The Twa Miss Dawsons Part 48

"Ay. It's ay said that twa women canna agree in the same house. But I think, Jean, ye might show them something else. I'm sure Marion wouldna be ill to live with."

"It is not a matter of agreement or disagreement, papa. There cannot be two mistresses in any house with comfort to, any one concerned. And there need not be two if Marion were willing. And if I were not there she would fall naturally into her right place. I might go away for a little while, papa, and when I came back I might fall into the second place, and make no work about it. Or I might bide with Auntie Jean."

"Nonsense! Bide with Auntie Jean, indeed! If you were going to a house of your ain, it might do. But good and dear as Marion is, I could ill bear to see you put out of your place in your father's house, even for her."

"Yes, if I cared, papa. I might once when I was younger. But I dinna think that I could care much now."

Mr Dawson looked at her curiously, but Jean's eyes were turned away to the sea.

"But even if that were the best way--which I am far from thinking--there is ay Mrs Calderwood and her wishes to be considered. I doubt we'll just need to let them go."

"But I think--and Aunt Jean thinks--which is more to the purpose--that Mrs Calderwood would hardly content herself in her daughter's house wherever it was, for a continuance. I mean that she would rather be in a home of her own. That might be got over."

There was silence between them for some time, and then Jean said with more earnestness than she had shown yet,--

"Papa, will you let me tell you just what I would like? I would like you to give me the house in the High-street for a present--as a part of my portion--just as if I were to be married, ye ken. And then I would persuade my aunt and Mrs Calderwood to live there together. And by and by when I grow old--and have not you any longer, I could live there myself."

Mr Dawson listened to her with mingled feelings, but he said quietly, "What would two women folk, seeing little company, do with a big house like that? And you could never persuade them."

"But they would see company more or less, and have folk coming for the summer. And the house is not so very big, and none too good for the 'auld laird's' sister, and the 'young laird's' mother. And I think I could persuade them. And if this were all settled George would be content to bide with you at Saughleas. And I could--come and go."

"Jean," said her father gravely, "why do you ay speak as if you were never to have a house of your own? I'm no' pleased to hear you."

"But, papa, I never do. That is what I am wanting--a house of my own-- sometime--not just yet."

"But I am not thinking of such a home as ye could make to yourself in the house in the High-street, but of something quite different." Jean laughed. "I canna help it, papa."

"But ye might have helped it."

"No, papa, I never could yet."

"Weel! weel! We'll say nae mair about it. It's nae ower late yet. We maun ha'e patience, I suppose."

Though Jean laughed her face grew strangely grave and sad, her father thought, as they went on in silence together.

"You might think about it, papa, and speak to Aunt Jean about it. I should never feel safe or happy to be long away from Portie, unless there were some one ay with Aunt Jean. And I think that she and Marion's mother would suit one another as no one else would suit either of them. They would be busy and happy together, and I should feel safe about my aunt wherever I might be."

"But why should you speak as if you were not to be here? Why should you go away?"

"Only for a little while, papa. And then George and Marion would stay.

And it is not for that altogether. I would like to go a while for my own sake. I think I need a change."

"Are ye no' weel?" said her father in some surprise.

"Oh! I am well enough; but I would like to go away for a little. I am tired, I think. We have been anxious, you know, especially when George and Mrs Calderwood were away. And I think I am wearying for a sight of May and the bairns. I know a change would be good for me, for a little, I mean."

She spoke with some difficulty, and the colour was coming and going on her cheek. Her father's surprise changed to anxiety as he regarded her.

He saw as her aunt had seen, that she had grown thin and pale, and that her eyes looked large and anxious, like eyes that had slept little of late.

"What ails ye, my la.s.sie? Ye're surely no' weel. If it's only May and her bairns that ye're wanting, ye can easy get them. Only," continued Mr Dawson after a little, "it might hardly look kind to go away now, till the 'Ben Nevis' has been heard from again."

"No, I suppose not."

"And if we shouldna hear--ye'll be needed all the more. Willie Calderwood will be a hero to the seafaring folk o' Portie when he does come. And I dare say ye'll like to see him as well as the rest."

"Yes. It is long since I saw him."

"If he brings the 'Ben Nevis' safe to an English port, his reputation will be established, and his fortune will be made. That is as far as a mere sea captain can be said to be able to make a fortune by his profession. He must be a man of great courage and strength of character, as George says, even to have made the attempt to bring the s.h.i.+p home. They may weel be proud of him,--his sister and his mother, and we must do nothing that would seem to lichtlify him--neither you nor me."

Jean looked at her father in a strangely moved way which he remembered afterwards, but she said nothing.

"I mind ye were ay fond o' sea-heroes; and all his friends will need to make much o' him when he wins safe home."

They were drawing near the cottage by this time. Mr Dawson would not let Jean go in because of the fever, and she sat down on the d.y.k.e at the house end. But her father did not keep her waiting long. John had fallen into a sleep which might be the saving of him yet, and must not be disturbed, and promising, if it were possible, to see him to-morrow, he came quickly out to Jean.

They had little to say to each other as they turned homewards. Jean acknowledged herself tired with her walk, and when she said she had promised to go back again to her aunt's to walk home with Mrs Calderwood, her father bade her wait there, and the pony carriage, when George and Marion returned, should be sent for them both.

Mr Dawson pursued his homeward way alone, but he had not gone very far before he met a messenger and turned back again.

"Good news! good news!" shouted young Robbie Saugster as soon as he was within hearing distance. "The 'Ben Nevis' is safe in port, and Captain Calderwood is here in Portie, I saw him mysel' at the station, and I told him that his mother was at Miss Jean's, and then I ran on to Saughleas with the news; but there was naebody there to hear it but Phemie and Ann. And I'm glad to see you, sir, anyway."

"Good news!" That it was, well worth the half crown which Mr Dawson put into the hand of the astonished laddie. He had heard no news so good for many a day, he said, as he turned toward the town again. But when he came to his sister's house, and went softly in, he was not so sure of its being the best of news to him.

For the first sight he saw was his daughter Jean lying on her aunt's sofa with a face as white as death, and her bright hair tossed and wet falling down to the floor. Leaning over her, but not touching so much as a finger, was a sailor in rough sea clothes; and though he neither moved nor spoke, there was no mistaking the tale told by his working face and his eager eyes. Mrs Calderwood stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder.

"Willie," she entreated, "you must come away. She must not see you when she comes to herself. She was startled, and you have no right--"

"No, mother. I know I have no right--except that I have loved her all my life--"

"But you must come away. It is not fair to her. And think of her father."

"Yes. I have ay thought of him. Yes, mother, I will go with you," and he stooped and touched, not with his fingers, but with his lips, the s.h.i.+ning braid of hair that hung down to the floor, and then he turned and went out.

It was hard on Mr Dawson. He had been more than anxious for the sailor's return for his mother's sake and his sister's, as well as for his own, and he had meant to give him the best of friendly welcomes.

But now what was this he saw?

Astonishment was his first feeling. He had never once thought of these two in this way, at least he had not for a long time. Then he was angry. Had Jean been deceiving him all this time. But his anger was only momentary. He knew his daughter too well to believe that possible.

He knew not what to think, except that his welcome to the sailor was not so ready as it would have been an hour ago.

Fortunately it was not called for at the moment, for Captain Calderwood turned into Nannie's kitchen and went out the other way without seeing him.

Seldom in his life had the old man been so startled. Instead of going into the house, he turned down to the pier to consider the matter. He had not much comfort in that. As he turned again into the High-street, he heard the sound of voices far up in the square, and as he went on, he caught sight of his own low carriage standing in the midst of what seemed a crowd of people, not waiting there quietly, but eager and excited, over something which had pleased them well.

And could it be possible? In the carriage sat his daughter-in-law with his grandson on her lap. He knew that he was angry then, and he pushed his way forward intending to say so plainly, and to put an end to all this, at least as far as she was concerned.

But when he drew nearer, and Marion, with the tears running over her smiling face, stretched out both hands to him over her son, claiming his sympathy in the great joy that had come to her, somehow he forgot his anger and shook her hands kindly and joyfully; yes, and kissed her there before all the folk, to their intense amazement and delight.

It had not been at Marion that he had been angry. And he had not even the excuse of danger for his anger, for young Robbie Saugster had placed himself at the heads of the ponies, and there was not the slightest danger of their running away.