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.