Margaret Murray Robertson (continued 2)

“It’s no’ like John Petrie and his wife to do a foolish thing, but they are doing it now. And their son Jamie just the age to make a fool o’ himself, for the sake o’ a bonny face. ‘A rose among the other flowers,’ no less, said May.”

“But Jean said better. ‘A violet in the wood.’ She is a modest little creature—though she has a strong, brave nature, and will hold her own with any Petrie o’ them a’. And as good as the best o’ them to my thinking.”

“Well, that mayna be the father’s thought, though it may be the son’s.”

“Dinna fash yoursel’ about Jamie Petrie. He’ll fall into no such trouble. It’s no’ in him?” added Miss Jean with a touch of scorn.

“I never saw the lad yet that hadna it in him to ken a bonny lass when she came in his way; and for the lassie’s ain sake, ye should take thought for her.”

“She has her mother,” said Miss Jean, more hastily than was her way. “And any interference would come ill from you or me where this one is concerned. And my bonny Mavis is but a bairn,” she added more gently, “and she’s in no danger from James Petrie, who is a well intentioned lad, and who has been ower weel brought up, and who is ower fond of siller and gentility, to have either roses or violets in his plan o’ life, unless they’re growing in a fine flowerpot, in somebody’s fine house. Marion Calderwood is no’ for the like of him.”

Her brother regarded her with anger so evidently struggling with astonishment in his face, that she expected hot words to follow. But he kept silence for a moment, and then he said quietly enough,—

“It seldom answers for ane to put his finger into another’s pie. There are few men so wise as to profit by a lesson from another man’s experience, and I doubt John Petrie is no’ ane o’ them.”

“And there’s few men, it’s to be feared, wise enough to take the best lesson from their ain experience,” said Miss Jean gravely. “And that is a sadder thing to say.”

It was quite true, as Captain Harefield had said, that it was his sister who “put him up” to going on James Petrie’s invitation to the garden party that afternoon. The natural desire to get him off her hands, for the rest of the day was her only motive in urging it, and a sufficient one, for it was true that he was bored by the quiet of Blackford House, and that he did not suffer alone. But it was the unwonted energy of his admiring exclamations as soon as they had passed out of the gate of Saughleas, that had suggested the idea.

By “this and by that,” were they not beauties, these two girls? Who would have thought of coming upon two such without warning? Even his sister must acknowledge that they were beautiful.

She did acknowledge it, but there was something far more wonderful to her than their good looks. That two country girls—and Scotch country girls—should be found at home dressed as these two were, astonished her more than their beauty.

“They might have passed at any garden party of the season,” said she.

“Passed! I should think so. I don’t know about their gowns, but they would pass, I fancy.”

“She couldn’t have fallen on any thing to suit her style of face and figure better if she had made a study of it.”

“Perhaps she did,” said her brother, laughing. “Or perhaps they get their gowns from London.”

“No, they would probably have been dressed alike, in that case, and in the height of the fashion. The white one was very much like the dresses of other girls, but the other was unique. And they seemed nice, lady-like girls.”

“Did they not? And not so very Scotch.”

“Well, perhaps not so very—but rather so. But then I like the Scotch of Scotch people better than their English as a rule. However, the few words I heard them speak were softly and prettily spoken, and quite appropriate to the place and time. How it might seem elsewhere I could not say.”

“It is rather a nice place, too, isn’t it? The estate is small, but he has no end of money, they tell me, and he seems a sensible old fellow enough.”

“The sister is a striking looking woman—with a certain dignity of manner, too.”

“Yes, and young Petrie tells me that she used to keep a little shop, in her young days. Indeed, not so very long ago.”

Mrs Eastwood did not reply to this. Her mind was evidently intent on solving the problem of Jean’s tasteful gown.

“And at home too! I have heard that young people of their class, get themselves up in fine style when they go out to tea. But sitting there on the grass, with the old woman in the cap—”

“But perhaps they are going out to tea.—To the garden party! ‘By this and by that’—Did I tell you? Young Petrie at the bank asked me to go. I have a great mind to go.”

He glanced down at the faultless grey morning suit he wore.

“I could not go all the way to Blackford House and return again, could I?”

“Hardly, and you could not improve yourself if you were to go. Yes, by all means accept the invitation. You will be sure to meet the Misses—Dawson is it? And the circumstances will be more favourable for knowing them than they were this morning.”

It ended in Captain Harefield’s leaving the carriage, and returning to Portie on foot. He lunched at the inn, and presented himself at Petrie Villa in company with the eldest son of the house in the course of the afternoon. It is to be supposed that he enjoyed himself, for this was by no means his last visit, and his sister was able to congratulate herself on getting him off her hands a good deal after this while they remained in the North.

Various circumstances combined, made this a pleasanter summer in Saughleas than the last had been. For one thing, Miss Jean was there more than usual. The fall which had made her almost helpless for a while, still prevented her from moving about with ease; and the Lord’s “little ones,” for the time, received the aid and comfort which she owed them for His sake, through the hands of others, and she had to content herself with sitting still and waiting His will.

She could have contented herself in circumstances more adverse than those in which she found herself. She knew that her presence in the house was a pleasure to her brother, and that it was not an uncomfortable restraint upon her nieces, as it might have become, even though they loved one another dearly, had she assumed any other place than that of visitor among them.

So young a mistress of a house, to which there were so many coming and going as there always were in summer, needed the help which the presence of an elder person gave, and it was all the better that the help was given and received with no words about it. Jean the younger, was glad of her aunt’s stay, because she loved her, and because escaping now and then from the pleasant confusion that sometimes prevailed in the house, she found quiet and rest in her company. And though she might not have acknowledged her need of her help in any other way, she was doubtless the better of it.

It cannot be said that it was altogether a happy summer to her, but it was a very busy one. She was mistress and housekeeper, and gave her mind to her duties as she had not done at first. Indeed, it seemed that she was determined to give herself and her maidens no rest for a while, so intent was she in doing all that was to be done. And even when her maidens had necessary respite, she took none to herself. In the house or in the garden she occupied herself all the morning. She took long walks in the afternoon if there were no visitors to entertain, and if the rain, or the special need or wish of her aunt or her sister kept her in the house, she employed herself still with work of some sort, sitting at it steadily and patiently, “as if she had her bread to make by it,” her father said one day when he had been watching her for some time unperceived.

“I should like to know how it would seem to do that,” said Jean gravely.

“You would soon tire of it,” said her father laughing.

“I dare say. I tire of most things,” said she, rising and folding up the long, white garment on which she had been so busy.

Her father regarded her curiously from behind his newspaper. She did not look either well or happy at the moment, he thought.

“It is all nonsense, Jean lassie, to keep yourself at your seam, as you have been doing for the last two hours, when there are so many poor women in Portie that would be glad to do it for what you would hardly miss.”

“But I like to do it, papa, for the moment, and one must do something.”

“It is just a whim of hers, papa,” said May laughing. “Think of her stinting herself to do so much an hour, when she might as well be amusing herself.”

“It’s good discipline, Auntie Jean says,” said Jean laughing. “And I need, it she thinks. At any rate, every woman ought to do white seam in the very best way, and I didna like it when I was young.”

“But now we have the sewing-machine, and as for the discipline, it’s all nonsense.”

“Well never mind, May. Now is the time to speak to papa about the children’s party. Papa, May wants to give a large children’s party—for the little Corbetts, ye ken. Though there must be grown people here too, and it will be great fun, I have no doubt.”

Jean seemed quite as eager about it as May, her father thought, as they went on to discuss the proposed party. Of course the result of the discussion was just what the sisters knew it would be. Their father said they were to please themselves, only adding several cautions as to the care that must be taken of fruit trees and flower beds, and some doubts as to how the Portie bairns, accustomed to the freedom of rocks and sands, would care for a formal tea-drinking in the house, or even in the garden.

“The bairns’ pleasure is the excuse, and no’ the reason, I doubt,” said he; but he laughed when he said it.

This was one of the things that made this summer pleasanter than the last had been. They had amused themselves last summer and their father had not objected; but as to his enjoying any thing of the kind, such a thought had never entered the minds of his daughters. But now he did not endure their gay doings painfully, protesting against them by his manner, if not by his words, nor did he ignore them altogether as had been most frequently his way. He looked on smiling at the enjoyment of the guests, and took evident pleasure in the success of his daughters in entertaining them. If it had been otherwise, there would have been few visitors to entertain, and few gayeties attempted. For Jean did not care enough for these things to make the effort worth her while, and May would have had to content herself with the gayeties provided by other people. But as it was, the elder sister did her part, and did it well; so well that none but her aunt suspected that her heart was not in these things quite as it used to be.

Certainly her father was far from suspecting any such thing. And sitting apart, seeing them both and watching, and musing upon all that was going on, Miss Jean could not but wonder at his blindness, and at the folly of the vague and pleasant possibilities he was beginning to see, and to rejoice over in the future.

Chapter Six.

A Proposal.

The garden party at Petrie Villa had been the first of a series. Not a very long series, indeed, for there were not many gardens in Portie equal to the requirements of such an entertainment, even according to the limited ideas of those who had never “assisted at” a garden party anywhere else. But there had been several, and the presence of Captain Harefield would have been generally declared to be the most interesting feature of nearly all of them.

He had not always been invited. That is, he had not always been invited in the formal way usually considered necessary on such occasions even in Portie. But through the kindness of James Petrie at first, and afterward of others, when he became better known, he was sure to make his appearance in the course of the entertainment, and so comported himself and so evidently enjoyed himself, that even those who were at first inclined to resent, as a liberty, his coming so unceremoniously among them, forgot to do so in his presence, and ended in being as pleased and flattered as the rest.

Of course there was a garden party at Saughleas, and of course Captain Harefield was a guest, formally and specially invited by Mr Dawson himself. But his presence was not the most interesting circumstance of the occasion, for his sister, Mrs Eastwood, was there also. Mrs Eastwood had come according to her promise and had taken Miss Jean in her carriage to visit Mrs Cairnie, and it had been a successful visit in every way. For May had given the old woman warning, and she had prepared herself to receive them. Not only had she on a clean “mutch” and apron, but her house was “redd up” in a way that would have seemed wonderful to her visitor, if she had been familiar with its aspect on other days.

Mrs Cairnie was a clever old woman, and made the most of her opportunity. She bewailed the loss of her daughter’s society, and of the help and comfort she had been to her, but enlarged on her sense of the good fortune that had come to the lassie in being admitted into the service of such a kind and gracious lady. She declared herself overpowered at the condescension and kindness of the visit in terms which did not seem so very much exaggerated to the visitor; but Miss Jean knew that the bad auld wife was laughing in her sleeve at the English lady and her simplicity. However, the visit was considered a success by those chiefly concerned, and it was to be repeated before Mrs Eastwood took her departure.

On returning to leave Miss Jean at Saughleas, Mrs Eastwood expressed herself delighted to accept Mr Dawson’s invitation to alight and drink a cup of tea before she set out for Blackford House. In a little the tea and all the pretty accessories were brought out to the terrace, and it was charming—every thing was charming, Mrs Eastwood declared, and “not at all Scotch”; but happily the last part of her opinion was reserved till she was relating her afternoon’s adventures at Blackford House.

She herself did her utmost to charm every one, and succeeded very well on the whole, and her suggestion as to an invitation to the garden party came very naturally and gracefully in the midst of the gentle thanks addressed to Miss Jean because of the kindness shown to her brother. Captain Harefield, whom she confessed to be a little impatient of the quiet of Blackford House. Even Miss Dawson did not seem to think it strange when, in her pretty way, she begged to be allowed to accompany her brother to the garden party on the day appointed.

“It was very silly of her,” Jean said afterwards. “What possible pleasure could she expect?”

“I don’t see that. Why should she not take pleasure in it as well as you? She is young yet,” said Mr Dawson, ready to take the lady’s part.

“I should have no pleasure in going out of my own sphere,” said Jean with dignity.

“Eh! Jeannie, I’m no’ so sure of that. Werena you just the other day playing at ‘the beds’ with Mavis, and Emily Corbett, and the rest of the bairns on the sands? And didna you finish Maggie Saugster’s seam to let her get away with the rest? And didna you—”

“Nonsense, May! I’ve played at ‘the beds’ all my life, and I dinna look down on Mavis and Maggie and the rest. And it was for their pleasure I played with them, and not for my own.”

“Well, it may be for our pleasure that Mrs Eastwood is coming here, and as for looking down on us—” said May with a toss of her pretty head.

“Whisht, bairns,” said Miss Jean gently. “I dare say she thinks lang in the country as weel as her brother,—her that’s used with London life,—and she would like to come just for a pass-time, with no thought of looking down on any one.”

“Her brother doesna seem to be looking down on any one,” said Mr Dawson with a short, amused laugh.

“Oh! he makes no secret that it is just for a pass-time, that he favours Portie folk with his company. He finds Blackford House dull. He gets awfully bored,” said May in the Captain’s languid manner.

“It’s a wonder he stays on then,” said Mr Dawson.

“I said that to him once, and he said—” May hesitated. It would not have been easy to repeat all that had been said on the occasion alluded to; but she put the gist of his communications more clearly and directly than he had done himself, when she added,—

“It is a good place not to spend money at, and he does not seem to have much to spend.”

“Weel, he’s honest—as to his reasons, at any rate,” said her father.

“Oh! that is what I gathered, rather than what he said. He is out of the reach of duns. That he did say.”

“He doesna seem to me like an ill-disposed youth,” said Miss Jean.

“Oh, no, auntie! He’s nice and agreeable, and—all that; but he is—soft,” said May laughing.

Her father looked as if he were going to say something sharp, but he did not.

“His sister is very fond of him, and very good to him, he says. And he must be a heavy handful whiles,” said Jean gravely.

“In what way?” asked her father.

“Oh! just having him on her mind to keep sight of, and amuse, and keep out of mischief, as he says. Just fancy the weariness of it?”

“You seem to have gathered a good deal from him, as well as your sister,” said Mr Dawson, not well pleased. “And you find him a heavy handfu’, do you? I have thought whiles that you get on very well with him.”

“Oh, yes, I get on very well with him! I’m not responsible for him, ye ken, and that makes all the difference.”

“Marion Petrie says that Jean keeps him very much to herself, and Jamie looks as if he thought so, too, sometimes,” said May laughing.

“That is one of your ‘gatherings,’ May, my dear,” said her sister.

“Well, you must make your best of the visitor when she comes,” said Mr Dawson as he went out.

And it was very easy to make the best of Mrs Eastwood. She was amiable and agreeable, and if she looked down on any one, it did not appear. She did not mingle much with the younger portion of the company, but she amused herself by observing all that was going on, and talked pleasantly with Miss Jean, and afterwards with Mr Dawson, about various things, but chiefly about her brother, whom she evidently loved dearly, and who as evidently caused her anxiety, though she had no thought of letting this appear.

Miss Jean found her soft flowing talk pleasant to listen to, and all the more that she did not need very often to reply. Mr Dawson was charmed with her, and it was not, as a general thing, his way to be charmed with strangers. But she was not altogether a stranger. Her husband’s name—Eastwood, the London banker—had long been familiar to Mr Dawson. He knew him to be a “responsible” man, and that was more than could be said of all the fine English folk, who found it convenient to pass a part of the summer or autumn at Blackford House.

Mrs Eastwood herself was of high family, being the granddaughter, or at least the grand-niece, of a living earl, and though Mr Dawson would doubtless have scorned the imputation, it is possible that he found all the more pleasure in entertaining her because of that Mr Eastwood was not of high family. He was very rich however, and they got on together, pretty well, May “gathered” from Captain Harefield’s conversation; that is, they never quarrelled, and were content to spare each other to enjoy the society of other people for a good part of the year.

But Mrs Eastwood made much of her husband when speaking of him to Mr Dawson, and of her brother also. Of the brother, she had much to say, and Mr Dawson listened with great interest to it all, as Miss Jean could not fail to see.

And in the mean time the young people amused themselves in the garden and in the wood, and Captain Harefield seemed to be at no loss for amusement among them. Jean certainly did not keep him to herself to-day, as Mr Dawson noticed; but then Jean was hostess, and had to occupy herself with the duties of her position, and with the party generally. It passed off very well, all things considered, and the children’s party was likely to be the same thing over again, with the children added.

The little Corbetts, who were the reason, or the excuse, of the prospective gayeties, had come from their home in an English manufacturing town, in order that the sea breezes of Portie might put strength in their limbs and colour in their wan cheeks; and they had come at the special invitation of Mr Dawson. Their father, the son of the Portie parish minister of the time, had been his chief friend in the days of his youth, and they had never forgotten one another, though they had not for a long time been in frequent correspondence. During one of Mr Dawson’s infrequent visits to Liverpool, they had met by chance, and had renewed acquaintance to the pleasure of both, and Mr Dawson allowed himself to be persuaded to go and pass a few days with his friend.

Mr Corbett had not been a very successful man in the way of making money, and he had a large family, few of them able to do much for themselves. But they were cheerful, hopeful people, and made the best of things. There had been illness among them recently, which had left the younger children white and thin, and not likely to mend during the summer heat in a close city street; and when Mr Dawson asked as many of them as liked to spend a month or two among the sea breezes of Portie, the invitation was accepted gratefully. But it was doubtful whether, for economic reasons, they could have availed themselves of it, if Mr Dawson had not taken matters into his own hand, and insisted on taking some of them home at once.

So the two youngest, Polly and Dick, with an elder sister of fifteen to be responsible for their well-being and well-doing, were carried off to Saughleas, and presented unannounced to the startled, but well pleased, household. Their coming gave interest, and occupation as well, to every one, for “Mr Dawson had given mamma no time for preparation,” as the pretty, anxious elder sister was fain to explain when she asked Miss Dawson’s advice and assistance in the matter of shoes and stockings, and other things suitable for the perfect enjoyment of the rocks and sands of Portie. Miss Dawson made all that easy, taking the equipment of the children, and the elder sister as well, into her own hands.

And the puny city children enjoyed the sands and the sea, the running and clambering, and the free out-of-doors life, as much as their father had done in his boyish days; and their own mother would hardly have recognised their round brown faces before the first month was over.

As to their needing entertainment in the way of children’s parties, that was not likely. But for the sake of their father and grandfather they had been invited to many houses in Portie, and it was but right that they should have a chance to invite their young friends in return. And so the party was decided on, and was much enjoyed, and so might be dismissed with no more words about it, except for a circumstance or two which attended it.

Mrs Eastwood was there again, but not by invitation. She had not been aware that there was to be such gay doings at Saughleas, she said, when she came into the garden, and she stayed a while at Miss Jean’s request, to enjoy the sight of so many happy bairns. But she was not bright and beaming and bent on pleasing every one, as she had been the first time she was at Saughleas.

To tell the truth, she was anxious and unhappy, at a loss what to do, or whether she should do any thing, or just let events take their own course. It was her brother and his affairs that occupied her thoughts. She had been so long accustomed to think for him, and advise him, he had come to her so constantly for help in the various difficulties into which he had fallen during his life, and she had been so successful in helping him, and so happy in doing so, that she could not—though she sometimes tried—divest herself of a feeling of personal responsibility for his well-being. And now that he seemed to be at a turning point in his life, she felt all the anxiety of one who had a decision of importance to make, with no one at hand on whose judgment she could rely for guidance.

It added to her unhappiness, that she could not quite free herself from blame in regard to the matter to be decided. She need not have made herself unhappy about her own course. Nothing that she had done or left undone, had much to do with the intentions of which her brother had informed her that morning. She had been conscious of a feeling of relief for herself at the chance of his finding the means of amusing himself innocently in the country. That was the uttermost of her sin towards him. But his frequent visits to Saughleas, and his loiterings in Portie, would have been none the less frequent had he believed that his sister missed and mourned every hour of his absence.

And her present anxiety as to his next step was just as vain. She could neither help nor hinder it, and, whatever might be the result, neither praise nor blame could justly fall to her because of it. But she did not see it so, and so she had come to Saughleas with many vague thoughts as to what it might be wise to do, but with a firm determination as to one thing that was to be plainly said before she went away again.

Her first thought when she saw the pleasant confusion that the children were making on the lawn and in the gardens was, that nothing could be said to-day. But by and by, when children and young people, her brother among the rest, went away to amuse themselves with games in the field beyond the wood, the way to speak was opened to her, and she saw no reason why she should not say all that was in her mind. It was to Miss Jean she had intended to say it, and Miss Jean was sitting under the beeches with folded hands, ready to listen. And yet, looking into the grave, serene face of Miss Jean, she did hesitate. She could not tell why; for Miss Jean was only a person who had kept a shop, and counted and hoarded the pence, and who knew their value. A commonplace, good-natured woman, not easily offended, why should she not say to her all that she had to say—and say it plainly too?

And so she did. And Miss Jean listened with no offence apparently, with only a little gleam of surprise and interest in her eyes, and perhaps a little gleam of amusement also. Mrs Eastwood was not sure. She did not say much, but she said it very plainly.

Miss Jean must have noticed the frequency of Captain Harefield’s visits to Saughleas, and his warm admiration of the young ladies, her nieces. It had gone beyond admiration, she had reason to think, as to one of them. Indeed her brother had intimated as much to her, and had filled her with anxiety; for her brother had no fortune. Of course if he married he would wish to leave the army. Could Miss Jean tell her whether the fortune which Mr Dawson could give his daughter would be sufficient to insure the comfort of the young people in case of a marriage?

“And did your brother send you to ask?” said Miss Jean quietly. “And why do you ask me?”

“Of course he did not I speak because of my own anxiety, and you must see that I could not speak to Mr Dawson about money until a proposal had been made.”

“Weel, madam, I can give you no help and no information. I have no’ sufficient knowledge of my brother’s means, or of his intentions. And I could not influence him in this matter, even if I were to try. Which of them is it?”

But strangely enough Mrs Eastwood could not answer this question. The intimation she had that morning received of her brother’s intention to propose to Mr Dawson for the hand of his daughter, had not been very definite or very clearly given. It had come in during a discussion of other and painful matters, with which money, or rather the want of money, had to do. And if her brother had told her which of them he intended to honour, she had failed to understand him, or she had forgotten. So her reply did not touch this question.

“I cannot say whether I approve or disapprove of his choice. Your niece is very pretty and lady-like, and she would take her husband’s rank—and, my dear Miss Dawson, I trust you will not think me mercenary, but my brother can give his wife a high station, and a place in society, and to make the marriage an equal one, or in the least degree suitable, there should not only be beauty and grace, which your niece I must acknowledge has, but—money.”

“And plenty of it,” said Miss Jean.

“Of course. And unless there is, as you say, plenty of it, Percy should not be allowed to speak.”

“But if they love one another?”

Mrs Eastwood turned and looked at Miss Jean. She had rather avoided doing so hitherto. She was not sure that the old woman was not laughing at her. Miss Jean’s face was grave enough however.

“If there is not a prospect of—of—a fortune, he should not be allowed to speak. Not that I do not admire your niece. I admire her extremely. She is clever, and sensible also, and would restrain—I mean she would influence her husband. She would make a good wife to Percy, who is—who needs some one to lean on.”

“A heavy handfu’,” said Miss Jean, unconsciously repeating her niece’s words.

There was a silence of several minutes between them, and then Mrs Eastwood continued, carrying on her own train of thought.

“Of course I knew that the foolish boy admired the young lady—fancied himself in love; but that has often happened to him before, and I thought it would pass with the month. But they are very pretty and fresh, and the tall one is clever, and she would—yes, she would make him a good wife—provided—”

Miss Jean’s spirit was stirred within her, but she said nothing; and Mrs Eastwood said all the more, unconsciously betraying her belief that it would be the best thing that could happen to her brother, that he should marry and settle down with a wife clever enough to influence him. And to influence him meant, evidently, to keep him from spending too much money, and from the companionship of those who loved to lead him astray.

She did not say in plain words that his marriage with such a one would be a great relief to her and that it would be the saving of him to be kept out of London and out of harm’s way for the greater part of the year; but Miss Jean saw clearly that she was more eager for his success than she was willing to acknowledge. Miss Jean listened silently and patiently. Her niece knew her own mind, doubtless, and would not be likely to allow herself to be influenced by the wishes of any one, and she had no call to reprove, or even to resent, the “ill manners” of the lady.

So she sat silent and let the softly spoken words “go in at one ear and out of the other,” till she heard the tramp of a horse’s feet, and knew that her brother was come home, and then she rose, and invited Mrs Eastwood into the house, hoping that she would refuse the invitation and take her departure. For at the sound of her brother’s voice, Miss Jean’s heart misgave her.

Chapter Seven.

A Misfortune.

Miss Jean’s heart misgave her, for she knew that the thought suggested to her brother on the morning when Mrs Eastwood and Captain Harefield came to Saughleas to inquire about poor Tibbie Cairnie had returned to him more than once; and she feared that should Captain Harefield speak to-day, he might not refuse to listen, and then there would be troublous times before them.

That there was even a possibility that he should be willing to listen to him was amazing to Miss Jean. So wise and cautious and far-seeing as he had always shown himself to be, how could he think of trusting any part of the wealth which he had spent his life in gathering, to the hands of a man who had proved himself incapable of making a good use of that which had fallen to him? To say nothing of being willing to trust him with his daughter!

There was comfort here, however. Jean’s welfare was in her own keeping. Miss Jean was not so much at a loss as Mrs Eastwood, as to which of her nieces Captain Harefield intended to seek. And she was glad it was Jean, for Jean could hold her own against father and lover and all. But still there was trouble before them, for, strangely enough, her brother, hard-working and practical, a thorough man of business, had taken pleasure in the comings and goings of this young man so utterly unlike himself in all essential respects. She had seen it with wonder and a little amusement at first; but she knew now, or she thought she knew, that he had been preparing disappointment for himself and vexation to her bonny Jean.

“Truly we need guidance,” she said aloud, and then she rose and invited Mrs Eastwood to go in to the house and take a cup of tea, hoping all the time that she might refuse, and that she might be away before Mr Dawson came.

It was not to be so arranged however. Mr Dawson was delighted to see Mrs Eastwood, and expressed his pleasure so frankly, that Miss Jean thought it possible the lady might take courage, and make known to him as plainly as she had done to her the cause of her visit. So, instead of moving away with the help of her cane, as she had at first intended to do, she seated herself again. Not that she thought that her presence would be likely to prevent her speech, but she was curious to know how the matter, so interesting to the lady, should be presented to a new listener; and curious also to see how her brother might receive it.

There were the usual inquiries and compliments as to health, and the usual remarks about the weather and the appearance of the country, and then Mrs Eastwood spoke of the benefit she had received from her long stay, and her regret that the time of her departure was so near. Then Mr Dawson inquired with more interest than the occasion demanded, whether Captain Harefield was to leave also.

“If he take my advice about it, he will certainly do so,” said Mrs Eastwood. “But that is doubtful. The interest of the season is just beginning to him, and as he has had his leave extended, he may remain.”

“He is a keen sportsman, I hear,” said Mr Dawson.

“Oh, yes; and the shooting here is good, they say, and does not involve very much fatigue. Yes, he will probably stay for a little; though I think he had much better go, for various reasons.”

She spoke with a certain significance of tone and manner, and Mr Dawson remained silent, expecting to hear more; and possibly he might have had the pleasure of hearing of Captain Harefield’s hopes and his sister’s opinions, had no interruption occurred.

But at the moment a sudden outcry arose somewhere in the garden. They could see nothing where they were sitting, but they heard the sound of many voices—entreating, expostulating, scolding, and at last they heard words.

“Ye needna tell, May. Naebody will ken wha did it.”

“I wouldna tell Mr Dawson—for—oh! for ony thing.”

“An’ naebody will ken that it was you that did it.”

“It wasna me, but it was my fault; and if Sandy winna tell, I must, and just take the wyte (blame) mysel’.”

“Eh! Marion! Yon’s him speaking to the leddy. I wouldna be you for something.”

“Something untoward has happened, I doubt,” said Miss Jean. “I hope no ill has come to any of the apple-trees.”

Now Mr Dawson’s apple-trees were the pride of his heart. It is not easy to raise fruit trees of any kind so near to the sea; and as far as apple-trees are concerned, the fruit is not of the best, when success has crowned persevering effort. But on a few young trees, bearing for the first time, there hung several apples beautiful to behold, and they had been watched through all the season with interest by every one in the house, but above all by Mr Dawson. So when Miss Jean said “apple-trees,” he rose at once to satisfy himself that they were safe.

But alas! before he had fairly turned to go, all doubt was at an end. There were many children at a little distance, and two or three were drawing near, and in the hand of one, a girl in her teens, was a broken branch, on which hung two of the half dozen apples from the best of all the trees. Mr Dawson had watched them with too great interest not to know just where the little branch belonged. He did not speak,—indeed the little maiden did not give him time.

“It was a’ my wyte, Mr Dawson, and I’m very grieved,” said she, holding up the branch, and looking up into his face with eager, wistful eyes.

Mr Dawson took it, but he looked not at it, but at the child, saying nothing.

“I beg your pardon. I’m very grieved,” repeated she.

Mrs Eastwood whispered to Miss Jean what a pretty picture the child made, but Miss Jean was thinking of other things.

“It was Sandy,” continued the little pleader. “He was taking a’ wee David’s sweetees, and I couldna bide that, ye ken, and I just—just tried to hinder him; an’ he ran awa’, and me after him. And he ran in beneath the tree, but he wouldna have gone, if I hadna been after him, and so—”

“She licket me, and she tried to rug my lugs,” (pull my ears), said a voice in the distance.

The change in the girl’s face was wonderful to see as she turned to the speaker. A sudden colour rose to her cheeks, and her grey eyes flashed scorn and anger.

“If I only had been able!” said she, and then she turned to Mr Dawson again.

“I’m very grieved,” repeated she.

“It canna be helpit now, Maysie,” said Miss Jean. “Never heed. Run awa’ with the lave o’ the bairns.”

For Miss Jean knew that it was not the apples nor their destruction that had brought that look to her brother’s face.

“Are ye angry with me, sir? And winna ye forgive me?” said Maysie, the sweet wistfulness coming back to her eyes. “I’m very grieved.”

“It canna be helpit. Never heed,” said Mr Dawson, repeating his sister’s words. “I dinna think I mind your name,” added he, not meaning to say it, but making a great effort to recover himself.

“I’m Marion Calderwood,” said she, a sudden brightness, followed by a cloud as sudden, passing over her face. She lifted beseeching eyes to his face, and then she turned to Miss Jean.

“Run awa’, lassie, with the lave o’ the bairns,” said Miss Jean.

“Maybe I should go hame?”

“Hoot, lassie! Never heed. Only run away with the lave.”

Quite unconscious that he owed an apology to Mrs Eastwood for his abrupt departure, Mr Dawson turned and strode off in another direction.

“They must be precious apples,” said Mrs Eastwood, looking after him with surprise not unmingled with disgust.

“It’s an old trouble,” said Miss Jean sorrowfully. “He’ll hear none o’ her fine words the night,” she added to herself, conscious, amid her trouble, of some satisfaction that it should be so.

No, Mr Dawson was not likely to listen patiently to words of any kind that night. The very first look from the child’s eyes smote his heart with a pang in which there was regret, as well as anger and pain. For a sudden remembrance of eyes as sweet, and with the same look of wistful appeal in them came back to him—the eyes of bonny Elsie Calderwood, who had come between him and his son.

Almost the last words which his son had spoken to him, the very last such as a son should speak to his father, had been spoken while those wistful eyes entreated him. It had been a moment of great bitterness, and as he passed down the lane that led to the fields, and then to the sea, eager to get beyond the sound of the gay voices ringing from garden and wood, the old bitterness returned, and with it came the added misery of the vain wish that he had yielded his own will that day—a longing unspeakable for all that he had lost.

His boy—the only son of his mother who had been so dear, had he lost him forever? Would he never return? Could he be dead? Should he never see his face or hear his voice again?

He had a bitter hour or two, this man, whom even his sister, who knew him best and loved him best, called hard in her secret thoughts. And the bitterness did not pass with the hour, nor the pain. Silence reigned in the house before he came home that night, and in the morning something of the old gloom seemed to have fallen upon him.

Captain Harefield did go home with his sister; at least he left Blackford House with her, and that without returning after the night of the children’s party to say “Good-bye” to his friends at Saughleas. May remarked upon this with a little indignation, and Mr Dawson said it was not like the young man not to do what was polite and kind, and he also wondered at the omission of the visit. Jean said nothing; at least she said nothing to them. To her aunt she acknowledged that she had known of his intended departure, and that she had also known when he bade her good-bye that night, that she was not likely to see him again. But even to her aunt she did not acknowledge that he would have stayed longer if she had bidden him, or that even now a word from her would bring him back again.

Out of the unfortunate incident of the broken apple-tree, there rose a little talk between “the two Jeans.” Miss Jean had for a long time had something on her mind to say to her niece, but it was the younger Jean who spoke first.

“Aunt, what is this they are saying about my father’s anger at Marion Calderwood?”

“My dear, he wasna angry!”

“Did you see it all, auntie? Because Marion went home greeting, the other bairns say. Of course it was a pity about the tree, but it wasna Marion who broke it, and it wasna like my father to show anger to a guest, even to a bairn.”

“My dear, he showed no anger.”

“But, auntie, there must have been something; for I met Mrs Calderwood in the High-street this morning, and she went red and then white, and was stiff and distant, as she used to be when we first came home. She had grown quite friendly of late, and to-day she would have passed me without speaking. It must have been because of Marion.”

“It might have been, but I dinna think it. Mrs Calderwood is a proud woman, Jean, my dear,—and—”

“Well?”

“Weel, ye have been consorting with fine folk lately, and maybe—”

“Auntie Jean! Dinna say more, for that is not your real thought; and that is a terrible thing to say of you.”

“My dear, it is my real thought, as far as it goes. I ha’e little doubt that was present in Mrs Calderwood’s mind when she met you in the High-street—with other things.”

“We’ll take the other things first then,” said Jean, the angry colour rising in her cheeks. “You must think your friend but a poor creature, or she must think it of us.”

It was the first time in all the girl’s life, that her eyes with an angry light in them had rested fully on her aunt’s face. Her aunt did not resent it, or notice it, except by a gentle movement of her head from side to side, and the shadow of a smile passed over her face. She looked grave enough as she answered, however.

“I am far from thinking her a poor creature, whatever she may think of us. And, Jean, my dear, I think ye maun ken something of the other things, though ye never heard them from me.”

Jean’s look grew soft and sad, and she came and leaned on her aunt’s chair.

“Do you mean about bonny Elsie, and—our Geordie? Was it because of Elsie that Geordie went—and lost himself? Tell me about it.”

“I think ye maun ken all that I could tell you—or mostly all.”

“I only ken—I mean I used to think that they—cared for one another—oh long ago, before my mother died. And since we came home, I have heard a word dropped now and then, by different folk—Marion Petrie, and her mother; and once Tibbie Cairnie said something about my father’s cursed pride, and his fine plans that would come to nothing. But it wasna till afterwards that I knew that it was Geordie she was thinking about Auntie Jean, I have had my thoughts, but I ken little. Was my father angry? But he must have been sorry for George when poor Elsie died. And was it because of Elsie that my brother went away?”

It was not an easy story to tell, and Miss Jean put it in as few words as possible, having her own reasons for telling it to Jean. She dwelt less upon her father’s anger at his son’s folly, than upon the heartbreak that his loss had brought him. But she made it clear that “poor bonny Elsie” was the cause of their estrangement, and that it would have been the same had Elsie lived and had George carried out his determination to marry her against his father’s will.

“If the poor foolish lad had only waited and had patience in the mean time, much sorrow might have been spared to all concerned. Your father might have given in—though I dinna think it; or as they were little more than bairns, they might have forgotten ane anither—though I dinna think that either. But if George had won to man’s estate, and had been doing a man’s work and getting a man’s wages, he would have had a better right to take his own way, and your father might have given in then. At least he must have been silent, and let the lad go his ain gait. I whiles weary myself thinking how it might have been.”

Jean sat without a word, but with a face that changed many times from white to red and from red to white as she listened; and when her aunt paused, and took up the work which in her earnestness she had allowed to fall on her lap, she sat silent still, quite unconscious of the uneasy glances that fell on her from time to time.

“It has made an old man of your father,” added Miss Jean in a little.

“Poor father! and poor Geordie! Ay, and poor Elsie! and nothing can change it now.”

Jean rose from the stool on which she had been sitting at her aunt’s feet, and walked restlessly about the room. By and by, she came and stood behind her aunt’s chair, leaning upon it.

“Aunt—there is something I would like to tell you. I wonder if I ought?”

“Ye maun judge, my dear.”

“If I were only sure.”

Both were silent for a time.

“Would I be better able to give help or counsel to you or—to any one—if I were to hear what you could tell?”

Jean shook her head.

“Nothing can be done—at least not now,” said she sadly. “Weel then, dearie, dinna speak. Whiles troubles take shape and strength in the utterance and grow persistent, that might have died out or come to little in silence. If a time should come that you are sure that speaking would do any good, tell me then.”

“It would do no good now. And I am not sure that there is any thing to tell.”

There was a long silence between them. Jean was thinking of the “John Seaton” sailing away with her brother to the northern seas. Miss Jean was thinking of the “John Seaton” too, and of Willie Calderwood, with a sad heart.

“They were just a’ bairns thegither I thought, but I little kenned. And wae’s me! for my bonny Jean, gin she has to go through all that—and wae’s me! for her father as well. No’ that the pain and the trouble need be feared for them, so that they are brought through—and no unfilial bitterness left to sicken my bairn’s heart forever more; but I mustna speak, or let her speak. I think she hardly kens yet how it is with her, but she would ken at the first word; silence is best.”

And silence it was. But by and by more was said about the story of those two “for whom life was ended,” as Jean said sadly. She was not angry at her father’s part in the matter, as her aunt had feared she might be. It could not have been otherwise, looking at things as he looked at them, she acknowledged, and she grieved for him all the more, knowing that there must mingle much bitterness, perhaps remorse, with his sorrow for his son.

“If my mother had but lived!” she said sadly. “Ay, lassie! But He kens best who took her hence where we’ll a’ soon follow. We make muckle ado about our gains and our pains, our loves and our losses, forgetting that ‘our days are as a shadow, and there is no abiding.’”

“A shadow to look back upon, auntie, but a reality as we are going through with them day by day.”

“Ay! that’s true, my lassie, and a stern reality whiles. The comfort is that it is a’ ordered for us.”

Jean shook her head with a doubtful smile.

“Only it is not till afterward that we get the good of that knowledge.”

“And coming afterward it comes ower late, ye think, lassie. But bide ye still and see. And indeed no one need wait till afterwards to know the blessedness o’ just lying quiet in His hands. And ye needna wait a day for that, my dear bairn.”

If Jean had spoken, the tears must have come; so she rose and kissed her aunt silently, and then went away.

Chapter Eight.

Willie Calderwood.

The name of Willie Calderwood had never been spoken between the sisters since the day when, standing on the high rocks above the Tangle Stanes, they had watched the “John Seaton” making out to sea. Jean was silent for one reason, and May for another; and there were reasons enough that both could see why silence was best, to prevent either of them from feeling such silence strange.

Willie Calderwood had been their companion and their brother’s chief friend in the days when they all played together on the rocks and sands of Portie—in the days before George Dawson had admitted into his heart the thought, that the wealth he had won, and the estate he had made his own, gave his children a right to look higher for their friends than among their less prosperous neighbours. But his children were not of the sort that forget easily, nor were the Calderwoods the sort of friends to be easily forgotten. Willie had always been a leader among them, a handsome, fearless, kindly lad, and he became a hero to them all, when he went to sea and came home to tell of shipwreck first, and then of strange adventures among strange people; of hunger and cold and suffering, and escape at last.

A hero! There were many such heroes in Portie who had suffered all these things and more—old men and men old before their time who had passed their lives in whaling ships on the northern seas; who had been wounded or maimed in battles with northern bears and walruses, and with northern frost and snow; and even they made much of the lad who had begun his battles so early. So no wonder that he was a hero to his chosen companions and friends.

“They were jist a’ bairns thegither,” as Miss Jean had said; but it was during that summer, the last of his mother’s life, that young George lost his heart to bonny Elsie, and it was during that summer too, that the visionary glory that rested on the name of the returned sailor carried captive the imagination of his sister Jean. She did not forget him while she was away from Portie; but when she returned they did not fall into their old friendly ways with one another.

That would have been impossible even if the sad story of George and Elsie had never been to tell; for Jean was a woman by this time, and she was Miss Dawson of Saughleas, and he was but the second mate of a whaling ship; a brave man and a good sailor, but not the equal of the rich man’s daughter as times were now. So they seldom met, and when they did meet, it was not as it used to be in the old times between them. He never sought her out when they met in the houses of their mutual friends, and when the circumstances of the moment brought them together, he was polite and deferential and not at his ease. Jean would fain have been friendly and tried to show it, and not knowing then of her father’s anger, because of his son’s love, she could not but wonder at her ill success.

“Maybe he is like Tibbie Cairnie, and thinks you are set up with London pride,” said May laughing. “If I were you, I would ask him.”

But Jean never asked him, and he was not long in Portie after they returned. But when he came back again it was very much the same. He was at home the greater part of the winter before he sailed with the “John Seaton,” and they met him often at other houses, though he never went to Saughleas. There were times when they seemed to be felling back into their old friendliness, and Jean, who was noted in their small circle for the coolness with which she accepted or rejected the compliments, or the graver attentions of some who seemed to seek her favour, grew gentle and winning, and even playful or teasing, when any movement in the room brought the young sailor to her side.

“She is just the Jean of the old days,” poor Willie said to himself, and he could say nothing better than that. They fell back at such times into the kindly speech of their childhood “minding” one another of this or that happy day when they were “a’ bairns thegither.” They could say little of Elsie who was dead, or of George who was lost, in a bright room with others looking on, but the tears that stood in Jean’s “bonny een” told more than words could have done of her love and sorrow for them both. If she had known all, she might have thought it wise to say nothing; but her words and her wet eyes were as drops of sweet to the lad in the midst of much bitterness. He did not always go home cheered and comforted after the sweetness; but Jean did, telling herself that at last they were friends as they used to be—till they met again, and then the chances were, that her “friend” was as silent and deferential and as little eager, apparently, to seek her company as ever; and she could only comfort herself with the thought that the fault was not hers.

So it went on strangely and sadly enough for a while, and then Jean began to see that though he shunned rather than sought her, he seemed friendly enough with her sister. He seemed to seek her out, and to have much to say to her; and why he should be friendly with May and not with her, she could not easily understand.

“Unless—and even then?” said Jean to herself with a little sinking of the heart.

She did not follow out her thought at the moment, but it came back to her afterwards, and on the high rocks as they watched the departing ship, she thought she saw it all clearly, and that she was content. He was her friend, and if he were May’s lover, he would still be her friend, and all the more because of that, and time would make all things that might hinder their friendship now, clear to them both.

But she did not speak to her sister about this. It was for May to speak to her, she thought at first, and after a while it would not have been easy to speak, and on the whole, silence was best. Then as she listened to her aunt’s story of their brother and Elsie, and of their father’s opposition and anger, she was not sure that silence was best. How much of it May might know, she could not tell; but sooner or later she must know it all, and if there was trouble before her, it would make it none the easier to bear, but all the heavier, the longer the knowledge was kept from her. But she shrank from speaking all the same.

“I will tell her to-night,” she said as she sat by her aunt’s side. But she did not, nor the next, and even on the third night she sat long in the dark when the house was silent, listening to the wind among the trees, and the dull sound of the sea, and the painful beating of her own heavy heart, before she found courage to go into her sister’s room.

“If she is asleep, I will not wake her.”

But May was not asleep. She had been lingering over various little things that she had found to do, and had only just put out her light when her sister softly opened the door. She seemed to sleep, however, as Jean leaned over to listen, but as she turned away, May laughed softly.

“Well, what is it? I dinna think I have done any thing so very foolish to-day—not more than usual, I mean.”

For, in her elder sisterly care for her, Jean thought it wise to drop a word of counsel now and then, and this was the hour she usually chose to do it. She stooped down and kissed her as she turned, a circumstance that did not very often occur between them. For though they loved one another dearly, they were—after the manner of their kin and country—shy of any expression of love or even of sympathy in the way of caresses.

“Is there any thing wrong?” said May startled. “Did any one ever tell you about—about our Geordie and Elsie Calderwood, May? Auntie Jean has been speaking about them to me lately.”

It was not a very good beginning, but she did not know what better to say. May raised herself up, and looked eagerly in her sister’s face.

“I have heard something. Do you mean that you only heard it the other day?”

“Tell me all you know,” said Jean, leaning down on the bed beside her. “And why did you not tell me before?”

“I did not like—and I thought you must ken about it.”

“Ah! yes. It is sad enough. No wonder you didna like to speak about it. But tell me now all you know.”

And May did so, and it was very nearly all there was to tell. She had heard the story, not straight through from beginning to end, as Jean had heard it from her aunt, but from words dropped now and then by one and another of their friends. And Jean could not but wonder that, May having heard so much, she herself should have heard so little. But May knew little of the part her father had taken in the separation of the lovers, how angry he had been, and how determined to put an end to what he called the folly of his son. It was just this that May ought to know, and Jean told it in as few words as possible. She wondered a little at the way in which her sister seemed to take it all.

“Poor Elsie! But she might have died even if she had not been sent to the school. How little folk ken! They say in Portie that her mother sent her away that she might learn things that would fit her to be the wife of young Mr Dawson, and by and by the lady of Saughleas—and that her pride got a fall. It is a sorrowful story, Jean.”

“And the saddest part of it to us is, that poor Geordie is lost and gone from us. And even if he were to come home, it might be little better.”

“Is my father angry yet, Jean? Or is he sorry? Would he do the same if it were all to do over again?”

“Who can say! He has many thoughts about it, doubtless, and some of them cannot but be bitter enough. But as to his doing differently—” Jean shook her head.

“But, Jean, I canna blame my father altogether. His heart was set on his only son, and George was but a boy.”

“Yes, and Aunt Jean says if he had but waited with patience my father might have yielded at last.”

“Or George might have changed. He had seen no one else, and though Elsie was good, and bonny too, there was a great difference between her and—and some that we have seen,—ladies educated and accomplished as well as beautiful. And, Jean, I canna but be sorry for my father.”

“Sorry! That says little. My heart is like to break for him whiles—and it might have been so different!” said Jean sadly.

“If he were living, we should have heard from him before this time.”

“Who can say? Oh! he is living! I canna think he is dead. Poor papa, he must have a sore heart often.”

“Jean,” said her sister after a long silence, “do you think he would do it all over again? I mean—do you think he would be as hard on—you or me?”

“Do you mean—Willie?” asked Jean at last. “Well—Willie or another. It is not easy for my father to change.”

“No, it is not. But, May, have patience. Things often come round in strange ways when we least expect it. If George would only come again! How long is it since the ‘John Seaton’ sailed?”

“A good while since.”

Jean could have told her sister the days and even the hours that had passed since then, but she did not. When she asked the question, it was her brother she was thinking of; but May, who could not know that, believed that she was thinking of Willie Calderwood.

“He may be captain next voyage,” said May. “But I wish he could leave the sea altogether. My father could open the way for that, if he chose.”

“Leave the sea? Is it Willie you are speaking about? He would never do it. May, you must not ask it of him. It would be putting him in a false position altogether. He is a true sailor.”

“Oh! I shall not ask him. It would do little good. But I wonder at you all the same. You have no ambition. He can never be more than just a sea captain—and always away.”

“A sea captain!” repeated Jean. “A sailor!—And what would you have? Would you put him behind the counter in a shop? or set him to casting up figures or counting money in a bank? Would you even old Mr Petrie or James or any of them with the like of him?”

May laughed. “Oh! well, a sailor let him be. But ye needna flee at me as though I had said something horrible. And we needna vex ourselves. That will do no good.”

“It must be late,” said Jean rising. “She takes it quietly enough, and it is well she does. It would wear her out to be ay thinking and fearing and longing for his coming home, as I long for poor George’s. She is ay light-hearted, dear child. God bless her,” added Jean with a sigh.

The rest of the summer passed quietly away. The little Corbetts went home strong and brown and with a wonderful knowledge of and delight in their father’s mother tongue, rejoicing over the invitation for another visit the next summer, if all should be well.

They were much missed in Saughleas, and so was Miss Jean, who, though she enjoyed a visit to her brother and her nieces now and then, liked best the quiet of her own house, and the silent secret doing of the work which she had chosen among the sinful and suffering poor creatures of which, especially in winter-time, Portie had its share. Her stay at Saughleas had done her good. She left her crutch behind her there, and she was able now to go with her staff in one hand and “help and comfort” in the other, to those who in the back sheets and lanes of the town needed her help most. At Saughleas they missed her greatly, for various reasons, and chiefly for this, that at meal times, and at other times also, Mr Dawson was ready to fall into his old habit of silence and reserve, when left alone with his daughters. This silence was good neither for them nor for himself.

“And I am going to try and have it otherwise,” said Jean to herself, as she sat behind the urn, waiting for his coming the first morning they were alone.

He came in as usual with a bundle of papers in his hand, letters that had been received last night, and that must be answered this morning as soon as he reached the bank, and in the mean time he meant to look them over while he drank his coffee.

“I think,” said his daughter looking straight into his face as he adjusted his spectacles, so that he might not let her remark fall as though it had been made to her sister, “I think Aunt Jean is the woman the most to be envied among all the women I know.”

“Ay! Think ye that? And what new light ha’e ye gotten about her to-day?” said her father, arrested by her look rather than her words.

“No new light. Only I have been thinking about her last night and to-day. She is the best woman I know, and the happiest; and I envy her.”

“Ye have but to follow in her steps, and ye’ll be as good as she is,—in time,” said her father dryly. “As to her happiness—I should say she perhaps makes the most of the means of happiness given to her, but otherwise I see little cause that you have to envy her. She is reasonable, and doesna let her wishes and her fancies get the better of her good sense, and so she is content.”

“And if I were reasonable, would I be content, I wonder? As to being as good—that must come of higher teaching and peculiar discipline, and I doubt I shall never be good in her way.”

“And what for no? Your aunt would be the first to tell you that you can get the higher teaching for the asking. And as for discipline—the chances are ye’ll get your share as well as the rest of us.”

“But not just in the same way. A long, patient, laborious, self-forgetting life hers has been—has it not? She is strong and she has been successful; yet she is not hard. She is good, but she is not down on wrong-doers in the way that some good folk are. If I had my choice, I think I would choose to have just such a life as she has had—if it would make me like her.”

Mr Dawson looked at his daughter in some surprise. Jean was not looking at him, but over his head far away to the sea, bright for the moment, under a gleam of sunshine.

“Would that be your choice? A life of labour, and then the life of a solitary single woman! I think I see you!” said her father with something like indignation in his tones.

May laughed. Jean’s eyes came back from the sea with a vague, wistful look in them that startled her father.

“I think, Jean, ye hardly ken what ye’re speaking about.”

“Yes. About Aunt Jean. ‘A solitary single woman?’ No. Not solitary. That has such a sorrowful sound. Oh! she is not solitary in an unhappy sense; even when she is quite alone in her own house by the sea.”

“What I mean is, that she has neither husband nor child. She is alone in that sense. And if ye think that she hasna whiles felt—weel—as if she had missed something in life—that’s no’ my thought.”

“Yes—and that is part of the discipline, I suppose. Missed something—yes. But then, having had these things she might have missed that which makes her different from, and better than, any one else. I ken no one like my Aunt Jean.”

“Weel—ye’re no’ far wrong there. And if ye had kenned her in her youth, you would have said the same. There were none like her then more than now. But she’s growing unco frail-like now, poor body?” added Mr Dawson with a sigh.

And then there was more said. Mr Dawson went on to tell many stories of his sister’s youth, all going to prove that there were few like her for sense and goodness even then. Most of these his daughters had heard before, but they liked to listen all the same. And Mr Dawson forgot his letters, and Jean forgot that it was only to keep his eyes away from them, that she had begun to speak about her aunt, and she took courage because of her success.

Chapter Nine.

An Invitation.

She was not always so successful; still she was successful to a degree that surprised herself, in withdrawing her father from the silent and sombre musings which of late had become habitual to him. This was the work which she set herself. Her time, while he was in the house, or near it, was given to him. She disturbed him doubtless now and then when he would have been better pleased to be left to himself; but upon the whole he responded to her advances, and by and by showed in many ways that he counted upon her interest in whatever he might be doing, and on such help as she could give.

In all matters connected with the management of the estate he took especial pains to claim her attention and interest. She tramped with him over the wet autumn fields in all weathers, and listened to his plans for the improvement of the place in the way of dikes and ditches and drains, and to plans that went further than these—plans which it would take years to carry out well and wisely. Her interest was real for the moment, and soon it became eager and intelligent as well. She not only listened to him, but she discussed, and suggested, and even differed from him in various matters, and held to her own opinions in a way that certainly did not displease him.

She tired of it all sometimes, however, and though she permitted no sign of it to appear to her father, she could not always hide it from her sister.

“And what is the good of it all? You cannot surely be vain enough to think that you are doing any good, or that papa cares to have you tramping about in the wet and the wind.”

“Oh, I like it! And I may as well do it as any thing else. As to papa—yes, I think he likes it. I am better than no one to speak to, and—oh yes, I like it!”

“It is all nonsense!” said May with a shrug. “As for papa, he might enjoy it, if it were Peter Stark, or John Stott, or any one that could understand him, or give him a sensible answer;—but you!—What is the use of it?—and just look at your shoes and stockings!”

Jean looked down, as she was bidden, at her feet, and her soiled petticoats.

“They are wet,” said she, “and dirty.”

“And tell me if you can, what is the good of it all?”

“It has made me hungry, and it will make me sleep, perhaps. And the best reason for it is, that I like it—as well as any thing.”

She went away to change her wet things, and came back in her pretty house dress with a knot of gay ribbon at her throat, looking wonderfully bright and bonny her father thought as he came in at the hall door, and so he noticed all the more readily, perhaps, how white and changed she looked afterwards. When he also had changed his wet things, and came in to sit down, she was standing in the darkening room, looking out at the window, leaning on the ledge as though she were tired, and she did not turn round as he passed her to take his usual place at the fireside.

“The days are drawing in fast,” said he, by way of saying something.

“Yes, it is already growing dark. I cannot see the sea.”

“Ye needna care. It is an angry sea to-night, and the wind is rising.”

“Yes, the moan of it is in among the trees already, and before morning it will be a cry—a terrible sharp cry—that will not be shut out. An ill night for those at sea.”

“By no means. The folk at sea are safe enough, so that they bide away from the shore. There will be worse nights than this, and many of them, before the winter be over.”

“The long, long winter! And think what it must be in Greenland seas, with the ice and the dark, and the bitter cold.”

“Lassie, draw the curtains and come to the fire. What ails you at the wind and the sea to-night, more than usual? Draw the curtains, and shut out the night, and come and make the tea.”

And then when Jean did his bidding and turned from the window, he saw that her face was white and her eyes strained and anxious. She came to the fire and stooped down, warming her hands at the blaze.

“One would think you were a sailor’s wife, and that his ship was in danger,” said her father.

“It is the book she has been reading,” said her sister. “That American book about the men who sailed in search of Sir John Franklin and his crew. What pleasure there can be in poring over any thing so dismal, is more than I can tell.”

“That is because you do not know. It gives one courage to know that there have been men—that there are men—so patient and so brave. Their leader was a hero,” said Jean with shining eyes.

“Well, we’ll have our tea now,” said Mr Dawson in a tone that made May think he was ill-pleased at something, though he said nothing more. He was wondering what could have come to the lassie so to change the brightness of the face that had met him at the door. May knew that Jean must be thinking of the “John Seaton,” but she knew that her father could have no such thought. Nothing was said by any of them for a while, but by the time tea was over, they had fallen into their ordinary mood again, and spoke of other things. But afterwards Jean was sorry that she had not taken courage that night to tell him how she had heard that her brother had sailed in the “John Seaton” so long ago.

For her secret knowledge burdened her sorely. That George should have been at home and then have gone away again without a word, it would be like to break his father’s heart to know. The hope of seeing him when the “John Seaton” came home might be better than the uncertainty of the present. But if his anger still burned against his father, he might not come home, and such a disappointment would be worse to bear than even the present uncertainty.

She wearied herself thinking about it, but she did not know what to do. She longed to tell her aunt. She had almost done so, but her aunt had forbidden her, or so she had thought. And months must still pass before the “John Seaton” could be in port again.

Her thoughts were with her brother night and day, and she was pre-occupied and grave, and grew white and anxious-eyed; and by and by it added to her trouble, to know that her father was observing her. So when he was in the house, all her thoughts were given to the effort to be just as usual. She talked cheerfully and had visitors at the house; and when they were alone she worked busily and steadily, falling back, when her white seam failed her, on May’s embroidery; and did her best to grow enthusiastic with her sister over silks and wools of brilliant hue.

She practised her music also, and took courage to sing even when her father was in the house. It needed some courage, for their mother had been one of the sweetest of singers, and their father had never heard the voices of his daughters since the days when they used to stand at their mother’s side, and sing the songs she loved.

No harm came of it. Though her father made no remarks, she knew that he listened to her voice in the dark, and if it woke the old sense of pain and loss, it stirred neither anger nor rebellion, as the gentleness of his words and ways made her sure.

And so the winter wore on with the usual breaks in the way of hospitalities given and received till the days began to lengthen—and then something happened.

There came to the girls an invitation from a friend, to pass a month or two with her in London. The friend had been Miss Browning, their favourite teacher in their London school. Now she was Mrs Seldon, the wife of a young city merchant, “as happy as the day is long,” she wrote, and she promised them a taste of many enjoyments, if they would come and see her as mistress of her own pretty house—free now to come and go at her own will and pleasure. Much she said to induce them to come, and much was not needed, as far as May was concerned.

Mr Dawson might have hesitated as to accepting an invitation for his daughters into an unknown household, even though he had every confidence in the good sense and discretion of the lady who invited them. But strangely enough, it happened that Mr Seldon was the son of almost the only man in London with whom he had ever had other than mere business intercourse, and the young man himself was not altogether a stranger to him. As men of business, father and son were worthy of respect, and socially occupied an unexceptionable position, and Mr Dawson was more than pleased that his daughters should see something of London, in circumstances so favourable as a residence with such people would imply. So his consent was given readily.

Jean listened and said little through all the preliminary discussion of the matter; but when it was settled that the invitation was to be at once accepted, she quietly declined to leave home.

She gave several good reasons why one should pay the visit rather than them both, and several why it should be May that should pay it. She gave several reasons also, why it would be wrong for both of them to leave home at once. Their father would be left in the house alone. Their aunt was by no means strong. Indeed if there were no other reason she would never think of leaving her alone during the spring months, which had during the last few years been so trying to her. Then there had been something said about certain changes to be made in the early spring in the grounds and gardens. These might certainly be put off till another year, as her father suggested, but it would be a pity to do so, and if they were to be made, Jean must be at home to superintend them.

“And indeed, papa, it was May who used to be Miss Browning’s friend, much more than I. Mrs Seldon would enjoy May’s company better than mine, and May would take ten times the pleasure that I should take. How should I have any pleasure knowing that my sister was lonely and disappointed at home. As to both going, it is out of the question. And I can go next time.”

Of course Mr Dawson could not do otherwise than yield to such an array of good reasons, especially as May was as eager to go as her sister was to stay; but he had an uneasy feeling that Jean herself had needed none of these good reasons to induce her to remain. It pleased him, of course, that she should like home best, and he was glad not to be left to the trial of a silent and forsaken house during a gloomy month or two. But it did not please him that Jean should care so little for the enjoyment that her sister anticipated with such delight. It was not natural, and he wearied himself trying to imagine what it might be.

“I will see what my sister says about it,” thought he.

But in the mean time he could only let her take her way; and he and May set out together on their journey, for he would not permit his daughter to travel alone.

And then for a few days Jean had the house to herself, and during these days, she became aware of one thing. She must turn her thoughts away from the constant dwelling on poor lost Geordie, and his wanderings on northern seas, or she would lose the power of thinking or caring for any one or any thing in the world besides.

It had nearly come to that already. If the wind blew, it was of him she thought, and it was the same if the sun shone, or the rain fell. Night and day her heart was heavy with fears for him. It was the shipping news she read first in the papers, about storms and wrecks of whale ships that had come home, and of some that might never come, till she grew morbid and heartsick with her doubts and her fears.

When she went to the town, or took her daily walk by the sea, she spoke with the fishermen about the signs of wind and weather, and with certain old sailors—long past sailing because of age and rheumatism—about the voyages they had made, and about the dangers of the deep, and the dreariness of Arctic seas when winter nights were long and the days “but a blink.” And of late, she had come to be aware that now and then as they talked, there was a look of wondering curiosity in their dim old eyes. They took her sixpences, and her “bits o’ backey” with smiles and nods of encouragement, and with assurances “that there was nothing like keeping a stout heart and a cheerful, on the shore as well as on the sea.”

“And they canna ken about Geordie,” she said to herself wondering.

No; they did not know about Geordie; but they saw the weary, wistful looks ever turned to the sea, and they could not but know that they must mean something, though neither kith nor kin of hers had sailed from the harbour of Portie, as far as they knew, for many a day. And thinking about their words and their looks, she told herself, that unless she meant to fall into utter uselessness and folly, she must shake herself free from this dull brooding over her fears. For the suspense must continue for months yet—perhaps for many months, and she began to be afraid for herself at the thought.

“I wonder what the sailors’ wives do, and their mothers and sisters all these wintry months? Do they sit and think of the danger, and the distance, and the long suspense? No, they must live and have patience, and take the good of other things, and trust in God—as I must, if I would not go wild. They get through, and I must.

“But then I must never speak about him, and my fears for him, and that must make it worse to bear. Oh, if I had but told my father that first night! How can I wait on for months like this?” and Jean suffered herself to cry as she had never cried before. She might cry this once since there was no one at home to notice the traces of tears. But all the same she knew that she must make a braver stand against the trouble that oppressed her, and even amid her tears she was saying that to-morrow she would begin.

And so when to-morrow came, instead of going toward the wild sea shore above the town, she set out to go directly to her aunt. It was not an agreeable day for a walk. It was not raining, but the mud was deep on the road, and the fields which Jean liked best at such times, were in places under water; and a wide ditch here and there was so full, that she had doubts of being able to get across, since the footing on either side could not but be insecure in the prevailing wetness. So she kept the highway, warily picking her steps, and meeting the wind from the sea with a sense of refreshment—and by and by with a conscious effect to throw off the weight of care which had so long oppressed her.

When she came to the corner at which she turned into the High-street, she saw Marion Calderwood coming toward her with her music book under her arm. A pretty sight she was to see, and a welcome as she sprang forward, greeting her joyfully. But a shadow passed over the girl’s face when the first words were spoken.

“Oh! yes. I am very glad to see you, and Miss Jean will be glad too. But if ye hadna come in this morning, I was going out to see what had become of you. Your aunt bade me ask my mother to let me go when my lesson was over—and—I think she would have let me.”

“And she’ll let you still. Run away now to your lesson, and you’ll find me at Aunt Jean’s, and we’ll go out together.”

Marion looked doubtful. “My mother would have let me go to oblige Miss Jean, but—she does not approve of my leaving my other lessons, for one thing—and besides—”

“Run away. I’ll ask your mother. She’ll let you go home with me, if I ask her.”

Marion was not very sure, nor was Jean. For Mrs Calderwood was a very proud woman, and her pride took the form of reserve, and a determined avoidance of any thing that looked like claiming consideration or attention from those whom, from their circumstances, she might suspect of wishing to hold themselves above her.

And there were reasons of another kind, Jean well knew, why she should look with little friendliness on any one in the house of Saughleas—reasons that must prevent all renewal of the intimacy that had been so warm and pleasant during her mother’s lifetime. Still she had almost always been friendly in manner with Jean when they had chanced to meet, but Jean had been but seldom in her house since she had come from school, and she was glad of the excuse which her proposed invitation to Marion gave her to go there. For it had come into her mind that she might speak to Mrs Calderwood about the trouble which she found it not easy to bear alone.

Chapter Ten.

Mrs Calderwood.

Mrs Calderwood’s house faced the sea a little nearer the pier head than Miss Jean’s, and Miss Dawson nodded and smiled to her aunt in the window as she passed, hardly confessing to herself that she felt a little anxious as to how she might be received.

“But she’ll not be likely to put on her stiff, silent manner in her own house,” said she, encouraging herself.

Mrs Calderwood was not alone. Mrs Cairnie was with her, asking advice and sympathy for “a beeled thoom,” and Mrs Calderwood was in the act of applying a warm poultice to relieve the pain. In the poor old woman’s eagerness to tell her troubles to a new listener, the awkwardness of the first moment was got over. Nor was Mrs Cairnie in any hurry to leave when the interesting subject was exhausted.

“So ye didna gang up to Lunnon with your father, Miss Dawson? Ye’re wise to bide and let the great folk come to seek you. It’s a thankless job whiles gaen after them.”

This of course required no reply.

“And are ye your leafu’ lane at Saughleas? But I suppose ye’re used with it now—the big hoose and the few in it. It is changed times since ye used to bide in the High-street. But being an eddicated leddy, ye’ll ha’e resources in yoursel’, as the books say.”

No, Miss Dawson did not like being “her leafu’ lane” in the big empty house, and she turned to Mrs Calderwood with her request for Marion’s company. But Tibbie had not yet said her say.

“Your leafu’ lane! It’s little ye ken what that means. Bide ye till the time come when ye lie through the lang nichts o’ a hale (whole) winter, hearkening to the awfu’ things that the winds and the waves are crying in at your window and doon your lum (chimney), and some o’ yours far awa’ on the sea—and syne ye’ll ken. Oh! the weariness o’t, and the dreariness o’t, and nae help frae Heaven aboon nor frae earth beneath, but just to sit still and wait for their hame coming. And whiles they come, and whiles they never come—and ane canna be sure even o’ their loss till years go by. Eh! woman’ ye little ken, but speir ye at Mrs Calderwood.”

She paused a moment in the surprise of seeing Jean’s face grow pale as she listened, but went on again before any one spoke.

“I’m through wi’t, for the last o’ mine was lost lang syne. But she has ane yet—as far as she kens. God be gude to him! Ye’ve had no word o’ the ‘John Seaton’ as yet, mem?”

“Not yet; it is not to be expected yet,” said Mrs Calderwood quietly. “Martha will give you a cup of tea. You will be the better of it, as you were able to take little breakfast; and I hope your thumb is past the worst now.”

Mrs Cairnie felt herself to be dismissed beyond even her power to linger.

“Many thanks to ye, mem, and ye ha’e nae occasion to be mair anxious than ordinar’ as yet. And ye can just encourage ane another—and I’se awa’ hame.”

“Poor bodie! she has had her share of trouble in her day, and some of it she brought on herself, which makes it none the lighter, I dare say,” said Mrs Calderwood as she shut the door.

“You are not growing anxious, Mrs Calderwood, are you?” said Jean. “It is not time to be anxious yet?”