The Twa Miss Dawsons Part 31

"We shall find you out, never fear, and we winna forget you even if you should live in London all your life."

Marion laughed and then looked grave.

"But that can never happen," said she.

If Jean was grave and silent for a while at this time, no one noticed it but her aunt, and she did not remark upon it. Indeed she was grave and a little sad herself for she greatly missed both mother and daughter, who had been her dear friends and daily visitors for many a year, and she confessed to a strange feeling of loneliness in her house by the sea.

Jean came often to see her and so did George, but she seldom spoke about the Calderwoods to either of them. Now and then a letter came from Marion to Jean or to her aunt, but after the very first these letters said nothing about coming home to Portie again.

And Jean waited. Not unhappily. Far from that, for her life was a busy one. She had much to do and much to enjoy in her father's house and beyond it. She strove to forget herself, and to remember others, and made no one anxious or curious because of her grave looks and her sadness.

She just waited, telling herself that if so it must be, she would do as her aunt had done, and wait on till the end.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

GEORGE.

They had three years and more without a break of the happy life to which Jean had looked forward when her brother came home. The days seemed all alike in the quiet routine into which they fell; but no one wished for a change.

If Mr Dawson had misgivings as to how his son, after his long wanderings round the world, would settle down into the man of business, intent chiefly on the work which the day brought to his hand, they were all put aside after a time. George fell into his place with an ease which indicated a natural apt.i.tude for the kind of work expected from him; and during a slight but tedious illness, which kept his father a few weeks at home, George filled his place in the counting-house with a success which proved that in all but experience, he was fitted, and might be trusted to hold it to as good purpose as ever his father had done. He had the same clear head, and the same directness of purpose in his dealings with other men; and he had, what his father even in his youngest days had never had, the natural kindliness of heart and temper that won good-will without an effort.

Mr Dawson had always been respected as an honest man,--a man of his word; but when their fellow townsmen discussed the father and son in their new relations, as they were not slow to do, it was said of George, that he was "a true gentleman"; and by this it was meant, that the temptations which his father, as a man of business had all his life successfully resisted, the son would never see as temptations at all.

While those who came into business relations with him saw that he would probably be as successful in the making of money as his father had been; they also saw that he cared far less for it; and with better opportunities for knowing, they would also have seen that he spent a good deal of it in a manner, which, according to his father's judgment, would bring but poor returns. The poor folk of Portie, the sailors'

widows and orphans, and the "puir auld wivies" of the town, knew about it, though even they oftener saw Miss Jean's hand in the help that came from him, than his own.

"Ane o' Miss Jean's folk," they called him, and so he was, in that he served the same Master, and loved the service. But he did not offend nor grieve his father by openly casting in his lot with these people as his aunt had done. There was not the same need. Miss Jean had found in communion with the despised little flock in Stott's Lane, the help and comfort which she had failed to find in the kirk of her fathers. But times had changed since then. In the kirk of their fathers in Portie as well as elsewhere there was found in George's day the personal consecration, the fervour of love, the earnestness of service, which in the old days had made the folk of Stott's Lane "a peculiar people."

George was content to remain with them, and his aunt had no desire that he should do otherwise.

And then he went quietly on his way, unconscious that the eyes of all Portie were upon him; not just watching for his halting, yet with a certain movement of expectation to see him fall into his old light-hearted, careless ways again. He did not begin his new life among them with any definite plan of work. He had no such faith in his own strength or wisdom as to make him hopeful as to what he might do for any one. But this work came to him, as in one way or another work will come to all who wish to serve.

It came to him out of the every-day work of his life, which brought him into contact with ships and sailors, either setting sail, or coming home after a voyage. He sent away those who were going with a friendly "G.o.d speed," and met those who returned with a kindly greeting, and was frank and sympathetic with all, because it was his nature to be so; and the men liked him as every body who came near him had liked him all his life. And his sympathy and their liking opened the way for the help which he could give, and which some of these poor fellows needed badly enough.

By and by he found himself in the midst of work which had come to his hands he scarcely could have told how;--certainly not from any impelling sense of the duty which he owed to this cla.s.s of his townsmen, and not consciously from any thought of the service that he owed them for his Master's sake. One needed his help, and another, and he gave it gladly, taking pleasure in it, and before he knew it, his hands and his heart were full. It was in one way humble work enough that he did--speaking a word of caution to one, laying a restraining hand on another, guiding another past an evident danger, helping another firmly to withstand the temptation of strong drink, too often the sailor's strongest and wiliest foe.

All this led him at times into dark places, and queer companionships, where was needed a strong arm as well as a cool head and a persuasive tongue. For "poor Jack," just off a long voyage with money in his pockets, was considered fair game in Portie as in other places; and even in Portie, where dark deeds could not be easily hidden, dark deeds were sometimes done. Though the influence of the respectable part of the community could be brought to bear more readily and directly on the doers of such deeds, than could be the case in larger places, yet direct interference, either to prevent or to punish, was not always effectual.

"Poor Jack" himself was often as eager as his enemy to resent and resist such interference, and those who ventured upon it, sometimes fared ill between them.

To these poor fellows George gave both time and interest, and not in vain. In all his dealings with them they were made to feel that it was not a sense of duty merely, that brought him near them. He understood them, and liked them and their ways, and was their friend. They believed in him, and did, to please him, what they would hardly have been brought to do from higher motives. After a time they trusted him entirely, as well they might. He loved them. There was nothing that he would not do to help them--few things that he did not do for some of them. In the many ways which genuine personal interest can devise, he befriended them and theirs. In sickness he helped them by helping those to whom they belonged--which was well, and he put his own hands on them, which was better,--putting his strength to gentle uses: soothing, restraining, comforting them, as he never could have done if he had not loved them, and if they had not had confidence in his love.

And because he loved them, they were not unwilling to listen to him when he told them of a "greater love," the love of One who grudged not to give His life for their sakes. He never told it in many words, and he did not for a good while try to tell it to any but the sick and the suffering, as he got a chance for a word with them one by one. But later, when there were occasions, now and then, for sharp though kindly words of rebuke where numbers had gathered, words of gentleness were sure to follow about the love that could keep them in all straits from yielding unworthily to wrong-doing. And if such occasions grew more frequent as time went on, it was because of no plan or intention of his.

Little of all this was known in Portie, except among the men themselves and their families, and among the ill-doing folk who would fain have made gain of their folly; but the result was visible enough in the better lives of some and added comfort of many a home in the place. But to no one did George's work do more good than to himself. It gave him an interest in life which business, engaged in conscientiously for the sake of pleasing his father and making up to him for the disappointment which the last few years of his life had caused, could never have supplied. It did more to establish him permanently in Portie, and to make him content there, than did the partnership into which during the second year he entered with his father.

He grew more like his old self, his father said to Miss Jean, giving the new partnership, and the increased interest and responsibility which it implied the credit for it. In Miss Jean's eyes, he was as little like the wilful lad who had given cause for many anxious thoughts in the old days, as could well be, except that he had the same sunny temper and the same winning ways, and was well-beloved as he had been in his most foolish days. Now he was a man to be trusted as well as loved. He was a graver man than he might ever have become without the discipline of sorrow through which he had pa.s.sed, and the remorseful memory of the worse than wasted years that followed; but his "trouble," as the suffering and sinning of those years were vaguely called, had not harmed him. At least good had come out of it all. He was grave, but he was not gloomy; and though he availed himself less than pleased his father of the opportunities given for mingling in such society as Portie and its neighbourhood afforded, he made home a different place to them all.

These were happy days to Jean. Between her and her brother, as to all that filled his life and made the future hopeful, there was perfect confidence and sympathy. She helped him in his work among the sailors and their wives and families, and among the fishers of the neighbourhood, by doing many things that only a woman's tact and skill and will could do, and she helped him even more by the eager sympathy with which she listened and advised when she could not put her own hand to the work.

They were true friends as well as loving brother and sister, and as time went on, their father began to fear that they might grow too well content with each other and the life they were living, and so fail of the higher happiness which he coveted for them, and which was the right of such as they.

"There is time enough," said Miss Jean comforting him.

"Yes. He is young, and he will surely forget," said his father. "And as for Jean, she is fancy-free."

To this Miss Jean made no reply. She was not sure of either the one thing or the other. But she saw that the brother and sister seemed content, and that they were doing willingly and effectively the work that fell to their hands, and in her esteem life had nothing better to give than this.

"All that you wish for them may come in the natural course of things, but ye must have patience and no' try to force it," said Miss Jean.

"And in the mean time, ye ha'e ay one o' May's bonny boys to fall back upon for Saughleas, if that is what is in your mind."

For they had lately heard of the birth of Mrs Manners' second son, and much rejoicing had it caused.

"I wonder ye're no' thinkin' o' going south to see your new grandson.

The change would do you good, and it would be a great pleasure to May."

"There is nothing to hinder, if Jean will go with me."

But there was much to hinder Jean it seemed. May had better nursing than she could give her, and she would much rather make her visit when her sister should be well and strong and able to go about with her. And then George had been promising to take her to Paris and perhaps farther, later in the summer, and they could visit May at the same time.

Besides--she told her father privately she would not go away and leave her aunt so long alone just at present, for she was never strong in the spring; and her father could urge her no longer.

Jean had another reason, of which she could speak to no one, why she did not wish to leave Portie at this time. She had heard from one of the young Petries of the hope they had of a visit from Marion Calderwood and her brother, and Jean would not leave home and lose the chance of seeing them.

Willie Calderwood had never been in Portie again, and Jean had never seen him, since he left it on the morning of her sister's marriage day, and that was a long time now. She had waited patiently, but she longed for the time of waiting to be over. She knew now how well she loved him, and in her heart she believed that he loved her as well. He had never spoken, he might never speak; but whether he spoke or not, she had a longing unspeakable, just to see his face and touch his hand again.

She had been quite happy during these two years, she told herself; but her heart sprang gladly up at the thought that her time of waiting might be nearly over. She had never spoken his name even to her brother, and he had been as silent to her, but she sometimes thought that George knew how they cared for one another, and that he kept silence because he knew it would not be well to speak. But all the same, Jean would not lose the chance of seeing Willie again. So, after some consideration, Mr Dawson set off alone. He reached London late at night and did not go to his daughter's house until the morning. She lived in a pleasant part of a pleasant suburb, in a little house which stood in the midst of a tiny garden, which was enclosed within high walls. They had removed to it recently, and Mr Dawson had never seen it before. It was a very pretty place, he thought as he entered--a little confined perhaps, for the high walls were not very far apart--a little like a prison, he could not but fancy, as the gate was locked behind him.

Mr Manners had already gone out for the day, the neat little maid told him, and Mrs Manners was not down yet, but she would be down presently.

She was well and so was baby.

But he was not left alone long, and then he had another greeting. He thought for a moment that it was May who came toward him with outstretched hand. It was not May. It was a tall, slender, dark-eyed girl with a blooming face in which there was something familiar. He knew who it was as soon as he heard her voice.

"Didna Jean come with you?" A shadow fell on the bright face at his answer. But it pa.s.sed in a minute.

"It is good to see a 'kenned face' again. Mrs Manners is very well, and so is baby--such a darling! Mrs Manners is coming down-stairs to-day for the first time. She will be down soon," added the girl more sedately, as if she had got a little check. She was thinking of the time when she stood before Mr Dawson with the broken branch of the apple-tree in her hand, and oddly enough, so was he. But the sight of Marion Calderwood stirred no angry feelings now. That was all past.

The ill that had come to his son through Elsie Calderwood had been changed to good. The sudden glad remembrance of the son he had left at home--a man strong, earnest, good--softened his heart and his voice as he looked on the girl's wistful face, and he smiled kindly as he said,--

"England seems to agree with you, my la.s.sie."

Marion shook her head.

"But it is no' home," said she. "I like Portie best." Then she took courage to ask him about the place, and about the folk in it, and the changes that had taken place since she left. Trifling questions some of them were, but they were asked so eagerly, and the answers were listened to with such interest, that he could not but take pleasure in it.

n.o.body was forgotten. From Miss Jean herself to poor old Mrs Cairnie, every body in Portie seemed to be a friend of hers, and all that concerned them of the deepest interest to her. Mr Dawson had difficulty in recalling some of the folk she asked about.

"Ye should come back and renew acquaintance with them all."

"Oh! wouldna I like it! And maybe I may--some day. We thought Miss Dawson was coming with you," said Marion with a little change of face and voice!

"Jean? yes, I thought that too; but she had some good reasons of her own for staying at home. Her aunt is not just so strong as she might be, and she didna like to leave her. She'll come soon, however. She is a friend of yours, it seems."

"She was ay good to me," said Marion softly, and there was nothing more said for a while.