Mrs. Smylie replied by a nod. She was a little disappointed at the turn things had taken. She rather enjoyed having a grievance, and Hunter's Marjory and her "tantrums" had been a fertile subject for gossip during the last few days.
"Ye needna hae gien in sae sune," she remarked to her daughter when the carriage had driven off.
"That was my business," replied Mary Ann, with a toss of her head.
"Hoots, lassie, ye needna haud yer head sae high wi' yer mither. I was but thinkin' ye micht hae held it higher wi' yon chit."
"I'll never be like her, not if I live to be a hundred and go to fifty schools—so there." And Mary Ann banged out of the shop, leaving her mother silent with amazement.
Mary Ann had something to think about. She had been quite taken aback by Marjory's apology, and for a little while the real Mary Ann had shown herself. She was not a bad-hearted girl in reality, but she had been spoiled by those who should have known better; and although every now and then, at moments such as this, her better nature would assert itself, it was gradually becoming choked and crushed by selfishness, conceit, and carelessness. Marjory had been inclined to envy the baker's daughter her privileges, but in reality Mary Ann was to be pitied rather than envied, for she had no one to guide and help her. Her parents' chief care was that she should be better dressed and better educated than her neighbours. This they felt they could accomplish; and having done so, they were content, and satisfied that they had done their duty by their daughter.
The days were full of pleasure for Marjory and Blanche. When the garden had been thoroughly explored, there were many beautiful places for Marjory to show her friend. She must go to the woods, to the moors, and to the loch. Dr. Hunter had a pretty little sailing-boat, and Marjory was an expert sailor, and was allowed to go out on fine days by herself, though never without permission, in case she should be overtaken by a sudden storm. The doctor made a study of the weather day by day, and was able to foretell it to a certain extent. Sometimes, on a day which looked to Marjory to be quite fine, he would forbid her going on the loch, and she would find that he had been right.
The days were not long enough for all the delights the girls would have crowded into them. Marjory always remembered the first Sunday after her meeting with the Foresters. It came round in due course, and she did not greet it with much pleasure at first.
First of all came clean clothes, and amongst them a stiffly-starched petticoat. This was one of Marjory's pet aversions. It crackled as she walked and made her feel self-conscious. Then there was the best frock to be put on, which always seemed several degrees tighter than the everyday ones. Then came breakfast, an hour later on Sundays, to distinguish it from week days. Another distinguishing mark was the absence of the usual porridge and the presence of a plate of drop scones, a favourite dainty of Marjory's which Lisbeth always made for Sunday.
Dr. Hunter always devoted himself to his niece on Sunday mornings. He did not usually have much to say at breakfast during the week, but on Sundays he always made a point of inquiring about her doings, her garden, her pets, her sewing, and anything else he could think of. He always came down in his black clothes, and they had a slight odour of camphor, which the careful Lisbeth used to preserve them from moths. Marjory ever afterwards associated the smell of camphor with Sunday mornings at Hunters' Brae. The doctor, like Marjory, never wore his best clothes unless he felt absolutely obliged to, and sometimes for months together they only came out once a week. There was camphor in Marjory's wardrobe too, but she was careful to keep as many bags of lavender as she could amongst her clothes, to fight the camphor, as she told Lisbeth; and on the whole the lavender had the best of it.