The Twa Miss Dawsons. Margaret M. Robertson
exclaimed May. “Why, he is one of the fine folk that are staying at Blackford House.”
“And that is the very reason,” said Jean hotly—“the very reason that I—”
“It’s but a poor reason,” said Miss Jean.
But no more could be added, for the carriage was passing round the drive toward the spot where Miss Jean was sitting. The lady was driving her own ponies, and very nice she looked in her fresh muslins and simple straw hat. She was not very young, judging from her lace, which was thin and rather dark, but she had a youthful air, and a sweet smile, and seemed altogether a pleasing person. Even Jean could find no fault with her manner, as she addressed her aunt. There was respect, even deference, in every tone of her voice, and in every bend of her graceful head.
There was not very much to be said between them however. Miss Jean told the lady where Mrs. Cairnie lived. Any body in Portie could have told her that. Then there was something said about the poor old lady’s wants and ways, and the chief thing was that the daughter had sent some money and other things, which were to be left in Miss Jean Dawson’s hands, for a reason which the lady could not explain. But explanation was unnecessary, for Miss Jean knew more of poor Tibby Cairnie’s troubles and temptations than even her own daughter did.
It was all arranged easily enough, but still the lady seemed in no hurry to go. She could hardly have gone at once, for Mr. Dawson had taken Captain Harefield round among the trees, and they were out of sight at the moment May admired the ponies, and Jean stood with her hand on her aunt’s chair looking straight before her.
“A striking face and graceful figure, and a wonderfully intelligent look as well,” thought Mrs. Eastwood, and then in a pretty friendly way she seemed to include the silent girl in the talk she had been making with Miss Jean about the trees, and the views, and the fine weather they had had of late; and when Miss Jean became silent, as she generally did unless she had something to say that needed to be heard, Jean took her part in the conversation and did it well.
When the gentlemen returned, Mrs. Eastwood still seemed in no haste to go. A new idea had seized her. Would Miss Dawson kindly go with her some morning soon to see Mrs. Cairnie? It would be a pleasure to a faithful servant, if she could tell her on her return that she had seen her old mother; and if Miss Dawson could make it convenient to go with her, she would call some morning soon, and drive her to Portie.
No serious objection could be made to this, though in her heart Miss Jean doubted whether the absent Annie would care much to have the lady see her old mother, who was not always in a state fit for the eyes of “gentlefolk.” However a day was set, and other little matters agreed upon, and then with many pleased looks and polite hopes that they might meet again, their visitors went away.
That night when they were sitting alone in the long gloaming, the sisters being not at home, Mr. Dawson suddenly returned to the discussion of the subject which had been touched on in the garden.
“I couldna divide the land, but there is enough of money and other property to do fair justice to the other, and I think the land should go to Jean.”
His sister said nothing.
“She is the eldest, and the strongest in every way. If she were to give her mind to it, she might, in time, hold her own in the countryside with the best of them.”
He was silent for a minute.
“And she might many, and get help in that way. And her son would have the place. And he might take my name, which is an honest one at least.”
“Ye’re takin’ a lang look,” said Miss Jean at last.
He gave an uncertain laugh.
“Oh! weel! That’s atween you and me, ye ken. It might be. A lad like him that was here the day, for instance—a gentleman by birth and breeding. He is a poor man, as poverty looks to the like of him, a two or three hunder pounds or so a year. It would be wealth to most folk, but it’s poverty to the like o’ him. But if it should so happen—and I were to live another ten years—I might satisfy even the like o’ him.”
There was much which Miss Jean might have said to all this, which fell like the vainest folly on her ears, but she said nothing.
“And as for my Jean!—she needs to see the world and society, and all that, doubtless, but if there’s many o’ the fine London ladies that will hold a candle to her as far as looks go—it’s mair than I think. She might stand before the queen herself with any of them.”
And still Miss Jean said never a word.
“It might very well be, and I might live to see it. There’s more land to be had too, if I’m willing to pay the price for it—and with this in view I might care to do it. I’ll do nothing in haste.”
He seemed to be speaking to himself, rather than to her.
“I’ll do nothing in haste,” he repeated. “But I could do it, and there would be some good in life—if this thing could be.”
“Are ye forgetting that ye ha’e a son somewhere in the world?” said his sister gravely.
Mr. Dawson uttered a sound in which pain and impatience seemed to mingle.
“Have I? It is hardly to be hoped. And if he is—living—it is hardly such a life as would fit him to take his place where—he might have been. I think, Jean, it might be as weel to act as if I had no living son.”
“But yet he may be living, and he may come home.” Mr. Dawson rose suddenly and went and leaned against the darkening window.
“No, Jean, if he had ever been coming home, he would have come ere now. He was seen in Portie not three months since, and he never came near me. Ye think I was hard on him; but I wasna so hard as all that.”
“Who saw him?” asked his sister greatly startled. “He was seen by more than one, though he was little like himself, if I can judge from what I heard.”
“But he is living, George. There’s comfort in that.”
“If I had heard that he was living on the other side of the world, I might have taken comfort from it. But that he should have been here, and never came home—there is little comfort in that.”
“But he is living and he’ll come home to you yet. Do you think his mother’s son will be left to go astray beyond homecoming? He’ll come home again.”
“Many a son of a good mother has gone down to death—And that he should have come so near her grave, without coming nearer! I would almost sooner know him to be dead than to know that of him. And when I mind—”
That was the last word spoken. Mr. Dawson rose and went out into the faint light of the summer night, and though his sister sat long waiting for him after the girls had come in and had gone to bed, she saw no more of him that night.
Chapter Five.
A New Acquaintance.
Mr. Dawson was just as usual the next morning. He was never so silent, nor in such haste to get through breakfast and away to the town when his sister was in the house, for he took pleasure in her company, and never failed in the most respectful courtesy toward her when she was under his roof—or indeed elsewhere. She saw traces of last night’s trouble in his face, but it was not so evident as to be noticed by his daughters.
Indeed he seemed to them to be more interested than usual in the amusing discussion into which they fell concerning their yesterday’s pleasure. They had been at a garden party given by Mrs. Petrie, the wife of their father’s partner in the bank, and had enjoyed it, and May especially had much to say about it.
“And who do you think was there,