THE DOCTOR'S DISAPPOINTMENT.
"Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises."—Shakespeare.
Dr. Hunter attended the most important meetings of the Congress of Scientists which was being held in New York. He was quite unprepared for the reception that was given him there. Of a very quiet and retiring disposition, and having lived the life of a recluse for many years, known to the world only by his writings, it never seemed to have occurred to him that his name was a famous one in other countries as well as his own. His first appearance was greeted with acclamation as soon as his name was mentioned, and during his stay in New York invitations were showered upon him, reporters called upon him at his hotel, and paragraphs referring to him appeared in all the papers, although he steadily refused to be interviewed.
He was thankful when the day of his departure came, as he shrank from so much publicity. He remarked afterwards that he felt as a hunted criminal might who saw in every casual passer-by a possible detective.
He was careful not to mention his destination to any one but the clerk from whom he purchased his ticket, but next day in a paper which he bought in the train he saw the inevitable paragraph,—
"Dr. Hunter, the famous scientist of London, England, left this city to-day for Montreal, en route for the North-West."
The learned gentleman might have been heard to mutter words not usually included in his vocabulary when he read this. As he had only taken a ticket to Montreal, the latter part of the announcement, although it happened to be true, was an absolute invention on the part of the light-hearted paragraphist who had penned it.
Escaped from New York and the social obligations his position had entailed upon him, Dr. Hunter gave himself up to the enjoyment of his trip. From Montreal he travelled on the wonderful Canadian Pacific Railway, and he never ceased to wonder at its construction—the amazing manner in which difficulties that appeared to be insuperable had been overcome, and the way in which the brain of man had enabled him to carve a path for himself up and through mighty mountains.
"To think that one can be climbing the Rockies and at the same time partaking of an excellent dinner served as in a first-class hotel!" he remarked to a fellow-traveller.
"Yes indeed, we make ourselves pretty comfortable in these times," was the reply. "My father was a pioneer and crossed the plains in '47. He has some rare tales to tell of roughing it in the old days." And the friendly stranger entertained the doctor with an account of some of those early experiences.
The doctor was struck by the geniality of his fellow-travellers for the most part, and the very intelligent way in which they answered his inquiries. He was able to say on his return that he had met with nothing but kindness from beginning to end of his trip.
He was greatly looking forward to his meeting with Hugh Davidson. How surprised he would be! The doctor's feelings had changed so completely that a meeting with this man now seemed of all things the most desirable. He had purposely refrained from sending any notice of his visit beforehand, taking an almost childish delight in the idea of suddenly and unexpectedly appearing before his brother-in-law.
At last the long journey was accomplished, and he found himself outside the offices of the A1 Shipping and Transportation Company at Skaguay.
Stirred by unusual feelings, he went in rather nervously.
"Can I see the manager?" he inquired of a clerk who came forward. The young man opened a door with a flourish and ushered him into the manager's room.
A man rose from a desk, but it was not Hugh Davidson. This was a youngish man, fair haired and clean shaven.
Much taken aback, the doctor murmured, "I beg your pardon; I expected to find Mr. Davidson here."
"Mr. Davidson is not here at present," said the man courteously. "Is there anything I can do for you in his place?"
"Oh no, thank you; my visit is purely a personal one. As a matter of fact, I am his brother-in-law, and intended paying him a surprise visit. Here is my card; perhaps you can tell me when he is likely to be in."
An expression of concern passed over the other man's face.
"I am exceedingly sorry," he said, "to inform you that Mr. Davidson sailed from New York for England this very morning. You must have passed each other on the way. Most unfortunate," he added sympathetically.
The doctor was nonplussed for the moment. Here was an unexpected turn of events; he had not contemplated such a possibility, and was undecided as to his own best course of action. At last he said, with an attempt at a smile, "Business, I suppose;" but the other replied, "No, I should gather that it was principally upon private affairs that he has gone to England; but Mr. Davidson is a very reticent man, and he gave me no particulars. I represent him here until he returns, and beyond that it is really no business of mine; but I certainly received the impression that some personal matter was calling him."
Somewhat dismayed, the doctor asked himself if it were possible that after all his brother-in-law had heard of his child's existence from an outsider. In such a case his own conduct would appear blacker than ever.
The manager's representative was really sorry for the doctor's disappointment. The old man seemed to him a pathetic figure, weary with many days of travelling only to find that his journey had been taken in vain, so far as its chief object was concerned. He suggested a cable message. "You could send it from Victoria, to the care of the Steamship Company, or to his private address in London—perhaps the latter would be the better plan." And he took a paper from the desk and read, "Care of Hilary Forester, Esq., 50 Royal Gate, London, S.W."
A smothered exclamation escaped the doctor. "I'll send a message," he said. "When is there a steamer back to Victoria?"
"Well, if you don't much mind what you go in, there is one to-morrow, but it won't travel quicker than eight knots an hour in smooth water," with a laugh.
"I'll take it," said Dr. Hunter decidedly. "It is important that I should get back as soon as possible."
Poor old man, he had been so anxious to tell his tale himself to Hugh Davidson, to throw himself upon the generosity of the man he had injured. He had wished to entreat him not to tell Marjory of the part he had played; he could not bear that her memory of him should be embittered by the knowledge of that wrong—that wrong which by reason of his biassed mind had seemed right, until the fearless words of a good and gentle woman had aided the voice of his own conscience and pronounced it wrong.
But now Marjory would hear the story from other lips, and what would he seem in her eyes? Would she banish him from his place in her heart? Would she think bitterly of him and reproach him with those fifteen years of silence? Would she not blame him for keeping her away from the world, even from the knowledge of the true personality of her mother, into whose room he had not allowed her to penetrate, in case that what she saw there might influence the childish mind in a way her uncle did not wish. It was not to be expected that the girl should understand his reasons.
He determined to start on his homeward journey the next day, and to send the cable message from the first possible point.
Meanwhile his new friend offered the hospitality of his home to Dr. Hunter, and the invitation was given in such a hearty way that it would have seemed ungracious to refuse it. He thought that evening that many people at home would open their eyes were they able to see the well-appointed table at which he was a guest, and the charming and cultured woman who presided over it, and he felt glad that he had been allowed to have this glimpse of home life in that far-away corner of the world. It was a peaceful home life, all the more attractive in that its background was rough-and-ready Skaguay—a plain town enough to look at, but one full of thrilling human interest, of tragedy and comedy. Through its streets had passed a motley procession of men—some on their way to fortune, some to disappointment, but all battling with the realities of life. The doctor was struck by the simple and straightforward outlook of these people, their sincerity, and the pleasure they found in their life; far as it was from any of the great world centres, every hour of every day seemed to be full of interest.
They spoke of Mr. Davidson, and there was nothing but praise of his sterling integrity, his upright and honourable life, his unfailing kindness and charity towards others.
"There's not a man in this town, or, for that matter, in the whole of this vast district, who doesn't know and honour the name of Hugh Davidson," said the manager's representative enthusiastically; "and as for myself, sir," thumping the table with his closed fist, "I am proud to be associated with such a man."
The doctor's heart smote him. This then was the black sheep—the man he had not considered fit to have the care of his own child!
He started off again next morning, and the journey back seemed long and tedious by reason of his impatience, although he could not but be struck by the beauty of the scenery as the ship steamed slowly along, threading its way amongst the many islands which lie across the course of the inland passage, as it is called.
After the doctor had dispatched his message, his one thought was, Would they wait for his return before telling Marjory what had happened? If only they would. And yet, after his conduct in the past, he could hardly expect any consideration from Hugh Davidson. To his great relief he received a message at New York from Mr. Davidson saying that he would await him in London.
Meanwhile Marjory, unconscious of the coming change in her fortunes, was enjoying new sights and experiences. She was not yet allowed to walk much or to exert herself in any way. They spent a week in London with the Hilary Foresters before going to the seaside. Marjory felt a mild surprise when she heard it remarked on all sides that "town was very empty." To her it seemed full to overflowing, and more like one of the anthills that were Peter's abhorrence in the garden than anything else. The continuous stream of human beings flowing in all directions was a never-ending source of wonder to her.
"Every single one of these people must have a story, you know," she said to the others one day. "Some are good and some are wicked, I suppose."
"I think they're all much of a muchness," replied Maud thoughtfully. "Good people can be bad, and bad people can be good. The best nurse I ever had turned out to be a thief, and I was so sorry when she went away. I tell you I loved that thief. You've no idea what a good, kind nurse she was; and it was found that she stole for the sake of somebody else who was poor."
"Well, but it can't be right to steal," argued Blanche.
"No, of course not, silly. But what I mean is that even wicked people may have some good in them. I've always thought that there ought to be something between sheep and goats—not quite so good and not quite so bad as either; or they might have points, such as length of horn, or silkiness of coat and thickness of fleece, and so on."
"Would an extra fine goat be an extra wicked person, or a shade better than an ordinary goat?" asked Marjory, laughing.
"Of course he would be better. A wretched, thin, mangy animal would be the worst, and they would gradually go on improving till the best goat was just the next thing to the worst sheep." Maud laughed.
Blanche was rather shocked. "I don't think you ought to make fun of those things, Maud," she said, reddening.
"I'm not making fun, my serious little cousin. I only mean to show that I think it's very hard to decide where the good begins and the bad leaves off, and that everybody has some of each. You see, I'm older than you, and I do think sometimes, although you might not guess it to look at me—eh?"
"Miss Waspe quoted some rather nice lines to us one day," said Marjory. "They were by Robert Louis Stevenson, I think. I don't know if I can remember them properly, but they were something like this,—
'There's so much bad in the best of us,
And so much good in the most of us,
That it hardly becomes any of us
To talk evil of the rest of us.'"
"Awfully jolly," agreed Maud. "I couldn't have put it better myself; it's exactly what I think."
The passing crowd was a never-failing source of interest to Marjory, and one of her favourite occupations was to go to Kensington Gardens or to the Park and watch the people, weaving their life-stories in her imagination. Driving about, shopping with Mrs. Forester in such shops as threw the most important establishments in Morristown far into the shade, in the streets, or even looking out of the windows at 50 Royal Gate, there was this never-ending procession to speculate upon; so, although the time was spent quietly, there was not a dull moment in that week.
Then came another move, the excitement of another railway journey, and then at last the sea. Marjory's wonder and delight were indescribable. She had dreamed of the sea all her life. Her uncle had always promised that some day he would take her to the seaside. He had always vaguely said to himself that the child should be taken about when she was old enough; but the years had slipped by until she was nearly fifteen, and yet she had never seen the sea till now.
"Her beloved must cross the sea," she whispered to herself, as she stood at the water's edge for the first time, looking over its shining expanse, dancing and sparkling in the sun like myriads of diamonds in a setting of blue. Nothing but the sea as far as the eye could reach—what a sense of freedom and space and unbounded possibility! How she loved to watch the rise and fall of the waves with their fringes of white, to listen for the clatter of the shingle as it rushed along, keeping pace with each receding wave! But, best of all, she loved to stand barefooted on the shining sand when the tide was low, and to feel the water lapping gently over her ankles.
The three girls (for Maud had begged her mother to spend at least half their holiday at the little, unfashionable place Mrs. Forester had chosen) spent long days by the sea—days of delight for all, and of the gathering of health and strength for Marjory.
In the mornings the other two would usually bathe, Marjory looking on from her deck-chair, and finding much amusement in the antics of the bathers. She liked to watch Blanche in her pretty bathing suit, her hair rippling over her shoulders, and Maud, too, with her coquettish little cap amongst her fair curls. Thanks to her friend's tuition, Blanche was now quite a good swimmer, and was endeavouring to teach Maud, and they had great fun over it. Marjory herself was not allowed to bathe; she might only wade sometimes at low tide.
The girl would lie and dream of what the sea might bring her if dreams could ever come true, but her visions showed her nothing of a great ship with precious freight for her on board which one day very soon was to come from the New World to the Old, and make the old one new for her. Marjory knew nothing of this, and yet she was strangely content and happy in these days as she lay dreaming in the sunshine and listening to the singing of the sea.