Part 13 (1/2)

She went away to change her wet things, and came back in her pretty house dress with a knot of gay ribbon at her throat, looking wonderfully bright and bonny her father thought as he came in at the hall door, and so he noticed all the more readily, perhaps, how white and changed she looked afterwards. When he also had changed his wet things, and came in to sit down, she was standing in the darkening room, looking out at the window, leaning on the ledge as though she were tired, and she did not turn round as he pa.s.sed her to take his usual place at the fireside.

”The days are drawing in fast,” said he, by way of saying something.

”Yes, it is already growing dark. I cannot see the sea.”

”Ye needna care. It is an angry sea to-night, and the wind is rising.”

”Yes, the moan of it is in among the trees already, and before morning it will be a cry--a terrible sharp cry--that will not be shut out. An ill night for those at sea.”

”By no means. The folk at sea are safe enough, so that they bide away from the sh.o.r.e. There will be worse nights than this, and many of them, before the winter be over.”

”The long, long winter! And think what it must be in Greenland seas, with the ice and the dark, and the bitter cold.”

”La.s.sie, draw the curtains and come to the fire. What ails you at the wind and the sea to-night, more than usual? Draw the curtains, and shut out the night, and come and make the tea.”

And then when Jean did his bidding and turned from the window, he saw that her face was white and her eyes strained and anxious. She came to the fire and stooped down, warming her hands at the blaze.

”One would think you were a sailor's wife, and that his s.h.i.+p was in danger,” said her father.

”It is the book she has been reading,” said her sister. ”That American book about the men who sailed in search of Sir John Franklin and his crew. What pleasure there can be in poring over any thing so dismal, is more than I can tell.”

”That is because you do not know. It gives one courage to know that there have been men--that there are men--so patient and so brave. Their leader was a hero,” said Jean with s.h.i.+ning eyes.

”Well, we'll have our tea now,” said Mr Dawson in a tone that made May think he was ill-pleased at something, though he said nothing more. He was wondering what could have come to the la.s.sie so to change the brightness of the face that had met him at the door. May knew that Jean must be thinking of the ”John Seaton,” but she knew that her father could have no such thought. Nothing was said by any of them for a while, but by the time tea was over, they had fallen into their ordinary mood again, and spoke of other things. But afterwards Jean was sorry that she had not taken courage that night to tell him how she had heard that her brother had sailed in the ”John Seaton” so long ago.

For her secret knowledge burdened her sorely. That George should have been at home and then have gone away again without a word, it would be like to break his father's heart to know. The hope of seeing him when the ”John Seaton” came home might be better than the uncertainty of the present. But if his anger still burned against his father, he might not come home, and such a disappointment would be worse to bear than even the present uncertainty.

She wearied herself thinking about it, but she did not know what to do.

She longed to tell her aunt. She had almost done so, but her aunt had forbidden her, or so she had thought. And months must still pa.s.s before the ”John Seaton” could be in port again.

Her thoughts were with her brother night and day, and she was pre-occupied and grave, and grew white and anxious-eyed; and by and by it added to her trouble, to know that her father was observing her. So when he was in the house, all her thoughts were given to the effort to be just as usual. She talked cheerfully and had visitors at the house; and when they were alone she worked busily and steadily, falling back, when her white seam failed her, on May's embroidery; and did her best to grow enthusiastic with her sister over silks and wools of brilliant hue.

She practised her music also, and took courage to sing even when her father was in the house. It needed some courage, for their mother had been one of the sweetest of singers, and their father had never heard the voices of his daughters since the days when they used to stand at their mother's side, and sing the songs she loved.

No harm came of it. Though her father made no remarks, she knew that he listened to her voice in the dark, and if it woke the old sense of pain and loss, it stirred neither anger nor rebellion, as the gentleness of his words and ways made her sure.

And so the winter wore on with the usual breaks in the way of hospitalities given and received till the days began to lengthen--and then something happened.

There came to the girls an invitation from a friend, to pa.s.s a month or two with her in London. The friend had been Miss Browning, their favourite teacher in their London school. Now she was Mrs Seldon, the wife of a young city merchant, ”as happy as the day is long,” she wrote, and she promised them a taste of many enjoyments, if they would come and see her as mistress of her own pretty house--free now to come and go at her own will and pleasure. Much she said to induce them to come, and much was not needed, as far as May was concerned.

Mr Dawson might have hesitated as to accepting an invitation for his daughters into an unknown household, even though he had every confidence in the good sense and discretion of the lady who invited them. But strangely enough, it happened that Mr Seldon was the son of almost the only man in London with whom he had ever had other than mere business intercourse, and the young man himself was not altogether a stranger to him. As men of business, father and son were worthy of respect, and socially occupied an unexceptionable position, and Mr Dawson was more than pleased that his daughters should see something of London, in circ.u.mstances so favourable as a residence with such people would imply.

So his consent was given readily.

Jean listened and said little through all the preliminary discussion of the matter; but when it was settled that the invitation was to be at once accepted, she quietly declined to leave home.

She gave several good reasons why one should pay the visit rather than them both, and several why it should be May that should pay it. She gave several reasons also, why it would be wrong for both of them to leave home at once. Their father would be left in the house alone.

Their aunt was by no means strong. Indeed if there were no other reason she would never think of leaving her alone during the spring months, which had during the last few years been so trying to her. Then there had been something said about certain changes to be made in the early spring in the grounds and gardens. These might certainly be put off till another year, as her father suggested, but it would be a pity to do so, and if they were to be made, Jean must be at home to superintend them.

”And indeed, papa, it was May who used to be Miss Browning's friend, much more than I. Mrs Seldon would enjoy May's company better than mine, and May would take ten times the pleasure that I should take. How should I have any pleasure knowing that my sister was lonely and disappointed at home. As to both going, it is out of the question. And I can go next time.”