The Twa Miss Dawsons

by Margaret M. Robertson

But there was much to hinder Jean it seemed. May had better nursing than she could give her, and she would much rather make her visit when her sister should be well and strong and able to go about with her. And then George had been promising to take her to Paris and perhaps farther, later in the summer, and they could visit May at the same time. Besides—she told her father privately she would not go away and leave her aunt so long alone just at present, for she was never strong in the spring; and her father could urge her no longer.

Jean had another reason, of which she could speak to no one, why she did not wish to leave Portie at this time. She had heard from one of the young Petries of the hope they had of a visit from Marion Calderwood and her brother, and Jean would not leave home and lose the chance of seeing them.

Willie Calderwood had never been in Portie again, and Jean had never seen him, since he left it on the morning of her sister’s marriage day, and that was a long time now. She had waited patiently, but she longed for the time of waiting to be over. She knew now how well she loved him, and in her heart she believed that he loved her as well. He had never spoken, he might never speak; but whether he spoke or not, she had a longing unspeakable, just to see his face and touch his hand again. She had been quite happy during these two years, she told herself; but her heart sprang gladly up at the thought that her time of waiting might be nearly over. She had never spoken his name even to her brother, and he had been as silent to her, but she sometimes thought that George knew how they cared for one another, and that he kept silence because he knew it would not be well to speak. But all the same, Jean would not lose the chance of seeing Willie again. So, after some consideration, Mr Dawson set off alone. He reached London late at night and did not go to his daughter’s house until the morning. She lived in a pleasant part of a pleasant suburb, in a little house which stood in the midst of a tiny garden, which was enclosed within high walls. They had removed to it recently, and Mr Dawson had never seen it before. It was a very pretty place, he thought as he entered—a little confined perhaps, for the high walls were not very far apart—a little like a prison, he could not but fancy, as the gate was locked behind him.

Mr Manners had already gone out for the day, the neat little maid told him, and Mrs Manners was not down yet, but she would be down presently. She was well and so was baby.

But he was not left alone long, and then he had another greeting. He thought for a moment that it was May who came toward him with outstretched hand. It was not May. It was a tall, slender, dark-eyed girl with a blooming face in which there was something familiar. He knew who it was as soon as he heard her voice.

“Didna Jean come with you?” A shadow fell on the bright face at his answer. But it passed in a minute.

“It is good to see a ‘kenned face’ again. Mrs Manners is very well, and so is baby—such a darling! Mrs Manners is coming down-stairs to-day for the first time. She will be down soon,” added the girl more sedately, as if she had got a little check. She was thinking of the time when she stood before Mr Dawson with the broken branch of the apple-tree in her hand, and oddly enough, so was he. But the sight of Marion Calderwood stirred no angry feelings now. That was all past. The ill that had come to his son through Elsie Calderwood had been changed to good. The sudden glad remembrance of the son he had left at home—a man strong, earnest, good—softened his heart and his voice as he looked on the girl’s wistful face, and he smiled kindly as he said,—

“England seems to agree with you, my lassie.”

Marion shook her head.

“But it is no’ home,” said she. “I like Portie best.” Then she took courage to ask him about the place, and about the folk in it, and the changes that had taken place since she left. Trifling questions some of them were, but they were asked so eagerly, and the answers were listened to with such interest, that he could not but take pleasure in it. Nobody was forgotten. From Miss Jean herself to poor old Mrs Cairnie, every body in Portie seemed to be a friend of hers, and all that concerned them of the deepest interest to her. Mr Dawson had difficulty in recalling some of the folk she asked about.