Chapter Thirteen.A Discovery.In the beginning of April May came home—“bonnier than ever,” as Jean told her father, as she met him at the door. He laughed when he heard her say it, but he agreed with her, and told her so when a day or two had passed.He could hardly make it clear to himself, nor could Jean, in what she was different from her former self. It was because she was growing to be more like her mother as she grew older, he said. And Jean by and by came to the conclusion that something had happened to her sister while she was away—something to make her hopeful and happy, and at the same time graver and more thoughtful; yet she was very merry and sweet, and it was oh! so pleasant to have her home again. They made holidays of these first days of her home coming, and Jean was able to forget, or put aside, her sad and anxious thoughts for a while.But there came a day when she well knew they would not be forgotten or put aside.“May,” said she one morning, “let us go down to the Tangle Stanes to-day. This is the tenth, ye ken.”“Well, let us go. It is a bonny day. But what about the tenth. I don’t know what you mean.”“Have you forgotten? The ‘John Seaton’ sailed on the tenth,” said Jean gravely.May’s colour changed a little. So did Jean’s. But while May reddened, Jean grew pale.“Have they heard bad news? Surely it is time that they were coming home again,” said May.“They might have been home before this time. But the voyage is often longer. I don’t think there is any anxiety as yet.”“Well—we can go down to the Tangle Stanes. And will Hugh come too? I see the pony is brought round.”But they could not go at once, for Jean heard her father’s voice calling her, and went to his room. As she did not return immediately, May and the lad set off together.“Jean will come to the Tangle Stanes. I will wait for her there. And you can go on by yourself, Hugh, and meet us there afterwards.” And a message to this effect was left for Miss Dawson.Jean found her father sitting with an open letter in his hand. He made a movement as though he meant to give it to her, but withdrew it again saying,—“I fancy it was only meant for my eye. I have a surprise for you, Jean. Mr Manners, the university professor I told you about, writes, offering a visit. He does not say when, but soon—as soon as may be.”“Mr Manners! I did not know that you had asked him, papa.”“Oh, yes! I asked him in a general way, as I did others—if he should ever be in this part of the country. But he is coming for a particular reason, it seems.”“Papa! Not for May?” said Jean sitting down suddenly.“Well—it looks like it, though how you should have guessed it is queer enough. It never came into my mind, often as I saw them together. Is it from any thing your sister has said?”“May has said nothing to me—nothing.”“I acknowledge that I am surprised. I should not have supposed that he was at all the man to be taken with a girl like May. If it had been you now—”“Are you pleased, papa? Will you let him come? And would you give him May?”“May must decide that for herself. All that he asks now is my leave to come and speak for himself. He does not wish any thing to be said to her till he says it himself.”“And will you let him come?” asked Jean gravely.“Well, I think he has a right to be heard. Yes, I think we must let him come.”“Is Mr Manners a rich man, papa?”“A rich man? I should say not. Indeed he tells me as much as that. He has a professional income, enough to live comfortably upon. He is a scholar and a gentleman, and money is a secondary consideration.”“Yes—if every thing else is right,” said Jean a little surprised. She had not supposed that in any case, money would be a secondary consideration with her father.“But he is a stranger, and—an Englishman.”Mr Dawson laughed.“An Englishman! That can hardly be put as an objection, I should think. He is a stranger—in a sense—but he is a man well-known in his own circle, and beyond it—a man much respected, they tell me.”Jean knew by her father’s manner that he was as much pleased as he was surprised.“She is very young,” said she in a little.“She is old enough to know her own mind, I suppose, and there need be no haste, if it is to be. I think I must let him come.”“And I am not to speak to her?”“Oh! as to that, I suppose he only meant that he wished to tell his own story. Still as there is no time set for his coming, it may be as well to say nothing for a day or two.”“Very well,” and Jean rose and went away.“She doesna seem to be over weel pleased at this, but she’ll come round. I’m glad that it should be her sister rather than her that I maun part with. I could ill spare my Jean,” said Mr Dawson to himself, as his eye followed her as she moved slowly down the walk. “Though I dare say her turn will come,” he added with a sigh.It was not that Jean was ill-pleased, but she was disturbed at the thought of trouble that might be before them.“My father will never listen to a word about Willie Calderwood. And unless May is very firm—”And she could not but have serious doubts of May’s firmness in withstanding the will of her father.“But at least he will not force her to many any one else. I could help her to stand out against such a thing as that. And I will too,” said Jean.But a greater surprise than her father had given her at home, awaited her at the Tangle Stanes. May sat on the lower ridge of rock where she had sheltered herself that day, while Jean watched for the “John Seaton.” This was a very different day from that. There was no wind to-day and the sun shone and the air was soft and warm. The sea was calm and blue as the sky—with only here and there a touch of white where the tiny wavelets broke on the half hidden rocks beyond the Tangle Stanes. Jean stood still, and looked out upon it, pondering many things, then her eye fell on her sister.She was singing softly to herself, as she plucked at the dried stalks of last summer’s weeds that still clung to the sheltered side of the rock, or gathered the broken bits of stone, and threw them down into the sea. She was looking neither sad nor anxious, she was smiling, at her own thoughts, Jean fancied, as she stood still a minute or two looking down upon her. Then May turned and saw.“Such a bonny day?” said she.“Yes—a bonny day indeed. Where is Hugh?”“He’s not far away. I told him that we would wait for him here. Will you come down, or shall I come up to you?”“I’ll come to you. Some one might join us if we were to stay up in sight, and I have something to say to you. Or rather I have a question to ask you about some one.”“Well, come then. Is it about anyone in—London?” asked May smiling, while a little colour rose to her cheek.“No,” said Jean gravely. “I am going to ask you about Willie Calderwood. And indeed I think you might have spoken more plainly to me long ago.”May laughed.“I have often wondered that you have never spoken plainly to me.”“Have you? Well, being your elder sister, perhaps I ought to have done so. I did not like to speak, since you did not.”“Just so. And I did not like to speak to you for the same reason.”“Well, we will speak now. May,” said she softly, laying her hand on her sister’s shoulder, “tell me just how it is between Willie and you.”“I don’t understand you, Jean. There is nothing in the world between Willie and me.”“May, have you—changed your mind? Don’t you care for him any longer?”“I don’t know what you mean. As to caring for him—of course I care for him—in a way. But, Jean, it is not me that Willie Calderwood cares for. He has said nothing to me that he might not have said to—almost any one in Portie.”“May, have you forgotten a year ago?—how you came here a year ago, because he asked you? Of course he could not speak, because of my father. Do you mean that he doesna care for you—more than for any one else.”“He has kept it to himself, if he does. Oh! yes, I know—my father. But if he had had any thing to say, he would have said it, or I would have guessed it. I don’t know why you should have taken the like of that into your head.”“I saw him seeking you out wherever we met. He said more to you at such times than to all the rest of us put together. He followed you always. Every one saw it as well as I. And then the day he went away—”“Oh, Jean, what nonsense! I came that day to please you. You made me come. You must mind that well enough. As for his asking me, it was more than half in jest. I am sure he did not expect me to come. And he never could have seen us, on such a day.”“And do you mean that if he were to come home to Portie and not find you here, it would be all the same to him?”“Oh! he’ll find me here when he comes, and I shall be glad to see him safe and well. But he has no right to expect a warmer welcome from me than from—any other friend, and he doesna expect it.”Jean looked at her in amazement.“Have I been dreaming all the year?” said she.“It would seem so. I have just as much right to ask you about Willie Calderwood, as you have to ask me.”Jean shook her head.“He has very seldom spoken to me since—the old days.”“But that might be because of my father, ye ken,” said May laughing. And then she added gravely, “We may be glad that there is nothing between him and either of us, Jean. It would only have been another heartbreak. I have fancied whiles, thatyouwere thinking about him—but I am very,veryglad for your sake that—”“Of course I have been thinking about him—about him and you. I ought to be glad that I have been only dreaming, as you say, because of my father. But—poor Willie!—I doubt he has been dreaming too.”“No, Jean, not about me. And even if it had been as you thought, I would never have listened to him, and indeed he never would have spoken after all that’s come and gone.”“It would not have been the same to my father, as George and Elsie.”“But coming after—it would have been all that over again, and worse. And Willie Calderwood is as proud and hard about some things, as my father.”“And that might have kept him from speaking,” said Jean.“And so it ought, even if he had had any thing to say, which he had not. You need not shake your head as though you didna believe me.”“I must believe you—since you say so—for yourself. But you may be mistaken about him, though he never spoke.”“Never spoke!” repeated May, mimicking her sister’s voice and her grave manner. “And do you think I would have needed words to let me know if he had cared for me—in that way? You are wise about some things, Jean, but you are not just so wise as you might be about others. Wait a while.”May laughed and reddened, and then turned and climbed to the top of the rock to see if Hugh were in sight. Jean followed her slowly.“I ought to be glad. I am glad. There is a great weight lifted from my heart. May is safe from the trouble that threatened, and so is my father. As for Willie Calderwood—well it is better for him too, that May doesna care, even if—And he’ll get over it.”When Hugh came back they all took their way to Miss Jean’s house by the sea. But as Hugh was not yet equal to the feat of dismounting without more help than he was willing to accept from the young ladies, May and he soon turned their faces homeward again, and Jean, who had something to do in the town, was left behind. She sat a while with her aunt, but she was quite silent, and her face was turned toward the sea. Miss Jean was silent also, giving her a glance now and then, feeling sure that she had something more than usual on her mind which perhaps she might need a little help to tell.“Well,” said she after a little, “have you any news? I think I see something in your e’en. Come awa’ frae the window and say what ye ha’e to say.”Jean rose and came forward to the fire.“Has my father been in? He will tell you himself, when there is really any thing to tell. He is sure to be in some time to-day.”“And it is nothing to vex you, dear? Are you glad about it?”“It ought not to vex me. It is only what was sure to happen. And though I am not glad yet—I dare say I shall be glad in time.”“Is it about your sister?”“Yes—and I think papa is glad. But he will tell you himself.”“And there is nothing else?”Jean sat looking at her aunt for a minute or two.“Yes, there is something else that ought to lighten my heart. It has lightened it, I think. I’m not just sure.”“And that is about May too?”“Yes—about May.”She said no more and her aunt did not question her. By and by Miss Jean said,—“It’s a bonny day—and fine for the season. It was a different day last year when the ‘John Seaton’ sailed.”“Yes, I mind it well.”Jean did not look like herself, but absent and dazed like, as though her mind were full of other things. Miss Jean said nothing for a while, and Jean rose as if she were going away; but stood for a while looking out of the window.“My dear,” said her aunt, “I have thought that you have been troubled like about various matters, this while back, and about your sister among the rest. But I think ye ha’e nae occasion.”“Yes, I have been anxious.”“Because of Willie Calderwood? But, my dear, I canna think that there’s any occasion.”“I seem to have been mistaken as far as she is concerned. She says so.”“And as for him—I never asked him and he never told me—but I’m no feared that he’ll be the worse in the end for any such trouble. And, Jean, my lassie, we ha’e great reason for thankfulness that so it is. It would only have been anither heartbreak.”“Yes. That is what May said.”“Not but what they both would have outlived it—and had many a happy day after it. But I am glad we havena to go through all that, for all our sakes, and more especially for the sake of your father. For he is growing an old man now, and another blow like that would have been ill on him, whichever way it had ended.”“But, aunt,—ye mustna be angry at me for saying it,—but I canna think that my father was altogether wise or right in the way he took with George and Elsie.”“My dear, who is ever altogether wise and right in all they do, even to those they love best? And, my dear, ye are nae your father’s judge. And do ye think that he sees now that all he did was wisest and best? and yet he might do the very same again. And even if he shouldna, it would be a misery and a lifelong pain to him all the same. My dear, I’m mair than thankful and we’ll say nae mair about it.”And no more was said. But as Jean went slowly homeward, she had many thoughts of all she had heard that day. Glad! Of course she could not but be glad that all which must have brought disappointment and pain upon so many, had only been a dream of hers. How could she have been so mistaken! How much better it would have been if she had spoken plainly to her sister a year ago! Would May have answered as decidedly then?Yes. Jean did not doubt that she would have done so. She did not doubt her sister’s sincerity when she declared that she had never cared for Willie Calderwood “in that way.”“Wise about some things, but not so wise about others,” said Jean with a smile, recalling her sister’s words.And might she not have been mistaken about Willie Calderwood as well as about May? May declared it, her aunt seemed to imply it. But surely Mrs Calderwood had been thinking about May that day! Jean’s cheeks grew hot as she recalled her words and looks.“Oh! I am thankful that I never named my sister’s name to her. And if it was May she was thinking about, she will soon see that she was mistaken too, and that she needna have feared. And if it wasna May she was thinking about, she needna be feared?”Jean walked more rapidly, and held her head higher as the thought passed through her mind. She believed herself to be very angry as all the scene came vividly back to her—angry with Mrs Calderwood. But for all that she went home with a lightened heart and with a face at once brighter and more peaceful than her father had seen for a while.
In the beginning of April May came home—“bonnier than ever,” as Jean told her father, as she met him at the door. He laughed when he heard her say it, but he agreed with her, and told her so when a day or two had passed.
He could hardly make it clear to himself, nor could Jean, in what she was different from her former self. It was because she was growing to be more like her mother as she grew older, he said. And Jean by and by came to the conclusion that something had happened to her sister while she was away—something to make her hopeful and happy, and at the same time graver and more thoughtful; yet she was very merry and sweet, and it was oh! so pleasant to have her home again. They made holidays of these first days of her home coming, and Jean was able to forget, or put aside, her sad and anxious thoughts for a while.
But there came a day when she well knew they would not be forgotten or put aside.
“May,” said she one morning, “let us go down to the Tangle Stanes to-day. This is the tenth, ye ken.”
“Well, let us go. It is a bonny day. But what about the tenth. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you forgotten? The ‘John Seaton’ sailed on the tenth,” said Jean gravely.
May’s colour changed a little. So did Jean’s. But while May reddened, Jean grew pale.
“Have they heard bad news? Surely it is time that they were coming home again,” said May.
“They might have been home before this time. But the voyage is often longer. I don’t think there is any anxiety as yet.”
“Well—we can go down to the Tangle Stanes. And will Hugh come too? I see the pony is brought round.”
But they could not go at once, for Jean heard her father’s voice calling her, and went to his room. As she did not return immediately, May and the lad set off together.
“Jean will come to the Tangle Stanes. I will wait for her there. And you can go on by yourself, Hugh, and meet us there afterwards.” And a message to this effect was left for Miss Dawson.
Jean found her father sitting with an open letter in his hand. He made a movement as though he meant to give it to her, but withdrew it again saying,—
“I fancy it was only meant for my eye. I have a surprise for you, Jean. Mr Manners, the university professor I told you about, writes, offering a visit. He does not say when, but soon—as soon as may be.”
“Mr Manners! I did not know that you had asked him, papa.”
“Oh, yes! I asked him in a general way, as I did others—if he should ever be in this part of the country. But he is coming for a particular reason, it seems.”
“Papa! Not for May?” said Jean sitting down suddenly.
“Well—it looks like it, though how you should have guessed it is queer enough. It never came into my mind, often as I saw them together. Is it from any thing your sister has said?”
“May has said nothing to me—nothing.”
“I acknowledge that I am surprised. I should not have supposed that he was at all the man to be taken with a girl like May. If it had been you now—”
“Are you pleased, papa? Will you let him come? And would you give him May?”
“May must decide that for herself. All that he asks now is my leave to come and speak for himself. He does not wish any thing to be said to her till he says it himself.”
“And will you let him come?” asked Jean gravely.
“Well, I think he has a right to be heard. Yes, I think we must let him come.”
“Is Mr Manners a rich man, papa?”
“A rich man? I should say not. Indeed he tells me as much as that. He has a professional income, enough to live comfortably upon. He is a scholar and a gentleman, and money is a secondary consideration.”
“Yes—if every thing else is right,” said Jean a little surprised. She had not supposed that in any case, money would be a secondary consideration with her father.
“But he is a stranger, and—an Englishman.”
Mr Dawson laughed.
“An Englishman! That can hardly be put as an objection, I should think. He is a stranger—in a sense—but he is a man well-known in his own circle, and beyond it—a man much respected, they tell me.”
Jean knew by her father’s manner that he was as much pleased as he was surprised.
“She is very young,” said she in a little.
“She is old enough to know her own mind, I suppose, and there need be no haste, if it is to be. I think I must let him come.”
“And I am not to speak to her?”
“Oh! as to that, I suppose he only meant that he wished to tell his own story. Still as there is no time set for his coming, it may be as well to say nothing for a day or two.”
“Very well,” and Jean rose and went away.
“She doesna seem to be over weel pleased at this, but she’ll come round. I’m glad that it should be her sister rather than her that I maun part with. I could ill spare my Jean,” said Mr Dawson to himself, as his eye followed her as she moved slowly down the walk. “Though I dare say her turn will come,” he added with a sigh.
It was not that Jean was ill-pleased, but she was disturbed at the thought of trouble that might be before them.
“My father will never listen to a word about Willie Calderwood. And unless May is very firm—”
And she could not but have serious doubts of May’s firmness in withstanding the will of her father.
“But at least he will not force her to many any one else. I could help her to stand out against such a thing as that. And I will too,” said Jean.
But a greater surprise than her father had given her at home, awaited her at the Tangle Stanes. May sat on the lower ridge of rock where she had sheltered herself that day, while Jean watched for the “John Seaton.” This was a very different day from that. There was no wind to-day and the sun shone and the air was soft and warm. The sea was calm and blue as the sky—with only here and there a touch of white where the tiny wavelets broke on the half hidden rocks beyond the Tangle Stanes. Jean stood still, and looked out upon it, pondering many things, then her eye fell on her sister.
She was singing softly to herself, as she plucked at the dried stalks of last summer’s weeds that still clung to the sheltered side of the rock, or gathered the broken bits of stone, and threw them down into the sea. She was looking neither sad nor anxious, she was smiling, at her own thoughts, Jean fancied, as she stood still a minute or two looking down upon her. Then May turned and saw.
“Such a bonny day?” said she.
“Yes—a bonny day indeed. Where is Hugh?”
“He’s not far away. I told him that we would wait for him here. Will you come down, or shall I come up to you?”
“I’ll come to you. Some one might join us if we were to stay up in sight, and I have something to say to you. Or rather I have a question to ask you about some one.”
“Well, come then. Is it about anyone in—London?” asked May smiling, while a little colour rose to her cheek.
“No,” said Jean gravely. “I am going to ask you about Willie Calderwood. And indeed I think you might have spoken more plainly to me long ago.”
May laughed.
“I have often wondered that you have never spoken plainly to me.”
“Have you? Well, being your elder sister, perhaps I ought to have done so. I did not like to speak, since you did not.”
“Just so. And I did not like to speak to you for the same reason.”
“Well, we will speak now. May,” said she softly, laying her hand on her sister’s shoulder, “tell me just how it is between Willie and you.”
“I don’t understand you, Jean. There is nothing in the world between Willie and me.”
“May, have you—changed your mind? Don’t you care for him any longer?”
“I don’t know what you mean. As to caring for him—of course I care for him—in a way. But, Jean, it is not me that Willie Calderwood cares for. He has said nothing to me that he might not have said to—almost any one in Portie.”
“May, have you forgotten a year ago?—how you came here a year ago, because he asked you? Of course he could not speak, because of my father. Do you mean that he doesna care for you—more than for any one else.”
“He has kept it to himself, if he does. Oh! yes, I know—my father. But if he had had any thing to say, he would have said it, or I would have guessed it. I don’t know why you should have taken the like of that into your head.”
“I saw him seeking you out wherever we met. He said more to you at such times than to all the rest of us put together. He followed you always. Every one saw it as well as I. And then the day he went away—”
“Oh, Jean, what nonsense! I came that day to please you. You made me come. You must mind that well enough. As for his asking me, it was more than half in jest. I am sure he did not expect me to come. And he never could have seen us, on such a day.”
“And do you mean that if he were to come home to Portie and not find you here, it would be all the same to him?”
“Oh! he’ll find me here when he comes, and I shall be glad to see him safe and well. But he has no right to expect a warmer welcome from me than from—any other friend, and he doesna expect it.”
Jean looked at her in amazement.
“Have I been dreaming all the year?” said she.
“It would seem so. I have just as much right to ask you about Willie Calderwood, as you have to ask me.”
Jean shook her head.
“He has very seldom spoken to me since—the old days.”
“But that might be because of my father, ye ken,” said May laughing. And then she added gravely, “We may be glad that there is nothing between him and either of us, Jean. It would only have been another heartbreak. I have fancied whiles, thatyouwere thinking about him—but I am very,veryglad for your sake that—”
“Of course I have been thinking about him—about him and you. I ought to be glad that I have been only dreaming, as you say, because of my father. But—poor Willie!—I doubt he has been dreaming too.”
“No, Jean, not about me. And even if it had been as you thought, I would never have listened to him, and indeed he never would have spoken after all that’s come and gone.”
“It would not have been the same to my father, as George and Elsie.”
“But coming after—it would have been all that over again, and worse. And Willie Calderwood is as proud and hard about some things, as my father.”
“And that might have kept him from speaking,” said Jean.
“And so it ought, even if he had had any thing to say, which he had not. You need not shake your head as though you didna believe me.”
“I must believe you—since you say so—for yourself. But you may be mistaken about him, though he never spoke.”
“Never spoke!” repeated May, mimicking her sister’s voice and her grave manner. “And do you think I would have needed words to let me know if he had cared for me—in that way? You are wise about some things, Jean, but you are not just so wise as you might be about others. Wait a while.”
May laughed and reddened, and then turned and climbed to the top of the rock to see if Hugh were in sight. Jean followed her slowly.
“I ought to be glad. I am glad. There is a great weight lifted from my heart. May is safe from the trouble that threatened, and so is my father. As for Willie Calderwood—well it is better for him too, that May doesna care, even if—And he’ll get over it.”
When Hugh came back they all took their way to Miss Jean’s house by the sea. But as Hugh was not yet equal to the feat of dismounting without more help than he was willing to accept from the young ladies, May and he soon turned their faces homeward again, and Jean, who had something to do in the town, was left behind. She sat a while with her aunt, but she was quite silent, and her face was turned toward the sea. Miss Jean was silent also, giving her a glance now and then, feeling sure that she had something more than usual on her mind which perhaps she might need a little help to tell.
“Well,” said she after a little, “have you any news? I think I see something in your e’en. Come awa’ frae the window and say what ye ha’e to say.”
Jean rose and came forward to the fire.
“Has my father been in? He will tell you himself, when there is really any thing to tell. He is sure to be in some time to-day.”
“And it is nothing to vex you, dear? Are you glad about it?”
“It ought not to vex me. It is only what was sure to happen. And though I am not glad yet—I dare say I shall be glad in time.”
“Is it about your sister?”
“Yes—and I think papa is glad. But he will tell you himself.”
“And there is nothing else?”
Jean sat looking at her aunt for a minute or two.
“Yes, there is something else that ought to lighten my heart. It has lightened it, I think. I’m not just sure.”
“And that is about May too?”
“Yes—about May.”
She said no more and her aunt did not question her. By and by Miss Jean said,—
“It’s a bonny day—and fine for the season. It was a different day last year when the ‘John Seaton’ sailed.”
“Yes, I mind it well.”
Jean did not look like herself, but absent and dazed like, as though her mind were full of other things. Miss Jean said nothing for a while, and Jean rose as if she were going away; but stood for a while looking out of the window.
“My dear,” said her aunt, “I have thought that you have been troubled like about various matters, this while back, and about your sister among the rest. But I think ye ha’e nae occasion.”
“Yes, I have been anxious.”
“Because of Willie Calderwood? But, my dear, I canna think that there’s any occasion.”
“I seem to have been mistaken as far as she is concerned. She says so.”
“And as for him—I never asked him and he never told me—but I’m no feared that he’ll be the worse in the end for any such trouble. And, Jean, my lassie, we ha’e great reason for thankfulness that so it is. It would only have been anither heartbreak.”
“Yes. That is what May said.”
“Not but what they both would have outlived it—and had many a happy day after it. But I am glad we havena to go through all that, for all our sakes, and more especially for the sake of your father. For he is growing an old man now, and another blow like that would have been ill on him, whichever way it had ended.”
“But, aunt,—ye mustna be angry at me for saying it,—but I canna think that my father was altogether wise or right in the way he took with George and Elsie.”
“My dear, who is ever altogether wise and right in all they do, even to those they love best? And, my dear, ye are nae your father’s judge. And do ye think that he sees now that all he did was wisest and best? and yet he might do the very same again. And even if he shouldna, it would be a misery and a lifelong pain to him all the same. My dear, I’m mair than thankful and we’ll say nae mair about it.”
And no more was said. But as Jean went slowly homeward, she had many thoughts of all she had heard that day. Glad! Of course she could not but be glad that all which must have brought disappointment and pain upon so many, had only been a dream of hers. How could she have been so mistaken! How much better it would have been if she had spoken plainly to her sister a year ago! Would May have answered as decidedly then?
Yes. Jean did not doubt that she would have done so. She did not doubt her sister’s sincerity when she declared that she had never cared for Willie Calderwood “in that way.”
“Wise about some things, but not so wise about others,” said Jean with a smile, recalling her sister’s words.
And might she not have been mistaken about Willie Calderwood as well as about May? May declared it, her aunt seemed to imply it. But surely Mrs Calderwood had been thinking about May that day! Jean’s cheeks grew hot as she recalled her words and looks.
“Oh! I am thankful that I never named my sister’s name to her. And if it was May she was thinking about, she will soon see that she was mistaken too, and that she needna have feared. And if it wasna May she was thinking about, she needna be feared?”
Jean walked more rapidly, and held her head higher as the thought passed through her mind. She believed herself to be very angry as all the scene came vividly back to her—angry with Mrs Calderwood. But for all that she went home with a lightened heart and with a face at once brighter and more peaceful than her father had seen for a while.
Chapter Fourteen.Mr Manners.It would not have been easy for Jean to set about any very elaborate preparations for the reception of the expected guest, without attracting the notice of her sister, who was to know nothing of his coming beforehand. Happily no special preparation was needed in her well-regulated household, for within a shorter time than seemed possible after her father’s letter of invitation had been sent, he made his appearance at Saughleas.He had reached the town at night, and presented himself at the bank in the morning before Mr Dawson had reached it. They missed each other as he took his way to Saughleas, and Jean was the only one there to receive him. The day was mild and dry, and May and young Corbett had set off immediately after breakfast, on an expedition to the Castle.Jean was in the garden, intent on hastening the completion of certain changes that had been commenced in the arrangement of flower beds and shrubbery, indeed putting her own hands to the work of clipping and transplanting under proper direction and authority. She saw the stranger the moment he opened the gate, and stood still in her place behind a sheltering fir-tree, regarding him as he came slowly round the drive.She saw a pleasant face, with something of the pallor of the student upon it—not handsome, but a good, true face, she thought as he came nearer. He was tall, as her father had said, and he stooped a little; but it was not a round-shouldered stoop, rather a slight inclining forward as he walked, such as short-sighted people are apt to fall into unawares. Certainly he was “not to call old.”A scholar and a gentleman, her father had said. He was all that, or his looks belied him, Jean told herself as he came slowly forward.He stood for a moment looking up into the sky through the lovely mingling of faint colours made by the swelling buds and opening leaves in the tops of the great beeches, and Jean’s impulse was to come forward at once and give him welcome. But she looked at her gloves, and at her thick shoes soiled with the garden mould, and at her linsey gown too short to hide them, and she thought of her sister, and “these fastidious English folk,” and the “credit of the family,” and so went swiftly round the house, and in at the back door, and up to her own room.She did not linger over her toilette, however. By the time Phemie came to announce the stranger’s arrival, the stately young mistress of the house was ready in her pretty house dress of some dim purple stuff to go down and receive him. She went with more shyness than stateliness, however, being conscious of the object of his coming, and entered so quietly, that he did not move from the window out of which he was gazing, till she had come near him. He turned quickly at the sound of her voice.“Is it—Mr Manners?” said she, offering her hand. “You expected me then?”“Yes. Papa toldmeyou were coming.”“And you are Jean? And you will be my friend?” Jean’s eyes met his frankly and very gravely for a moment, and then she said softly,—“Yes. I think I may promise to be your friend.”If she could put any trust in the face as an index of character, she might surely promise that, she thought. She waited a moment, expecting that he would ask for her sister. He did not, but stood looking at her in a silence that must have become embarrassing if it had continued long. So she offered breakfast, which he declined. Then she expressed her regret that he should have missed her father, but she would send at once to tell him of his arrival.This was not necessary, however. Mr Dawson having heard of Mr Manners’ arrival at the bank, returned home immediately; but they were already in the dining-room, before May and young Corbett appeared. They went in the back way and passed through Beckie’s kitchen.“Eh! Miss May! What can ha’e keepit you? Miss Dawson has been muckle putten aboot. Your papa’s come hame and a strange gentleman wi’ him. Na, it’s naebody ye need to heed. Was’t Peters they ca’ed him, Phemie? It’s luncheon and nae dinner—so you can just go ben as ye are. Ye couldna look better or bonnier though ye were to change your gown and tak’ an hour to do it. And Miss Dawson was sair putten aboot.”So with no warning as to whom she was to see, flushed and laughing, and submitting to be made a crutch by the recovering and adventurous Hugh, May entered the dining-room.“It was hardly fair upon her,” her father thought, and Jean turned pale with vexation that it so should have happened. But she need not have been afraid. After the first startled glance, and rush of colour, May met her friend with a gentle dignity which left nothing to be desired in her sister’s opinion. Mr Manners was to all appearance less self-possessed than she was, and his greetings were brief and grave.All were for some time in a state of restrained excitement that made conversation not easy, till Hugh came to the rescue by referring to Mr Dawson the decision of some point which had fallen under discussion during the morning’s ride, on which Miss May and he had disagreed. It had reference to a circle of stones in the neighbourhood, said to be of Druidical origin, and Hugh stated the difference of opinion clearly and fairly enough. Mr Dawson could give no light on the subject, however, and smiled at the idea of attaching any importance to the question.“And besides,” said May gently, but with an air of wishing to put an end to the matter, “I told you I did not hold any opinion with regard to them.”But Hugh, in his persistent way, refused to let it so end; and Jean, glad of any thing rather than silence, added her word, hoping that they might some time during the summer go to see the “Stanes.”“But, Miss May,” continued Hugh, “though you said you did not know yourself, you gave authority for your opinion—at least as far as similar circles elsewhere are concerned. And was it not?—Yes, it was Mr Manners that you said had told you—”Jean laughed. She could not help it. May grew red as a rose. Then Mr Manners took up the word, and there was no more uncomfortable silence after that; and Hugh heard more concerning this new subject of interest than he would be likely to hear again for many a day.Before they rose from the table, Mr Dawson was called away by some one who wished to see him on business, and Hugh, with Jean for his crutch this time, betook herself to his room to rest and be out of the way. May went to the parlour with Mr Manners, intending only to show him the way and then go to her own room to change her habit for her house dress; but when Jean came back again, May was in the room still, and the door was shut.Jean stood looking at it for a moment, with the strangest mingling of emotions—joy for her sister, sorrow for herself—a feeling as if the old familiar life were come to an end, and a new life beginning; nay, as if the very foundations of things were being removed.“We can never be the same again—never,” she said, with a sharp touch of pain at her heart. “I have lost my bonny May.”It was foolish to be grieved, it was worse than foolish to be angry, at the thought of change; but she knew that if she were to look closely into her heart, she would find both grief and anger there.“I canna help it, but I needna yield to it,” she said; and then she turned resolutely toward the kitchen, where Beckie was awaiting necessary directions with regard to dinner.She lingered over her arrangements, and by and by put her own hands to some of them, for she found it impossible to settle quietly to any thing, though she told herself that her restlessness was foolish and not to be excused. It took her out of the house at last, and down the walk past the well and through the wood, where she had many times gone during the last few months to the most sweet and peaceful spot in all the world, she thought—where her mother and her little brother and sisters lay; and here, after a while, her father found her. He was not free from restlessness either, it seemed. Jean rose as he drew near.“Where is your sister? Should you have left her?” asked he doubtfully.Jean shook her head and laughed.“They shut the door upon me.”“Ay! He’s in earnest, yon lad. You like him, Jean? Though it’s soon to ask.”“Not too soon. I liked him the first glance I got of him. He has a good, true face. Yes; I like him.”“It doesna take you long to make up your mind,” said her father laughing. But he was evidently pleased. “You dinna like his errand? Well that was hardly to be expected. But if it hadna been him, it would have been another, and we should have lost her all the same. And it might have been worse.”“Yes, it might have been worse.”Jean was thinking what her father’s feelings would have been had May’s troth been plighted to Willie Calderwood. But her father was thinking that it would have been worse for him to-day had it been for Jean that the stranger had asked.“It will be your turn next,” said he with a sad attempt at jesting.But Jean answered gravely,—“No. I think not I’m content as I am.”Her father laughed, a short, uncertain laugh.“Ay! that will do till the right man comes, and then—we’ll see.”“But he may never come. He never came to Auntie Jean.”“Did he no’? Weel, it came to that in the end.”Mr Dawson looked up and met the question in Jean’s eyes, but he did not answer it, and her lips were silent. She did not need an answer. Though she had heard nothing, she seemed to know how it had been with her aunt. Disappointment had come to her in her youth. Whether death had brought it, or change, or misunderstanding, or something harder to bear than these, she knew not; but however it had come, it had doubtless been a part of the discipline that had wrought toward the mingled strength and sweetness of her aunt’s character, so beautiful in Jean’s eyes. She forgot her father in thinking about it.And for the same reason her father forget her. There were none like his sister in his esteem. None, of all the women he had seen grow old, had lived a life so useful, or were so beloved and respected in their old age as she. Her life—except for a year or two—had never been solitary in a painful sense, he thought. It had been, and was still, full of interest—bound up with the lives and enjoyment of others, as much as the life of any married woman of them all.“And if she were to die to-night, there are more in Portie that would miss and mourn her than for many mothers of families, and that is not more than all would acknowledge who ken what she is and what she has done in the town.”But for his daughter? No, it was not a life like her aunt’s that he desired for her. His eye came back to her as the thought passed through his mind. She was gazing straight before her, in among the trees, but it was not the brown buds nor the opening leaves that she saw, he knew well.What could it be that brought that far-away look to her eyes. Was she looking backwards or forwards? Where were her thoughts wandering? Her look need not have vexed him. It was a little sad, but she smiled as though her thoughts were not altogether painful. He could not but be uneasy as he watched her. He loved her so dearly, she counted for so much in his life, that he longed for her confidence in all things, and he knew that there was something behind that smile which he could not see.“Weel?” said he as she turned and met his look.“I should go back to the house, you are thinking? Yes, I am going. But, papa—it will not be very soon? May’s going away, I mean.”“That is all before us. I can say nothing now. I doubt all that will be taken out of our hands, my lassie. He is in earnest, yon lad.”“But, papa—it is surely our right to say when it is to be? And May is so young—not nineteen yet.”“Just her mother’s age, when—”He rose as if to go, but sat down again and said quietly, “A few months sooner or later will make little difference, and we could hardly expect that he would hear of making it a matter of years. Nor would I wish it.”“But it will not be—just at once?” said Jean. She had almost said “not till the ‘John Seaton’ comes home.”“Well, not just at once. There is time enough to decide that.”Mr Dawson looked doubtfully at his daughter. The look he had wondered at had left her face. She had grown pale and her eyes had the strained and anxious look that had more than once pained him during the winter. The question over which she had wearied herself then was up again.“Shall I speak to him about Geordie? Shall I tell him how he went away?” But he did not know her thoughts, and fancied she was grieving about her sister.“My dear, it is hard on you for the moment. But it is not like losing your sister altogether.”“Papa! It is not May I am thinking about. It is—Geordie. Oh, papa, papa!”“My dear,” said her father after a pause, “it will do no good to think of one who thinks so little of us. Think of him! We maun ay do that, whether we will or no’. But I whiles think he maun be dead. He could not surely have forgotten us so utterly.”His last words were almost a cry, and he turned his face away.“Papa!” said Jean with a gasp, and in another moment she would have told him all. But before she could add a word he was gone—not back by the path to the house, but through the wood the other way, slowly and heavily with his head bowed down. Jean looked after him with a sick heart.“It is my mother he is thinking of, as well as his son. Oh! I wish I hadna spoken?”She sat down in a misery of doubt and longing, not sure whether she were glad or sorry that he had given her no chance to say more. How little and light her own anxieties looked in the presence of her father’s sorrow! The silence and self-restraint, which day after day kept all token of suffering out of sight, made it all the more painful and pitiful to see when it would have its way! Miss Jean, his sister, had seen him more than once moved from his silent acceptance of pain and loss, but his daughter had never seen this, and she was greatly startled, and sat sick at heart with the thought that there was no help for his trouble.For even if she were to tell him now that her brother had gone to sea in the “John Seaton,” there would hardly be comfort in that; for it was more than time that the ship were in port, and though no one openly acknowledged that there was cause for anxiety, in secret many feared that all might not be well with her. No, she must not tell him. The new suspense would be more than he could bear, Jean thought; and she must wait, and bear her burden a little longer alone.The tears that she could not keep back, did not lighten her heart as a girl’s tears are supposed to do, and though she checked them, with the thought that she must not let their traces be seen in the house, they came in a flood when she found her sister’s arms clasped about her neck and her face hidden on her breast. But she struggled against her emotion for her sister’s sake, and kissed and congratulated her, and then comforted her as their mother might have done. And May smiled again in a little while—indeed what cause had she to cry at all, she asked herself, for surely there never was a happier girl than she.And they both looked bright enough when they came down to dinner, and so did their father. Jean wondered and asked herself whether the sight of his moved face and the sound of his breaking voice, had not come to her in a dream.He only came in at the last moment, and if he guessed from May’s shy looks that something had happened to her, he took no notice, and every thing went on as usual, though a little effort was needed against the silence which fell on them now and then.Of course after dinner, the girls went to the parlour and young Corbett went with them; and when, by and by, their father and Mr Manners came in to get some tea, Jean knew that May’s fate was decided, as far as her father’s consent to her marriage could decide it.Pretty May blushed and dimpled and cried a little when her father came and kissed her and “clappet” her softly on her shoulder, and in rather an uncertain voice bade “God bless her.”Then Mr Manners brought her to Jean. “Will you give me your sister?” said he gravely. “Since she seems to have given herself to you, I may as well,” said Jean kissing her sister and keeping back the tears that were wonderfully ready to-night.“And remember your first word was a promise to stand my friend.”“Only I don’t think you seem to stand in need of a friend just now,” said Jean laughing.“Ah! but I may need one before all is done. And you have promised.”
It would not have been easy for Jean to set about any very elaborate preparations for the reception of the expected guest, without attracting the notice of her sister, who was to know nothing of his coming beforehand. Happily no special preparation was needed in her well-regulated household, for within a shorter time than seemed possible after her father’s letter of invitation had been sent, he made his appearance at Saughleas.
He had reached the town at night, and presented himself at the bank in the morning before Mr Dawson had reached it. They missed each other as he took his way to Saughleas, and Jean was the only one there to receive him. The day was mild and dry, and May and young Corbett had set off immediately after breakfast, on an expedition to the Castle.
Jean was in the garden, intent on hastening the completion of certain changes that had been commenced in the arrangement of flower beds and shrubbery, indeed putting her own hands to the work of clipping and transplanting under proper direction and authority. She saw the stranger the moment he opened the gate, and stood still in her place behind a sheltering fir-tree, regarding him as he came slowly round the drive.
She saw a pleasant face, with something of the pallor of the student upon it—not handsome, but a good, true face, she thought as he came nearer. He was tall, as her father had said, and he stooped a little; but it was not a round-shouldered stoop, rather a slight inclining forward as he walked, such as short-sighted people are apt to fall into unawares. Certainly he was “not to call old.”
A scholar and a gentleman, her father had said. He was all that, or his looks belied him, Jean told herself as he came slowly forward.
He stood for a moment looking up into the sky through the lovely mingling of faint colours made by the swelling buds and opening leaves in the tops of the great beeches, and Jean’s impulse was to come forward at once and give him welcome. But she looked at her gloves, and at her thick shoes soiled with the garden mould, and at her linsey gown too short to hide them, and she thought of her sister, and “these fastidious English folk,” and the “credit of the family,” and so went swiftly round the house, and in at the back door, and up to her own room.
She did not linger over her toilette, however. By the time Phemie came to announce the stranger’s arrival, the stately young mistress of the house was ready in her pretty house dress of some dim purple stuff to go down and receive him. She went with more shyness than stateliness, however, being conscious of the object of his coming, and entered so quietly, that he did not move from the window out of which he was gazing, till she had come near him. He turned quickly at the sound of her voice.
“Is it—Mr Manners?” said she, offering her hand. “You expected me then?”
“Yes. Papa toldmeyou were coming.”
“And you are Jean? And you will be my friend?” Jean’s eyes met his frankly and very gravely for a moment, and then she said softly,—
“Yes. I think I may promise to be your friend.”
If she could put any trust in the face as an index of character, she might surely promise that, she thought. She waited a moment, expecting that he would ask for her sister. He did not, but stood looking at her in a silence that must have become embarrassing if it had continued long. So she offered breakfast, which he declined. Then she expressed her regret that he should have missed her father, but she would send at once to tell him of his arrival.
This was not necessary, however. Mr Dawson having heard of Mr Manners’ arrival at the bank, returned home immediately; but they were already in the dining-room, before May and young Corbett appeared. They went in the back way and passed through Beckie’s kitchen.
“Eh! Miss May! What can ha’e keepit you? Miss Dawson has been muckle putten aboot. Your papa’s come hame and a strange gentleman wi’ him. Na, it’s naebody ye need to heed. Was’t Peters they ca’ed him, Phemie? It’s luncheon and nae dinner—so you can just go ben as ye are. Ye couldna look better or bonnier though ye were to change your gown and tak’ an hour to do it. And Miss Dawson was sair putten aboot.”
So with no warning as to whom she was to see, flushed and laughing, and submitting to be made a crutch by the recovering and adventurous Hugh, May entered the dining-room.
“It was hardly fair upon her,” her father thought, and Jean turned pale with vexation that it so should have happened. But she need not have been afraid. After the first startled glance, and rush of colour, May met her friend with a gentle dignity which left nothing to be desired in her sister’s opinion. Mr Manners was to all appearance less self-possessed than she was, and his greetings were brief and grave.
All were for some time in a state of restrained excitement that made conversation not easy, till Hugh came to the rescue by referring to Mr Dawson the decision of some point which had fallen under discussion during the morning’s ride, on which Miss May and he had disagreed. It had reference to a circle of stones in the neighbourhood, said to be of Druidical origin, and Hugh stated the difference of opinion clearly and fairly enough. Mr Dawson could give no light on the subject, however, and smiled at the idea of attaching any importance to the question.
“And besides,” said May gently, but with an air of wishing to put an end to the matter, “I told you I did not hold any opinion with regard to them.”
But Hugh, in his persistent way, refused to let it so end; and Jean, glad of any thing rather than silence, added her word, hoping that they might some time during the summer go to see the “Stanes.”
“But, Miss May,” continued Hugh, “though you said you did not know yourself, you gave authority for your opinion—at least as far as similar circles elsewhere are concerned. And was it not?—Yes, it was Mr Manners that you said had told you—”
Jean laughed. She could not help it. May grew red as a rose. Then Mr Manners took up the word, and there was no more uncomfortable silence after that; and Hugh heard more concerning this new subject of interest than he would be likely to hear again for many a day.
Before they rose from the table, Mr Dawson was called away by some one who wished to see him on business, and Hugh, with Jean for his crutch this time, betook herself to his room to rest and be out of the way. May went to the parlour with Mr Manners, intending only to show him the way and then go to her own room to change her habit for her house dress; but when Jean came back again, May was in the room still, and the door was shut.
Jean stood looking at it for a moment, with the strangest mingling of emotions—joy for her sister, sorrow for herself—a feeling as if the old familiar life were come to an end, and a new life beginning; nay, as if the very foundations of things were being removed.
“We can never be the same again—never,” she said, with a sharp touch of pain at her heart. “I have lost my bonny May.”
It was foolish to be grieved, it was worse than foolish to be angry, at the thought of change; but she knew that if she were to look closely into her heart, she would find both grief and anger there.
“I canna help it, but I needna yield to it,” she said; and then she turned resolutely toward the kitchen, where Beckie was awaiting necessary directions with regard to dinner.
She lingered over her arrangements, and by and by put her own hands to some of them, for she found it impossible to settle quietly to any thing, though she told herself that her restlessness was foolish and not to be excused. It took her out of the house at last, and down the walk past the well and through the wood, where she had many times gone during the last few months to the most sweet and peaceful spot in all the world, she thought—where her mother and her little brother and sisters lay; and here, after a while, her father found her. He was not free from restlessness either, it seemed. Jean rose as he drew near.
“Where is your sister? Should you have left her?” asked he doubtfully.
Jean shook her head and laughed.
“They shut the door upon me.”
“Ay! He’s in earnest, yon lad. You like him, Jean? Though it’s soon to ask.”
“Not too soon. I liked him the first glance I got of him. He has a good, true face. Yes; I like him.”
“It doesna take you long to make up your mind,” said her father laughing. But he was evidently pleased. “You dinna like his errand? Well that was hardly to be expected. But if it hadna been him, it would have been another, and we should have lost her all the same. And it might have been worse.”
“Yes, it might have been worse.”
Jean was thinking what her father’s feelings would have been had May’s troth been plighted to Willie Calderwood. But her father was thinking that it would have been worse for him to-day had it been for Jean that the stranger had asked.
“It will be your turn next,” said he with a sad attempt at jesting.
But Jean answered gravely,—
“No. I think not I’m content as I am.”
Her father laughed, a short, uncertain laugh.
“Ay! that will do till the right man comes, and then—we’ll see.”
“But he may never come. He never came to Auntie Jean.”
“Did he no’? Weel, it came to that in the end.”
Mr Dawson looked up and met the question in Jean’s eyes, but he did not answer it, and her lips were silent. She did not need an answer. Though she had heard nothing, she seemed to know how it had been with her aunt. Disappointment had come to her in her youth. Whether death had brought it, or change, or misunderstanding, or something harder to bear than these, she knew not; but however it had come, it had doubtless been a part of the discipline that had wrought toward the mingled strength and sweetness of her aunt’s character, so beautiful in Jean’s eyes. She forgot her father in thinking about it.
And for the same reason her father forget her. There were none like his sister in his esteem. None, of all the women he had seen grow old, had lived a life so useful, or were so beloved and respected in their old age as she. Her life—except for a year or two—had never been solitary in a painful sense, he thought. It had been, and was still, full of interest—bound up with the lives and enjoyment of others, as much as the life of any married woman of them all.
“And if she were to die to-night, there are more in Portie that would miss and mourn her than for many mothers of families, and that is not more than all would acknowledge who ken what she is and what she has done in the town.”
But for his daughter? No, it was not a life like her aunt’s that he desired for her. His eye came back to her as the thought passed through his mind. She was gazing straight before her, in among the trees, but it was not the brown buds nor the opening leaves that she saw, he knew well.
What could it be that brought that far-away look to her eyes. Was she looking backwards or forwards? Where were her thoughts wandering? Her look need not have vexed him. It was a little sad, but she smiled as though her thoughts were not altogether painful. He could not but be uneasy as he watched her. He loved her so dearly, she counted for so much in his life, that he longed for her confidence in all things, and he knew that there was something behind that smile which he could not see.
“Weel?” said he as she turned and met his look.
“I should go back to the house, you are thinking? Yes, I am going. But, papa—it will not be very soon? May’s going away, I mean.”
“That is all before us. I can say nothing now. I doubt all that will be taken out of our hands, my lassie. He is in earnest, yon lad.”
“But, papa—it is surely our right to say when it is to be? And May is so young—not nineteen yet.”
“Just her mother’s age, when—”
He rose as if to go, but sat down again and said quietly, “A few months sooner or later will make little difference, and we could hardly expect that he would hear of making it a matter of years. Nor would I wish it.”
“But it will not be—just at once?” said Jean. She had almost said “not till the ‘John Seaton’ comes home.”
“Well, not just at once. There is time enough to decide that.”
Mr Dawson looked doubtfully at his daughter. The look he had wondered at had left her face. She had grown pale and her eyes had the strained and anxious look that had more than once pained him during the winter. The question over which she had wearied herself then was up again.
“Shall I speak to him about Geordie? Shall I tell him how he went away?” But he did not know her thoughts, and fancied she was grieving about her sister.
“My dear, it is hard on you for the moment. But it is not like losing your sister altogether.”
“Papa! It is not May I am thinking about. It is—Geordie. Oh, papa, papa!”
“My dear,” said her father after a pause, “it will do no good to think of one who thinks so little of us. Think of him! We maun ay do that, whether we will or no’. But I whiles think he maun be dead. He could not surely have forgotten us so utterly.”
His last words were almost a cry, and he turned his face away.
“Papa!” said Jean with a gasp, and in another moment she would have told him all. But before she could add a word he was gone—not back by the path to the house, but through the wood the other way, slowly and heavily with his head bowed down. Jean looked after him with a sick heart.
“It is my mother he is thinking of, as well as his son. Oh! I wish I hadna spoken?”
She sat down in a misery of doubt and longing, not sure whether she were glad or sorry that he had given her no chance to say more. How little and light her own anxieties looked in the presence of her father’s sorrow! The silence and self-restraint, which day after day kept all token of suffering out of sight, made it all the more painful and pitiful to see when it would have its way! Miss Jean, his sister, had seen him more than once moved from his silent acceptance of pain and loss, but his daughter had never seen this, and she was greatly startled, and sat sick at heart with the thought that there was no help for his trouble.
For even if she were to tell him now that her brother had gone to sea in the “John Seaton,” there would hardly be comfort in that; for it was more than time that the ship were in port, and though no one openly acknowledged that there was cause for anxiety, in secret many feared that all might not be well with her. No, she must not tell him. The new suspense would be more than he could bear, Jean thought; and she must wait, and bear her burden a little longer alone.
The tears that she could not keep back, did not lighten her heart as a girl’s tears are supposed to do, and though she checked them, with the thought that she must not let their traces be seen in the house, they came in a flood when she found her sister’s arms clasped about her neck and her face hidden on her breast. But she struggled against her emotion for her sister’s sake, and kissed and congratulated her, and then comforted her as their mother might have done. And May smiled again in a little while—indeed what cause had she to cry at all, she asked herself, for surely there never was a happier girl than she.
And they both looked bright enough when they came down to dinner, and so did their father. Jean wondered and asked herself whether the sight of his moved face and the sound of his breaking voice, had not come to her in a dream.
He only came in at the last moment, and if he guessed from May’s shy looks that something had happened to her, he took no notice, and every thing went on as usual, though a little effort was needed against the silence which fell on them now and then.
Of course after dinner, the girls went to the parlour and young Corbett went with them; and when, by and by, their father and Mr Manners came in to get some tea, Jean knew that May’s fate was decided, as far as her father’s consent to her marriage could decide it.
Pretty May blushed and dimpled and cried a little when her father came and kissed her and “clappet” her softly on her shoulder, and in rather an uncertain voice bade “God bless her.”
Then Mr Manners brought her to Jean. “Will you give me your sister?” said he gravely. “Since she seems to have given herself to you, I may as well,” said Jean kissing her sister and keeping back the tears that were wonderfully ready to-night.
“And remember your first word was a promise to stand my friend.”
“Only I don’t think you seem to stand in need of a friend just now,” said Jean laughing.
“Ah! but I may need one before all is done. And you have promised.”
Chapter Fifteen.Mr Dawson’s Will.It would doubtless have been agreeable to Mr Dawson had Mr Manners been a richer man than he seemed to be, but he did not allow even to Miss Jean, that this want of money was a serious drawback to the satisfaction he felt in consenting to his daughter’s marriage.“He is a man whom I like much, and money is a secondary consideration,” said he.“That’s true,” said Miss Jean.“Not that he is without means, and he has a good professional income. They will do very well. It is true I havena kenned him long, as ye say; and I dare say ye think I have been in haste with my consent. But just wait a wee. He’ll ha’e your good word. For ye ken a man when ye see him.”“If they truly love one another—that is the chief thing.”Mr Dawson laughed.“They do that.”“And what does Jean say?”“She’ll tell you herself. There has been little time to say any thing. He is to be brought over to see you to-day. I wished to send for you, but Jean said it was more becoming that he should come to you. Jean has her ain notions about most things.”“Ay, she has that.”“And ye’ll come hame with them to Saughleas? There are two or three things that I would like to have a word with you about. And ye’ll be sure to come.”But Miss Jean did not promise. She liked best to be at Saughleas when there were no strangers there, she said. Mr Dawson was ready to resent her calling Mr Manners a stranger, so she said nothing. The matter could be decided afterwards.Probably Jean was only thinking of what was due to her aunt, when she insisted on taking their new friend to make her acquaintance in her own house. But it was a wise thing to do for other reasons than Miss Jean’s “dignity,” which her niece might very well have left to take care of itself.The house was like herself,—quiet, simple, unpretending, but with a marked character of its own; and no one could fail to be impressed with his first glimpse of Miss Jean, sitting in her quaint parlour, with its shelves of brown old books, its great work-basket, and its window looking to the sea. She was an old woman now, and not very strong; but the inward calm which earthly trouble had no power to disturb, had kept disfiguring wrinkles from her face, and the soft wavy hair that showed under her full-bordered cap was still more brown than grey.Some who had known Miss Jean all her life declared that she was far more beautiful at sixty than she had ever been in her youth. And naturally enough. For a life of glad service to a loving Master, a helpful, hopeful, self-forgetful doing of good as opportunity is given, for His sake, tell on the countenance as on the character; and the grave cheerfulness, the trustful peace that rested on the old woman’s face were beautiful to those who had eyes to see.It was not May, but Miss Dawson, who came with the visitor that morning.“Auntie Jean, I have brought Mr Manners to see you,” said she coming in unannounced.Miss Jean received them kindly, but with a certain gravity.“Yes, your father has been here. He told me who was coming,” said she, and her eyes sought Jean’s gravely and earnestly. Jean nodded and smiled, carrying her aunt’s look to the face of Mr Manners.“Yes, auntie, that is the way of it.” Then Miss Jean gave him her hand again. “The Lord keep and guide you both. And the Lord deal with you as ye shall deal with the bairn that is willing to leave her father’s house to go with you.”“Amen!” said Mr Manners, and he stooped and touched with his lips the soft wrinkled hand that had been offered him.They had not very much to say to one another for a while. It was Jean who kept up the talk for a little, remarking upon the “bonny day,” and the flowers that were coming out earlier than usual, and on the sea, which was seen at its best to-day, she said, a sparkling blue that faded to pale green and grey in the distance.“You have a wide view of it here,” said Mr Manners who was leaning against the ledge looking out.There was nothing to be seen from Miss Jean’s usual seat, but the sea and one rocky cape in the northern distance. “It is company to me,” said she. “It is ay changing.”“But it is dreary whiles, aunt, very dreary, when the wind blows loud, and the winter is here.” Miss Jean smiled.“I think winter makes less difference to my outlook than it does to yours, Jean, my dear. It’s ay the sea, and ay the same, yet ay changing ilka day o’ the year, be it summer or winter. It is like a friend’s face to me now after all that’s come and gone.”It was not easy getting below the surface of things, because their thoughts were of the kind not easily spoken. Miss Jean said least, but she looked and listened and was moved by the soft flowing English speech of their new friend, in a way that filled her with amazement, “after all these years,” she said to herself.By and by May came in, leaving Hugh Corbett in the pony carriage at the door. She hesitated a moment, shy, but smiling, on the threshold, and then Mr Manners led her forward to be kissed and congratulated and made much of by her aunt.“Ye’ll try and be a good wife—as your mother was,” said Miss Jean softly, and she gave a tearful, appealing glance toward him who had won the child’s heart.“I love her dearly,” said he gently. “And I will care for her first always.”“I believe ye,” said Miss Jean.What with his good, true face, his kindly ways and winning-speech, he had won her good word, as easily as he had won Jean’s “who liked him at the first glance,” as she had told her father.Mr Manners’ visit was necessarily brief, but when he went away, he carried with him the good-will, and more than the good-will, of them all. Even young Corbett, who had at first resented the break made in the pleasant life they had been living of late by his monopolising Miss May’s time and attention, agreed with the rest at last. They became mutually interested over shells and seaweeds, beetles and birds’ nests, and they were very friendly before Mr Manners went away.Before his departure Mr Manners put Jean’s friendship to the test.“If you are on my side, I shall be able to bring about that on which I have set my heart, and I must remind you of your promise.”Jean laughed.“It seems that you are like to get that on which you have set your heart without the help of any one.”“Ah! but how would it have been if you had set yourself against me? Or if you were to do so even now?”“It is too late for that now, and I don’t think you are much afraid.”“Jean,” said he gravely, “I want my May for my very own on the first day of August.” Jean was not so startled as she might have been. “I did not think you would be willing to wait very long. But the first of August! That is not much more than three months. It will look like haste.”There were, it seemed, many good reasons for that which looked like haste. The chief one was this: Mr Manners looked forward to two full months of leisure after that time, which could not happen again for another year. He had set his heart on carrying his bonny May to Switzerland for the whole two months.“Think what that would be in comparison to a winter marriage, and then straight to a dull house in a London street!”“Will she find it dull, do you think?” asked Jean smiling. “Ah! that may be very possible, even though I know she will go willingly. Miss Dawson, I feel as if I were guilty of wrong-doing in thinking to take my darling from a home like this, to such a one as I can give her, even though I believe she loves me.”But Jean smiled still. “You need not fear.”“Thanks. I will not. But in those two months, think how we should learn to know each other, as we could not in my busy days in London! And she would learn to trust me. And it might be if you were to be on my side. As to preparations—dresses and things—”“It is not that. All that is quite secondary. I mean I could see to all that after,” said Jean to his surprise. “It is something quite different that I was thinking about.”It was the return of the “John Seaton” with her brother George on board of which she was thinking, and she was wondering whether it would be right to let her sister go, if he should not be home before that time. But she could not speak to Mr Manners of this. Indeed she could speak of nothing for the moment. For May came into the room, and her lover intimated triumphantly that her sister agreed with him as to the important matter of the time.“And you know you were to leave the decision to her.”“I agree with you that preparations need not stand in the way. As to other things, I cannot decide. It was something quite different that I was thinking of.”But she did not say what it was, even to her sister, and from that time it was understood that the marriage was to take place on the first of August, and that, if possible, Mr Manners was to pay one more visit before that time.In the quiet that followed his departure, the anxiety which in her interest in her sister’s happiness she had for the time put aside, came back again to Jean. She strove to hide it from her father, and devoted herself to May and her preparations, with an earnestness which left her little time for painful thought. There was less to do in the way of actual preparation than might have been supposed—at least less than could be done by their own hands. The “white seam” that had employed Jean’s fingers through so many summer afternoons and winter evenings, came into use now.“I meant them for you, quite as much as for myself, and I shall have plenty of time to make a new supply before I need them,” said she when May hesitated to appropriate so much of her exquisite work.There was plenty to do, and Jean left herself no time for brooding over her fears. She kept away from the shore and the old sailors now, and from the garrulous fishwives of the town. She would not listen even to the eager reasoning of the hopeful folk who strove to prove that as yet there was no cause to fear for the ship; and she did keep all tokens of anxiety out of her face as far as her father saw; which perhaps was because he was occupied more than usual at this time with anxieties of his own. But when Mr Manners had been gone a month and more, and they were beginning to look for his return, something happened which would have made it impossible for her to hide her trouble much longer.Mr Dawson had never yet taken any important step in business matters, or in any matter, without first talking it over with his sister. He did not always take her advice, and she never urged her advice upon him beyond a certain point; but whether her advice was accepted or rejected, there was no difference in their relations to each other because of that. He claimed her sympathy when the next call for it came, none the less readily because he had refused to be guided by her judgment, nor was she the less ready to hear and sympathise.“The breaks,Which humour interposed, too often makes,”never came between these two, and her judgment guided him, and her conscience restrained him, oftener than either of them knew.Long ago he had spoken to her about some change that he wished to make in his will, and some words of hers spoken at the time, hindered him from obeying his own impulse in the matter. He knew that it was not wise to delay the right settlement of his affairs, and now the arrangements necessary in regard to his daughter’s marriage portion brought the matter up again, and made some decision inevitable.That his son was dead, or worse than dead, he could not but believe, now that another year had gone bringing no word from him. In his silent broodings, he had in a sense got accustomed to the misery of the thought. He was dead, or, if he lived, he was lost to him forever. Even if he were living, his long silence proved to his father that he never meant to come home while his father lived.He might come afterwards; and then his coming might bring trouble upon his sisters, unless all things were settled beyond the power of change. And so it must be settled. But, oh! the misery of it!To think that his only son might come when he was dead, and stand where they had stood together at his mother’s grave, and have only hard thoughts of his father! How could it ever have come to such a pass between them! The memory of those first days of their estrangement, seemed to him now like a strange and terrible dream. Had he been hard on his son? He was but a lad,—he repeated many a time,—he was but a lad, and he had loved him so dearly.Nothing could be changed now. In the silence of the night, often amid the business of the day, his heart grew soft towards his son, and he repented of his anger and his hardness toward him. But nothing could be changed now, and the future of his daughters must be made safe against possible trouble when he should be no more.He had nothing that was new to say to his sister, except that the year that had gone by bringing no word of him, made it less likely that they would ever hear from him again; and she could only listen sadly and acknowledge that it was even so.But though there was not much that was new to be said, they were rarely left alone together that their talk did not turn on this matter. Mr Dawson’s mind was so full of all that must be gone into and arranged in view of what he had to do, that he was sure to speak of it, and to dwell upon it, more sometimes than was wise. And so it happened that Jean, coming in from a solitary walk in the gloaming to the parlour, where there was no light, was startled by hearing her father say,—“I think that will be a just division. I will make it up to her aster, but it is Jean who must have the land. I will not divide, and I will not burden the land.”Jean heard the words without fully taking in their meaning, till her aunt said in her grave, firm voice,—“And if he ever should come home, you may trust to my Jean to deal kindly and justly with her brother.”“Papa,” said Jean coming forward, “I heard what you were saying.”Mr Dawson did not answer for a moment, then he said, “It might have been as well if ye hadna heard. But a while sooner or later can make less difference than it would if ye werna a woman o’ sense.”“Papa! Have you forgotten—Geordie?” Her father answered nothing. Her aunt put out her hand and touched hers, and Jean knew that the touch meant that silence was best. But she could not keep silence.“Papa, you think that he is dead, but he is not. He will come home again. And how could we look him in the face if we were to wrong him when he is away! As for me, I will never take what is his by right—never. You must give the land to whom you will, but not to me.” Still her father did not utter a word. “Whisht, lassie,” said her aunt; “ye dinna ken what ye are saying. Dinna grieve your father, Jean.”But Jean was “beside herself,” her aunt thought.“Papa, was it not for George that you bought the land? Have you had much pleasure in it since he went away? But, papa, he will come again. He is sure to come home—soon.”Jean’s voice faltered a little. That night her father had come home anxious and burdened with fears for the safety of the “John Seaton.” There had been some of the sailors’ wives inquiring for news, and there was no news to give them though it was more than time; and though Mr Dawson had spoken cheerfully to the women, the few words he spoke, and the grave face he wore at his own tea-table, had made it plain to Jean that his fears were stronger than his hopes.He looked up at Jean when she said so eagerly that her brother was sure to come home, as though he expected her to say more. But how could Jean say more, knowing what she knew? It was too late now to tell that her brother had sailed in the “John Seaton.” She could only look at him with pitiful, wet eyes, and repeat over and over again,—“Papa, he will come home. He is sure to come. We must always hope. And when he comes, he must not know that you ever thought of putting—another in his place. It must not be me. Even if I could give it all back to him, it would not be the same. He could never believe you had forgiven him if you were to do as you said. And, oh! Auntie Jean, he is sure to come home. We can only wait and hope?”“Only wait and hope and pray. He will come if it is God’s will. And if he shouldna, God’s will is best.”There was nothing more to be said. But did the old man sitting there with his face hidden in his hands assent to his sister’s words? Had God’s will been best? If he could have had his will, all should have been very differently ordered, as far as the past of his son was concerned. As for the future—did he wish for his return? Could the misery of their long estrangement ever be forgotten or outlived?The bright-faced, happy, loving lad never could return—never. What was his son like now? What could he hope from him, or for him, after what he knew of him?Oh, yes! he loved him, pitied him, longed for him; but if it were God’s will that he should come home again, would God’s will be best? God Himself could not blot out the past, and make them to each other all that they had been before this trouble came between them. He groaned aloud in his misery, and then he remembered that he was not alone. He rose up as if to go, but sat down again, putting great constraint upon himself.“We’ll say nae mair about it now, lassie,” said he hoarsely.“No, papa, only this, Wait a little while. George will surely come home—or—we shall hear that he is dead. I think he will come home—soon.”“Will our Geordie, our frank, true-hearted, noble lad ever come home to us again, think you? Could God Himself give him back to us as he was?”“Whisht! George, man,” said his sister gravely. “Think what ye’re saying! All things are possible with God.”“Ay! to him that believes, but that is beyond belief—to me,” said the old man with a sob.“Papa,” said Jean touching his bowed head with her hand, “He will come home—soon.”“And whether he come or no’, we have just to live our lives and make the best of them,” said Mr Dawson rising; and he went away with no word of good-night.Jean lent her young strength to the weakness and weariness of her aunt as they went up the stairs together, but there were no more words spoken between them. They kissed one another in silence, and each knew that the other could not lighten the burden of care and pain that had fallen on both.Though they had waited so long and so anxiously for the return of the “John Seaton,” it took the Dawsons by surprise at last. But from the moment that the white sails broke the line of the far horizon, the ship was watched by an ever-increasing crowd gathering on the pier, and on the high rocks above the town.Glasses were passed from hand to hand, while some looked doubtful and grave, and others joyfully declared that it was the long-expected vessel. In an anguish of hope and fear fathers and mothers, wives and sisters, waited. Some wept and prayed, and wandered up and down, others sat in still excitement counting the moments till the suspense should end.It was Sunday afternoon and so none of the Dawsons were in the town. Even Miss Jean was at Saughleas. In the excitement of the moment none thought of sending word to the owner of the ship. Not one of all the anxious mothers and wives who were waiting but had more at stake than he.“But when we are sure, and when I’ve seen our Tam, I’ll be off to Saughleas to tell the twa Miss Jeans,” said Robbie Saugster to his sister Maggie, who was waiting and hoping like the rest.“Ay. They’ll be glad—or sorry,” said Maggie with a sob.“The twa Miss Jeans, said he!” repeated Mrs Cairnie, who was wandering up and down, anxious and intent as all the rest, though there was no one belonging to her on the ship, or on any ship that sailed. “The twa Miss Jeans! And what is it to them? Ay, I ken fine the auld man is chief owner, and weel he likes his siller. But the twa Miss Jeans! what is it to them? Except that they may ha’e had their ain thochts for a’ the puir bodies that ha’e grown feared this while,” added the old woman relenting.“They ha’e had many an anxious thought, and many a kind word and deed for them—I ken weel,” said another woman whose eyes were on the ship.“An’ sae do I,” said another who was sitting on a stone with her baby in her arms, because her trembling limbs would not support her. “What would I ha’e done but for auld Miss Jean since my man sailed.”“Ay; and they say auld Miss Jean has been through it all.”“And whether or no’, she kens how to weep wi’ those who weep.”“But she’ll ‘rejoice with them that do rejoice’ this time, for as sure as I ha’e e’en to see, yon’s the ‘John Seaton’!”“And I’se awa’ to the pier head,” said Robbie. “Are you coming, Maggie?”Maggie took two steps after him, then she turned.“Come, Mrs Barnet. It’ll soon be over now. I’ll carry wee Jamie.” And the crowd moved with them.It was the “John Seaton.” All saw that by this time. There was but a thin kirk that night, for none could force themselves away from the shore, and some who set out for the kirk, turned aside with the rest to meet and welcome those who were coming home. But the kirk was empty and the crowd increased before the “John Seaton” touched the pier.The first who reached the deck was Robbie Saugster, and the first man he saw was Willie Calderwood, tall and brown and strong, a hero in the boy’s eyes.“Our Tam?” said he with a gasp.“Tam’s a’ richt. Tell your mother I’ll be round to see her.”There was no time for more. The folk pressed forward, and all noticed that the mate’s face was graver that it ought to have been. There was something wrong.“Is Mrs Horne here? Or my mother?” asked the mate. “Is that you, Robbie Saugster? Run to my mother’s house and say I bade her go to Mrs Horne’s, and bide till I come there.”Robbie was off like a shot. “Is it ill news?”“If it’s ill news, the laddie should speak in and tell auld Miss Jean.”“Miss Jean is unco frail.”“Miss Jean is ower at Saughleas.”“And is it Captain Horne? And when did it happen?”“Puir woman! Her turn has come at last!” Many voices took up the “ill news,” telling it gravely till it went through the throng. Even those who had got their own safe home again, spoke their welcome gravely, thinking of her who had to hear heavy tidings.
It would doubtless have been agreeable to Mr Dawson had Mr Manners been a richer man than he seemed to be, but he did not allow even to Miss Jean, that this want of money was a serious drawback to the satisfaction he felt in consenting to his daughter’s marriage.
“He is a man whom I like much, and money is a secondary consideration,” said he.
“That’s true,” said Miss Jean.
“Not that he is without means, and he has a good professional income. They will do very well. It is true I havena kenned him long, as ye say; and I dare say ye think I have been in haste with my consent. But just wait a wee. He’ll ha’e your good word. For ye ken a man when ye see him.”
“If they truly love one another—that is the chief thing.”
Mr Dawson laughed.
“They do that.”
“And what does Jean say?”
“She’ll tell you herself. There has been little time to say any thing. He is to be brought over to see you to-day. I wished to send for you, but Jean said it was more becoming that he should come to you. Jean has her ain notions about most things.”
“Ay, she has that.”
“And ye’ll come hame with them to Saughleas? There are two or three things that I would like to have a word with you about. And ye’ll be sure to come.”
But Miss Jean did not promise. She liked best to be at Saughleas when there were no strangers there, she said. Mr Dawson was ready to resent her calling Mr Manners a stranger, so she said nothing. The matter could be decided afterwards.
Probably Jean was only thinking of what was due to her aunt, when she insisted on taking their new friend to make her acquaintance in her own house. But it was a wise thing to do for other reasons than Miss Jean’s “dignity,” which her niece might very well have left to take care of itself.
The house was like herself,—quiet, simple, unpretending, but with a marked character of its own; and no one could fail to be impressed with his first glimpse of Miss Jean, sitting in her quaint parlour, with its shelves of brown old books, its great work-basket, and its window looking to the sea. She was an old woman now, and not very strong; but the inward calm which earthly trouble had no power to disturb, had kept disfiguring wrinkles from her face, and the soft wavy hair that showed under her full-bordered cap was still more brown than grey.
Some who had known Miss Jean all her life declared that she was far more beautiful at sixty than she had ever been in her youth. And naturally enough. For a life of glad service to a loving Master, a helpful, hopeful, self-forgetful doing of good as opportunity is given, for His sake, tell on the countenance as on the character; and the grave cheerfulness, the trustful peace that rested on the old woman’s face were beautiful to those who had eyes to see.
It was not May, but Miss Dawson, who came with the visitor that morning.
“Auntie Jean, I have brought Mr Manners to see you,” said she coming in unannounced.
Miss Jean received them kindly, but with a certain gravity.
“Yes, your father has been here. He told me who was coming,” said she, and her eyes sought Jean’s gravely and earnestly. Jean nodded and smiled, carrying her aunt’s look to the face of Mr Manners.
“Yes, auntie, that is the way of it.” Then Miss Jean gave him her hand again. “The Lord keep and guide you both. And the Lord deal with you as ye shall deal with the bairn that is willing to leave her father’s house to go with you.”
“Amen!” said Mr Manners, and he stooped and touched with his lips the soft wrinkled hand that had been offered him.
They had not very much to say to one another for a while. It was Jean who kept up the talk for a little, remarking upon the “bonny day,” and the flowers that were coming out earlier than usual, and on the sea, which was seen at its best to-day, she said, a sparkling blue that faded to pale green and grey in the distance.
“You have a wide view of it here,” said Mr Manners who was leaning against the ledge looking out.
There was nothing to be seen from Miss Jean’s usual seat, but the sea and one rocky cape in the northern distance. “It is company to me,” said she. “It is ay changing.”
“But it is dreary whiles, aunt, very dreary, when the wind blows loud, and the winter is here.” Miss Jean smiled.
“I think winter makes less difference to my outlook than it does to yours, Jean, my dear. It’s ay the sea, and ay the same, yet ay changing ilka day o’ the year, be it summer or winter. It is like a friend’s face to me now after all that’s come and gone.”
It was not easy getting below the surface of things, because their thoughts were of the kind not easily spoken. Miss Jean said least, but she looked and listened and was moved by the soft flowing English speech of their new friend, in a way that filled her with amazement, “after all these years,” she said to herself.
By and by May came in, leaving Hugh Corbett in the pony carriage at the door. She hesitated a moment, shy, but smiling, on the threshold, and then Mr Manners led her forward to be kissed and congratulated and made much of by her aunt.
“Ye’ll try and be a good wife—as your mother was,” said Miss Jean softly, and she gave a tearful, appealing glance toward him who had won the child’s heart.
“I love her dearly,” said he gently. “And I will care for her first always.”
“I believe ye,” said Miss Jean.
What with his good, true face, his kindly ways and winning-speech, he had won her good word, as easily as he had won Jean’s “who liked him at the first glance,” as she had told her father.
Mr Manners’ visit was necessarily brief, but when he went away, he carried with him the good-will, and more than the good-will, of them all. Even young Corbett, who had at first resented the break made in the pleasant life they had been living of late by his monopolising Miss May’s time and attention, agreed with the rest at last. They became mutually interested over shells and seaweeds, beetles and birds’ nests, and they were very friendly before Mr Manners went away.
Before his departure Mr Manners put Jean’s friendship to the test.
“If you are on my side, I shall be able to bring about that on which I have set my heart, and I must remind you of your promise.”
Jean laughed.
“It seems that you are like to get that on which you have set your heart without the help of any one.”
“Ah! but how would it have been if you had set yourself against me? Or if you were to do so even now?”
“It is too late for that now, and I don’t think you are much afraid.”
“Jean,” said he gravely, “I want my May for my very own on the first day of August.” Jean was not so startled as she might have been. “I did not think you would be willing to wait very long. But the first of August! That is not much more than three months. It will look like haste.”
There were, it seemed, many good reasons for that which looked like haste. The chief one was this: Mr Manners looked forward to two full months of leisure after that time, which could not happen again for another year. He had set his heart on carrying his bonny May to Switzerland for the whole two months.
“Think what that would be in comparison to a winter marriage, and then straight to a dull house in a London street!”
“Will she find it dull, do you think?” asked Jean smiling. “Ah! that may be very possible, even though I know she will go willingly. Miss Dawson, I feel as if I were guilty of wrong-doing in thinking to take my darling from a home like this, to such a one as I can give her, even though I believe she loves me.”
But Jean smiled still. “You need not fear.”
“Thanks. I will not. But in those two months, think how we should learn to know each other, as we could not in my busy days in London! And she would learn to trust me. And it might be if you were to be on my side. As to preparations—dresses and things—”
“It is not that. All that is quite secondary. I mean I could see to all that after,” said Jean to his surprise. “It is something quite different that I was thinking about.”
It was the return of the “John Seaton” with her brother George on board of which she was thinking, and she was wondering whether it would be right to let her sister go, if he should not be home before that time. But she could not speak to Mr Manners of this. Indeed she could speak of nothing for the moment. For May came into the room, and her lover intimated triumphantly that her sister agreed with him as to the important matter of the time.
“And you know you were to leave the decision to her.”
“I agree with you that preparations need not stand in the way. As to other things, I cannot decide. It was something quite different that I was thinking of.”
But she did not say what it was, even to her sister, and from that time it was understood that the marriage was to take place on the first of August, and that, if possible, Mr Manners was to pay one more visit before that time.
In the quiet that followed his departure, the anxiety which in her interest in her sister’s happiness she had for the time put aside, came back again to Jean. She strove to hide it from her father, and devoted herself to May and her preparations, with an earnestness which left her little time for painful thought. There was less to do in the way of actual preparation than might have been supposed—at least less than could be done by their own hands. The “white seam” that had employed Jean’s fingers through so many summer afternoons and winter evenings, came into use now.
“I meant them for you, quite as much as for myself, and I shall have plenty of time to make a new supply before I need them,” said she when May hesitated to appropriate so much of her exquisite work.
There was plenty to do, and Jean left herself no time for brooding over her fears. She kept away from the shore and the old sailors now, and from the garrulous fishwives of the town. She would not listen even to the eager reasoning of the hopeful folk who strove to prove that as yet there was no cause to fear for the ship; and she did keep all tokens of anxiety out of her face as far as her father saw; which perhaps was because he was occupied more than usual at this time with anxieties of his own. But when Mr Manners had been gone a month and more, and they were beginning to look for his return, something happened which would have made it impossible for her to hide her trouble much longer.
Mr Dawson had never yet taken any important step in business matters, or in any matter, without first talking it over with his sister. He did not always take her advice, and she never urged her advice upon him beyond a certain point; but whether her advice was accepted or rejected, there was no difference in their relations to each other because of that. He claimed her sympathy when the next call for it came, none the less readily because he had refused to be guided by her judgment, nor was she the less ready to hear and sympathise.
“The breaks,Which humour interposed, too often makes,”
“The breaks,Which humour interposed, too often makes,”
never came between these two, and her judgment guided him, and her conscience restrained him, oftener than either of them knew.
Long ago he had spoken to her about some change that he wished to make in his will, and some words of hers spoken at the time, hindered him from obeying his own impulse in the matter. He knew that it was not wise to delay the right settlement of his affairs, and now the arrangements necessary in regard to his daughter’s marriage portion brought the matter up again, and made some decision inevitable.
That his son was dead, or worse than dead, he could not but believe, now that another year had gone bringing no word from him. In his silent broodings, he had in a sense got accustomed to the misery of the thought. He was dead, or, if he lived, he was lost to him forever. Even if he were living, his long silence proved to his father that he never meant to come home while his father lived.
He might come afterwards; and then his coming might bring trouble upon his sisters, unless all things were settled beyond the power of change. And so it must be settled. But, oh! the misery of it!
To think that his only son might come when he was dead, and stand where they had stood together at his mother’s grave, and have only hard thoughts of his father! How could it ever have come to such a pass between them! The memory of those first days of their estrangement, seemed to him now like a strange and terrible dream. Had he been hard on his son? He was but a lad,—he repeated many a time,—he was but a lad, and he had loved him so dearly.
Nothing could be changed now. In the silence of the night, often amid the business of the day, his heart grew soft towards his son, and he repented of his anger and his hardness toward him. But nothing could be changed now, and the future of his daughters must be made safe against possible trouble when he should be no more.
He had nothing that was new to say to his sister, except that the year that had gone by bringing no word of him, made it less likely that they would ever hear from him again; and she could only listen sadly and acknowledge that it was even so.
But though there was not much that was new to be said, they were rarely left alone together that their talk did not turn on this matter. Mr Dawson’s mind was so full of all that must be gone into and arranged in view of what he had to do, that he was sure to speak of it, and to dwell upon it, more sometimes than was wise. And so it happened that Jean, coming in from a solitary walk in the gloaming to the parlour, where there was no light, was startled by hearing her father say,—
“I think that will be a just division. I will make it up to her aster, but it is Jean who must have the land. I will not divide, and I will not burden the land.”
Jean heard the words without fully taking in their meaning, till her aunt said in her grave, firm voice,—
“And if he ever should come home, you may trust to my Jean to deal kindly and justly with her brother.”
“Papa,” said Jean coming forward, “I heard what you were saying.”
Mr Dawson did not answer for a moment, then he said, “It might have been as well if ye hadna heard. But a while sooner or later can make less difference than it would if ye werna a woman o’ sense.”
“Papa! Have you forgotten—Geordie?” Her father answered nothing. Her aunt put out her hand and touched hers, and Jean knew that the touch meant that silence was best. But she could not keep silence.
“Papa, you think that he is dead, but he is not. He will come home again. And how could we look him in the face if we were to wrong him when he is away! As for me, I will never take what is his by right—never. You must give the land to whom you will, but not to me.” Still her father did not utter a word. “Whisht, lassie,” said her aunt; “ye dinna ken what ye are saying. Dinna grieve your father, Jean.”
But Jean was “beside herself,” her aunt thought.
“Papa, was it not for George that you bought the land? Have you had much pleasure in it since he went away? But, papa, he will come again. He is sure to come home—soon.”
Jean’s voice faltered a little. That night her father had come home anxious and burdened with fears for the safety of the “John Seaton.” There had been some of the sailors’ wives inquiring for news, and there was no news to give them though it was more than time; and though Mr Dawson had spoken cheerfully to the women, the few words he spoke, and the grave face he wore at his own tea-table, had made it plain to Jean that his fears were stronger than his hopes.
He looked up at Jean when she said so eagerly that her brother was sure to come home, as though he expected her to say more. But how could Jean say more, knowing what she knew? It was too late now to tell that her brother had sailed in the “John Seaton.” She could only look at him with pitiful, wet eyes, and repeat over and over again,—
“Papa, he will come home. He is sure to come. We must always hope. And when he comes, he must not know that you ever thought of putting—another in his place. It must not be me. Even if I could give it all back to him, it would not be the same. He could never believe you had forgiven him if you were to do as you said. And, oh! Auntie Jean, he is sure to come home. We can only wait and hope?”
“Only wait and hope and pray. He will come if it is God’s will. And if he shouldna, God’s will is best.”
There was nothing more to be said. But did the old man sitting there with his face hidden in his hands assent to his sister’s words? Had God’s will been best? If he could have had his will, all should have been very differently ordered, as far as the past of his son was concerned. As for the future—did he wish for his return? Could the misery of their long estrangement ever be forgotten or outlived?
The bright-faced, happy, loving lad never could return—never. What was his son like now? What could he hope from him, or for him, after what he knew of him?
Oh, yes! he loved him, pitied him, longed for him; but if it were God’s will that he should come home again, would God’s will be best? God Himself could not blot out the past, and make them to each other all that they had been before this trouble came between them. He groaned aloud in his misery, and then he remembered that he was not alone. He rose up as if to go, but sat down again, putting great constraint upon himself.
“We’ll say nae mair about it now, lassie,” said he hoarsely.
“No, papa, only this, Wait a little while. George will surely come home—or—we shall hear that he is dead. I think he will come home—soon.”
“Will our Geordie, our frank, true-hearted, noble lad ever come home to us again, think you? Could God Himself give him back to us as he was?”
“Whisht! George, man,” said his sister gravely. “Think what ye’re saying! All things are possible with God.”
“Ay! to him that believes, but that is beyond belief—to me,” said the old man with a sob.
“Papa,” said Jean touching his bowed head with her hand, “He will come home—soon.”
“And whether he come or no’, we have just to live our lives and make the best of them,” said Mr Dawson rising; and he went away with no word of good-night.
Jean lent her young strength to the weakness and weariness of her aunt as they went up the stairs together, but there were no more words spoken between them. They kissed one another in silence, and each knew that the other could not lighten the burden of care and pain that had fallen on both.
Though they had waited so long and so anxiously for the return of the “John Seaton,” it took the Dawsons by surprise at last. But from the moment that the white sails broke the line of the far horizon, the ship was watched by an ever-increasing crowd gathering on the pier, and on the high rocks above the town.
Glasses were passed from hand to hand, while some looked doubtful and grave, and others joyfully declared that it was the long-expected vessel. In an anguish of hope and fear fathers and mothers, wives and sisters, waited. Some wept and prayed, and wandered up and down, others sat in still excitement counting the moments till the suspense should end.
It was Sunday afternoon and so none of the Dawsons were in the town. Even Miss Jean was at Saughleas. In the excitement of the moment none thought of sending word to the owner of the ship. Not one of all the anxious mothers and wives who were waiting but had more at stake than he.
“But when we are sure, and when I’ve seen our Tam, I’ll be off to Saughleas to tell the twa Miss Jeans,” said Robbie Saugster to his sister Maggie, who was waiting and hoping like the rest.
“Ay. They’ll be glad—or sorry,” said Maggie with a sob.
“The twa Miss Jeans, said he!” repeated Mrs Cairnie, who was wandering up and down, anxious and intent as all the rest, though there was no one belonging to her on the ship, or on any ship that sailed. “The twa Miss Jeans! And what is it to them? Ay, I ken fine the auld man is chief owner, and weel he likes his siller. But the twa Miss Jeans! what is it to them? Except that they may ha’e had their ain thochts for a’ the puir bodies that ha’e grown feared this while,” added the old woman relenting.
“They ha’e had many an anxious thought, and many a kind word and deed for them—I ken weel,” said another woman whose eyes were on the ship.
“An’ sae do I,” said another who was sitting on a stone with her baby in her arms, because her trembling limbs would not support her. “What would I ha’e done but for auld Miss Jean since my man sailed.”
“Ay; and they say auld Miss Jean has been through it all.”
“And whether or no’, she kens how to weep wi’ those who weep.”
“But she’ll ‘rejoice with them that do rejoice’ this time, for as sure as I ha’e e’en to see, yon’s the ‘John Seaton’!”
“And I’se awa’ to the pier head,” said Robbie. “Are you coming, Maggie?”
Maggie took two steps after him, then she turned.
“Come, Mrs Barnet. It’ll soon be over now. I’ll carry wee Jamie.” And the crowd moved with them.
It was the “John Seaton.” All saw that by this time. There was but a thin kirk that night, for none could force themselves away from the shore, and some who set out for the kirk, turned aside with the rest to meet and welcome those who were coming home. But the kirk was empty and the crowd increased before the “John Seaton” touched the pier.
The first who reached the deck was Robbie Saugster, and the first man he saw was Willie Calderwood, tall and brown and strong, a hero in the boy’s eyes.
“Our Tam?” said he with a gasp.
“Tam’s a’ richt. Tell your mother I’ll be round to see her.”
There was no time for more. The folk pressed forward, and all noticed that the mate’s face was graver that it ought to have been. There was something wrong.
“Is Mrs Horne here? Or my mother?” asked the mate. “Is that you, Robbie Saugster? Run to my mother’s house and say I bade her go to Mrs Horne’s, and bide till I come there.”
Robbie was off like a shot. “Is it ill news?”
“If it’s ill news, the laddie should speak in and tell auld Miss Jean.”
“Miss Jean is unco frail.”
“Miss Jean is ower at Saughleas.”
“And is it Captain Horne? And when did it happen?”
“Puir woman! Her turn has come at last!” Many voices took up the “ill news,” telling it gravely till it went through the throng. Even those who had got their own safe home again, spoke their welcome gravely, thinking of her who had to hear heavy tidings.