Margaret Murray Robertson (continued 3)

“Not anxious—more than usual. Oh, no! Of course the wind and the waves have something to say to me most nights. But I can only wait.”

“Yes, it is the waiting that is so terrible. And it must be for a good while yet.”

“For months. We cannot say how many. We seldom see the ships home within the year.”

“And the ‘John Seaton’ sailed on the tenth of April. It is nearly three months still till then. And to think of all who are waiting even here in Portie—wives and mothers and sisters. It makes one’s heart sick to think about it.”

Then she sat silent, with her eyes turned toward the window, through which was to be seen the dull grey sea, all unconscious of the uneasy glances with which Mrs Calderwood was from time to time regarding her.

“Mrs Calderwood,” said she at last, “how will you ever bear it as the time draws near? The waiting and the suspense, I mean?”

“My dear, I have had worse troubles to bear.”

“Ah! yes; but those will make this all the worse to bear.”

“I can but trust in God and have patience. He is very merciful.”

“Very merciful. But then—He lets terrible things happen whiles.”

Mrs Calderwood rose and moved about the room. She was startled out of her usual quiet by the girl’s changing colour and the sad eagerness of the eyes that looked out upon the sea. She was afraid of what might be said if they went on. She wished to hear no sorrowful secret from the girl’s lips. She would hear none, she said to herself with a sudden sharp pang of remembrance. George Dawson’s daughter could have nothing to say to which it would be right for her to listen. At last Jean left the window and came and stood near the fire.

“I came in to ask you if I might have Marion home with me for a day or two. I am ‘my leafu’ lane,’ as Tibbie says. And I think she would like to come with me.”

“There is little doubt of that,” said Mrs Calderwood sitting down with a sense of relief, for she thought the danger was over.

“There is no danger of her falling behind in her lessons for a day or two, and I can help her with her music. I will take good care of her, and her company will be a great pleasure to me.”

There was no sufficient reason why the child should not have this pleasure—at least there was none that could be spoken about. She had no time to make clear to herself why she would have liked to refuse, she could only say,—

“You are very kind. The child will be pleased to go,” and Jean thanked her, accepting it as consent.

She was still standing with her muff in her hand as though she were about to take her leave. But she did not go. She stood, not looking at her friend, but past her, seeing nothing, with her eyes full of eagerness and anxiety, and before Mrs Calderwood, moved by a sudden fear, could find words to avert it, that which she feared had come upon her. Jean came a step nearer.

“Mrs Calderwood, may I tell you something? I have no one else, and you will at least help me to be patient. You were my mother’s friend, and you have had much to bear, and will you help me?”

But there was no friendly response in Mrs Calderwood’s face. She withdrew herself from the eager girl, with something like terror in her eyes, actually moving away till she touched the wall of her narrow parlour, holding up her hands entreatingly.

“No. Do not tell me. I am not the right person to receive confidences from—from any one. I am not sympathetic I do not care to hear secrets. And—you have your aunt.”

Jean looked at her with surprise but with no anger in her eyes.

“My aunt! I tried to tell her once, but she said unless I were quite sure that she could help me, I should not speak. It would have grieved her—and—”

“She was quite right, I have no doubt,” said Mrs Calderwood. “The least said is soonest mended, as the old saying has it. Silence is almost always best, even between friends.”

Mrs Calderwood had come forward again to the table, and her hands were busy moving about various things upon it, hurriedly and heedlessly, as though she hardly knew what she was doing; while Jean looked on saying nothing for a little.

“Is silence always best? It would be such a comfort to me to be able to tell some one. I daze myself thinking about it. I am sorry now that I did not tell my father at once, though at the time it did not seem the wisest thing to do—or even possible. It was on the very day the ship sailed—the tenth, ye ken. And—”

“Whisht, lassie! I will not hear your secret,” said Mrs Calderwood with a cry which told of many things. “It is to your father that you must tell it, if you have not the sense and courage to keep silence forever. As for me, I will hear no secret from the lips of your father’s daughter. No good could come of it. Oh! must I go through with all that again! And my poor, foolish Willie that I thought so wise and strong!”

She hardly seemed to know what she was saying for the moment. But she made a great effort to restrain herself, and rose and came forward, holding out her hand as if the visit were at an end. But she paused, startled as she met Jean’s look.

A sudden momentary wave of colour crimsoned her face and even her throat, and passing left her as white as death. Through it all she never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.

“Mrs Calderwood,” said she in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper, “I think I must tell you now—that my brother George sailed in the ‘John Seaton.’”

Mrs Calderwood sat down on the sofa without a word. Of what horrible thing had she been guilty? What words had she spoken? She could not recall them, but the girl’s changing colour showed that her thoughts had been understood. In her sorrow and shame she could have knelt and entreated forgiveness. But she well knew that now at least, silence was best. No words of hers could help the matter now. It cost her positive pain to raise her eyes to the girl’s face. The colour came and went on it still, almost at every word; but Jean spoke quietly and firmly, and never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.

“You are right perhaps, and I ought to have spoken to my father at once; but since I have waited so long, it may be as well to wait till the ‘John Seaton’ comes in—and I must have patience—like the rest of those who wait.”

“Are you sure he went? My son said nothing to me about George—poor dear Geordie?” said Mrs Calderwood, with a sudden rush of tears.

Jean sat down on the other side of the table and leaned her head on her hand.

“Did he not? Still I think he must have gone—or what can have become of him?”

“Who told you he went? It is strange that you have never spoken of it all this time. Why do you think that your brother sailed in the ‘John Seaton’?”

“Is it strange? Perhaps I was quite wrong. But I did not know till afterwards. Robbie Saugster brought word that day to Saughleas, but I had gone to the town. That night he came back again, but it was too late. The ship had sailed, and we had been at the high rocks to see her pass, May and I—never thinking whom she was carrying away.”

“And had Robbie seen him?”

“No. I never asked him. I don’t think he knew. It was in a note that I got from—your son.”

“And what did he say?” asked Mrs Calderwood in a little. “He said I was to come to the pier head before the ship sailed, and that perhaps I might be able to persuade my brother—though he could not. But he came too late. The ship had sailed.”

“Well, we can only wait now till she comes home again.”

“Yes, we can only wait. I am glad he went with—Willie, who will be good to him. That is all my comfort.”

“Yes, Willie will stand his friend whatever happens.” There was no more said, for Marion came dancing in. “Yes, Mavis dear, your mother says you may come home with me. I must go and see Aunt Jean first, and you will find me there.”

“And, Miss Dawson, take a good rest, and we’ll go round by the sea shore. It is so long since I had a walk with you. See the sun is coming out after all.”

“Well,” said Jean nodding and smiling. Then she shook hands with Mrs Calderwood, but they did not linger over their good-byes. Marion turned a wistful look to her mother’s face when they were alone. But her mother would not meet it, but hastened her away.

Jean turned towards the pier head, to let the wind from the sea blow her hot cheeks cool, before she came into her aunt’s sight, and as she went she was saying to herself,—

“It was May she was thinking about I could not speak, because May has never spoken to me. And after all—I dare say she is right. ‘The sense and courage to keep silence.’ No wonder that his mother should say that, who can never forget her poor bonny Elsie.”

It was mid-day—the hour when the usual frequenters of the pier head were home at their dinners, and Jean stood alone for some time looking out to the sea, and thinking her own thoughts. They were troubled thoughts enough. “The sense and courage to keep silence.” Her temptation was not to speech. It was sense and courage to speak that she needed.

Her aunt too had told her that silence was best—that foolish fancies, that might have vanished otherwise, sometimes took shape and became troubles when put into words. All at once it came into Jean’s mind, that it could not have been of her brother’s loss, but of something quite different that her aunt had been thinking when she said this. Could it have been of May and Willie Calderwood?

“She too must think that my father would never yield, and that it would be just the same sad story over again. But still, I am not sure that silence is best.”

By and by those who worked or loitered on the pier head, came dropping back in twos and threes, and Jean knew that unless she would keep her aunt’s dinner waiting she must go. Miss Jean had said to herself that the first word spoken would reveal to the girl her own sad secret. But it had not done so—or she would not acknowledge it—even though the remembrance of Mrs Calderwood’s words and manner brought a sudden hot colour to her face.

“It was May she was thinking about,” she repeated, as she went down the street.

She looked “bonny and bright—a sicht for sair e’en,” Nannie, her aunt’s maid, said, when she came in. She did not stay very long. She had intended to spend the day, but Marion Calderwood was going home with her, and she would have to come another day, she told her aunt.

Indeed Marion came in before dinner was over, and Jean was glad to have a long walk and the young girl’s gay companionship, rather than an afternoon of quiet under her aunt’s keen, though loving, eyes.

Chapter Eleven.

A Visitor.

Mr Dawson was longer away than he had intended to be when he left. A visit was made to the Corbetts on the way, and from thence came a letter telling Jean to prepare to receive another visitor when her father should return. Hugh, the Corbett who came next after Emily, a schoolboy of fourteen, had been so unfortunate as to hurt his knee in some of his holiday wanderings during the previous summer, and had been a prisoner in the house for months, and Mr Dawson proposed to bring him to Portie for a change.

Jean was promised no pleasure from the visit. The lad was ill, and “ill to do with,” irritable and impatient of his long confinement in the house. There was little enough space in the Corbett house for those who were well, and it would do the lad good to see something else besides the four walls of the rather dim parlour where he had been a prisoner so long. He must be a prisoner even at Saughleas for a time, poor lad; but when the spring came so that he could get out, and get the good of the sea air, he would doubtless be better; and in the mean time, said her father, Jean must make the best of him.

The next letter was from London, telling of their safe arrival, and kind reception, but neither that nor the next, told the day on which Mr Dawson might be expected home. Indeed it told nothing in a very satisfactory manner; but Jean gathered that they found themselves in very favourable circumstances for seeing many of the wonderful sights of London, and the only thing they seemed to regret was, that Jean was not there to enjoy it all with them. A good many names of people and places were mentioned, but no very clear idea was conveyed with regard to them all, and Jean was advised to wait patiently for her father’s return to hear more; and this she was content to do.

Her father came home the better for his trip, Jean saw at the first glimpse she got of his face. Of course the first minutes were given to care of the lame boy, who was tired and shy, but when he had got his tea, and was happily disposed of for the night, Jean sat down to hear what her father had to tell. Not that she expected to hear much at any one time. His news would come out by little and little on unexpected occasions, as was his way with news, but he answered her questions about her sister, and her friends, and gave his opinion of them and their manner of life readily enough. He had evidently enjoyed his stay among them, and acknowledged that he had known nothing of London before this visit.

Jean listened, pleased and interested; but all the time she was waiting to hear a certain name which had occurred more than once in the brief letters of her sister, and which had also been mentioned once at least by her father.

“And you went to the British Museum?” said she at last.

“Yes. I had been there before, but this was different. It is one thing to wander about, looking at things which you don’t understand, till eyes and mind and body grow weary,—and never a clear idea of any thing gotten, to keep and carry away to look at afterwards—and it is quite another thing to go about in the company of one who, by two or three words, can put life and spirit into all there is to see. Mr Manners was with us that day.”

And it seemed that Mr Manners had been with them other days, and on one occasion when her father had mentioned his name several times, Jean asked,—

“And who is Mr Manners? You have not told me who he is.”

“He is a man with a clear head o’ his ain, who will make his mark yet, or I’m much mistaken. No, he was not staying with the Seldons, though he was there often. He has rooms near the university in which he is a professor. I thought much of him.”

“What is he like? Is he old or young?” asked Jean.

“Oh! he is not young. Not that he is to call old either. He is tall and thin rather, and stoops a little, and he wears glasses whiles, but not when he is reading.”

Jean laughed.

“Stoops and wears glasses!”

She was laughing at herself. She had been conscious of a little discomfort, at the frequent mention of this man’s name. A new interest and influence had come into her sister’s life in which she had no part, and it saddened her though she acknowledged that her sadness was unreasonable. But she was a little anxious as well as sad, because, having so long watched over her sister, she feared that in the new circumstances in which she found herself, her care might be needed and missed—which was also unreasonable, since she might have gone with her had she cared to do so, and since her sister had both sense and judgment to care for herself.

And for the special danger which was in Jean’s thoughts—though she would not allow that she feared it—surely May was safe from that. The child liked attention and admiration, and got them wherever she went; but her heart was not in her own keeping, as Jean believed, and so she was safe, and would come back to them as she went; and Jean acknowledged her own folly in being either anxious or sad. But all the same she laughed and was, pleased, that the new friend she had found should be “not young, though not just to call old,” as her father had said, and that he should stoop a little and wear glasses. So she determined to put all unpleasant possibilities out of her thoughts, and the fact that the professor’s name no longer found frequent place in her sister’s letters, made it all the easier for her to do so.

Besides, she had more to occupy herself as the winter passed away, and less time to brood and vex herself; and as it was not in her nature when she was well to vex herself without sufficient occasion, her occupations helped her to a better kind of cheerfulness than that which of late she had sometimes assumed for her father’s sake.

Young Corbett was her best help toward a more reasonable frame of mind with regard to all things. The journey had been too much for him, or he had in some way injured his knee again, for he suffered much pain in it for a time, and his young hostess was kept constantly busy, ministering to both mind and body. Dr Maitland, the chief Portie practitioner, took a different view of the lad’s case from that which the doctor at home had taken, and he was subjected to different treatment which told to his benefit after a time. But just at first he suffered a good deal, and Jean “had her ain adoes wi’ him,” as Phemie, her maid, declared.

He was not an ill-tempered boy, though Mr Dawson had received that impression from what he had seen and heard in his own home. He suffered, and he was irritable, and impatient of necessary restraint. But he made an effort towards patience and submission to circumstances in the presence of strangers which he possibly would not have made at home, and the change and the quiet of the house helped his patience on to cheerfulness before very long.

“How my father and mother should have ventured to inflict such a nuisance upon you amazes me; and how you should consent to it amazes me more still,” said he to Jean when he had been two days in the house, and when he was beginning to feel himself not so strange and forlorn as he had felt at first.

“But I did not consent I was not consulted,” said Jean laughing.

“No,” said the boy gravely. “And you could hardly refuse to have me when I was laid down at your door. But that only makes it all the more surprising that you should—take so much trouble with me.”

“But then it was to my father’s door you came, and he brought you himself. Don’t be foolish. If I were lame and ill and needed your help, would not you be willing to give it to me?”

“But that would be quite different. And I could not help you, besides.”

“Well, never mind. I am glad papa brought you here. I am going, by and by, to send you home strong and well, and fit to do a man’s work in the world. And in the mean time—though I acknowledge that you are whiles a wee fractious and ill to do with—I like you. I’m glad my father brought you here, and we’ll be friends always,” and Jean held out her hand.

The tears started in the lad’s eyes.

“It is very good of you,” said he with a gasp.

After that, life went better with him. When after a little he could be taken every day and laid on the sofa in the parlour, he began to feel the good of the change. He had plenty to amuse him. He liked reading, well enough, as boys like it, but he was not a book worm; and Jean might have found him heavy on her hands during the first weeks after he came down-stairs, if he had had only books to fall back upon. But to her surprise and his own, an unfailing source of interest and pleasure presented itself to him.

Scarcely a vessel for the least ten years had come into the harbour of Portie without bringing some curious or beautiful thing to one member or another of the Dawson family, until the house was filled with them. A wonderful collection they made,—corals, shells, minerals, stuffed birds, beetles, and butterflies; and a scarcely less wonderful collection of objects of art and skill. A great trouble this accumulation became to housemaids, and even to the young mistress of the house, who could not always trust the dusting and keeping them in order to unaccustomed hands. There were many valuable and beautiful things among them, and almost all of them had some pleasant association with the giver, which made it not easy to part with them even to persons who would have valued them, or to put them out of sight. So there were a great many of them scattered up and down in the house.

In these the boy found constant interest and delight, and when he had gone over all that were within his reach, he was quite ready to begin again. And then Jean bethought herself of the quantities of things which in past years had been bestowed in out-of-the-way corners of the house, to make room for new treasures, and with some trouble to herself, but with some pleasure also, these were sought out, and brought to the lad, as he could not go to them.

Of course the result was an untidy room, and after a while, confusion so utter as not to be endured patiently. This lasted for a few days, and then a chance word from the lad, suggested the idea of proper cases being made in which all these things might be bestowed, and so arranged as that they might be more carefully preserved, and made useful as well as pleasant to look at.

“There are few things in our town museum at home so rare or so beautiful as several of these. I have been through ours scores of times. I like it.”

Rather to Jean’s surprise and much to her delight, her father took up the idea as a good one, and entered into the discussion of the different kinds of cases required, with interest. The cabinet-maker was sent for, and by the help of Hugh’s description of the arrangements made for such things in the museum of his native town, they succeeded in settling all things in a satisfactory manner. The long hall extending from one side of the house to the other was the place to receive them. Therefore the cases must be handsome as furniture as well as convenient for the reception of the articles to be arranged in them; and in a shorter time than would have at first seemed possible, John Helvie finished the work in a way which pleased himself and his employers.

In the mean time May was written to for books about shells and minerals, and all such things; and Hugh, and even Jean, grew enthusiastic over them. And so the last months of winter passed more quickly than the first had done. May’s visit was prolonged beyond the six weeks which had been at first stipulated for, and the third month was nearly at an end before any thing was said about her return. She was well and happy, and her friend was happy in her company. She was not especially needed at home, and neither her father nor her sister cared to shorten her holiday, as she called it. But if Jean had known what was to be the end of it all, the chances are that she would have been speedily recalled.

As Hugh grew better and the weather became milder, a new means of pleasure and health was presented to him by Mr Dawson in the shape of a small Shetland pony. He was one trained to gentleness and past his youth, so that there was no risk in riding, when the doctor’s permission had been obtained. It could hardly be called riding for some time. It was slowly creeping along, with some one at his side, to make sure that no stumble should harm the still painful knee; but it was a source of much enjoyment to the lad who had been a prisoner so long.

Jean was most frequently his companion, and at such times their favourite course was along the sands when the tide was out, or by the path which led over the rocks. They lingered often on their way, to talk to the old sailors who remembered the lad’s father and grandfather, and who had much to tell about his grandfather’s goodness, and his father’s wild exploits as a lad. They talked with the fishwives also in the town, and made friends with the bairns, who, as the days grew milder, came in flocks to their favourite playground, the sands above the town. All this was good for the lad, who caught a little healthy colour from the fresh sea breezes, and day by day, Mr Dawson thought, grew more like his companion and chief friend in the days when they were both young.

But it was not so good for Jean. For their talk with the old sailors, and the fishwives, and indeed their talk together, was mostly of the sea and its dangers, the treasures which it hid, and the far lands that lay beyond it. She told him tales of the sea, and repeated songs and ballads made about sea kings and naval heroes of all times, and sang them in the gloaming, with their wild refrains, which look like nonsense written down, but which sung, as Jean could sing them, deepened the pathos of the sad and sometimes terrible tales which were told; and the lad was never weary of listening.

And all this was not good for Jean. It stirred up again the old fears and doubts and questionings as to whether she had done right to keep silence about her brother, and whether she ought even now to speak. The wistful, far-away look which her father could not bear to see, came back to her eyes, now and then; and on stormy nights, when the moan of the wind was in the trees, and the sound of the sea came up like a sigh, the old restlessness, which in her father’s presence she could only quiet by constant and determined devotion to work of some kind, came upon her. She could not read at such times or even listen. Her “white seam,” on which her father used to remark, was her best resource. He remarked on it still, and not always pleasantly, and Jean began to be aware that his eyes now followed her movements as they had done in the first part of the winter, and that even when he occupied himself with a book, or with his papers, he listened to the talk into which she and Hugh sometimes fell. She did her best to be cheerful, and with the lad’s help it was easier than it had once been; and she comforted and strengthened herself with the thought that the year was nearly over, and that it could not now be long before the “John Seaton” came home.

Chapter Twelve.

Northern Seas.

“Do ye ken what ye are doing, Jean? Ye’re doing your best to mak’ a sailor o’ the lad; and ye’ll do him an ill turn and get him into trouble if that happens. His father has other plans for him.”

Her father had come in to find Jean singing songs in the gloaming. It could hardly be said that she was singing to Hugh. She would very likely have been singing at that hour, if she had been quite alone; but she would not have been singing,—

“The Queen has built a navy of ships, And she has sent them to the sea,”

in a voice that rang clear and full in the darkness, and she would not have followed it with the ballad of “Sir Patrick Spens,” which Mr Dawson was just in time to hear. He was not sure about all this singing of sea songs; but he said nothing at the time, and sat down to listen.

He had heard the ballad scores of times, and sung it too; but he felt himself “creep” and “thrill,” as Jean—her voice now rising strong and clear, now falling into mournful tones like a wail—went through the whole seven and twenty verses. She said it rather than sung it, giving the refrain, not at every verse, but only now and then; the pathos deepening in her tones as she went on towards the end, when—

“The lift was black, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.”

and there were “tears in her voice” as she ended—

“And lang, lang may the ladies sit Wi’ their fans into their hands, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! “And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi’ the gowd (gold) kames in their hair, Awaiting for their ain true loves, For them they’ll see nae mair—”

and then the refrain—which cannot be written down—repeated once and again, each time more softly, till it seemed to die away and be lost in the moan of the wind among the trees. No one spoke for a minute or two.

“I think you might give us something mair cheerfu’ than that, Jean, my lassie,” said her father, inclined to resent his own emotion and the cause of it. “And in the gloaming too!”

“The gloaming is just the time for such ballads, papa. But I didna ken ye were come in. Shall I ring for lights now?” said Jean rising.

“There’s nae haste. It’s hardly dark yet.”

Jean crossed the room to the window that looked out to the sea, and leaning on it, as she had a fashion of doing, softly sang the refrain of her song again.

Her father could not see her face, but he knew well the look that was on it at the moment,—a look which always pained him, and which sometimes made him angry; and the chances are he would have spoken sharply to her, if Hugh had not said after a little while, “But sailors don’t go to sea now to bring home king’s daughters, or even to fight battles with their foes. They go for wages, as the navvies do on railways, and the factory people in the towns. It is just the common work of the world with them as it is with others—buying and selling—fetching and carrying. There is nothing heroic in that.”

“Of course—just the common work of the world. But I would not think less, but more, of the courage and endurance needed to do it, because of that,” said Jean gravely, turning round to look at him. “It is just like the navvies, as you say, that they may live and bring up their families; and I think it is grand to leave their homes, and face danger, just because it is their duty, and with no thought beyond.”

“They get used to the danger, and it is nothing to them, I suppose. And it must be fine to be going here and there, and seeing strange countries, and all sorts of people. I should like that I would like to have gone with Sir Humphrey Gilbert, or Sir Walter Raleigh in the old times. That must have been grand.”

“Yes,” repeated Jean, as she came forward and sat down by the fire. “That must have been grand—the sailing away over unknown seas to unknown lands. They had hope, but they could have had no knowledge of what was before them.”

“What did they care for danger or hardship, or even death! They were opening the way to a new world.”

“Yes. If they could only have had a glimpse of all that was to follow! I dare say they did too—some of them.”

“Yes; Walter Raleigh looked forward to great things. It was worth a man’s while to live as those men lived. It was not just for wages that they sailed the sea.”

Mr Dawson laughed.

“That is the way you look at it, is it? And how many—even among their leaders—thought about much except the gold they were to find, and the wealth and glory they were to win! It was as much work for wages then as now. It is a larger world than it was in those days, but the folk in it ha’e changed less than ye think; in that respect at least.”

There was a good deal more talk of the same sort, Jean putting in a word now and then, and what she said, for the most part, went to show, that in doing just the common work of the world, the buying and selling, the fetching and carrying, of which she thought Hugh had spoken a little scornfully, there were as many chances for the doing of deeds of courage and patience, as there could have been in the old times which he regretted. There were such deeds done daily, and many of them, and the men who did them were heroes, though their names and their deeds might never be known beyond the town in which they had been born.

She told of some things done by Portie men, and her father told of more, having caught the spirit of the theme from Jean’s thrilling tones and shining eyes, and from one thing they went on to another, till at last Jean said,—

“I was reading a book not long since—” And when she had got thus far Hugh surprised Mr Dawson by suddenly rising from the sofa on which he had been lying all this time, and still more by hopping on one foot, without the help of crutch or cane, to the fireside and then laying himself down on the hearth-rug.

“My lad, I doubt the wisdom of that proceeding,” said he gravely.

“Oh! there is no harm done. Miss Dawson is going to tell us about the book she has been reading lately, and I like to see her face when she is telling a story.”

Mr Dawson laughed. He liked that himself. In her desire to withdraw her father from the silent indulgence of his own thoughts, into which he was inclined to fall, when left alone with her sister and herself, Jean, when other subjects of conversation failed them, had sometimes fallen back on the books she had been reading, and talked about them. She could give clearly and cleverly enough the outlines of a theory, or the chief points in an argument. She could tell a story graphically, using now and then effectively the gift of mimicry of which her aunt had been afraid. Mr Dawson’s constant occupation had left him little time for general reading during the past, and had made the habit not easy to adopt now that he might have found leisure for it. But he enjoyed much having the “cream” of a book presented in this pleasant way by his daughter. So he also drew forward his chair, prepared to listen to what she might have to say, understanding quite well how the boy might like to see her face as she talked.

“Well,” said Jean, “we need not have the lights, for I can knit quite as well in the dark. It is a sad book, rather. But I like no book that I have read for a long time, so well as this. It is about men who were willing, glad even, to take their lives in their hands, and sail away to northern seas, in hope of finding some trace of Sir John Franklin and his men.

“It was not for wages that they went, Hugh, my lad; at least it was not with most of them. It was with the hope—and it was only a hope, and not a certainty—of saving the lives of men who were strangers to them, who were not even their own countrymen. And they went, knowing that years might pass before they could see their homes again, and that some among them never might come home.

“It is a sad story, because they did not find the men, nor any trace of them. But it was worth all they suffered, and all that was sacrificed, just to show to the world that was looking on, so noble an example of courage and strength and patience as theirs. But I am beginning at the wrong end of the story.”

Jean had read with intense interest the history so clearly and modestly written by the leader of the band, and she told it now with a power and pathos that made her father wonder. Of course there was much in the book on which she could not touch. She kept to the personal narrative, telling of the hope that had taken them from their homes, and that sustained them through the night of the Arctic winter, as they lay ice bound in the shelter of a mountain of ice on a desolate shore, when sickness came to most of their number, and death to more than one.

She told of long journeys made in the dimness of returning day, of the glad recognition of known landmarks, of the long, vain search for the lost men—of how hope fell back to patience, and patience to doubt and dread, as they waited for the sun and the summer winds to break the chains that bound their good ship in that world of ice, and set them free.

And then, when their doubt and dread became certainty, as the long Arctic day began to decline, and the choice lay between another winter in the ice-bound ship, and an endeavour to find their way over the frozen wastes that lay between them and the open sea, beyond which lay their homes, some of their number chose to go; but their leader would not forsake the ship, and a few of his men would not forsake him. And beside those brave souls who held their duty dearer than their thoughts of home, there were some who were sick, and some who were helpless through the bitter cold and the hardships they had borne, who had no choice but to stay and take what poor chance there might be of getting home with the ship, should the sun and the warm winds of a summer yet far before them set them free at last.

“And now,” said Jean her voice falling low, “the time to test their courage had come.”

She had told the story hitherto—in many more words than are written here—with eager gestures, and with eyes that challenged admiration for her heroes. But now her work fell on her lap, and her face was shaded from the firelight, and though she spoke rapidly still and eagerly, she spoke very softly, as she went on to tell how with a higher courage than had been needed yet, their leader looked the future in the face—seeing in it for himself, and for those for whom, as their commander, he was in a sense responsible, suffering from cold and hunger, from solitude and darkness, and from the wearing sickness of mind and body that these are sure to bring.

“‘With God’s help we may win through,’ said this brave and patient spirit.

“And there were none who could turn cowardly under such a leadership as his,” said Jean, with a sound that was like a sob, her father thought. “And so they all fell to doing with a will what might be done to protect themselves from the bitter cold, and to provide against some evils that were possible, and against others that were certain to come upon them. And surely they had God’s help, as their leader had said; and those pain-worn men, in the darkness of that long night, saw in him what is not often seen—a glad and full obedience to our Lord’s command, for the chief to become the servant of all. There was no duty of servant or nurse too mean for him to do. Not once or twice, but daily and hourly, as there was need, during all that time of waiting, when he only called himself well, because he was not utterly broken down and helpless, as almost all the others were.

“Patience, courage, cheerfulness, they saw in him, and they saw nothing else. For the souls and spirits of these men were in his hands, as well as their bodies, and if his courage and cheerfulness had failed in their sight, alas! for them.

“But they did not fail. And even in his solitary hours—in the night when he watched that they might sleep—and in his long, and toilsome, and often vain wanderings over the frozen land and sea in search of the food that began to fail before the end came—surely he was not left to even a momentary sense of desertion and discouragement, to a brave man an experience more terrible than death!

“That was known only to God and him, for strength came equal to his day, as far as they could see who leaned on him and trusted him through all. He did not fail them.

“And when, after months had gone by, the band who had left them, and turned as they believed their laces homeward, came back to the ship broken and discouraged with all they had passed through, he gave them a brother’s welcome, and gladly shared with them the little that was left of food and fire and comfort, and doubled his cares and labours for their sakes.

“As time went on, death came to some, and the rest waited, hardly hoping to escape his call. But the greater number won through at last. They had to leave their good ship ice bound still, and then they took their way, through many toilsome days, over that wide desolation of ice and snow, going slowly and painfully because of the sick and the maimed among them, till at last they came to the open sea. Then trusting themselves to their boats, broken and patched, and scarcely seaworthy by this time, they sailed on for many days, making southward as the great fields of floating ice opened to let them through,—and still oh, after the sea was clear, till they came to land where Christian people received them kindly, and here they rested for a while.

“And one day they sailed out on the sea to meet a great ship that came sailing up from the south, and over this ship the flag of their country was flying; and as they drew near, one looked down on their little boat and said, ‘Is this Doctor Kane?’ And then, of course, their troubles were over, and soon they were safe at home.”

No one spoke for a little while. Phemie brought in the lights, and then Jean laid down her knitting, and came to the table to make the tea. After that Mr Dawson went to his own room, and Hugh lay musing or dreaming on the rug till it was time for him to go to bed. It was when Jean went to say good-night to her father before she went to bed that he spoke to her.

“You will be making a sailor of the lad—with all that foolish singing and talk about heroes and sea kings. What on earth has set you off on that tack? The sea! the sea! and nothing but the sea! His father would be ill-pleased, I can tell you; for Hugh is a clever lad, and he has other views for him.”

Jean had nothing to say for herself, and took her father’s rebuke humbly and in silence. She had not thought for a moment of influencing the lad towards the life of a sailor; and when she had taken a minute to consider the matter, she was quite sure that no harm had been done, and so she assured her father.

“I would send the lad home, rather than run the risk,” said he with some vexation.

“Yes, it would be better,” said Jean. “But there is no risk. Hugh is older than his years, and he has taken his bent already, or I am much mistaken. Whether it will be according to his father’s will, I cannot say; but there is no danger of his turning his thoughts to the sea. He might like to visit strange countries, if the way were open to him; and with opportunity he might become a great naturalist, for his knowledge of all natural objects and his delight in them is wonderful.”

To this Mr Dawson had nothing to say. And indeed it was not about Hugh that he was at that moment troubling himself; but his trouble was not to be spoken about to Jean, and with rather a gruff good-night he let her go. But he could not put his trouble out of his thoughts. It had been there before, though he had almost forgotten it for a while.

“The sea! the sea! and ay the sea!” repeated he discontentedly. “What can have come to the lassie? She has no one on the sea to vex her heart about, unless indeed—she may fancy—that her brother is there,” and the shadow that always came with thoughts of his son, fell darkly on his face. “Or—unless—but that can hardly be. There is no one, and she has sense. And yet—her brother—”

He rose, sick with the intolerable pain that a vivid remembrance of his loss always awakened, and there came to him suddenly a thought of Elsie Calderwood and her brother, the handsome mate of the “John Seaton,” now almost a year at sea. He sank into his chair again, as if some one had struck him a blow.

“That would be terrible!” said he, putting the thought from him with an angry pang.

The remembrance of Captain Harefield’s admiration, and the indifference with which his daughter had received it came back to him. Could there have been any thing besides the good sense for which her aunt gave her credit to account for her indifference? Could it be possible that young Calderwood could be in her thoughts?

He wearied himself thinking about it, long after the fire had gone out on the hearth, and he believed that he had convinced himself that his sudden fear was unreasonable and foolish. It could not be true.

“But true or not, I must keep my patience. It might have ended differently with—the other,—if I had taken a different way with him. I see that now. I might have led him, though I could not drive him; and I fancy that would be true of his sister as well.”

He went to his room with a heavy heart, but it grew lighter in the morning. He had been letting his fancy and his fears run away with his judgment, he thought, when he came into the breakfast-room, to find Jean and the lame boy interested and merry over a last year’s birds’ nest which Jean in her early walk had found in the wood. It was birds and birds’ nests that made the subject of conversation this morning, and Mr Dawson might well express his wonder that a lad, born and brought up in a great town, should have so much to say about them. Jean suggested the idea of his having played truant whiles, to advance his knowledge in this direction, and the lad only answered with a shrug which was half a confession. His holidays, at least, had all been spent in the fields and woods even in the winter-time.

“And if I could have my own way, all my days should be spent—in the woods and fields,” said he gravely, as if it were rather a sore subject with him.

Mr Dawson left the two considering the matter as though nothing of greater interest than birds and birds’ nests existed for either of them.

“A far safer subject than the dangers of the sea,” said he as he went his way.

Chapter Thirteen.

A Discovery.

In the beginning of April May came home—“bonnier than ever,” as Jean told her father, as she met him at the door. He laughed when he heard her say it, but he agreed with her, and told her so when a day or two had passed.

He could hardly make it clear to himself, nor could Jean, in what she was different from her former self. It was because she was growing to be more like her mother as she grew older, he said. And Jean by and by came to the conclusion that something had happened to her sister while she was away—something to make her hopeful and happy, and at the same time graver and more thoughtful; yet she was very merry and sweet, and it was oh! so pleasant to have her home again. They made holidays of these first days of her home coming, and Jean was able to forget, or put aside, her sad and anxious thoughts for a while.

But there came a day when she well knew they would not be forgotten or put aside.

“May,” said she one morning, “let us go down to the Tangle Stanes to-day. This is the tenth, ye ken.”

“Well, let us go. It is a bonny day. But what about the tenth. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you forgotten? The ‘John Seaton’ sailed on the tenth,” said Jean gravely.

May’s colour changed a little. So did Jean’s. But while May reddened, Jean grew pale.

“Have they heard bad news? Surely it is time that they were coming home again,” said May.

“They might have been home before this time. But the voyage is often longer. I don’t think there is any anxiety as yet.”

“Well—we can go down to the Tangle Stanes. And will Hugh come too? I see the pony is brought round.”

But they could not go at once, for Jean heard her father’s voice calling her, and went to his room. As she did not return immediately, May and the lad set off together.

“Jean will come to the Tangle Stanes. I will wait for her there. And you can go on by yourself, Hugh, and meet us there afterwards.” And a message to this effect was left for Miss Dawson.

Jean found her father sitting with an open letter in his hand. He made a movement as though he meant to give it to her, but withdrew it again saying,—

“I fancy it was only meant for my eye. I have a surprise for you, Jean. Mr Manners, the university professor I told you about, writes, offering a visit. He does not say when, but soon—as soon as may be.”

“Mr Manners! I did not know that you had asked him, papa.”

“Oh, yes! I asked him in a general way, as I did others—if he should ever be in this part of the country. But he is coming for a particular reason, it seems.”

“Papa! Not for May?” said Jean sitting down suddenly.

“Well—it looks like it, though how you should have guessed it is queer enough. It never came into my mind, often as I saw them together. Is it from any thing your sister has said?”

“May has said nothing to me—nothing.”

“I acknowledge that I am surprised. I should not have supposed that he was at all the man to be taken with a girl like May. If it had been you now—”

“Are you pleased, papa? Will you let him come? And would you give him May?”

“May must decide that for herself. All that he asks now is my leave to come and speak for himself. He does not wish any thing to be said to her till he says it himself.”

“And will you let him come?” asked Jean gravely.

“Well, I think he has a right to be heard. Yes, I think we must let him come.”

“Is Mr Manners a rich man, papa?”

“A rich man? I should say not. Indeed he tells me as much as that. He has a professional income, enough to live comfortably upon. He is a scholar and a gentleman, and money is a secondary consideration.”

“Yes—if every thing else is right,” said Jean a little surprised. She had not supposed that in any case, money would be a secondary consideration with her father.

“But he is a stranger, and—an Englishman.”

Mr Dawson laughed.

“An Englishman! That can hardly be put as an objection, I should think. He is a stranger—in a sense—but he is a man well-known in his own circle, and beyond it—a man much respected, they tell me.”

Jean knew by her father’s manner that he was as much pleased as he was surprised.

“She is very young,” said she in a little.

“She is old enough to know her own mind, I suppose, and there need be no haste, if it is to be. I think I must let him come.”

“And I am not to speak to her?”

“Oh! as to that, I suppose he only meant that he wished to tell his own story. Still as there is no time set for his coming, it may be as well to say nothing for a day or two.”

“Very well,” and Jean rose and went away.

“She doesna seem to be over weel pleased at this, but she’ll come round. I’m glad that it should be her sister rather than her that I maun part with. I could ill spare my Jean,” said Mr Dawson to himself, as his eye followed her as she moved slowly down the walk. “Though I dare say her turn will come,” he added with a sigh.

It was not that Jean was ill-pleased, but she was disturbed at the thought of trouble that might be before them.

“My father will never listen to a word about Willie Calderwood. And unless May is very firm—”

And she could not but have serious doubts of May’s firmness in withstanding the will of her father.

“But at least he will not force her to many any one else. I could help her to stand out against such a thing as that. And I will too,” said Jean.

But a greater surprise than her father had given her at home, awaited her at the Tangle Stanes. May sat on the lower ridge of rock where she had sheltered herself that day, while Jean watched for the “John Seaton.” This was a very different day from that. There was no wind to-day and the sun shone and the air was soft and warm. The sea was calm and blue as the sky—with only here and there a touch of white where the tiny wavelets broke on the half hidden rocks beyond the Tangle Stanes. Jean stood still, and looked out upon it, pondering many things, then her eye fell on her sister.

She was singing softly to herself, as she plucked at the dried stalks of last summer’s weeds that still clung to the sheltered side of the rock, or gathered the broken bits of stone, and threw them down into the sea. She was looking neither sad nor anxious, she was smiling, at her own thoughts, Jean fancied, as she stood still a minute or two looking down upon her. Then May turned and saw.

“Such a bonny day?” said she.

“Yes—a bonny day indeed. Where is Hugh?”

“He’s not far away. I told him that we would wait for him here. Will you come down, or shall I come up to you?”

“I’ll come to you. Some one might join us if we were to stay up in sight, and I have something to say to you. Or rather I have a question to ask you about some one.”

“Well, come then. Is it about anyone in—London?” asked May smiling, while a little colour rose to her cheek.

“No,” said Jean gravely. “I am going to ask you about Willie Calderwood. And indeed I think you might have spoken more plainly to me long ago.”

May laughed.

“I have often wondered that you have never spoken plainly to me.”

“Have you? Well, being your elder sister, perhaps I ought to have done so. I did not like to speak, since you did not.”

“Just so. And I did not like to speak to you for the same reason.”

“Well, we will speak now. May,” said she softly, laying her hand on her sister’s shoulder, “tell me just how it is between Willie and you.”

“I don’t understand you, Jean. There is nothing in the world between Willie and me.”

“May, have you—changed your mind? Don’t you care for him any longer?”

“I don’t know what you mean. As to caring for him—of course I care for him—in a way. But, Jean, it is not me that Willie Calderwood cares for. He has said nothing to me that he might not have said to—almost any one in Portie.”

“May, have you forgotten a year ago?—how you came here a year ago, because he asked you? Of course he could not speak, because of my father. Do you mean that he doesna care for you—more than for any one else.”

“He has kept it to himself, if he does. Oh! yes, I know—my father. But if he had had any thing to say, he would have said it, or I would have guessed it. I don’t know why you should have taken the like of that into your head.”

“I saw him seeking you out wherever we met. He said more to you at such times than to all the rest of us put together. He followed you always. Every one saw it as well as I. And then the day he went away—”

“Oh, Jean, what nonsense! I came that day to please you. You made me come. You must mind that well enough. As for his asking me, it was more than half in jest. I am sure he did not expect me to come. And he never could have seen us, on such a day.”

“And do you mean that if he were to come home to Portie and not find you here, it would be all the same to him?”

“Oh! he’ll find me here when he comes, and I shall be glad to see him safe and well. But he has no right to expect a warmer welcome from me than from—any other friend, and he doesna expect it.”

Jean looked at her in amazement.

“Have I been dreaming all the year?” said she.

“It would seem so. I have just as much right to ask you about Willie Calderwood, as you have to ask me.”

Jean shook her head.

“He has very seldom spoken to me since—the old days.”

“But that might be because of my father, ye ken,” said May laughing. And then she added gravely, “We may be glad that there is nothing between him and either of us, Jean. It would only have been another heartbreak. I have fancied whiles, that you were thinking about him—but I am very, very glad for your sake that—”

“Of course I have been thinking about him—about him and you. I ought to be glad that I have been only dreaming, as you say, because of my father. But—poor Willie!—I doubt he has been dreaming too.”

“No, Jean, not about me. And even if it had been as you thought, I would never have listened to him, and indeed he never would have spoken after all that’s come and gone.”

“It would not have been the same to my father, as George and Elsie.”

“But coming after—it would have been all that over again, and worse. And Willie Calderwood is as proud and hard about some things, as my father.”

“And that might have kept him from speaking,” said Jean.

“And so it ought, even if he had had any thing to say, which he had not. You need not shake your head as though you didna believe me.”

“I must believe you—since you say so—for yourself. But you may be mistaken about him, though he never spoke.”

“Never spoke!” repeated May, mimicking her sister’s voice and her grave manner. “And do you think I would have needed words to let me know if he had cared for me—in that way? You are wise about some things, Jean, but you are not just so wise as you might be about others. Wait a while.”

May laughed and reddened, and then turned and climbed to the top of the rock to see if Hugh were in sight. Jean followed her slowly.

“I ought to be glad. I am glad. There is a great weight lifted from my heart. May is safe from the trouble that threatened, and so is my father. As for Willie Calderwood—well it is better for him too, that May doesna care, even if—And he’ll get over it.”

When Hugh came back they all took their way to Miss Jean’s house by the sea. But as Hugh was not yet equal to the feat of dismounting without more help than he was willing to accept from the young ladies, May and he soon turned their faces homeward again, and Jean, who had something to do in the town, was left behind. She sat a while with her aunt, but she was quite silent, and her face was turned toward the sea. Miss Jean was silent also, giving her a glance now and then, feeling sure that she had something more than usual on her mind which perhaps she might need a little help to tell.

“Well,” said she after a little, “have you any news? I think I see something in your e’en. Come awa’ frae the window and say what ye ha’e to say.”

Jean rose and came forward to the fire.

“Has my father been in? He will tell you himself, when there is really any thing to tell. He is sure to be in some time to-day.”

“And it is nothing to vex you, dear? Are you glad about it?”

“It ought not to vex me. It is only what was sure to happen. And though I am not glad yet—I dare say I shall be glad in time.”

“Is it about your sister?”

“Yes—and I think papa is glad. But he will tell you himself.”

“And there is nothing else?”

Jean sat looking at her aunt for a minute or two.

“Yes, there is something else that ought to lighten my heart. It has lightened it, I think. I’m not just sure.”

“And that is about May too?”

“Yes—about May.”

She said no more and her aunt did not question her. By and by Miss Jean said,—

“It’s a bonny day—and fine for the season. It was a different day last year when the ‘John Seaton’ sailed.”

“Yes, I mind it well.”

Jean did not look like herself, but absent and dazed like, as though her mind were full of other things. Miss Jean said nothing for a while, and Jean rose as if she were going away; but stood for a while looking out of the window.

“My dear,” said her aunt, “I have thought that you have been troubled like about various matters, this while back, and about your sister among the rest. But I think ye ha’e nae occasion.”

“Yes, I have been anxious.”

“Because of Willie Calderwood? But, my dear, I canna think that there’s any occasion.”

“I seem to have been mistaken as far as she is concerned. She says so.”

“And as for him—I never asked him and he never told me—but I’m no feared that he’ll be the worse in the end for any such trouble. And, Jean, my lassie, we ha’e great reason for thankfulness that so it is. It would only have been anither heartbreak.”

“Yes. That is what May said.”

“Not but what they both would have outlived it—and had many a happy day after it. But I am glad we havena to go through all that, for all our sakes, and more especially for the sake of your father. For he is growing an old man now, and another blow like that would have been ill on him, whichever way it had ended.”

“But, aunt,—ye mustna be angry at me for saying it,—but I canna think that my father was altogether wise or right in the way he took with George and Elsie.”

“My dear, who is ever altogether wise and right in all they do, even to those they love best? And, my dear, ye are nae your father’s judge. And do ye think that he sees now that all he did was wisest and best? and yet he might do the very same again. And even if he shouldna, it would be a misery and a lifelong pain to him all the same. My dear, I’m mair than thankful and we’ll say nae mair about it.”

And no more was said. But as Jean went slowly homeward, she had many thoughts of all she had heard that day. Glad! Of course she could not but be glad that all which must have brought disappointment and pain upon so many, had only been a dream of hers. How could she have been so mistaken! How much better it would have been if she had spoken plainly to her sister a year ago! Would May have answered as decidedly then?

Yes. Jean did not doubt that she would have done so. She did not doubt her sister’s sincerity when she declared that she had never cared for Willie Calderwood “in that way.”

“Wise about some things, but not so wise about others,” said Jean with a smile, recalling her sister’s words.

And might she not have been mistaken about Willie Calderwood as well as about May? May declared it, her aunt seemed to imply it. But surely Mrs Calderwood had been thinking about May that day! Jean’s cheeks grew hot as she recalled her words and looks.

“Oh! I am thankful that I never named my sister’s name to her. And if it was May she was thinking about, she will soon see that she was mistaken too, and that she needna have feared. And if it wasna May she was thinking about, she needna be feared?”

Jean walked more rapidly, and held her head higher as the thought passed through her mind. She believed herself to be very angry as all the scene came vividly back to her—angry with Mrs Calderwood. But for all that she went home with a lightened heart and with a face at once brighter and more peaceful than her father had seen for a while.

Chapter Fourteen.

Mr Manners.

It would not have been easy for Jean to set about any very elaborate preparations for the reception of the expected guest, without attracting the notice of her sister, who was to know nothing of his coming beforehand. Happily no special preparation was needed in her well-regulated household, for within a shorter time than seemed possible after her father’s letter of invitation had been sent, he made his appearance at Saughleas.

He had reached the town at night, and presented himself at the bank in the morning before Mr Dawson had reached it. They missed each other as he took his way to Saughleas, and Jean was the only one there to receive him. The day was mild and dry, and May and young Corbett had set off immediately after breakfast, on an expedition to the Castle.

Jean was in the garden, intent on hastening the completion of certain changes that had been commenced in the arrangement of flower beds and shrubbery, indeed putting her own hands to the work of clipping and transplanting under proper direction and authority. She saw the stranger the moment he opened the gate, and stood still in her place behind a sheltering fir-tree, regarding him as he came slowly round the drive.

She saw a pleasant face, with something of the pallor of the student upon it—not handsome, but a good, true face, she thought as he came nearer. He was tall, as her father had said, and he stooped a little; but it was not a round-shouldered stoop, rather a slight inclining forward as he walked, such as short-sighted people are apt to fall into unawares. Certainly he was “not to call old.”

A scholar and a gentleman, her father had said. He was all that, or his looks belied him, Jean told herself as he came slowly forward.

He stood for a moment looking up into the sky through the lovely mingling of faint colours made by the swelling buds and opening leaves in the tops of the great beeches, and Jean’s impulse was to come forward at once and give him welcome. But she looked at her gloves, and at her thick shoes soiled with the garden mould, and at her linsey gown too short to hide them, and she thought of her sister, and “these fastidious English folk,” and the “credit of the family,” and so went swiftly round the house, and in at the back door, and up to her own room.

She did not linger over her toilette, however. By the time Phemie came to announce the stranger’s arrival, the stately young mistress of the house was ready in her pretty house dress of some dim purple stuff to go down and receive him. She went with more shyness than stateliness, however, being conscious of the object of his coming, and entered so quietly, that he did not move from the window out of which he was gazing, till she had come near him. He turned quickly at the sound of her voice.

“Is it—Mr Manners?” said she, offering her hand. “You expected me then?”

“Yes. Papa told me you were coming.”

“And you are Jean? And you will be my friend?” Jean’s eyes met his frankly and very gravely for a moment, and then she said softly,—

“Yes. I think I may promise to be your friend.”

If she could put any trust in the face as an index of character, she might surely promise that, she thought. She waited a moment, expecting that he would ask for her sister. He did not, but stood looking at her in a silence that must have become embarrassing if it had continued long. So she offered breakfast, which he declined. Then she expressed her regret that he should have missed her father, but she would send at once to tell him of his arrival.

This was not necessary, however. Mr Dawson having heard of Mr Manners’ arrival at the bank, returned home immediately; but they were already in the dining-room, before May and young Corbett appeared. They went in the back way and passed through Beckie’s kitchen.

“Eh! Miss May! What can ha’e keepit you? Miss Dawson has been muckle putten aboot. Your papa’s come hame and a strange gentleman wi’ him. Na, it’s naebody ye need to heed. Was’t Peters they ca’ed him, Phemie? It’s luncheon and nae dinner—so you can just go ben as ye are. Ye couldna look better or bonnier though ye were to change your gown and tak’ an hour to do it. And Miss Dawson was sair putten aboot.”

So with no warning as to whom she was to see, flushed and laughing, and submitting to be made a crutch by the recovering and adventurous Hugh, May entered the dining-room.

“It was hardly fair upon her,” her father thought, and Jean turned pale with vexation that it so should have happened. But she need not have been afraid. After the first startled glance, and rush of colour, May met her friend with a gentle dignity which left nothing to be desired in her sister’s opinion. Mr Manners was to all appearance less self-possessed than she was, and his greetings were brief and grave.

All were for some time in a state of restrained excitement that made conversation not easy, till Hugh came to the rescue by referring to Mr Dawson the decision of some point which had fallen under discussion during the morning’s ride, on which Miss May and he had disagreed. It had reference to a circle of stones in the neighbourhood, said to be of Druidical origin, and Hugh stated the difference of opinion clearly and fairly enough. Mr Dawson could give no light on the subject, however, and smiled at the idea of attaching any importance to the question.

“And besides,” said May gently, but with an air of wishing to put an end to the matter, “I told you I did not hold any opinion with regard to them.”

But Hugh, in his persistent way, refused to let it so end; and Jean, glad of any thing rather than silence, added her word, hoping that they might some time during the summer go to see the “Stanes.”

“But, Miss May,” continued Hugh, “though you said you did not know yourself, you gave authority for your opinion—at least as far as similar circles elsewhere are concerned. And was it not?—Yes, it was Mr Manners that you said had told you—”

Jean laughed. She could not help it. May grew red as a rose. Then Mr Manners took up the word, and there was no more uncomfortable silence after that; and Hugh heard more concerning this new subject of interest than he would be likely to hear again for many a day.

Before they rose from the table, Mr Dawson was called away by some one who wished to see him on business, and Hugh, with Jean for his crutch this time, betook herself to his room to rest and be out of the way. May went to the parlour with Mr Manners, intending only to show him the way and then go to her own room to change her habit for her house dress; but when Jean came back again, May was in the room still, and the door was shut.

Jean stood looking at it for a moment, with the strangest mingling of emotions—joy for her sister, sorrow for herself—a feeling as if the old familiar life were come to an end, and a new life beginning; nay, as if the very foundations of things were being removed.

“We can never be the same again—never,” she said, with a sharp touch of pain at her heart. “I have lost my bonny May.”

It was foolish to be grieved, it was worse than foolish to be angry, at the thought of change; but she knew that if she were to look closely into her heart, she would find both grief and anger there.

“I canna help it, but I needna yield to it,” she said; and then she turned resolutely toward the kitchen, where Beckie was awaiting necessary directions with regard to dinner.

She lingered over her arrangements, and by and by put her own hands to some of them, for she found it impossible to settle quietly to any thing, though she told herself that her restlessness was foolish and not to be excused. It took her out of the house at last, and down the walk past the well and through the wood, where she had many times gone during the last few months to the most sweet and peaceful spot in all the world, she thought—where her mother and her little brother and sisters lay; and here, after a while, her father found her. He was not free from restlessness either, it seemed. Jean rose as he drew near.

“Where is your sister? Should you have left her?” asked he doubtfully.

Jean shook her head and laughed.

“They shut the door upon me.”

“Ay! He’s in earnest, yon lad. You like him, Jean? Though it’s soon to ask.”

“Not too soon. I liked him the first glance I got of him. He has a good, true face. Yes; I like him.”

“It doesna take you long to make up your mind,” said her father laughing. But he was evidently pleased. “You dinna like his errand? Well that was hardly to be expected. But if it hadna been him, it would have been another, and we should have lost her all the same. And it might have been worse.”

“Yes, it might have been worse.”

Jean was thinking what her father’s feelings would have been had May’s troth been plighted to Willie Calderwood. But her father was thinking that it would have been worse for him to-day had it been for Jean that the stranger had asked.

“It will be your turn next,” said he with a sad attempt at jesting.

But Jean answered gravely,—

“No. I think not I’m content as I am.”

Her father laughed, a short, uncertain laugh.

“Ay! that will do till the right man comes, and then—we’ll see.”

“But he may never come. He never came to Auntie Jean.”

“Did he no’? Weel, it came to that in the end.”

Mr Dawson looked up and met the question in Jean’s eyes, but he did not answer it, and her lips were silent. She did not need an answer. Though she had heard nothing, she seemed to know how it had been with her aunt. Disappointment had come to her in her youth. Whether death had brought it, or change, or misunderstanding, or something harder to bear than these, she knew not; but however it had come, it had doubtless been a part of the discipline that had wrought toward the mingled strength and sweetness of her aunt’s character, so beautiful in Jean’s eyes. She forgot her father in thinking about it.

And for the same reason her father forget her. There were none like his sister in his esteem. None, of all the women he had seen grow old, had lived a life so useful, or were so beloved and respected in their old age as she. Her life—except for a year or two—had never been solitary in a painful sense, he thought. It had been, and was still, full of interest—bound up with the lives and enjoyment of others, as much as the life of any married woman of them all.

“And if she were to die to-night, there are more in Portie that would miss and mourn her than for many mothers of families, and that is not more than all would acknowledge who ken what she is and what she has done in the town.”

But for his daughter? No, it was not a life like her aunt’s that he desired for her. His eye came back to her as the thought passed through his mind. She was gazing straight before her, in among the trees, but it was not the brown buds nor the opening leaves that she saw, he knew well.

What could it be that brought that far-away look to her eyes. Was she looking backwards or forwards? Where were her thoughts wandering? Her look need not have vexed him. It was a little sad, but she smiled as though her thoughts were not altogether painful. He could not but be uneasy as he watched her. He loved her so dearly, she counted for so much in his life, that he longed for her confidence in all things, and he knew that there was something behind that smile which he could not see.

“Weel?” said he as she turned and met his look.

“I should go back to the house, you are thinking? Yes, I am going. But, papa—it will not be very soon? May’s going away, I mean.”

“That is all before us. I can say nothing now. I doubt all that will be taken out of our hands, my lassie. He is in earnest, yon lad.”

“But, papa—it is surely our right to say when it is to be? And May is so young—not nineteen yet.”

“Just her mother’s age, when—”

He rose as if to go, but sat down again and said quietly, “A few months sooner or later will make little difference, and we could hardly expect that he would hear of making it a matter of years. Nor would I wish it.”

“But it will not be—just at once?” said Jean. She had almost said “not till the ‘John Seaton’ comes home.”

“Well, not just at once. There is time enough to decide that.”

Mr Dawson looked doubtfully at his daughter. The look he had wondered at had left her face. She had grown pale and her eyes had the strained and anxious look that had more than once pained him during the winter. The question over which she had wearied herself then was up again.

“Shall I speak to him about Geordie? Shall I tell him how he went away?” But he did not know her thoughts, and fancied she was grieving about her sister.

“My dear, it is hard on you for the moment. But it is not like losing your sister altogether.”

“Papa! It is not May I am thinking about. It is—Geordie. Oh, papa, papa!”

“My dear,” said her father after a pause, “it will do no good to think of one who thinks so little of us. Think of him! We maun ay do that, whether we will or no’. But I whiles think he maun be dead. He could not surely have forgotten us so utterly.”

His last words were almost a cry, and he turned his face away.

“Papa!” said Jean with a gasp, and in another moment she would have told him all. But before she could add a word he was gone—not back by the path to the house, but through the wood the other way, slowly and heavily with his head bowed down. Jean looked after him with a sick heart.

“It is my mother he is thinking of, as well as his son. Oh! I wish I hadna spoken?”

She sat down in a misery of doubt and longing, not sure whether she were glad or sorry that he had given her no chance to say more. How little and light her own anxieties looked in the presence of her father’s sorrow! The silence and self-restraint, which day after day kept all token of suffering out of sight, made it all the more painful and pitiful to see when it would have its way! Miss Jean, his sister, had seen him more than once moved from his silent acceptance of pain and loss, but his daughter had never seen this, and she was greatly startled, and sat sick at heart with the thought that there was no help for his trouble.

For even if she were to tell him now that her brother had gone to sea in the “John Seaton,” there would hardly be comfort in that; for it was more than time that the ship were in port, and though no one openly acknowledged that there was cause for anxiety, in secret many feared that all might not be well with her. No, she must not tell him. The new suspense would be more than he could bear, Jean thought; and she must wait, and bear her burden a little longer alone.

The tears that she could not keep back, did not lighten her heart as a girl’s tears are supposed to do, and though she checked them, with the thought that she must not let their traces be seen in the house, they came in a flood when she found her sister’s arms clasped about her neck and her face hidden on her breast. But she struggled against her emotion for her sister’s sake, and kissed and congratulated her, and then comforted her as their mother might have done. And May smiled again in a little while—indeed what cause had she to cry at all, she asked herself, for surely there never was a happier girl than she.

And they both looked bright enough when they came down to dinner, and so did their father. Jean wondered and asked herself whether the sight of his moved face and the sound of his breaking voice, had not come to her in a dream.

He only came in at the last moment, and if he guessed from May’s shy looks that something had happened to her, he took no notice, and every thing went on as usual, though a little effort was needed against the silence which fell on them now and then.

Of course after dinner, the girls went to the parlour and young Corbett went with them; and when, by and by, their father and Mr Manners came in to get some tea, Jean knew that May’s fate was decided, as far as her father’s consent to her marriage could decide it.

Pretty May blushed and dimpled and cried a little when her father came and kissed her and “clappet” her softly on her shoulder, and in rather an uncertain voice bade “God bless her.”

Then Mr Manners brought her to Jean. “Will you give me your sister?” said he gravely. “Since she seems to have given herself to you, I may as well,” said Jean kissing her sister and keeping back the tears that were wonderfully ready to-night.

“And remember your first word was a promise to stand my friend.”

“Only I don’t think you seem to stand in need of a friend just now,” said Jean laughing.

“Ah! but I may need one before all is done. And you have promised.”

Chapter Fifteen.

Mr Dawson’s Will.

It would doubtless have been agreeable to Mr Dawson had Mr Manners been a richer man than he seemed to be, but he did not allow even to Miss Jean, that this want of money was a serious drawback to the satisfaction he felt in consenting to his daughter’s marriage.

“He is a man whom I like much, and money is a secondary consideration,” said he.

“That’s true,” said Miss Jean.

“Not that he is without means, and he has a good professional income. They will do very well. It is true I havena kenned him long, as ye say; and I dare say ye think I have been in haste with my consent. But just wait a wee. He’ll ha’e your good word. For ye ken a man when ye see him.”

“If they truly love one another—that is the chief thing.”

Mr Dawson laughed.

“They do that.”

“And what does Jean say?”

“She’ll tell you herself. There has been little time to say any thing. He is to be brought over to see you to-day. I wished to send for you, but Jean said it was more becoming that he should come to you. Jean has her ain notions about most things.”

“Ay, she has that.”

“And ye’ll come hame with them to Saughleas? There are two or three things that I would like to have a word with you about. And ye’ll be sure to come.”

But Miss Jean did not promise. She liked best to be at Saughleas when there were no strangers there, she said. Mr Dawson was ready to resent her calling Mr Manners a stranger, so she said nothing. The matter could be decided afterwards.

Probably Jean was only thinking of what was due to her aunt, when she insisted on taking their new friend to make her acquaintance in her own house. But it was a wise thing to do for other reasons than Miss Jean’s “dignity,” which her niece might very well have left to take care of itself.

The house was like herself,—quiet, simple, unpretending, but with a marked character of its own; and no one could fail to be impressed with his first glimpse of Miss Jean, sitting in her quaint parlour, with its shelves of brown old books, its great work-basket, and its window looking to the sea. She was an old woman now, and not very strong; but the inward calm which earthly trouble had no power to disturb, had kept disfiguring wrinkles from her face, and the soft wavy hair that showed under her full-bordered cap was still more brown than grey.

Some who had known Miss Jean all her life declared that she was far more beautiful at sixty than she had ever been in her youth. And naturally enough. For a life of glad service to a loving Master, a helpful, hopeful, self-forgetful doing of good as opportunity is given, for His sake, tell on the countenance as on the character; and the grave cheerfulness, the trustful peace that rested on the old woman’s face were beautiful to those who had eyes to see.

It was not May, but Miss Dawson, who came with the visitor that morning.

“Auntie Jean, I have brought Mr Manners to see you,” said she coming in unannounced.

Miss Jean received them kindly, but with a certain gravity.

“Yes, your father has been here. He told me who was coming,” said she, and her eyes sought Jean’s gravely and earnestly. Jean nodded and smiled, carrying her aunt’s look to the face of Mr Manners.

“Yes, auntie, that is the way of it.” Then Miss Jean gave him her hand again. “The Lord keep and guide you both. And the Lord deal with you as ye shall deal with the bairn that is willing to leave her father’s house to go with you.”

“Amen!” said Mr Manners, and he stooped and touched with his lips the soft wrinkled hand that had been offered him.

They had not very much to say to one another for a while. It was Jean who kept up the talk for a little, remarking upon the “bonny day,” and the flowers that were coming out earlier than usual, and on the sea, which was seen at its best to-day, she said, a sparkling blue that faded to pale green and grey in the distance.

“You have a wide view of it here,” said Mr Manners who was leaning against the ledge looking out.

There was nothing to be seen from Miss Jean’s usual seat, but the sea and one rocky cape in the northern distance. “It is company to me,” said she. “It is ay changing.”

“But it is dreary whiles, aunt, very dreary, when the wind blows loud, and the winter is here.” Miss Jean smiled.

“I think winter makes less difference to my outlook than it does to yours, Jean, my dear. It’s ay the sea, and ay the same, yet ay changing ilka day o’ the year, be it summer or winter. It is like a friend’s face to me now after all that’s come and gone.”

It was not easy getting below the surface of things, because their thoughts were of the kind not easily spoken. Miss Jean said least, but she looked and listened and was moved by the soft flowing English speech of their new friend, in a way that filled her with amazement, “after all these years,” she said to herself.

By and by May came in, leaving Hugh Corbett in the pony carriage at the door. She hesitated a moment, shy, but smiling, on the threshold, and then Mr Manners led her forward to be kissed and congratulated and made much of by her aunt.

“Ye’ll try and be a good wife—as your mother was,” said Miss Jean softly, and she gave a tearful, appealing glance toward him who had won the child’s heart.

“I love her dearly,” said he gently. “And I will care for her first always.”

“I believe ye,” said Miss Jean.

What with his good, true face, his kindly ways and winning-speech, he had won her good word, as easily as he had won Jean’s “who liked him at the first glance,” as she had told her father.

Mr Manners’ visit was necessarily brief, but when he went away, he carried with him the good-will, and more than the good-will, of them all. Even young Corbett, who had at first resented the break made in the pleasant life they had been living of late by his monopolising Miss May’s time and attention, agreed with the rest at last. They became mutually interested over shells and seaweeds, beetles and birds’ nests, and they were very friendly before Mr Manners went away.

Before his departure Mr Manners put Jean’s friendship to the test.

“If you are on my side, I shall be able to bring about that on which I have set my heart, and I must remind you of your promise.”

Jean laughed.

“It seems that you are like to get that on which you have set your heart without the help of any one.”

“Ah! but how would it have been if you had set yourself against me? Or if you were to do so even now?”

“It is too late for that now, and I don’t think you are much afraid.”

“Jean,” said he gravely, “I want my May for my very own on the first day of August.” Jean was not so startled as she might have been. “I did not think you would be willing to wait very long. But the first of August! That is not much more than three months. It will look like haste.”

There were, it seemed, many good reasons for that which looked like haste. The chief one was this: Mr Manners looked forward to two full months of leisure after that time, which could not happen again for another year. He had set his heart on carrying his bonny May to Switzerland for the whole two months.

“Think what that would be in comparison to a winter marriage, and then straight to a dull house in a London street!”