"Thanks. I will not. But in those two months, think how we should
learn to know each other, as we could not in my busy days in London!
And she would learn to trust me. And it might be if you were to be on
my side. As to preparations--dresses and things--"
"It is not that. All that is quite secondary. I mean I could see to
all that after," said Jean to his surprise. "It is something quite
different that I was thinking about."
It was the return of the "John Seaton" with her brother George on board
of which she was thinking, and she was wondering whether it would be
right to let her sister go, if he should not be home before that time.
But she could not speak to Mr Manners of this. Indeed she could speak
of nothing for the moment. For May came into the room, and her lover
intimated triumphantly that her sister agreed with him as to the
important matter of the time.
"And you know you were to leave the decision to her."
"I agree with you that preparations need not stand in the way. As to
other things, I cannot decide. It was something quite different that I
was thinking of."
But she did not say what it was, even to her sister, and from that time
it was understood that the marriage was to take place on the first of
August, and that, if possible, Mr Manners was to pay one more visit
before that time.
In the quiet that followed his departure, the anxiety which in her
interest in her sister's happiness she had for the time put aside, came
back again to Jean. She strove to hide it from her father, and devoted
herself to May and her preparations, with an earnestness which left her
little time for painful thought. There was less to do in the way of
actual preparation than might have been supposed--at least less than
could be done by their own hands. The "white seam" that had employed
Jean's fingers through so many summer afternoons and winter evenings,
came into use now.
"I meant them for you, quite as much as for myself, and I shall have
plenty of time to make a new supply before I need them," said she when
May hesitated to appropriate so much of her exquisite work.
There was plenty to do, and Jean left herself no time for brooding over
her fears. She kept away from the shore and the old sailors now, and
from the garrulous fishwives of the town. She would not listen even to
the eager reasoning of the hopeful folk who strove to prove that as yet
there was no cause to fear for the ship; and she did keep all tokens of
anxiety out of her face as far as her father saw; which perhaps was
because he was occupied more than usual at this time with anxieties of
his own. But when Mr Manners had been gone a month and more, and they
were beginning to look for his return, something happened which would
have made it impossible for her to hide her trouble much longer.
Mr Dawson had never yet taken any important step in business matters,
or in any matter, without first talking it over with his sister. He did
not always take her advice, and she never urged her advice upon him
beyond a certain point; but whether her advice was accepted or rejected,
there was no difference in their relations to each other because of
that. He claimed her sympathy when the next call for it came, none the
less readily because he had refused to be guided by her judgment, nor
was she the less ready to hear and sympathise.
"The breaks,
Which humour interposed, too often makes,"
never came between these two, and her judgment guided him, and her
conscience restrained him, oftener than either of them knew.
Long ago he had spoken to her about some change that he wished to make
in his will, and some words of hers spoken at the time, hindered him
from obeying his own impulse in the matter. He knew that it was not
wise to delay the right settlement of his affairs, and now the
arrangements necessary in regard to his daughter's marriage portion
brought the matter up again, and made some decision inevitable.
That his son was dead, or worse than dead, he could not but believe, now
that another year had gone bringing no word from him. In his silent
broodings, he had in a sense got accustomed to the misery of the
thought. He was dead, or, if he lived, he was lost to him forever.
Even if he were living, his long silence proved to his father that he
never meant to come home while his father lived.
He might come afterwards; and then his coming might bring trouble upon
his sisters, unless all things were settled beyond the power of change.
And so it must be settled. But, oh! the misery of it!
To think that his only son might come when he was dead, and stand where
they had stood together at his mother's grave, and have only hard
thoughts of his father! How could it ever have come to such a pass
between them! The memory of those first days of their estrangement,
seemed to him now like a strange and terrible dream. Had he been hard
on his son? He was but a lad,--he repeated many a time,--he was but a
lad, and he had loved him so dearly.
Nothing could be changed now. In the silence of the night, often amid
the business of the day, his heart grew soft towards his son, and he
repented of his anger and his hardness toward him. But nothing could be
changed now, and the future of his daughters must be made safe against
possible trouble when he should be no more.
He had nothing that was new to say to his sister, except that the year
that had gone by bringing no word of him, made it less likely that they
would ever hear from him again; and she could only listen sadly and
acknowledge that it was even so.
But though there was not much that was new to be said, they were rarely
left alone together that their talk did not turn on this matter. Mr
Dawson's mind was so full of all that must be gone into and arranged in
view of what he had to do, that he was sure to speak of it, and to dwell
upon it, more sometimes than was wise. And so it happened that Jean,
coming in from a solitary walk in the gloaming to the parlour, where
there was no light, was startled by hearing her father say,--
"I think that will be a just division. I will make it up to her aster,
but it is Jean who must have the land. I will not divide, and I will
not burden the land."
Jean heard the words without fully taking in their meaning, till her
aunt said in her grave, firm voice,--
"And if he ever should come home, you may trust to my Jean to deal
kindly and justly with her brother."
"Papa," said Jean coming forward, "I heard what you were saying."
Mr Dawson did not answer for a moment, then he said, "It might have
been as well if ye hadna heard. But a while sooner or later can make
less difference than it would if ye werna a woman o' sense."
"Papa! Have you forgotten--Geordie?" Her father answered nothing. Her
aunt put out her hand and touched hers, and Jean knew that the touch
meant that silence was best. But she could not keep silence.
"Papa, you think that he is dead, but he is not. He will come home
again. And how could we look him in the face if we were to wrong him
when he is away! As for me, I will never take what is his by right--
never. You must give the land to whom you will, but not to me." Still
her father did not utter a word. "Whisht, lassie," said her aunt; "ye
dinna ken what ye are saying. Dinna grieve your father, Jean."
But Jean was "beside herself," her aunt thought.
"Papa, was it not for George that you bought the land? Have you had
much pleasure in it since he went away? But, papa, he will come again.
He is sure to come home--soon."
Jean's voice faltered a little. That night her father had come home
anxious and burdened with fears for the safety of the "John Seaton."
There had been some of the sailors' wives inquiring for news, and there
was no news to give them though it was more than time; and though Mr
Dawson had spoken cheerfully to the women, the few words he spoke, and
the grave face he wore at his own tea-table, had made it plain to Jean
that his fears were stronger than his hopes.
He looked up at Jean when she said so eagerly that her brother was sure
to come home, as though he expected her to say more. But how could Jean
say more, knowing what she knew? It was too late now to tell that her
brother had sailed in the "John Seaton." She could only look at him
with pitiful, wet eyes, and repeat over and over again,--
"Papa, he will come home. He is sure to come. We must always hope.
And when he comes, he must not know that you ever thought of putting--
another in his place. It must not be me. Even if I could give it all
back to him, it would not be the same. He could never believe you had
forgiven him if you were to do as you said. And, oh! Auntie Jean, he
is sure to come home. We can only wait and hope?"
"Only wait and hope and pray. He will come if it is God's will. And if
he shouldna, God's will is best."
There was nothing more to be said. But did the old man sitting there
with his face hidden in his hands assent to his sister's words? Had
God's will been best? If he could have had his will, all should have
been very differently ordered, as far as the past of his son was
concerned. As for the future--did he wish for his return? Could the
misery of their long estrangement ever be forgotten or outlived?
The bright-faced, happy, loving lad never could return--never. What was
his son like now? What could he hope from him, or for him, after what
he knew of him?
Oh, yes! he loved him, pitied him, longed for him; but if it were God's
will that he should come home again, would God's will be best? God
Himself could not blot out the past, and make them to each other all
that they had been before this trouble came between them. He groaned
aloud in his misery, and then he remembered that he was not alone. He
rose up as if to go, but sat down again, putting great constraint upon
himself.
"We'll say nae mair about it now, lassie," said he hoarsely.
"No, papa, only this, Wait a little while. George will surely come
home--or--we shall hear that he is dead. I think he will come home--
soon."
"Will our Geordie, our frank, true-hearted, noble lad ever come home to
us again, think you? Could God Himself give him back to us as he was?"
"Whisht! George, man," said his sister gravely. "Think what ye're
saying! All things are possible with God."
"Ay! to him that believes, but that is beyond belief--to me," said the
old man with a sob.
"Papa," said Jean touching his bowed head with her hand, "He will come
home--soon."
"And whether he come or no', we have just to live our lives and make the
best of them," said Mr Dawson rising; and he went away with no word of
good-night.
Jean lent her young strength to the weakness and weariness of her aunt
as they went up the stairs together, but there were no more words spoken
between them. They kissed one another in silence, and each knew that
the other could not lighten the burden of care and pain that had fallen
on both.
Though they had waited so long and so anxiously for the return of the
"John Seaton," it took the Dawsons by surprise at last. But from the
moment that the white sails broke the line of the far horizon, the ship
was watched by an ever-increasing crowd gathering on the pier, and on
the high rocks above the town.
Glasses were passed from hand to hand, while some looked doubtful and
grave, and others joyfully declared that it was the long-expected
vessel. In an anguish of hope and fear fathers and mothers, wives and
sisters, waited. Some wept and prayed, and wandered up and down, others
sat in still excitement counting the moments till the suspense should
end.
It was Sunday afternoon and so none of the Dawsons were in the town.
Even Miss Jean was at Saughleas. In the excitement of the moment none
thought of sending word to the owner of the ship. Not one of all the
anxious mothers and wives who were waiting but had more at stake than
he.
"But when we are sure, and when I've seen our Tam, I'll be off to
Saughleas to tell the twa Miss Jeans," said Robbie Saugster to his
sister Maggie, who was waiting and hoping like the rest.
"Ay. They'll be glad--or sorry," said Maggie with a sob.
"The twa Miss Jeans, said he!" repeated Mrs Cairnie, who was wandering
up and down, anxious and intent as all the rest, though there was no one
belonging to her on the ship, or on any ship that sailed. "The twa Miss
Jeans! And what is it to them? Ay, I ken fine the auld man is chief
owner, and weel he likes his siller. But the twa Miss Jeans! what is it
to them? Except that they may ha'e had their ain thochts for a' the
puir bodies that ha'e grown feared this while," added the old woman
relenting.
"They ha'e had many an anxious thought, and many a kind word and deed
for them--I ken weel," said another woman whose eyes were on the ship.
"An' sae do I," said another who was sitting on a stone with her baby in
her arms, because her trembling limbs would not support her. "What
would I ha'e done but for auld Miss Jean since my man sailed."
"Ay; and they say auld Miss Jean has been through it all."
"And whether or no', she kens how to weep wi' those who weep."
"But she'll `rejoice with them that do rejoice' this time, for as sure
as I ha'e e'en to see, yon's the `John Seaton'!"
"And I'se awa' to the pier head," said Robbie. "Are you coming,
Maggie?"
Maggie took two steps after him, then she turned.
"Come, Mrs Barnet. It'll soon be over now. I'll carry wee Jamie."
And the crowd moved with them.
It was the "John Seaton." All saw that by this time. There was but a
thin kirk that night, for none could force themselves away from the
shore, and some who set out for the kirk, turned aside with the rest to
meet and welcome those who were coming home. But the kirk was empty and
the crowd increased before the "John Seaton" touched the pier.
The first who reached the deck was Robbie Saugster, and the first man he
saw was Willie Calderwood, tall and brown and strong, a hero in the
boy's eyes.
"Our Tam?" said he with a gasp.
"Tam's a' richt. Tell your mother I'll be round to see her."
There was no time for more. The folk pressed forward, and all noticed
that the mate's face was graver that it ought to have been. There was
something wrong.
"Is Mrs Horne here? Or my mother?" asked the mate. "Is that you,
Robbie Saugster? Run to my mother's house and say I bade her go to Mrs
Horne's, and bide till I come there."