Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Six.Safety.And so the nights passed and the long days, and even Jean’s heart sprang up to meet the next news that came.The ship “Ben Nevis,” Captain Calderwood, supposed to be lost, had been spoken at sea by a vessel homeward bound. Her latitude and longitude were given, and it was said that considering her condition, she had made good progress since the time her boats had left her. She lay low in the water and laboured heavily, but her captain and crew were in good heart, and with fair wind and such weather as they might hope for now, they were sure soon to reach an English harbour.So hopes were raised and courage renewed. Mrs Calderwood would fain have remained in London to meet her son when he came; but the time of his coming was uncertain, and he might even put in to some nearer port, and her daughter needed her. So she returned home to Portie with George again.And when they came it was to find Marion the joyful mother of a son. The news had been duly telegraphed to London as soon as possible after the event, but they had left before that time. It was Mr Dawson himself who met them at the station with the news, and passing by George without a word, it was to Mrs Calderwood that he told it with a trembling but triumphant voice. There were tears in the eyes that she had always thought so cold and hard, and these tears washed away the last touch of pained and angry feeling from the heart of the mother of poor dead Elsie.If any thing could have added to the old man’s pride and delight in his grandson, the fact that he had drawn his first breath in Saughleas would have done so. Not that either his pride or his delight was made very evident to the world in general. He answered inquiries and accepted congratulations with as much composure as was compatible with the satisfaction that the occasion warranted, it was thought, and perhaps with rather more. But even the world in general began to acknowledge that he was growing to have gender and more kindly ways than he had once had, and folk agreed with Mrs Cairnie, that it had done him good to get his own will.As for George, he took his new happiness soberly enough to all outward appearance. There was still so much anxiety as to the fate of the “Ben Nevis” as to temper the joy of the young father and mother over their firstborn, and to make them quiet and grave in the midst of it. But their hopes for their brother and those who had stayed with him were stronger than their fears, and even Mrs Calderwood took heart and did not shrink from the hearing of her son’s name. Her care for her daughter and her grandson left her little time to brood over her fears, and she felt that to do so, would be “to sin against her mercies,” since her daughter had been spared to her and was growing stronger every day.As Marion grew strong, and Mrs Calderwood devoted herself to her, Jean had more time for herself, spent much of it in the wood or on the shore, or in her aunt’s parlour, which, during those days, she found to be as good a place as either the wood or the shore for the indulgence of her own thoughts. For Miss Jean troubled her with few words; but sat silent, seeing without seeming to see, that all was not well with her niece.It was a rest for Jean to sit there in the quiet room, and it is not to be wondered at that there were times when she forgot to keep guard over her face, as even before her aunt she had done of late. At such times her aunt regarded her anxiously. She had become thin and white, and her eyes had grown large and wistful; as her mother’s eyes had been, before she had resigned herself to the knowledge that she must leave them all.“A word or two might do her good, if I could ken the right word to say,” thought Miss Jean, as she sat one day watching the stooping figure and averted face. The suspense about the “Ben Nevis” would soon be over, but Miss Jean’s thought was that the ending of this suspense would not be the ending of her bairn’s troubles. However her first words turned that way.“It canna be long ere we hear now.”“No. It canna be long,” said Jean, recalling her thoughts and taking up her work again.“And they all seem to be in good heart about the ship. They may come any day. It has been a long time of suspense to his mother, and to us all.”“Yes. It has been a long time.”“It will soon be over now in one way or another. And even if he should never come, it will only be like a longer voyage, that will be sure to have a happy ending in a peaceful haven, where the mother and son are sure to meet.”“And she will have him for her own at last.”Neither spoke for a long time after this. Jean’s head drooped lower, and though her eyes were on the sea, it was not the harbour of Portie that she saw, but a wide waste of ocean with a labouring ship, making for her desired haven, it might be, but bringing no one home to her. She rose and moved restlessly about the room.“I wish you were able to go for a little walk, auntie. Dinna ye think it might do ye good to take a turn or two up and down by the sea?”“No’ the day, my dear. But if ye would like to go out, never heed me. I think myself that a walk would do you good, or a fine long seam, such as your mother used to give you to do, when your restlessness was ower muckle for yourself and others. But the walk would be more to your mind, I dare say.” Jean laughed.“But then, I have the long seam ready to my hands,” said she, sitting down again and taking up her work resolutely. By and by, when she forgot it and her face was turned seaward again, her aunt laid down hers also and said softly, with a certain hesitation,—“Jean, my dear, did you and Willie Calderwood part friends?”Jean sat absolutely motionless for a minute or two. “Yes, aunt, we were friends always. As to parting—”“Weel—as to parting?”“We had no parting. He went away without a word.”“That was hardly like a friend on his part,” said Miss Jean gravely, and then in a little she added,—“And, Jean, love, were ye never mair than friends?” Then Jean rose, and turning looked straight in her aunt’s face.“No. Never more than friends. You surely havena been thinking ill thoughts of Willie, auntie?”“That’s nae likely. But whiles I ha’e wondered—and now that he is coming hame—” Jean stood a moment irresolute, and then coming forward she sat down on a hassock at her aunt’s feet, as she often did, and leaned her head upon her hand.“Jean, my dear, have ye nothing to say to me?”“No, aunt. There is nothing. I have no more right to grieve or to be glad for Willie Calderwood than any one of his many friends in Portie.”“Grief or gladness is whiles no’ a question o’ rights,” said Miss Jean gently.Jean said nothing. She was too weary and spent to be very angry with herself for the weakness which had betrayed her secret. But she had strength and courage to shut her lips on the words that rose to them. And before her aunt had time for another word they heard Mrs Calderwood speaking to Nannie at the door. Except for a sudden bright colour that had risen to her cheeks, Jean was just as usual when she came in.“There’s nae news?” said Miss Jean.This had long been her first salutation to any one coming in.“No, there is nothing more,” said Mrs Calderwood.“Weel, we maun just have patience.”Jean brought forward an easy chair for her aunt’s friend, and carried out some tea for Nannie to make a cup to refresh her after her walk. But she did not sit down again.“I’ll go now. I have something to get in the town. Shall I come round this way again, Mrs Calderwood, so that we may walk home together? or will it be too long for you to wait?”It would not be too long. There was no haste, Mrs Calderwood said. George had gone home already and was to take Marion out for a little while, and they might come round this way to get a sight of Miss Jean. So Jean promised to return, and then she went out, not quite knowing where she was to go, or what she was to do. But it was settled for her. For as she turned into the High-street she met her father.“I was going to your aunt’s to say that I am going to John Stott’s. I canna say just when I may be home, and you are not to wait for me.”“Is John worse, papa? Let me go with you. I needna go into the house.”“I doubt he is near as bad as he can be, and be living. I doubt it is ower far.”“Ower far! No’ for me, if it’s no’ ower far for you. And I have nothing to do that canna be put off. And it is a long time since we have had a walk together.”So, well pleased, they set out John Stott was a labourer who had long been in Mr Dawson’s employment. He had been for days ill with fever, and was now supposed to be dying. They spoke of him a little, and of the helpless family he would leave, and of the best manner of helping them without making their help seem like alms. For John had long been a faithful servant, and Mr Dawson meant to set his heart at rest about those, he was leaving; indeed this was the reason of his visit at this time.Then after a little he spoke, not quite so hopefully as usual about the “Ben Nevis,” saying they must hear soon now, or they would have to give her up altogether. Then he went on to say how well it was that Marion had grown so strong before any particular excitement either of joy or pain had come to disturb her.“She is very well,” said Jean. “George is going to take her out in the pony carriage this afternoon, her mother told us. I left her at Aunt Jean’s.”“I doubt that is venturesome of him. I hope he’ll take the best of the afternoon to it. And that is near over already. He’ll be thinking of taking her back to the High-street again, I suppose,” said he discontentedly, “unless we can persuade them to bide at Saughleas altogether.”Jean was silent a minute or two.“There are just two things that would be likely to prevent them,” said she.“Weel, let us hear of them.”“One is that except for a while, Mrs Calderwood would not easily be persuaded to think of Saughleas as her home; and both George and Marion wish her to remain with them.”“Which is but right. George is no’ a man to let himself be vexed with his mother-in-law, even were she a more difficult person. But why should she not live with them at Saughleas?”But as he asked the question he saw that such a thing would seem impossible to Mrs Calderwood. It was not a matter for discussion, however.“And what is the other reason?”“It is not a very good reason. Both George and Marion think that I should be the mistress of Saughleas, while I am there. They think, and other folk think, that I would not like to—to be set aside. And I might not like it. But if it were the best way for all, my not liking it would be a small matter.”Mr Dawson muttered impatiently,—“Ay. It’s ay said that twa women canna agree in the same house. But I think, Jean, ye might show them something else. I’m sure Marion wouldna be ill to live with.”“It is not a matter of agreement or disagreement, papa. There cannot be two mistresses in any house with comfort to, any one concerned. And there need not be two if Marion were willing. And if I were not there she would fall naturally into her right place. I might go away for a little while, papa, and when I came back I might fall into the second place, and make no work about it. Or I might bide with Auntie Jean.”“Nonsense! Bide with Auntie Jean, indeed! If you were going to a house of your ain, it might do. But good and dear as Marion is, I could ill bear to see you put out of your place in your father’s house, even for her.”“Yes, if I cared, papa. I might once when I was younger. But I dinna think that I could care much now.”Mr Dawson looked at her curiously, but Jean’s eyes were turned away to the sea.“But even if that were the best way—which I am far from thinking—there is ay Mrs Calderwood and her wishes to be considered. I doubt we’ll just need to let them go.”“But I think—and Aunt Jean thinks—which is more to the purpose—that Mrs Calderwood would hardly content herself in her daughter’s house wherever it was, for a continuance. I mean that she would rather be in a home of her own. That might be got over.”There was silence between them for some time, and then Jean said with more earnestness than she had shown yet,—“Papa, will you let me tell you just what I would like? I would like you to give me the house in the High-street for a present—as a part of my portion—just as if I were to be married, ye ken. And then I would persuade my aunt and Mrs Calderwood to live there together. And by and by when I grow old—and have not you any longer, I could live there myself.”Mr Dawson listened to her with mingled feelings, but he said quietly, “What would two women folk, seeing little company, do with a big house like that? And you could never persuade them.”“But they would see company more or less, and have folk coming for the summer. And the house is not so very big, and none too good for the ‘auld laird’s’ sister, and the ‘young laird’s’ mother. And I think I could persuade them. And if this were all settled George would be content to bide with you at Saughleas. And I could—come and go.”“Jean,” said her father gravely, “why do you ay speak as if you were never to have a house of your own? I’m no’ pleased to hear you.”“But, papa, I never do. That is what I am wanting—a house of my own—sometime—not just yet.”“But I am not thinking of such a home as ye could make to yourself in the house in the High-street, but of something quite different.” Jean laughed. “I canna help it, papa.”“But ye might have helped it.”“No, papa, I never could yet.”“Weel! weel! We’ll say nae mair about it. It’s nae ower late yet. We maun ha’e patience, I suppose.”Though Jean laughed her face grew strangely grave and sad, her father thought, as they went on in silence together.“You might think about it, papa, and speak to Aunt Jean about it. I should never feel safe or happy to be long away from Portie, unless there were some one ay with Aunt Jean. And I think that she and Marion’s mother would suit one another as no one else would suit either of them. They would be busy and happy together, and I should feel safe about my aunt wherever I might be.”“But why should you speak as if you were not to be here? Why should you go away?”“Only for a little while, papa. And then George and Marion would stay. And it is not for that altogether. I would like to go a while for my own sake. I think I need a change.”“Are ye no’ weel?” said her father in some surprise.“Oh! I am well enough; but I would like to go away for a little. I am tired, I think. We have been anxious, you know, especially when George and Mrs Calderwood were away. And I think I am wearying for a sight of May and the bairns. I know a change would be good for me, for a little, I mean.”She spoke with some difficulty, and the colour was coming and going on her cheek. Her father’s surprise changed to anxiety as he regarded her. He saw as her aunt had seen, that she had grown thin and pale, and that her eyes looked large and anxious, like eyes that had slept little of late.“What ails ye, my lassie? Ye’re surely no’ weel. If it’s only May and her bairns that ye’re wanting, ye can easy get them. Only,” continued Mr Dawson after a little, “it might hardly look kind to go away now, till the ‘Ben Nevis’ has been heard from again.”“No, I suppose not.”“And if we shouldna hear—ye’ll be needed all the more. Willie Calderwood will be a hero to the seafaring folk o’ Portie when he does come. And I dare say ye’ll like to see him as well as the rest.”“Yes. It is long since I saw him.”“If he brings the ‘Ben Nevis’ safe to an English port, his reputation will be established, and his fortune will be made. That is as far as a mere sea captain can be said to be able to make a fortune by his profession. He must be a man of great courage and strength of character, as George says, even to have made the attempt to bring the ship home. They may weel be proud of him,—his sister and his mother, and we must do nothing that would seem to lichtlify him—neither you nor me.”Jean looked at her father in a strangely moved way which he remembered afterwards, but she said nothing.“I mind ye were ay fond o’ sea-heroes; and all his friends will need to make much o’ him when he wins safe home.”They were drawing near the cottage by this time. Mr Dawson would not let Jean go in because of the fever, and she sat down on the dyke at the house end. But her father did not keep her waiting long. John had fallen into a sleep which might be the saving of him yet, and must not be disturbed, and promising, if it were possible, to see him to-morrow, he came quickly out to Jean.They had little to say to each other as they turned homewards. Jean acknowledged herself tired with her walk, and when she said she had promised to go back again to her aunt’s to walk home with Mrs Calderwood, her father bade her wait there, and the pony carriage, when George and Marion returned, should be sent for them both.Mr Dawson pursued his homeward way alone, but he had not gone very far before he met a messenger and turned back again.“Good news! good news!” shouted young Robbie Saugster as soon as he was within hearing distance. “The ‘Ben Nevis’ is safe in port, and Captain Calderwood is here in Portie, I saw him mysel’ at the station, and I told him that his mother was at Miss Jean’s, and then I ran on to Saughleas with the news; but there was naebody there to hear it but Phemie and Ann. And I’m glad to see you, sir, anyway.”“Good news!” That it was, well worth the half crown which Mr Dawson put into the hand of the astonished laddie. He had heard no news so good for many a day, he said, as he turned toward the town again. But when he came to his sister’s house, and went softly in, he was not so sure of its being the best of news to him.For the first sight he saw was his daughter Jean lying on her aunt’s sofa with a face as white as death, and her bright hair tossed and wet falling down to the floor. Leaning over her, but not touching so much as a finger, was a sailor in rough sea clothes; and though he neither moved nor spoke, there was no mistaking the tale told by his working face and his eager eyes. Mrs Calderwood stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder.“Willie,” she entreated, “you must come away. She must not see you when she comes to herself. She was startled, and you have no right—”“No, mother. I know I have no right—except that I have loved her all my life—”“But you must come away. It is not fair to her. And think of her father.”“Yes. I have ay thought of him. Yes, mother, I will go with you,” and he stooped and touched, not with his fingers, but with his lips, the shining braid of hair that hung down to the floor, and then he turned and went out.It was hard on Mr Dawson. He had been more than anxious for the sailor’s return for his mother’s sake and his sister’s, as well as for his own, and he had meant to give him the best of friendly welcomes. But now what was this he saw?Astonishment was his first feeling. He had never once thought of these two in this way, at least he had not for a long time. Then he was angry. Had Jean been deceiving him all this time. But his anger was only momentary. He knew his daughter too well to believe that possible. He knew not what to think, except that his welcome to the sailor was not so ready as it would have been an hour ago.Fortunately it was not called for at the moment, for Captain Calderwood turned into Nannie’s kitchen and went out the other way without seeing him.Seldom in his life had the old man been so startled. Instead of going into the house, he turned down to the pier to consider the matter. He had not much comfort in that. As he turned again into the High-street, he heard the sound of voices far up in the square, and as he went on, he caught sight of his own low carriage standing in the midst of what seemed a crowd of people, not waiting there quietly, but eager and excited, over something which had pleased them well.And could it be possible? In the carriage sat his daughter-in-law with his grandson on her lap. He knew that he was angry then, and he pushed his way forward intending to say so plainly, and to put an end to all this, at least as far as she was concerned.But when he drew nearer, and Marion, with the tears running over her smiling face, stretched out both hands to him over her son, claiming his sympathy in the great joy that had come to her, somehow he forgot his anger and shook her hands kindly and joyfully; yes, and kissed her there before all the folk, to their intense amazement and delight.It had not been at Marion that he had been angry. And he had not even the excuse of danger for his anger, for young Robbie Saugster had placed himself at the heads of the ponies, and there was not the slightest danger of their running away.And when he had time to look about him, there was half the folk in Portie assembled to welcome the returned sailor, and in the midst of them stood George, with his arm laid across the shoulders of his friend. It was something to see these two faces—the one fair, smiling, noble,—the other no less noble, but brown and weatherbeaten, and with a cloud upon it, notwithstanding all the joy of home coming. They were brothers in heart, he saw that, whatever might befall. Before he could make up his mind to push his way toward them, a hush fell on the crowd. Captain Calderwood was making a speech.It was not much of a speech that Captain Calderwood made, however.He had only done his duty, he said, as nobody knew better than the seafaring folk of Portie, every one of whom would have done the same in his place, if they had seen the same reason. He was glad to be safe home again with his ship and cargo, and not a life lost, and he was proud of the welcome they were giving him—for there was no place like Portie to him, and no folk like the folk of Portie whom he had known all his life.That was all. But George made a speech, and said just enough and no more—“as he ay does,” his proud father thought as he listened.Still standing with his hand on his friend’s shoulder he said a few words about what Captain Calderwood had done. He could not tell them the story, because he had heard nothing as yet, more than the rest. But he knew as well as if he had been told, how all things had been ordered on board of the “Ben Nevis,” both before the storm and after it, because he knew Captain Calderwood.He had done his duty. That was all. But he need not tell the men of Portie—the Saugsters and the Cairnies, the Smiths and the Watts, the Bruces and the Barnets, who had had sailors among their kin longer ago than the oldest of them could mind—what duty meant to a sailor.It meant to him, whiles, what heroism meant to other folk. It meant courage to face danger, patience undying through want and weariness and waiting, cheerful endurance through wakeful nights and toilsome days, and long banishment from friends and home.It meant to the master, a power to command himself, as well as his men; it meant skill and will, and wisdom to act, and strength to bear up under the terrible responsibility of holding in his hand other men’s lives, no one but him coming between them and God.To the men it meant obedience, entire and unquestioning, sometimes, alas! to unreasonable commands—to tyranny to which, in the hands of evil men, unrestrained power might easily degenerate. It meant to all and each—to master and to man—a taking his life in his hand—a daily and nightly facing of death—ay, and of suffering death. It might mean that to some of their own, now far away. It might have meant that to Captain Calderwood, for instead of coming home with ship and cargo safe and with not a life lost, he might have given his own life in doing his duty, as his father had done before him, and his grandfather, as all the men of Portie knew.“And is he less a hero to us to-day because he has only done his duty? And if instead of having him here among us to-day—to fill with joy and pride every sailor’s heart in Portie—there had come to us from the sea, first a vague and awful rumour of danger and loss, and then one or other of the tokens that have come to some here—a spar, a broken piece of the ship, a word or two written beneath the very eyes and touch of death—would he not have been a hero to us then? And all the more, that having no thought of what men’s eyes might see in his deeds, or men’s tongues tell of them, he had lived through the violence of the tempest, and through the lingering days of peril that followed, only to do his duty?”It was here that George’s speech ought to have come to an end. It was at this point that his father thought he had said “just enough and no more.” And it was here also that Willie shrugged his shoulders under the hand that still rested lovingly on them as he muttered,—“Hoot, man, Geordie! Cut it short.” But the folk—who had listened in a silence so absolute that the “click, click” of Mrs Cairnie’s crutch could be heard on the stone causeway—stirred a little and murmured, and then waited for more. And George had more to give them.“And now, men of Portie—sailors and fishers—ay, and sutors and saddlers, masons and merchants—every man among you, I have just one word more to say to you all—but chiefly to you sailors. Willie here has whispered two words in my ear, and one of them I’ll give you.“Never through all that terrible storm that beat upon them, nor after it, when the bitter thought that the ship must be forsaken was forced upon them, nor during the long doubtful days—harder to bear—that followed, when in the morning none could say whether hope or fear was to win the day, or at night whether there was to be another day to them—through all that time, I say, not a man among them looked to the devil for courage to dare his fate, or deaden his fears. There passed not the lips of a man among them a drop of that which has lost more ships, and broken more hearts, and beguiled more sailors from their duty, than you and I, and all here could count in a day.”“Is that so, Willie?” cried a voice from the crowd. “Ay, is it. And no man here needs me to point the moral.”Willie had had enough of it by this time. He would not be beguiled into answering questions or telling tales. So he slipped his shoulder from under George’s hand and withdrew a little from him.But George did not move. He stood with glad eyes looking down on the familiar faces of his townsfolk and with a sweet and kindly gravity which was better to see than a smile, and when he lifted his hand, the movement in the crowd and the murmur of talk that had risen were hushed.The last word had been from his friend. This was from himself. It was only a word. It was not about the courage or skill or immovable patience of the young commander that he spoke; but of something that lay behind all these, and rose above them—the living belief in an eye that saw him, in a hand that held him, in a will that controlled and guided and kept him through all, and in a love and care that could avail in shipwreck and loss; ay, in death itself.It was this living belief in the Lord above as a living Lord that had stood him in such stead in those terrible days.“Was Williefeared, think ye?” said George, coming back to their common speech in his earnestness. “Some o’ ye ha’e come through, and mair than aince, the terrors o’ storm and threatened shipwreck, and ye ha’e seen how strength and courage, and common humanity itself, whiles fails before the blackness and darkness and tempest; and it’s ilka ane for himsel’, be he master or man.“But, with this belief in a living Lord who has called Himself and proved Himself friend and brother in one, was there danger of this to Captain Calderwood and those whom he commanded?“Belief, said I? Nay, lads, who of us can doubt that the Lord Himself stood by him, as He stood by Paul His servant at such another time, giving him promise of life to them who saw only death waiting them.“Was Captain Calderwood afraid? Look ye at his clear eye, and take a grip o’ his steady hand, and hearken to what his men may have to say of him, and ye’ll ken that he came out of it all by other help and a better strength than his own—a help and a strength that we a’ need, on land and sea, and that we can get for the seeking—as some o’ ye ken better than I can tell you—and may it be baith yours and mine when our time of trouble shall come—” said George ending rather abruptly at last.

And so the nights passed and the long days, and even Jean’s heart sprang up to meet the next news that came.

The ship “Ben Nevis,” Captain Calderwood, supposed to be lost, had been spoken at sea by a vessel homeward bound. Her latitude and longitude were given, and it was said that considering her condition, she had made good progress since the time her boats had left her. She lay low in the water and laboured heavily, but her captain and crew were in good heart, and with fair wind and such weather as they might hope for now, they were sure soon to reach an English harbour.

So hopes were raised and courage renewed. Mrs Calderwood would fain have remained in London to meet her son when he came; but the time of his coming was uncertain, and he might even put in to some nearer port, and her daughter needed her. So she returned home to Portie with George again.

And when they came it was to find Marion the joyful mother of a son. The news had been duly telegraphed to London as soon as possible after the event, but they had left before that time. It was Mr Dawson himself who met them at the station with the news, and passing by George without a word, it was to Mrs Calderwood that he told it with a trembling but triumphant voice. There were tears in the eyes that she had always thought so cold and hard, and these tears washed away the last touch of pained and angry feeling from the heart of the mother of poor dead Elsie.

If any thing could have added to the old man’s pride and delight in his grandson, the fact that he had drawn his first breath in Saughleas would have done so. Not that either his pride or his delight was made very evident to the world in general. He answered inquiries and accepted congratulations with as much composure as was compatible with the satisfaction that the occasion warranted, it was thought, and perhaps with rather more. But even the world in general began to acknowledge that he was growing to have gender and more kindly ways than he had once had, and folk agreed with Mrs Cairnie, that it had done him good to get his own will.

As for George, he took his new happiness soberly enough to all outward appearance. There was still so much anxiety as to the fate of the “Ben Nevis” as to temper the joy of the young father and mother over their firstborn, and to make them quiet and grave in the midst of it. But their hopes for their brother and those who had stayed with him were stronger than their fears, and even Mrs Calderwood took heart and did not shrink from the hearing of her son’s name. Her care for her daughter and her grandson left her little time to brood over her fears, and she felt that to do so, would be “to sin against her mercies,” since her daughter had been spared to her and was growing stronger every day.

As Marion grew strong, and Mrs Calderwood devoted herself to her, Jean had more time for herself, spent much of it in the wood or on the shore, or in her aunt’s parlour, which, during those days, she found to be as good a place as either the wood or the shore for the indulgence of her own thoughts. For Miss Jean troubled her with few words; but sat silent, seeing without seeming to see, that all was not well with her niece.

It was a rest for Jean to sit there in the quiet room, and it is not to be wondered at that there were times when she forgot to keep guard over her face, as even before her aunt she had done of late. At such times her aunt regarded her anxiously. She had become thin and white, and her eyes had grown large and wistful; as her mother’s eyes had been, before she had resigned herself to the knowledge that she must leave them all.

“A word or two might do her good, if I could ken the right word to say,” thought Miss Jean, as she sat one day watching the stooping figure and averted face. The suspense about the “Ben Nevis” would soon be over, but Miss Jean’s thought was that the ending of this suspense would not be the ending of her bairn’s troubles. However her first words turned that way.

“It canna be long ere we hear now.”

“No. It canna be long,” said Jean, recalling her thoughts and taking up her work again.

“And they all seem to be in good heart about the ship. They may come any day. It has been a long time of suspense to his mother, and to us all.”

“Yes. It has been a long time.”

“It will soon be over now in one way or another. And even if he should never come, it will only be like a longer voyage, that will be sure to have a happy ending in a peaceful haven, where the mother and son are sure to meet.”

“And she will have him for her own at last.”

Neither spoke for a long time after this. Jean’s head drooped lower, and though her eyes were on the sea, it was not the harbour of Portie that she saw, but a wide waste of ocean with a labouring ship, making for her desired haven, it might be, but bringing no one home to her. She rose and moved restlessly about the room.

“I wish you were able to go for a little walk, auntie. Dinna ye think it might do ye good to take a turn or two up and down by the sea?”

“No’ the day, my dear. But if ye would like to go out, never heed me. I think myself that a walk would do you good, or a fine long seam, such as your mother used to give you to do, when your restlessness was ower muckle for yourself and others. But the walk would be more to your mind, I dare say.” Jean laughed.

“But then, I have the long seam ready to my hands,” said she, sitting down again and taking up her work resolutely. By and by, when she forgot it and her face was turned seaward again, her aunt laid down hers also and said softly, with a certain hesitation,—

“Jean, my dear, did you and Willie Calderwood part friends?”

Jean sat absolutely motionless for a minute or two. “Yes, aunt, we were friends always. As to parting—”

“Weel—as to parting?”

“We had no parting. He went away without a word.”

“That was hardly like a friend on his part,” said Miss Jean gravely, and then in a little she added,—

“And, Jean, love, were ye never mair than friends?” Then Jean rose, and turning looked straight in her aunt’s face.

“No. Never more than friends. You surely havena been thinking ill thoughts of Willie, auntie?”

“That’s nae likely. But whiles I ha’e wondered—and now that he is coming hame—” Jean stood a moment irresolute, and then coming forward she sat down on a hassock at her aunt’s feet, as she often did, and leaned her head upon her hand.

“Jean, my dear, have ye nothing to say to me?”

“No, aunt. There is nothing. I have no more right to grieve or to be glad for Willie Calderwood than any one of his many friends in Portie.”

“Grief or gladness is whiles no’ a question o’ rights,” said Miss Jean gently.

Jean said nothing. She was too weary and spent to be very angry with herself for the weakness which had betrayed her secret. But she had strength and courage to shut her lips on the words that rose to them. And before her aunt had time for another word they heard Mrs Calderwood speaking to Nannie at the door. Except for a sudden bright colour that had risen to her cheeks, Jean was just as usual when she came in.

“There’s nae news?” said Miss Jean.

This had long been her first salutation to any one coming in.

“No, there is nothing more,” said Mrs Calderwood.

“Weel, we maun just have patience.”

Jean brought forward an easy chair for her aunt’s friend, and carried out some tea for Nannie to make a cup to refresh her after her walk. But she did not sit down again.

“I’ll go now. I have something to get in the town. Shall I come round this way again, Mrs Calderwood, so that we may walk home together? or will it be too long for you to wait?”

It would not be too long. There was no haste, Mrs Calderwood said. George had gone home already and was to take Marion out for a little while, and they might come round this way to get a sight of Miss Jean. So Jean promised to return, and then she went out, not quite knowing where she was to go, or what she was to do. But it was settled for her. For as she turned into the High-street she met her father.

“I was going to your aunt’s to say that I am going to John Stott’s. I canna say just when I may be home, and you are not to wait for me.”

“Is John worse, papa? Let me go with you. I needna go into the house.”

“I doubt he is near as bad as he can be, and be living. I doubt it is ower far.”

“Ower far! No’ for me, if it’s no’ ower far for you. And I have nothing to do that canna be put off. And it is a long time since we have had a walk together.”

So, well pleased, they set out John Stott was a labourer who had long been in Mr Dawson’s employment. He had been for days ill with fever, and was now supposed to be dying. They spoke of him a little, and of the helpless family he would leave, and of the best manner of helping them without making their help seem like alms. For John had long been a faithful servant, and Mr Dawson meant to set his heart at rest about those, he was leaving; indeed this was the reason of his visit at this time.

Then after a little he spoke, not quite so hopefully as usual about the “Ben Nevis,” saying they must hear soon now, or they would have to give her up altogether. Then he went on to say how well it was that Marion had grown so strong before any particular excitement either of joy or pain had come to disturb her.

“She is very well,” said Jean. “George is going to take her out in the pony carriage this afternoon, her mother told us. I left her at Aunt Jean’s.”

“I doubt that is venturesome of him. I hope he’ll take the best of the afternoon to it. And that is near over already. He’ll be thinking of taking her back to the High-street again, I suppose,” said he discontentedly, “unless we can persuade them to bide at Saughleas altogether.”

Jean was silent a minute or two.

“There are just two things that would be likely to prevent them,” said she.

“Weel, let us hear of them.”

“One is that except for a while, Mrs Calderwood would not easily be persuaded to think of Saughleas as her home; and both George and Marion wish her to remain with them.”

“Which is but right. George is no’ a man to let himself be vexed with his mother-in-law, even were she a more difficult person. But why should she not live with them at Saughleas?”

But as he asked the question he saw that such a thing would seem impossible to Mrs Calderwood. It was not a matter for discussion, however.

“And what is the other reason?”

“It is not a very good reason. Both George and Marion think that I should be the mistress of Saughleas, while I am there. They think, and other folk think, that I would not like to—to be set aside. And I might not like it. But if it were the best way for all, my not liking it would be a small matter.”

Mr Dawson muttered impatiently,—

“Ay. It’s ay said that twa women canna agree in the same house. But I think, Jean, ye might show them something else. I’m sure Marion wouldna be ill to live with.”

“It is not a matter of agreement or disagreement, papa. There cannot be two mistresses in any house with comfort to, any one concerned. And there need not be two if Marion were willing. And if I were not there she would fall naturally into her right place. I might go away for a little while, papa, and when I came back I might fall into the second place, and make no work about it. Or I might bide with Auntie Jean.”

“Nonsense! Bide with Auntie Jean, indeed! If you were going to a house of your ain, it might do. But good and dear as Marion is, I could ill bear to see you put out of your place in your father’s house, even for her.”

“Yes, if I cared, papa. I might once when I was younger. But I dinna think that I could care much now.”

Mr Dawson looked at her curiously, but Jean’s eyes were turned away to the sea.

“But even if that were the best way—which I am far from thinking—there is ay Mrs Calderwood and her wishes to be considered. I doubt we’ll just need to let them go.”

“But I think—and Aunt Jean thinks—which is more to the purpose—that Mrs Calderwood would hardly content herself in her daughter’s house wherever it was, for a continuance. I mean that she would rather be in a home of her own. That might be got over.”

There was silence between them for some time, and then Jean said with more earnestness than she had shown yet,—

“Papa, will you let me tell you just what I would like? I would like you to give me the house in the High-street for a present—as a part of my portion—just as if I were to be married, ye ken. And then I would persuade my aunt and Mrs Calderwood to live there together. And by and by when I grow old—and have not you any longer, I could live there myself.”

Mr Dawson listened to her with mingled feelings, but he said quietly, “What would two women folk, seeing little company, do with a big house like that? And you could never persuade them.”

“But they would see company more or less, and have folk coming for the summer. And the house is not so very big, and none too good for the ‘auld laird’s’ sister, and the ‘young laird’s’ mother. And I think I could persuade them. And if this were all settled George would be content to bide with you at Saughleas. And I could—come and go.”

“Jean,” said her father gravely, “why do you ay speak as if you were never to have a house of your own? I’m no’ pleased to hear you.”

“But, papa, I never do. That is what I am wanting—a house of my own—sometime—not just yet.”

“But I am not thinking of such a home as ye could make to yourself in the house in the High-street, but of something quite different.” Jean laughed. “I canna help it, papa.”

“But ye might have helped it.”

“No, papa, I never could yet.”

“Weel! weel! We’ll say nae mair about it. It’s nae ower late yet. We maun ha’e patience, I suppose.”

Though Jean laughed her face grew strangely grave and sad, her father thought, as they went on in silence together.

“You might think about it, papa, and speak to Aunt Jean about it. I should never feel safe or happy to be long away from Portie, unless there were some one ay with Aunt Jean. And I think that she and Marion’s mother would suit one another as no one else would suit either of them. They would be busy and happy together, and I should feel safe about my aunt wherever I might be.”

“But why should you speak as if you were not to be here? Why should you go away?”

“Only for a little while, papa. And then George and Marion would stay. And it is not for that altogether. I would like to go a while for my own sake. I think I need a change.”

“Are ye no’ weel?” said her father in some surprise.

“Oh! I am well enough; but I would like to go away for a little. I am tired, I think. We have been anxious, you know, especially when George and Mrs Calderwood were away. And I think I am wearying for a sight of May and the bairns. I know a change would be good for me, for a little, I mean.”

She spoke with some difficulty, and the colour was coming and going on her cheek. Her father’s surprise changed to anxiety as he regarded her. He saw as her aunt had seen, that she had grown thin and pale, and that her eyes looked large and anxious, like eyes that had slept little of late.

“What ails ye, my lassie? Ye’re surely no’ weel. If it’s only May and her bairns that ye’re wanting, ye can easy get them. Only,” continued Mr Dawson after a little, “it might hardly look kind to go away now, till the ‘Ben Nevis’ has been heard from again.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And if we shouldna hear—ye’ll be needed all the more. Willie Calderwood will be a hero to the seafaring folk o’ Portie when he does come. And I dare say ye’ll like to see him as well as the rest.”

“Yes. It is long since I saw him.”

“If he brings the ‘Ben Nevis’ safe to an English port, his reputation will be established, and his fortune will be made. That is as far as a mere sea captain can be said to be able to make a fortune by his profession. He must be a man of great courage and strength of character, as George says, even to have made the attempt to bring the ship home. They may weel be proud of him,—his sister and his mother, and we must do nothing that would seem to lichtlify him—neither you nor me.”

Jean looked at her father in a strangely moved way which he remembered afterwards, but she said nothing.

“I mind ye were ay fond o’ sea-heroes; and all his friends will need to make much o’ him when he wins safe home.”

They were drawing near the cottage by this time. Mr Dawson would not let Jean go in because of the fever, and she sat down on the dyke at the house end. But her father did not keep her waiting long. John had fallen into a sleep which might be the saving of him yet, and must not be disturbed, and promising, if it were possible, to see him to-morrow, he came quickly out to Jean.

They had little to say to each other as they turned homewards. Jean acknowledged herself tired with her walk, and when she said she had promised to go back again to her aunt’s to walk home with Mrs Calderwood, her father bade her wait there, and the pony carriage, when George and Marion returned, should be sent for them both.

Mr Dawson pursued his homeward way alone, but he had not gone very far before he met a messenger and turned back again.

“Good news! good news!” shouted young Robbie Saugster as soon as he was within hearing distance. “The ‘Ben Nevis’ is safe in port, and Captain Calderwood is here in Portie, I saw him mysel’ at the station, and I told him that his mother was at Miss Jean’s, and then I ran on to Saughleas with the news; but there was naebody there to hear it but Phemie and Ann. And I’m glad to see you, sir, anyway.”

“Good news!” That it was, well worth the half crown which Mr Dawson put into the hand of the astonished laddie. He had heard no news so good for many a day, he said, as he turned toward the town again. But when he came to his sister’s house, and went softly in, he was not so sure of its being the best of news to him.

For the first sight he saw was his daughter Jean lying on her aunt’s sofa with a face as white as death, and her bright hair tossed and wet falling down to the floor. Leaning over her, but not touching so much as a finger, was a sailor in rough sea clothes; and though he neither moved nor spoke, there was no mistaking the tale told by his working face and his eager eyes. Mrs Calderwood stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder.

“Willie,” she entreated, “you must come away. She must not see you when she comes to herself. She was startled, and you have no right—”

“No, mother. I know I have no right—except that I have loved her all my life—”

“But you must come away. It is not fair to her. And think of her father.”

“Yes. I have ay thought of him. Yes, mother, I will go with you,” and he stooped and touched, not with his fingers, but with his lips, the shining braid of hair that hung down to the floor, and then he turned and went out.

It was hard on Mr Dawson. He had been more than anxious for the sailor’s return for his mother’s sake and his sister’s, as well as for his own, and he had meant to give him the best of friendly welcomes. But now what was this he saw?

Astonishment was his first feeling. He had never once thought of these two in this way, at least he had not for a long time. Then he was angry. Had Jean been deceiving him all this time. But his anger was only momentary. He knew his daughter too well to believe that possible. He knew not what to think, except that his welcome to the sailor was not so ready as it would have been an hour ago.

Fortunately it was not called for at the moment, for Captain Calderwood turned into Nannie’s kitchen and went out the other way without seeing him.

Seldom in his life had the old man been so startled. Instead of going into the house, he turned down to the pier to consider the matter. He had not much comfort in that. As he turned again into the High-street, he heard the sound of voices far up in the square, and as he went on, he caught sight of his own low carriage standing in the midst of what seemed a crowd of people, not waiting there quietly, but eager and excited, over something which had pleased them well.

And could it be possible? In the carriage sat his daughter-in-law with his grandson on her lap. He knew that he was angry then, and he pushed his way forward intending to say so plainly, and to put an end to all this, at least as far as she was concerned.

But when he drew nearer, and Marion, with the tears running over her smiling face, stretched out both hands to him over her son, claiming his sympathy in the great joy that had come to her, somehow he forgot his anger and shook her hands kindly and joyfully; yes, and kissed her there before all the folk, to their intense amazement and delight.

It had not been at Marion that he had been angry. And he had not even the excuse of danger for his anger, for young Robbie Saugster had placed himself at the heads of the ponies, and there was not the slightest danger of their running away.

And when he had time to look about him, there was half the folk in Portie assembled to welcome the returned sailor, and in the midst of them stood George, with his arm laid across the shoulders of his friend. It was something to see these two faces—the one fair, smiling, noble,—the other no less noble, but brown and weatherbeaten, and with a cloud upon it, notwithstanding all the joy of home coming. They were brothers in heart, he saw that, whatever might befall. Before he could make up his mind to push his way toward them, a hush fell on the crowd. Captain Calderwood was making a speech.

It was not much of a speech that Captain Calderwood made, however.

He had only done his duty, he said, as nobody knew better than the seafaring folk of Portie, every one of whom would have done the same in his place, if they had seen the same reason. He was glad to be safe home again with his ship and cargo, and not a life lost, and he was proud of the welcome they were giving him—for there was no place like Portie to him, and no folk like the folk of Portie whom he had known all his life.

That was all. But George made a speech, and said just enough and no more—“as he ay does,” his proud father thought as he listened.

Still standing with his hand on his friend’s shoulder he said a few words about what Captain Calderwood had done. He could not tell them the story, because he had heard nothing as yet, more than the rest. But he knew as well as if he had been told, how all things had been ordered on board of the “Ben Nevis,” both before the storm and after it, because he knew Captain Calderwood.

He had done his duty. That was all. But he need not tell the men of Portie—the Saugsters and the Cairnies, the Smiths and the Watts, the Bruces and the Barnets, who had had sailors among their kin longer ago than the oldest of them could mind—what duty meant to a sailor.

It meant to him, whiles, what heroism meant to other folk. It meant courage to face danger, patience undying through want and weariness and waiting, cheerful endurance through wakeful nights and toilsome days, and long banishment from friends and home.

It meant to the master, a power to command himself, as well as his men; it meant skill and will, and wisdom to act, and strength to bear up under the terrible responsibility of holding in his hand other men’s lives, no one but him coming between them and God.

To the men it meant obedience, entire and unquestioning, sometimes, alas! to unreasonable commands—to tyranny to which, in the hands of evil men, unrestrained power might easily degenerate. It meant to all and each—to master and to man—a taking his life in his hand—a daily and nightly facing of death—ay, and of suffering death. It might mean that to some of their own, now far away. It might have meant that to Captain Calderwood, for instead of coming home with ship and cargo safe and with not a life lost, he might have given his own life in doing his duty, as his father had done before him, and his grandfather, as all the men of Portie knew.

“And is he less a hero to us to-day because he has only done his duty? And if instead of having him here among us to-day—to fill with joy and pride every sailor’s heart in Portie—there had come to us from the sea, first a vague and awful rumour of danger and loss, and then one or other of the tokens that have come to some here—a spar, a broken piece of the ship, a word or two written beneath the very eyes and touch of death—would he not have been a hero to us then? And all the more, that having no thought of what men’s eyes might see in his deeds, or men’s tongues tell of them, he had lived through the violence of the tempest, and through the lingering days of peril that followed, only to do his duty?”

It was here that George’s speech ought to have come to an end. It was at this point that his father thought he had said “just enough and no more.” And it was here also that Willie shrugged his shoulders under the hand that still rested lovingly on them as he muttered,—

“Hoot, man, Geordie! Cut it short.” But the folk—who had listened in a silence so absolute that the “click, click” of Mrs Cairnie’s crutch could be heard on the stone causeway—stirred a little and murmured, and then waited for more. And George had more to give them.

“And now, men of Portie—sailors and fishers—ay, and sutors and saddlers, masons and merchants—every man among you, I have just one word more to say to you all—but chiefly to you sailors. Willie here has whispered two words in my ear, and one of them I’ll give you.

“Never through all that terrible storm that beat upon them, nor after it, when the bitter thought that the ship must be forsaken was forced upon them, nor during the long doubtful days—harder to bear—that followed, when in the morning none could say whether hope or fear was to win the day, or at night whether there was to be another day to them—through all that time, I say, not a man among them looked to the devil for courage to dare his fate, or deaden his fears. There passed not the lips of a man among them a drop of that which has lost more ships, and broken more hearts, and beguiled more sailors from their duty, than you and I, and all here could count in a day.”

“Is that so, Willie?” cried a voice from the crowd. “Ay, is it. And no man here needs me to point the moral.”

Willie had had enough of it by this time. He would not be beguiled into answering questions or telling tales. So he slipped his shoulder from under George’s hand and withdrew a little from him.

But George did not move. He stood with glad eyes looking down on the familiar faces of his townsfolk and with a sweet and kindly gravity which was better to see than a smile, and when he lifted his hand, the movement in the crowd and the murmur of talk that had risen were hushed.

The last word had been from his friend. This was from himself. It was only a word. It was not about the courage or skill or immovable patience of the young commander that he spoke; but of something that lay behind all these, and rose above them—the living belief in an eye that saw him, in a hand that held him, in a will that controlled and guided and kept him through all, and in a love and care that could avail in shipwreck and loss; ay, in death itself.

It was this living belief in the Lord above as a living Lord that had stood him in such stead in those terrible days.

“Was Williefeared, think ye?” said George, coming back to their common speech in his earnestness. “Some o’ ye ha’e come through, and mair than aince, the terrors o’ storm and threatened shipwreck, and ye ha’e seen how strength and courage, and common humanity itself, whiles fails before the blackness and darkness and tempest; and it’s ilka ane for himsel’, be he master or man.

“But, with this belief in a living Lord who has called Himself and proved Himself friend and brother in one, was there danger of this to Captain Calderwood and those whom he commanded?

“Belief, said I? Nay, lads, who of us can doubt that the Lord Himself stood by him, as He stood by Paul His servant at such another time, giving him promise of life to them who saw only death waiting them.

“Was Captain Calderwood afraid? Look ye at his clear eye, and take a grip o’ his steady hand, and hearken to what his men may have to say of him, and ye’ll ken that he came out of it all by other help and a better strength than his own—a help and a strength that we a’ need, on land and sea, and that we can get for the seeking—as some o’ ye ken better than I can tell you—and may it be baith yours and mine when our time of trouble shall come—” said George ending rather abruptly at last.

Chapter Twenty Seven.At Last!“Grandpapa,” whispered Marion, as her husband and her brother drew near, “do you think there ever was so glad and proud a woman as I am to-night?”He had not time to answer her, but he shook her brother’s hand cordially.“God bless ye, Willie, man. Welcome home.” And for the moment he quite forgot the shock which the first sight of the young man had given him. It was only for a moment, however, and the remembrance of it brought a cloud to his brow, and sharpened his voice as he said,—“George, man, I think ye have been forgetting your wife with your speech-making.”George laughed.“She will forgive the first offence in that way, for the sake of the occasion.”“Weel, weel! haste ye home now for it’s mair than time baith for her and the bairn. No, ye’ll go with her yourself I have sent Robbie Saugster with the inn fly to your aunt’s, and they’ll all come out in it. And I’m going to walk. I have a word to say to Captain Calderwood. Not go?” added the old man sharply as a look of hesitation and doubt passed over Willie’s face. “Where on earth should you go but to your ain sister’s house? It’s hers while she’s in it, and so it’s yours, to say nothing o’ George there, who surely is your friend and brother, whatever ye may ca’ me.”And as Captain Calderwood had something to say to him also, they set off together. But they walked half the distance before either uttered a word. Willie waited for Mr Dawson to speak, and he, remembering that no one bad seen him at his sister’s house, was at a loss how to begin. But when they came in sight of Saughleas, Captain Calderwood paused.“Mr Dawson, I must say a word to you now, or I shall be taking a welcome from you under false pretences. I love your daughter. I have loved her all my life.”Here was an opening with a vengeance!“And what says she to that?” asked Mr Dawson grimly.“I have never spoken a word to her. May I speak to her now?”“And how was that—since it’s been all your life?” said Mr Dawson ignoring the question.“There were reasons enough. I was only the mate of the ‘John Seaton,’ and she was the young lady of Saughleas. And I had promised my mother that I would never even look my love without your sanction. Afterwards there were other reasons as well.”“I dare say ye may have a guess as to what her answer might be?”“Mr Dawson, give me your leave to ask her. I have not seen her for years. Yes, I have seen her—but she has not seen me, and we have not spoken a word to each other, since the day before May’s marriage.”“And I mind ye left in a hurry. Did she send ye awa’?”“No. I did not speak to her; but if I had stayed I must have spoken. And what would you have thought of my pretensions beside those of Captain Harefield? And indeed, I knew well that, except for my love of her, I wasna her equal. So I said, I will forget her and I went away?”“That’s a long time since. And ye have never seen her again?”“Yes. I have seen her. I saw her once in the Park riding with her brother and Captain Harefield, and I saw her looking at the pictures among all the great folk, and I used to see her whiles, playing in the garden with her sister’s bairns.”“And that was the way ye took to forget her?” said Mr Dawson dryly.“No. I had given that up as impossible. That was the way I took to teach myself the folly of remembering her.”“And what has happened to make it less like folly now?”“Well,” said Captain Calderwood after a pause, “the first gleam of hope I got was when Sir Percy Harefield proposed to take ship with me on the ‘Ben Nevis.’ He has gotten his answer, I thought. And I vowed that if ever I came home again I would speak to you—”“Jean is of age, and in a sense her own mistress. She could do as she pleased, even if I were to refuse you.”“I shall never speak to her unless I have your full and free consent.”It was queer, Mr Dawson thought George had said the same to him about Marion, and had meant it too, as possibly this young man meant it also. He cast a sidelong glance at the strong, grave face beside him. It had grown white through all its healthy brown.“Curious!” thought Mr Dawson. “Now, I dare say that didna happen in the very face o’ the tempest. Surely a love that has lasted all his life must be a good thing for any woman to have.”But all the same he wished with all his heart that he could refuse to let him speak. Not that he had any special fear of Jean. She would surely have given some token during all these years, if her fancy had turned to Willie Calderwood. But he had returned a hero—“in a small way,” as Mr Dawson put it, and young lassies are so open to impressions of that kind. And the lad was every inch a man, that could not be denied.“I ken well she might look higher. Who is worthy of her?” said Willie humbly.“It teems to me ye can ken little about her,” said Mr Dawson irritably. “There’s George now, what says he? He kens all this, doubtless?”“He kens, doubtless,” repeated Willie gravely. “But his sister’s name has never been named between us—in that way.”So the father had not even that excuse for vexation. He had no excuse. The young man was acting honourably in the matter, and he told himself that he was not afraid about Jean’s answer. And yet in his secret heart he was a little afraid. They had come to the gate by this time.“Mr Dawson, do you bid me come into your house, after what I have told you?”“Bid ye come in! And your sister waiting for you at the door, and your friend and brother as weel! I would hardly venture in myself without you. And indeed I welcome you heartily to my house, for your own sake as well as theirs. And as to—that other matter—we’ll say nae mair about that the nicht.”With this the young man was obliged to content himself George’s eyes were full of questions, but his lips uttered not one as he took him to his room, to supply all that had been left in the bag forgotten in the town. Before they came down again the fly had crept up to the door, but there was no one waiting for them in the hall except Miss Jean, and she was ready with a second welcome.“It is good to see ye here, Willie,” said she as they went into the parlour together.Jean had gone straight to the dining-room, and her father heard her there giving orders to Phemie in her usual voice. By and by she came out, carrying her head high—“the young lady of Saughleas” indeed; and Mr Dawson smiled at his fears as she came slowly toward him. She went up the long room in the same stately way, holding out her hand and saying gravely,—“You are welcome home, Captain Calderwood.”But when they looked into each other’s faces—these two who had been strangers so long—how it all happened cannot be told. Did he clasp her to him? or did she lay her head upon his breast?It was only amazement that the father felt at first. No one knew less than he did himself whether he was glad or sorry at the sight. And then Miss Jean came over to him with slow soft steps, and they went out together.“George,” said she gently, “I think I might say that I have nothing else to wish for here, if I were sure that this didna trouble you.”“It canna be helpit, it seems, whether or no,” said he, but he let her take his hand, and his eyes looked soft and kindly.George and Marion came in at the moment and made a diversion.“Are ye no’ ower weary to be down again, my dear?” said Mr Dawson. “Ye ha’e had an afternoon of exertion and excitement, and ye maun mind that ye ha’e anither dependin’ on ye now.”“Tired! Do I look tired?” said Marion.Certainly there was no sign of fatigue in the bright face of the young mother as she came smiling toward him.“Weel, then, George, ye’ll bring in your aunt and Mrs Calderwood. The dinner has waited long, and it shall wait no longer.” And he gave his arm to Marion as he spoke.“My dear,” said he, leading her to Jean’s place at the head of the table, “sit ye here, for I doubt Jean will want little dinner the day.” And it was Marion’s seat ever after.“Has any thing happened to Jean?” said Marion. “Nothing is wrong, I hope.”“Nothing that can be helpit, I doubt. Ye’ll hear in time, I dare say.” And then he nodded to Mrs Calderwood who had grown very white.“Ay, it’s the old way. I doubt your Willie is thinking as little of you as my Jean is of me at this moment. But we’ll take our dinner anyway.”Mrs Calderwood sat down without a word. It was an awkward hour for every one of them, though Miss Jean and her nephew did what they could to keep up conversation for them all. It was all the more so for Mr Dawson, that he was not sure what his own feelings were or ought to be. He sat hardly hearing what was said, though he put in a word now and then, but all the time he was thinking,—“If any one had said to me four years since that the widow Calderwood’s daughter would be sitting at the head of my table, and that I should be glad to see her there, would I have believed it? And her mother too, the very sight o’ whose widow’s cap used to anger me in the kirk itself. As for Jean, my sister, I ay ken when she’s pleased, though she says nothing. And George too, though I dare say he’s sorry for me, and will say no word to his friend, till I give him leave—as I maun do now, I suppose, whether I’m pleased or no’.”But Mr Dawson was less displeased than he supposed himself to be. He had been taken utterly by surprise, which was never agreeable to him, even when the surprise was a pleasant one. And it came to him with a feeling of comfort that neither his sister nor his son was likely to make a mistake, and be glad for the wrong thing where Jean was concerned. But it was a long hour to him, and when it was over he went away as his custom was for a while’s peace to his own peculiar domain.And here after a little Jean found him. She went in, feeling very much as she used to feel long ago, when some piece of girlish mischief more than usually serious, made her conscious of meriting a rebuke from her father.She had been upstairs since she came home, and now wore one of her prettiest gowns, as befitted the occasion, and she had put a rose in her hair, which had not happened for a long time; and when her father turned at the sound of her voice, he saw as fair and sweet a daughter as ever gladdened a father’s heart.She had always been fair and sweet, but there was a new look in her face to-day. Her eyes fell before his; but he knew it was rather to veil the happiness that shone in them, than to hide the shyness which made it not easy for her to look up. His heart could not but grow soft as he looked.“Were you wanting me, papa?” said Jean, feeling more and more like the childish culprit that was to be chidden first and then forgiven. Mr Dawson himself thought of those days, when his hardest words to Jean were sure to end gently, as he bade her be a good lassie and go to her mother. But he did not let the softness pass into his look or his voice as he said,—“What is this that I have been hearing of you, Jean?”“Are ye very angry, papa? I couldna help it.”“Dinna ye think I have a right to be angry, hearing such a tale after all these years?”“But, papa, I didna ken. I thought he had forgotten me, and whiles I wasna sore that he had ever cared; and, papa, nothing has been said even yet.” Mr Dawson laughed.“And ye wouldna have broken your heart, even if this confident sailor had never come home?”“No, papa. I don’t think it. There is always plenty of work in the world, and I would have tried to do my share, as Auntie Jean has done. I should not have broken my heart, but—you are not very angry, papa?”“My dear, my anger is neither here nor there. Ye are your ain mistress now, and can do as you please without asking my leave.”Jean went white as she listened, and sat suddenly down, gazing at him with wide, startled eyes. She had expected her father to be disappointed, perhaps angry, but she had expected nothing so terrible as this.“Papa,” she said, rising and coming a step nearer, “nothing can happen without your full and free consent. If you cannot give it, you must send—Captain Calderwood away—”“They have all said that,” said Mr Dawson to himself. Aloud he said with a dubious smile, “And ye’ll promise no’ to break your heart about him yet?” But his eyes softened wonderfully as he looked at her. “Papa,” said Jean laying her hand on his shoulder as she stood a little behind him, “we love one another dearly. And you ay liked Willie, papa, and so did—mamma.”“My dear, I like him well. But have you thought of all you will have to bear as a sailor’s wife?—the anxiety and suspense, the long, long waiting, and—”“But, papa, I should have that anyway. Ihavehad it, though—”“My dear, ye little ken. And it might have been so different with you?”“No, papa. It never could have been different. I wouldna have broken my heart, but I could never have cared for any one else.”A knock at the door prevented any thing more, and in answer to Mr Dawson’s voice Captain Calderwood entered.“I beg your pardon, Mr Dawson. I thought you were alone,” said he in some embarrassment.“Come awa’ in,” said Mr Dawson. “I thought, my lad, there was nothing more to be said the nicht?”“And so did I. And indeed there has been little said as yet.”Mr Dawson laughed uneasily. No one was less fitted to act the part of the mollified father at the last moment, and he felt quite as little at his ease as either of them. But he could not but look with pride and pleasure on the handsome pair.“I doubt there is little more that need be said.”“Only a single word from you, sir. I know as well as you that I am not worthy of her, but man and boy I have loved her all my life.”Mr Dawson had risen and Jean’s face was hidden on his shoulder. He raised her face and kissed her, saying softly,—“I doubt the word is with Jean now.”It is possible that even now Mr Dawson might have resented a triumphant claiming of Jean on her lover’s part. But he only smiled, well pleased when the young man bowed his handsome head and kissed her hand as if it had been the hand of a royal princess. And then he sent them away to be congratulated by Aunt Jean and the rest.“And if they are any of them more surprised at my consent than I am myself, it will be strange,” said he to himself as he sat down again, not sure even yet that he was not displeased, or at least disappointed still. But by the time he heard the slow unequal steps of his sister coming, as was her custom when any thing more than usual was going on, for a word or two with him before she went to her bed, he was able to receive her softly spoken congratulations cheerfully enough.She did not use many words; for she had an intuitive knowledge that some of her brother’s thoughts about this matter had better not be uttered. But there was no mistaking the grave gladness of her face, and it came into her brother’s mind that his sister’s thoughts about most things were such as usually commended themselves to him in the end.As for the others to whom Captain Calderwood after a little conducted his promised wife, none of them except Marion confessed to surprise, and none of them seemed to share the old man’s doubt as to whether it was matter for rejoicing or no. Jean’s first glance at Mrs Calderwood was a little wistful and beseeching, as though she were not quite sure of a daughter’s welcome. But two or three low spoken words set that at rest forever. Captain Calderwood’s doubtful looks were cast on Miss Jean.“I ken weel I’m no worthy of her, auntie,” he said.“Ah! weel!—if she thinks it—that is the main thing,” said Miss Jean.“My friend, and twice my brother,” was all George said to him. And to Jean he said softly, “Happy woman?” and that was all.Not a soul in Portie but had something to say about them on the occasion. Every body was surprised at the first announcement of the news, though afterwards there were two or three who had had, they said, an inkling of it all along. There was a whisper among the fine folk in the High-street which implied that Miss Dawson might have laid herself open to the suspicion of having “passed through the wood to find a crooked stick at the last.” But even in the High-street no one ventured to say it aloud. For the handsome sailor, though he was not a rich man, was as good as the best of them, even in their own partial opinion.It was a grand ending to Captain Calderwood’s romance of the sea in the opinion of all the seafaring folk of the town. The hand of the best and bonniest lass in Portie was a suitable reward for the hero. And when it was whispered that they “had ay cared for one another since they were bairns together” the tokens of the general approbation were given with enthusiasm.“And that is an end o’ the twa Miss Jeans. But it’s o’ George Dawson himsel’ that I’m ay thinkin’,” said Mrs Cairnie to all who would listen to her. “As for auld Miss Jean—her consent was what ye would expect. She was ay soft-hearted, and she has had an experience o’ her ain. But as for auld George!—”But even Mrs Cairnie owned that if he was not satisfied with the prospects of his daughter, “ye wouldna ken it by him.” And Mr James Petrie, who watched him closely, and had better opportunities, said the same, and so did Portie generally.One token of his satisfaction was of a kind that all Portie could appreciate, though those chiefly concerned would gladly have dispensed with it. He insisted on a grand wedding, and as Captain Calderwood’s time was limited, the wedding had to be hastened, and there was some dismay at Saughleas at the thought of it. But May, who agreed with her father heartily on this point, came down, and took the matter into her own hands, and distinguished herself on the occasion.It was a grand wedding. There were many guests and many gifts, and it must be confessed many opinions entertained, though not expressed, as to the wisdom of the marriage. But no one ventured to hint that the wedding itself was not a splendid success.Strangely enough, Sir Percy Harefield was there and his sister. They were visitors at Blackford again. Mrs Eastwood looked with silent and rather scornful amazement on the girl who had slighted all that her brother had to offer, and who was now giving herself to this—sailor.Even Mrs Eastwood could not look at Captain Calderwood on his wedding morning and join any contemptuous term to his name. He was like a young sea king among them all, she acknowledged; and he was a hero, it seemed, to these quaint northern folk that made his world. With a dim remembrance of her own youthful dreams, she acknowledged that perhaps, after all, Miss Dawson’s choice was not so surprising; and even her love and admiration for her brother could not make her blind to the contrast which the two men made. But she was scornful of Jean’s choice all the same.Sir Percy was scornful of no one, but friendly and admiring, though a little heavy and dull, among so many gay folk. But he presented the bride with an elegant bracelet and bore no malice. He offered his congratulations to both bridegroom and bride with sufficient heartiness, and not even his sister could tell whether any painful sense of regret touched his heart that day.One good thing came out of the grand wedding. There were guests from far and near, and among the rest—as one of the bridesmaids—came pretty Emily Corbett. Not the slip of a lassie who had clambered over the rocks and run about the sands with her little brother and sister and the rest of the bairns that happy summer long ago, but a stately young Englishwoman, tall and fair and wise.In her presence Mr James Petrie forgot several things, and among the rest, his father’s pawky hints about Miss Langrigs and her tocher, which were to be had for the asking, as he thought. And despite many prophecies to the contrary, James married for love a portionless bride, and was made a man of by the doing it.The “young sea king” and his bride had a few days among the Highland hills, and a few days more among the English lakes. But the real “wedding journey” was made in the “Ben Nevis.” They sailed away together into a new summer beneath Southern skies, and Jean got a glimpse of a new world full of wonders to her untravelled eyes.Happily both voyages were as peaceful and pleasant as the last had been tempestuous, and nothing happened to darken a single hour of that happy time. Through the quiet of the soft sunny days, and the glory of nights made beautiful by the light of unfamiliar stars, these two young people, who had been for the last five years almost as strangers to each other, renewed their acquaintance, and indeed grew into a truer and deeper knowledge of each other than years of common life might have brought them, and before the happy outward voyage was over, there mingled with Jean’s love for her husband the reverence which no true heart can withhold from the man “who is good before God.”It was not a full experience of sea life which his wife had got, Captain Calderwood owned, but this was less to be regretted, that she looked forward to many another voyage in the years that were before them. In the mean time she came home to her own house in the High-street where Miss Jean and Mrs Calderwood had been living together all this time. It was her home and theirs for many a happy year, and other homes in Portie were made happier through the happiness of theirs.Jean had much work laid to her hand in her own home as the years went on, and she found also something to do beyond it. She was her father’s almoner to many a widow and orphan child in Portie; and she helped her brother with higher work than her father’s almsgiving.Through her Miss Jean enjoyed in her last days, that which had made the happiness of her life for many years—the ministry of love to the “stranger,” the “naked,” the “sick, and in prison,” for His sake who said, “Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto me.”And her experience as a sailor’s wife and the mother of children, did not make her less fit for this work, but more. It made her wise to understand, and strong to help other sailors’ wives in their time of need, and firm as well as tender in her dealings with many a child whom the cruel sea made fatherless.And to many “puir auld bodies,” who had forgotten the events of yesterday, and last year, and of many a long year besides; and had come in their second childhood to live over the days of their youth again, the help and comfort which made their days of waiting a quiet rest, before the last “flitting,” still came to their belief as help and comfort used to come through “The Twa Miss Jeans.”The End.

“Grandpapa,” whispered Marion, as her husband and her brother drew near, “do you think there ever was so glad and proud a woman as I am to-night?”

He had not time to answer her, but he shook her brother’s hand cordially.

“God bless ye, Willie, man. Welcome home.” And for the moment he quite forgot the shock which the first sight of the young man had given him. It was only for a moment, however, and the remembrance of it brought a cloud to his brow, and sharpened his voice as he said,—

“George, man, I think ye have been forgetting your wife with your speech-making.”

George laughed.

“She will forgive the first offence in that way, for the sake of the occasion.”

“Weel, weel! haste ye home now for it’s mair than time baith for her and the bairn. No, ye’ll go with her yourself I have sent Robbie Saugster with the inn fly to your aunt’s, and they’ll all come out in it. And I’m going to walk. I have a word to say to Captain Calderwood. Not go?” added the old man sharply as a look of hesitation and doubt passed over Willie’s face. “Where on earth should you go but to your ain sister’s house? It’s hers while she’s in it, and so it’s yours, to say nothing o’ George there, who surely is your friend and brother, whatever ye may ca’ me.”

And as Captain Calderwood had something to say to him also, they set off together. But they walked half the distance before either uttered a word. Willie waited for Mr Dawson to speak, and he, remembering that no one bad seen him at his sister’s house, was at a loss how to begin. But when they came in sight of Saughleas, Captain Calderwood paused.

“Mr Dawson, I must say a word to you now, or I shall be taking a welcome from you under false pretences. I love your daughter. I have loved her all my life.”

Here was an opening with a vengeance!

“And what says she to that?” asked Mr Dawson grimly.

“I have never spoken a word to her. May I speak to her now?”

“And how was that—since it’s been all your life?” said Mr Dawson ignoring the question.

“There were reasons enough. I was only the mate of the ‘John Seaton,’ and she was the young lady of Saughleas. And I had promised my mother that I would never even look my love without your sanction. Afterwards there were other reasons as well.”

“I dare say ye may have a guess as to what her answer might be?”

“Mr Dawson, give me your leave to ask her. I have not seen her for years. Yes, I have seen her—but she has not seen me, and we have not spoken a word to each other, since the day before May’s marriage.”

“And I mind ye left in a hurry. Did she send ye awa’?”

“No. I did not speak to her; but if I had stayed I must have spoken. And what would you have thought of my pretensions beside those of Captain Harefield? And indeed, I knew well that, except for my love of her, I wasna her equal. So I said, I will forget her and I went away?”

“That’s a long time since. And ye have never seen her again?”

“Yes. I have seen her. I saw her once in the Park riding with her brother and Captain Harefield, and I saw her looking at the pictures among all the great folk, and I used to see her whiles, playing in the garden with her sister’s bairns.”

“And that was the way ye took to forget her?” said Mr Dawson dryly.

“No. I had given that up as impossible. That was the way I took to teach myself the folly of remembering her.”

“And what has happened to make it less like folly now?”

“Well,” said Captain Calderwood after a pause, “the first gleam of hope I got was when Sir Percy Harefield proposed to take ship with me on the ‘Ben Nevis.’ He has gotten his answer, I thought. And I vowed that if ever I came home again I would speak to you—”

“Jean is of age, and in a sense her own mistress. She could do as she pleased, even if I were to refuse you.”

“I shall never speak to her unless I have your full and free consent.”

It was queer, Mr Dawson thought George had said the same to him about Marion, and had meant it too, as possibly this young man meant it also. He cast a sidelong glance at the strong, grave face beside him. It had grown white through all its healthy brown.

“Curious!” thought Mr Dawson. “Now, I dare say that didna happen in the very face o’ the tempest. Surely a love that has lasted all his life must be a good thing for any woman to have.”

But all the same he wished with all his heart that he could refuse to let him speak. Not that he had any special fear of Jean. She would surely have given some token during all these years, if her fancy had turned to Willie Calderwood. But he had returned a hero—“in a small way,” as Mr Dawson put it, and young lassies are so open to impressions of that kind. And the lad was every inch a man, that could not be denied.

“I ken well she might look higher. Who is worthy of her?” said Willie humbly.

“It teems to me ye can ken little about her,” said Mr Dawson irritably. “There’s George now, what says he? He kens all this, doubtless?”

“He kens, doubtless,” repeated Willie gravely. “But his sister’s name has never been named between us—in that way.”

So the father had not even that excuse for vexation. He had no excuse. The young man was acting honourably in the matter, and he told himself that he was not afraid about Jean’s answer. And yet in his secret heart he was a little afraid. They had come to the gate by this time.

“Mr Dawson, do you bid me come into your house, after what I have told you?”

“Bid ye come in! And your sister waiting for you at the door, and your friend and brother as weel! I would hardly venture in myself without you. And indeed I welcome you heartily to my house, for your own sake as well as theirs. And as to—that other matter—we’ll say nae mair about that the nicht.”

With this the young man was obliged to content himself George’s eyes were full of questions, but his lips uttered not one as he took him to his room, to supply all that had been left in the bag forgotten in the town. Before they came down again the fly had crept up to the door, but there was no one waiting for them in the hall except Miss Jean, and she was ready with a second welcome.

“It is good to see ye here, Willie,” said she as they went into the parlour together.

Jean had gone straight to the dining-room, and her father heard her there giving orders to Phemie in her usual voice. By and by she came out, carrying her head high—“the young lady of Saughleas” indeed; and Mr Dawson smiled at his fears as she came slowly toward him. She went up the long room in the same stately way, holding out her hand and saying gravely,—

“You are welcome home, Captain Calderwood.”

But when they looked into each other’s faces—these two who had been strangers so long—how it all happened cannot be told. Did he clasp her to him? or did she lay her head upon his breast?

It was only amazement that the father felt at first. No one knew less than he did himself whether he was glad or sorry at the sight. And then Miss Jean came over to him with slow soft steps, and they went out together.

“George,” said she gently, “I think I might say that I have nothing else to wish for here, if I were sure that this didna trouble you.”

“It canna be helpit, it seems, whether or no,” said he, but he let her take his hand, and his eyes looked soft and kindly.

George and Marion came in at the moment and made a diversion.

“Are ye no’ ower weary to be down again, my dear?” said Mr Dawson. “Ye ha’e had an afternoon of exertion and excitement, and ye maun mind that ye ha’e anither dependin’ on ye now.”

“Tired! Do I look tired?” said Marion.

Certainly there was no sign of fatigue in the bright face of the young mother as she came smiling toward him.

“Weel, then, George, ye’ll bring in your aunt and Mrs Calderwood. The dinner has waited long, and it shall wait no longer.” And he gave his arm to Marion as he spoke.

“My dear,” said he, leading her to Jean’s place at the head of the table, “sit ye here, for I doubt Jean will want little dinner the day.” And it was Marion’s seat ever after.

“Has any thing happened to Jean?” said Marion. “Nothing is wrong, I hope.”

“Nothing that can be helpit, I doubt. Ye’ll hear in time, I dare say.” And then he nodded to Mrs Calderwood who had grown very white.

“Ay, it’s the old way. I doubt your Willie is thinking as little of you as my Jean is of me at this moment. But we’ll take our dinner anyway.”

Mrs Calderwood sat down without a word. It was an awkward hour for every one of them, though Miss Jean and her nephew did what they could to keep up conversation for them all. It was all the more so for Mr Dawson, that he was not sure what his own feelings were or ought to be. He sat hardly hearing what was said, though he put in a word now and then, but all the time he was thinking,—

“If any one had said to me four years since that the widow Calderwood’s daughter would be sitting at the head of my table, and that I should be glad to see her there, would I have believed it? And her mother too, the very sight o’ whose widow’s cap used to anger me in the kirk itself. As for Jean, my sister, I ay ken when she’s pleased, though she says nothing. And George too, though I dare say he’s sorry for me, and will say no word to his friend, till I give him leave—as I maun do now, I suppose, whether I’m pleased or no’.”

But Mr Dawson was less displeased than he supposed himself to be. He had been taken utterly by surprise, which was never agreeable to him, even when the surprise was a pleasant one. And it came to him with a feeling of comfort that neither his sister nor his son was likely to make a mistake, and be glad for the wrong thing where Jean was concerned. But it was a long hour to him, and when it was over he went away as his custom was for a while’s peace to his own peculiar domain.

And here after a little Jean found him. She went in, feeling very much as she used to feel long ago, when some piece of girlish mischief more than usually serious, made her conscious of meriting a rebuke from her father.

She had been upstairs since she came home, and now wore one of her prettiest gowns, as befitted the occasion, and she had put a rose in her hair, which had not happened for a long time; and when her father turned at the sound of her voice, he saw as fair and sweet a daughter as ever gladdened a father’s heart.

She had always been fair and sweet, but there was a new look in her face to-day. Her eyes fell before his; but he knew it was rather to veil the happiness that shone in them, than to hide the shyness which made it not easy for her to look up. His heart could not but grow soft as he looked.

“Were you wanting me, papa?” said Jean, feeling more and more like the childish culprit that was to be chidden first and then forgiven. Mr Dawson himself thought of those days, when his hardest words to Jean were sure to end gently, as he bade her be a good lassie and go to her mother. But he did not let the softness pass into his look or his voice as he said,—

“What is this that I have been hearing of you, Jean?”

“Are ye very angry, papa? I couldna help it.”

“Dinna ye think I have a right to be angry, hearing such a tale after all these years?”

“But, papa, I didna ken. I thought he had forgotten me, and whiles I wasna sore that he had ever cared; and, papa, nothing has been said even yet.” Mr Dawson laughed.

“And ye wouldna have broken your heart, even if this confident sailor had never come home?”

“No, papa. I don’t think it. There is always plenty of work in the world, and I would have tried to do my share, as Auntie Jean has done. I should not have broken my heart, but—you are not very angry, papa?”

“My dear, my anger is neither here nor there. Ye are your ain mistress now, and can do as you please without asking my leave.”

Jean went white as she listened, and sat suddenly down, gazing at him with wide, startled eyes. She had expected her father to be disappointed, perhaps angry, but she had expected nothing so terrible as this.

“Papa,” she said, rising and coming a step nearer, “nothing can happen without your full and free consent. If you cannot give it, you must send—Captain Calderwood away—”

“They have all said that,” said Mr Dawson to himself. Aloud he said with a dubious smile, “And ye’ll promise no’ to break your heart about him yet?” But his eyes softened wonderfully as he looked at her. “Papa,” said Jean laying her hand on his shoulder as she stood a little behind him, “we love one another dearly. And you ay liked Willie, papa, and so did—mamma.”

“My dear, I like him well. But have you thought of all you will have to bear as a sailor’s wife?—the anxiety and suspense, the long, long waiting, and—”

“But, papa, I should have that anyway. Ihavehad it, though—”

“My dear, ye little ken. And it might have been so different with you?”

“No, papa. It never could have been different. I wouldna have broken my heart, but I could never have cared for any one else.”

A knock at the door prevented any thing more, and in answer to Mr Dawson’s voice Captain Calderwood entered.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Dawson. I thought you were alone,” said he in some embarrassment.

“Come awa’ in,” said Mr Dawson. “I thought, my lad, there was nothing more to be said the nicht?”

“And so did I. And indeed there has been little said as yet.”

Mr Dawson laughed uneasily. No one was less fitted to act the part of the mollified father at the last moment, and he felt quite as little at his ease as either of them. But he could not but look with pride and pleasure on the handsome pair.

“I doubt there is little more that need be said.”

“Only a single word from you, sir. I know as well as you that I am not worthy of her, but man and boy I have loved her all my life.”

Mr Dawson had risen and Jean’s face was hidden on his shoulder. He raised her face and kissed her, saying softly,—

“I doubt the word is with Jean now.”

It is possible that even now Mr Dawson might have resented a triumphant claiming of Jean on her lover’s part. But he only smiled, well pleased when the young man bowed his handsome head and kissed her hand as if it had been the hand of a royal princess. And then he sent them away to be congratulated by Aunt Jean and the rest.

“And if they are any of them more surprised at my consent than I am myself, it will be strange,” said he to himself as he sat down again, not sure even yet that he was not displeased, or at least disappointed still. But by the time he heard the slow unequal steps of his sister coming, as was her custom when any thing more than usual was going on, for a word or two with him before she went to her bed, he was able to receive her softly spoken congratulations cheerfully enough.

She did not use many words; for she had an intuitive knowledge that some of her brother’s thoughts about this matter had better not be uttered. But there was no mistaking the grave gladness of her face, and it came into her brother’s mind that his sister’s thoughts about most things were such as usually commended themselves to him in the end.

As for the others to whom Captain Calderwood after a little conducted his promised wife, none of them except Marion confessed to surprise, and none of them seemed to share the old man’s doubt as to whether it was matter for rejoicing or no. Jean’s first glance at Mrs Calderwood was a little wistful and beseeching, as though she were not quite sure of a daughter’s welcome. But two or three low spoken words set that at rest forever. Captain Calderwood’s doubtful looks were cast on Miss Jean.

“I ken weel I’m no worthy of her, auntie,” he said.

“Ah! weel!—if she thinks it—that is the main thing,” said Miss Jean.

“My friend, and twice my brother,” was all George said to him. And to Jean he said softly, “Happy woman?” and that was all.

Not a soul in Portie but had something to say about them on the occasion. Every body was surprised at the first announcement of the news, though afterwards there were two or three who had had, they said, an inkling of it all along. There was a whisper among the fine folk in the High-street which implied that Miss Dawson might have laid herself open to the suspicion of having “passed through the wood to find a crooked stick at the last.” But even in the High-street no one ventured to say it aloud. For the handsome sailor, though he was not a rich man, was as good as the best of them, even in their own partial opinion.

It was a grand ending to Captain Calderwood’s romance of the sea in the opinion of all the seafaring folk of the town. The hand of the best and bonniest lass in Portie was a suitable reward for the hero. And when it was whispered that they “had ay cared for one another since they were bairns together” the tokens of the general approbation were given with enthusiasm.

“And that is an end o’ the twa Miss Jeans. But it’s o’ George Dawson himsel’ that I’m ay thinkin’,” said Mrs Cairnie to all who would listen to her. “As for auld Miss Jean—her consent was what ye would expect. She was ay soft-hearted, and she has had an experience o’ her ain. But as for auld George!—”

But even Mrs Cairnie owned that if he was not satisfied with the prospects of his daughter, “ye wouldna ken it by him.” And Mr James Petrie, who watched him closely, and had better opportunities, said the same, and so did Portie generally.

One token of his satisfaction was of a kind that all Portie could appreciate, though those chiefly concerned would gladly have dispensed with it. He insisted on a grand wedding, and as Captain Calderwood’s time was limited, the wedding had to be hastened, and there was some dismay at Saughleas at the thought of it. But May, who agreed with her father heartily on this point, came down, and took the matter into her own hands, and distinguished herself on the occasion.

It was a grand wedding. There were many guests and many gifts, and it must be confessed many opinions entertained, though not expressed, as to the wisdom of the marriage. But no one ventured to hint that the wedding itself was not a splendid success.

Strangely enough, Sir Percy Harefield was there and his sister. They were visitors at Blackford again. Mrs Eastwood looked with silent and rather scornful amazement on the girl who had slighted all that her brother had to offer, and who was now giving herself to this—sailor.

Even Mrs Eastwood could not look at Captain Calderwood on his wedding morning and join any contemptuous term to his name. He was like a young sea king among them all, she acknowledged; and he was a hero, it seemed, to these quaint northern folk that made his world. With a dim remembrance of her own youthful dreams, she acknowledged that perhaps, after all, Miss Dawson’s choice was not so surprising; and even her love and admiration for her brother could not make her blind to the contrast which the two men made. But she was scornful of Jean’s choice all the same.

Sir Percy was scornful of no one, but friendly and admiring, though a little heavy and dull, among so many gay folk. But he presented the bride with an elegant bracelet and bore no malice. He offered his congratulations to both bridegroom and bride with sufficient heartiness, and not even his sister could tell whether any painful sense of regret touched his heart that day.

One good thing came out of the grand wedding. There were guests from far and near, and among the rest—as one of the bridesmaids—came pretty Emily Corbett. Not the slip of a lassie who had clambered over the rocks and run about the sands with her little brother and sister and the rest of the bairns that happy summer long ago, but a stately young Englishwoman, tall and fair and wise.

In her presence Mr James Petrie forgot several things, and among the rest, his father’s pawky hints about Miss Langrigs and her tocher, which were to be had for the asking, as he thought. And despite many prophecies to the contrary, James married for love a portionless bride, and was made a man of by the doing it.

The “young sea king” and his bride had a few days among the Highland hills, and a few days more among the English lakes. But the real “wedding journey” was made in the “Ben Nevis.” They sailed away together into a new summer beneath Southern skies, and Jean got a glimpse of a new world full of wonders to her untravelled eyes.

Happily both voyages were as peaceful and pleasant as the last had been tempestuous, and nothing happened to darken a single hour of that happy time. Through the quiet of the soft sunny days, and the glory of nights made beautiful by the light of unfamiliar stars, these two young people, who had been for the last five years almost as strangers to each other, renewed their acquaintance, and indeed grew into a truer and deeper knowledge of each other than years of common life might have brought them, and before the happy outward voyage was over, there mingled with Jean’s love for her husband the reverence which no true heart can withhold from the man “who is good before God.”

It was not a full experience of sea life which his wife had got, Captain Calderwood owned, but this was less to be regretted, that she looked forward to many another voyage in the years that were before them. In the mean time she came home to her own house in the High-street where Miss Jean and Mrs Calderwood had been living together all this time. It was her home and theirs for many a happy year, and other homes in Portie were made happier through the happiness of theirs.

Jean had much work laid to her hand in her own home as the years went on, and she found also something to do beyond it. She was her father’s almoner to many a widow and orphan child in Portie; and she helped her brother with higher work than her father’s almsgiving.

Through her Miss Jean enjoyed in her last days, that which had made the happiness of her life for many years—the ministry of love to the “stranger,” the “naked,” the “sick, and in prison,” for His sake who said, “Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto me.”

And her experience as a sailor’s wife and the mother of children, did not make her less fit for this work, but more. It made her wise to understand, and strong to help other sailors’ wives in their time of need, and firm as well as tender in her dealings with many a child whom the cruel sea made fatherless.

And to many “puir auld bodies,” who had forgotten the events of yesterday, and last year, and of many a long year besides; and had come in their second childhood to live over the days of their youth again, the help and comfort which made their days of waiting a quiet rest, before the last “flitting,” still came to their belief as help and comfort used to come through “The Twa Miss Jeans.”

The End.

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