UNCLE AND NIECE.
"If thou art worn and hard beset
With troubles that thou wouldst forget,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears."
Longfellow
One thing showed itself very clearly to Marjory's mind—she must tell her uncle at once that she was sorry for what she had said, though how she was to bring herself to do so she did not know. She had never had to do such a thing before, and now that she was calm again it seemed impossible that she could have spoken those wild words. She realized how these feelings against her uncle had been gathering force for a long time. Very slowly, very gradually they had grown, to arrive at their full strength as she listened to Mary Ann Smylie's tormenting suggestions. She had grown to hate even the name by which she was known in and about Heathermuir. Why did people call her "Hunter's Marjory"? Why couldn't they give her her own name—her father's name? Some of these feelings still rankled in her heart; but she was truly sorry for her outburst, and made up her mind to tell her uncle so. She determined to go at once to his study; and, once inside it and in his presence, perhaps she would know what to say and do. So accordingly she went and knocked at the study door. There was no answer. She knocked again louder, and still there was no answer. Then she opened the door cautiously and looked in, thinking her uncle might be asleep; but no—the room was empty. Disappointed, she turned away, and going towards the kitchen, called,—
"Lisbeth, where's Uncle George?"
The reply came in shouts from the distant kitchen,—
"He's awa to the doctor's. He winna be in to supper the nicht, and ye're to gang awa early to yer bed."
The shouts came nearer as Lisbeth, wiping her floury hands on the large apron she always wore when cooking, came bustling along the passage.
"Gude save us!" she cried, when she saw Marjory's face; "what's wrang wi' the bairn—eyes red and face peekit like a wet hen? Come yer ways in, lambie, an' Lisbeth'll gie ye some nice supper, for nae tea ye've had. But I've got scones just newly bakit, an' I'll mak ye a cup o' fine coffee. Come awa."
"Dear old Lisbeth," cried Marjory, "I would kiss you if you weren't so floury. But I'm really quite happy, except that I wanted to see Uncle George to tell him something."
"Weel, if yon's the way ye look when ye're quite happy, I wunner how ye'll look when ye're quite meeserable. Havers," said the old woman contemptuously, "somebuddy's been tormentin' ye. Come awa."
The good cheer which Lisbeth provided was much appreciated by Marjory, who did ample justice to the scones and cookies. She had been without food for several hours, and was really quite hungry now that she had got over the worst of her trouble. She listened to Lisbeth's cheerful chatter as she bustled about the room, encouraging her "bairn" to try a piece of this, a "wee bit scrappie" of that, till Marjory told her that she simply couldn't eat any more.
"I'm going out to say good-night to Peter, and to give Silky his supper, and then I'm going to bed," she announced.
"Peter, indeed!" said the old woman wrathfully. "It's little I've seen o' him the day. Mony's the wee bit job I've wanted him to dae; but na, na, no the day, he must be lookin' after the vine, he says." And Lisbeth tossed her head.
"Well, you know, Peter isn't as young as he once was, and when he has to climb up the steps to reach the top bits of the vine, it takes him a long time," said Marjory, with a view to calming the old woman's wrath.
Lisbeth flounced round. "Don't you go for to say my Peter's slow at his work. It's little ye ken how hard he's at it, nicht an' day, slavin' for you an' the doctor, miss; and he's nane sae auld neither, an' ye needna be ca'in' him an auld rheumaticky body that canna climb a lether."
"O Lisbeth, I didn't," reproachfully.
"You did so."
"I did nothing of the kind; I tried to make excuses for him because you were so cross with him."
"Me cross! Me cross wi' Peter!" ejaculated Lisbeth. "Me that's never been cross wi' my man in a lifetime o' years! What next?"
"Just that you're a dear, funny old thing, and I'm going to bed."
"Ye're a peart-mouthed lassie, that's what ye are. Ye'd best get awa to yer bed."
It was always thus with Lisbeth and Peter. Did any one cast the slightest shadow of blame on either, the other was up in arms at once; and though each might blame the other for some omission or commission, as soon as any third person agreed in laying blame, that person found himself in very hot water indeed.
Marjory went out to give Silky his supper. He always had his food in the stable, but his bed was on a mat outside Marjory's bedroom door. Then she went down the garden to find Peter.
She found him just putting away his tools for the night.
"Good-night, Peter," she said. "I just came to tell you I've got a friend, and also that Lisbeth's cross."
"She cross! Na, na; that canna be, Miss Marjory. Weary maybe wi' her cookin' an' siclike for you an' the doctor, but no cross; na, na."
"Well, but, Peter, didn't you hear me say I've found a friend? Aren't you glad?"
"Glad indeed I am. That's a bonnie bit news. An' what like is she?"
"She's the sweetest, prettiest girl you ever saw," said Marjory enthusiastically.
"Ay, maybe she's that," replied the old man doubtfully, looking significantly at Marjory.
"But I tell you she is, Peter, and her mother is so kind and gentle. Their name is Forester, and they've just come to live at Braeside."
"Oh, they," said the old man.
The Foresters, being newcomers, did not hold a very high place in Peter's estimation as yet.
"That's quick wark, Miss Marjory," he continued; and then, as if to atone for his want of enthusiasm, "I'm glad to hear it, for whiles it must be a bit lonesome here for a lassie the likes o' you."
"And, Peter darling, you'll be good to her, like you are to me, won't you? And you'll show her the birds' eggs, and where to look for nests; and you'll tell us stories on wet days, won't you?"
Peter looked guilty. He knew his master disapproved of fairy stories; and his tales, although he would declare they were true ones and was always careful to point them with an excellent moral, dealt largely with the old Scottish fairy folk, and with the many superstitions handed down from generation to generation amongst the peasantry.
"Na, na, Miss Marjory; ye're gettin' ower auld for Peter's stories; they are but bairnie's tales."
"Now, Peter, you mustn't be obstinate. You must try to remember some nice new ones."
"Aweel, gin I must, I must," said the old man, with a twinkle in his eye, for if there was one thing he enjoyed above another, it was to see Marjory sitting wide-eyed and open-mouthed drinking in some tale of olden times.
"That's a good Peter. Now, remember, the first wet day that comes you're engaged to us in the wood-shed. Good-night."
It was a beautiful still evening. July was not yet ended, and roses, lilies, and mignonette breathed their fragrance upon the air. Overhead one clear star was shining; like the star of promise that shone of old, it seemed to Marjory an omen of a new life for her. Peace entered into her soul as she gazed upwards. Away to the west the last lingering tints of a late sunset were still to be seen; the whole world seemed at rest. She, too, would lie down and sleep, calm after the storm, and to-morrow she would begin a new day. She would tell her uncle she was sorry, and would try to follow Mrs. Forester's advice. Loving words that she would say to the doctor came into her mind, and she fell asleep thinking of him with tenderness and gratitude.
When the morrow came, Marjory awoke with a confused sense that something unusual was to happen that day. She gradually remembered her resolution of the night before; but the loving words she had planned to say seemed frozen inside her, and she felt as if she did not dare to speak to her uncle.
She went down to breakfast dreading the meeting with him; but Dr. Hunter said good-morning as usual, just as if nothing had happened. Marjory noticed, with a pang of self-reproach, that he looked tired, and that his eyes had a weary expression that was not usually there. He ate his breakfast in silence, but that was nothing out of the common, for they often sat through a meal with little or no conversation. Marjory hated this state of things, and yet she had never had the courage to try to alter it. She would sit and rack her brains for something to say, and then decide that it was impossible that anything she could say would interest a grown-up man, and a man so stern and silent as Uncle George. Lately she had actually come to dreading meal-times, and would be thankful when they were over and she could escape. All this was very foolish on her part, no doubt, but it arose entirely from her misunderstanding of her uncle.
Contrary to her usual custom, she hovered about the dining-room after breakfast was over that morning, trying to make up her mind to speak. She watched her uncle wind the clock on the mantelpiece, saying to herself that she would speak when he left off turning the key, but she let the opportunity slip by. Then the doctor gathered up his letters and papers and went to his study without a word or a look in her direction. In fact, he was quite unconscious of her presence for the time being; he was thinking deeply over a scientific problem which absorbed his whole attention.
Marjory despised herself for being so weak and timid, and at last scolded herself into a determination to go and knock boldly at the study door. She would be obliged to go in then; there could be no turning back or putting off.
Her heart beating very quickly, she went and knocked at the door; and in response to her uncle's "Come in," she opened it and walked across to the table at which the doctor was sitting.
Interested as he was in his work, when he saw who was the cause of this unusual disturbance, he smiled at her, asking,—
"Well, Marjory, what is it?"
The girl turned white to the lips and said, her voice low and trembling,—
"I am very sorry about yesterday; will you forgive me?"
"Of course I will, and gladly," said the doctor heartily. "My dear child, you didn't understand; you don't know that I only wish to do what is for your good. I may have made mistakes. I was told yesterday that I have made some big ones," sadly, "but I intend to try to rectify them now. Things are going to be different, little one. You are to have a companion, and you are to learn some of the things you are so anxious about. Will that please you?"
"Oh yes," eagerly.
"And you take back those words, 'unkind and cruel'? I never thought to hear my dear sister's child use such words to me."
Marjory's answer was a storm of tears.
"There, there, my child; don't cry. You won't think so hardly of me again. Come, let us forget all our troubles." And the doctor took out his handkerchief, and began to dry Marjory's tears, clumsily, it must be owned, but with the kindest intention.
"See, Marjory, the sun is shining, and everything out of doors looks bright and happy; you must be happy too. Follow the example of the flowers. They droop under a storm of rain, but when the rain leaves off and the sun begins to shine, they hold up their heads as straight as ever."
"Yes; but they aren't wicked like people are; they haven't got things to be sorry for."
"Tut, tut, child; now you want to argue. That opens up a very large field for discussion, and little girls have no business arguing. Run away into the garden and play with Peter or Silky, or both, for both dearly love an excuse for a game."
Marjory obeyed, saying to herself as she went, "Why will he always treat me as such a child? I'm nearly thirteen, and I want to know about things. I should like to know why people were made so that they can so easily be naughty, and so suddenly too, without really wanting to." And she thought of yesterday. "I suppose Uncle George knows everything; but grown-up people always say that you wouldn't understand, and they won't tell you anything. I wonder if trees and flowers are really as good as they look. I know birds and insects, and even little tiny ants, are naughty, because I've seen them quarrelling. I do wonder about the flowers, because they are just as much alive as people or animals."
Turning over this problem in her mind, she went slowly down the garden to Peter, who was at work again in his beloved vinery.
"Peter," she said, "do you think that flowers and trees and vegetables are ever naughty?"
The old man paused in his work and scratched his head thoughtfully.
"Aweel, Miss Marjory," he said, "I'm thinkin' not. Seems to me that the bonnie flowers hae been gien us for a gude example. They aye bloom as best they can. Sunshine an' shade, rain an' wind, they tak them a' as God Almichty sends them, an' are aye sweet, an' aye content just to dae their best. I dinna ken for certain, Miss Marjory, but that's what I'm thinkin'."
"I think so too, Peter. They certainly don't look as if they were ever naughty. My new friend is just like a lovely white rose, and she doesn't look as if she could ever be naughty either."
"H'm," remarked Peter, "she's no mortal, lassie, then."
"Peter, you're not a bit nice about the Foresters. I tell you they are just as sweet as they can be, both Blanche and her mother."
"It's just this," replied Peter, thus admonished. "I'm no a man that can gae heid ower ears a' in a meenit; I must prove folks first. These Foresters, they're English for ae thing, an' maybe they'll bring new fangles to Braeside, which, bein' a Scotsman, I canna gie my approbation to. I'm no sayin' they wull, but they micht. Na, na, Miss Marjory; I maun prove them first."
"You're an obstinate old thing; but you can begin proving, as you call it, this very afternoon, for Blanche is coming to tea; and I say, Peter, will you spare time to take us down to the Low Farm after tea? Blanche comes from London, and I'm sure she would love to see over it."
"London," muttered Peter in a voice that meant volumes of disapproval.
"Now, do be nice, and promise," coaxed Marjory. "I'm going to ask Lisbeth a favour too, and I'm sure she'll say yes."
Not to be outdone in good nature by his wife, the old man at last gave his promise.
"Gin the doctor can spare me," he said.
Marjory smiled, for she well knew that Peter had had his own way at Hunters' Brae for many a long year, and the doctor had very little to do with the disposal of his time; but Peter was faithful to the smallest detail, his duty was his life, and the doctor could trust him.
Marjory then betook herself to the kitchen to try her powers of persuasion upon Lisbeth.
The kitchen at Hunters' Brae was a picture to see. A large room, bright and airy, plates in orderly rows upon the dresser, copper pans that shone like mirrors, spotless table and spotless floor, a big open fire throwing out a cheerful glow—such was Lisbeth's domain. To complete the picture, there was Lisbeth herself, a most wholesome hearty-looking old lady, with rosy cheeks and kindly eyes. Her dress was made of lilac-coloured print, and her apron was an immense size. She wore a round cap with a goffered frill and strings which tied under her chin. She was firmly convinced that no finer family than the Hunters of Hunters' Brae ever existed, and that the world did not contain such another man as her Peter—two beliefs which went a long way towards maintaining that domestic peace which was the rule at Hunters' Brae.
"Weel, Marjory, what is't?" she asked, as Marjory entered the kitchen. Lisbeth had never adopted the formal "Miss" in her mode of addressing Marjory, the baby she had seen grow up. She had determined that when the "bairn" should reach the age of fifteen, then would be time enough to begin it.
"I want to ask you a favour," said Marjory.
"Ask awa," replied Lisbeth, her arms akimbo.
"Will you do it?"
"No till I hear what it is."
"Well, I want you to make some shortbread for tea."
"Shortbread the day?" asked the old woman in surprise; "the morn's no the Sawbath."
"I know; but Blanche Forester, my new friend, is coming to tea, and I want her to taste it. You know very well that you make the best shortbread and wear the biggest aprons in Heathermuir. You will make us some, won't you? Peter has promised to do what I asked him," added naughty Marjory.
"I suppose I micht just as weel, though there's scones and cookies enough for a regiment only bakit yesterday."
"That's a good Lisbeth," said Marjory, delighted with the result of her mission, and feeling that the success of the afternoon's entertainment was assured.