They were even less alike than they had been that day when they had startled her coming in on her out of the storm. Their dress had something to do with it doubtless. May wore something white and fluffy, with frills and flounces and blue ribbons, and her brown curls were bound back by a snood of blue. She was in her simple finery as fair and sweet a picture of a young maiden as one could wish to see.
Jean was different. Her dress was made of some dim stuff that looked in the distance like brown holland. A seafaring friend of her father’s had brought it to her from India, her aunt remembered, and it came into her mind that perhaps there had not been enough of it, to make the frills and flounces, that young people were so pleased with nowadays. It was severely simple in contrast with her sister’s, and her hair was gathered in one heavy braid at the back of her head. She had not her sister’s fair and smiling loveliness, but there was something in her face that went far beyond it, her aunt thought, as she watched them standing there looking over the lawn to some one approaching along the road. Her face was bright and her air cheerful enough at the moment, but for all that there was a look of thoughtfulness and gravity upon it—a silent look—which reminded her father of his sister’s look at her age. Only she was more beautiful. She was like a young princess, he thought, in his pride in her.
“Is it her gown?” asked he; “or is it the way that Jean puts her hair? What has ’come o’ a’ her curls this while back?”
The question was not to be answered. The opening of a little gate at the side of the lawn made them turn, and then Mr Dawson rose to greet a stranger who was coming up the walk. He was not quite a stranger to him. He knew his name and that he was a visitor at Blackford House, a gentleman’s seat seven miles away. It was at this gentleman the girls had been looking, and at the lady who was in the carriage with him, as they passed slowly along the highway.
He was a tall fair man—young and good looking—very handsome indeed. He was a little too much inclined to stoutness perhaps, and rather languid in his movements, it might have been thought, as he came up the walk; but no fault could be found with his graceful and friendly greeting.
It was Miss Jean Dawson that he wished to see. It had been suggested to his sister, Mrs Eastwood, that Miss Dawson would be able to tell her what she wished to hear of a poor woman in whom she took an interest. She had been at Miss Dawson’s house in Portie, and hearing she was at Saughleas, had called on her way to Blackford, to save another journey. She was in her carriage at the gate, and could Miss Dawson send her a message? Or perhaps—
The gate was hidden by a clump of firs. Miss Jean gave a glance in that direction and then laid her hand on her staff. Then she beckoned to her nieces who were still on the terrace. Jean came quickly toward her, and May followed more slowly. It was worth a body’s while, Phemie told her fellow servants afterwards, just to see the way the gentleman took off his hat and bowed as Miss Dawson came near. Phemie saw it all from her young lady’s window upstairs, and she would have liked well to hear also.
“It is about Mrs Cairnie, Jean, my dear. Ye ken her daughter Annie went south last year, and her mistress promised to see her mother, when she came north, and would like to hear o’ her. I might maybe get to the gate with your help?”
“Certainly not. You are not able to walk so far. If a message will not do, it must wait.”
Miss Jean shook her head with a slight smile. She had seen “Miss Dawson’s grand air” before, and so had May, but her father looked at her amazed. It was not her words that startled him so much as her manner. She looked at the stranger who stood with his hat in his hand, as though he were at an immense distance from her. But in a minute she added more gently: