TEA AT HUNTERS' BRAE.
"They looked upon me from the pictured wall;
They—the great dead—
Stood still upon the canvas while I told
The glorious memories to their ashes wed."
E. B. Browning.
The day passed very slowly for Marjory until four o'clock, which was the time appointed for the arrival of her visitor. She wondered whether Uncle George would have tea with them, and, it must be confessed, she secretly hoped that he would not, telling herself that it would be much nicer without him, because Blanche and she would then feel free to talk to each other. It must not be supposed that a better understanding of her uncle could be reached by leaps and bounds. The change from the confidence of the baby child to the constraint and awkwardness of the older girl had been gradual, and the return to that fearless confidence must be gradual too; but Marjory had taken a step in the right direction that morning, and she really meant to try hard.
The girl had never had a friend of her own age to tea in her life, and she felt how delightful it would be if they could be alone together.
There were occasional tea-parties at Hunters' Brae, but they were dreaded rather than looked forward to by Marjory. The company usually consisted of the minister and his wife and the doctor and his wife, and it seemed to Marjory that these parties had been exactly the same in every detail for years. The guests made the same flattering remarks about Lisbeth's scones, cookies, and shortbread; they told the same tales, and they put Marjory through the same catechism. How old was she now? How was she getting on with her lessons? Could she sew her seam nicely? Could she turn the heel of a sock? When these questions were asked and answered, there would be long silences, broken only by the crunching of shortbread and the swallowing of tea. To Marjory these silences caused the most acute pain. She felt helpless and inclined to run away, or scream, or do something to create a diversion. She would watch the hands of the clock, hoping that each minute might bring a remark from somebody. But the other people did not seem to mind the lack of conversation; and once she counted ten whole minutes during which no one said anything except what was necessary in passing and handing eatables! How different her tea-party might be, she thought, if only—But then she stopped, thinking of her new resolves. Still, it was a great relief when the doctor said,—
"I'm going to Morristown this afternoon, Marjory, so you must entertain your visitor yourself. Do you think you can manage it?"
There was a twinkle of mischief in the doctor's eyes as he asked the question, but Marjory did not see it. She was looking at the ground, blushing rather guiltily as she realized how pleased she was to hear of this plan.
"Oh yes," she replied, "I shall manage quite well, Uncle George."
"Then just go and tell Peter I want him at once to drive me to the station."
"Oh, mayn't I drive you?" asked Marjory eagerly.
"Of course you may," replied the doctor, looking at his niece in some surprise. This was the first time she had ever suggested such a thing, and he was more pleased than he cared to own even to himself. As for Marjory, the words had slipped out almost before she knew what she was saying; and when she had spoken them she felt half afraid of their effect, and wholly surprised at herself.
The doctor, who did nothing by halves, had planned this trip to Morristown for himself, so as to leave the coast quite clear for the two girls to enjoy themselves in their own way. It was a most considerate action on his part, for he disliked railway travelling, and at that time was much engrossed in the study of the scientific problem before mentioned. He told himself that if he were to stay anywhere in the neighbourhood of Heathermuir he would not be able to keep away from his study for long, so he decided to banish himself to Morristown.
Marjory drove her uncle to the station, and was back in plenty of time to prepare for the reception of her guest. She could see the house at Braeside very well from her bedroom, and, perched on the window-sill, she watched for Blanche's coming. At last she saw two figures—a small one and a tall one—coming out of the house. The tall one was a man, and must be Mr. Forester she decided; and in that case she would not go to meet them—she felt too shy. She watched them coming across the park which surrounded their house; then they were lost to sight in the wood which was at the end of the Hunters' Brae garden. The doctor must have told them to come this way, as it was much nearer than coming by the road.
Marjory was rather relieved to see that when at last the garden gate opened Blanche was alone. She rushed downstairs and through the garden, eager to welcome her visitor; but when she reached Blanche she felt almost tongue-tied, and all she could say was, "How do you do?" which sounded very stiff and formal, compared with what she felt.
But Blanche was equal to the occasion.
"How nice of you to come and meet me!" she said. "Dr. Hunter told us we might come this way, as it is so much nearer. But how did you know just when to come?"
"I was watching from my bedroom window."
"Then I believe we can see each other's bedroom windows, because mine looks to the front of the house. How lovely! We shall be able to signal to each other. Won't that be fun?"
"Yes, indeed it will. We shall be able to say 'good-night' and 'good-morning' to each other, and all sorts of things." And Marjory's busy brain at once began to devise methods of signalling.
"What a lovely garden!" exclaimed Blanche as they walked towards the house. "Ours is all weeds and rubbish, it has been left alone so long. Nobody seems to have bothered about the garden while the house was empty."
"It will soon begin to look nice, now you've come," said Marjory consolingly; and, indeed, it seemed to her as if the very flowers in the garden must grow to greet the coming of her friend.
"What a lot there is to see here!" said Blanche enthusiastically. "Where shall we begin?"
"Well, let's have tea first," suggested Marjory. "Then we can go over the house, then the garden; and then Peter has promised to take us to the Low Farm—that is, if you would like it," she added, looking shyly at her companion.
"I shall simply love it all," Blanche replied emphatically; and then, in a burst of confidence, "I say, I'm awfully glad you haven't got on your best frock—at least," quickly, "it's the same one you had on yesterday. Mother said she didn't think I need put mine on; that we might be in the garden, perhaps, and I should enjoy it better if I didn't have to think about my frock."
"I never put my best one on unless I'm obliged to," said Marjory. "I always feel so boxed up in it, and it always reminds me of sermons and tea-parties."
Blanche laughed merrily. "Oh!" she cried, "are the sermons very long here?"
"Well," laughing too, "they are not very short; but that's not why I dislike them. It's because uncle likes me to write them down afterwards."
"Oh, how dreadful! And do you manage to do it?"
"I try to. Sometimes it's easier than others; but sometimes there are so many firstlies and secondlies divided into other firstlies and secondlies that I get into a regular muddle. Uncle always says that it's a very good exercise for the memory, as well as teaching me about Church things. Sometimes Mr. Mackenzie preaches a sermon for children in the afternoon, and then it's quite different; I could remember every word. But the funny thing is that uncle never wants me to write them!"
Blanche laughed again, such a joyous laugh that Marjory was infected by it and laughed too. Blanche was a child of most unusual beauty, though she herself seemed quite unconscious of it. Her face in repose wore an expression of innocent loveliness which went straight to the heart. Her skin was fair and soft, her eyes large and dark and of an indescribable colour, neither brown nor gray, and her hair was like burnished copper, with pretty waves in it, and the dearest little fine tendrils curling about her neck and ears. Her childhood had been very happy. Surrounded and protected by the loving care of devoted parents, she had grown to look out upon the world with happy eyes, and her sunshiny disposition made pleasure for herself and for others. Marjory had fallen in love with her at first sight, and felt that she could never tire of looking at her friend's sweet face.
They found tea laid for them in the dining-room. It was a pleasant room, long and low-ceilinged, with oak beams and high panelled doors. At one end of it stood an old-fashioned dresser, its shelves decorated with precious china and silver. On the walls were pictures of bygone Hunters in various costumes, Marjory's favourite being a dashing young cavalier, with hat and feather, collar and frills of costly lace, and all the other appointments of the period. Marjory used to amuse herself trying to imagine her Uncle George dressed in such a style. There was the admiral in cocked hat and gold lace; the minister in black gown and orthodox white bands; there was the brave young soldier who had died for Prince Charlie; and there were many others, most of them celebrated in some way, for the Hunters had been a race of strong men.
Lisbeth, resplendent in a black silk dress, with muslin apron and cap in honour of the occasion, stood at the door to meet the girls. On such a day as this, Jean, the young maid, gave place to her superior.
"This is Blanche Forester," said Marjory by way of introduction; and turning to Blanche, "This is dear old Lisbeth."
"I'm pleased to see ye," said the old lady graciously, nodding with satisfaction, her eyes fixed upon Blanche's flower-like face. "Ye're a bit ower white like for health," she remarked.
Shyness was not a failing that afflicted either Lisbeth or Peter: they were both apt to say exactly what they thought, regardless of time, place, or person.
Marjory was delighted by Lisbeth's evident approval of her friend, and felt very grateful to the old woman for putting on her "silk," which only came out on great occasions; and when she saw the table daintily spread with all sorts of good things, her satisfaction was complete.
"If ye want onything, just ring the bell and I'll come," said Lisbeth, and she rustled slowly out of the room. That was what Marjory called Lisbeth's "silk walk." Dressed in her ordinary gown she bustled and clattered about, but in the silk she was as stately and dignified as a duchess.
"I am glad it isn't a ladies' tea," said Blanche as they took their seats, Marjory at the head of the table to "pour out."
Marjory looked at her questioningly.
"I mean where there's nothing to sit up to—no place to put your cup and plate except your own knee; and if you want to blow your nose or cough, you're sure to spill your tea; and the bread and butter is always so thin that it drops to pieces before you can fold it up. But this is lovely; and it is so nice to have it all to ourselves!" And she settled herself comfortably in her chair.
Marjory felt quite at her ease by this time, and the two girls chattered gaily while they disposed of Lisbeth's good things.
Tea over, they started on a tour of inspection round the house. It had been built by a Hunter long ago, and Hunters had lived in it ever since, and had added to it in many ways; but there was still part of the original building left—an old wing which was now unused. There were various stories told in the village about this old part of the house. Footsteps were heard sometimes, it was said, and lights had been seen in the night by belated passers-by. Lisbeth and Peter knew of the tales and wild rumours that were current in the neighbourhood, but they were careful to say nothing to Marjory or the doctor, and also very careful to lock themselves in at night, as they were by no means free from foolish fears and superstitions.
First of all, the girls examined the portraits in the dining-room. Blanche inquired why there were no ladies amongst them.
"Don't they count as ancestors?" she asked.
"Oh yes," replied Marjory, laughing, "but they are all in the drawing-room. I've often thought it would be much nicer to hang them up in pairs, but Uncle George won't hear of it. He says they always have been kept separate, and he doesn't like to have anything altered. Come and see the ladies."
To the drawing-room accordingly they went. It was a large room, and contained many treasures in the way of beautiful and valuable old furniture and china. As a rule it was kept shrouded in dust-sheets, but to-day Lisbeth had uncovered everything in preparation for the visitor. There was a faint, delicious scent of potpourri about the room, the recipe of which had been handed down from one generation of Hunter ladies to the next, and was a speciality of the house. On the walls hung the portraits of these same ladies, smiling serenely down upon the room they had known so well. On the rare occasions when Marjory spent any time in this room, she used to study the faces of these dames, and try to trace some likeness to herself amongst them; but not one of them had the curly hair and dark eyes that were her portion, and the child sometimes felt sad to think that she was so unlike all the rest of her family.
Blanche was delighted, and studied all the portraits to the last one—that of Marjory's grandmother.
"But isn't there one of your mother?" she asked.
Marjory blushed. "Yes, there is one," she replied, "but it's in another room."
Somehow she felt ashamed of that shut-up, silent room with its hidden treasures that she had never seen.
"But," she continued, "I've got a picture of her when she was a girl, inside this locket." And she unfastened a small, old-fashioned trinket which she wore on a fine gold chain round her neck.
"Oh, how pretty!" cried Blanche; "but not a bit like you, is she?" And then, somewhat confused lest Marjory should misunderstand her, she continued, "I don't mean that you're not pretty, because you are; only it's so funny that you are so dark and your mother was so fair."
"I often and often wish I were fair," said Marjory wistfully. "I should love to be."
"Oh, but your hair is so curly and nice, it's just as good as fair hair. Mother always says that all young girls are pretty so long as they keep themselves tidy and fresh and try to be good. I used to be very cross with my hair, especially when boys in London would call 'carrots' after me, until at last mother made me understand that it is really quite wrong not to be pleased with whatever hair or eyes God has given us, and now I'm more content with it."
"It is lovely hair, and I would kick any boy that called it carrots," cried Marjory stoutly; and she took hold of a strand of it and kissed it impulsively. "Oh, I do think you're such a darling!" she said. "I'm going to be so happy now I've got you!"
This from quiet, self-contained Marjory! Here indeed was a revelation.
Marjory was just putting her locket back inside the neck of her dress, where she always kept it hidden, when Blanche's attention was attracted by something else which hung on the chain.
"What's this silver thing?" she asked; and Marjory explained that it was the half of a sixpence with a hole in it. "Lisbeth says my mother wore it for luck, so I always wear it too."
"How interesting! I wonder where the other half is."
"Lisbeth doesn't know; she says she never saw or heard of the other half."
"If you were in a fairy tale, you'd make all the knights that wanted to marry you go all over the world to find the other half; and then most likely the person that had it would turn out to be a king's son, and he would marry you, and you would be a queen, and be happy ever after."
Marjory laughed. "You shall make a story of it and tell it to me some day; but come now and see my bedroom."
On the way to Marjory's bedroom they had to pass the locked chamber, and of course Blanche had to inquire what it was, and Marjory had to explain, which she did in an apologetic, shamefaced way.
"But how romantic—much better than a fairy tale! How you must long to be fifteen and go in and see it!"
"Yes, I do. I wish it every day. But it takes such a lot of days to make a year, and there are still two more years to come." And Marjory sighed.
"Oh, they'll soon go," said Blanche cheerfully, "now that you've got to have lessons and be so busy."
When they reached the bedroom the girls went straight to the window, and were delighted to find that Blanche's room could be seen from it, so that the proposed signalling could easily be managed. They arranged that it should be done by waving white handkerchiefs. Four waves were to mean "Can you come out?" One wave in reply was to mean "No," and a lot of little waves "Yes." If either had to go out elsewhere, or should be prevented in any way from waiting till the other appeared at her window, the handkerchief was to be hung on a nail outside. They agreed that they would always go to signal directly after breakfast every morning.
All this took some time to plan, and Marjory said that if they were to see the garden and the farm they must leave the old part of the house till another day. Blanche agreed, and they went out into the garden.