The Twa Miss Dawsons Part 13

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 pa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.e. 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."

"La.s.sie, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 la.s.sie 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 s.h.i.+pping news she read first in the papers, about storms and wrecks of whale s.h.i.+ps 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 a.s.surances "that there was nothing like keeping a stout heart and a cheerful, on the sh.o.r.e 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 G.o.d--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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, she might suspect of wis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed, 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."