“Jean is of age, and in a sense her own mistress. She could do as she pleased, even if I were to refuse you.”
“I shall never speak to her unless I have your full and free consent.”
It was queer, Mr Dawson thought George had said the same to him about Marion, and had meant it too, as possibly this young man meant it also. He cast a sidelong glance at the strong, grave face beside him. It had grown white through all its healthy brown.
“Curious!” thought Mr Dawson. “Now, I dare say that didna happen in the very face o’ the tempest. Surely a love that has lasted all his life must be a good thing for any woman to have.”
But all the same he wished with all his heart that he could refuse to let him speak. Not that he had any special fear of Jean. She would surely have given some token during all these years, if her fancy had turned to Willie Calderwood. But he had returned a hero—“in a small way,” as Mr Dawson put it, and young lassies are so open to impressions of that kind. And the lad was every inch a man, that could not be denied.
“I ken well she might look higher. Who is worthy of her?” said Willie humbly.
“It teems to me ye can ken little about her,” said Mr Dawson irritably. “There’s George now, what says he? He kens all this, doubtless?”
“He kens, doubtless,” repeated Willie gravely. “But his sister’s name has never been named between us—in that way.”
So the father had not even that excuse for vexation. He had no excuse. The young man was acting honourably in the matter, and he told himself that he was not afraid about Jean’s answer. And yet in his secret heart he was a little afraid. They had come to the gate by this time.
“Mr Dawson, do you bid me come into your house, after what I have told you?”