Hunters Marjory | Page 3

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