THE PROPHECIES.
"According to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings."
Shakespeare.
Marjory went to bed with a glow of happiness in her heart. Her uncle had called her a true Hunter. How often had she brooded over those looks of hers, which could not be said to resemble in any feature those of the Hunters whose portraits hung on the walls of the old house! How many times had she wished herself a boy who could carry out the traditions of the family! Foolish troubles these were, no doubt, but they were real enough to the lonely child, living with her own fancies for company. True, she had not thought about them so much of late; but although they were not uppermost in her mind, they were still there. And now those words of the doctor's brought comfort for the memory of many a lonely wakeful hour, when Marjory should have been sleeping the untroubled sleep of childhood. A true Hunter!—in spite of that unknown father, perhaps long dead; in spite of her ignorance; in spite of her looks. A true Hunter! How her heart thrilled at the words!
Fired with these thoughts, she took out the old portfolio and began to read the copy of the prophecies about her family. As she sat alone with these old-time records, the candlelight flickering on their pages, she felt almost as if she were in the presence of these ancestors of hers.
She found her grandmother's writing rather difficult to read, it was so fine and delicate, and time had faded the ink to a pale gray.
As for the old prophecies, they were nothing but a set of doggerel verses which any sensible person would probably have laughed at, but they were made serious and impressive to Marjory by the fact that her grandmother had thought it worth while to copy them, and had made notes of her own as to the fulfilment of their predictions.
With great difficulty Marjory deciphered the following lines:—
"Come list to me, whoe'er ye be,
Who care for sayings true,
For, sooth to say, me trust ye may—
Prophesy these things I do:
"Since days of old the Hunters bold
Upon the muir held sway;
The Hunters' line shall ne'er decline
Till the muir doth pass away.
"By land and sea these brave men free
Their king shall nobly serve;
Their blood shall flow, their riches go
For the sovereign's cause they love.
"When bright days shine, the Stuart line
Shall hold these Hunters dear.
Should storms befall, a Hunter shall
Take his death-blow without fear.
"N.B.—Fulfilled after the battle of Culloden in 1746, when Colonel George Hunter was executed for his devotion to the cause of the Young Pretender.
"In Church and State these Hunters great
A foremost place shall take;
With words as bold as theirs of old,
They shall speak for conscience' sake.
"N.B.—Probably refers to speeches made by Alexander Hunter in the House of Commons against the taxation of the Colonies, in 1765, and to the Reverend John Hunter, a famous divine who lived in the reign of George the Second.
"Should Hunter of this noble race
Pride of his house forget,
Ancestors grim shall punish him,
Till his fault he doth regret.
"N.B.—Perhaps this refers to that James Hunter who, through his reckless extravagance, sank deeply into debt, and was confined for many months in the old Canongate Tolbooth in the city of Edinburgh, during the reign of George the Third. His debts were paid by his elder brother, who sold a great part of his property for that purpose—notably that portion of his lands to the south of the loch, and that on which the mansion of the Murray family now stands."
"Fancy that!" said Marjory to herself. "I never knew that all that land once belonged to us. No wonder if the ancestors did punish James; they wouldn't like to see their property disappearing."
Then came a verse which caused the girl's heart to beat fast and her face to flush:—
"The ladies fine of Hunter line
Are fair as fair can be.
Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."
A note followed:—
"It is a curious thing that among all the written descriptions and the paintings at my disposal I can find no record of a dark-haired daughter of the house; fair hair and blue eyes are the rule.—A. H."
It is easy to see that any one of these so-called predictions was more than likely to be fulfilled under any circumstances, and that very probably the whole thing was written in the first place as a joke. Moreover, Marjory was not a Hunter by name, being the child of a daughter of the house and not of a son. Still, she took this saying to mean herself: she, Marjory Davidson, and no other, must be the dark-haired maiden whose beloved must cross the sea. It must mean that, sooner or later, her father would come to her across the sea.
It was little wonder, then, that she tossed and turned upon her pillow that night, and that, when at last she did fall asleep, her dreams were a confused mixture—rats flying from a terrier of impossible size, shadowy processions of ancestors in their picture-frames, and a long row of ladies with flaxen locks pointing at her and calling to her, "Tresses dark a maiden mark."
Next morning, full of enthusiasm, she showed her uncle the portfolio, directing his attention to the copied verses. Contrary to all her expectations, he only laughed at them, and made no remark about the dark-haired maiden. It was not that he did not notice that particular verse, but he did not wish Marjory to think that there was any reason why she should apply it to herself, and he did not wish her head to be filled with romantic nonsense. So he took away the portfolio, much to Marjory's disgust, for she had looked forward to showing it to Blanche and Alan. Still, she had a good memory, and could repeat every word of it by heart, and was not likely to forget it.
Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."
The words repeated themselves over and over again in her head. She could not get rid of them, or of the thoughts and fancies to which they gave rise.
Marjory did not see the Braeside visitors till the Sunday morning, when they met in the churchyard. Mrs. Hilary Forester was a very grand personage, but looked good-natured. Her daughter Maud, whom she considered to be little short of an angel, certainly did not look like one just then. Something must have put her out that morning, for the look she gave Marjory as the introductions were made was not by any means calculated to make a good impression upon that young person, already predisposed to dislike the new arrival.
Marjory saw the eyes of mother and daughter travel over her person from head to foot—or rather, as she expressed it to herself, from hat to shoes—and she felt as if that cold scrutiny would shrivel her up. She herself, although she did not stare, quickly took in the details of Mrs. Hilary Forester's very fashionable attire. She had never seen anything like it in Heathermuir before. The ladies at Morristown always seemed to her to be very grandly dressed, but nothing like this.
"I wonder if she is at all religious," was Marjory's mental comment. To her mind, a display of finery was not compatible with what she called religion.
Then her eyes fell upon Blanche's mother. She too was richly dressed, but Marjory knew without being told that her clothes were in much better taste than those of her visitor. Still, Marjory had never looked upon Mrs. Forester as very religious; for the child had somehow come to understand the word as being synonymous with sour looks, long faces, unattractive clothes, and disapproval of most pleasant things. Mrs. Forester was sweet and good and kind, and much nicer than any of the people whom Lisbeth had pointed out to her as "releegious."
Marjory had yet to learn that religion is a life, not a profession; that in its reality it is a wellspring of cheerfulness, of love and charity for others, of praise and thanksgiving—a life which, instead of holding itself aloof from the world as a wicked place, lives in it, works for its good, believing that nothing which God has created can be altogether wicked. Mrs. Forester and Miss Waspe were gradually suggesting these new ideas to the girl, more perhaps by example than by precept.
Marjory followed Miss Maud into church. She did not much like the look of her, she decided. Waspy had said one must never judge hastily of people, but she did not feel that she was going to like this girl; even her back view looked stuck-up!
It really did; for Maud could never forget that she was Miss Hilary Forester, and she gave a self-satisfied little waggle to her skirts as she walked, which said very plainly, "Look at me! Don't I strike you as being more attractive than most girls?"
This attitude on Maud's part was hardly to be wondered at, seeing that she had been spoiled and petted all her life. Everything that she said and did was extravagantly praised by her adoring mother, and she had grown up with exaggerated ideas of her cleverness, her looks, and her own importance. What wonder, then, that the poor child held her head high and waggled her skirts? But Marjory knew nothing of these causes, and, seeing only their effects, her feelings towards the newcomer had not softened at all by the time church was over.
The three girls walked together as far as the turning to Braeside, and conversation flagged considerably.
"Are there many parties here at Christmas?" asked Maud.
"I don't know," replied Blanche.—"Are there, Marjory?"
"Not that I know of."
"What a dead-and-alive place to live in!" exclaimed Maud.
"It isn't!" said Blanche, firing up.
"Don't be so touchy, Blanche," said her cousin. "You don't seem to be at all improved since I saw you."
Just then Silky, who had been sitting by the milestone as usual, watching for his mistress, bounded forward to meet her, jumping and barking round her with every sign of delight. In so doing he brushed against Maud, and she was not at all pleased.
"What a horrid, rough dog!" she cried. "Do send him off, one of you! I hate a great lumbering beast like that!"
"He isn't either horrid or rough," said Marjory indignantly, "but I think I'd better go. Good-bye, Miss Hilary Forester.—Good-bye, Blanche.—Come, Silky darling." And she walked on.
Maud laughed. "'Love me, love my dog,'" she quoted loudly, so that Marjory might hear. And then to Blanche, "This friend you talk so much about seems to be somewhat of a savage. I shall try to tame her, though, for I rather like the look of her."
Marjory marched on, very indignant. It was hateful, she thought, that this outsider, with her smart frocks and her superior ways, should come and spoil their good time. She allowed herself to think very hardly of Maud, although Miss Waspe's warning against hasty judgments came into her mind more than once.
Marjory walked on, forgetting to look behind to see if her uncle were coming. Some one called suddenly, "Miss Marjory!" She turned quickly, and saw that Mary Ann Smylie was trying to catch up with her; so she slackened her pace, and waited for her old enemy, wondering what she might want.
Mary Ann, still self-conscious, still overdressed, nevertheless showed a difference in her manner to Marjory.
"I only wanted to tell you something I thought you would like to know," she said, panting after her quick walk.
"What is it?" asked Marjory, curious to know what this something might be.
"Mother told me that your uncle had sent a letter to foreign parts; she wouldn't say who to, because she's not supposed to tell anything about post-office business, you know. It was last Thursday, when she was stamping the letters for the evening mail, suddenly she said 'Hallo!' very surprised like. When I asked her what it was, she said, 'Hunter's Marjory would like to see this,' but she wouldn't tell me any more except that it was a foreign letter. It must have been to your father, I believe, though I always thought he must be dead. Of course, I don't know for certain that it was to him, only I thought I'd tell you about it." And Mary Ann looked at Marjory with a deprecating little smile, as much as to say, "I am trying to make amends for what I once said to you."
Marjory thanked her, and then, remembering her uncle, she said that she must wait for him.
"In that case," remarked Mary Ann, "I'll be off; he gives me the shivers. Mind you, I don't know for certain about that letter; I only think," she called back.
Marjory had plenty to think about as she sauntered back in the direction of the church to meet her uncle. Could it possibly be that he had heard something of her father? If so, how very unkind not to tell her. She had a right to know; she would know; and she worked herself into a very excited state.
When her uncle joined her, she gave very short replies to his questions and remarks, and at last she burst out, "Uncle, do you know anything about my father?" in a very peremptory tone.
The doctor started. "My dear child," he said testily, "haven't I told you over and over again that I have not heard one single word from your father since I wrote and told him of your mothers death? I do not know whether he is alive or dead, but I know this—he is dead to you." And his voice rose with passion. Then, after a pause, he said rather sadly, "Can't you be content, Marjory? Have I not done my best for you? I had hoped that you were happier lately."
Marjory was touched by the feeling in his voice. "So I am, uncle, much happier; but I can't help thinking and wondering about things sometimes," she said wistfully. "No one can be exactly like a real father and mother—at least, not quite," she added quickly, fearing to wound her uncle afresh.
They finished their walk in silence, each busy with thoughts which, could they have read each other's minds, would have filled them with astonishment. The little storm blew over as other storms had done, but Marjory could not forget what Mary Ann had told her about the letter.
Next day, when she went to Braeside, Marjory spent rather a painful quarter of an hour with Mrs. Hilary Forester. Blanche and Maud had gone out for a walk, and Marjory was shown into the morning-room to wait for them. There she found the lady, sitting in a capacious armchair by the fire, toasting her feet upon the fender, displaying elaborately-embroidered stockings and many rustling frills.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Forester," said Marjory shyly.
"Mrs. Hilary Forester, dear child," amended the lady. "Blanche's mother is Mrs. Forester, having married the eldest son, and one must be exact, you know."
"I beg your pardon," said Marjory, covered with confusion.
Blanche's Aunt Katharine looked at her critically. "I suppose your mother plaits your hair in that pigtail to save trouble, but they are not worn in town, you know."
"My mother is dead," said Marjory stolidly.
"Dear, dear, yes, of course, now I remember Rose—that's Mrs. Forester, you know—Rose did say something to that effect, but my memory fails me so often; it is a great affliction. Well, it's a good thing your poor father has you left to comfort him. My darling Maud is my one comfort, I'm sure, while her father is away in those dreadful foreign places. Perhaps I spoil her a little," complacently; "but then I dare say," playfully, "that your father spoils you."
"I haven't got a father either," said poor Marjory dully.
Mrs. Hilary carefully adjusted her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and looked at Marjory over the top of them.
"Well, to be sure, I certainly understood—at least I thought—but there, my memory does fail me at times; still, I was certainly under the impression that your father was Dr. Hunter—the great Dr. Hunter."
"No, he is my uncle; my name is Davidson," explained Marjory.
"Oh yes, yes, to be sure, now I come to think of it, Rose did say something about it, and I remember wondering whether you belonged to the Davidsons, you know."
"I don't know," said Marjory doubtfully, wishing that Blanche and Maud would come to her rescue.
"I must look it up for you, dear child. It is such a comfort to know that one belongs to the branch of a family, you know. As I tell Maud, it makes all the difference to a young girl in these days when mere money, that root of all evil, is so much thought of; not but that it is a comfort too, in its way—in its way," she continued thoughtfully; "but at this time of year one ought to think of doing little kindnesses, leaving money out of the question—I mean we should not let it be our sole comfort at such a time, you understand."
Marjory did not understand, and as she did not know what to reply to this harangue, she said nothing. But silence did not suit Mrs. Hilary.
"You are very quiet for a girl of your age," she said. "Now my Maud has a continual flow of merry chatter, and I encourage the darling. I think it is so nice for a young girl to have plenty to say, and to have her own little opinions about things. For instance, Maudie chooses all her own hats and frocks, and decides what we shall do and where we shall go. It is perfectly delightful for me, and saves me so much thought and worry; I suffer so with my bad memory, you know. Come now, can't you chat to me? Any little village gossip or small happenings at home?" ("atome," as she pronounced it). "No? Well, dear me, what was it that darling Maud said about you? I know she said something, but my memory is such a trial. Oh yes, there was something about a dog; and you called Maud a savage, and she rather liked you for it. Dear child, she has such a sweet, forgiving nature."
"I never called her a savage," protested Marjory. "I—"
At that moment Blanche and Maud came bursting into the room.
"What's that about calling names?" cried Maud. "I called her a savage," nodding at Marjory, "but I didn't mean any harm, and you've got it all mixed up, you dear darling old muddle-head of a mother." And she rushed upon Mrs. Hilary and hugged her until the poor lady had no breath left with which to protest.
Marjory looked on in wonder. When Maud had done with her mother she turned to Marjory.
"Now, don't look at me like that," she said plaintively; "you're going to like me in the end; I'm going to make you. I know just exactly what you're thinking—that I'm a horrid, stuck-up, thoroughly spoilt and disagreeable girl. So I am; but I'm all right when you know me, though you've got to know me first, as the song says. True, I don't like dogs—nasty lumbering things that spoil one's best clothes; but that's not a crime—it's an opinion. I always have my own way, everybody gives in to me, and so long as I can 'boss the show,' as our American cousins say, I can be quite charming. Now you look as if you liked bossing shows yourself, Miss Marjory—people with long noses always do; so one of us will have to give in. I wonder which it will be. But I must have you like me; I am perfectly miserable if people aren't fond of me." And she looked at Marjory with a comic yet pathetic appeal in her eyes.
"Dear Maudie has such quaint little sayings," said her mother. "I don't know how she can remember them all."
"Well, which is it to be?" demanded Maud, dramatically striking an attitude. "Is it peace or war?"
"Oh, peace, I suppose," replied Marjory, laughing; and then as an afterthought—"for the present."
This girl with her airs and graces and her comical ways was something quite new to Marjory, and she stood contemplating this wonderful and puzzling creature, when the creature suddenly seized her round the waist, waltzing out of the room with her, and calling Blanche to come too.
"Darling Maud has such wonderfully high spirits," murmured Mrs. Hilary to the empty air. She had probably forgotten that there was no one left in the room.