The Twa Miss Dawsons. Margaret M. Robertson
“I have waited long, but if any thing were to happen to me, there would be endless trouble—if—unless—” He paused a moment and then added, “I know not well what to do.”
“Need ye do any thing at once?”
“I think I should. Life is uncertain, though mine may be no more so than that of other men. But no man should put off settling his affairs, for the sake of those that are to come after him. I wish to do justly, but I will not divide the land, and I will not burden it.”
“No, it wouldna be weel to divide the land nor to burden it,” said Miss Jean.
There was a long silence and then Mr. Dawson said gravely, felling into the Scottish tongue as he and the rest of them were apt to do when much moved.
“Gin ony stranger were to go through Portie the day and speir at ane and anither up and doon the street, as to who had been the successful man o’ these pairts for the last five and twenty years or mair, there’s little doubt whose name would be given them. And yet—my life looks and feels to me the day—awfully like a failure.”
The shock which his unexpected words gave his sister was not all pain. She had thought him only too well content with his life and with what he had done in it. He was going down the hill now. It was well that he should acknowledge—that he should even be made sharply to feel, that all that he had—though it were ten times more—was not enough for a portion. But the bitter sadness of his look smote her painfully.
“God help him!” she said in her heart, but to him she said nothing. He did not take her silence for want of sympathy. He was too well acquainted with her ways for that, and in a little he added—
“Like other folk I have heard o’, I have gotten my wish, but all that made it worth the having has been taken from me. Gin she had lived—”
His sister did not speak. She just laid her hand on his for a moment, and looked at him with grave, wet eyes.
“If she had lived,” he went on, not yielding to the weakness that had come upon, him, “if she had lived, the rest might have been hindered.”
“God knows,” said Miss Jean softly, taking up her knitting again.
“Ay, He knows, but I dinna seem to be able to tak’ the good o’ that that some folk do. But good or no good, I man submit—like the lave.”
“Here are the bairns,” said Miss Jean softly as the two sisters came through one of the open windows to the terrace about the lawn—“a sight worth seeing” the father in the midst of his painful thoughts acknowledged. They lingered a moment in the terrace raised a little above the lawn, the one stooping over a bonny bush of wee Scotch roses at her feet, the other standing on tiptoe trying to entangle a wandering spray of honeysuckle that it might find support. The eyes of father and aunt could not but rest on them with pleasure.
“I wonder that I ever could have thought them so much alike,” said their father, in a little.
“They’re like and they’re no’ like,” said Miss Jean.
They were even less alike than they had been that day when they had startled her coming in on her out of the storm. Their dress had something to do with it doubtless. May wore something white and fluffy, with frills and flounces and blue ribbons, and her brown curls were bound back by a snood of blue. She was in her simple finery as fair and sweet a picture of a young maiden as one could wish to see.
Jean was different. Her dress was made of some dim stuff that looked in the distance like brown holland. A seafaring friend of her father’s had brought it to her from India, her aunt remembered, and it came into her mind that perhaps there had not been enough of it, to make the frills and flounces, that young people were so pleased with nowadays. It was severely simple in contrast with her sister’s, and her hair was gathered in one heavy braid at the back of her head. She had not her sister’s fair and smiling loveliness, but there was something in her face that went far beyond it, her aunt thought, as she watched them standing there looking over the lawn to some one approaching along the road. Her face was bright and her air cheerful enough at the moment, but for all that there was a look of thoughtfulness and gravity upon it—a silent look—which reminded her father of his sister’s look at her age. Only she was more beautiful. She was like a young princess, he thought, in his pride in her.
“Is it her gown?” asked he; “or is it the way that Jean puts her hair? What has ’come o’ a’ her curls this while back?”
The question was not to be answered. The opening of a little gate at the side of the lawn made them turn, and then Mr. Dawson rose to greet a stranger who was coming up the walk. He was not quite a stranger to him. He knew his name and that he was a visitor at Blackford House, a gentleman’s seat seven miles away. It was at this gentleman the girls had been looking, and at the lady who was in the carriage with him, as they passed slowly along the highway.
He was a tall fair man—young and good looking—very handsome indeed. He was a little too much inclined to stoutness perhaps, and rather languid in his movements, it might have been thought, as he came up the walk; but no fault could be found with his graceful and friendly greeting.
It was Miss Jean Dawson that he wished to see. It had been suggested to his sister, Mrs. Eastwood, that Miss Dawson would be able to tell her what she wished to hear of a poor woman in whom she took an interest. She had been at Miss Dawson’s house in Portie, and hearing she was at Saughleas, had called on her way to Blackford, to save another journey. She was in her carriage at the gate, and could Miss Dawson send her a message? Or perhaps—
The gate was hidden by a clump of firs. Miss Jean gave a glance in that direction and then laid her hand on her staff. Then she beckoned to her nieces who were still on the terrace. Jean came quickly toward her, and May followed more slowly. It was worth a body’s while, Phemie told her fellow servants afterwards, just to see the way the gentleman took off his hat and bowed as Miss Dawson came near. Phemie saw it all from her young lady’s window upstairs, and she would have liked well to hear also.
“It is about Mrs. Cairnie, Jean, my dear. Ye ken her daughter Annie went south last year, and her mistress promised to see her mother, when she came north, and would like to hear o’ her. I might maybe get to the gate with your help?”
“Certainly not. You are not able to walk so far. If a message will not do, it must wait.”
Miss Jean shook her head with a slight smile. She had seen “Miss Dawson’s grand air” before, and so had May, but her father looked at her amazed. It was not her words that startled him so much as her manner. She looked at the stranger who stood with his hat in his hand, as though he were at an immense distance from her. But in a minute she added more gently:
“I will take a message, aunt, if you wish. Or, I could—”
“Pray do not think of such a thing. I could not think of troubling you,” said the young man confusedly.
“Or I could write a note,” said the young lady taking no notice.
“Or the lady might drive into the place. She need not leave her carriage,” said Mr. Dawson, not quite pleased at his daughter’s manner.
“Certainly that will be much the best way,” said the stranger, bowing to Miss Jean and the young ladies.
Miss Jean the elder was generally sparing of words of reproof, and even of words of advice, unless advice was asked, and she said nothing. But May exclaimed—
“You might have been civil to him at least, Jeannie. We have not so many gentlemen coming to see us.”
“To see us! It was Auntie Jean he came to see—on an errand from his sister. And I think it was a piece of impertinence on his part to expect Miss Jean Dawson to go at his bidding—and you so lame, auntie,” added Jean as she saw her aunt’s face.
“He couldna ken that, and I’m no’ sure that he did expect