THE PROPHECIES.
"According to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings."
SHAKESPEARE.
Marjory went to bed with a glow of happiness in her heart. Her uncle had
called her a true Hunter. How often had she brooded over those looks of
hers, which could not be said to resemble in any feature those of the
Hunters whose portraits hung on the walls of the old house! How many
times had she wished herself a boy who could carry out the traditions of
the family! Foolish troubles these were, no doubt, but they were real
enough to the lonely child, living with her own fancies for company.
True, she had not thought about them so much of late; but although they
were not uppermost in her mind, they were still there. And now those
words of the doctor's brought comfort for the memory of many a lonely
wakeful hour, when Marjory should have been sleeping the untroubled
sleep of childhood. A true Hunter!--in spite of that unknown father,
perhaps long dead; in spite of her ignorance; in spite of her looks. A
true Hunter! How her heart thrilled at the words!
Fired with these thoughts, she took out the old portfolio and began to
read the copy of the prophecies about her family. As she sat alone with
these old-time records, the candlelight flickering on their pages, she
felt almost as if she were in the presence of these ancestors of hers.
She found her grandmother's writing rather difficult to read, it was so
fine and delicate, and time had faded the ink to a pale gray.
As for the old prophecies, they were nothing but a set of doggerel
verses which any sensible person would probably have laughed at, but
they were made serious and impressive to Marjory by the fact that her
grandmother had thought it worth while to copy them, and had made notes
of her own as to the fulfilment of their predictions.
With great difficulty Marjory deciphered the following lines:--
"Come list to me, whoe'er ye be,
Who care for sayings true,
For, sooth to say, me trust ye may--
Prophesy these things I do:
"Since days of old the Hunters bold
Upon the muir held sway;
The Hunters' line shall ne'er decline
Till the muir doth pass away.
"By land and sea these brave men free
Their king shall nobly serve;
Their blood shall flow, their riches go
For the sovereign's cause they love.
"When bright days shine, the Stuart line
Shall hold these Hunters dear.
Should storms befall, a Hunter shall
Take his death-blow without fear.
"_N.B._--Fulfilled after the battle of Culloden in 1746, when
Colonel George Hunter was executed for his devotion to the cause of
the Young Pretender.
"In Church and State these Hunters great
A foremost place shall take;
With words as bold as theirs of old,
They shall speak for conscience' sake.
"_N.B._--Probably refers to speeches made by Alexander Hunter in
the House of Commons against the taxation of the Colonies, in 1765,
and to the Reverend John Hunter, a famous divine who lived in the
reign of George the Second.
"Should Hunter of this noble race
Pride of his house forget,
Ancestors grim shall punish him,
Till his fault he doth regret.
"_N.B._--Perhaps this refers to that James Hunter who, through his
reckless extravagance, sank deeply into debt, and was confined for
many months in the old Canongate Tolbooth in the city of Edinburgh,
during the reign of George the Third. His debts were paid by his
elder brother, who sold a great part of his property for that
purpose--notably that portion of his lands to the south of the
loch, and that on which the mansion of the Murray family now
stands."
"Fancy that!" said Marjory to herself. "I never knew that all that land
once belonged to us. No wonder if the ancestors did punish James; they
wouldn't like to see their property disappearing."
Then came a verse which caused the girl's heart to beat fast and her
face to flush:--
"The ladies fine of Hunter line
Are fair as fair can be.
Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."
A note followed:--
"It is a curious thing that among all the written descriptions and
the paintings at my disposal I can find no record of a dark-haired
daughter of the house; fair hair and blue eyes are the rule.--A. H."
It is easy to see that any one of these so-called predictions was more
than likely to be fulfilled under any circumstances, and that very
probably the whole thing was written in the first place as a joke.
Moreover, Marjory was not a Hunter by name, being the child of a
daughter of the house and not of a son. Still, she took this saying to
mean herself: she, Marjory Davidson, and no other, must be the
dark-haired maiden whose beloved must cross the sea. It must mean that,
sooner or later, her father would come to her across the sea.
It was little wonder, then, that she tossed and turned upon her pillow
that night, and that, when at last she did fall asleep, her dreams were
a confused mixture--rats flying from a terrier of impossible size,
shadowy processions of ancestors in their picture-frames, and a long row
of ladies with flaxen locks pointing at her and calling to her, "Tresses
dark a maiden mark."
Next morning, full of enthusiasm, she showed her uncle the portfolio,
directing his attention to the copied verses. Contrary to all her
expectations, he only laughed at them, and made no remark about the
dark-haired maiden. It was not that he did not notice that particular
verse, but he did not wish Marjory to think that there was any reason
why she should apply it to herself, and he did not wish her head to be
filled with romantic nonsense. So he took away the portfolio, much to
Marjory's disgust, for she had looked forward to showing it to Blanche
and Alan. Still, she had a good memory, and could repeat every word of
it by heart, and was not likely to forget it.
"Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."
The words repeated themselves over and over again in her head. She could
not get rid of them, or of the thoughts and fancies to which they gave
rise.
Marjory did not see the Braeside visitors till the Sunday morning, when
they met in the churchyard. Mrs. Hilary Forester was a very grand
personage, but looked good-natured. Her daughter Maud, whom she
considered to be little short of an angel, certainly did not look like
one just then. Something must have put her out that morning, for the
look she gave Marjory as the introductions were made was not by any
means calculated to make a good impression upon that young person,
already predisposed to dislike the new arrival.
Marjory saw the eyes of mother and daughter travel over her person from
head to foot--or rather, as she expressed it to herself, from hat to
shoes--and she felt as if that cold scrutiny would shrivel her up. She
herself, although she did not stare, quickly took in the details of Mrs.
Hilary Forester's very fashionable attire. She had never seen anything
like it in Heathermuir before. The ladies at Morristown always seemed to
her to be very grandly dressed, but nothing like this.
"I wonder if she is at all religious," was Marjory's mental comment. To
her mind, a display of finery was not compatible with what she called
religion.
Then her eyes fell upon Blanche's mother. She too was richly dressed,
but Marjory knew without being told that her clothes were in much better
taste than those of her visitor. Still, Marjory had never looked upon
Mrs. Forester as very religious; for the child had somehow come to
understand the word as being synonymous with sour looks, long faces,
unattractive clothes, and disapproval of most pleasant things. Mrs.
Forester was sweet and good and kind, and much nicer than any of the
people whom Lisbeth had pointed out to her as "releegious."
Marjory had yet to learn that religion is a life, not a profession; that
in its reality it is a wellspring of cheerfulness, of love and charity
for others, of praise and thanksgiving--a life which, instead of
holding itself aloof from the world as a wicked place, lives in it,
works for its good, believing that nothing which God has created can be
altogether wicked. Mrs. Forester and Miss Waspe were gradually
suggesting these new ideas to the girl, more perhaps by example than by
precept.
Marjory followed Miss Maud into church. She did not much like the look
of her, she decided. Waspy had said one must never judge hastily of
people, but she did not feel that she was going to like this girl; even
her back view looked stuck-up!
It really did; for Maud could never forget that she was Miss Hilary
Forester, and she gave a self-satisfied little waggle to her skirts as
she walked, which said very plainly, "Look at me! Don't I strike you as
being more attractive than most girls?"
This attitude on Maud's part was hardly to be wondered at, seeing that
she had been spoiled and petted all her life. Everything that she said
and did was extravagantly praised by her adoring mother, and she had
grown up with exaggerated ideas of her cleverness, her looks, and her
own importance. What wonder, then, that the poor child held her head
high and waggled her skirts? But Marjory knew nothing of these causes,
and, seeing only their effects, her feelings towards the newcomer had
not softened at all by the time church was over.
The three girls walked together as far as the turning to Braeside, and
conversation flagged considerably.
"Are there many parties here at Christmas?" asked Maud.
"I don't know," replied Blanche.--"Are there, Marjory?"
"Not that I know of."
"What a dead-and-alive place to live in!" exclaimed Maud.
"It isn't!" said Blanche, firing up.
"Don't be so touchy, Blanche," said her cousin. "You don't seem to be at
all improved since I saw you."
Just then Silky, who had been sitting by the milestone as usual,
watching for his mistress, bounded forward to meet her, jumping and
barking round her with every sign of delight. In so doing he brushed
against Maud, and she was not at all pleased.
"What a horrid, rough dog!" she cried. "Do send him off, one of you! I
hate a great lumbering beast like that!"
"He isn't either horrid or rough," said Marjory indignantly, "but I
think I'd better go. Good-bye, Miss Hilary Forester.--Good-bye,
Blanche.--Come, Silky darling." And she walked on.
Maud laughed. "'Love me, love my dog,'" she quoted loudly, so that
Marjory might hear. And then to Blanche, "This friend you talk so much
about seems to be somewhat of a savage. I shall try to tame her,
though, for I rather like the look of her."
Marjory marched on, very indignant. It was hateful, she thought, that
this outsider, with her smart frocks and her superior ways, should come
and spoil their good time. She allowed herself to think very hardly of
Maud, although Miss Waspe's warning against hasty judgments came into
her mind more than once.
Marjory walked on, forgetting to look behind to see if her uncle were
coming. Some one called suddenly, "Miss Marjory!" She turned quickly,
and saw that Mary Ann Smylie was trying to catch up with her; so she
slackened her pace, and waited for her old enemy, wondering what she
might want.
Mary Ann, still self-conscious, still overdressed, nevertheless showed a
difference in her manner to Marjory.
"I only wanted to tell you something I thought you would like to know,"
she said, panting after her quick walk.
"What is it?" asked Marjory, curious to know what this something might
be.
"Mother told me that your uncle had sent a letter to foreign parts; she
wouldn't say who to, because she's not supposed to tell anything about
post-office business, you know. It was last Thursday, when she was
stamping the letters for the evening mail, suddenly she said 'Hallo!'
very surprised like. When I asked her what it was, she said, 'Hunter's
Marjory would like to see this,' but she wouldn't tell me any more
except that it was a foreign letter. It must have been to your father, I
believe, though I always thought he must be dead. Of course, I don't
know for certain that it was to him, only I thought I'd tell you about
it." And Mary Ann looked at Marjory with a deprecating little smile, as
much as to say, "I am trying to make amends for what I once said to
you."
Marjory thanked her, and then, remembering her uncle, she said that she
must wait for him.
"In that case," remarked Mary Ann, "I'll be off; he gives me the
shivers. Mind you, I don't know for certain about that letter; I only
think," she called back.
Marjory had plenty to think about as she sauntered back in the direction
of the church to meet her uncle. Could it possibly be that he had heard
something of her father? If so, how very unkind not to tell her. She had
a right to know; she _would_ know; and she worked herself into a very
excited state.
When her uncle joined her, she gave very short replies to his questions
and remarks, and at last she burst out, "Uncle, do you know anything
about my father?" in a very peremptory tone.
The doctor started. "My dear child," he said testily, "haven't I told
you over and over again that I have not heard one single word from your
father since I wrote and told him of your mothers death? I do not know
whether he is alive or dead, but I know this--he is dead to you." And
his voice rose with passion. Then, after a pause, he said rather sadly,
"Can't you be content, Marjory? Have I not done my best for you? I had
hoped that you were happier lately."
Marjory was touched by the feeling in his voice. "So I am, uncle, much
happier; but I can't help thinking and wondering about things
sometimes," she said wistfully. "No one can be exactly like a real
father and mother--at least, not quite," she added quickly, fearing to
wound her uncle afresh.
They finished their walk in silence, each busy with thoughts which,
could they have read each other's minds, would have filled them with
astonishment. The little storm blew over as other storms had done, but
Marjory could not forget what Mary Ann had told her about the letter.
Next day, when she went to Braeside, Marjory spent rather a painful
quarter of an hour with Mrs. Hilary Forester. Blanche and Maud had gone
out for a walk, and Marjory was shown into the morning-room to wait for
them. There she found the lady, sitting in a capacious armchair by the
fire, toasting her feet upon the fender, displaying elaborately-embroidered
stockings and many rustling frills.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Forester," said Marjory shyly.
"Mrs. _Hilary_ Forester, dear child," amended the lady. "Blanche's
mother is _Mrs._ Forester, having married the eldest son, and one must
be exact, you know."
"I beg your pardon," said Marjory, covered with confusion.
Blanche's Aunt Katharine looked at her critically. "I suppose your
mother plaits your hair in that pigtail to save trouble, but they are
not worn in town, you know."
"My mother is dead," said Marjory stolidly.
"Dear, dear, yes, of course, now I remember Rose--that's Mrs. Forester,
you know--Rose did say something to that effect, but my memory fails me
so often; it is a great affliction. Well, it's a good thing your poor
father has you left to comfort him. My darling Maud is my one comfort,
I'm sure, while her father is away in those dreadful foreign places.
Perhaps I spoil her a little," complacently; "but then I dare say,"
playfully, "that your father spoils you."
"I haven't got a father either," said poor Marjory dully.
Mrs. Hilary carefully adjusted her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and looked at
Marjory over the top of them.
"Well, to be sure, I certainly understood--at least I thought--but
there, my memory does fail me at times; still, I was certainly under the
impression that your father was Dr. Hunter--_the_ great Dr. Hunter."
"No, he is my uncle; my name is Davidson," explained Marjory.
"Oh yes, yes, to be sure, now I come to think of it, Rose did say
something about it, and I remember wondering whether you belonged to
_the_ Davidsons, you know."
"I don't know," said Marjory doubtfully, wishing that Blanche and Maud
would come to her rescue.
"I must look it up for you, dear child. It is such a comfort to know
that one belongs to _the_ branch of a family, you know. As I tell Maud,
it makes all the difference to a young girl in these days when mere
money, that root of all evil, is so much thought of; not but that it is
a comfort too, in its way--in its way," she continued thoughtfully; "but
at this time of year one ought to think of doing little kindnesses,
leaving money out of the question--I mean we should not let it be our
sole comfort at such a time, you understand."
Marjory did not understand, and as she did not know what to reply to
this harangue, she said nothing. But silence did not suit Mrs. Hilary.
"You are very quiet for a girl of your age," she said. "Now my Maud has
a continual flow of merry chatter, and I encourage the darling. I think
it is so nice for a young girl to have plenty to say, and to have her
own little opinions about things. For instance, Maudie chooses all her
own hats and frocks, and decides what we shall do and where we shall go.
It is perfectly delightful for me, and saves me so much thought and
worry; I suffer so with my bad memory, you know. Come now, can't you
chat to me? Any little village gossip or small happenings at home?"
("atome," as she pronounced it). "No? Well, dear me, what was it that
darling Maud said about you? I know she said something, but my memory is
_such_ a trial. Oh yes, there was something about a dog; and you called
Maud a savage, and she rather liked you for it. Dear child, she has such
a sweet, forgiving nature."
"I never called her a savage," protested Marjory. "I--"
At that moment Blanche and Maud came bursting into the room.
"What's that about calling names?" cried Maud. "I called _her_ a
savage," nodding at Marjory, "but I didn't mean any harm, and you've got
it all mixed up, you dear darling old muddle-head of a mother." And she
rushed upon Mrs. Hilary and hugged her until the poor lady had no breath
left with which to protest.
Marjory looked on in wonder. When Maud had done with her mother she
turned to Marjory.
"Now, _don't_ look at me like that," she said plaintively; "you're going
to like me in the end; I'm going to make you. I know just exactly what
you're thinking--that I'm a horrid, stuck-up, thoroughly spoilt and
disagreeable girl. So I am; but I'm all right when you know me, though
you've got to know me first, as the song says. True, I don't like
dogs--nasty lumbering things that spoil one's best clothes; but that's
not a crime--it's an opinion. I always have my own way, everybody gives
in to me, and so long as I can 'boss the show,' as our American cousins
say, I can be quite charming. Now you look as if you liked bossing shows
yourself, Miss Marjory--people with long noses always do; so one of us
will have to give in. I wonder which it will be. But I must have you
like me; I am perfectly miserable if people aren't fond of me." And she
looked at Marjory with a comic yet pathetic appeal in her eyes.
"Dear Maudie has such quaint little sayings," said her mother. "I don't
know how she can remember them all."
"Well, which is it to be?" demanded Maud, dramatically striking an
attitude. "Is it peace or war?"
"Oh, peace, I suppose," replied Marjory, laughing; and then as an
afterthought--"for the present."
This girl with her airs and graces and her comical ways was something
quite new to Marjory, and she stood contemplating this wonderful and
puzzling creature, when the creature suddenly seized her round the
waist, waltzing out of the room with her, and calling Blanche to come
too.
"Darling Maud has such wonderfully high spirits," murmured Mrs. Hilary
to the empty air. She had probably forgotten that there was no one left
in the room.