“Is it Jean you mean?” said Mr Dawson gravely. “But it’s no’ Jean the nicht.”
Very evidently it was not Jean, Mr Dawson thought when he went in again. Young Mr Petrie had eyes for only one, and that was Marion, who, sitting at Miss Jean’s side, seemed busy with a piece of worsted work. Mr Petrie was talking eagerly and confidentially, as though he had a right as well as a pleasure in doing so.
“He has put Jean out of his head soon enough,” said Mr Dawson to himself, by way of accounting for the uncomfortable feeling of which he was conscious at the sight.
“Are we to have no more music? Will you not give us another song, Miss Petrie?” said he.
Certainly Miss Petrie would give him more than one, but Marion Calderwood must come with her—not to sing, but to turn her music for her, a task to which Mr Scott was not quite equal. And so it happened that Marion was standing gravely at her side, in the full light of the lamp, when George came to the door of the room. He stood for a moment, with his eyes, full of wonder and pain, on the fair thoughtful face of the girl, and his father saw him grow white as he gazed.
“He hasna forgotten,” thought he with a sudden, sharp pang of regret and anger.
Would the memory of the dead girl ever stand between him and his son? He had not thought Marion like her sister; but as he saw her now, standing so still with a face of unwonted gravity, there came a vivid remembrance of the young girl who in his hearing had said so quietly and firmly to her mother,—
“He will never forget me, and I will never give him up.”
“She should never have been brought here. What could Jean have been thinking about? What could I have been thinking about myself?”
When he looked again George was gone. When, however, he came into the dining-room, where they were all assembled later, he appeared just as usual, and greeted the young people merrily enough. But Mr Dawson forgot to notice him particularly, so startled was he by the sudden brightness of Marion’s face at the sight of him. George did not see her at first—at least he did not seem to see her, and she stood beside Miss Jean’s chair, her smile growing a little wistful as she waited for his coming. Miss Jean looked grave as she watched her.