Mrs Calderwood's house faced the sea a little nearer the pier head than
Miss Jean's, and Miss Dawson nodded and smiled to her aunt in the window
as she passed, hardly confessing to herself that she felt a little
anxious as to how she might be received.
"But she'll not be likely to put on her stiff, silent manner in her own
house," said she, encouraging herself.
Mrs Calderwood was not alone. Mrs Cairnie was with her, asking advice
and sympathy for "a beeled thoom," and Mrs Calderwood was in the act of
applying a warm poultice to relieve the pain. In the poor old woman's
eagerness to tell her troubles to a new listener, the awkwardness of the
first moment was got over. Nor was Mrs Cairnie in any hurry to leave
when the interesting subject was exhausted.
"So ye didna gang up to Lunnon with your father, Miss Dawson? Ye're
wise to bide and let the great folk come to seek you. It's a thankless
job whiles gaen after them."
This of course required no reply.
"And are ye your leafu' lane at Saughleas? But I suppose ye're used
with it now--the big hoose and the few in it. It is changed times since
ye used to bide in the High-street. But being an eddicated leddy, ye'll
ha'e resources in yoursel', as the books say."
No, Miss Dawson did not like being "her leafu' lane" in the big empty
house, and she turned to Mrs Calderwood with her request for Marion's
company. But Tibbie had not yet said her say.
"Your leafu' lane! It's little ye ken what that means. Bide ye till
the time come when ye lie through the lang nichts o' a hale (whole)
winter, hearkening to the awfu' things that the winds and the waves are
crying in at your window and doon your lum (chimney), and some o' yours
far awa' on the sea--and syne ye'll ken. Oh! the weariness o't, and the
dreariness o't, and nae help frae Heaven aboon nor frae earth beneath,
but just to sit still and wait for their hame coming. And whiles they
come, and whiles they never come--and ane canna be sure even o' their
loss till years go by. Eh! woman' ye little ken, but speir ye at Mrs
Calderwood."
She paused a moment in the surprise of seeing Jean's face grow pale as
she listened, but went on again before any one spoke.
"I'm through wi't, for the last o' mine was lost lang syne. But she has
ane yet--as far as she kens. God be gude to him! Ye've had no word o'
the `John Seaton' as yet, mem?"
"Not yet; it is not to be expected yet," said Mrs Calderwood quietly.
"Martha will give you a cup of tea. You will be the better of it, as
you were able to take little breakfast; and I hope your thumb is past
the worst now."
Mrs Cairnie felt herself to be dismissed beyond even her power to
linger.
"Many thanks to ye, mem, and ye ha'e nae occasion to be mair anxious
than ordinar' as yet. And ye can just encourage ane another--and I'se
awa' hame."
"Poor bodie! she has had her share of trouble in her day, and some of it
she brought on herself, which makes it none the lighter, I dare say,"
said Mrs Calderwood as she shut the door.
"You are not growing anxious, Mrs Calderwood, are you?" said Jean. "It
is not time to be anxious yet?"
"Not anxious--more than usual. Oh, no! Of course the wind and the
waves have something to say to me most nights. But I can only wait."
"Yes, it is the waiting that is so terrible. And it must be for a good
while yet."
"For months. We cannot say how many. We seldom see the ships home
within the year."
"And the `John Seaton' sailed on the tenth of April. It is nearly three
months still till then. And to think of all who are waiting even here
in Portie--wives and mothers and sisters. It makes one's heart sick to
think about it."
Then she sat silent, with her eyes turned toward the window, through
which was to be seen the dull grey sea, all unconscious of the uneasy
glances with which Mrs Calderwood was from time to time regarding her.
"Mrs Calderwood," said she at last, "how will you ever bear it as the
time draws near? The waiting and the suspense, I mean?"
"My dear, I have had worse troubles to bear."
"Ah! yes; but those will make this all the worse to bear."
"I can but trust in God and have patience. He is very merciful."
"Very merciful. But then--He lets terrible things happen whiles."
Mrs Calderwood rose and moved about the room. She was startled out of
her usual quiet by the girl's changing colour and the sad eagerness of
the eyes that looked out upon the sea. She was afraid of what might be
said if they went on. She wished to hear no sorrowful secret from the
girl's lips. She would hear none, she said to herself with a sudden
sharp pang of remembrance. George Dawson's daughter could have nothing
to say to which it would be right for her to listen. At last Jean left
the window and came and stood near the fire.
"I came in to ask you if I might have Marion home with me for a day or
two. I am `my leafu' lane,' as Tibbie says. And I think she would like
to come with me."
"There is little doubt of that," said Mrs Calderwood sitting down with
a sense of relief, for she thought the danger was over.
"There is no danger of her falling behind in her lessons for a day or
two, and I can help her with her music. I will take good care of her,
and her company will be a great pleasure to me."
There was no sufficient reason why the child should not have this
pleasure--at least there was none that could be spoken about. She had
no time to make clear to herself why she would have liked to refuse, she
could only say,--
"You are very kind. The child will be pleased to go," and Jean thanked
her, accepting it as consent.
She was still standing with her muff in her hand as though she were
about to take her leave. But she did not go. She stood, not looking at
her friend, but past her, seeing nothing, with her eyes full of
eagerness and anxiety, and before Mrs Calderwood, moved by a sudden
fear, could find words to avert it, that which she feared had come upon
her. Jean came a step nearer.
"Mrs Calderwood, may I tell you something? I have no one else, and you
will at least help me to be patient. You were my mother's friend, and
you have had much to bear, and will you help me?"
But there was no friendly response in Mrs Calderwood's face. She
withdrew herself from the eager girl, with something like terror in her
eyes, actually moving away till she touched the wall of her narrow
parlour, holding up her hands entreatingly.
"No. Do not tell me. I am not the right person to receive confidences
from--from any one. I am not sympathetic I do not care to hear secrets.
And--you have your aunt."
Jean looked at her with surprise but with no anger in her eyes.
"My aunt! I tried to tell her once, but she said unless I were quite
sure that she could help me, I should not speak. It would have grieved
her--and--"
"She was quite right, I have no doubt," said Mrs Calderwood. "The
least said is soonest mended, as the old saying has it. Silence is
almost always best, even between friends."
Mrs Calderwood had come forward again to the table, and her hands were
busy moving about various things upon it, hurriedly and heedlessly, as
though she hardly knew what she was doing; while Jean looked on saying
nothing for a little.
"Is silence always best? It would be such a comfort to me to be able to
tell some one. I daze myself thinking about it. I am sorry now that I
did not tell my father at once, though at the time it did not seem the
wisest thing to do--or even possible. It was on the very day the ship
sailed--the tenth, ye ken. And--"
"Whisht, lassie! I will not hear your secret," said Mrs Calderwood
with a cry which told of many things. "It is to your father that you
must tell it, if you have not the sense and courage to keep silence
forever. As for me, I will hear no secret from the lips of your
father's daughter. No good could come of it. Oh! must I go through
with all that again! And my poor, foolish Willie that I thought so wise
and strong!"
She hardly seemed to know what she was saying for the moment. But she
made a great effort to restrain herself, and rose and came forward,
holding out her hand as if the visit were at an end. But she paused,
startled as she met Jean's look.
A sudden momentary wave of colour crimsoned her face and even her
throat, and passing left her as white as death. Through it all she
never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.
"Mrs Calderwood," said she in a voice that scarcely rose above a
whisper, "I think I must tell you now--that my brother George sailed in
the `John Seaton.'"
Mrs Calderwood sat down on the sofa without a word. Of what horrible
thing had she been guilty? What words had she spoken? She could not
recall them, but the girl's changing colour showed that her thoughts had
been understood. In her sorrow and shame she could have knelt and
entreated forgiveness. But she well knew that _now_ at least, silence
was best. No words of hers could help the matter now. It cost her
positive pain to raise her eyes to the girl's face. The colour came and
went on it still, almost at every word; but Jean spoke quietly and
firmly, and never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.
"You are right perhaps, and I ought to have spoken to my father at once;
but since I have waited so long, it may be as well to wait till the
`John Seaton' comes in--and I must have patience--like the rest of those
who wait."
"Are you sure he went? My son said nothing to me about George--poor
dear Geordie?" said Mrs Calderwood, with a sudden rush of tears.
Jean sat down on the other side of the table and leaned her head on her
hand.
"Did he not? Still I think he must have gone--or what can have become
of him?"
"Who told you he went? It is strange that you have never spoken of it
all this time. Why do you think that your brother sailed in the `John
Seaton'?"
"Is it strange? Perhaps I was quite wrong. But I did not know till
afterwards. Robbie Saugster brought word that day to Saughleas, but I
had gone to the town. That night he came back again, but it was too
late. The ship had sailed, and we had been at the high rocks to see her
pass, May and I--never thinking whom she was carrying away."
"And had Robbie seen him?"
"No. I never asked him. I don't think he knew. It was in a note that
I got from--your son."
"And what did he say?" asked Mrs Calderwood in a little. "He said I
was to come to the pier head before the ship sailed, and that perhaps I
might be able to persuade my brother--though he could not. But he came
too late. The ship had sailed."
"Well, we can only wait now till she comes home again."
"Yes, we can only wait. I am glad he went with--Willie, who will be
good to him. That is all my comfort."
"Yes, Willie will stand his friend whatever happens." There was no more
said, for Marion came dancing in. "Yes, Mavis dear, your mother says
you may come home with me. I must go and see Aunt Jean first, and you
will find me there."
"And, Miss Dawson, take a good rest, and we'll go round by the sea
shore. It is so long since I had a walk with you. See the sun is
coming out after all."
"Well," said Jean nodding and smiling. Then she shook hands with Mrs
Calderwood, but they did not linger over their good-byes. Marion turned
a wistful look to her mother's face when they were alone. But her
mother would not meet it, but hastened her away.
Jean turned towards the pier head, to let the wind from the sea blow her
hot cheeks cool, before she came into her aunt's sight, and as she went
she was saying to herself,--
"It was May she was thinking about I could not speak, because May has
never spoken to me. And after all--I dare say she is right. `The sense
and courage to keep silence.' No wonder that his mother should say
that, who can never forget her poor bonny Elsie."
It was mid-day--the hour when the usual frequenters of the pier head
were home at their dinners, and Jean stood alone for some time looking
out to the sea, and thinking her own thoughts. They were troubled
thoughts enough. "The sense and courage to keep silence." Her
temptation was not to speech. It was sense and courage to speak that
she needed.
Her aunt too had told her that silence was best--that foolish fancies,
that might have vanished otherwise, sometimes took shape and became
troubles when put into words. All at once it came into Jean's mind,
that it could not have been of her brother's loss, but of something
quite different that her aunt had been thinking when she said this.
Could it have been of May and Willie Calderwood?
"She too must think that my father would never yield, and that it would
be just the same sad story over again. But still, I am not sure that
silence is best."
By and by those who worked or loitered on the pier head, came dropping
back in twos and threes, and Jean knew that unless she would keep her
aunt's dinner waiting she must go. Miss Jean had said to herself that
the first word spoken would reveal to the girl her own sad secret. But
it had not done so--or she would not acknowledge it--even though the
remembrance of Mrs Calderwood's words and manner brought a sudden hot
colour to her face.
"It was May she was thinking about," she repeated, as she went down the
street.
She looked "bonny and bright--a sicht for sair e'en," Nannie, her aunt's
maid, said, when she came in. She did not stay very long. She had
intended to spend the day, but Marion Calderwood was going home with
her, and she would have to come another day, she told her aunt.
Indeed Marion came in before dinner was over, and Jean was glad to have
a long walk and the young girl's gay companionship, rather than an
afternoon of quiet under her aunt's keen, though loving, eyes.