THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
"And thus the heart will break,
Yet brokenly live on."--BYRON.
Mrs. Shaw saw the children coming, and wondered what could be the reason
of this unusual visit. She went to the garden gate to meet them, and saw
at once by Blanche's tear-stained face that something was wrong. They
told her what they wanted, and she invited them in without hesitation,
taking them straight to the kitchen, where a bright fire was blazing.
Alan unwrapped poor Curly, and Mrs. Shaw fetched a piece of blanket for
him to lie on, and gave him a spoonful of brandy, Blanche holding his
mouth open. They all watched him anxiously. He soon began to move a
little, and in a few minutes he got up, stretched and shook himself, and
then went to his mistress to be caressed.
Blanche hugged and kissed him with every expression of delight. She had
hardly realized how precious her little pet had become until she so
nearly lost him. But Curly had been in Mrs. Shaw's kitchen before, and
when he considered that he had received enough petting, he calmly
trotted off to a corner of the room where he had once had a very good
dinner, and began sniffing and nosing about. No dish was there this
time, and so he trotted back again and sat down, looking expectantly at
the group of amused watchers. Mrs. Shaw went and got some bread and milk
for him, and he was soon very busy with it, seeming none the worse for
his adventure.
"Well, I must be going," remarked Alan.
"Oh no," protested Blanche; "it's too late for you to go home to dinner
now. You must come to us. Marjory's coming."
"I meant to skate all day, and mother gave me some sandwiches."
"Sandwiches are but poor comfort on a cold day, Master Morison," said
Mrs. Shaw. "I should be proud if the young ladies and you would have
your dinner here--that is," she added, "if you don't mind having it in
the kitchen. The parlour fire isn't lighted yet. I can send a message
down to Braeside if you will stay." And she looked at the girls.
"It is very kind of you," said Blanche. "We should like to stay, if it
isn't too much bother for you.--Shouldn't we, Marj?"
"Yes," replied Marjory, much surprised by this unwonted friendliness on
Mrs. Shaw's part. "And don't you think Alan's clothes ought to be
dried?"
"Rot!" said Alan again.
But Mrs. Shaw was a managing person. She felt Alan's legs.
"My goodness!" she exclaimed, "he's wet through. Come with me at once,"
and she dragged the unwilling boy into another room. In a short time
they returned, Alan looking a comical figure, dressed in a pair of
knickerbockers many sizes too large for him, and a man's flannel shirt
and coat. Marjory at once decided that these garments must have belonged
to the mysterious husband in foreign parts.
Alan looked red and uncomfortable after Mrs. Shaw's ministrations, but
Marjory said, "That's better. Now come and sit by the fire," pretending
not to notice anything peculiar in his appearance. To tell the truth, he
was nothing loath to sit by the cheerful blaze, for he had begun to feel
cold and miserable as soon as Curly was all right, but he would have
done anything rather than say so.
Mrs. Shaw's kitchen was cleaner than some people's dining-rooms. There
was not a speck of dust anywhere, and not a thing out of its place. Her
guests were amused to see their dinner come straight from the various
pots and pans on the fire; but never was a meal eaten with a better
appetite, and after the first shyness wore off, the party was a very
merry one.
Marjory noticed that Mrs. Shaw looked often at Blanche, and with an
expression of tenderness which her face never wore for other people.
Half sad, half tender, the look was, and Marjory wondered what it could
mean.
After dinner was over, Blanche asked if they might go to the parlour and
see the curiosities.
"I wonder if you'll get anything this Christmas," she remarked.
"Maybe," was the short reply.
Nearly every part of the world was represented in this little farm
parlour. Here were corals and shells from the South Sea Islands;
wonderfully carved ivory from India and China; a tiny nugget of gold
from California; Indian arrow-heads, beads, and baskets. In fact, had
she known it, Mrs. Shaw really possessed a good and valuable collection.
Alan was handling what appeared to be a square block made of
beautifully-polished wood, and he asked what it was.
"It's only a specimen block of various Australian woods," was the reply.
"But see, they're not glued together in any way. Perhaps it's a puzzle,
and they all come apart." And he turned it over and over with boyish
curiosity and interest.
"No, it's nothing but samples of woods. I've got a list of their names
somewhere." And Mrs. Shaw went to a box to search for the paper.
Meanwhile Alan pulled and thumped, and at last one of the pieces
composing the box moved. The rest was easily done; one piece after
another came away, and there, right in the middle of the block, was a
small velvet case.
"Look! look!" he cried excitedly. "Come and see, Mrs. Shaw."
They all crowded round while Mrs. Shaw opened the case. Inside it was a
beautifully-painted head of a little girl.
"Why, it's Blanche when she was small!" exclaimed Marjory.
Mrs. Shaw stood as if turned to stone for a minute. Then she covered her
face with her hands and wept aloud. The children stood silent,
frightened by this outburst of grief, and not knowing what to do or say.
At last Blanche took courage, and gently touching the weeping woman's
arm, she said,--
"Please, don't cry. What is the matter? We are so sorry."
"Oh, my dear! my dear! that is the picture of my own little girl who
died long ago. I took to you from the first because of the likeness.
I've never seen her father since she died. It all happened long ago,
before I came here. She was a delicate little thing, and one day, while
her father was at home, I went away for the day to see my sister. The
child had a little cold, and I said to her father that she had better
not go out. But she begged so hard to go that he couldn't refuse her,
and they went out. They went into a shop for her father to buy some
tobacco. The child began playing with a kitten. She was very fond of
animals, and while her father's back was turned, she ran out into the
street after the kitten. She was knocked down and run over by a van, and
she only lived a few hours. Oh, my darling! my darling!" the poor woman
continued, unconscious of her listeners, "the light of my life went out
when you were taken, and I am only just beginning to learn the lesson of
my grief." Then returning to her story: "I blamed her poor father for
her death, and I sent him away. That was seven years ago. He has written
to me, and every year he sends me a parcel of things. He buys me
something at every port he touches--he's a sailor, you know, a captain
now--and I've never sent him a word of thanks, not one single word; and
now this! This little box came last year, and I never even troubled to
read this paper about it. Think how he planned it as a surprise for me,
and what he must have paid to have it done. God forgive me! for I've
been a wicked woman." And she wept afresh, rocking herself to and fro.
The children were awestruck by this recital. Alan took the paper from
Mrs. Shaw. On the front page was a list of the various woods, as she had
said, but inside were instructions for the opening of the puzzle box.
"What was your little girl's name?" Blanche ventured to ask.
"Rose," sobbed the woman; "and she was just as sweet as her name; but I
made an idol of my child, and that is why God took her away."
"Mother says," said Blanche shyly, "that when God takes little children
He makes them very, very happy--happier than their own fathers and
mothers could make them."
"Bless you, my dear, for your comforting words! Yes, I feel sure she is
happy, and I know she would wish me to forgive her father, but I never
could bring myself to do it till now. I'll write to him this very night,
and ask him to come home when he can. To think of him planning this box,
with her blessed picture inside it, all for me that's been so unkind and
cruel!" And Mrs. Shaw sobbed again.
"Please, Mrs. Shaw, don't cry any more," begged Marjory. "It will be
lovely when he comes home, and everything will be all right."
Mrs. Shaw pulled herself together, wiped her eyes, and stood up, saying,
"I am a foolish woman to worry you young folks with my troubles. Come
and look round the farm."
All thought of skating was given up for that day. Alan put on his own
clothes, which were dry again, and the party went out to explore the
farmyard. Silky and Neil were patiently waiting outside, and made a
great fuss when the children appeared, Blanche with Curly in her arms.
After thoroughly examining every hole and corner about the farm, the
members of the Triple Alliance said good-bye to Mrs. Shaw, thanking her
profusely for all her kindness, and then started homewards, going
together to the Braeside gate. Before they parted Alan said,--
"I say, look here, you two; should you mind if I asked you not to tell
about this morning? It was a jolly good hit, and all that, but I
shouldn't like Herbert to know about it. He'd chaff me so, and tell the
fellows." And his face flushed crimson at the thought.
"More secrets," said Blanche. "I'll promise not to tell any one but
mother. I simply can't keep a secret unless I tell her."
"Irishman!" cried Alan promptly. "Well, tell your mother if you like;
and Marjory can tell her uncle, and nobody else. Do you agree?"
"I don't know that I shall want to tell," remarked Marjory, flushing in
her turn. "It wasn't such a very nice thing for me to do."
"Well, I'm jiggered," said Alan inelegantly; "I thought the first thing
a girl would want to do would be to go and blab about it all over the
place." And he regarded Marjory as if she were a natural curiosity.
"And yet," she continued, "I suppose I ought to tell, because I think
you behaved so well about it, making friends after it. And then think
what you did for Curly."
"Ra--ats! Good-bye, and long live the T. A.!" cried Alan, running off
towards home.
It was nearly four o'clock when they said good-bye at the Braeside gate,
and it was rapidly getting dark. Marjory went quickly up the hill,
fearing a reprimand from her uncle for being out so late. The day had
been an eventful one, but its excitements were not yet over. As she
hurried through the wood, she heard a sudden crackling and rustling
amongst the fallen leaves and twigs, and a man came from behind a tree
and stood facing her.
"Don't be frightened, miss," he said in a low voice. "I'm a stranger
here, and I want to ask if you can tell me where Dr. Hunter lives."
"He lives in that house up there," replied Marjory, pointing towards
Hunters' Brae; "and this is his ground," she added, as much as to say,
"What are you doing here?" Then she continued, "Do you wish to see Dr.
Hunter?"
The man took no notice, and resumed his questioning.
"Isn't there a house on his property called the Low Farm? and can you
tell me who keeps it?"
Marjory wondered who this man could be. His manner was straightforward,
and from what she could see, his face was honest; still she felt
somewhat suspicious. There had been rumours lately of poachers being
about. Perhaps he was a thief, and would go to the Low Farm when all the
men had gone home from work, and Mrs. Shaw would be unprotected. She
reflected that if she withheld the information the man would probably
get it from some one else, and she decided that it would be better to
answer his questions, but to let him believe that Mrs. Shaw's husband
was at home, so she replied,--
"The Low Farm is down at the bottom of the hill, a little to the right,
and people of the name of Shaw keep it."
"Oh," said the man, as if taken aback, "there is a Mr. Shaw then?"
"Oh yes," replied Marjory, delighted that her bait had taken, as she
thought. Then she said quickly, "I must be going now."
"Good-night, miss, and thank you for the information. Please don't say
you've seen me, if you can help it."
Marjory thought that the man's voice sounded hard and fierce, and,
somewhat frightened, she hurried away without a look behind her. A
sudden thought struck her as she ran through the garden. Could this
stranger possibly be her father? Her absent father was continually in
her thoughts; often and often she pictured to herself various ways in
which he might return to her. This man had begun by asking for Dr.
Hunter. For one wild moment the impulse to turn back was upon her, and
then she told herself that it was impossible. She did not know many
people, but she felt sure that this man was not quite like her uncle, or
Mr. Forester, or Dr. Morison. Surely her father was not a rough-spoken
man like this! Besides, would she not have known him at once? No;
probably her first theory was the right one, and this was some poacher
or thief--and yet he did not seem quite like a bad man either. It was a
mystery, and she wished that Blanche or Alan had been with her.
Dr. Hunter was not at home for tea; he had gone to the minister's,
Lisbeth said, but would be back for supper.
When supper-time came Marjory gave her uncle an account of the day's
doings, but did not mention her encounter in the wood.
"You've had a most exciting day, on the whole," he said. "I didn't know
you could box, though; surely Miss Waspe doesn't teach you that as an
accomplishment!"
Marjory laughed rather shamefacedly.
"No," she replied; "Peter showed me, but only a little. He says he was
very good at it when he was a boy."
"So you knocked over this fourteen-year-old boy like a ninepin. Well, to
be sure, I _am_ surprised." And the doctor eyed his niece quizzically
over his spectacles. "You're quite a dangerous young person to meet on a
country road."
"Well, he called Blanche's hair 'carrots,'" said Marjory, flushing.
"Just like a boy. If he were a dozen years older he would be writing
sonnets to that same hair." And the doctor laughed.
Later on he said, "I heard from Mackenzie to-day that there is great
excitement in the neighbourhood about poachers. The men are going out
to-night to see if they can see anything of them. Mackenzie asked me to
join them, but I'm getting too old for that sort of thing. Mackenzie
isn't going himself, but I could see he was pretty keen about it. Of
course these fellows are a nuisance, and perhaps if I preserved I should
feel differently, but I must confess to a sneaking sympathy with them as
it is. Don't you tell Forester or Morison, Miss Marjory." And the doctor
laughed again.
But Marjory was thinking of the man in the wood What if he should be
suspected and taken? Somehow, although she had been suspicious of him,
there had been something in his manner, a true ring in his voice, which
belied her fears, and she felt that she would be sorry if he got into
any trouble. It was some hours since she had seen him, and he had
probably gone away by this time; but she felt uncomfortable about him,
and as soon as the doctor had finished his supper and gone to his study,
Marjory put on a cloak and slipped out.
It was a cold, frosty night, and there was no moon--just a night for
poaching work, Marjory decided. She had shut Silky in the house, in case
he might bark and attract attention, but once or twice she wished she
had brought him. She crept down the garden, and through the gate into
the wood, stopping now and then to listen. The night was intensely
still, and there were no signs of life; the silence was broken only by
the crunching of the frosty ground under her feet, until--listen!--what
was that? There was a sound as of some person or some animal in pain.
Oh, surely it was not some poor little rabbit or hare, or perhaps a dog,
caught in a trap! She must go nearer and see what it was. She walked on
in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and there, lying on the
ground, was the figure of a man--the man she had spoken to that
afternoon. This was dreadful. Marjory had not known that a grown-up man
could cry; his whole frame was heaving with convulsive sobs, and he
murmured something she could not understand. She felt at a loss in the
presence of such bitter grief, and did not know what to do or what to
say. At last she took courage and said gently, "Can I do anything to
help you?"
The man sprang up, startled by Marjory's voice.
"Nothing can cure my trouble," he said bitterly. "But how come you out
here this cold, dark night? I can't see you, but I know by your voice
that you are the young lady I spoke to this afternoon."
"I came out to tell you that the keepers and some of the gentlemen are
out after poachers to-night, and I--I thought--" Marjory stammered.
"You thought I was one of them," finished the man, with a short laugh.
"No, I haven't come to that yet, but I thank you for your kind thought.
It's a long time since anybody troubled as to what would become of me."
And his tone was very bitter.
"But you must be hungry and cold. Won't you come and have some food?"
"No, and thank you kindly. I am lodging at Hillcrest village, a matter
of only two miles from here, and I'd best be getting back. But don't you
worry about me, miss. I'm a rough man, but, thank God, I've been able to
keep straight and honest. I'm in a tight place just now, but I'm sorry
you should have found me as you did."
"I was once very miserable here in this same place," said Marjory shyly,
"and then something happened which made my whole life different. Perhaps
it will be the same with you."
"I'm afraid not; but I mustn't keep you here in the cold. Thank you
kindly, miss, for what you've done for a stranger. May I ask you not to
mention having seen me here? I have a good reason."
Marjory could no longer feel suspicious of the man, but at the same time
she could not help wondering why he should wish to keep his movements
secret.
"Very well; I won't speak of it," she promised, wondering if she were
right in so doing.
"God bless you, miss, and good-night to you."
The man strode away. She could hear his footsteps crackling through the
undergrowth as she turned back towards home. Suddenly she was aware of
approaching steps; in a moment the wood seemed full of dark figures, and
she could hear men's heavy breathing. She started to run, but before she
could reach the gate strong arms caught hold of her, a lantern flashed
into her face, and the voice of Mr. Forester cried, "Hallo, Marjory!
what are you doing here?"