"Oh! what should he say? He said many a thing. He told me if I would
stand on the high rocks above the Tangle Stanes and wave my scarlet
scarf when the `John Seaton' was sailing by, he would take it as a sign
of good luck, and that he would come safe home again, and get his
heart's wish."
"And we are going there."
"Oh! I dinna ken. It's cold, and the ship mayna sail, and we might
have to wait. I'm not going."
"Did he say that to you? Yes, you are going. Do you mean that you
would let him be disappointed at the very last, and him taking it for a
sign?"
"But the mist is rising, and it's all nonsense--and he winna see."
"Where is your scarlet shawl? Did you no' bring it?"
"Oh! yes. I brought it fast enough," said May, laughing and lifting her
dress, under which the shawl was fastened. "As we were going to Auntie
Jean's I thought it as well to keep it out of sight. But, Jean, it is
wet and cold, and he was only half in earnest."
"How could he speak out all that he wanted to say, kenning my father!
But you must go."
"Go yourself. He'll never ken the difference."
"No, he'll never ken the difference. But when he comes home--what will
you say to him then? And besides it was your being there that was to be
the sign of his safe coming home--and--his getting his heart's wish.
You are coming."
They turned their steps northward, in the direction of a high ledge of
rocks, that half a mile above the harbour jutted out into the sea. It
was this point both had been thinking of when they left home, for they
well knew that the young ladies from Saughleas could not, on such a day,
go to loiter on the pier with all the town, just to see a whaling ship
set sail for northern seas. If the day had been fine, they might have
gone with a chance companion or two to see what was to be seen, and to
while away an hour. Even in the wind and sleet Jean might have gone
with her father, if the ship had not been the "John Seaton," or if
Willie Calderwood had not been on board. But as it was, she could not
even name such a thing to her father. He would have been angry, and it
would have done no good.
So it was to the rocks above the Tangle Stanes they must go. If the day
had been fine, there would have been other folk there, and many a signal
would have been given as the ship went by. But they had the high
desolate rocks to themselves when they had clambered up at last, and it
was all they could do to keep their footing upon it, for the wind which
had met them so fiercely even on the level, raged here with tenfold
violence.
And there was no sign of the ship. There was nothing but great wild
waves rising and falling as far as they could see, and masses of white
foam here and there, where they broke themselves on half hidden rocks
beneath. There was no sign of life except that now and then a solitary
sea-gull shrieked sadly through the blast.
"Eh! but it's dreary and cold," said May with a shudder.
"Go down to yon sheltered nook and bide there till I tell you that she
is coming."
"But it's a' nonsense, Jean. She mayna come at all, as auntie said."
"Since we're here, we'll bide a while:" So May went down to the
sheltered nook, and wrapping her cloak about her, she took from her
pocket a biscuit or two with which she had providently supplied herself,
and prepared to wait with what patience she could till her sister chose
to go. And Jean, unable to stand still in the bitter wind, struggled up
and down the narrow limits of the ledge,--not thinking--hardly feeling--
for she needed all her power to keep her footing on the slippery rock--
only waiting for the ship.
She came in sight at last, but, driven by the wind, as soon as she was
beyond the harbour bar, she drifted so far to the eastward, that it was
doubtful whether any signal from those on shore could be seen on board.
"Are you coming, May? Haste you," cried Jean, and while her sister
lingered, she let the long shawl float its full length on the wind. At
the moment the clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunshine lighted the
rock and the girlish figure, and the waving signal which she held. It
was but for a moment. Before May had clambered to her side, the clouds
met again, and dimness and dreariness were over all.
"Take it, May. It is you he is thinking of now when he sees it. He
must have seen it when the sun shone out. Take it, and hold it fast."
"It is easy said, hold it fast, and it's all nonsense," said May
pettishly, and from her uncertain fingers the wind caught the scarlet
signal, and carried it out to sea.
"My shawl!" gasped May. "My bonny scarlet shawl?"
"It's an ill omen, I doubt," said Jean in a whisper. "But never mind
the shawl; you shall have my bonny blue one instead. And now we may go
home."
"It is all folly from first to last," said May. "And what I am to say
about my shawl, I canna tell."
"Say nothing. Who has a right to ask? And, May, I think I'll walk
home--to warm myself, for I am cold." She looked cold and could not
keep herself from trembling. "Go back to Auntie Jean's. My father will
be sure to seek us there, and I'll be home before you."
May was not sure of the wisdom of consenting to meet her father without
her sister, lest he might ask any questions as to how they had spent the
afternoon. But hoping that she might get to her aunt's house before
him, she hurried away, scarcely remembering till she sat beside her
aunt's pleasant fire, that she had left her sister standing there on the
desolate wind-swept height.
And there she stood while the ship went slowly on its northern way,
"carrying her life with it," she said to herself, in vague wonder at the
utter faintness of heart, and weariness of body which had fallen upon
her.
"What has come to me?" she muttered. "What is Willie Calderwood to me,
but a friend? He has ay been that, and ay will be, and if he is more to
my bonny May--why that makes him more to me--and not less, surely. And
friends must part. There is many a sair heart in Portie the night--and
folk man just thole whatever is sent, and say nothing. And oh! if
Geordie would but come home?"
Again the clouds parted, and a gleam of sunshine touched the water,
giving her one more glimpse of the white sails of the ship before she
went down to the north, and then there was but "the fearsome waves of
the sea," from which she could scarcely turn her dazed eyes. But she
had to take her way down the steep rocks, and through the wet fields,
the near way home. She lingered and walked wearily, and it was growing
dark when she went in at the gate.
"Is it you, Miss Dawson?" said a voice in the darkness. "Has any thing
happened? Are ye your lane?"
"Nothing has happened. I preferred to walk. Are they not come yet?"
"Nobody has come yet, Miss Dawson, and there has been nobody here but
Robbie Saugster, wantin' a book that you promised him--or Miss May maybe
it was," said Phemie. "You were hardly awa' ere he was here, and he
said he'd come back the morn."
Jean sat down wearily in the hall.
"I am wet and tired," said she.
"I was sure you would be that," said Phemie, "and I made a bit fire in
your ain room, and I'll bring warm water and bathe your feet in a jiffy.
No wonder you are tired."
"That was well done. They cannot be long now in coming. I'll go and
make myself ready, and have the tea made at once."
Phemie was up with the warm water almost as soon as her mistress.
"Eh! Miss Dawson, but you are white and spent looking. It's the heat,
I dare say, after being in the cold."
She knelt and took off her shoes and stockings, and bathed her weary
feet with kindly care, and Jean let her do as she would, saying nothing
for a while.
"I'm better now. Yes, it must have been coming into the warm room after
the cold of the afternoon. Thank you, Phemie, that is comfortable. I
will be down in a minute now."
She was sitting behind the urn with a book in her hand when her father
came in.
"You are late, papa."
"Yes--too late--too late," said he, and then he sat down by the fire
without taking off his greatcoat or the heavy plaid which was on his
shoulders above it.
"Something has happened," said Jean to herself. But she knew he would
not in his present mood answer her questions. She rose and took the
plaid and his hat, and carried them away. Then she helped him to take
off his coat. He did not resist her, but he did not speak, and by the
time he was seated at the table, May came down. Her sister met her at
the door, asking softly,--
"What has happened to my father?"
"Has any thing happened? I do not know. I waited at auntie's till I
was weary, and then I went to Jamieson's, and waited there. He came at
last, but he has not opened his lips all the way home."
And he did not open his lips during the meal. He ate and drank as
usual, and as usual took his notebook from his pocket when he was done,
and turned the leaves and wrote a word or two. He was scarcely more
silent than was his wont, but there was a look on his face that Jean had
seen only once or twice upon it--a look at once grieved and angry, of
which she had learned to be afraid. She longed to ask him if any new
trouble had befallen him, but she did not dare to ask, and she sat in
silence with her work in her hands till Phemie appeared at the door.
"If you please, Miss Dawson, will you speak here a minute. It's Robbie
Saugster again."
Jean rose and went out of the room, conscious that her father's eye
followed her, with something of suspicion in its glance. She went into
the room where her father's books and papers were kept, and in a minute
Phemie ushered in a boy who looked as though he had had the benefit of
all the wind and the rain that had fallen through the day. He waited
till Phemie had shut the door, and then he said:
"It is this I was bidden give you, Miss Jean. I cam' afore, and then I
looked for ye on the pier and a' way, but I couldna see ye, and I doubt
it's ower late for an answer new."
He offered her a soiled and crumpled note, which she read at a glance
and put in her pocket.
"What is this about a book that I promised you, Robbie?" she asked.
"Oh! ay, Miss Dawson. I had to tell Phemie something. And I'll be glad
o' an orra book or two, as I'm goin' to the school--a count-book or
maybe a Latin grammar. But I'll come back for it again."
"Wait a minute, Robbie," said Jean. She went into the parlour again
where her father was sitting.
"May, what is this about a book for Robbie Saugster? Did you promise
him one? He says he is going to the school."
"A book? I dinna mind. Maybe I did. What kind of a book was it? I
canna look it out to-night, I am too tired."
The father's eyes had gone from one to the other with eager scrutiny.
"There are old school books enough, and I'll tell him that you'll look
them out to-morrow."
"You should have had them ready, no' to keep the laddie coming back
again," said her father sharply.
"I didna mind about it, and I dare say Jean promised as well as me," she
answered pettishly.
"Mind next time then; and, Jean, tell Phemie to give the laddie his
supper before he goes home."
"Yes, papa," said Jean as she shut the door.
"Something has happened and he was watching. It is about poor Geordie,
and I'm not sure whether I should tell him or not I must think about it
first."
Robbie got his supper, and the promise of the books, and then Jean came
in and sat down with her work at her father's side, working quietly and
busily as usual, but all the time putting a strong restraint upon her
thoughts lest she should betray herself unawares by look or sign. May,
weary with the exertion of the afternoon, by and by fell asleep in her
chair.
"Bid them come ben to worship, and let the lassie go to her bed," said
her father.
When worship was over, Jean folded her work, saying she was weary too.
"Unless you may want any thing, papa," said she turning before she
reached the door.
He looked at her a moment as if in doubt, and then he said shortly, "I
want nothing," and Jean went away to let herself think over it all.
"No answer!" said she as she took the note from her pocket again. A
leaf torn from an account-book it seemed to be. She spread it before
her on the table; there were only a few words written on it.
"Miss Dawson,--
"If it is possible, come to the pier head before the `John Seaton'
sails. Maybe the sight of you will do what no persuasion of mine can
do. But no ill shall come to Geordie that I can keep from him. Come at
all risks.
"Your humble servant,--
"W.C."
"And I might have been there, if I had but known. What will he think of
me? And can it be that Geordie has sailed on the `John Seaton'? No
wonder that my heart grew sick as the ship went out of sight. And oh
how can I ever tell my father?"