TWELFTH NIGHT.
"And hopes, perfumed and bright,
So lately shining wet with dew and tears,
Trembling in the morning light—
I saw them change to dark and anxious fears
Before the night!"—Adelaide Procter.
Blanche had told her cousin something of Marjory's history, and Maud was prepared to be much interested in her, for her life had been so unusual, so different from that of ordinary girls.
"I've never met anybody just like you," she said to Marjory as they walked across the park, "and I want to know all about you and your belongings, and above all, I ache to find out what is in that forbidden room, and why you mustn't go into it."
This was a sore subject with Marjory. She felt more than half ashamed of her uncle's eccentricity in this matter.
"I don't think there is anything in it except my mother's things," she replied. "Everything that belonged to her is there, except this chain with the locket and coin on it that she said she wanted me to have and to wear always. Lisbeth says I used to wear it when I was a tiny baby." And she pulled the chain outside her coat to show it to Maud.
"Oh, how sweet!" cried Maud as she opened the locket and saw the face of Marjory's mother. "How I wish you'd got her now!" impulsively squeezing Marjory's arm. "And what's this?" looking at the other trinket which hung on the chain.
"It's the half of a coin with a hole bored through it."
"So it is. And look, there's one-half of the date on it—87. Let's see. This is 1902. That's" (and she counted rapidly on her fingers, contrary to all approved systems of mental arithmetic) "fifteen years ago—before you were born, and of course the very year I was born. It was the Queen's Jubilee year, and that's why I was called Victoria—Maud Victoria my name is. Think it's pretty?" she asked, with her head coquettishly on one side.
"I like Maud," said Marjory. "Victoria sounds rather too grand for an ordinary person."
"But I'm not an ordinary person. Well, don't mind me; let's think about this coin. The question is, Where's the other half? Somebody must have got it. More mystery. Why, Marjory, you are like a girl in a book where all sorts of impossible things can happen. I'm going to write a book some day—from a girl's point of view—and I intend to make all parents and guardians and governesses, et cetera, sit up. Why should boys have everything jolly, while girls are made to be so prim and proper? Read a boys' book and you will find it full of fun and adventures and excitement, but girls are supposed to care about nothing but wish-wash, about self-denial and being good, and all that. Course I know we ought to try to be good, keep our promises, and never do mean things, or tell stories; every decent girl tries; but we don't want it continually poked down our throats till we're sick of it. My theory is that girls ought to have just as good a time all round as boys, if not a better." And the irrepressible Maud laughed merrily.
"Here comes Alan," said Blanche, secretly wondering what he would think of the visitor. When she heard the announcement, Maud gave a tilt to her hat and a toss to her hair, which she wore hanging, as if to prepare herself for an encounter.
Alan approached the girls rather shyly, introductions were made, and after a little consultation Maud decided that they would make an expedition to the pond. Strange to say, by the time the pond was reached, Alan had dismissed all thoughts of booby traps and apple-pie beds, for Miss Maud had quite won him over by her expressions of opinion upon things in general and upon boys in particular. He felt that it was more than possible, without loss of dignity, to "chum up" with such a girl. The only thing he did not like about her was the way she waggled her skirts, and he decided that some one ought to tell her not to do it, although he would have hesitated long had such a task devolved upon himself.
So the Triple Alliance became a quadruple one, and on the whole things went well with its members. It must be admitted that Marjory understood Maud much better than did her cousin Blanche. Blanche was an unimaginative, rather matter-of-fact little person, and was apt to take all Maud's sayings literally. For instance, when her cousin said, as she often did, "Don't I look sweet in this dress?" or "this hat?" as the case might be, Blanche would think her vain and conceited, and feel ashamed of her, whereas Marjory would know at once that it was only Maud's fun, and would laugh at these sayings of hers.
As the days went by, Marjory found herself really liking this bright, merry girl with all her airs and nonsense. She noticed her devotion to her mother, and saw that in spite of her talk about always taking her own way, she very seldom did anything that was really in opposition to her mother's wishes. True, she laughed at her indulgent muddle-headed parent; but though it shocked poor Blanche's ideas of what was fitting, this laughter was nothing more than affectionate raillery and a sign in itself of the excellent understanding which existed between mother and daughter. "Mamma does forget so," she would say. "Papa says sometimes he believes she forgets that he ever existed."
To Dr. Hunter, Maud was an entirely new phenomenon, and he studied her with curiosity. He had not been much better pleased than the children when he heard of the expected visitors, for he still wished to keep Marjory away from strangers if possible; but he had not the heart to separate her from her friend at Christmas time, and so he allowed her to go to Braeside just as usual.
Maud conquered the doctor as she had conquered Alan. For calm self-assurance, irrepressible spirits, and undoubted charm he thought he had never seen her equal, and, compared with the girl of his former experience, seemed an inhabitant of another world.
Mrs. Hilary, too, was quite a new specimen of womanhood to him, good-natured incapacity personified, as she was. Sometimes, when she made some more than usually foolish remark, the doctor would catch Maud's eye, and they would enjoy the joke together. Then he would rebuke himself and inform himself that it was altogether out of order that he should countenance such disrespect, and, what was worse, that he should thoroughly enjoy the fun himself.
On Christmas evening, when he was first introduced to Mrs. Hilary, he was quite bewildered by the vagueness of her conversation. Endeavouring to make himself agreeable, he began to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. Hilary Forester, who was travelling abroad.
"Well, I had a letter from him two days ago," she replied, "from Texas, or Mexico—those foreign names are so alike, and I never was good at geography, and the letters take such a long time to come that by the time they get here the place is different—I mean, he has gone somewhere else, so that I really never know exactly where he is." The doctor murmured something sympathetic, and Mrs. Hilary continued, "I hope Texas or Mexico, which ever it is, is a British possession. I always feel safer about Hilary when he is under his own country's protection, for one never knows what foreigners are going to do, there are such dreadful stories in the papers nowadays." And she beamed upon the bewildered man of science. "And then there's the climate, too, to be considered," she went on; "some of these foreign places have their winter while we have summer, or is it the other way round? I never know, it is so dreadfully confusing, especially to me with my bad memory; perhaps it is that they have summer while we have winter, but anyway I think the English arrangement is much to be preferred. I am a good Conservative, you know; besides, I think it is so charming to love one's own country, and all that. By the way, about that letter.—Maudie darling," she called to her daughter, "just go and fetch me daddy's last letter; it's the top one on the left-hand side of where the papers are—not the bill side, darling, but the other one. You'll find it at the back, under my handkerchief sachet; and mind, dearest, that you don't crush my lace collar; it's just been cleaned—if it's there."
To the doctor's astonishment Maud went off obediently. Mrs. Hilary's instructions had conveyed nothing to him.
"It is so much better to decide things at once," said that lady, with a charming smile. "I shall feel quite worried now till I know whether Hilary is in Mexico or Texas—at least, when the letter was written; one can't expect to know where he is now," with a sigh. "I was so hoping that the new postmaster-general might make some better arrangement; but I dare say he is much worried, poor man, so we must hope and trust for the best."
Maud returned with the letter, and the question was settled. Mr. Hilary Forester had written from Galveston, Texas, and his wife was relieved when the others laughingly assured her that he was not amongst savages or wild beasts, and that the arrangement of the seasons was much the same as in England.
There was to be a real party at Braeside on Twelfth Night. All the young people of the neighbourhood had been invited, and after much persuasion on Mrs. Forester's part, the doctor had consented to let Marjory go. She looked forward to it with much pleasure, for she felt that with Blanche, Maud, and Alan as allies she could face the strangers with confidence. Mrs. Forester, with her usual tact, had asked her to arrange some of the games for the younger children, so that she might feel that she was being useful—a feeling which gives confidence to the shyest of girls.
The doctor had ordered her a new white frock for the occasion, with stockings and shoes to match. Lisbeth was in raptures over it, and how it would become her little mistress; and it must be confessed that Marjory could not think of the fairy-like contents of a certain long drawer without a thrill of pleasure.
The day came, and Lisbeth, who insisted that she must dress Marjory for her first party, spread all the finery on the bed quite early in the afternoon. She lighted the fire to make the room cheerful, and she brought an extra pair of candles so that Marjory should have plenty of light.
Poor Peter had been very bad with rheumatism the last day or two, and could do nothing but sit in his armchair in the kitchen watching Lisbeth or doing little jobs for her, such as cutting skewers or "sorting" her string bag. He was much interested in the party, and Marjory promised to go to the kitchen and show herself when she was all ready.
Lisbeth was much concerned to see her husband so crippled, but she would not allow anything more than that he was "just a wee bit colded," and blamed the weather as being the cause. She was afraid her master might be inclined to find fault with Peter for his helplessness. "Rain and snaw, and frost and fog, and wind like newly-sharpened knives—a body doesna ken what's coming next," she said indignantly when she went to tell the doctor about it. He reassured Lisbeth by his kindly sympathy, and the old woman wept with joy when he told her that so long as he was alive there would be a home for his faithful servants at Hunters' Brae, whether they were past work or not.
The party was to begin at seven o'clock, and Mrs. Forester had promised to send a carriage for Marjory at half-past six, so that she should be there in good time and feel at home before the other guests arrived.
But things were to turn out very differently from all expectations. Contrary to his usual habit, Dr. Hunter had not appeared at early dinner that day, nor had he left any message; but it was concluded that he had gone to the Morisons', or to the minister's, perhaps. He did not return during the afternoon, and when tea-time came and still he did not appear, Marjory began to feel anxious. He never went out for so long a time without telling her or leaving a message.
Lisbeth asked the man who brought the afternoon's milk from the farm if he would go to the doctor's and the minister's and inquire whether her master were there, and he good-naturedly agreed to do so—perhaps with visions of a reward in the shape of a good cup of tea in the Hunters' Brae kitchen on his return.
He came back with no news of the doctor; he had not been seen out that day.
Marjory had her tea alone, and a feeling of dread weighed upon her. It seemed so strange for her uncle to be away so long, and on this particular day too. He had been so interested about the party, and her frock, and all the arrangements. What could it mean?
Suddenly, as she sat puzzling over it, a thought struck her. Quick as lightning she ran to the hall, took up a candle, and went along the passage to the old wing. It was about five o'clock, and the place was dark as night. Her footsteps echoed through the empty rooms and passages till she reached the place where the secret chamber was. Tremblingly she felt along the wall. Would she be able to find the spring? She now felt almost certain that she would find her uncle here. Perhaps he would be angry with her for disturbing him; he might be finishing some very important experiment. Should she go in? She hesitated, but only for a moment; something seemed to urge her on. After some searching she found the spring; the door flew open, and, holding her candle high, she went in. She could not suppress a cry of terror when she saw that her uncle lay stretched upon the floor. He moaned a little as she went towards him, and she was thankful to hear his voice. Broken glass was strewed upon the floor, and there was an unpleasant chemical odour in the room. She knelt beside her uncle, and found that his head and face were cut, that blood was flowing freely, and that his poor hands had suffered in some dreadful way. She took her handkerchief and gently tried to wipe his face. He murmured faintly, "Brandy—my cupboard—keys," and she understood what he wished. She felt in his pocket for the keys, and, saying that she would be back directly, she took the candle and went quickly to the study, found the brandy, and got back again without being seen. She did not call Lisbeth, as she felt sure that the doctor would be very sorry if his hiding-place became known, and she hoped that he might be able to get to his study before she gave the alarm.
Dr. Hunter swallowed some brandy, and it revived him. After a little while Marjory asked him if he thought he could go to his study, and he replied, "Yes, lassie; but you must help me."
Marjory's heart beat fast and her hands trembled as she assisted him to rise. The least movement of his injured hands made him wince. Very slowly and painfully the two made their way down the stairs and across the old hall, till at last they reached the doctor's study. The exertion had been too much for him, and he fainted. Marjory rushed to call Lisbeth, saying that the doctor had come home, and that there had been an accident.
Full of concern, the old lady bustled along from the kitchen. "Mercy on us! what's this?" she cried when she saw her master. But she wasted no time in words; she hurried away and soon returned with a basin of water and a sponge, and a bottle of spirits, which she held under the doctor's nose—an old-fashioned but often efficacious remedy.
"We maun hae Dr. Morison," she said; "an' how we're to come by him beats me. Jean's awa to Braeside to help at the pairty, an' Peter he canna walk a step; thae good-for-noughts" (which was her name for the garden assistants) "is a' gane hame; an' as for me, I couldna get the length o' Heathermuir on my ain feet."
"I'll go," said Marjory decidedly.
"What? An' walk twa mile at this time o' day, an' maybe more nor that if the doctor's no at hame!"
"Well, I'll go on Brownie; then I can go after him wherever he is. O Lisbeth dear, do you think uncle's very bad?" And Marjory looked anxiously at the white face and still form on the couch.
"I canna say. Dinna tell Peter, but just gang yer ways the quickest that ye can."
How thankful Marjory felt now that she had insisted upon Peter teaching her how to saddle Brownie! She was soon on his back, off and away to Heathermuir, glad to have something to do, her heart aching with anxiety as to the seriousness of her uncle's injuries. The love for him which had been steadily developing of late gained sudden force to-night, and she felt how precious he was to her.
Never had Brownie indulged in such a mad gallop as this. His mistress gave him his head, and he took full advantage of the opportunity. He flew like the wind, and clattered into the courtyard in front of Dr. Morison's house.
The doctor was not there; he had been called to Hillcrest village, she was told. Waiting to hear no more, Marjory started off again, and Brownie felt that their mission was as yet unfulfilled. On he went through the lanes, up hill and down, his hoofs striking fire as he tore along. They passed the Braeside carriage going to fetch Marjory to the party. The horses shied at the flying apparition. Marjory shouted, "I'm not coming!" but did not slacken her pace.
The party! It seemed hours, days, since she had seen her white frock lying on the bed, and had looked forward to wearing it. Instead of that, here was she tearing madly across the country, her poor uncle lying, it might be, at the point of death. Nothing was the same as it had been in the morning. Would things ever be the same again? What if her uncle should die? No, no, she would not allow herself to think of it; she must not think, she must act, and she urged Brownie on.
At the top of the hill just out of Hillcrest, to her great relief, she met Dr. Morison riding. She quickly explained her errand, and it was now his turn to ride hard.
"Don't wait for me," said Marjory; "I'll follow."
Brownie had done his work well, and must be considered. Now that the doctor was on his way to her uncle, she felt that she might slacken her pace. Then she began to wonder as to the cause of the accident, but could only suppose that the doctor had been trying some dangerous experiment; and then, anxious and alone on the hillside in the darkness, she sent up a real prayer to Heaven for the safety of her uncle, whom she now knew to be very dear to her. Countless proofs of his goodness and thoughtful kindness crowded upon her memory, and looking back over the years, she saw his figure in its attitude of protection and care for his dead sister's child. Then the reaction came, and Marjory wept bitterly.