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, papa? Captain Harefield?”
“Captain Harefield! How came that about?”
“James Petrie asked him, it seems. But he said he came because he thought we might be there.”
“But he acknowledged that it was his sister that ‘put him up to it,’” said Jean.
“So the Petries may thank you for the honour of his company. That would rather spoil the honour to them, if they were to hear it,” said Mr Dawson with a laugh.
“Well, very likely he may let them know it. I canna say much for his discretion,” said May with a shrug. “He asked me who made my sister’s gown, and you should have seen his face when I told him that she made it herself.”
“And didna he admire your gown?” asked her father, to the astonishment of the two Jeans, and indeed to May’s astonishment as well.
“Oh! yes. But then he said mine was just like other girls’ gowns, ‘very pretty and all that.’ But Miss Dawson’s was ‘unique,’” said May with a drawl. “And he said he would tell his sister.”
“And maybe she’ll want me to make one for her. She looks like one who cares about her gowns,” said Jean.
“She would be a queer kind o’ a woman if she didna,” said her father dryly.
Jean laughed.
“But there are degrees in that, as in other things. If Captain Harefield had spoken to me, I would have offered to make one for her.”
“And had the Captain nothing to say to you; Jean?” asked Mr Dawson.
“He was feared at Jean,” May said laughing. “He just stood and looked at her.”
“He had plenty to say, if I had had the time to listen. He said his sister insisted on his coming north that he might keep out of mischief. He found Blackford House a bore rather,” said Jean imitating May’s drawl with indifferent success. Then she added,—
“I beg your pardon, auntie. I ken ye dinna like it, and then I don’t do it well enough to make it worth my while, like May here.”
“My dear, ye baith do it only ower weel. And as to my no’ liking it—that’s neither here nor there. But I have kenned such a power o’ mockery give great pain to others, and bring great suffering sooner or later on those that had it. It canna be right, and it should be no temptation to a—Christian”, was the word that was on Miss Jean’s lips, but she changed it and said—“to a young gentlewoman.”
May looked at her sister and blushed and hung her head. Miss Jean so seldom reproved any one, that there was power in her words when she did speak; and May had yesterday sent some of her young companions into agonies of stifled laughter, by echoing the Captain’s drawl to his face.
“I’ll never do it again, auntie,” said she. “And besides,” said her sister, “Captain Harefield is not fair game. It’s not just airs and pride and folly with him, as it is with some folk we have seen; it is his natural manner.”
“But that is just what makes it so irresistible,” said May laughing. “To see him standing there so much at his ease—so strong and stately looking, and then to hear the things he says in his fine English words! It might be Simple Sandy himself,” and she went on to repeat some of his remarks, which probably lost nothing in the process. Even her aunt could not forbear smiling as she listened.
“Well, I must say I thought well of what I saw of him,” said Mr Dawson. “I would hardly call him a sharp man, but he may have good sense without much surface cleverness. I had a while’s talk with him yesterday.”
“And he’s a good listener,” said Jean archly.
Her father laughed.
“I dare say it may have been partly that. He is a fine man as far as looks go, anyway.”
“Very. They all said that,” said May. “And Mavis said to me, ‘Eh, May, wouldna he do grand deeds if he were the same a’ through?’ He has the look of ‘grand deeds.’ But I have my doubts, and so had Mavis,” added May shaking her head.
“There are few men that I have ever met, the same a’ through. But who is Mavis that sets up with you to be a judge?” asked her father.
“Mavis!”—said May, hanging her head at her father’s implied reproof, as he supposed. “Mavis—is wee Marion—Marion Calderwood.”
“And we used—in the old days—to call her Mavis because she has a voice like a bird, and to ken her from our May, and Marion Petrie,” said Jean, looking straight at her father, and as she looked the shine of tears came to her bonny eyes.
“She is but a bairn,” said Miss Jean gravely.
Mr Dawson’s face darkened as it always did at the mention of any name that brought back the remembrance of his son. May was not quick at noticing such signs, and she answered her aunt.
“A bairn! Yes, but ‘a bairn by the common,’ as Mrs Petrie’s Eppie says. She is a clever little creature.”
“She is a far-awa’ cousin o’ Mrs Petrie’s, and she’s learning some things from the governess of her bairns. But she might well have been spared on an occasion like yesterday, I would think,” said Miss Jean.
“Oh! all the bairns were there, as well as Marion. And she looked as a rose looks among the rest of the flowers.”
“As the violet looks in the wood, I would say,” added Jean. “She’ll be as bonny as her sister ever was.”
There was a moment’s silence, round the table, which Jean broke.
“She was asking when you would be home, aunt. She has gotten her second shirt finished, and she wants you to see it. She is very proud of it. I told her that you werena going to Portie, except on Sundays, for a month yet, and she must come here and let you see it.”
“Weel, she’ll maybe come. It was me that set her to shirt making. There is naething like white seam, and a good long stretch of it to steady a lassie like Marion. And if she learn to do it weel, it may stand her instead when other things fail.”
“White seam!” exclaimed May. “Not she! May Calderwood is going to educate herself, and keep a fine school—in London maybe—she has heard o’ such things. She’s learning German and Latin, no less! And I just wish you could hear her sing.”
“She markets for her mother, and does up her mother’s caps,” said Jean, “and she only learns Latin for the sake of helping Sandy Petrie, who is a dunce, and ay at the foot of the form.”
“She’s nae an ill lassie,” said Miss Jean softly, and the subject was dropped.
Phemie came in and the breakfast things were removed, and the girls went their several ways. Miss Jean, who was still lame from a fall she had got in the winter, went slowly to her chair near a sunny window and sat looking out upon the lawn. Mr Dawson went here and there, gathering together some papers, in preparation for his departure to the town. He had something to say, his sister knew as well as if he had told her, and she would gladly have helped him to say it, as it did not seem to be easy for him to begin. But she did not know what he wished to speak about, or why he should hesitate to begin. At last, standing a little behind her, he said,—
“It’s no’ like John Petrie and his wife to do a foolish thing, but they are doing it now. And their son Jamie just the age to make a fool o’ himself, for the sake o’ a bonny face. ‘A rose among the other flowers,’ no less, said May.”
“But Jean said better. ‘A violet in the wood.’ She is a modest little creature—though she has a strong, brave nature, and will hold her own with any Petrie o’ them a’. And as good as the best o’ them to my thinking.”
“Well, that mayna be the father’s thought, though it may be the son’s.”
“Dinna fash yoursel’ about Jamie Petrie. He’ll fall into no such trouble. It’s no’ in him?” added Miss Jean with a touch of scorn.
“I never saw the lad yet that hadna it in him to ken a bonny lass when she came in his way; and for the lassie’s ain sake, ye should take thought for her.”
“She has her mother,” said Miss Jean, more hastily than was her way. “And any interference would come ill from you or me where this one is concerned. And my bonny Mavis is but a bairn,” she added more gently, “and she’s in no danger from James Petrie, who is a well intentioned lad, and who has been ower weel brought up, and who is ower fond of siller and gentility, to have either roses or violets in his plan o’ life, unless they’re growing in a fine flowerpot, in somebody’s fine house. Marion Calderwood is no’ for the like of him.”
Her brother regarded her with anger so evidently struggling with astonishment in his face, that she expected hot words to follow. But he kept silence for a moment, and then he said quietly enough,—
“It seldom answers for ane to put his finger into another’s pie. There are few men so wise as to profit by a lesson from another man’s experience, and I doubt John Petrie is no’ ane o’ them.”
“And there’s few men, it’s to be feared, wise enough to take the best lesson from their ain experience,” said Miss Jean gravely. “And that is a sadder thing to say.”
It was quite true, as Captain Harefield had said, that it was his sister who “put him up” to going on James Petrie’s invitation to the garden party that afternoon. The natural desire to get him off her hands, for the rest of the day was her only motive in urging it, and a sufficient one, for it was true that he was bored by the quiet of Blackford House, and that he did not suffer alone. But it was the unwonted energy of his admiring exclamations as soon as they had passed out of the gate of Saughleas, that had suggested the idea.
By “this and by that,” were they not beauties, these two girls? Who would have thought of coming upon two such without warning? Even his sister must acknowledge that they were beautiful.
She did acknowledge it, but there was something far more wonderful to her than their good looks. That two country girls—and Scotch country girls—should be found at home dressed as these two were, astonished her more than their beauty.
“They might have passed at any garden party of the season,” said she.
“Passed! I should think so. I don’t know about their gowns, but they would pass, I fancy.”
“She couldn’t have fallen on any thing to suit her style of face and figure better if she had made a study of it.”
“Perhaps she did,” said her brother, laughing. “Or perhaps they get their gowns from London.”
“No, they would probably have been dressed alike, in that case, and in the height of the fashion. The white one was very much like the dresses of other girls, but the other was unique. And they seemed nice, lady-like girls.”
“Did they not? And not so very Scotch.”
“Well, perhaps not so very—but rather so. But then I like the Scotch of Scotch people better than their English as a rule. However, the few words I heard them speak were softly and prettily spoken, and quite appropriate to the place and time. How it might seem elsewhere I could not say.”
“It is rather a nice place, too, isn’t it? The estate is small, but he has no end of money, they tell me, and he seems a sensible old fellow enough.”
“The sister is a striking looking woman—with a certain dignity of manner, too.”
“Yes, and young Petrie tells me that she used to keep a little shop, in her young days. Indeed, not so very long ago.”
Mrs Eastwood did not reply to this. Her mind was evidently intent on solving the problem of Jean’s tasteful gown.
“And at home too! I have heard that young people of their class, get themselves up in fine style when they go out to tea. But sitting there on the grass, with the old woman in the cap—”
“But perhaps they are going out to tea.—To the garden party! ‘By this and by that’—Did I tell you? Young Petrie at the bank asked me to go. I have a great mind to go.”
He glanced down at the faultless grey morning suit he wore.
“I could not go all the way to Blackford House and return again, could I?”
“Hardly, and you could not improve yourself if you were to go. Yes, by all means accept the invitation. You will be sure to meet the Misses—Dawson is it? And the circumstances will be more favourable for knowing them than they were this morning.”
It ended in Captain Harefield’s leaving the carriage, and returning to Portie on foot. He lunched at the inn, and presented himself at Petrie Villa in company with the eldest son of the house in the course of the afternoon. It is to be supposed that he enjoyed himself, for this was by no means his last visit, and his sister was able to congratulate herself on getting him off her hands a good deal after this while they remained in the North.
Various circumstances combined, made this a pleasanter summer in Saughleas than the last had been. For one thing, Miss Jean was there more than usual. The fall which had made her almost helpless for a while, still prevented her from moving about with ease; and the Lord’s “little ones,” for the time, received the aid and comfort which she owed them for His sake, through the hands of others, and she had to content herself with sitting still and waiting His will.
She could have contented herself in circumstances more adverse than those in which she found herself. She knew that her presence in the house was a pleasure to her brother, and that it was not an uncomfortable restraint upon her nieces, as it might have become, even though they loved one another dearly, had she assumed any other place than that of visitor among them.
So young a mistress of a house, to which there were so many coming and going as there always were in summer, needed the help which the presence of an elder person gave, and it was all the better that the help was given and received with no words about it. Jean the younger, was glad of her aunt’s stay, because she loved her, and because escaping now and then from the pleasant confusion that sometimes prevailed in the house, she found quiet and rest in her company. And though she might not have acknowledged her need of her help in any other way, she was doubtless the better of it.
It cannot be said that it was altogether a happy summer to her, but it was a very busy one. She was mistress and housekeeper, and gave her mind to her duties as she had not done at first. Indeed, it seemed that she was determined to give herself and her maidens no rest for a while, so intent was she in doing all that was to be done. And even when her maidens had necessary respite, she took none to herself. In the house or in the garden she occupied herself all the morning. She took long walks in the afternoon if there were no visitors to entertain, and if the rain, or the special need or wish of her aunt or her sister kept her in the house, she employed herself still with work of some sort, sitting at it steadily and patiently, “as if she had her bread to make by it,” her father said one day when he had been watching her for some time unperceived.
“I should like to know how it would seem to do that,” said Jean gravely.
“You would soon tire of it,” said her father laughing.
“I dare say. I tire of most things,” said she, rising and folding up the long, white garment on which she had been so busy.
Her father regarded her curiously from behind his newspaper. She did not look either well or happy at the moment, he thought.
“It is all nonsense, Jean lassie, to keep yourself at your seam, as you have been doing for the last two hours, when there are so many poor women in Portie that would be glad to do it for what you would hardly miss.”
“But I like to do it, papa, for the moment, and one must do something.”
“It is just a whim of hers, papa,” said May laughing. “Think of her stinting herself to do so much an hour, when she might as well be amusing herself.”
“It’s good discipline, Auntie Jean says,” said Jean laughing. “And I need, it she thinks. At any rate, every woman ought to do white seam in the very best way, and I didna like it when I was young.”
“But now we have the sewing-machine, and as for the discipline, it’s all nonsense.”
“Well never mind, May. Now is the time to speak to papa about the children’s party. Papa, May wants to give a large children’s party—for the little Corbetts, ye ken. Though there must be grown people here too, and it will be great fun, I have no doubt.”
Jean seemed quite as eager about it as May, her father thought, as they went on to discuss the proposed party. Of course the result of the discussion was just what the sisters knew it would be. Their father said they were to please themselves, only adding several cautions as to the care that must be taken of fruit trees and flower beds, and some doubts as to how the Portie bairns, accustomed to the freedom of rocks and sands, would care for a formal tea-drinking in the house, or even in the garden.
“The bairns’ pleasure is the excuse, and no’ the reason, I doubt,” said he; but he laughed when he said it.
This was one of the things that made this summer pleasanter than the last had been. They had amused themselves last summer and their father had not objected; but as to his enjoying any thing of the kind, such a thought had never entered the minds of his daughters. But now he did not endure their gay doings painfully, protesting against them by his manner, if not by his words, nor did he ignore them altogether as had been most frequently his way. He looked on smiling at the enjoyment of the guests, and took evident pleasure in the success of his daughters in entertaining them. If it had been otherwise, there would have been few visitors to entertain, and few gayeties attempted. For Jean did not care enough for these things to make the effort worth her while, and May would have had to content herself with the gayeties provided by other people. But as it was, the elder sister did her part, and did it well; so well that none but her aunt suspected that her heart was not in these things quite as it used to be.
Certainly her father was far from suspecting any such thing. And sitting apart, seeing them both and watching, and musing upon all that was going on, Miss Jean could not but wonder at his blindness, and at the folly of the vague and pleasant possibilities he was beginning to see, and to rejoice over in the future.