Saughleas with the June sunshine felling on it was a very different
place from Saughleas under the "drip, drip" of winter rain and sleet,
with the wind moaning or roaring through the bare boughs of its
sheltering beeches.
The house was plain and heavy looking. It stood too near the road for
so large a house, it was said, and it was so high that it made all the
trees--except the few great beeches--look smaller than they would have
looked elsewhere. But it was built of the cheerful looking reddish
granite of the neighbourhood, and with its green adornment of
honeysuckle and climbing roses and its low French windows opening on the
little terrace above the lawn, it looked in summer-time a handsome and
homelike dwelling.
There were many trees about it--fruit trees, elms, and poplars, Norway
spruces, and Scotch firs; but most of them had been planted within the
last fifteen years, and trees on this east coast--like the children in
the song--"take long to grow." The beeches, seven in number, were both
old and beautiful--so beautiful and so stately amid the dwarfs around
them that they, and not the wavering line of Saughs or willows that
followed the margin of the burn running through the long low fields, it
was sometimes said, should have given a name to the place.
There was a narrow belt of wood behind the house which had been planted
long ago, and even in it the trees were not very large. But it was a
very pretty spot, a real wood, where up through the undisturbed dead
leaves of autumn came snowdrops and violets and primroses in the spring.
Between this wood and the house was a field of grass, which was not cut
smoothly every day or two like the lawn in front, but was allowed to
grow tall and strong till the right time came to cut it down for hay.
Through this field a gravelled walk led down to "The Well"; a clear,
unfailing spring at the edge of the wood, and to a moss-covered stone
seat beside it.
Beyond this a narrower path led through the grass and the last year's
dead leaves into the heart of the wood, where, in a circular space,
large enough to let the sunlight in though the trees had been higher,
lay "Mary Keith, beloved and honoured wife of George Dawson," with her
little children at her side. Here the turf was soft and green, but
there was no adornment of shrub or flower on the grave or near it, only
a simple headstone of grey granite and near it a turf seat, over which
the slender boughs of a "weeping birch" hung sadly down.
Beyond the wood were the low fields through which the Saugh burn ran.
Parks they were called, but they were just long grassy fields, with
rough stone walls round them, and cows and sheep feeding in them. There
was no "Park," in the grand sense of the term, about Saughleas as yet.
There was no space for one without appropriating some of the best fields
from the leased farms, and if things had gone right with him, that might
have been done in time, Mr Dawson sometimes said to himself with a
sigh.
But things had not gone right with him of late. Any thing but that--if
one might judge from the look of care and pain, that had become almost
habitual to him now.
"George, man, is it worth your while to wear your life away gathering
gear that ye dinna need, when ye might be enjoying what ye have in this
bonny place?"
"It _is_ a bonny place," was all he said in reply.
They were sitting, not on the lawn, but on the other side of the drive,
where the sunshine was softened by the fluttering beech leaves overhead.
At least, Miss Jean was sitting there. Her brother was "daundering" up
and down the walk with his hands clasped behind him, as his way was,
lingering a little, now at the gate and now at his sister's side. He
had forgotten her for the moment, as he stood looking out toward the
distant sea, and the look which his daughter had come to know well, but
which his sister was seldom suffered to see, came to his face and rested
on it still when he turned along the walk again. And so he spoke.
"It _is_ a bonny place," he answered, and then he walked away. But
though he let his eyes wander over the gardens and the wood, and the
fields beyond, there came to his face no glad look of possession or
self-gratulation, and his head drooped lower and his step lagged as he
drew near her again. He stood silent at her side, as though he expected
her to say more, but she said nothing.
"It _is_ a bonny place," said he again, "though it has given me but
little pleasure as yet, and whiles I think that I am near done with it--
and--there's none to come after me."
"George, man! that's an ill thing to say."
"But it's true for a' that God knows I was thinking little of myself
when I put the winnings of my whole life into the land. And what is
likely to come of it? Ye might weel say, Jean, that God's blessing
hasna been upon it."
"No, I would never say that."
He took his way down the walk again, and went quite round the broad
lawn, and she had time for a good many troubled thoughts before he came
back.
"I doubt ye're overworking yourself, George," said she. She put out her
hand to draw forward a garden chair that stood beyond her, and he did
not refuse it, as she was afraid he might, but sat down beside her.
"Where are the girls?" asked he. "They are busy up the stair--about
May's dress, I think. But there is nothing to hinder them coming, if
ye're wanting them."
"No. I'm no' wanting them. I have something to say to you, and I shall
find no better time. I am going to make a new will."
"Well?"
"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 me to go to
the gate. And I'm no' feared for my ain dignity, Jean lassie, and I
dinna think ye need be feared for it either."
"Dignity!" 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.