Chapter Twenty Three.
Danger and Reconciliation.
It had been arranged that Mrs Manners and her children should return with George and Jean for a visit, but when the time came it was decided that it was too late in the season for the northern journey, and in order to make amends to the sisters for their disappointment, it was proposed that George should go home alone, and that the sisters should spend a few weeks together at the seaside.
Jean hesitated long, before yielding to her sister’s entreaties, though she acknowledged she had no reason for refusing the pleasure, since it had been proposed by her father, and since her aunt was well, and nothing had happened to make it necessary to go home. She yielded at last, however, and George went home without her.
He did not go alone. He had spent many words in trying to persuade Willie Calderwood, who had just come to London for a day or two, to go with him; and at the last moment Willie decided that it was possible for him to go for a single day, to bring his sister home. It might be long before he would see her again, for his next voyage was to be a long one.
In a week he was to sail for Australia, not as commander of the vessel this time, but if all went well, he had the hope of making his second voyage as commander of a fine new ship that was to be ready for him by the time his present engagement came to an end. He had been fortunate, during one of his Atlantic voyages, in coming under the notice of a great merchant and ship-owner, who was capable of appreciating his high qualities as a sailor and as a man. The offer of a ship was made by him and accepted by Willie, and now he could with certainty look forward to a successful career in the profession he had chosen.
They reached Portie only just in time, they were told, for the “John Seaton” was to sail that very day, and it would have been hard indeed if Captain Saugster should have missed the sight of his friends. They were hardly in time for speech. The ship was to sail at noon, and the new skipper was busy with a thousand things, and had only time for a word, and a grip of the hand when they went on board.
They walked about, and lingered here and there, and had something to say to most of the ship’s company as well as to the skipper, and Mr Dawson grew soft-hearted as he watched the friendly looks that met his son wherever he turned. George had a word for most of them, a promise to one, a caution to another, a joke with a third, a kind word to all.
“Ye’re no’ to vex yourself about your mother and the bairns, Sandy. Miss Dawson will see that they are cared for if the sickness should come again. Donald, man, be thankful that ye’re leaving your temptation behind ye, and that ye’re to sail under the temperance flag this time. Gather strength to withstand your foe, by the time ye come home again. I suppose we must call ye a man now, Jack. Dinna forget the mother and grannie. They winna forget you.”
Mr Dawson kept near his son when he could do so without too evidently appearing to be listening to him, and he heard all with mingled feelings. George’s way had never been his, and it was only a qualified approval that he had been brought to give to his son’s method of dealing with the men, but he could not but be pleased and proud at the many tokens of respect and affection with which he was regarded by them all. Even the strangers among them turned pleased looks to the young man, as he moved up and down among them.
“It is a pity but you had come sooner, that you might have had a longer time on board,” said Mr Dawson, as he took his way to Miss Jean’s house in company with the two young men. “Ye might almost take an hour or two’s sail with them and land at F— or C— and be home to-night, or early in the morning.”
Before twenty-four hours were over he would have given much that he had not uttered the words. But George and his friend caught at the idea, and before they went into the house all arrangements for going with Captain Saugster for a few hours’ sail were made. Miss Jean looked grave when the plan was spoken of, but she said nothing in the hearing of her brother.
“Ye winna bide awa’ long, and make us anxious,” said she.
They must not stay long, for Willie had but a single day, or at most two to see all the folk he wanted to see in Portie, and they would be certainly home early in the morning. There was no time to discuss or even to consider the matter. Willie had only a word or two with his sister, but he followed every movement of hers with glad, proud eyes; and when she went for a moment out of the room, he said softly to Miss Jean, “She has grown a woman now, our wee Maysie.”
And Miss Jean said as softly and a little sadly, “Ay, has she!”
Did George’s eyes follow her too? His father could not but think so.
“For the sake of the girl who is dead,” he said to himself with a pang.
Marion’s eyes were only for her brother, but she had few words even for him. They had little time for words. They bade Miss Jean and Marion “good-bye” in the house. By and by, Mr Dawson saw Marion standing a little apart from the group of women gathered on the pier, but when he looked again she was no longer to be seen. He was a little disappointed. He thought if they had walked up to his sister’s house together, he might have said a word to dispel the cloud of shyness or vexation that had somehow come between them since the day she had gone with the Petries to the Castle.
He would not make much of it, by speaking about it openly, nor could he bring himself to ask his sister about it. Miss Jean was not easy to approach on the subject of the Calderwoods. She had never said one word to anger him at the time when she had thought him hard and unreasonable with regard to them, and neither had she noticed by word or look the interest with which he had come to regard her young visitor; and her silence made it all the more difficult for him to speak. But when he went in on his way home, as it drew towards gloaming, and found her sitting alone in her darkening parlour, he asked her why she did not have lights brought in, and where was her visitor.
“Marion went over to the Tangle Stanes with the skipper’s wife and Maggie, and I dare say she has gone hame with her. Her troubles are begun, puir body—Annie Saugster’s—I mean.”
“What should ail her? She has just the troubles that ay maun fa’ on sailors’ wives.”
“Ay, just that,” said Miss Jean.
“And she kenned them a’ beforehand. And what gude could a lassie like that do her? She has had small experience o’ trouble anyway.”
“She has a tender heart—and she shows her sympathy without many words. And folk like her,” said Miss Jean. There was a moment’s silence, and then Mr Dawson said hesitating,—
“What ails her this while? Is it only as her brother says, that she is growing a woman, that she is so quiet? Or has any thing happened to vex her? I have hardly got a word from her since she left Saughleas. Is it James Petrie that’s to blame?” added he with a laugh.
Miss Jean regarded him gravely for a minute.
“Yes, I think it was something he said. I ken it was, for she told me.”
“And did she give him his answer?”
Miss Jean shook her head.
“It’s no’ what ye’re thinkin’. That question hasna been asked yet,” said she. “And I doubt he’ll need to put it off, for a while. He didna help his ain cause by what he said, though he meant it for that. He was telling her about—about George and her sister Elsie.”
Mr Dawson said nothing in the pause which followed.
“Of course she had heard something,—that they cared for one another,—and that George’s heart was nearly broken when Elsie died. But she had never heard of your displeasure, nor of some other things. Though how he thought it would help him to tell all this to her, I canna tell—unless he may be afraid that—But she is to go hame with her brother, it seems, and I hope that no ill may come o’ my bringing her here.”
“Nonsense, Jean! What ill should come of it? And why should you take the blame of it? It was her mother’s doing, sending her here. And if it should end in her agreeing with James Petrie, ye may be sure she will be well pleased.”
“I’m no’ sure. Though, puir body! she maybe was thinking o’ that too.”
“It is to be supposed that she kens her ain mind about it. James Petrie will be a rich man some day. Doubtless she thinks of that.”
“Less than ye would suppose. But she is not a strong woman, and if any thing were to happen to her, the lassie would be left alone almost. She would be safe here among douce, well-doing folk, like the Petries, and in time she might be content enough.”
“But how should he think to help his cause by—by telling that tale? And what kens he about it?”
“He kens just what other folk ken, and guesses something, I dare say. He thought to help his wishes by letting her ken, that when George looked kindly at her it was for her sister’s sake.”
“George!” repeated Mr Dawson in dismay. Miss Jean had not been betrayed into saying this, though that was her brother’s first thought.
“Yes. She is like her sister—and he hasna forgotten her. But I think it was chiefly your anger and vexation that he held up to her—as against his own father’s kindness.”
“But George?” repeated Mr Dawson. “Yes. But it is not George I am thinking about, but Marion. And her mother too. Do ye ken that though he has ay gone to see Mrs Calderwood whenever he has been in London, George had never seen her daughter after the time of May’s marriage till he saw her the ither night at Saughleas? That was her mother’s will. What with one thing and another,—his love for her sister, and his friendship for her brother, and his being lost from hame so long—the lassie was ay inclined to make a hero of George. And minding on Elsie, and all she had suffered, the mother grew to have a fear that was unreasonable, lest Marion should come to care for him beyond what should be wise. So she kept her out of his sight, and she would never have let her come north but that she knew George was going away. She may have had her ain thoughts of young Mr Petrie—as I had myself, since he showed that he had the sense to see her value.”
It was some time before another word was spoken, then Mr Dawson said,—
“I did but what I thought my duty. I did but what her mother was as keen to do as I was. I tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish thing. And I dare say she thinks that I killed her sister.”
“No, it is not that. But ye ha’e ay been kind to her, and she thinks the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. And so she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. Well, she will soon be away now, and whether she’ll come back again with young Mr Petrie—I canna say. He’ll hardly have the courage to ask her this time.”
“I wouldna promise. There are few things that seem to him to be beyond his deserts—though I canna say I’m of his opinion.”
Miss Jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to restrain himself as he rose to go.
“A thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but I doubt this has done most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. And it is a pity—” added Miss Jean.
“He’ll get through it. It winna be the first time,” said Mr Dawson angrily.
“Are ye awa’? I think we need hardly expect those lads till morning. They’ll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht,” said Miss Jean.
“It depends on several things—the light and the tide and the wind. It was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first spoke of it. But we needna expect them till we see them.”
And then he went away. He paused a little when he was outside the door, looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. It was not so fine a night as Miss Jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier. There were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring around her and not very far away—sure token that a storm was near.
“They ken the signs better than I do. They’ll lose no time.”
He lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last.
“It will be a long night, I doubt!”
And so it was. Many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. A long and heavy night it was. Sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and unreasonable, which he could not put away—with painful dreams, and startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last—a dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening all things.
It brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten early to the town. There was no real cause for anxiety he assured himself, the fog would account for their delay. They would be home soon. He was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were and when they would be home. And so it was noon before he called at his sister’s door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm. The fog would account for the long delay. There might have been danger to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two.
What a long day it was! And when the gloaming began to fall, there was still no word of them. He went on to Miss Jean’s house, and at the door Marion met him. He got a good look of her face this time. Whatever had grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. Her eyes asked eagerly for tidings.
“No word o’ them yet, but they canna be long now,” said Mr Dawson cheerfully. “I have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though I dare say ye have had yours lang syne. Ye maunna be anxious, my dear. There is really no cause to fear for them as yet.”
He had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from Marion, he knew that he could not hide it from his sister.
“We maun just ha’e patience,” was all that Miss Jean said.
Marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to be done. She made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it, and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. But there was not much said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. Marion looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in her eyes, as she turned them to Miss Jean.
“My dear lassie,” said her old friend, “they are safe in God’s hands.”
“Yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again. But O, Miss Jean!—”
“Ay, lassie! Try ye and measure the blessedness o’ that knowledge. It is no’ in the power o’ evil to harm them, whatever may befall. And, my dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. They may be in at any moment, as my brother says.”
“I might licht the lamp, mem,” said Nannie at the door.
“There is no haste,” said Miss Jean.
“Only its e’erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha’e anxious thoughts for company. Though there’s no occasion as yet. What’s a day and a nicht! Many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and nichts. They may be in at any minute, and I maun keep the kettle boiling, for they’ll be baith cauld and hungry.”
Then Nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she could give since her own fears were so strong.
Mr Dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. The fears which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer put away from him. The sickness of the heart with which he had slept and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again, strange yet familiar. Was it never to leave him more? Was the time coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a dream?
How many fathers had wandered up and down Portie sands, waiting for sons who had never returned! Who was he that he should escape what so many a better man had endured?
But it had not come to that with him yet. Surely God would be merciful to him, and spare so good a man as George to do His own work in the world. He was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words that rose to his lips, lest God should judge him for them.
“I am losing myself, I think,” said he, making a strong effort to restrain his thoughts. “I may as well go back to Jean, or to the pier head.”
No, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful for his hearing,—to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon as his face was turned away. And as for Jean—
Well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less than he. But he was not ready for Jean yet Jean had a way of thinking her prayers answered whatever befell. If George never were to come home, it would not come into Jean’s mind that God had turned a deaf ear to her cry. She would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered in a better way than she could see. That had ay been her way all her life.
“But as for me—when a time like this comes, I canna be sure. It’s like putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught to meet their helplessness.”
That had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear children and their dearer mother. No voice had answered, no help had come. They had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful God in whom Jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all.
He had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he. The clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his face, and heard a voice say,—
“If it has been the fog that has keepit them, they’ll soon be in now, for it will be a clear nicht, and Willie Calderwood kens ilka neuk and ilka rock on the coast for miles. They’ll soon be in now, if the fog is all that has keepit them.”
“What could ha’e keepit them but the fog?” said a woman’s voice. “Ye speak as if ye werena expectin’ them.”
“I’m no’ sayin’. Only if it’s the fog, they’ll soon be in now.”
Mr Dawson moved on lest he should hear more. Of course they would be home now, since the fog was lifting. What should hinder them? But he had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness.
As he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of Willie Calderwood’s face when he came that night with tidings of his son. Oh! the joy of it! Had he not been grateful to God for His goodness then. Was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! God did seem near to him then.
“I had an inkling that night of what Jean may mean when she speaks o’ the blessedness o’ them that rest themselves on God.”
But as to grudging! He was not so sure. Even before he saw his son, had he not been afraid lest, being “a changed man,” as his friend had called him, George might have other aims and other plans of life than he had for him, and disappoint him after all? True he had hated himself for the thought, but it had been there that first night. And afterwards he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and the honour that his father coveted for him among men.
That had all passed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased to grudge, but because, as the father put it, “it had answered well.” George stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to acknowledge it.
George was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky. Unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept them last night might keep them still. How could he bear another night of such suspense?
Another night! It might be days and nights, for all that he could tell. He turned with a sinking heart towards the town again.
“O! Geordie! Oh! my son!”
He did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and a hand was laid on his in the darkness.
“Miss Jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold and wet,” said Marion Calderwood. “Winna ye come with me, Mr Dawson? And, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming at C— Only John Fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions. But it is sure to be them. And, Mr Dawson, winna ye come with me to Miss Jean?”
He had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings up and down the sands. He scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped the hand she had laid on his.
“Ay. We’ll gang in to Jean,” said he.
He leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew near the house. There was light streaming from the windows and from the open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,—
“All’s weel, Mr Dawson. They’re coming hame safe enough.”
“Glad tidings of great joy.” That was what came into Marion’s mind when she heard the words.
They had come already. At Miss Jean’s door Marion was clasped in the arms of her brother, and George wrung his father’s hand and brought him in to the light.
“The Lord is ay kind, George,” said Miss Jean.
But Mr Dawson said nothing. He was too deeply moved for words for a little while, and indeed so were they all.
Nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for George and Mr Dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down together. Afterwards they were glad of this, for Mr Dawson did not see either Marion or her brother again before they went away, and George only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out.
They lingered a good while at the table, though even Willie owned himself tired enough to wish to rest. They had been in no special danger. The misfortune was that the small compass, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the ship in the pocket of George’s coat, and so they had had no means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little during the day. They had been farther out at sea than they supposed, and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell.
“And I canna say that I am proud o’ mysel’ on this occasion,” said Willie laughing.
“But except for the fright that we have given you all, I canna say that I shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep,” he added after a moment. George said nothing, but his eyes and his smile assented to the words of his friend.
The brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do during the day that remained, so it happened that neither George nor Mr Dawson saw them when they called next day at Miss Jean’s, and George only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. There were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he. James Petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed himself to be. His sisters were there also, and some other of Marion’s friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes that remained after George came.
And it was Willie that George came to see, they thought. For he stood with his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the face of each was grave enough as they said their last words to one another.
But George got the last touch of Marion’s hand, and the last glance of her sweet eyes, and the last words which Marion heard, George spoke, and they were words that she had heard him say before—
“My dear little sister.”
Mr Dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last he came in sight George moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes.
“How little I am in his life besides what he is in mine!” thought the old man with a sigh. “But so it ay maun be between father and son, and he is a good son to me—a good son. And it’s no’ for what I have to give him,” added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at his heart. “Though bonny Saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he would be a good son still. And he would not be unhappy, for his portion—that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain to him.”
The old man’s heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as usual when George came in. “Ye’re late the nicht.”
“Yes. I went round by the station to see the Calderwoods off. And I think I have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. I must be tired, I suppose.”
“And no wonder. And so they are gone. And was nothing said about their coming back to Portie again?”
“No. There was time for few words, and there were other people there to see them off—the Petries, and Maggie Saugster, and some others.”
“Was James Petrie there? Then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe he hasna asked the question. I dare say he was as wise.”
To this George made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a little he left the room. But his father’s first words went back to the same subject.
“It is no’ so unwise a thing in James Petrie as it looks, because—”
“His wisdom has to be proved,” said George gravely. And then he held out a letter to his father.
“I don’t believe in bringing business to Saughleas, as a rule, but I thought it as well to let you see this to-night.”
His father took it and read it. It was a business letter—important, but still it might have waited till morning.
“It is because he doesna wish to hear about James Petrie and his hopes. It is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking,” said his father with a sigh. “His is a true and tender heart, and oh! I wish that I could do him a pleasure.” Suddenly there returned to him the thought that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands that weary time of waiting.
“There is nothing which I possessed, that I would not have given for a thank-offering that night. And there is nothing that I would not give now.”
And when George came into the room after a long hour or two, his father was pondering the same matter still.
In a few days Mr Dawson declared that it was quite time that Jean were coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced his intention of going to fetch her.
For in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, Jean was quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way, and there was no need of his going for her sake. But he went, and stayed a few days, and they came home together. Jean had no light to throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he thought she needed his escort home.
But in a few days there came a letter from Mrs Manners to her aunt which said,—
“The strangest thing happened when my father was in London. He went to see Mrs Calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years. Marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. And her mother never told her what he had to say. He only left a small parcel which her mother was to give her when she came home. It turned out to be an exquisite little gold watch. Mrs Calderwood would have refused so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would have been very absurd, as I told Marion. For what is a few pounds more or less to my father. But I would give my own watch and chain too, to know just what was said between them.
“I have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads Jean’s letters, and he might not be pleased that I have told it. But if you think it wise, you may tell George; I am sure he will be glad to hear it. And as for Marion—I do not wonder that she has stolen my father’s heart in spite of him.”
Mrs Manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed. In one way it was very little.
Mr Dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and Mrs Calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see George.
“I have come to say, ‘let by-ganes be by-ganes’ between us. If you can forgive all that is past, give me your hand.”
He spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke sincerely and even eagerly, and Mrs Calderwood could hardly have refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she herself hoped to be forgiven.
“I have never borne ill-will, Mr Dawson,” said she.
“No. And now I see it might have been different if I had been wiser. But—I was hardly myself in those days. He was my only son—and—I had lost his mother—”
He suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood long looking out into the darkening street. His face was quiet enough when he turned toward her again.
“The least said the soonest mended,” said he; “if you will let by-ganes be by-ganes, as I said before. I have had many thoughts since I—well this while—and the other night when they were in danger together—your son and mine—I got a glimpse of what should be. They are true friends, these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than friends also.”
Mrs Calderwood was a woman not easily moved. If he had given her time to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might have met them less cordially. But when this man, whom she had long thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness.
And that was all. Mr Dawson did not even sit down. He did not name Marion till he put the little packet in her mother’s hand, and he did not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so; and no one ever knew from him that he had been there.
But even before their sister’s letter came, both George and Jean knew that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father. When one day they were together in their aunt’s house and she gave them their sister’s letter to read, they understood that something which had burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their aunt’s presence, and she never spoke of it to them.
But she saw, as other folk did, that in their father’s company a new gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness George’s face grew brighter, but on the face of Jean a shade of sadness fell.