Read Ebook: The Twa Miss Dawsons by Robertson Margaret M Margaret Murray

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Ebook has 2307 lines and 105209 words, and 47 pages

h the pleasure to be enjoyed, and though they doubtless valued such opportunities and made good use of them, both for pleasure and improvement, the gayeties of Portie were quite different and more to their taste. They were young and pretty and gay, and the kindness and the admiration so freely bestowed on them were very pleasant to them both. But they would have preferred the house in the High-street, where they had all been born, in these first days, for their home.

Saughleas was dull and dreary in the short winter days, and oh! how they missed their mother! It was like losing her again, to come home to the great empty house, which their father left almost before the sun rose for weeks together, not to return again till the lamps had been lighted for hours in the wide hall.

And Geordie! When they had been at Saughleas a month or more, their father had never spoken his name, and when Jean, the eldest and bravest of the sisters, putting great force upon herself, asked him when her brother was coming home, he answered so coldly, and with words so hard and bitter, that her heart sank as she heard. They had known for some time that something had gone wrong between them. Geordie had told them that, when he had gone to see them in London; but the sad story of poor Elsie Calderwood they had never heard. They mourned for their brother, and longed for his coming home, thinking that the happy days that were gone would come again with him.

Though the estate of Saughleas was small, the house was both large and stately. The last owner had put into the house, the money which should have been given to enrich the land, and make a beginning of the prosperity of the family which he had hoped to found. So it was like a castle almost, but it was little like a home.

The two or three great landed proprietors in the countryside were great people in their own esteem, and in the general esteem also; and George Dawson, notwithstanding Saughleas, was just the merchant and banker of the High-street to them--a man much respected in his own place, and he was not out of place on occasion, at the table of any of them all. But an interchange of civilities on equal terms between the ladies of the families was not likely to take place, nor was this greatly to be desired. It might have been different if their mother had lived, they said to one another; for in their remembrance of her, she was superior in every way to any lady of them all. But they were quite content with the society of Portie, and would have been content with the house in the High-street as well.

Mr Dawson asked his sister to come and live in his house when his daughters came home, but she declined to do so. They did not need her as mistress of the house, and she believed that her influence over them would be more decided and salutary should she remain in her own house. They were good bairns, she said, who meant to do right, and though they might whiles need a word of advice, or a restraining touch, it must be their own guidance that their father must lippen to, and not hers. And Auntie Jean was right.

In form and features there was a resemblance between the sisters; May was the fairer and slighter of the two, and was often called the prettier. But as time went on the resemblance did not increase. Jean was the strongest in person and in mind, and the better able of the two to profit by the discipline, which time and circumstances brought to them both, and of this difference in character her face gave token to those who had eyes to see.

They loved each other, and were patient and forbearing with each other when they did not quite agree as to the course which either wished to pursue. But when it came about that one must yield her will to the other, it was May who was made to yield when her will would have led her into wrong or doubtful paths. But if pleasure were to be given up, or a distasteful duty done, or if some painful self-denial had to be borne by one so that the other might escape, such things generally fell to the lot of Jean.

A DREARY DAY.

The folk looking out of their windows in Portie might well wonder what could be bringing the young ladies of Saughleas into the town on such a dismal day. Though April was come in, it might have been the wintriest month of the year; for the wind that met them was dashing the wet sleet in their faces, and tangling their bright brown curls about their eyes, till laughing and breathless they were fain to turn their backs upon it before they were half down the High-street. They were in shelter for a little while as they crossed through a side street, but the wind met them again as they went round a corner, and came close upon the sea. They were going to their aunt's house and a few steps brought them to the door; but for all the wind and the sleet, they did not seem in haste to enter. They lingered, taking off their dripping cloaks and overshoes.

"Auntie will wonder to see us on such a day."

"She'll wonder to see you. She kens that I am not afraid of wind or rain."

As they lingered the door opened.

"Eh! Miss Dawson and Miss May. Is it you on sic a day? Wha would ha'e expected to see you--and on your ain feet too. Wet enough they must be."

"We'll go to the kitchen, Nannie, and no' wet the carpet," said May; and they staid there chatting with the maid for a minute or two. The expected greeting met them at the parlour door.

"Eh! bairns! Here on such a day!"

"Papa had to come to the town," said Jean.

"And so we thought we might as well come with him," said May.

"Weel, ye're welcome anyway, and ye're neither sugar nor salt to be harmed by a drop of rain. But come in by to the fire."

But their tussle with the wind had made the fire unnecessary.

"It's a good thing that your curls are no' of a kind that the rain does ill with, May, my dear. But you might as well go up the stair and put them in order now."

"Oh! I needna care. We have only a minute to stay, and it's hardly worth my while."

"And we'll need to go to the inn and wait for him. For he said nothing of coming here," said May.

"But it's likely he'll come for all that. He maistly ay looks in. It's a pity he came out on sic a day, and him no weel. But I suppose he had to come. The `John Seaton' sails the day," said their aunt.

The sisters gave a sudden involuntary glance at each other. May reddened and laughed a little. Her sister grew pale. Their aunt looked from one to the other, thinking her own thoughts, but she did not let this appear.

"She mayna sail the day. They have lost some of their men, it is said, and that may hinder them."

"And the wind and the waves are fearsome," said the elder sister with a shiver.

"Ay, but the wind is in the richt airt. That wouldna hinder them," said her aunt; and then she added in a little.

"Willie Calderwood goes as her first mate. That's a rise for him. I hope he may show discretion. He's no' an ill laddie."

"And he's on a fair way to be a captain now," said May. "So he told me--in awhile."

"Ay, in a while," said her aunt dryly. "But he has a long and dangerous voyage before him, and it's no' likely that all who sail awa' the day will ever come hame again."

The eldest sister was standing with her face touching the window.

"The sea looks fearsome over yonder," said she.

"Ay. But they'll ha'e room enough when once they are outside the harbour bar, and then the wind will drive them off the rocks and out to sea; and they are in God's hands."

"Auntie Jean," said the girl turning a pale face toward her, "why do you say the like of that to-day?"

"It's true the day as it's true ilka day. Why should I no' say it? My dear, the thought of it is a consolation to many a puir body in Portie the day."

"But it sounds almost like a prophecy of evil to--to the `John Seaton,' as you said it. And the sea is fearsome," repeated she, turning her face to the window again.

"Lassie, come in by to the fire. Ye're trembling with cold, and I dare say ye're feet are no' so dry as they should be. Come in by and put them to the fire."

"But we havena long to bide."

However she came at her aunt's bidding, and sat down on a stool, shading her face with a paper that she took from the table.

"Auntie Jean," said May, "I have seen just such a picture in a book, as you would make if you were painted just as you are, with your hands folded on your lap, and your stocking and your ball of worsted beside you, and your glasses lying on the open book. Look, Jeannie, look at auntie. Is she not like a picture as she sits now?"

"What's the lassie at now, with her picturing and her nonsense?" said her aunt, not sure whether she should be pleased with all this. "I'm just as usual, and so is the room. No more like a picture than on other days."

She was in full dress--according to her ideas of full dress--and she was that every day of the year. She had on a gown of some soft black stuff, the skirt of which was partly covered by a wide black silk apron. A snowy kerchief was pinned across her breast, and fastened at her neck with a plain gold brooch, showing a braid of hair of mingled black and grey. Her cap was made in the fashion worn by the humblest of her countrywomen, but it was made of the finest and clearest lawn, and the full "set up" borders were edged with the daintiest of "thread" lace, and so were the wide strings tied beneath her chin. Not a spot nor a speck was visible upon it, or upon any part of her dress, nor indeed on any article which the room contained. She and her room together would have made a picture homely and commonplace enough, but it would have been a pleasing picture, with a certain quaint beauty of its own.

"It is that you are so peaceful in here always, and untroubled. That is what May means when she says it is like a picture in a book. And after the wind, and the sleet, and the stormy sea, it is quieting and restful to look in upon you."

"Weel, maybe. But it is the same picture ilka day o' the year, and I weary of it whiles. And the oftener you look in upon it, the better it will be for me. What ails the lassie? Canna ye bide still by the fire?"

For Jean had risen from her low seat, and was over at the window again.

"The clouds are breaking away. It is going to be fair, I think. We'll need to be going, May, or we may be late. I'll come over to-morrow, auntie, and good-bye for to-day."

"But, lassie, what's a' your haste? Your father will be sure to come for you. Bide still where you are."

"I think I'll bide still, anyway," said May. "I am no' going, Jeannie. I'm no' caring to go."

"Yes, you are coming with me," said her sister sharply. "You must come. I want to speak to you--and--yes, come away."

May pouted and protested, but she followed her sister to the kitchen where they had left their cloaks, and they went away together. They kept for a while in the shelter of the houses nearest the sea, but they did not speak till they were beyond these. The wind was still high, but neither rain nor sleet was falling, and they paused a minute to take breath before they turned to meet it again.

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