Chapter Thirteen.
A Discovery.
In the beginning of April May came home—“bonnier than ever,” as Jean told her father, as she met him at the door. He laughed when he heard her say it, but he agreed with her, and told her so when a day or two had passed.
He could hardly make it clear to himself, nor could Jean, in what she was different from her former self. It was because she was growing to be more like her mother as she grew older, he said. And Jean by and by came to the conclusion that something had happened to her sister while she was away—something to make her hopeful and happy, and at the same time graver and more thoughtful; yet she was very merry and sweet, and it was oh! so pleasant to have her home again. They made holidays of these first days of her home coming, and Jean was able to forget, or put aside, her sad and anxious thoughts for a while.
But there came a day when she well knew they would not be forgotten or put aside.
“May,” said she one morning, “let us go down to the Tangle Stanes to-day. This is the tenth, ye ken.”
“Well, let us go. It is a bonny day. But what about the tenth. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you forgotten? The ‘John Seaton’ sailed on the tenth,” said Jean gravely.
May’s colour changed a little. So did Jean’s. But while May reddened, Jean grew pale.
“Have they heard bad news? Surely it is time that they were coming home again,” said May.
“They might have been home before this time. But the voyage is often longer. I don’t think there is any anxiety as yet.”
“Well—we can go down to the Tangle Stanes. And will Hugh come too? I see the pony is brought round.”
But they could not go at once, for Jean heard her father’s voice calling her, and went to his room. As she did not return immediately, May and the lad set off together.
“Jean will come to the Tangle Stanes. I will wait for her there. And you can go on by yourself, Hugh, and meet us there afterwards.” And a message to this effect was left for Miss Dawson.
Jean found her father sitting with an open letter in his hand. He made a movement as though he meant to give it to her, but withdrew it again saying,—
“I fancy it was only meant for my eye. I have a surprise for you, Jean. Mr Manners, the university professor I told you about, writes, offering a visit. He does not say when, but soon—as soon as may be.”
“Mr Manners! I did not know that you had asked him, papa.”
“Oh, yes! I asked him in a general way, as I did others—if he should ever be in this part of the country. But he is coming for a particular reason, it seems.”
“Papa! Not for May?” said Jean sitting down suddenly.
“Well—it looks like it, though how you should have guessed it is queer enough. It never came into my mind, often as I saw them together. Is it from any thing your sister has said?”
“May has said nothing to me—nothing.”
“I acknowledge that I am surprised. I should not have supposed that he was at all the man to be taken with a girl like May. If it had been you now—”
“Are you pleased, papa? Will you let him come? And would you give him May?”
“May must decide that for herself. All that he asks now is my leave to come and speak for himself. He does not wish any thing to be said to her till he says it himself.”
“And will you let him come?” asked Jean gravely.
“Well, I think he has a right to be heard. Yes, I think we must let him come.”
“Is Mr Manners a rich man, papa?”
“A rich man? I should say not. Indeed he tells me as much as that. He has a professional income, enough to live comfortably upon. He is a scholar and a gentleman, and money is a secondary consideration.”
“Yes—if every thing else is right,” said Jean a little surprised. She had not supposed that in any case, money would be a secondary consideration with her father.
“But he is a stranger, and—an Englishman.”
Mr Dawson laughed.
“An Englishman! That can hardly be put as an objection, I should think. He is a stranger—in a sense—but he is a man well-known in his own circle, and beyond it—a man much respected, they tell me.”
Jean knew by her father’s manner that he was as much pleased as he was surprised.
“She is very young,” said she in a little.
“She is old enough to know her own mind, I suppose, and there need be no haste, if it is to be. I think I must let him come.”
“And I am not to speak to her?”
“Oh! as to that, I suppose he only meant that he wished to tell his own story. Still as there is no time set for his coming, it may be as well to say nothing for a day or two.”
“Very well,” and Jean rose and went away.
“She doesna seem to be over weel pleased at this, but she’ll come round. I’m glad that it should be her sister rather than her that I maun part with. I could ill spare my Jean,” said Mr Dawson to himself, as his eye followed her as she moved slowly down the walk. “Though I dare say her turn will come,” he added with a sigh.
It was not that Jean was ill-pleased, but she was disturbed at the thought of trouble that might be before them.
“My father will never listen to a word about Willie Calderwood. And unless May is very firm—”
And she could not but have serious doubts of May’s firmness in withstanding the will of her father.
“But at least he will not force her to many any one else. I could help her to stand out against such a thing as that. And I will too,” said Jean.
But a greater surprise than her father had given her at home, awaited her at the Tangle Stanes. May sat on the lower ridge of rock where she had sheltered herself that day, while Jean watched for the “John Seaton.” This was a very different day from that. There was no wind to-day and the sun shone and the air was soft and warm. The sea was calm and blue as the sky—with only here and there a touch of white where the tiny wavelets broke on the half hidden rocks beyond the Tangle Stanes. Jean stood still, and looked out upon it, pondering many things, then her eye fell on her sister.
She was singing softly to herself, as she plucked at the dried stalks of last summer’s weeds that still clung to the sheltered side of the rock, or gathered the broken bits of stone, and threw them down into the sea. She was looking neither sad nor anxious, she was smiling, at her own thoughts, Jean fancied, as she stood still a minute or two looking down upon her. Then May turned and saw.
“Such a bonny day?” said she.
“Yes—a bonny day indeed. Where is Hugh?”
“He’s not far away. I told him that we would wait for him here. Will you come down, or shall I come up to you?”
“I’ll come to you. Some one might join us if we were to stay up in sight, and I have something to say to you. Or rather I have a question to ask you about some one.”
“Well, come then. Is it about anyone in—London?” asked May smiling, while a little colour rose to her cheek.
“No,” said Jean gravely. “I am going to ask you about Willie Calderwood. And indeed I think you might have spoken more plainly to me long ago.”
May laughed.
“I have often wondered that you have never spoken plainly to me.”
“Have you? Well, being your elder sister, perhaps I ought to have done so. I did not like to speak, since you did not.”
“Just so. And I did not like to speak to you for the same reason.”
“Well, we will speak now. May,” said she softly, laying her hand on her sister’s shoulder, “tell me just how it is between Willie and you.”
“I don’t understand you, Jean. There is nothing in the world between Willie and me.”
“May, have you—changed your mind? Don’t you care for him any longer?”
“I don’t know what you mean. As to caring for him—of course I care for him—in a way. But, Jean, it is not me that Willie Calderwood cares for. He has said nothing to me that he might not have said to—almost any one in Portie.”
“May, have you forgotten a year ago?—how you came here a year ago, because he asked you? Of course he could not speak, because of my father. Do you mean that he doesna care for you—more than for any one else.”
“He has kept it to himself, if he does. Oh! yes, I know—my father. But if he had had any thing to say, he would have said it, or I would have guessed it. I don’t know why you should have taken the like of that into your head.”
“I saw him seeking you out wherever we met. He said more to you at such times than to all the rest of us put together. He followed you always. Every one saw it as well as I. And then the day he went away—”
“Oh, Jean, what nonsense! I came that day to please you. You made me come. You must mind that well enough. As for his asking me, it was more than half in jest. I am sure he did not expect me to come. And he never could have seen us, on such a day.”
“And do you mean that if he were to come home to Portie and not find you here, it would be all the same to him?”
“Oh! he’ll find me here when he comes, and I shall be glad to see him safe and well. But he has no right to expect a warmer welcome from me than from—any other friend, and he doesna expect it.”
Jean looked at her in amazement.
“Have I been dreaming all the year?” said she.
“It would seem so. I have just as much right to ask you about Willie Calderwood, as you have to ask me.”
Jean shook her head.
“He has very seldom spoken to me since—the old days.”
“But that might be because of my father, ye ken,” said May laughing. And then she added gravely, “We may be glad that there is nothing between him and either of us, Jean. It would only have been another heartbreak. I have fancied whiles, that you were thinking about him—but I am very, very glad for your sake that—”
“Of course I have been thinking about him—about him and you. I ought to be glad that I have been only dreaming, as you say, because of my father. But—poor Willie!—I doubt he has been dreaming too.”
“No, Jean, not about me. And even if it had been as you thought, I would never have listened to him, and indeed he never would have spoken after all that’s come and gone.”
“It would not have been the same to my father, as George and Elsie.”
“But coming after—it would have been all that over again, and worse. And Willie Calderwood is as proud and hard about some things, as my father.”
“And that might have kept him from speaking,” said Jean.
“And so it ought, even if he had had any thing to say, which he had not. You need not shake your head as though you didna believe me.”
“I must believe you—since you say so—for yourself. But you may be mistaken about him, though he never spoke.”
“Never spoke!” repeated May, mimicking her sister’s voice and her grave manner. “And do you think I would have needed words to let me know if he had cared for me—in that way? You are wise about some things, Jean, but you are not just so wise as you might be about others. Wait a while.”
May laughed and reddened, and then turned and climbed to the top of the rock to see if Hugh were in sight. Jean followed her slowly.
“I ought to be glad. I am glad. There is a great weight lifted from my heart. May is safe from the trouble that threatened, and so is my father. As for Willie Calderwood—well it is better for him too, that May doesna care, even if—And he’ll get over it.”
When Hugh came back they all took their way to Miss Jean’s house by the sea. But as Hugh was not yet equal to the feat of dismounting without more help than he was willing to accept from the young ladies, May and he soon turned their faces homeward again, and Jean, who had something to do in the town, was left behind. She sat a while with her aunt, but she was quite silent, and her face was turned toward the sea. Miss Jean was silent also, giving her a glance now and then, feeling sure that she had something more than usual on her mind which perhaps she might need a little help to tell.
“Well,” said she after a little, “have you any news? I think I see something in your e’en. Come awa’ frae the window and say what ye ha’e to say.”
Jean rose and came forward to the fire.
“Has my father been in? He will tell you himself, when there is really any thing to tell. He is sure to be in some time to-day.”
“And it is nothing to vex you, dear? Are you glad about it?”
“It ought not to vex me. It is only what was sure to happen. And though I am not glad yet—I dare say I shall be glad in time.”
“Is it about your sister?”
“Yes—and I think papa is glad. But he will tell you himself.”
“And there is nothing else?”
Jean sat looking at her aunt for a minute or two.
“Yes, there is something else that ought to lighten my heart. It has lightened it, I think. I’m not just sure.”
“And that is about May too?”
“Yes—about May.”
She said no more and her aunt did not question her. By and by Miss Jean said,—
“It’s a bonny day—and fine for the season. It was a different day last year when the ‘John Seaton’ sailed.”
“Yes, I mind it well.”
Jean did not look like herself, but absent and dazed like, as though her mind were full of other things. Miss Jean said nothing for a while, and Jean rose as if she were going away; but stood for a while looking out of the window.
“My dear,” said her aunt, “I have thought that you have been troubled like about various matters, this while back, and about your sister among the rest. But I think ye ha’e nae occasion.”
“Yes, I have been anxious.”
“Because of Willie Calderwood? But, my dear, I canna think that there’s any occasion.”
“I seem to have been mistaken as far as she is concerned. She says so.”
“And as for him—I never asked him and he never told me—but I’m no feared that he’ll be the worse in the end for any such trouble. And, Jean, my lassie, we ha’e great reason for thankfulness that so it is. It would only have been anither heartbreak.”
“Yes. That is what May said.”
“Not but what they both would have outlived it—and had many a happy day after it. But I am glad we havena to go through all that, for all our sakes, and more especially for the sake of your father. For he is growing an old man now, and another blow like that would have been ill on him, whichever way it had ended.”
“But, aunt,—ye mustna be angry at me for saying it,—but I canna think that my father was altogether wise or right in the way he took with George and Elsie.”
“My dear, who is ever altogether wise and right in all they do, even to those they love best? And, my dear, ye are nae your father’s judge. And do ye think that he sees now that all he did was wisest and best? and yet he might do the very same again. And even if he shouldna, it would be a misery and a lifelong pain to him all the same. My dear, I’m mair than thankful and we’ll say nae mair about it.”
And no more was said. But as Jean went slowly homeward, she had many thoughts of all she had heard that day. Glad! Of course she could not but be glad that all which must have brought disappointment and pain upon so many, had only been a dream of hers. How could she have been so mistaken! How much better it would have been if she had spoken plainly to her sister a year ago! Would May have answered as decidedly then?
Yes. Jean did not doubt that she would have done so. She did not doubt her sister’s sincerity when she declared that she had never cared for Willie Calderwood “in that way.”
“Wise about some things, but not so wise about others,” said Jean with a smile, recalling her sister’s words.
And might she not have been mistaken about Willie Calderwood as well as about May? May declared it, her aunt seemed to imply it. But surely Mrs Calderwood had been thinking about May that day! Jean’s cheeks grew hot as she recalled her words and looks.
“Oh! I am thankful that I never named my sister’s name to her. And if it was May she was thinking about, she will soon see that she was mistaken too, and that she needna have feared. And if it wasna May she was thinking about, she needna be feared?”
Jean walked more rapidly, and held her head higher as the thought passed through her mind. She believed herself to be very angry as all the scene came vividly back to her—angry with Mrs Calderwood. But for all that she went home with a lightened heart and with a face at once brighter and more peaceful than her father had seen for a while.