The Twa Miss Dawsons Part 3

She came in sight at last, but, driven by the wind, as soon as she was beyond the harbour bar, she drifted so far to the eastward, that it was doubtful whether any signal from those on sh.o.r.e could be seen on board.

"Are you coming, May? Haste you," cried Jean, and while her sister lingered, she let the long shawl float its full length on the wind. At the moment the clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunshine lighted the rock and the girlish figure, and the waving signal which she held. It was but for a moment. Before May had clambered to her side, the clouds met again, and dimness and dreariness were over all.

"Take it, May. It is you he is thinking of now when he sees it. He must have seen it when the sun shone out. Take it, and hold it fast."

"It is easy said, hold it fast, and it's all nonsense," said May pettishly, and from her uncertain fingers the wind caught the scarlet signal, and carried it out to sea.

"My shawl!" gasped May. "My bonny scarlet shawl?"

"It's an ill omen, I doubt," said Jean in a whisper. "But never mind the shawl; you shall have my bonny blue one instead. And now we may go home."

"It is all folly from first to last," said May. "And what I am to say about my shawl, I canna tell."

"Say nothing. Who has a right to ask? And, May, I think I'll walk home--to warm myself, for I am cold." She looked cold and could not keep herself from trembling. "Go back to Auntie Jean's. My father will be sure to seek us there, and I'll be home before you."

May was not sure of the wisdom of consenting to meet her father without her sister, lest he might ask any questions as to how they had spent the afternoon. But hoping that she might get to her aunt's house before him, she hurried away, scarcely remembering till she sat beside her aunt's pleasant fire, that she had left her sister standing there on the desolate wind-swept height.

And there she stood while the ship went slowly on its northern way, "carrying her life with it," she said to herself, in vague wonder at the utter faintness of heart, and weariness of body which had fallen upon her.

"What has come to me?" she muttered. "What is Willie Calderwood to me, but a friend? He has ay been that, and ay will be, and if he is more to my bonny May--why that makes him more to me--and not less, surely. And friends must part. There is many a sair heart in Portie the night--and folk man just thole whatever is sent, and say nothing. And oh! if Geordie would but come home?"

Again the clouds parted, and a gleam of sunshine touched the water, giving her one more glimpse of the white sails of the ship before she went down to the north, and then there was but "the fearsome waves of the sea," from which she could scarcely turn her dazed eyes. But she had to take her way down the steep rocks, and through the wet fields, the near way home. She lingered and walked wearily, and it was growing dark when she went in at the gate.

"Is it you, Miss Dawson?" said a voice in the darkness. "Has any thing happened? Are ye your lane?"

"Nothing has happened. I preferred to walk. Are they not come yet?"

"n.o.body has come yet, Miss Dawson, and there has been n.o.body here but Robbie Saugster, wantin' a book that you promised him--or Miss May maybe it was," said Phemie. "You were hardly awa' ere he was here, and he said he'd come back the morn."

Jean sat down wearily in the hall.

"I am wet and tired," said she.

"I was sure you would be that," said Phemie, "and I made a bit fire in your ain room, and I'll bring warm water and bathe your feet in a jiffy.

No wonder you are tired."

"That was well done. They cannot be long now in coming. I'll go and make myself ready, and have the tea made at once."

Phemie was up with the warm water almost as soon as her mistress.

"Eh! Miss Dawson, but you are white and spent looking. It's the heat, I dare say, after being in the cold."

She knelt and took off her shoes and stockings, and bathed her weary feet with kindly care, and Jean let her do as she would, saying nothing for a while.

"I'm better now. Yes, it must have been coming into the warm room after the cold of the afternoon. Thank you, Phemie, that is comfortable. I will be down in a minute now."

She was sitting behind the urn with a book in her hand when her father came in.

"You are late, papa."

"Yes--too late--too late," said he, and then he sat down by the fire without taking off his greatcoat or the heavy plaid which was on his shoulders above it.

"Something has happened," said Jean to herself. But she knew he would not in his present mood answer her questions. She rose and took the plaid and his hat, and carried them away. Then she helped him to take off his coat. He did not resist her, but he did not speak, and by the time he was seated at the table, May came down. Her sister met her at the door, asking softly,--

"What has happened to my father?"

"Has any thing happened? I do not know. I waited at auntie's till I was weary, and then I went to Jamieson's, and waited there. He came at last, but he has not opened his lips all the way home."

And he did not open his lips during the meal. He ate and drank as usual, and as usual took his notebook from his pocket when he was done, and turned the leaves and wrote a word or two. He was scarcely more silent than was his wont, but there was a look on his face that Jean had seen only once or twice upon it--a look at once grieved and angry, of which she had learned to be afraid. She longed to ask him if any new trouble had befallen him, but she did not dare to ask, and she sat in silence with her work in her hands till Phemie appeared at the door.

"If you please, Miss Dawson, will you speak here a minute. It's Robbie Saugster again."

Jean rose and went out of the room, conscious that her father's eye followed her, with something of suspicion in its glance. She went into the room where her father's books and papers were kept, and in a minute Phemie ushered in a boy who looked as though he had had the benefit of all the wind and the rain that had fallen through the day. He waited till Phemie had shut the door, and then he said:

"It is this I was bidden give you, Miss Jean. I cam' afore, and then I looked for ye on the pier and a' way, but I couldna see ye, and I doubt it's ower late for an answer new."

He offered her a soiled and crumpled note, which she read at a glance and put in her pocket.

"What is this about a book that I promised you, Robbie?" she asked.

"Oh! ay, Miss Dawson. I had to tell Phemie something. And I'll be glad o' an orra book or two, as I'm goin' to the school--a count-book or maybe a Latin grammar. But I'll come back for it again."

"Wait a minute, Robbie," said Jean. She went into the parlour again where her father was sitting.

"May, what is this about a book for Robbie Saugster? Did you promise him one? He says he is going to the school."

"A book? I dinna mind. Maybe I did. What kind of a book was it? I canna look it out to-night, I am too tired."

The father's eyes had gone from one to the other with eager scrutiny.

"There are old school books enough, and I'll tell him that you'll look them out to-morrow."

"You should have had them ready, no' to keep the laddie coming back again," said her father sharply.

"I didna mind about it, and I dare say Jean promised as well as me," she answered pettishly.

"Mind next time then; and, Jean, tell Phemie to give the laddie his supper before he goes home."

"Yes, papa," said Jean as she shut the door.

"Something has happened and he was watching. It is about poor Geordie, and I'm not sure whether I should tell him or not I must think about it first."

Robbie got his supper, and the promise of the books, and then Jean came in and sat down with her work at her father's side, working quietly and busily as usual, but all the time putting a strong restraint upon her thoughts lest she should betray herself unawares by look or sign. May, weary with the exertion of the afternoon, by and by fell asleep in her chair.

"Bid them come ben to worship, and let the la.s.sie go to her bed," said her father.

When worship was over, Jean folded her work, saying she was weary too.

"Unless you may want any thing, papa," said she turning before she reached the door.