Margaret Murray Robertson (continued 6)

They reached Portie only just in time, they were told, for the “John Seaton” was to sail that very day, and it would have been hard indeed if Captain Saugster should have missed the sight of his friends. They were hardly in time for speech. The ship was to sail at noon, and the new skipper was busy with a thousand things, and had only time for a word, and a grip of the hand when they went on board.

They walked about, and lingered here and there, and had something to say to most of the ship’s company as well as to the skipper, and Mr Dawson grew soft-hearted as he watched the friendly looks that met his son wherever he turned. George had a word for most of them, a promise to one, a caution to another, a joke with a third, a kind word to all.

“Ye’re no’ to vex yourself about your mother and the bairns, Sandy. Miss Dawson will see that they are cared for if the sickness should come again. Donald, man, be thankful that ye’re leaving your temptation behind ye, and that ye’re to sail under the temperance flag this time. Gather strength to withstand your foe, by the time ye come home again. I suppose we must call ye a man now, Jack. Dinna forget the mother and grannie. They winna forget you.”

Mr Dawson kept near his son when he could do so without too evidently appearing to be listening to him, and he heard all with mingled feelings. George’s way had never been his, and it was only a qualified approval that he had been brought to give to his son’s method of dealing with the men, but he could not but be pleased and proud at the many tokens of respect and affection with which he was regarded by them all. Even the strangers among them turned pleased looks to the young man, as he moved up and down among them.

“It is a pity but you had come sooner, that you might have had a longer time on board,” said Mr Dawson, as he took his way to Miss Jean’s house in company with the two young men. “Ye might almost take an hour or two’s sail with them and land at F— or C— and be home to-night, or early in the morning.”

Before twenty-four hours were over he would have given much that he had not uttered the words. But George and his friend caught at the idea, and before they went into the house all arrangements for going with Captain Saugster for a few hours’ sail were made. Miss Jean looked grave when the plan was spoken of, but she said nothing in the hearing of her brother.

“Ye winna bide awa’ long, and make us anxious,” said she.

They must not stay long, for Willie had but a single day, or at most two to see all the folk he wanted to see in Portie, and they would be certainly home early in the morning. There was no time to discuss or even to consider the matter. Willie had only a word or two with his sister, but he followed every movement of hers with glad, proud eyes; and when she went for a moment out of the room, he said softly to Miss Jean, “She has grown a woman now, our wee Maysie.”

And Miss Jean said as softly and a little sadly, “Ay, has she!”

Did George’s eyes follow her too? His father could not but think so.

“For the sake of the girl who is dead,” he said to himself with a pang.

Marion’s eyes were only for her brother, but she had few words even for him. They had little time for words. They bade Miss Jean and Marion “good-bye” in the house. By and by, Mr Dawson saw Marion standing a little apart from the group of women gathered on the pier, but when he looked again she was no longer to be seen. He was a little disappointed. He thought if they had walked up to his sister’s house together, he might have said a word to dispel the cloud of shyness or vexation that had somehow come between them since the day she had gone with the Petries to the Castle.

He would not make much of it, by speaking about it openly, nor could he bring himself to ask his sister about it. Miss Jean was not easy to approach on the subject of the Calderwoods. She had never said one word to anger him at the time when she had thought him hard and unreasonable with regard to them, and neither had she noticed by word or look the interest with which he had come to regard her young visitor; and her silence made it all the more difficult for him to speak. But when he went in on his way home, as it drew towards gloaming, and found her sitting alone in her darkening parlour, he asked her why she did not have lights brought in, and where was her visitor.

“Marion went over to the Tangle Stanes with the skipper’s wife and Maggie, and I dare say she has gone hame with her. Her troubles are begun, puir body—Annie Saugster’s—I mean.”

“What should ail her? She has just the troubles that ay maun fa’ on sailors’ wives.”

“Ay, just that,” said Miss Jean.

“And she kenned them a’ beforehand. And what gude could a lassie like that do her? She has had small experience o’ trouble anyway.”

“She has a tender heart—and she shows her sympathy without many words. And folk like her,” said Miss Jean. There was a moment’s silence, and then Mr Dawson said hesitating,—

“What ails her this while? Is it only as her brother says, that she is growing a woman, that she is so quiet? Or has any thing happened to vex her? I have hardly got a word from her since she left Saughleas. Is it James Petrie that’s to blame?” added he with a laugh.

Miss Jean regarded him gravely for a minute.

“Yes, I think it was something he said. I ken it was, for she told me.”

“And did she give him his answer?”

Miss Jean shook her head.

“It’s no’ what ye’re thinkin’. That question hasna been asked yet,” said she. “And I doubt he’ll need to put it off, for a while. He didna help his ain cause by what he said, though he meant it for that. He was telling her about—about George and her sister Elsie.”

Mr Dawson said nothing in the pause which followed.

“Of course she had heard something,—that they cared for one another,—and that George’s heart was nearly broken when Elsie died. But she had never heard of your displeasure, nor of some other things. Though how he thought it would help him to tell all this to her, I canna tell—unless he may be afraid that—But she is to go hame with her brother, it seems, and I hope that no ill may come o’ my bringing her here.”

“Nonsense, Jean! What ill should come of it? And why should you take the blame of it? It was her mother’s doing, sending her here. And if it should end in her agreeing with James Petrie, ye may be sure she will be well pleased.”

“I’m no’ sure. Though, puir body! she maybe was thinking o’ that too.”

“It is to be supposed that she kens her ain mind about it. James Petrie will be a rich man some day. Doubtless she thinks of that.”

“Less than ye would suppose. But she is not a strong woman, and if any thing were to happen to her, the lassie would be left alone almost. She would be safe here among douce, well-doing folk, like the Petries, and in time she might be content enough.”

“But how should he think to help his cause by—by telling that tale? And what kens he about it?”

“He kens just what other folk ken, and guesses something, I dare say. He thought to help his wishes by letting her ken, that when George looked kindly at her it was for her sister’s sake.”

“George!” repeated Mr Dawson in dismay. Miss Jean had not been betrayed into saying this, though that was her brother’s first thought.

“Yes. She is like her sister—and he hasna forgotten her. But I think it was chiefly your anger and vexation that he held up to her—as against his own father’s kindness.”

“But George?” repeated Mr Dawson. “Yes. But it is not George I am thinking about, but Marion. And her mother too. Do ye ken that though he has ay gone to see Mrs Calderwood whenever he has been in London, George had never seen her daughter after the time of May’s marriage till he saw her the ither night at Saughleas? That was her mother’s will. What with one thing and another,—his love for her sister, and his friendship for her brother, and his being lost from hame so long—the lassie was ay inclined to make a hero of George. And minding on Elsie, and all she had suffered, the mother grew to have a fear that was unreasonable, lest Marion should come to care for him beyond what should be wise. So she kept her out of his sight, and she would never have let her come north but that she knew George was going away. She may have had her ain thoughts of young Mr Petrie—as I had myself, since he showed that he had the sense to see her value.”

It was some time before another word was spoken, then Mr Dawson said,—

“I did but what I thought my duty. I did but what her mother was as keen to do as I was. I tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish thing. And I dare say she thinks that I killed her sister.”

“No, it is not that. But ye ha’e ay been kind to her, and she thinks the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. And so she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. Well, she will soon be away now, and whether she’ll come back again with young Mr Petrie—I canna say. He’ll hardly have the courage to ask her this time.”

“I wouldna promise. There are few things that seem to him to be beyond his deserts—though I canna say I’m of his opinion.”

Miss Jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to restrain himself as he rose to go.

“A thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but I doubt this has done most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. And it is a pity—” added Miss Jean.

“He’ll get through it. It winna be the first time,” said Mr Dawson angrily.

“Are ye awa’? I think we need hardly expect those lads till morning. They’ll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht,” said Miss Jean.

“It depends on several things—the light and the tide and the wind. It was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first spoke of it. But we needna expect them till we see them.”

And then he went away. He paused a little when he was outside the door, looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. It was not so fine a night as Miss Jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier. There were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring around her and not very far away—sure token that a storm was near.

“They ken the signs better than I do. They’ll lose no time.”

He lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last.

“It will be a long night, I doubt!”

And so it was. Many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. A long and heavy night it was. Sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and unreasonable, which he could not put away—with painful dreams, and startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last—a dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening all things.

It brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten early to the town. There was no real cause for anxiety he assured himself, the fog would account for their delay. They would be home soon. He was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were and when they would be home. And so it was noon before he called at his sister’s door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm. The fog would account for the long delay. There might have been danger to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two.

What a long day it was! And when the gloaming began to fall, there was still no word of them. He went on to Miss Jean’s house, and at the door Marion met him. He got a good look of her face this time. Whatever had grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. Her eyes asked eagerly for tidings.

“No word o’ them yet, but they canna be long now,” said Mr Dawson cheerfully. “I have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though I dare say ye have had yours lang syne. Ye maunna be anxious, my dear. There is really no cause to fear for them as yet.”

He had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from Marion, he knew that he could not hide it from his sister.

“We maun just ha’e patience,” was all that Miss Jean said.

Marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to be done. She made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it, and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. But there was not much said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. Marion looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in her eyes, as she turned them to Miss Jean.

“My dear lassie,” said her old friend, “they are safe in God’s hands.”

“Yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again. But O, Miss Jean!—”

“Ay, lassie! Try ye and measure the blessedness o’ that knowledge. It is no’ in the power o’ evil to harm them, whatever may befall. And, my dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. They may be in at any moment, as my brother says.”

“I might licht the lamp, mem,” said Nannie at the door.

“There is no haste,” said Miss Jean.

“Only its e’erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha’e anxious thoughts for company. Though there’s no occasion as yet. What’s a day and a nicht! Many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and nichts. They may be in at any minute, and I maun keep the kettle boiling, for they’ll be baith cauld and hungry.”

Then Nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she could give since her own fears were so strong.

Mr Dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. The fears which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer put away from him. The sickness of the heart with which he had slept and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again, strange yet familiar. Was it never to leave him more? Was the time coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a dream?

How many fathers had wandered up and down Portie sands, waiting for sons who had never returned! Who was he that he should escape what so many a better man had endured?

But it had not come to that with him yet. Surely God would be merciful to him, and spare so good a man as George to do His own work in the world. He was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words that rose to his lips, lest God should judge him for them.

“I am losing myself, I think,” said he, making a strong effort to restrain his thoughts. “I may as well go back to Jean, or to the pier head.”

No, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful for his hearing,—to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon as his face was turned away. And as for Jean—

Well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less than he. But he was not ready for Jean yet Jean had a way of thinking her prayers answered whatever befell. If George never were to come home, it would not come into Jean’s mind that God had turned a deaf ear to her cry. She would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered in a better way than she could see. That had ay been her way all her life.

“But as for me—when a time like this comes, I canna be sure. It’s like putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught to meet their helplessness.”

That had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear children and their dearer mother. No voice had answered, no help had come. They had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful God in whom Jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all.

He had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he. The clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his face, and heard a voice say,—

“If it has been the fog that has keepit them, they’ll soon be in now, for it will be a clear nicht, and Willie Calderwood kens ilka neuk and ilka rock on the coast for miles. They’ll soon be in now, if the fog is all that has keepit them.”

“What could ha’e keepit them but the fog?” said a woman’s voice. “Ye speak as if ye werena expectin’ them.”

“I’m no’ sayin’. Only if it’s the fog, they’ll soon be in now.”

Mr Dawson moved on lest he should hear more. Of course they would be home now, since the fog was lifting. What should hinder them? But he had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness.

As he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of Willie Calderwood’s face when he came that night with tidings of his son. Oh! the joy of it! Had he not been grateful to God for His goodness then. Was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! God did seem near to him then.

“I had an inkling that night of what Jean may mean when she speaks o’ the blessedness o’ them that rest themselves on God.”

But as to grudging! He was not so sure. Even before he saw his son, had he not been afraid lest, being “a changed man,” as his friend had called him, George might have other aims and other plans of life than he had for him, and disappoint him after all? True he had hated himself for the thought, but it had been there that first night. And afterwards he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and the honour that his father coveted for him among men.

That had all passed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased to grudge, but because, as the father put it, “it had answered well.” George stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to acknowledge it.

George was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky. Unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept them last night might keep them still. How could he bear another night of such suspense?

Another night! It might be days and nights, for all that he could tell. He turned with a sinking heart towards the town again.

“O! Geordie! Oh! my son!”

He did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and a hand was laid on his in the darkness.

“Miss Jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold and wet,” said Marion Calderwood. “Winna ye come with me, Mr Dawson? And, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming at C— Only John Fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions. But it is sure to be them. And, Mr Dawson, winna ye come with me to Miss Jean?”

He had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings up and down the sands. He scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped the hand she had laid on his.

“Ay. We’ll gang in to Jean,” said he.

He leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew near the house. There was light streaming from the windows and from the open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,—

“All’s weel, Mr Dawson. They’re coming hame safe enough.”

“Glad tidings of great joy.” That was what came into Marion’s mind when she heard the words.

They had come already. At Miss Jean’s door Marion was clasped in the arms of her brother, and George wrung his father’s hand and brought him in to the light.

“The Lord is ay kind, George,” said Miss Jean.

But Mr Dawson said nothing. He was too deeply moved for words for a little while, and indeed so were they all.

Nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for George and Mr Dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down together. Afterwards they were glad of this, for Mr Dawson did not see either Marion or her brother again before they went away, and George only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out.

They lingered a good while at the table, though even Willie owned himself tired enough to wish to rest. They had been in no special danger. The misfortune was that the small compass, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the ship in the pocket of George’s coat, and so they had had no means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little during the day. They had been farther out at sea than they supposed, and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell.

“And I canna say that I am proud o’ mysel’ on this occasion,” said Willie laughing.

“But except for the fright that we have given you all, I canna say that I shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep,” he added after a moment. George said nothing, but his eyes and his smile assented to the words of his friend.

The brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do during the day that remained, so it happened that neither George nor Mr Dawson saw them when they called next day at Miss Jean’s, and George only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. There were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he. James Petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed himself to be. His sisters were there also, and some other of Marion’s friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes that remained after George came.

And it was Willie that George came to see, they thought. For he stood with his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the face of each was grave enough as they said their last words to one another.

But George got the last touch of Marion’s hand, and the last glance of her sweet eyes, and the last words which Marion heard, George spoke, and they were words that she had heard him say before—

“My dear little sister.”

Mr Dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last he came in sight George moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes.

“How little I am in his life besides what he is in mine!” thought the old man with a sigh. “But so it ay maun be between father and son, and he is a good son to me—a good son. And it’s no’ for what I have to give him,” added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at his heart. “Though bonny Saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he would be a good son still. And he would not be unhappy, for his portion—that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain to him.”

The old man’s heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as usual when George came in. “Ye’re late the nicht.”

“Yes. I went round by the station to see the Calderwoods off. And I think I have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. I must be tired, I suppose.”

“And no wonder. And so they are gone. And was nothing said about their coming back to Portie again?”

“No. There was time for few words, and there were other people there to see them off—the Petries, and Maggie Saugster, and some others.”

“Was James Petrie there? Then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe he hasna asked the question. I dare say he was as wise.”

To this George made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a little he left the room. But his father’s first words went back to the same subject.

“It is no’ so unwise a thing in James Petrie as it looks, because—”

“His wisdom has to be proved,” said George gravely. And then he held out a letter to his father.

“I don’t believe in bringing business to Saughleas, as a rule, but I thought it as well to let you see this to-night.”

His father took it and read it. It was a business letter—important, but still it might have waited till morning.

“It is because he doesna wish to hear about James Petrie and his hopes. It is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking,” said his father with a sigh. “His is a true and tender heart, and oh! I wish that I could do him a pleasure.” Suddenly there returned to him the thought that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands that weary time of waiting.

“There is nothing which I possessed, that I would not have given for a thank-offering that night. And there is nothing that I would not give now.”

And when George came into the room after a long hour or two, his father was pondering the same matter still.

In a few days Mr Dawson declared that it was quite time that Jean were coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced his intention of going to fetch her.

For in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, Jean was quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way, and there was no need of his going for her sake. But he went, and stayed a few days, and they came home together. Jean had no light to throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he thought she needed his escort home.

But in a few days there came a letter from Mrs Manners to her aunt which said,—

“The strangest thing happened when my father was in London. He went to see Mrs Calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years. Marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. And her mother never told her what he had to say. He only left a small parcel which her mother was to give her when she came home. It turned out to be an exquisite little gold watch. Mrs Calderwood would have refused so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would have been very absurd, as I told Marion. For what is a few pounds more or less to my father. But I would give my own watch and chain too, to know just what was said between them.

“I have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads Jean’s letters, and he might not be pleased that I have told it. But if you think it wise, you may tell George; I am sure he will be glad to hear it. And as for Marion—I do not wonder that she has stolen my father’s heart in spite of him.”

Mrs Manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed. In one way it was very little.

Mr Dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and Mrs Calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see George.

“I have come to say, ‘let by-ganes be by-ganes’ between us. If you can forgive all that is past, give me your hand.”

He spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke sincerely and even eagerly, and Mrs Calderwood could hardly have refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she herself hoped to be forgiven.

“I have never borne ill-will, Mr Dawson,” said she.

“No. And now I see it might have been different if I had been wiser. But—I was hardly myself in those days. He was my only son—and—I had lost his mother—”

He suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood long looking out into the darkening street. His face was quiet enough when he turned toward her again.

“The least said the soonest mended,” said he; “if you will let by-ganes be by-ganes, as I said before. I have had many thoughts since I—well this while—and the other night when they were in danger together—your son and mine—I got a glimpse of what should be. They are true friends, these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than friends also.”

Mrs Calderwood was a woman not easily moved. If he had given her time to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might have met them less cordially. But when this man, whom she had long thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness.

And that was all. Mr Dawson did not even sit down. He did not name Marion till he put the little packet in her mother’s hand, and he did not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so; and no one ever knew from him that he had been there.

But even before their sister’s letter came, both George and Jean knew that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father. When one day they were together in their aunt’s house and she gave them their sister’s letter to read, they understood that something which had burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their aunt’s presence, and she never spoke of it to them.

But she saw, as other folk did, that in their father’s company a new gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness George’s face grew brighter, but on the face of Jean a shade of sadness fell.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Another Home.

“Weel! weel! If the marriage is wi’ auld Mr Dawson’s free consent, then the Ethiopian can change his skin, and that would be makin’ the Bible out nae true. It’s little ye ken! He’s nae a man to change like that.”

It was Mrs Cairnie who spoke, sitting at her daughter’s door, with her crutch at her side. Young Mrs Saugster was sitting inside with her baby on her lap, and her mother-in-law and Maggie, busy with her seam, were with her.

“But Mr Dawson went to the marriage himself, and he wouldna ha’e gone but o’ his ain free will,” said Maggie as no one else answered.

“There’s nae sayin’. Young George has the tow in his ain hand. It’s as he says now, I doubt, about maist things.”

“But he could hardly have wished the auld man to go against his will. And indeed Mr Dawson gets the credit o’ makin’ the marriage himsel’, though that’s likely going beyond the truth,” said old Mrs Saugster. “But what I wonder at is Mrs Calderwood. She is a quait woman, but she is as stiff in her way, and as proud as ever Mr Dawson was; and though she said little at the time, she carried a sair heart and angry, for many a day after she lost her Elsie.”

“Folk change,” said her daughter-in-law. “Ay. And it’s wonderfu’ what folk can outlive.”

“Mrs Calderwood!” repeated Mrs Cairnie. “What about her! It’s a grand marriage for the like o’ her dochter, no’ to say that she has gotten her triumph ower auld George at last. It’s weel to be her.”

“It is all like a tale in a book. Somebody should make a ballad about it,” said Maggie. “It’s no’ often that we see a thing comin’ to the right end, as this ha’e done.”

“The end hasna come yet,” said Mrs Cairnie. “And it’s no’ that richt for some folk. Look at young Miss Jean. She has her ain thoughts, and they are no’ o’ the pleasantest, or her lace doesna tell the truth. And why didna she go to the marriage wi’ the lave?”

“Oh! it wasna as if it had been a fine wedding. It was to be very quiet. And Miss Dawson has Mrs Manners’ boys at Saughleas. She couldna weel leave them, nor her aunt.”

“Weel, maybe no’. But it canna please her to think o’ leaving Saughleas, and letting Marion Calderwood reign in her stead. It’ll come to that, though it seems the young folk are goin’ to the High-street in the mean time.”

“Weel, Miss Dawson may be in a home o’ her ain by that time,” said old Mrs Saugster. “And whether or no’, she’s no’ the first sister in the countryside who has had to give way before a brother’s wife.”

“Mother! Mrs Cairnie! to say such like things about Miss Dawson! Ye ken little about her, if ye think she would grudge to do what is right.”

Maggie, red and angry, looked from one to the other as if she would have liked to say more. Her mother laughed. She knew Maggie’s admiration for young Miss Jean of old, but Mrs Cairnie said sourly,—

“It’s weel seen that ye belong to the rising generation. In my day lassies werena in the way o’ takin’ the words out o’ their mother’s mouth, to say naething o’ folk four times their age. As for young Miss Jean, she’s liker ither folk than ye think.”

“Whisht, mother. See yonder is Miss Dawson coming down the street.”

“Ay, she’ll be on her way to the house in the High-street, though why I should be bidden whisht at the sight o’ her, I dinna ken. And there’s one thing sure. Naebody has seen auld George on his way to the house yet. That doesna look as gin he were weel pleased.”

“Eh, woman! Ha’e ye forgotten? It was there he took Mary Keith a bride. Let him be ever so weel pleased, it will give him a sair heart to go there again.”

There was a slight pause in preparation for Miss Dawson’s greeting, but before she came near them, she was joined by her father and both passed on with only a word.

“He’s hame again. And I canna say I think he looks ower weel pleased,” said Mrs Cairnie.

“It is of Mary Keith he is thinking,” said her friend. “He has a feelin’ heart for a’ sae down as he looks. I doubt he has an ill half hour before him.”

In the mean time Jean and her father had reached the gate which opened into the garden of the High-street house. It was a large and well-built house, higher and with wider windows than most of the houses in Portie, and on the whole it was a suitable place of abode for a young man of George’s means and station. There was only a strip of green between it and the street, but behind it was a large walled garden into which Mr Dawson had never been since he left it for Saughleas long ago. Indeed he had hardly seen the house since the death of his wife. He never came to the town over the fields as the young people were in the way of doing, and he always turned into the High-street from the turnpike road at a lower point than this.

“Papa,” said Jean, arresting her hand which held the old-fashioned knocker of the door, “well go home to-night and come over in the morning. You are tired.”

“No, no. We’ll get it ower to-night,” said her father in a voice which he made gruff in trying to make it steady.

Jean followed the servant into the kitchen and lingered there a while, and Mr Dawson went alone into the once familiar rooms, and not a word of sorrow or sympathy was spoken between them, though the daughter’s heart ached for the pain which she knew was throbbing at the heart of her father. He was looking from the window over the garden to the sea, and he did not turn as Jean came in, so she did not speak, but went here and there giving a touch to the things over the arrangement of which she had spent time and taken pleasure during the last few weeks.

“You must have made yourself busy this while, Jean,” said her father coming forward at last. “And I must say you have done well. It is all that can be desired, I would think. There are some things coming from London, however.”

“Does it not look nice? George had his say about it all. I only helped. I think Marion will be pleased.”

“But they should have been guided by me, and come straight to Saughleas. That would have been the best way.”

“I’m no’ so sure. I think it was natural and right that George should wish to be the head of his own house. No, papa. You are master at Saughleas and ought to be, and I am mistress. Oh! yes, we would both have given up willingly enough, but then neither George nor Marion would have willingly taken our places. But never mind, papa. It will all come in time, and sooner than you think. And I like to think of George bringing his bride to the very house where you brought mamma.”

It was a rare thing for Jean to speak her mother’s name to her father. It came now with a smile, but with a rush of tears also, which surprised herself quite as much as they surprised her father, and she turned away to hide them. It was her father’s loss she was thinking of rather than her own.

“Ay, my lassie! May they be as blessed here as we were,” said her father.

And so the first look of his once happy home was gotten over with no more tender words between them, and they went slowly home together, through the fields this time.

Many things had wrought toward the change which Mrs Cairnie and other folk as well saw in Mr Dawson about this time. The new life which George was making honourable among his fellow townsmen, the firm stand he took on the side of right in all matters where his influence could be brought to bear, the light hold that wealth, or the winning of it for its own sake, had ever had upon him, had all by slow degrees told on the old man’s opinions and feelings. But as to his wish for his son’s marriage with Marion Calderwood, it was Marion herself who had brought that about.

He had noticed her, and had liked her frank, fearless ways before she left Portie, and the sight-seeing together in London, and more still, the few quiet days which she had spent with Miss Jean at Saughleas, won him quite. It was going beyond the truth, as Mrs Saugster had said, to declare that the old man had made the marriage, though it is doubtful whether it would have come about so soon, or whether it would have come about at all, if it had not been for a question or two that he had put to his sister as he sat once in the gloaming in her house.

Then there was a softly spoken word or two between Miss Jean and her nephew, and then George went straight to his father.

“Father, I am going to ask Marion Calderwood to be my wife, if you will give your consent.”

It would not have been like Mr Dawson if he had shown at the first word the pleasure with which he heard it.

“You are of age now, George, and your ain man. I have no right to hinder you.”

“Father,” said George, after a moment’s silence, “I shall think you have not forgiven the past, if you say the like of that.”

The old man’s hand was raised to shade his eyes; he could not quite trust his face to hide his feelings now, but he said in a voice which he tried to make indifferent,—

“I suppose it is to be her or nobody. Is that what you would say to me?”

George made no answer to this.

“I shall never ask her without your full and free consent.”

Mr Dawson’s hand fell and he turned sharply upon him. “And what about her feelings, if that is to be the way?”

“I have never given her a word or a look that a brother might not give to a sister. But I cannot but hope—” added George with a sudden light in his eye, and a rush of boyish colour to his face. “And I thought you liked Marion, father?”

“Like her?” said his father rising. “George, man, go in God’s name and bring her home. She shall be to me like my own daughter. And the sooner the better.”

So George went to London and won his bride—“too easily,” her mother said. Indeed George had more trouble to win the mother than the daughter. It was to the mother he went first.

As for her, unless she could blot out altogether the remembrance of the sorrow and the hard thoughts of all the past, how could she consent to give her child to him?

“And would it not be well to blot them out?” said George.

“Ay, if it could be done. But as for me—I canna forget my Elsie—”

“And do I forget Elsie? when Marion looks at me with Elsie’s eyes and speaks to me with her voice, and—”

“And will that content my Marion, think ye? George, Marion is not just what her sister was. She is of a deeper nature, and is a stronger woman in every way. She is worthy of being loved for her own sake, and nothing less would content her, though she might think it for a while. And oh! George, I cannot bear the thought of having her free heart and her happy life disturbed. To think that she must go through all that!” said the widow with a sigh.

“Dear mother,” said George—it was not the first time he had called her so—and he took her unwilling hand between his own as he spoke, “she shall not be disturbed, unless you give me leave to speak; I will go away again without a word. I will not even see her for a while. I cannot promise to give up the thought of her altogether, but I will go away now.”

But Mrs Calderwood said,—

“No, George. You must see her since you are here, though you must not speak to her of this. She is no longer a child, and I fear I did an unwise thing in trying to keep you out of her sight so long. It kept you in her mind all the more—not you, but a lad of her own fancy with your name. Miss Jean ay said it would be far better to let things take their course, and so it might have been.”

“And do you mean that you kept us from meeting of your own will?”

“Dinna look at me in that way, George. What could I do? You were both young, and she ay made a hero of you. And there was your father. And I wouldna have my bairn’s heart troubled. Not that I mean that she cares for you, as she ought not—”

“Dear mother, let me ask her.”

Mrs Calderwood made a sudden impatient movement. She loved the young man dearly. And her own son, who to her proud thought was “a man among men,” was scarcely dearer. He was a son in all but the name. She loved him, and she believed in him; and even to herself, as she looked at his face, it seemed a foolish and a wrong thing to send him away.

But then it had always been in her thought that these two must never come together in this way, because of her dead Elsie, and because of the hard old man’s angry scorn, which, though she had forgiven him, she could not forget. She could not change easily. It was not her nature. And she could not bear that her Marion’s heart should be disturbed from its maiden peace. She moved about the room uncertain what she ought to say or do, and utterly impatient of her own hesitation. When she sat down again George came and stood before her.

“Mrs Calderwood, my father gave me God speed, and bade me bring her home.”

“Oh! your father,” cried Mrs Calderwood with sudden anger. “Your father has ay gotten his ain will for good or for ill, all his life long. And now to think—”

“His last words were—‘She shall be to me as my own daughter.’”

Mrs Calderwood turned her face away.

“He loves her dearly,” said George softly.

Still she did not speak.

“And, mother,—turn your face to me,—I love her dearly.”

She turned then, and at the sight of his moved face her eyes overflowed with tears.

“Oh! George! you are very dear to me, but my Marion is all I have—”

What more she might have said, he never knew, for the door opened, and Marion came softly in with a letter in her hand. Her mother rose, but she did not move away from George, as was her first impulse, nor did she try to hide her tears. It would have been no use, for they were falling like rain over her face. Marion stood still at the door, looking at them with wonder and a little fear.

George went to her, and taking her hand led her to her mother. He was very pale and his lips trembled as he said,—

“Mother, will you let me speak to her now?”

What she might have answered she could not tell. She dropped into her seat with a little cry, and in a moment Marion was kneeling before her, and then so was George; and, of course, there was only one way in which it could end.

Mrs Calderwood said afterwards that Marion had let herself be too easily won. Marion laughed when she said this.

“I think, mother, I was won long before that day,” said she.

But at the moment the mother could only give her consent. In a little, when George had taken his wife, that was to be, to the other end of the room, Mrs Calderwood picked up the letter which Marion had let fall, and opened it mechanically, letting her eye fall on the written words while her thoughts were elsewhere. But before she had read many words she uttered an exclamation and hastily went out of the room.

Her pride was to be spared at any rate. Nobody had supposed that she would be too easily won. The letter was from Mr Dawson; and by rights she ought to have had it before George came, for it was to bespeak her good word for him that he had written.

It was just, “Let by-ganes be by-ganes. Give your daughter to my son, and she shall be welcomed among us with all the love and honour of which she is worthy—and more cannot be said than that.”

Mrs Calderwood read it and read it again, and her wonder grew. Changed! Surely if ever a man was changed, George Dawson must be to write to her such a letter as that. But when she showed it to her daughter, Marion was only surprised at her amazement. All these kind words did not seem strange to her. She had never heard any but kind words from him.

“I began to think he liked me when I was staying with Mrs Manners, and I was sure of it at Saughleas—only afterwards—and even then—” said Marion not very coherently. But she did not explain her meaning more clearly.

“The sooner the better,” Mr Dawson had said, and George said the same, and so did Jean in a few sweet words that came in a day or two, and so did her aunt. Mrs Manners reminded her husband that she had told him of Marion’s conquest of her father on that first day of her visit to them last year, and also that she had foreseen this happy ending. So with all belonging to George so ready to welcome her child among them, and George himself so dear, what could Mrs Calderwood do but be glad also, and give her up with a good grace?

It was not so difficult a matter after all, she found when she had thus determined. And by and by she forgave her daughter for having been too easily won. And the visionary jealousy which had risen within her at the memory of her lost child vanished, though in her heart she doubted whether her poor dead Elsie had ever won such love as George had now to give her sister.

So the marriage day was set. It was not very soon, George thought, but the time was not unreasonably long, and it was hastened a little at the last. Captain Calderwood came home from his second voyage in his own ship sooner than was expected, and his stay was to be shorter than usual. The wedding was to be a very quiet one, and it could be hastened without interfering seriously with preparations. Marion had set her heart on her brother’s being with her, and it was so arranged, and all things went well.

All things but one. At the very last there came from Jean a letter with many good reasons why she could not come with her father and brother, and with many sweet words of love to the girl “whom she would have chosen from all the world to be her sister.” But Mr Dawson was there, intent on doing honour to the occasion, and Mr and Mrs Manners and Captain Saugster of the “John Seaton,” and of all people in the world, Sir Percy Harefield! who did not, it is to be supposed, come without an invitation, but who possibly suggested to Mr Dawson that he would like to receive one.

And all went well. There was no large party and no regular speech-making. The bridegroom said nothing, Captain Calderwood said only, “If he could have chosen a brother out of all the world, he would have chosen no other;” and Mr Dawson remembered the words of Jean’s letter to Marion, which she had shown him before she sent it away. Mr Dawson said a few words, but he was not so happy, because he could not help again expressing a wish that “by-ganes might be by-ganes,” which Mrs Calderwood thought he might have omitted on that day at least.

It came to an end, and the bride and bridegroom went away, and Mr Dawson and Sir Percy Harefield went with Captain Calderwood to see his ship, and they were all very friendly together; so friendly that Sir Percy had thoughts of turning his back on London and the prospective delights of the moors, and taking the voyage with Captain Calderwood to see what the other side of the world was like.

“And what thought ye o’ Willie himself?” asked Miss Jean, when Mr Dawson was telling her all this, after he had been at home a day or two. “Is he likely to be such a man as his father was?”

“There’s mair o’ him than ever there would ha’e been o’ his father, if he had been spared, poor man. He is much thought of by his employers. I thought him stiff at first. But he thawed out and was cordial and kindly after a little. He would have made the Englishman very welcome to go with him, if he had keepit in the same mind till he sailed. But I doubt, as Jean once said o’ him, he would have found him a heavy handfu’ ere a’ was done. I ken no greater misfortune that can befall a man than to have nothing to do in the world.”

“He has his soldiering?”

“No, he hasna even that now, and he is unfortunate in caring little for the occupations that seem to pass the time for folk o’ his class. He is coming north again, he says, and I dare say we’ll get a sight o’ him.”

“He was ay an idle man, even when he was a poor man.”

“Yes. But I ay think he might have been made something of, if the right woman would have taken him in hand.”

Miss Jean could not agree with him.

“And whether or no’, he needna come north to find her,” said she.

“No, I suppose not, but it is a pity.”

“George, man! I canna but wonder to hear you,” said his sister gravely.

“Weel, he has a kind heart, and I canna but be sorry for him. And he is a perfect gentleman.”

“Being sorry for him is one thing, and being willing to give him our best is another,” said Miss Jean, with a sharpness that made her brother smile. “But I’m no’ feared—”

Miss Jean paused. She was not quite sure that she had nothing to fear. To her it seemed that the Englishman had been wonderfully constant—“for the like o’ him”—and she was not quite so sure of Jean as she used to be.

One day while her father was away, they had been speaking of Mr Dawson’s wish that George should take his bride to Saughleas. Jean had said the best way to settle it would be for her to go away to a house of her own and then George could not refuse to take Marion to Saughleas.

“Weel,” said her aunt, “I dare say that might be brought about, if you could bring your mind to it.”

“I’ll bide a wee,” said Jean laughing, but her face grew grave enough in a minute or two.

“I have ay thought myself of some use to my father and George, but now George is away, and even my father would be content with Marion in my place.”

“That is scarcely the most cheerful way to look at it, or the wisest. And it’s no’ like you, Jean, my dear.”

“Are you thinking that I am jealous of Marion, Aunt Jean? No, it is not that I love her dearly, and I am glad for George, and for my father, since he is pleased. But are you sure that it gave you no pang to give up your brother to Mary Keith?”

Miss Jean smiled, and shook her head.

“I was growing an old woman even at that time. No, though she was almost a stranger to me, I was only glad for George. They loved one another.”

“And besides you were an independent woman, with a life and work of your own, and content.”

“Jean, my dear,” said her aunt, laying down her work and folding her hands on her lap, as was her way when she had something serious to say, “unless ye are keeping something in your heart that ye have never told to me, and there be a reason for it, I would hardly say that you are looking at things with your usual sense and cheerfulness. Do you think that your father has less need o’ you now than he has ay had? And do you think it is because o’ you that George is so set on taking his wife to the High-street? I see no great change that has come to you or your work, and though it is like giving up your brother in a sense, yet you are glad to do it. What has happened to you, my dear? Would it ease your heart to tell it to me?”

Jean had changed colour many times while her aunt was speaking, and now she sat with her eyes turned away to the sea, as if she were considering whether it would be well to speak. Miss Jean kept silence. She needed no words to tell her the girl’s trouble. She had guessed the cause of the weariness and restlessness that Jean could not hide from her, though she could keep a cheerful face before the rest of her world. But she thought it possible that after so long a silence it might do her heart good to speak, if it were only a word, and so she waited silently. But on the whole she was not sorry when Jean rose and took her hat in her hand to go.

“No, Auntie Jean, I have nothing to tell you, positively nothing. I am ‘ower weel off,’ as Tibbie Cairnie says. That is what ails me, I dare say.”

“You’ll ha’e May and her bairns through the summer, and plenty to do, and there is nothing better than that to put away—”

“Discontent,” said Jean, as her aunt hesitated for a word. “My dear, ye should ha’e gone with your father and George. It would ha’e done you good.”

“Well, perhaps it might. But it is too late now. Did I tell you that May wrote that Sir Percy Harefield was at the wedding?”

“No, ye didna tell me.”

“May thinks he asked my father to invite him, and my father seems to be as much taken up with him as ever. He is coming north again, she says.”

“And has his new tide changed him any, and his new possessions, does your sister say?”

“He has grown fat—more portly, May calls it,” said Jean laughing. “She says he is going to Parliament.”

“He’ll do little ill there, it’s likely.”

“And as little good, ye think, auntie. It will keep him out of mischief, as he used to say. And after all, I dare say he will do as well as most of them. He is a gentleman anyway, and that is ay something.”

And then she went away, and while Miss Jean mused on the cause of Jean’s discontent, she could not forget what she called the Englishman’s constancy, and she heartily wished that something might happen to keep him from coming north for a while.

“And I canna help thinking that if Jean had gone to her brother’s marriage, something might have happened to set her heart at rest.”

But that was not Jean’s thought. She had not said until the last moment that she was not going, partly because she wished to avoid discussion, and partly because of something else. The many good reasons by which she had succeeded in convincing her father that it was best for her to stay at home, were none of them the reason why she did not go. That could be told to no one. It was only with pain and something like a sense of shame—though she told herself angrily that there was no cause for shame—that she acknowledged to herself the reason.

“I care for him still, though he has forgotten me. I ay cared for him. And he loved me once, I know well. But if he loved me still, he would come and tell me. I could not go and meet him now—and his mother’s eyes would be on me—and yet, oh! how I long to see his face after all these years!”

After all these years she might well say. For since May’s marriage day, when her heart fell low as Marion told her that her brother had gone away, she had never seen him. He had come north once with George when she was away from home, and he had been in England more than once while she was visiting his sister, but he had never come to see her.

It had hurt her, but she had comforted herself, saying it was because of her father or perhaps also because of his own mother that he did not come. But since Marion was coming home to them, that could be no reason now if he cared, and almost up to the last moment she had waited, hoping that he might come. And then she told herself it was impossible that she should go to meet him, caring for him still.

“And the best thing I can do now is to put it all out of my mind forever.”

If she only could have done so, and she did her best to try. May came home with her father; and she and her pretty boys and her baby daughter were with them all the summer. And by and by George brought home his wife, and it was a gay and busy time with them all.

May, who saw most things that were passing, noticed that in some ways her sister was different from what she used to be. She was not the leader in all the gay doings, but left the young visitors at the house to amuse themselves in their own way. She was intent on household matters, as was right, and she took more time to herself in the quiet of her own room than she used to do. But she was merry enough with the children, and indeed gave much of her leisure to them, going about in the house and the garden with baby Mary in her arms, and the little brothers following in their train for many a pleasant hour.

George brought his wife home to the High-street. Even Mr Dawson after a while acknowledged that they had been wise to secure for themselves the quiet of a house of their own. Not that they began in these first days by living to themselves. There was enough to do. There were gay doings in many homes in honour of the bride, and the honour intended was generally accepted none the less gratefully or gracefully, that the gay doings could have been happily dispensed with by them both.

They had pleasures and occupations of another kind also, for Marion was too well-known to the poor folk of Portie to make her coming among them as young Mrs Dawson an intrusion or a trouble. So the young husband and wife went in and out together, “the very sicht o’ them,” as even Mrs Cairnie owned, “doing a body gude as they passed.”

And on the comings and goings of these happy young people, on the honour paid them, on their kindly words and deeds, and heartsome ways with rich and poor, with old friends and new, Mr Dawson looked and pondered with a constant, silent delight which few besides the two Jeans saw or suspected. Even they could not but wonder sometimes at the unceasing interest he found in them and their doings at home and abroad.

He wondered at it himself sometimes. It was like a new sweet spring of life to him to see them, and to hear about them, and to know that all things went well with them; and though few out of his own household could have seen any change in him, it was clear in many ways to those who saw him in his own house day by day.

“God leads His ain by many ways to Himself,” thought Miss Jean in her solitary musings over it all. “They that think they ken a’ the secrets o’ nature tell us that the flowing waters and the changing seasons, bringing whiles the frost and whiles the sunshine, have made from the rocks that look so unchangeable, much o’ the soil out of which comes bread to us all. And who kens but God’s gender dealings, coming after sore trouble, may prepare his heart for the richer springing o’ the good seed, till it bring forth a hundred-fold to His honour and glory. I ay kenned that the Lord had a richt hold o’ him through all, and that He would show him His face at last. Blessed be His name?”

“It whiles does folk gude to get their ain way about things, though that’s no’ the belief o’ gude folk generally, and nae in the Bible, as they would gar us believe,” said Mrs Cairnie, who never kept her opinions to herself if she could get any one to listen to them. “George Dawson is growing an auld failed man—and nae won’er considerin’ how lang he has been toilin’ and moilin’, gi’ein’ himsel’ neither nicht’s rest nor day’s ease. But auld and failed though he be, there’s a satisfied look on his face that naebody has seen there since the days he used to come in to the kirk wi’ his wife and a’ his bairns followin’ after him,—langer ago than ye’ll mind, Maggie, my woman. And for that matter naebody saw it then. It was satisfaction o’ anither kind that he had in those days, I’m thinkin’.”

“But, grannie,” said Maggie Saugster, giving her the name that the old woman liked best, though she would not acknowledge it, “is it about young Mr and Mrs Dawson you are thinkin’, or is it about May and her bairns? Because I mind ye once said to my mother and me that you doubted the old man wasna weel pleased when Mr George brought Marion Calderwood home.”

“Oh! ay. Ye’re gude at mindin’ things that’s nae speired at you whiles. He’s gotten his will about mair things than that of late, and what I say is, that it has done him gude, as trouble never did.”

“Maybe his satisfaction comes from giving up his ain will, rather than from getting it. I ken the look ye mean, mother,” said her daughter gently.

“Weel, it may be. A thing seems to ha’e taken a turn sin’ I was young. But it’s nae the look his face used to wear when man or woman countered him in the old days.”

“Ay. But it would be different when the Lord took him in hand.”

“The Lord has been lang about it, if it’s only the day that He’s takin’ him in hand. But what I’m sayin’ is this, that it does folk gude to get their ain will about things whiles, and I only wish that the Lord would try it on me, and set me strong on my ain twa feet again,” said Mrs Cairnie, taking up her crutch with a sigh.

“Or satisfy you with His will instead. That would do as well, mother.”

“Weel, weel! That’s your way o’ it, and if I’m allowed to tak’ the wrang gait, it winna be for want o’ tellin’,” said the old woman, moving slowly down to the corner of the street which was almost the length of her tether now. The eyes of the others followed her pitifully.

“She’s nae that sharp now—nae that soon angered, I mean,” said Maggie, with some hesitation, meaning to say something kind, but not quite sure how far her sister-in-law might accept her sympathy.

“No,” said the other after a pause. “And I whiles think that the Lord is getting His will o’ her too, though she hardly kens it hersel’ yet.”

“Ay. As Miss Jean says, the Lord has many ways,” said Maggie reverently.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Suspense.

And so the summer wore over, and May went home with all her children, though Jean would fain have kept one boy with her. But her mother feared the bleak east winds for the rather delicate Georgie who was the favourite at Saughleas, and she had reasons that satisfied herself for taking little Keith home also, but she promised to send them both back again as soon as the winter was over.

The summer ended, and autumn days grew short, and a quiet time came that reminded Jean of the days when May had gone to London “to meet her fate,” and she was waiting for the coming home of the “John Seaton.” There was the same long dreaming in the gloaming, before her father came in, the same listening to the woeful voices of the winds and the sea, and the same shadow on Jean’s face and in her wistful eyes that her father had seen in those days—now so long ago. He sometimes surprised it now, but, if this happened, it went hard with Jean if she did not make him forget it before he slept.

About the new year Mrs Calderwood’s old friend died, and when her will was read, to her surprise Mrs Calderwood found that she had left her money enough to enable her to live henceforth free from the cares which accompany the task of making too little do the work of enough, as had been her lot during the greater part of her life of widowhood.

George, who had gone to London to be with her at that time, insisted on bringing her back to Scotland with him. She had exhausted herself in attendance on her old friend, and she needed a change. Later she was to return and make all necessary arrangements, but in the mean time it would have been neither wise nor kind he thought to leave her there alone.

For this George had a better reason than he gave to her. News had come of terrible storms that had passed over Southern seas. Already rumours of disaster and loss had reached England, and the owners of Captain Calderwood’s ship, the “Ben Nevis,” were beginning to feel some anxiety with regard to her.

Another ship, the “Swallow,” had arrived from Melbourne, bringing word that the “Ben Nevis” was to have sailed three days after the time she had put to sea. The voyage had been a long one, though happily the “Swallow” had passed beyond the latitudes where the storms had raged most fiercely before the danger had arisen. The “Ben Nevis” was the swifter vessel of the two, and by rights, she ought to have reached England before her. And when ten days passed, and then ten more, there was good reason for fear for her safety.

Happily Captain Calderwood’s outward voyage and his stay in Melbourne had been shorter than his mother had calculated upon, so that as yet no thought of anxiety had come to disturb her, and she was glad to go with George, believing that she could pay a few weeks in Scotland with her daughter, and still be in London in time to receive her son when he should return.

It was Mrs Calderwood’s first visit after an absence of several years, to a place which had been her home during the greater part of her life. There were many to welcome her, and there was much to see and hear, and she was greatly occupied. But George wondered sometimes that she should live on from day to day, showing no misgivings, even no surprise, at the continued absence of her son.

He need not have wondered. She had been a sailor’s daughter, and a sailor’s wife, and she had lived the greater part of her life among sailors’ wives and widows, and had learned the necessity of giving no unwise indulgence to fancies and fears, and to keep quiet and face them when fears and fancies had to give place at last to a knowledge of disaster and loss.

She had had anxious thoughts doubtless while she awaited the expected summons to meet her son, when the ship should be heard from, but outwardly she was calm and even cheerful. It was wise for her own sake not to dwell on her fears—which indeed were hardly fears as yet, but only a vague movement of surprise and impatience that she should have to wait so long. And it was wise also for the sake of her daughter, who was not so strong as usual. So she kept herself cheerful and seemed to be taking so little thought of what might be awaiting her, that George questioned at last whether it might not be both kind and wise to prepare her for the shock which he began to fear must come soon. This painful task did not fall to him however, and Mrs Calderwood was already better prepared for it than he knew.

It was drawing near the end of February by this time, and it was a milder season than Portie often sees. There were weeks of bleak weather to come yet, for this eastern coast rarely escapes a full share of that sooner or later. But in the mean time the days were fair and calm, and looking over a pale grey sea, bright now and then with a blink of sunshine, thoughts of storm and danger did not come so readily, as with a wild and angry sea they might have done. But even Marion was beginning to wonder that her mother said nothing of what might be keeping the “Ben Nevis” so long.

And then a single word came to break the silence between them, and they knew that the mother’s quietness had cost her something. But she was quiet still when doubts and fears and even despair were busy at her heart.

They were still sitting at breakfast one fair morning when Jean came in. She was just as usual, they all thought at the moment, but afterwards each remembered the look on her face as she opened the door. The air had brought a colour to her cheeks, so she was not pale, but there was a startled look in her eyes as she turned them from one to another before she uttered a word. It changed as she marked the unmoved face of each.

She kissed Marion, and then, strangely enough, she kissed Mrs Calderwood, and laid two pale primroses, the first of the season, on a book which she held in her hand.

They were friendly, these two, and even more than friendly, but there was always a touch of shyness and reserve between them, even when they were most friendly. Marion, who so dearly loved them both, saw it and wondered at it often, but she smiled now as Jean stooped and touched her lips to her mother’s cheek. Mrs Calderwood grew a shade paler, and a question came into her eyes as she met Jean’s look. But Jean had no answer for it.

“I found them in a sheltered nook in the wood when I was out this morning. They are come earlier than usual, and there will soon be more of them.”

Jean did not meet her look as she thanked her, but turned to George who was preparing to go out, nor would she sit down.

“I only looked in as I passed, to see if all was well with you. I have many things to do, but I will come in again before I go home, unless I should be detained longer than I expect in the town.” So in a little she and her brother went out together. “Are you taking the paper with you, George?” said Mrs Calderwood following them to the door.

“Not if you wish to see it. I will send for it by and by when I want it.”

“You have seen it, George?” said Jean as they went on. “If you mean the paragraph about the ‘Ben Nevis,’ yes, I have seen it. It does not say much beyond the usual, ‘Fears are entertained for the safety, etc.’”

“And now she will see it.”

“Yes, I think it is as well. It will help to prepare her for what she may have to hear later.”

“George,” said Jean in a little, “does that mean that you are afraid?”

“There is cause for anxiety. There was that before we left London. I only wonder that Mrs Calderwood has said so little about it.”

“And you left London more than six weeks ago.” George told her of the succession of terrible storms that had swept over the Southern seas about the close of the year, in latitudes where possibly the “Ben Nevis” had been at that time, acknowledging that there would be reason to fear for the fate of the ship unless she were heard from soon. His anxiety had been greater than he knew, and he had kept it to himself so long that to speak was a relief, which led him to say more to his sister than he would otherwise have done. His words were less hopeful than he meant them to be, until Jean said, “Do you mean that you give them up?”

“By no means. I do not even give up the ship. I know Willie Calderwood and what he can do too well to do that yet a white. And even if they had to forsake the ship, the chances are in favour of safety for the men. All that depends on circumstances of which we can know nothing. But I by no means give up the ship even yet.”

“But, George, should you not have stayed to tell Mrs Calderwood so?”

“No, I think not. There will be time enough for that, and she is of a nature to meet the first pain best alone.”

“But Marion?”

“She will not speak to Marion at once. And, Jean, it is as well that the awful possibility of loss should be admitted. But my hopes are stronger than my fears.”

“The awful possibility of loss?” Jean repeated the words with white lips, not knowing that she did so. They had lengthened their walk, passing Miss Jean’s house and going on to the pier. They turned now and came back in silence. At Miss Jean’s door they paused.

“It will be as well to say nothing as yet,” said George.

“Not to Aunt Jean?”

“Oh! yes. I have spoken to her already. I mean to people generally. And, Jean, go and see Marion and her mother again before you go home.”

But Jean said nothing to her aunt about what she had heard. She stayed her usual time, and discussed certain purchases that were to be made of material for the summer outfit of some of her aunt’s “puir bodies,” and went into matters of detail as to quantity, and needles and thread, and as to the help that each would need in the making of her gown. And then she went away and did all else that she meant to do when she left home, and lingered over it, till it was too late, she told herself, to go to the High-street again.

Three days passed before she went there, and the like had seldom happened since Marion came home. She did not know how she could speak to the mother of the anguish and suspense that lay before her, and she shrank from a betrayal of her own pain.

But when she went in on the fourth day it struck her with surprise to see that they were just the same as usual. No change of grief or terror had passed upon them. Mrs Calderwood was grave and pale, but she spoke about various matters cheerfully enough, though she made no allusion to the fears for her son.

Marion spoke of her brother, and said how hopeful George was about him, and how the old sailors about the pier were saying to one another, that Captain Calderwood was not the man to be caught unprepared for a storm, and being prepared, with plenty of sea room, what was there to fear? He would bring his ship home all right. There was no fear of that.

But the next news that came made even the old sailors shake their heads when the ship was spoken of. A boat had been picked up by a South American vessel, filled with men from the wreck of the “Ben Nevis” and from the Southern port to which these had been carried came the tidings.

They had encountered a succession of storms, which had so strained and shattered the good ship “Ben Nevis,” that there seemed a fairer chance of escaping with life by betaking themselves to the boats than by remaining with the ship. There were not many passengers on board, only seventeen all told. Nine of these, with four sailors, were in the boat which the American had saved when they had been five days away from the wreck.

They could say nothing of those whom they had left on board, though they had still seen the ship afloat in the distance on the second day. There was no familiar name in the list of the rescued, but it was said that the weather had moderated while they were in the vicinity of the ship, and there seemed no reason to doubt that the rest of the passengers and crew had been able to save themselves.

Captain Calderwood’s name was mentioned in terms that brought tears of pride and sorrow to the eyes of those who loved him. His courage and kindness and patience had never failed through all the terrible days of storm. Discipline had been maintained through all, as perfectly as during the summer calm that preceded those awful days; and the last sight which the rescued saw as they drew off from the ship, to await the manning of the other boats, was their captain standing on the deck encouraging them with hand and voice.

And that was all. But that was much, and now they could wait for further tidings with patience. On the whole they kept in good heart for a while. But as time went on, the suspense and anxiety of the days that went before, seemed to pass into each new day as it came. For they knew that each passing day without tidings mocked the hope they had so long cherished.

Through all the mother waited quietly. Never quite without hope that she would see her son again, but after a while the poor pretence of cheerfulness for which she had striven, because of Marion, failed beyond her power to help it. The silent patience which had been the habit of her life under other troubles, stood her in good stead now. And when this failed her, and the restlessness, of a slowly dying hope came upon her, she would go away by herself till she could hide all tokens of her pain again.

Sometimes she went to Miss Jean’s for comfort, but often when her daughter believed her to be there, she was walking up and down the wet sands, or sitting in some sheltered nook among the rocks, striving for calmness to bear to the end. She had gone through it all before, and now she seemed to be waiting again and longing and fearing for his father, while she waited for her only son. When other eyes were upon her she was calm enough, and troubled no one with her trouble, but she needed the rest which solitude gave her to carry her through the lengthening days.

Marion bore the long suspense well, they all said. She was young, and it was her nature to look for brightness rather than gloom, and no such trouble had come upon her as had darkened the life of her mother. There were only hopeful views expressed in her presence, and though she knew that cheerfulness was encouraged and often assumed for her sake, she had the sense and courage to respond to the efforts of those who loved her, and to keep herself quiet and patient for their sakes.

One good came to Mrs Calderwood out of the trouble of those days. She had forgiven Mr Dawson the hard words and unreasonable anger of the old days, or she believed that she had, but even to herself she could not say that she had forgotten them. She was never quite at her ease in his presence. It was not so much that she disliked him, as that she could not convince herself that he did not dislike her. The sight of her could only, she thought, recall to him much that he could not but wish to forget; and if she could do so, without remark, she generally chose to be out of the way during his frequent visits to the house.

But whatever he might feel towards her, there could be no doubt as to the esteem in which he held her son, or as to the anxiety which he shared with them all. He was not, as a general thing, ready with words of sympathy, but she had seen tears in his eyes more than once as he spoke her son’s name, and her heart could not but soften towards him, and a real friendliness, which in other circumstances might have come but slowly, grew up in this troubled time between them.

There was no lack of sympathy. Not a man or woman in Portie, but felt deeply for the trouble of Willie Calderwood’s mother and sister, though they were for the most part shy as to any expression of it. Indeed Mrs Calderwood kept out of the way of words. George guarded his wife from the hearing of any thing that would move her out of her usual quiet, and when he was not at hand, Jean guarded her as carefully for his sake.

To Jean, as to the rest, the days passed slowly and heavily. To the eyes of even her aunt she was just as usual, no graver nor sadder than was natural since a friend, and one who was more than a friend to those she loved, was in danger. But no one ever heard her speak of the anxiety that oppressed them all. She listened in silence when, as is the way at such times, the causes for hope or fear were gone over, and over, and over again, or she went away and did not listen, but she never put in her word with the rest.

It was only as a friend that she had a right to grieve for Willie Calderwood, she told herself. They had never been lovers. They had cared for one another long ago—oh! so long ago now. But they had not seen one another for years, because he had not cared to see her, and it was all past now. She had been angry at first, and then sorry. Yes, she had suffered sharply for a while, she acknowledged. But she was neither sorry nor angry now. She was anxious for his safety, and she longed for his return, as all his friends did. And her heart ached for his mother and his sister, and for George, to whom he was both brother and friend. And that was all.

But a day came when her heart spoke, nay, cried out as the heart of no mere friend could cry. She was sitting one day in Miss Jean’s parlour, when her brother came in. There were tears in his eyes and a strange, uncertain smile on his lips, and he laid his hand on her shoulder as she stood by the window, pausing a moment before he spoke, as if he were not sure of his voice.

“Jean,” he said, “there is news at last.”

Jean grew very white.

“Well?” said she sitting down.

“Is it good news, George, man?” said his aunt hastily.

“It is just such news as one would expect to hear from Willie Calderwood. Yes, I call it good news, whatever may come next.”

And then he told them how another of the “Ben Nevis’” boats had been heard from. After much suffering from anxiety and exhaustion, they who left the ship in it had landed somewhere on the West African coast, and had, after some delay, been taken from thence in a Portuguese vessel to Lisbon. And now some of them at least had reached England. And this was the news they brought.

When those who were to go in the second boat were about to take their places in it, Captain Calderwood had, to their utter amazement, declared his intention of remaining with the ship for that night at least. The vessel was new and strongly built, and within the hour he had seen some tokens that led him to believe that, during the storm, it had not gone so hardly with her as had been at first feared.

The cargo was a valuable one, and his duty to his employers demanded that, while there was a chance of saving it and the ship, he should remain on board. At the same time he acknowledged, that as far as could now be judged, there was but a chance in ten, that he could do this, while by taking to the boats at once, there was a fair prospect of their being picked up by one of the many homeward bound vessels which at that season followed the course which they had taken.

Then he called for volunteers to remain with him. Not a man among the sailors but would have stayed at his bidding. But an able crew was placed in the departing boat, and he was left with just men enough to work the ship, among them three passengers, should all go well. Should they find when the night was over, that chances were against saving the ship, they also were to take to the boat and do what might be done to escape with the rest.

They who were in the second boat had stayed in the vicinity of the ship that night and the next day and night, but when the second morning dawned she was no longer to be seen. Whether she had sunk or whether she had sailed away out of their sight they had no means of knowing, nor could they form any conjecture as to the fate of those who remained on board. They might have betaken themselves to the boat at the last moment, or they might have gone down with the ship.

But whatever had happened this was sure—No braver man or better sailor than Captain Calderwood had ever commanded a ship. This was all that was to be told about the “Ben Nevis.”

“And what do you gather from it all?” said Miss Jean in a little. “Ye dinna give up all hope?”

“We can only wait patiently a little longer. If the bringing home of the disabled ship was a thing to be done, Captain Calderwood was the man to do it. No, I by no means give up hope. He may come any day now.”