"No, George. You must see her since you are here, though you must not
speak to her of this. She is no longer a child, and I fear I did an
unwise thing in trying to keep you out of her sight so long. It kept
you in her mind all the more--not you, but a lad of her own fancy with
your name. Miss Jean ay said it would be far better to let things take
their course, and so it might have been."
"And do you mean that you kept us from meeting of your own will?"
"Dinna look at me in that way, George. What could I do? You were both
young, and she ay made a hero of you. And there was your father. And I
wouldna have my bairn's heart troubled. Not that I mean that she cares
for you, as she ought not--"
"Dear mother, let me ask her."
Mrs Calderwood made a sudden impatient movement. She loved the young
man dearly. And her own son, who to her proud thought was "a man among
men," was scarcely dearer. He was a son in all but the name. She loved
him, and she believed in him; and even to herself, as she looked at his
face, it seemed a foolish and a wrong thing to send him away.
But then it had always been in her thought that these two must never
come together in this way, because of her dead Elsie, and because of the
hard old man's angry scorn, which, though she had forgiven him, she
could not forget. She could not change easily. It was not her nature.
And she could not bear that her Marion's heart should be disturbed from
its maiden peace. She moved about the room uncertain what she ought to
say or do, and utterly impatient of her own hesitation. When she sat
down again George came and stood before her.
"Mrs Calderwood, my father gave me God speed, and bade me bring her
home."
"Oh! your father," cried Mrs Calderwood with sudden anger. "Your
father has ay gotten his ain will for good or for ill, all his life
long. And now to think--"
"His last words were--`She shall be to me as my own daughter.'"
Mrs Calderwood turned her face away.
"He loves her dearly," said George softly.
Still she did not speak.
"And, mother,--turn your face to me,--I love her dearly."
She turned then, and at the sight of his moved face her eyes overflowed
with tears.
"Oh! George! you are very dear to me, but my Marion is all I have--"
What more she might have said, he never knew, for the door opened, and
Marion came softly in with a letter in her hand. Her mother rose, but
she did not move away from George, as was her first impulse, nor did she
try to hide her tears. It would have been no use, for they were falling
like rain over her face. Marion stood still at the door, looking at
them with wonder and a little fear.
George went to her, and taking her hand led her to her mother. He was
very pale and his lips trembled as he said,--
"Mother, will you let me speak to her now?"
What she might have answered she could not tell. She dropped into her
seat with a little cry, and in a moment Marion was kneeling before her,
and then so was George; and, of course, there was only one way in which
it could end.
Mrs Calderwood said afterwards that Marion had let herself be too
easily won. Marion laughed when she said this.
"I think, mother, I was won long before that day," said she.
But at the moment the mother could only give her consent. In a little,
when George had taken his wife, that was to be, to the other end of the
room, Mrs Calderwood picked up the letter which Marion had let fall,
and opened it mechanically, letting her eye fall on the written words
while her thoughts were elsewhere. But before she had read many words
she uttered an exclamation and hastily went out of the room.
_Her_ pride was to be spared at any rate. Nobody had supposed that
_she_ would be too easily won. The letter was from Mr Dawson; and by
rights she ought to have had it before George came, for it was to
bespeak her good word for him that he had written.
It was just, "Let by-ganes be by-ganes. Give your daughter to my son,
and she shall be welcomed among us with all the love and honour of which
she is worthy--and more cannot be said than that."
Mrs Calderwood read it and read it again, and her wonder grew.
Changed! Surely if ever a man was changed, George Dawson must be to
write to her such a letter as that. But when she showed it to her
daughter, Marion was only surprised at her amazement. All these kind
words did not seem strange to her. She had never heard any but kind
words from him.
"I began to think he liked me when I was staying with Mrs Manners, and
I was sure of it at Saughleas--only afterwards--and even then--" said
Marion not very coherently. But she did not explain her meaning more
clearly.
"The sooner the better," Mr Dawson had said, and George said the same,
and so did Jean in a few sweet words that came in a day or two, and so
did her aunt. Mrs Manners reminded her husband that she had told him
of Marion's conquest of her father on that first day of her visit to
them last year, and also that she had foreseen this happy ending. So
with all belonging to George so ready to welcome her child among them,
and George himself so dear, what could Mrs Calderwood do but be glad
also, and give her up with a good grace?
It was not so difficult a matter after all, she found when she had thus
determined. And by and by she forgave her daughter for having been too
easily won. And the visionary jealousy which had risen within her at
the memory of her lost child vanished, though in her heart she doubted
whether her poor dead Elsie had ever won such love as George had now to
give her sister.
So the marriage day was set. It was not very soon, George thought, but
the time was not unreasonably long, and it was hastened a little at the
last. Captain Calderwood came home from his second voyage in his own
ship sooner than was expected, and his stay was to be shorter than
usual. The wedding was to be a very quiet one, and it could be hastened
without interfering seriously with preparations. Marion had set her
heart on her brother's being with her, and it was so arranged, and all
things went well.
All things but one. At the very last there came from Jean a letter with
many good reasons why she could not come with her father and brother,
and with many sweet words of love to the girl "whom she would have
chosen from all the world to be her sister." But Mr Dawson was there,
intent on doing honour to the occasion, and Mr and Mrs Manners and
Captain Saugster of the "John Seaton," and of all people in the world,
Sir Percy Harefield! who did not, it is to be supposed, come without an
invitation, but who possibly suggested to Mr Dawson that he would like
to receive one.
And all went well. There was no large party and no regular
speech-making. The bridegroom said nothing, Captain Calderwood said
only, "If he could have chosen a brother out of all the world, he would
have chosen no other;" and Mr Dawson remembered the words of Jean's
letter to Marion, which she had shown him before she sent it away. Mr
Dawson said a few words, but he was not so happy, because he could not
help again expressing a wish that "by-ganes might be by-ganes," which
Mrs Calderwood thought he might have omitted on that day at least.
It came to an end, and the bride and bridegroom went away, and Mr
Dawson and Sir Percy Harefield went with Captain Calderwood to see his
ship, and they were all very friendly together; so friendly that Sir
Percy had thoughts of turning his back on London and the prospective
delights of the moors, and taking the voyage with Captain Calderwood to
see what the other side of the world was like.
"And what thought ye o' Willie himself?" asked Miss Jean, when Mr
Dawson was telling her all this, after he had been at home a day or two.
"Is he likely to be such a man as his father was?"
"There's mair o' him than ever there would ha'e been o' his father, if
he had been spared, poor man. He is much thought of by his employers.
I thought him stiff at first. But he thawed out and was cordial and
kindly after a little. He would have made the Englishman very welcome
to go with him, if he had keepit in the same mind till he sailed. But I
doubt, as Jean once said o' him, he would have found him a heavy handfu'
ere a' was done. I ken no greater misfortune that can befall a man than
to have nothing to do in the world."
"He has his soldiering?"
"No, he hasna even that now, and he is unfortunate in caring little for
the occupations that seem to pass the time for folk o' his class. He is
coming north again, he says, and I dare say we'll get a sight o' him."
"He was ay an idle man, even when he was a poor man."
"Yes. But I ay think he might have been made something of, if the right
woman would have taken him in hand."
Miss Jean could not agree with him.
"And whether or no', he needna come north to find her," said she.
"No, I suppose not, but it is a pity."
"George, man! I canna but wonder to hear you," said his sister gravely.
"Weel, he has a kind heart, and I canna but be sorry for him. And he is
a perfect gentleman."
"Being sorry for him is one thing, and being willing to give him our
best is another," said Miss Jean, with a sharpness that made her brother
smile. "But I'm no' feared--"
Miss Jean paused. She was not quite sure that she had nothing to fear.
To her it seemed that the Englishman had been wonderfully constant--"for
the like o' him"--and she was not quite so sure of Jean as she used to
be.
One day while her father was away, they had been speaking of Mr
Dawson's wish that George should take his bride to Saughleas. Jean had
said the best way to settle it would be for her to go away to a house of
her own and then George could not refuse to take Marion to Saughleas.
"Weel," said her aunt, "I dare say that might be brought about, if you
could bring your mind to it."
"I'll bide a wee," said Jean laughing, but her face grew grave enough in
a minute or two.
"I have ay thought myself of some use to my father and George, but now
George is away, and even my father would be content with Marion in my
place."
"That is scarcely the most cheerful way to look at it, or the wisest.
And it's no' like you, Jean, my dear."
"Are you thinking that I am jealous of Marion, Aunt Jean? No, it is not
that I love her dearly, and I am glad for George, and for my father,
since he is pleased. But are you sure that it gave _you_ no pang to
give up your brother to Mary Keith?"
Miss Jean smiled, and shook her head.
"I was growing an old woman even at that time. No, though she was
almost a stranger to me, I was only glad for George. They loved one
another."
"And besides you were an independent woman, with a life and work of your
own, and content."
"Jean, my dear," said her aunt, laying down her work and folding her
hands on her lap, as was her way when she had something serious to say,
"unless ye are keeping something in your heart that ye have never told
to me, and there be a reason for it, I would hardly say that you are
looking at things with your usual sense and cheerfulness. Do you think
that your father has less need o' you now than he has ay had? And do
you think it is because o' you that George is so set on taking his wife
to the High-street? I see no great change that has come to you or your
work, and though it is like giving up your brother in a sense, yet you
are glad to do it. What has happened to you, my dear? Would it ease
your heart to tell it to me?"
Jean had changed colour many times while her aunt was speaking, and now
she sat with her eyes turned away to the sea, as if she were considering
whether it would be well to speak. Miss Jean kept silence. She needed
no words to tell her the girl's trouble. She had guessed the cause of
the weariness and restlessness that Jean could not hide from her, though
she could keep a cheerful face before the rest of her world. But she
thought it possible that after so long a silence it might do her heart
good to speak, if it were only a word, and so she waited silently. But
on the whole she was not sorry when Jean rose and took her hat in her
hand to go.
"No, Auntie Jean, I have nothing to tell you, positively nothing. I am
`ower weel off,' as Tibbie Cairnie says. That is what ails me, I dare
say."
"You'll ha'e May and her bairns through the summer, and plenty to do,
and there is nothing better than that to put away--"
"Discontent," said Jean, as her aunt hesitated for a word. "My dear, ye
should ha'e gone with your father and George. It would ha'e done you
good."
"Well, perhaps it might. But it is too late now. Did I tell you that
May wrote that Sir Percy Harefield was at the wedding?"
"No, ye didna tell me."
"May thinks he asked my father to invite him, and my father seems to be
as much taken up with him as ever. He is coming north again, she says."
"And has his new tide changed him any, and his new possessions, does
your sister say?"
"He has grown fat--more portly, May calls it," said Jean laughing. "She
says he is going to Parliament."
"He'll do little ill there, it's likely."
"And as little good, ye think, auntie. It will keep him out of
mischief, as he used to say. And after all, I dare say he will do as
well as most of them. He is a gentleman anyway, and that is ay
something."
And then she went away, and while Miss Jean mused on the cause of Jean's
discontent, she could not forget what she called the Englishman's
constancy, and she heartily wished that something might happen to keep
him from coming north for a while.
"And I canna help thinking that if Jean had gone to her brother's
marriage, something might have happened to set her heart at rest."
But that was not Jean's thought. She had not said until the last moment
that she was not going, partly because she wished to avoid discussion,
and partly because of something else. The many good reasons by which
she had succeeded in convincing her father that it was best for her to
stay at home, were none of them the reason why she did not go. That
could be told to no one. It was only with pain and something like a
sense of shame--though she told herself angrily that there was no cause
for shame--that she acknowledged to herself the reason.
"I care for him still, though he has forgotten me. I ay cared for him.
And he loved me once, I know well. But if he loved me still, he would
come and tell me. I could not go and meet him now--and his mother's
eyes would be on me--and yet, oh! how I long to see his face after all
these years!"
After all these years she might well say. For since May's marriage day,
when her heart fell low as Marion told her that her brother had gone
away, she had never seen him. He had come north once with George when
she was away from home, and he had been in England more than once while
she was visiting his sister, but he had never come to see her.
It had hurt her, but she had comforted herself, saying it was because of
her father or perhaps also because of his own mother that he did not
come. But since Marion was coming home to them, that could be no reason
now if he cared, and almost up to the last moment she had waited, hoping
that he might come. And then she told herself it was impossible that
she should go to meet him, caring for him still.
"And the best thing I can do now is to put it all out of my mind
forever."
If she only could have done so, and she did her best to try. May came
home with her father; and she and her pretty boys and her baby daughter
were with them all the summer. And by and by George brought home his
wife, and it was a gay and busy time with them all.
May, who saw most things that were passing, noticed that in some ways
her sister was different from what she used to be. She was not the
leader in all the gay doings, but left the young visitors at the house
to amuse themselves in their own way. She was intent on household
matters, as was right, and she took more time to herself in the quiet of
her own room than she used to do. But she was merry enough with the
children, and indeed gave much of her leisure to them, going about in
the house and the garden with baby Mary in her arms, and the little
brothers following in their train for many a pleasant hour.
George brought his wife home to the High-street. Even Mr Dawson after
a while acknowledged that they had been wise to secure for themselves
the quiet of a house of their own. Not that they began in these first
days by living to themselves. There was enough to do. There were gay
doings in many homes in honour of the bride, and the honour intended was
generally accepted none the less gratefully or gracefully, that the gay
doings could have been happily dispensed with by them both.
They had pleasures and occupations of another kind also, for Marion was
too well-known to the poor folk of Portie to make her coming among them
as young Mrs Dawson an intrusion or a trouble. So the young husband
and wife went in and out together, "the very sicht o' them," as even
Mrs Cairnie owned, "doing a body gude as they passed."
And on the comings and goings of these happy young people, on the honour
paid them, on their kindly words and deeds, and heartsome ways with rich
and poor, with old friends and new, Mr Dawson looked and pondered with
a constant, silent delight which few besides the two Jeans saw or
suspected. Even they could not but wonder sometimes at the unceasing
interest he found in them and their doings at home and abroad.
He wondered at it himself sometimes. It was like a new sweet spring of
life to him to see them, and to hear about them, and to know that all
things went well with them; and though few out of his own household
could have seen any change in him, it was clear in many ways to those
who saw him in his own house day by day.
"God leads His ain by many ways to Himself," thought Miss Jean in her
solitary musings over it all. "They that think they ken a' the secrets
o' nature tell us that the flowing waters and the changing seasons,
bringing whiles the frost and whiles the sunshine, have made from the
rocks that look so unchangeable, much o' the soil out of which comes
bread to us all. And who kens but God's gender dealings, coming after
sore trouble, may prepare his heart for the richer springing o' the good
seed, till it bring forth a hundred-fold to His honour and glory. I ay
kenned that the Lord had a richt hold o' him through all, and that He
would show him His face at last. Blessed be His name?"
"It whiles does folk gude to get their ain way about things, though
that's no' the belief o' gude folk generally, and nae in the Bible, as
they would gar us believe," said Mrs Cairnie, who never kept her
opinions to herself if she could get any one to listen to them. "George
Dawson is growing an auld failed man--and nae won'er considerin' how
lang he has been toilin' and moilin', gi'ein' himsel' neither nicht's
rest nor day's ease. But auld and failed though he be, there's a
satisfied look on his face that naebody has seen there since the days he
used to come in to the kirk wi' his wife and a' his bairns followin'
after him,--langer ago than ye'll mind, Maggie, my woman. And for that
matter naebody saw it then. It was satisfaction o' anither kind that he
had in those days, I'm thinkin'."
"But, grannie," said Maggie Saugster, giving her the name that the old
woman liked best, though she would not acknowledge it, "is it about
young Mr and Mrs Dawson you are thinkin', or is it about May and her
bairns? Because I mind ye once said to my mother and me that you
doubted the old man wasna weel pleased when Mr George brought Marion
Calderwood home."
"Oh! ay. Ye're gude at mindin' things that's nae speired at you whiles.
He's gotten his will about mair things than that of late, and what I
say is, that it has done him gude, as trouble never did."
"Maybe his satisfaction comes from giving up his ain will, rather than
from getting it. I ken the look ye mean, mother," said her daughter
gently.
"Weel, it may be. A thing seems to ha'e taken a turn sin' I was young.
But it's nae the look his face used to wear when man or woman countered
him in the old days."
"Ay. But it would be different when the Lord took him in hand."
"The Lord has been lang about it, if it's only the day that He's takin'
him in hand. But what I'm sayin' is this, that it does folk gude to get
their ain will about things whiles, and I only wish that the Lord would
try it on me, and set me strong on my ain twa feet again," said Mrs
Cairnie, taking up her crutch with a sigh.
"Or satisfy you with His will instead. That would do as well, mother."
"Weel, weel! That's your way o' it, and if I'm allowed to tak' the
wrang gait, it winna be for want o' tellin'," said the old woman, moving
slowly down to the corner of the street which was almost the length of
her tether now. The eyes of the others followed her pitifully.
"She's nae that sharp now--nae that soon angered, I mean," said Maggie,
with some hesitation, meaning to say something kind, but not quite sure
how far her sister-in-law might accept her sympathy.
"No," said the other after a pause. "And I whiles think that the Lord
is getting His will o' her too, though she hardly kens it hersel' yet."
"Ay. As Miss Jean says, the Lord has many ways," said Maggie
reverently.