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?
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."
"We won't tell," said both the girls eagerly—"at least," added Blanche, "I won't, if you'll let me tell mother. She keeps all my secrets, and she's a very safe person."
"Very well; you can make amends by keeping what you know to yourselves. Tell your mother, by all means, Blanche."
The doctor's arm tightened round Marjory. She, poor child, he thought, has no mother in whom to confide. Marjory felt the pressure, and drew a little closer to her uncle. It was very comfortable sitting on his knee. She was tired and had been really frightened at the result of the adventure, and she leaned contentedly against him. In a moment his lips were on her hair and the protecting arm had drawn her very close.
"Dear little girl," he murmured—"my little Marjory."
Then for the first time Marjory began to cry.
"Oh dear," said the doctor, "more tears! What an old ogre I must be. Don't cry, Marjory. Cheer up."
"I'm not crying," asserted Marjory, the tears streaming down her cheeks; "I only feel nice."
"I think you each need a handkerchief," said the doctor mischievously; and he went to a bureau which stood in a corner of the room, and took out two handkerchiefs of a bright Oriental pattern. He presented one to each of the girls.
"Gaudy, but not neat," he misquoted. "Still, you must own that they are better than nothing," he said significantly. "Now, as you ladies have invited yourselves, I think we'd better have a little supper together—eh?"
So saying, the doctor went to a cupboard in the wall, and took out a small spirit-lamp, on which he proceeded to set a kettle to boil. He brought out cups and saucers of delicate china and an antique silver teapot.
Marjory watched these operations in amazement. Next came milk and sugar from the cupboard, and finally a tin box containing some of Lisbeth's famous shortbread.
"I always keep supplies here," he explained, "because playing ghost is hungry work. Now then, ladies, make yourselves at home. No, Marjory; this is my party. I prefer to make the tea myself, and to pour it out. Let's play we're all dressed in our best, and let's enjoy ourselves as we couldn't if we were."
The girls laughed, their recent tears were forgotten, and they did justice to the doctor's impromptu banquet.
"I shall have to 'wash up' two of the cups and saucers," remarked the doctor, with a smile, "or Lisbeth will hear of my party; but I'll do it to-morrow when the coast is clear. Meanwhile, I'll lock them up in the cupboard," which he thereupon proceeded to do.
"I have greatly enjoyed your company, young ladies, but I cannot honestly say that I hope you will come again at one o'clock in the morning. Now I'm going to escort you back to bed. Go very quietly, so as not to wake anybody."
Thus ended the girls' search for the Hunters' Brae ghost. The adventure had been an exciting one, though not quite in the way which they had expected.
Her uncle's caress had been a revelation to Marjory, and she thought of it again and again. How true Mrs. Forester's words had been! Had she not said that the doctor would be sure to respond to any advance of Marjory's if only she would try, and had he not kissed her and called her his dear little girl, just as Mrs. Forester had suggested that he might? Her uncle seemed to Marjory to have changed into a different person, but in reality the change was in herself, for she was looking at him in another light—she was trying to see him through love's spectacles.
Mr. and Mrs. Forester were away for a few days only, and the time passed very quickly for the girls, there was so much to see and to do at Hunters' Brae. They summoned courage to ask the doctor about the key of the old chest. He replied that he did not think he had it, and did not suppose that there was anything inside the box, but he promised to look amongst his keys for one that might fit. They were afraid he would forget, but he was as good as his word, and gave them several old keys to try, none of which, however, would open the mysterious box. Dr. Hunter told them that it had been there ever since he could remember, but no one had ever paid any particular attention to it. To him it was merely an old box, valuable by reason of its age; but to the girls it stood for romance and mystery, an oracle that might speak volumes of past history could it only be opened.
They paid many visits to the old wing, and tried all means of opening the chest, but to no purpose, and they were obliged to leave it for the time being. Blanche boldly suggested a locksmith, but the doctor, unable to see any necessity that the box should be opened, pooh-poohed the idea.
"Nonsense," he said, rather sharply. "I won't have any workmen tampering with it. Don't let me hear any more about it."
The doctor wanted to keep things as they had been, and did not approve of any alterations in the house, and he was probably afraid that the box might be injured by any attempts to open it forcibly. After this the girls stopped talking about it, but continued to think about it a good deal.
July slipped away and August came. Mr. Forester had invited some friends for the shooting, and the Twelfth saw quite a large party assembled at Braeside. Dr. Hunter forbade Marjory to go while the strangers were there. He gave no reason for so doing. He did not wish her to go, and that was enough. He expected Marjory's implicit obedience, without question on her part or explanation on his. The truth was that the doctor was afraid that some casual stranger, seeing Marjory, and perhaps hearing her story, might put two and two together, as the saying is, and convey to Mr. Davidson the information which had been so long and so carefully withheld.
Marjory felt rebellion in her heart, and for a day or two returned to her old sullen mood with her uncle. Blanche came and begged that her friend might be allowed to go just once to a picnic luncheon on the moor, but the doctor was firm in his refusal. He himself was invited to dine at Braeside, but he declined the invitation, courteously but firmly. So there was nothing to be done but to submit. Blanche came to Hunters' Brae as often as she could, but Marjory was very glad when the visitors went away, and she was able to go in and out at Braeside as before.
These were the happiest weeks the girl had ever known. The two friends spent long sunshiny days together, but though it was very delightful to ramble about with Blanche, and to show the town-bred girl some of the sights and pleasures of the country, Marjory secretly longed for the eighteenth of September and the commencement of those lessons she so ardently wished for. It was quite certain that Blanche had no such longings, for she constantly expressed her satisfaction in the extra week of holidays, and wished it were longer. Blanche was a good and industrious scholar during lesson times, but she was honestly glad when they were over, and sorry when they began again. She had not that thirst for knowledge which was almost a pain to Marjory, and for her part she was inclined to wish that these lovely summer days might last, if not for ever, at least for a very, very long time. She would be quite content to do nothing but roam with Marjory about the park and gardens, to visit Mrs. Shaw at the Low Farm, and to wander about the house at Hunters' Brae, examining its many treasures. There was the loch, too, and its pleasures of boating and bathing. Every day she went with her mother and Marjory to bathe in the cool, clear water, and Marjory was teaching her to swim. Then, in the evenings, sometimes the doctor would take them for a sail, and she would sit wondering at the clever way in which Marjory carried out his orders, pulling this rope, slackening the other. It all seemed most bewildering to Blanche, and she admired her capable friend the more. These holidays were full of delight. Lesson hours would come again all too soon for Blanche.
September set in wet. Leaden skies and steady rain enveloped Heathermuir in a mantle of gray. Marjory, accustomed to all weathers, went out and about as usual. The first wet morning when she signalled to Blanche, the reply was, "Can't come; you come here." So she went down to Braeside and tried to persuade Mrs. Forester to allow Blanche to come out, for they had looked forward to hearing Peter's story on the first wet day. But Mrs. Forester was just as firm as the doctor had been during the visiting time; she would not allow Blanche to go out in such rain in case she should catch cold. Marjory suggested goloshes and a waterproof, but Mrs. Forester remained unpersuaded. It was not until the rain had continued for several days, and Blanche had grown very weary of her imprisonment, that at last her mother allowed her to go to Hunters' Brae. It was decided that she must drive both ways, and if she went into the garden, it must only be to the wood-shed and back, and she must wear a cloak and goloshes. Blanche felt a little ashamed of all these precautions before Marjory's sturdy independence of the weather, and was rather afraid that her friend might laugh at her for a "mollycoddle." But that spirit of protection, with which Blanche's delicacy had inspired Marjory, prevented any such expression on her part, and made her only anxious that Mrs. Forester's instructions should be carefully carried out.
They gave Lisbeth a message for Peter, reminding him of his promise, and saying that they would meet him in the wood-shed after dinner. When they went there they found the old man sawing wood and apparently very busy.
"You have dreadfully wet weather here, haven't you, Peter?" said Blanche, by way of opening the conversation.
The old man stopped his sawing and looked at her.
"I wouldna exactly say it's dreadfully wet," he replied. "It's maybe just a wee bittie saft, but no for to say wet."
"O Peter!" remonstrated Blanche. "Not wet, and it's been simply pouring cats and dogs for four whole days, and mother wouldn't let me come out. I hope it isn't often like this."
"Na, na, missie, only whiles."
"Well, I hope 'whiles' don't come very often, then," laughing.
"What are you going to tell us about to-day, Peter?" asked Marjory, anxious to begin the business of the afternoon.
"Me tell ye? What hae I to tell?" And the old man began his sawing again.
"Do be nice and begin, Peter darling," coaxed Marjory. "You promised, you know."
"Ay, to be sure, I begin to mind something aboot some story ye was wanting." Peter's eyes twinkled.
"Of course you remember. Now please begin, and don't let's waste any more time."
"Gin I dae that I canna saw wood," objected Peter.
"Nobody wants you to saw wood; you can do that afterwards."
"Weel, weel, I suppose ye maun hae yer way."
The girls settled themselves on a wooden bench, Marjory with her arm round Blanche; and Peter, turning a basket upside down, sat upon it, laying the saw across his knees, and fingering its jagged edge as he told his tale. His Scots was a little difficult to follow, and Marjory whispered translations to Blanche every now and then.
Peter began: "This story is ca'd the 'Leddy's Grove,' an' it has twa morals to it." Peter was always very careful to point out the morals to his tales. "One is," he continued, "that revenge is no for us to meddle wi'. 'Vengeance is mine,' says God Almichty. And the other is, that though each day may be fu' o' unknown dangers, we maun go forward wi' faith an' courage, an' a' will be weel wi' us. Noo I'll begin.
"Lang, lang syne, before ever there was Hunters at the Brae, so ye may ken hoo lang it is, there was war atween England and Scotland. Lord Ronald o' Glendown—which, as ye ken, Miss Marjory, lies no sae far frae here—he an' his eldest son, the young Ronald, went awa to fecht, leavin' his wife, the bonnie Leddy Flora, an' his youngest son at hame i' the castle wi' but a few servants.
"For mony a day the leddy waited patiently, wi' mony prayers for the safety o' her dear ones. At last a messenger brocht tidings o' a great battle. He didna richtly ken whether the victory lay wi' us or wi' the English; he only kenned o' mony fine men killed or sairly wounded.
"Hearin' this, the Leddy Flora gaed to the watch-tower i' the castle keep, her son, the young Malcolm, beside her. Frae this tower they could see a' round for mony miles. They watched an' waitit, an' at last they spied a company o' men marchin' towards the castle. They were the men o' Glendown, for their colours could be seen. The Leddy Flora sent a prayer o' thanksgivin' to the skies, for weel she kenned that the men wouldna come withoot their lord. Fu' o' joy, she hurried awa to gie her orders for the reception o' the returnin' warriors. But, wae's me, what did she see as she went to the castle door to welcome them? The men hadna come back withoot their lord an' his son, but it was their deid bodies they were carryin' hame. Eh, but it was a sair sicht to see the leddy weepin' gin her heart wad break. E'en the great, rough men couldna hide their tears; an' nae shame to them ava, for a strong heart should hae its saft spot. Then, efter a while, the leddy raised her heid an' said, 'Men o' Glendown, they hae dee'd a glorious death, fechtin' for his Majesty the king an' for their country. 'Tis the death they wad hae chosen, fechtin' face to foe. Let us a' be thankful for God's mercy. They micht hae been cast into prison, an' put to a shamefu' death, but this is glory an' honour to them.' An' again she wept, coverin' her face wi' her hands. The young Malcolm, too, was weepin', no because his heart was afraid but because it was sair.
"Then ane o' the men up an' spoke. 'Not so, my leddy. 'Twas a foul blow that killed my lord an' his son, an' it was gien them by a hidden enemy. We was marchin' hame victorious, Lord Ronald ridin' awa to the front, wi' young Ronald by his side, when a' in a moment an airmed man on a horse sprang frae a thicket an' thrust my lord i' the back wi' his sword. He fell withoot a groan. Young Ronald, he drew his sword like a flash o' licht, but it was too late; the murderer's knife plunged deep into his brave young heart. We rushed to the spot, my leddy, but the murderer had an unco swift horse, an' he rode awa like the deil towards the Abbey o' Glendown. We could see that he wore a bit sprig o' green oak i' his helmet, an' a scarlet ribbon round his airm.' The Leddy Flora's eyes flashed fire as she heard the story, an' when it was dune she cried, 'Which are o' ye a' will gang an' gie this coward his deserts?'
"Nae man spoke till he wha had telt the tale said in a low voice, 'My leddy, yon's a man possessed by the evil one, or he couldna ride sae swiftly, an' his horse is as black as the very deil himsel'; no mortal man could follow him.'
"The leddy wrung her hands, despairin'. Then young Malcolm said stoutly, 'Let me gang, my leddy mither; I'm no feared for man or deil. I will be the avenger o' this cruel deed.'
"'Thou, my son?' questioned the leddy. 'Nay, thou art but a laddie. I canna let thee gang, my only child.' An' she cast her airms aboot him.
"But the lad gently freed himsel' frae her loving airms, sayin', 'It is my duty.' An' then he turned to the men an' commanded them to bring him his feyther's sword an' shield, an' he askit his mither to gie him her blessin'.
"Then the leddy cried, 'God bless thee, my son. Gae forth, Lord Malcolm o' Glendown, an' avenge the death o' thy feyther an' thy brither. The murderer's bluid be upo' his ain heid.'
"It was strange that sae gentle a woman should be sae set upo' bluid an' revenge, but this was lang syne, when folks didna ken o' the justice o' God, as we dae noo.
"Lord Malcolm set oot. He rode mony miles until he saw the black horse at last, an' a man ridin' on it wi' a sprig o' green i' his helmet an' a scarlet ribbon upo' his airm. The young lord spurred his horse, an' pursued his enemy, an' was comin' up wi' him, when suddenly horse an' rider sprang up i' the air, it seemed some distance, an' then doon to the earth again. When he cam to the place young Malcolm was sair dooncast to find before him a great, big, wide, yawnin' gulf, wi' a roarin' torrent at the bottom, an' sheer rocky sides that nae human bein' could scale.
"'Wae's me,' said the lad, 'for I canna follow him. An' what can I tell my mither that she doesna ca' me a coward this day?'
"The young lad gazed across the chasm, an' as he looked he saw a shinin', misty light, an' in it the form o' a beautiful woman, an' he bared his heid an' bowed before this veesion.
"'Fear not,' cam a voice, clear and strong like the sound o' a trumpet—'fear not to leap across this gulf. Faith an' a brave heart will carry thee safely to this side. Come.' And she beckoned wi' her hand.
"The lad set his horse to the leap. One moment an' he was i' the air, anither an' he was safe upo' the ither side. Then the voice said, 'Whither awa sae swiftly?' An' the boy replied, 'I'm gaun to revenge the murder o' my feyther an' my brither. I'm seekin' a black horse an' its rider. Can ye tell me which way he went?'
"'He is gane where thy vengeance canna follow him,' replied the voice; an' then the figure raised its airm, pointin' to the heavens, an' the voice went on, 'I am Fate, a messenger o' Justice, to whom vengeance belongs. I ca'd yon coward to the leap as I ca'd thee. He leaped to his death, an' thou hast leaped to safety, but no to revenge; that is for wiser hands than thine. Gang where his body lies, an' pluck the oak an' the scarlet ribbon frae him to show thy mither.' The lad did as he was bid, an' then the woman cam close to him an' laid her hand upo' his brow, sayin', 'Thou art a brave lad, an' I, Fate, do promise thee that thou shalt gang fearless a' thy days, an' they shall be mony.' I' a moment she was gane, an' there was naething to be seen o' her, nor o' the body o' the wicked man, nor the wide gulf; an' Lord Malcolm found himsel' upo' the road to the Abbey o' Glendown, but he still carried the sprig o' oak an' the scarlet ribbon. An' upo' the very spot whaur the gulf had been there grew a wonderfu' grove o' hawthorn trees, the finest i' the countryside. Folks ca' it the 'Leddy's Grove,' an' it is there till this day for a' to see, an' on the coat o' airms o' the Glendown family ye'll see the sprig o' oak an' the scarlet ribbon. Young Malcolm galloped hame an' telt his tale to his mither just as I hae telt it to you, young misses."
With appropriate looks and gestures the old man had told his story, his listeners sitting as if spellbound, motionless except for a whispered word of explanation here and there from Marjory. Both gave sighs of regret as his last words died away, and Marjory cried,—
"O Peter, that is one of the best you've ever told; it is simply splendid!"
"Do you think it's really true?" questioned Blanche eagerly. "Did such things as these really happen long ago?"
"I'm tellin' ye the story as my mither telt it to me. Her feyther telt it to her, an' wha's to ken whether it's true or whether it's no true." And, as if to dismiss the subject, Peter got up from his basket and resumed his sawing.