TEARS.

“A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.” WORDSWORTH.

Marjory was lying under a tree in the wood beyond her uncle’s garden; her head was hidden in the long, soft coat of a black retriever, and she was crying sobbing bitterly as if her heart would break, and as if nothing could ever comfort her again.

“O Silky,” she moaned, “if you only knew, you would be so sorry for me.”

The faithful dog knew that something very serious was the matter with his young mistress, but he could only lick her hands and wag his tail as well as he was able with her weight upon his body.

A fresh burst of grief shook the girl; and Silky, puzzled by this unusual behaviour on Marjory’s part, began to make little low whines himself. Suddenly the whines were changed to growls, the dog shook himself free from the girl’s clasping arms and stood erect, staring into the wood beyond.

Marjory was too much overcome by her grief to notice Silky’s doings, and it was not until she heard a voice quite close to her saying, “You poor little thing, what is the matter?” that she realized that she was not alone.

She looked up, startled, wondering who this stranger could be making free of her uncle’s woods. She saw a lady, tall and fair, looking kindly at her, and a girl who might have stepped out of a picture, so sweet and fresh and pretty she looked in her white frock and shady hat.

For one minute Marjory gazed at her in admiration, and then, conscious of her tear-stained face and tumbled dress, let her head droop again and sobbed afresh.

The lady spoke again: “My dear child, what is wrong?”

“Nothing,” sobbed Marjory “nothing that I can tell you.”

She felt ashamed of being seen in such a plight, and had an instinctive dislike of showing her feelings to a stranger, for Marjory was an extremely shy girl.

“But, my dear,” remonstrated the lady, “I cannot leave you like this; besides,” with a smile most winning, if only Marjory could have seen it, “I believe you are trespassing upon our newly-acquired property.”

Marjory raised her head at this, and said quickly, and perhaps just a little proudly,

“Oh no, I’m not; this is my uncle’s ground.”

“Oh dear; then Blanche and I are the trespassers, though quite innocent ones. And you must be Marjory Davidson, I think Dr. Hunter’s niece; and if so, I know a great deal about you, and we are going to be friends, and you must let me begin by helping you now.”

So saying, the lady seated herself on the ground beside Marjory, her daughter looking on, at the same time stroking and patting Silky, who seemed much more disposed to be friendly than his mistress.

“Can’t you tell me what the trouble is, Marjory? I am Mrs. Forester, and this is my daughter Blanche. We have just come to live at Braeside. Your uncle called on us to-day, and told us about you. Blanche and I have been looking forward to seeing you and making friends. Haven’t we, Blanche?”

“Yes, I’ve thought of nothing else since I heard about you,” said the girl, rather shyly, the colour coming into her face as she spoke.

Marjory stole another glance at her, and she thought she had never seen or imagined any one so sweet and pretty as this girl.

“Blanche,” she thought “that means white; I know it from the names of roses and hyacinths. I’ve seen it on the labels. And she is just like her name like a beautiful white rose with the tiniest bit of pink in it.”

“Come now, Marjory dear,” coaxed Mrs. Forester; “won’t you take us for friends, and tell me a little about this trouble of yours? Won’t you let me try to help you out of it?”

“No, you can’t help me; nobody can. It’s very kind of you,” stammered Marjory, “but it’s no use.”

“Suppose you tell me, and let me judge whether I can help you or not.” And Mrs. Forester took hold of one of Marjory’s little brown hands and stroked it gently.

The soft touch and the gentle voice won Marjory’s heart at last, and she said brokenly, between her sobs,

“It’s about learning things and going to school and uncle won’t let me, and and he won’t tell me about my father, and I don’t belong to anybody.”

“Poor child, poor little one, don’t cry so. Try to tell me all about it. I don’t quite understand, but I am sure I shall be able to help you.”

Bit by bit the story came out. The poor little heart unburdened itself to sympathetic ears, and the girl could hardly believe that it was she Marjory Davidson who was talking like this to a stranger. She felt for the first time in her life the relief of confiding in some one who really understands, and she experienced the comfort that sympathy can give. She felt as though she were dreaming, and that this gentle woman, whose touch was so loving and whose voice was so tender, might be the mother whom, alas! she had never seen but in her dreams.

Marjory’s mother had died when her baby was only a few days old, and all that the child had ever been told about her father was that he was away in foreign parts at the time of her mother’s death, and that he had never been seen or heard of since. Many and many a time did she think of this unknown father. Was he still alive? Did he never give a thought to his little girl? Would he ever come home to see her?

The true story was this: Dr. Hunter had been devotedly fond of his sister Marjory the only one amongst several brothers and sisters who had lived to grow up. Many years younger than himself, she had been more like a daughter to him than a sister. On the death of their parents he had been left her sole guardian, and she had lived with him and been the light and joy of his home. The doctor might seem hard and cold to outsiders, wrapped up in his scientific studies and pursuits, giving little thought or care to any other affairs, but he had an intense capacity for loving, and he lavished his affection upon his young sister, leaving nothing undone that might increase her happiness or her comfort.

All went well until she married Hugh Davidson, handsome, careless, and of a roving disposition, as the doctor pronounced him to be. They loved each other, and the doctor had to take the second place.

Mr. and Mrs. Davidson made their home in England for a few months after their marriage; then he received an imperative summons from the other side of the world requiring his presence. He was needed to look after some mining property in the far away North-West in the interests of a company to which he belonged. He bade a hurried farewell to his wife, promising to be back in six months. She went home to her brother at Hunters’ Brae, and lived with him until her death. She never recovered from the shock of the parting. Her husband’s letters were of necessity few and far between. She had no idea of the difficulties and hardships of his life, and although she defended his long silences when the doctor made comment upon them, still she felt it was very hard that he should write so seldom, and when he did write that the letters should be so short. Could she have seen him struggling through an ice-bound country, enduring hardships and even privations such as are unknown to the traveller of to-day; could she have seen all this, she could never have blamed him, she could only have praised him for his faithful service to those who had sent him, and the cheerful tone of his letters to her, with no word of personal complaint.

But Mrs. Davidson slowly lost her strength. She faded away as a beautiful fragile lily might, and Hunters’ Brae was once more left desolate yet not quite desolate, for there was the baby girl; and, thinking of her, the doctor resolved that she should take her mother’s place with him. He would devote himself to her, he would try to avoid all the mistakes he had made with his sister, and, above all, her father should not even know of her existence. He would keep her all to himself, she should know no other care but his, and thus her whole affection should be his alone.

It must be owned that jealousy had blinded Dr. Hunter to his brother-in-law’s good qualities. He had never troubled to inquire into the circumstances of his going abroad. Enough for him that the man had left his wife alone only a few months after their marriage, and he obstinately refused to hear one word in his defence, and would believe no good of him. He was quite honest in his desire to do the best that was possible for the child, and in the feeling that it would be better to keep all knowledge of her father from her. He looked upon Hugh Davidson as a black sheep. A black sheep could do no good to any one; therefore, he argued, he should not come near this precious child.

Acting upon this determination, he wrote a very curt note to Mr. Davidson, acquainting him with the fact of his wife’s death, and telling him that it was entirely his fault that he had practically killed her by leaving her alone but making no mention of the child.

Poor Mr. Davidson received this letter just at a time when he dared to hope that his work was nearly done and he could allow himself to think of going home, and his grief was pitiable. He had no near relatives, having been the only child of his parents, who had been dead many years. His wandering life had cut him adrift from the acquaintances and surroundings of his youth. He and his wife had lived in a world of their own during those few short months, and she had been his only correspondent in the old country when he left it. Thus it came about that there was no one to give him the information which Dr. Hunter withheld; and the poor man, thinking himself alone in the world, with no ties, no friends, never had the heart to return home to the scenes of his former happiness; and thus it was that he never knew, never thought of his little girl growing up in that remote Scottish home, lonely like himself, longing for and dreaming of things that seemed beyond her reach.

In the first weeks after his sister’s death Dr. Hunter derived much consolation from the thought of the child. He had named her Marjory after her mother, and took it for granted that she would be just such another Marjory fair-haired and blue-eyed and he pictured her growing up gentle and quiet, as her mother had been. Certainly the infant’s eyes were blue at first, and there was no hair to be seen on her head to trouble the doctor’s visions by its unexpected colour; but slowly and surely it showed itself dark black as night crisp, and curly like her father’s. The eyes deepened and deepened till they too were dark, liquid, and shining, with a look of appeal in them, even in those early days.

To say that Dr. Hunter was disappointed would be a most inadequate description of his feelings. He was dismayed at first when he realized the total reversal of his expectations, and finally enraged to think that this living image of the man he disliked, and whom his conscience at times would insist he had wronged, would be constantly before him to remind him of things he would prefer to forget.

But these feelings passed, and the child soon found her way into her uncle’s heart the heart that was really so big and so loving, though the way to it might be hard and rough. The little toddling child knew no fear of her stern old uncle; it was only as she grew up that shyness, restraint, and awkwardness in his presence took possession of Marjory.

Dr. Hunter had looked after her education himself. She had been a delicate little child, and he had not troubled about any lessons in the ordinary sense of the word for some years. He wished her body to grow strong first, so she had spent her days in the garden, on the hills, or on the lake with him; she had learned the ways of birds and flowers and animals, and meanwhile had grown sturdy and healthy. Her uncle had not allowed her to make friends with any of the children in the neighbourhood; he himself was intimate with none of his neighbours except the minister, Mr. Mackenzie, and the doctor, Dr. Morison. The minister had no children, and the doctor’s two boys were at school, so that Marjory only saw them occasionally in the holidays. She had no playmates of her own age, and the children of the village looked upon her as an alien amongst them, regarding her almost with dislike, although it was not her fault that she was obliged to hold aloof from them.

Dr. Hunter had a theory that his sister had been too dreamy and romantic; that he had petted her and given in to her too much, instead of insisting upon her learning to be more practical. He blamed the fairy tales of her childhood, the influence of her school companions, the poetry and novels of later years as the chief causes of what he called her dreamy ways and romantic nonsense, and he determined that Marjory should be very differently brought up. She must learn to cook and to sew and to be useful in the house. She should not be allowed to read fairy tales or poetry, nor should she be sent to school; he himself would teach her what it was necessary for her to learn; he would be very careful before allowing her to make any friendships; and with all these precautionary measures he felt that she must grow into a good, strong, sensible, capable girl.

So Lisbeth the housekeeper was ordered to teach the child to dust and to sew and other useful things; and Peter, her husband, must teach her to hoe and to rake, to sow seeds in her little garden and keep it tidy. The doctor’s own part in the programme was to teach her to read and write and cast up figures. That would be enough, he considered, for the present. Music, languages, and poetry were to be left out as being likely to lead to romantic ideas and dreams and unrealities. “Time enough for them when she is older,” he decided. “When the foundation of common-sense has been laid, there will be no danger. Till then I shall keep her to facts and nothing else.”

The doctor did his best to carry out these plans, which he honestly believed to be for the child’s good in every possible way. Lisbeth and Peter, grown old in service at Hunters’ Brae, were warned on no account to talk to Marjory about her father or old times, or to encourage her in doing so; and they tried hard to do as their master bade them, though it was difficult sometimes to resist those pleading eyes when the child would say, “Won’t you tell me about my father, Lisbeth dear?” or “Peter darling,” as the case might be. Peter was a gardener and man-of-all-work, and his hands were sometimes very dirty, but he was a darling all the same to Marjory, and indeed he was a good old man. If he and his wife had known the truth, that Mr. Davidson had never been told about his child, it is likely that Peter’s strict sense of justice would have prompted him to right that wrong. But, like every one else, he took it for granted that the news had gone to Mr. Davidson, and in his kind old heart was often tempted to blame the seemingly careless father.

“Could he but see the bonnie lamb,” he would say sometimes to his wife, “the vera picter o’ himsel’, he wouldna hae the heart to leave her. I’ve wondered whiles if the doctor wouldna send him a bit photograph, just to show him what like she is.”

Lisbeth would reply, “Peter, it’s just nae manner o’ use thinkin’ o’ ony sic a thing. The doctor he’s that set against Mr. Davidson that ye micht as weel try to move Ben Lomond itsel’ as to move him.”

These conversations usually ended in an admonition from Lisbeth to Peter to eat his meat and no blether. The suggestion was never made to the doctor, no word ever reached Mr. Davidson, and things went on much in the same way year after year; and although at times the doctor would question the efficacy of his plans for Marjory’s education, on the whole he was fairly satisfied with them.

The day on which this story opens had seen the doctor take a most unusual step. Hearing from an old acquaintance in London a scientific man and student like himself whose opinion he considered worth something that some friends of his had bought Braeside, the property adjoining Hunters’ Brae, he determined to do his duty as a neighbour, and go to welcome the newcomers as soon as they arrived. His friend had written, “Mrs. Forester is a most charming woman, Forester himself a thoroughly good fellow, and their little girl Blanche one of the sweetest children I have ever seen. She will make a good companion for your niece, poor little thing.”

This letter had set the doctor thinking. First, he was nettled by his friend’s use of the words “poor little thing.” Why should Marjory be pitied as a poor little thing? Had he not done everything he possibly could for her? Then came one of those painful stabs of conscience which insisted now and then on being felt. What about her father? Have you done right in that matter?

He salved his conscience for the time being by making up his mind to go and see the Foresters, and if they were indeed all that his friend had said, there could be no reason why he should not encourage a friendship between the two girls. Marjory certainly had been very quiet and inclined to mope of late, and it would be a good thing for her to be roused by this new interest. The child was seldom out of his thoughts for long together; he loved her as his own; and yet Marjory was not happy she was lonely, she did not understand her uncle and misjudged him, and he found her cold and unresponsive. There was something wanting between them; both were conscious of this want, yet neither knew how to supply it and so mend matters.