miss Blanche's, I'm thinkin'," replied Lisbeth, with satisfaction in her tone.
"Aweel," remarked Peter, "it's no the ootside o' her heid Miss Marjory's thinkin' o' the day, but the inside o't—to fill it up wi' buik-larnin'."
"Puir bairnie, I just hope yon governess winna be ower strict wi' her at the first.—Mind an' tell Peter an' Lisbeth if she's no kind to ye," said the old woman earnestly. She was more than half jealous of this new authority over Marjory's doings.
The girl laughed joyously. "Don't you be afraid, you dear old things. I want to learn lessons, and I'm quite sure Miss Waspe will be kind."
Dr. Hunter walked with Marjory to Braeside on this first morning. She never forgot it. The slight chill of early autumn was in the air, here and there the leaves were turning gold and red, and a faint mistiness hung over the landscape. Here and there the gossamer threads so busily woven since yesterday stretched across their path, and Marjory liked to feel them touch her cheek as she broke through them. The doctor and she walked in silence, Silky in attendance; and Marjory's heart was beating quickly as they neared Braeside. This day of days, so eagerly longed for, had come at last; but what would it bring with it? This feeling of apprehension grew into an acute pain at last. Her ignorance of the things which most girls of her age were well up in assumed the most alarming proportions to poor Marjory, and she almost wished that her heart's desire had not been granted, that she could have been content with things as they were. She felt herself on the brink of a new world, and she feared to take the step across. She remembered Peter's story, and how the voice had called to young Malcolm that faith and a brave heart would carry him across the yawning chasm. She, too, must be brave and go to meet the unknown.
When they reached the gate at Braeside, Dr. Hunter said, "Well, Marjory, you'll be all right now. Good-bye." And he stooped to kiss her.
Dismayed at the thought of going into the house and into that dreaded schoolroom alone, she caught her uncle's hand and said pleadingly, "Won't you come with me, Uncle George?"
Then for the first time the doctor noticed her pale face and quick-coming breath, and he was touched by her confidence in him.
"Of course I will," he said heartily. "I'll go with you right into the lion's den, or rather, in this case, it's the Waspe's nest, eh?"
Marjory laughed a little, which was just what the doctor wanted; and as they walked across the park to the house he chatted and joked with her until she felt much better.
Mrs. Forester and Blanche were at the door to meet them. Blanche, in high spirits, skipped down the steps, calling out, "Many happy returns of the day, without lessons. Come on upstairs to the schoolroom," she cried, giving Marjory a hug, "and see what's there. I shall simply burst if you don't come quickly."
"May I come too?" asked Dr. Hunter.
"Yes," said Blanche. "Father and mother are coming too."
The little party went upstairs to the schoolroom. Blanche threw open the door with a flourish of triumph, and what Marjory saw caused her heart to beat faster than ever. The doctor rubbed his eyes and asked comically, "Am I dreaming? Is this a real schoolroom and a real governess?"
It was indeed a pretty picture that the door had opened upon. There were flowers in every available place in the room; and as Miss Waspe came forward, smiling a welcome, the sun just caught her fair hair, turning it to gold, and making her look like a spirit in a fairy bower. On the table there were roses, and where the books ought to have been was something which made Marjory's eyes grow big with wonder. It was nothing less than a new saddle—a small side-saddle; and Marjory, fascinated, watched Mr. Forester walk to the table and take it up; and then—oh! what could it mean?—he came towards her, saying, "This is something for you, Marjory, from Mrs. Forester and me. I hope you like it. Brownie seems to approve of it."
Marjory felt as if she were dreaming. How often had she wished she might learn to ride—more often than ever since Blanche's coming! She could hardly find words to stammer out her thanks, but her kind friends could see that she was surprised and delighted beyond measure.
Then Blanche came to her, holding out a dainty silver-topped riding-whip.
"Here," she said; "this is my present. Only I don't believe you will ever use it; it will only be for show. Won't it be lovely going for rides together? Oh dear, how thankful I am to-day has come at last! This has been the very hardest secret I ever had to keep; and it's been such a business, first getting Brownie measured and then breaking him in to the saddle, all without you knowing. It was generally done while we were bathing, and I used to be very slow dressing on purpose." And, laughing merrily, she gave Marjory another hug.
"Let me too wish you many happy returns of the day," said Miss Waspe kindly, "and many happy days in this room, which Dr. Hunter thinks is not a real schoolroom," laughing. "It may not always look so festive as it does to-day, but then this is a birthday, you see."
The dreaded moment was over, Marjory had entered the new world, and never again would she regret the old one. She felt no fear when Blanche and she were left alone with their governess, for something had told her when she looked into Miss Waspe's eyes that she had no cause to be afraid. Nor had she. Miss Waspe understood girls and their ways; she loved them, and she had unlimited patience. Moreover, she was all eagerness herself to begin to teach her new pupil, and she promised herself many an interesting hour. She found that what Marjory had learned she knew thoroughly. She could read fluently and with intelligence, at figures she was quick and accurate, and she wrote a good hand. A little judicious praise was a great encouragement to Marjory, and the lessons begun that day were a source of delight to governess and pupil alike. Nothing seemed to come amiss to Marjory, and she progressed by leaps and bounds until Miss Waspe began to fear that the busy brain might wear out the body, sturdy though it was. But the girls had plenty of time for play and for exercise, and Marjory's health, so far from being any the worse for her studies, seemed rather the better.
Blanche had already learned to ride, and Marjory had little difficulty after a few lessons from Mr. Forester's groom, so the girls had many a lively gallop across the moor or along the country roads.
The weeks flew by, and very soon, as it seemed to Marjory, the Christmas holidays began. None too soon for Blanche did they come, for she was by no means so devoted to her studies as Marjory was, and, fond as she was of her governess, she could watch her drive away to the station without compunction, knowing that three short weeks would see her back again, and lessons with her.
The friendship between the two girls had grown stronger every day. They shared everything—hopes and fears, pleasures and pains—and they were inseparable companions. Marjory's was the leading spirit. It was she who planned their expeditions and proposed each day's doings. Blanche looked up to her friend as being much stronger in every way than herself, and admired her accordingly, while Marjory would have gone through fire and water, as the saying is, for Blanche.
One day, soon after the holidays began, the girls went for a walk to a pond about a mile out of Heathermuir, to see if it would bear for skating. There had been continuous frost for some days, and as the pond was a shallow one, Dr. Hunter thought it was quite safe for them to go. Mrs. Forester could trust Marjory to take Blanche anywhere, but as she had not yet learned to skate, the girls had promised that they would only go to see in what condition the ice was. If it would bear, they were to come back to Braeside for lunch, and afterwards Mr. Forester would go with them and give Blanche her first lesson.
As they were walking along, a collie came bounding up to Silky, and then to Marjory, wagging his tail, as if delighted to see her.
"That's the Morisons' dog," she said; "the boys must be home. Perhaps they're coming to the pond too."
"Oh, bother," said Blanche; "it won't be a bit nice having strange boys there while I'm learning. I don't like boys much, they are so rough and rude. I do hope they won't stay all day on the pond."
Marjory stole a glance behind. Sure enough there was a boy, but only one, coming along the road.
"It's Alan Morison, the youngest one, all by himself, and he's got skates," she said, making a grimace at Blanche as she imparted the information.
"Well, of course he has as much right on the pond as we have, and it's horrid of me not to want him, but I don't. What is he like?"
"I haven't spoken to him much. He doesn't care for girls, and neither does his brother; they both said so. They generally call out rude remarks after me. They think all girls are silly."
"Well, we don't want them to like us, I'm sure," replied Blanche; "we can do quite well without them; and these ones sound horrid from your description."
Marjory, afraid she had said too much in disparagement of the boys, hastened to say, "Oh, I don't suppose they would be rude to you; but they've known me ever since I was a baby, you see."
Footsteps could be heard behind them now, and very soon a mocking voice called, "Carrots, Car-rots." At first the girls took no notice, walking along in their most dignified manner; but when the boy came quite close and deliberately shouted "Carrots" into Blanche's ear, Marjory turned upon him like a fury, crying, "Don't you dare to say that again, or I'll knock you down."
The boy burst out laughing, and straightway repeated the objectionable word. Marjory wheeled round in a moment. "Take that!" she said, delivering a blow with her fist which sent Master Alan Morison flying. He lost his balance and fell to the ground. He was up again in a moment, blood flowing from a slight cut in his forehead. Marjory, aghast at what she had done, stood rooted to the spot, expecting him to return the attack; but, to her surprise, he looked at her admiringly and said, "I say, you know, that was jolly good. I never thought a girl could hit like that. I couldn't have done it better myself, and you're only thirteen. I was fourteen last birthday."
Marjory began, "I'm so sorry," but Alan stopped her. "I tell you it was jolly good. I'm glad you can hit; you don't seem so much like a girl.—I say," turning to Blanche and blushing crimson under his freckles, "it was beastly of me to call names after you." The boy shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he made his apology.
"Yes, it was rather," replied Blanche, "but it isn't the first time boys have done it. I suppose my hair is carroty," ruefully, "but I think it is rather mean to tease me about a thing I can't help."
"I say, I'm awfully sorry," said Alan, more shamefaced than ever.
"Never mind," said Blanche graciously; "I'll forgive you this once. Come along; it's cold standing here apologizing and forgiving." And with a merry laugh she started on.
Marjory, ashamed of her part in the quarrel, asked Alan if his forehead hurt.
"No, it's nothing but a scratch, but I tell you," enthusiastically, "it was a splendid hit. Any fellow would have done the same if another chap had ragged his friend. I say," he continued bashfully, "would you two chum up with me? It's beastly dull for me at home now."
"Where's Herbert?" asked Marjory.
"Oh, he's at home, but he's no good to me now," kicking a stone with his foot, to the great satisfaction of the dogs; and then he continued, "Since he went into the sixth, he thinks of nothing but the cut of his coats and the shape of his collars, and whether girls think he's better-looking than the other fellows. It's positively sickening. And now we're at home he hangs about father, and won't do anything with me. He called me a 'kid' this morning, young silly ass that he is." Another stone went flying. "But look here," in a different tone and turning to Marjory; "you're not a bit like a girl if you can hit like that, and I should be awfully obliged to you if you would chum up with me. We could have jolly fun if you would."
"All right," said Marjory, sorry for any one who was lonely; "we'll be friends—that is, if Blanche wants to too; we always do everything together." And she looked at her friend.
Blanche was too sweet-natured to be selfish over this proposal; besides, she rather liked the look of this boy with his freckled face and honest eyes, so she said, "Yes, let's have a Triple Alliance, like we've been learning about in history, only much nicer," with a grimace; "it will be awful fun." And thus the friendship was begun.
When they reached the pond it appeared to be quite fit for skating, and Alan soon fastened on his skates and started off. They were pleased to find that there was no one else skating; in fact, they had it all to themselves. It was amusing to see the three dogs trying to follow Alan, especially fat little Curly, who rolled over several times in his frantic efforts to keep up with the grown-up dogs.
The girls watched Alan's movements with interest. He was a very good skater, and could do all sorts of figures on the ice, seeming quite at home upon it. He was shouting that he would teach them both all he knew, when suddenly there was an ominous crackling on the other side of the pond, and the dogs, who had gone over there unnoticed, began to bark and whine excitedly.
"Where's Curly? I believe he's fallen in," screamed Blanche, and she started to run across the ice.
"Go back!" shouted Alan. "Go round by the bank!" And in a moment he was off at full speed across the pond.
Curly was nowhere to be seen, and Silky and Neil, the collie, were barking furiously, leaping and splashing in and out of the water. Some one evidently had been trying the ice, and it had broken away from the edge, gradually cracking farther in. The big dogs had been able to scramble to the shore, but the little one, frightened, no doubt, by his unusual adventure, had been sucked in under the ice. The other dogs were making frantic efforts to reach him, but the pieces of broken ice prevented them, and poor little Curly was some distance in; and as the pond was shallow, it would have been difficult for them to swim, even if they could have got under the ice.
Alan saw at once what had happened, and judging by the dogs' efforts the probable whereabouts of Curly, with a reassuring shout to the girls, he began stamping in the ice, plunging knee-deep into the water each time. In a few moments he pulled out poor little Curly—a helpless dripping object, with no signs of life in him. Alan scrambled to the bank and laid the dog on the grass. He tenderly wiped him as dry as he could with his pocket handkerchief—a regular schoolboy's one of generous proportions—and by the time the girls arrived, breathless after their run, he was wrapping Curly in his coat.
"Is he dead?" cried Blanche, the tears streaming down her cheeks.—"Oh, my darling little Curly, why did I let you out of my sight?"
"I dare say he won't die," said Alan, feigning a cheerfulness he did not feel. "The first thing to do is to get him warm. Where's the nearest house?"
"The Low Farm is the nearest," said Marjory doubtfully, "if Mrs. Shaw—"
"Will let us in to make a mess of her kitchen," finished Alan. "She is a bit of a cross-patch, but we'll make her let us in. What's the good of a Triple Alliance if we can't fight? Come on, girls. United we stand!"
They ran off as fast as they could towards the Low Farm, Alan carrying Curly very close to him, so that the warmth from his own body might revive the little dog. Blanche kept asking if he seemed better, but the answer was always the same—he had not moved or shown any signs of life.
Once Marjory said, "I say, it was very good of you, Alan, and you're soaking wet, and you must be cold without your coat."
"Rot!" replied Alan, and Marjory said no more.