She was not always so successful; still she was successful to a degree
that surprised herself, in withdrawing her father from the silent and
sombre musings which of late had become habitual to him. This was the
work which she set herself. Her time, while he was in the house, or
near it, was given to him. She disturbed him doubtless now and then
when he would have been better pleased to be left to himself; but upon
the whole he responded to her advances, and by and by showed in many
ways that he counted upon her interest in whatever he might be doing,
and on such help as she could give.
In all matters connected with the management of the estate he took
especial pains to claim her attention and interest. She tramped with
him over the wet autumn fields in all weathers, and listened to his
plans for the improvement of the place in the way of dikes and ditches
and drains, and to plans that went further than these--plans which it
would take years to carry out well and wisely. Her interest was real
for the moment, and soon it became eager and intelligent as well. She
not only listened to him, but she discussed, and suggested, and even
differed from him in various matters, and held to her own opinions in a
way that certainly did not displease him.
She tired of it all sometimes, however, and though she permitted no sign
of it to appear to her father, she could not always hide it from her
sister.
"And what is the good of it all? You cannot surely be vain enough to
think that you are doing any good, or that papa cares to have you
tramping about in the wet and the wind."
"Oh, I like it! And I may as well do it as any thing else. As to
papa--yes, I think he likes it. I am better than no one to speak to,
and--oh yes, I like it!"
"It is all nonsense!" said May with a shrug. "As for papa, he might
enjoy it, if it were Peter Stark, or John Stott, or any one that could
understand him, or give him a sensible answer;--but you!--What is the
use of it?--and just look at your shoes and stockings!"
Jean looked down, as she was bidden, at her feet, and her soiled
petticoats.
"They _are_ wet," said she, "and dirty."
"And tell me if you can, what is the good of it all?"
"It has made me hungry, and it will make me sleep, perhaps. And the
best reason for it is, that I like it--as well as any thing."
She went away to change her wet things, and came back in her pretty
house dress with a knot of gay ribbon at her throat, looking wonderfully
bright and bonny her father thought as he came in at the hall door, and
so he noticed all the more readily, perhaps, how white and changed she
looked afterwards. When he also had changed his wet things, and came in
to sit down, she was standing in the darkening room, looking out at the
window, leaning on the ledge as though she were tired, and she did not
turn round as he passed her to take his usual place at the fireside.
"The days are drawing in fast," said he, by way of saying something.
"Yes, it is already growing dark. I cannot see the sea."
"Ye needna care. It is an angry sea to-night, and the wind is rising."
"Yes, the moan of it is in among the trees already, and before morning
it will be a cry--a terrible sharp cry--that will not be shut out. An
ill night for those at sea."
"By no means. The folk at sea are safe enough, so that they bide away
from the shore. There will be worse nights than this, and many of them,
before the winter be over."
"The long, long winter! And think what it must be in Greenland seas,
with the ice and the dark, and the bitter cold."
"Lassie, draw the curtains and come to the fire. What ails you at the
wind and the sea to-night, more than usual? Draw the curtains, and shut
out the night, and come and make the tea."
And then when Jean did his bidding and turned from the window, he saw
that her face was white and her eyes strained and anxious. She came to
the fire and stooped down, warming her hands at the blaze.
"One would think you were a sailor's wife, and that his ship was in
danger," said her father.
"It is the book she has been reading," said her sister. "That American
book about the men who sailed in search of Sir John Franklin and his
crew. What pleasure there can be in poring over any thing so dismal, is
more than I can tell."
"That is because you do not know. It gives one courage to know that
there have been men--that there are men--so patient and so brave. Their
leader was a hero," said Jean with shining eyes.
"Well, we'll have our tea now," said Mr Dawson in a tone that made May
think he was ill-pleased at something, though he said nothing more. He
was wondering what could have come to the lassie so to change the
brightness of the face that had met him at the door. May knew that Jean
must be thinking of the "John Seaton," but she knew that her father
could have no such thought. Nothing was said by any of them for a
while, but by the time tea was over, they had fallen into their ordinary
mood again, and spoke of other things. But afterwards Jean was sorry
that she had not taken courage that night to tell him how she had heard
that her brother had sailed in the "John Seaton" so long ago.
For her secret knowledge burdened her sorely. That George should have
been at home and then have gone away again without a word, it would be
like to break his father's heart to know. The hope of seeing him when
the "John Seaton" came home might be better than the uncertainty of the
present. But if his anger still burned against his father, he might not
come home, and such a disappointment would be worse to bear than even
the present uncertainty.
She wearied herself thinking about it, but she did not know what to do.
She longed to tell her aunt. She had almost done so, but her aunt had
forbidden her, or so she had thought. And months must still pass before
the "John Seaton" could be in port again.
Her thoughts were with her brother night and day, and she was
pre-occupied and grave, and grew white and anxious-eyed; and by and by
it added to her trouble, to know that her father was observing her. So
when he was in the house, all her thoughts were given to the effort to
be just as usual. She talked cheerfully and had visitors at the house;
and when they were alone she worked busily and steadily, falling back,
when her white seam failed her, on May's embroidery; and did her best to
grow enthusiastic with her sister over silks and wools of brilliant hue.
She practised her music also, and took courage to sing even when her
father was in the house. It needed some courage, for their mother had
been one of the sweetest of singers, and their father had never heard
the voices of his daughters since the days when they used to stand at
their mother's side, and sing the songs she loved.
No harm came of it. Though her father made no remarks, she knew that he
listened to her voice in the dark, and if it woke the old sense of pain
and loss, it stirred neither anger nor rebellion, as the gentleness of
his words and ways made her sure.
And so the winter wore on with the usual breaks in the way of
hospitalities given and received till the days began to lengthen--and
then something happened.
There came to the girls an invitation from a friend, to pass a month or
two with her in London. The friend had been Miss Browning, their
favourite teacher in their London school. Now she was Mrs Seldon, the
wife of a young city merchant, "as happy as the day is long," she wrote,
and she promised them a taste of many enjoyments, if they would come and
see her as mistress of her own pretty house--free now to come and go at
her own will and pleasure. Much she said to induce them to come, and
much was not needed, as far as May was concerned.
Mr Dawson might have hesitated as to accepting an invitation for his
daughters into an unknown household, even though he had every confidence
in the good sense and discretion of the lady who invited them. But
strangely enough, it happened that Mr Seldon was the son of almost the
only man in London with whom he had ever had other than mere business
intercourse, and the young man himself was not altogether a stranger to
him. As men of business, father and son were worthy of respect, and
socially occupied an unexceptionable position, and Mr Dawson was more
than pleased that his daughters should see something of London, in
circumstances so favourable as a residence with such people would imply.
So his consent was given readily.
Jean listened and said little through all the preliminary discussion of
the matter; but when it was settled that the invitation was to be at
once accepted, she quietly declined to leave home.
She gave several good reasons why one should pay the visit rather than
them both, and several why it should be May that should pay it. She
gave several reasons also, why it would be wrong for both of them to
leave home at once. Their father would be left in the house alone.
Their aunt was by no means strong. Indeed if there were no other reason
she would never think of leaving her alone during the spring months,
which had during the last few years been so trying to her. Then there
had been something said about certain changes to be made in the early
spring in the grounds and gardens. These might certainly be put off
till another year, as her father suggested, but it would be a pity to do
so, and if they were to be made, Jean must be at home to superintend
them.
"And indeed, papa, it was May who used to be Miss Browning's friend,
much more than I. Mrs Seldon would enjoy May's company better than
mine, and May would take ten times the pleasure that I should take. How
should I have any pleasure knowing that my sister was lonely and
disappointed at home. As to both going, it is out of the question. And
I can go next time."
Of course Mr Dawson could not do otherwise than yield to such an array
of good reasons, especially as May was as eager to go as her sister was
to stay; but he had an uneasy feeling that Jean herself had needed none
of these good reasons to induce her to remain. It pleased him, of
course, that she should like home best, and he was glad not to be left
to the trial of a silent and forsaken house during a gloomy month or
two. But it did not please him that Jean should care so little for the
enjoyment that her sister anticipated with such delight. It was not
natural, and he wearied himself trying to imagine what it might be.
"I will see what my sister says about it," thought he.
But in the mean time he could only let her take her way; and he and May
set out together on their journey, for he would not permit his daughter
to travel alone.
And then for a few days Jean had the house to herself, and during these
days, she became aware of one thing. She must turn her thoughts away
from the constant dwelling on poor lost Geordie, and his wanderings on
northern seas, or she would lose the power of thinking or caring for any
one or any thing in the world besides.
It had nearly come to that already. If the wind blew, it was of him she
thought, and it was the same if the sun shone, or the rain fell. Night
and day her heart was heavy with fears for him. It was the shipping
news she read first in the papers, about storms and wrecks of whale
ships that had come home, and of some that might never come, till she
grew morbid and heartsick with her doubts and her fears.
When she went to the town, or took her daily walk by the sea, she spoke
with the fishermen about the signs of wind and weather, and with certain
old sailors--long past sailing because of age and rheumatism--about the
voyages they had made, and about the dangers of the deep, and the
dreariness of Arctic seas when winter nights were long and the days "but
a blink." And of late, she had come to be aware that now and then as
they talked, there was a look of wondering curiosity in their dim old
eyes. They took her sixpences, and her "bits o' backey" with smiles and
nods of encouragement, and with assurances "that there was nothing like
keeping a stout heart and a cheerful, on the shore as well as on the
sea."
"And they canna ken about Geordie," she said to herself wondering.
No; they did not know about Geordie; but they saw the weary, wistful
looks ever turned to the sea, and they could not but know that they must
mean something, though neither kith nor kin of hers had sailed from the
harbour of Portie, as far as they knew, for many a day. And thinking
about their words and their looks, she told herself, that unless she
meant to fall into utter uselessness and folly, she must shake herself
free from this dull brooding over her fears. For the suspense must
continue for months yet--perhaps for many months, and she began to be
afraid for herself at the thought.
"I wonder what the sailors' wives do, and their mothers and sisters all
these wintry months? Do they sit and think of the danger, and the
distance, and the long suspense? No, they must live and have patience,
and take the good of other things, and trust in God--as I must, if I
would not go wild. _They_ get through, and I must.
"But then I must never speak about him, and my fears for him, and that
must make it worse to bear. Oh, if I had but told my father that first
night! How can I wait on for months like this?" and Jean suffered
herself to cry as she had never cried before. She might cry this once
since there was no one at home to notice the traces of tears. But all
the same she knew that she must make a braver stand against the trouble
that oppressed her, and even amid her tears she was saying that
to-morrow she would begin.
And so when to-morrow came, instead of going toward the wild sea shore
above the town, she set out to go directly to her aunt. It was not an
agreeable day for a walk. It was not raining, but the mud was deep on
the road, and the fields which Jean liked best at such times, were in
places under water; and a wide ditch here and there was so full, that
she had doubts of being able to get across, since the footing on either
side could not but be insecure in the prevailing wetness. So she kept
the highway, warily picking her steps, and meeting the wind from the sea
with a sense of refreshment--and by and by with a conscious effect to
throw off the weight of care which had so long oppressed her.
When she came to the corner at which she turned into the High-street,
she saw Marion Calderwood coming toward her with her music book under
her arm. A pretty sight she was to see, and a welcome as she sprang
forward, greeting her joyfully. But a shadow passed over the girl's
face when the first words were spoken.
"Oh! yes. I am very glad to see you, and Miss Jean will be glad too.
But if ye hadna come in this morning, I was going out to see what had
become of you. Your aunt bade me ask my mother to let me go when my
lesson was over--and--I think she would have let me."
"And she'll let you still. Run away now to your lesson, and you'll find
me at Aunt Jean's, and we'll go out together."
Marion looked doubtful. "My mother would have let me go to oblige Miss
Jean, but--she does not approve of my leaving my other lessons, for one
thing--and besides--"
"Run away. I'll ask your mother. She'll let you go home with me, if I
ask her."
Marion was not very sure, nor was Jean. For Mrs Calderwood was a very
proud woman, and her pride took the form of reserve, and a determined
avoidance of any thing that looked like claiming consideration or
attention from those whom, from their circumstances, she might suspect
of wishing to hold themselves above her.
And there were reasons of another kind, Jean well knew, why she should
look with little friendliness on any one in the house of Saughleas--
reasons that must prevent all renewal of the intimacy that had been so
warm and pleasant during her mother's lifetime. Still she had almost
always been friendly in manner with Jean when they had chanced to meet,
but Jean had been but seldom in her house since she had come from
school, and she was glad of the excuse which her proposed invitation to
Marion gave her to go there. For it had come into her mind that she
might speak to Mrs Calderwood about the trouble which she found it not
easy to bear alone.