Chapter Ten.Mrs Calderwood.Mrs Calderwood’s house faced the sea a little nearer the pier head than Miss Jean’s, and Miss Dawson nodded and smiled to her aunt in the window as she passed, hardly confessing to herself that she felt a little anxious as to how she might be received.“But she’ll not be likely to put on her stiff, silent manner in her own house,” said she, encouraging herself.Mrs Calderwood was not alone. Mrs Cairnie was with her, asking advice and sympathy for “a beeled thoom,” and Mrs Calderwood was in the act of applying a warm poultice to relieve the pain. In the poor old woman’s eagerness to tell her troubles to a new listener, the awkwardness of the first moment was got over. Nor was Mrs Cairnie in any hurry to leave when the interesting subject was exhausted.“So ye didna gang up to Lunnon with your father, Miss Dawson? Ye’re wise to bide and let the great folk come to seek you. It’s a thankless job whiles gaen after them.”This of course required no reply.“And are ye your leafu’ lane at Saughleas? But I suppose ye’re used with it now—the big hoose and the few in it. It is changed times since ye used to bide in the High-street. But being an eddicated leddy, ye’ll ha’e resources in yoursel’, as the books say.”No, Miss Dawson did not like being “her leafu’ lane” in the big empty house, and she turned to Mrs Calderwood with her request for Marion’s company. But Tibbie had not yet said her say.“Your leafu’ lane! It’s little ye ken what that means. Bide ye till the time come when ye lie through the lang nichts o’ a hale (whole) winter, hearkening to the awfu’ things that the winds and the waves are crying in at your window and doon your lum (chimney), and some o’ yours far awa’ on the sea—and syne ye’ll ken. Oh! the weariness o’t, and the dreariness o’t, and nae help frae Heaven aboon nor frae earth beneath, but just to sit still and wait for their hame coming. And whiles they come, and whiles they never come—and ane canna be sure even o’ their loss till years go by. Eh! woman’ ye little ken, but speir ye at Mrs Calderwood.”She paused a moment in the surprise of seeing Jean’s face grow pale as she listened, but went on again before any one spoke.“I’m through wi’t, for the last o’ mine was lost lang syne. But she has ane yet—as far as she kens. God be gude to him! Ye’ve had no word o’ the ‘John Seaton’ as yet, mem?”“Not yet; it is not to be expected yet,” said Mrs Calderwood quietly. “Martha will give you a cup of tea. You will be the better of it, as you were able to take little breakfast; and I hope your thumb is past the worst now.”Mrs Cairnie felt herself to be dismissed beyond even her power to linger.“Many thanks to ye, mem, and ye ha’e nae occasion to be mair anxious than ordinar’ as yet. And ye can just encourage ane another—and I’se awa’ hame.”“Poor bodie! she has had her share of trouble in her day, and some of it she brought on herself, which makes it none the lighter, I dare say,” said Mrs Calderwood as she shut the door.“You are not growing anxious, Mrs Calderwood, are you?” said Jean. “It is not time to be anxious yet?”“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 thatnowat 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.
Mrs Calderwood’s house faced the sea a little nearer the pier head than Miss Jean’s, and Miss Dawson nodded and smiled to her aunt in the window as she passed, hardly confessing to herself that she felt a little anxious as to how she might be received.
“But she’ll not be likely to put on her stiff, silent manner in her own house,” said she, encouraging herself.
Mrs Calderwood was not alone. Mrs Cairnie was with her, asking advice and sympathy for “a beeled thoom,” and Mrs Calderwood was in the act of applying a warm poultice to relieve the pain. In the poor old woman’s eagerness to tell her troubles to a new listener, the awkwardness of the first moment was got over. Nor was Mrs Cairnie in any hurry to leave when the interesting subject was exhausted.
“So ye didna gang up to Lunnon with your father, Miss Dawson? Ye’re wise to bide and let the great folk come to seek you. It’s a thankless job whiles gaen after them.”
This of course required no reply.
“And are ye your leafu’ lane at Saughleas? But I suppose ye’re used with it now—the big hoose and the few in it. It is changed times since ye used to bide in the High-street. But being an eddicated leddy, ye’ll ha’e resources in yoursel’, as the books say.”
No, Miss Dawson did not like being “her leafu’ lane” in the big empty house, and she turned to Mrs Calderwood with her request for Marion’s company. But Tibbie had not yet said her say.
“Your leafu’ lane! It’s little ye ken what that means. Bide ye till the time come when ye lie through the lang nichts o’ a hale (whole) winter, hearkening to the awfu’ things that the winds and the waves are crying in at your window and doon your lum (chimney), and some o’ yours far awa’ on the sea—and syne ye’ll ken. Oh! the weariness o’t, and the dreariness o’t, and nae help frae Heaven aboon nor frae earth beneath, but just to sit still and wait for their hame coming. And whiles they come, and whiles they never come—and ane canna be sure even o’ their loss till years go by. Eh! woman’ ye little ken, but speir ye at Mrs Calderwood.”
She paused a moment in the surprise of seeing Jean’s face grow pale as she listened, but went on again before any one spoke.
“I’m through wi’t, for the last o’ mine was lost lang syne. But she has ane yet—as far as she kens. God be gude to him! Ye’ve had no word o’ the ‘John Seaton’ as yet, mem?”
“Not yet; it is not to be expected yet,” said Mrs Calderwood quietly. “Martha will give you a cup of tea. You will be the better of it, as you were able to take little breakfast; and I hope your thumb is past the worst now.”
Mrs Cairnie felt herself to be dismissed beyond even her power to linger.
“Many thanks to ye, mem, and ye ha’e nae occasion to be mair anxious than ordinar’ as yet. And ye can just encourage ane another—and I’se awa’ hame.”
“Poor bodie! she has had her share of trouble in her day, and some of it she brought on herself, which makes it none the lighter, I dare say,” said Mrs Calderwood as she shut the door.
“You are not growing anxious, Mrs Calderwood, are you?” said Jean. “It is not time to be anxious yet?”
“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 thatnowat 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.
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 sitWi’ their fans into their hands,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!“And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi’ 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.
“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,”
“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.”
“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 sitWi’ their fans into their hands,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!“And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi’ the gowd (gold) kames in their hair,Awaiting for their ain true loves,For them they’ll see nae mair—”
“And lang, lang may the ladies sitWi’ their fans into their hands,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!“And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi’ 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.