Jean heard the words without fully taking in their meaning, till her aunt said in her grave, firm voice,—
“And if he ever should come home, you may trust to my Jean to deal kindly and justly with her brother.”
“Papa,” said Jean coming forward, “I heard what you were saying.”
Mr Dawson did not answer for a moment, then he said, “It might have been as well if ye hadna heard. But a while sooner or later can make less difference than it would if ye werna a woman o’ sense.”
“Papa! Have you forgotten—Geordie?” Her father answered nothing. Her aunt put out her hand and touched hers, and Jean knew that the touch meant that silence was best. But she could not keep silence.
“Papa, you think that he is dead, but he is not. He will come home again. And how could we look him in the face if we were to wrong him when he is away! As for me, I will never take what is his by right—never. You must give the land to whom you will, but not to me.” Still her father did not utter a word. “Whisht, lassie,” said her aunt; “ye dinna ken what ye are saying. Dinna grieve your father, Jean.”
But Jean was “beside herself,” her aunt thought.
“Papa, was it not for George that you bought the land? Have you had much pleasure in it since he went away? But, papa, he will come again. He is sure to come home—soon.”
Jean’s voice faltered a little. That night her father had come home anxious and burdened with fears for the safety of the “John Seaton.” There had been some of the sailors’ wives inquiring for news, and there was no news to give them though it was more than time; and though Mr Dawson had spoken cheerfully to the women, the few words he spoke, and the grave face he wore at his own tea-table, had made it plain to Jean that his fears were stronger than his hopes.
He looked up at Jean when she said so eagerly that her brother was sure to come home, as though he expected her to say more. But how could Jean say more, knowing what she knew? It was too late now to tell that her brother had sailed in the “John Seaton.” She could only look at him with pitiful, wet eyes, and repeat over and over again,—