They had three years and more without a break of the happy life to which
Jean had looked forward when her brother came home. The days seemed all
alike in the quiet routine into which they fell; but no one wished for a
change.
If Mr Dawson had misgivings as to how his son, after his long
wanderings round the world, would settle down into the man of business,
intent chiefly on the work which the day brought to his hand, they were
all put aside after a time. George fell into his place with an ease
which indicated a natural aptitude for the kind of work expected from
him; and during a slight but tedious illness, which kept his father a
few weeks at home, George filled his place in the counting-house with a
success which proved that in all but experience, he was fitted, and
might be trusted to hold it to as good purpose as ever his father had
done. He had the same clear head, and the same directness of purpose in
his dealings with other men; and he had, what his father even in his
youngest days had never had, the natural kindliness of heart and temper
that won good-will without an effort.
Mr Dawson had always been respected as an honest man,--a man of his
word; but when their fellow townsmen discussed the father and son in
their new relations, as they were not slow to do, it was said of George,
that he was "a true gentleman"; and by this it was meant, that the
temptations which his father, as a man of business had all his life
successfully resisted, the son would never see as temptations at all.
While those who came into business relations with him saw that he would
probably be as successful in the making of money as his father had been;
they also saw that he cared far less for it; and with better
opportunities for knowing, they would also have seen that he spent a
good deal of it in a manner, which, according to his father's judgment,
would bring but poor returns. The poor folk of Portie, the sailors'
widows and orphans, and the "puir auld wivies" of the town, knew about
it, though even they oftener saw Miss Jean's hand in the help that came
from him, than his own.
"Ane o' Miss Jean's folk," they called him, and so he was, in that he
served the same Master, and loved the service. But he did not offend
nor grieve his father by openly casting in his lot with these people as
his aunt had done. There was not the same need. Miss Jean had found in
communion with the despised little flock in Stott's Lane, the help and
comfort which she had failed to find in the kirk of her fathers. But
times had changed since then. In the kirk of their fathers in Portie as
well as elsewhere there was found in George's day the personal
consecration, the fervour of love, the earnestness of service, which in
the old days had made the folk of Stott's Lane "a peculiar people."
George was content to remain with them, and his aunt had no desire that
he should do otherwise.
And then he went quietly on his way, unconscious that the eyes of all
Portie were upon him; not just watching for his halting, yet with a
certain movement of expectation to see him fall into his old
light-hearted, careless ways again. He did not begin his new life among
them with any definite plan of work. He had no such faith in his own
strength or wisdom as to make him hopeful as to what he might do for any
one. But this work came to him, as in one way or another work will come
to all who wish to serve.
It came to him out of the every-day work of his life, which brought him
into contact with ships and sailors, either setting sail, or coming home
after a voyage. He sent away those who were going with a friendly "God
speed," and met those who returned with a kindly greeting, and was frank
and sympathetic with all, because it was his nature to be so; and the
men liked him as every body who came near him had liked him all his
life. And his sympathy and their liking opened the way for the help
which he could give, and which some of these poor fellows needed badly
enough.
By and by he found himself in the midst of work which had come to his
hands he scarcely could have told how;--certainly not from any impelling
sense of the duty which he owed to this class of his townsmen, and not
consciously from any thought of the service that he owed them for his
Master's sake. One needed his help, and another, and he gave it gladly,
taking pleasure in it, and before he knew it, his hands and his heart
were full. It was in one way humble work enough that he did--speaking a
word of caution to one, laying a restraining hand on another, guiding
another past an evident danger, helping another firmly to withstand the
temptation of strong drink, too often the sailor's strongest and wiliest
foe.
All this led him at times into dark places, and queer companionships,
where was needed a strong arm as well as a cool head and a persuasive
tongue. For "poor Jack," just off a long voyage with money in his
pockets, was considered fair game in Portie as in other places; and even
in Portie, where dark deeds could not be easily hidden, dark deeds were
sometimes done. Though the influence of the respectable part of the
community could be brought to bear more readily and directly on the
doers of such deeds, than could be the case in larger places, yet direct
interference, either to prevent or to punish, was not always effectual.
"Poor Jack" himself was often as eager as his enemy to resent and resist
such interference, and those who ventured upon it, sometimes fared ill
between them.
To these poor fellows George gave both time and interest, and not in
vain. In all his dealings with them they were made to feel that it was
not a sense of duty merely, that brought him near them. He understood
them, and liked them and their ways, and was their friend. They
believed in him, and did, to please him, what they would hardly have
been brought to do from higher motives. After a time they trusted him
entirely, as well they might. He loved them. There was nothing that he
would not do to help them--few things that he did not do for some of
them. In the many ways which genuine personal interest can devise, he
befriended them and theirs. In sickness he helped them by helping those
to whom they belonged--which was well, and he put his own hands on them,
which was better,--putting his strength to gentle uses: soothing,
restraining, comforting them, as he never could have done if he had not
loved them, and if they had not had confidence in his love.
And because he loved them, they were not unwilling to listen to him when
he told them of a "greater love," the love of One who grudged not to
give His life for their sakes. He never told it in many words, and he
did not for a good while try to tell it to any but the sick and the
suffering, as he got a chance for a word with them one by one. But
later, when there were occasions, now and then, for sharp though kindly
words of rebuke where numbers had gathered, words of gentleness were
sure to follow about the love that could keep them in all straits from
yielding unworthily to wrong-doing. And if such occasions grew more
frequent as time went on, it was because of no plan or intention of his.
Little of all this was known in Portie, except among the men themselves
and their families, and among the ill-doing folk who would fain have
made gain of their folly; but the result was visible enough in the
better lives of some and added comfort of many a home in the place. But
to no one did George's work do more good than to himself. It gave him
an interest in life which business, engaged in conscientiously for the
sake of pleasing his father and making up to him for the disappointment
which the last few years of his life had caused, could never have
supplied. It did more to establish him permanently in Portie, and to
make him content there, than did the partnership into which during the
second year he entered with his father.
He grew more like his old self, his father said to Miss Jean, giving the
new partnership, and the increased interest and responsibility which it
implied the credit for it. In Miss Jean's eyes, he was as little like
the wilful lad who had given cause for many anxious thoughts in the old
days, as could well be, except that he had the same sunny temper and the
same winning ways, and was well-beloved as he had been in his most
foolish days. Now he was a man to be trusted as well as loved. He was
a graver man than he might ever have become without the discipline of
sorrow through which he had passed, and the remorseful memory of the
worse than wasted years that followed; but his "trouble," as the
suffering and sinning of those years were vaguely called, had not harmed
him. At least good had come out of it all. He was grave, but he was
not gloomy; and though he availed himself less than pleased his father
of the opportunities given for mingling in such society as Portie and
its neighbourhood afforded, he made home a different place to them all.
These were happy days to Jean. Between her and her brother, as to all
that filled his life and made the future hopeful, there was perfect
confidence and sympathy. She helped him in his work among the sailors
and their wives and families, and among the fishers of the
neighbourhood, by doing many things that only a woman's tact and skill
and will could do, and she helped him even more by the eager sympathy
with which she listened and advised when she could not put her own hand
to the work.
They were true friends as well as loving brother and sister, and as time
went on, their father began to fear that they might grow too well
content with each other and the life they were living, and so fail of
the higher happiness which he coveted for them, and which was the right
of such as they.
"There is time enough," said Miss Jean comforting him.
"Yes. He is young, and he will surely forget," said his father. "And
as for Jean, she is fancy-free."
To this Miss Jean made no reply. She was not sure of either the one
thing or the other. But she saw that the brother and sister seemed
content, and that they were doing willingly and effectively the work
that fell to their hands, and in her esteem life had nothing better to
give than this.
"All that you wish for them may come in the natural course of things,
but ye must have patience and no' try to force it," said Miss Jean.
"And in the mean time, ye ha'e ay one o' May's bonny boys to fall back
upon for Saughleas, if that is what is in your mind."
For they had lately heard of the birth of Mrs Manners' second son, and
much rejoicing had it caused.
"I wonder ye're no' thinkin' o' going south to see your new grandson.
The change would do you good, and it would be a great pleasure to May."
"There is nothing to hinder, if Jean will go with me."
But there was much to hinder Jean it seemed. May had better nursing
than she could give her, and she would much rather make her visit when
her sister should be well and strong and able to go about with her. And
then George had been promising to take her to Paris and perhaps farther,
later in the summer, and they could visit May at the same time.
Besides--she told her father privately she would not go away and leave
her aunt so long alone just at present, for she was never strong in the
spring; and her father could urge her no longer.
Jean had another reason, of which she could speak to no one, why she did
not wish to leave Portie at this time. She had heard from one of the
young Petries of the hope they had of a visit from Marion Calderwood and
her brother, and Jean would not leave home and lose the chance of seeing
them.
Willie Calderwood had never been in Portie again, and Jean had never
seen him, since he left it on the morning of her sister's marriage day,
and that was a long time now. She had waited patiently, but she longed
for the time of waiting to be over. She knew now how well she loved
him, and in her heart she believed that he loved her as well. He had
never spoken, he might never speak; but whether he spoke or not, she had
a longing unspeakable, just to see his face and touch his hand again.
She had been quite happy during these two years, she told herself; but
her heart sprang gladly up at the thought that her time of waiting might
be nearly over. She had never spoken his name even to her brother, and
he had been as silent to her, but she sometimes thought that George knew
how they cared for one another, and that he kept silence because he knew
it would not be well to speak. But all the same, Jean would not lose
the chance of seeing Willie again. So, after some consideration, Mr
Dawson set off alone. He reached London late at night and did not go to
his daughter's house until the morning. She lived in a pleasant part of
a pleasant suburb, in a little house which stood in the midst of a tiny
garden, which was enclosed within high walls. They had removed to it
recently, and Mr Dawson had never seen it before. It was a very pretty
place, he thought as he entered--a little confined perhaps, for the high
walls were not very far apart--a little like a prison, he could not but
fancy, as the gate was locked behind him.
Mr Manners had already gone out for the day, the neat little maid told
him, and Mrs Manners was not down yet, but she would be down presently.
She was well and so was baby.
But he was not left alone long, and then he had another greeting. He
thought for a moment that it was May who came toward him with
outstretched hand. It was not May. It was a tall, slender, dark-eyed
girl with a blooming face in which there was something familiar. He
knew who it was as soon as he heard her voice.
"Didna Jean come with you?" A shadow fell on the bright face at his
answer. But it passed in a minute.
"It is good to see a `kenned face' again. Mrs Manners is very well,
and so is baby--such a darling! Mrs Manners is coming down-stairs
to-day for the first time. She will be down soon," added the girl more
sedately, as if she had got a little check. She was thinking of the
time when she stood before Mr Dawson with the broken branch of the
apple-tree in her hand, and oddly enough, so was he. But the sight of
Marion Calderwood stirred no angry feelings now. That was all past.
The ill that had come to his son through Elsie Calderwood had been
changed to good. The sudden glad remembrance of the son he had left at
home--a man strong, earnest, good--softened his heart and his voice as
he looked on the girl's wistful face, and he smiled kindly as he said,--
"England seems to agree with you, my lassie."
Marion shook her head.
"But it is no' home," said she. "I like Portie best." Then she took
courage to ask him about the place, and about the folk in it, and the
changes that had taken place since she left. Trifling questions some of
them were, but they were asked so eagerly, and the answers were listened
to with such interest, that he could not but take pleasure in it.
Nobody was forgotten. From Miss Jean herself to poor old Mrs Cairnie,
every body in Portie seemed to be a friend of hers, and all that
concerned them of the deepest interest to her. Mr Dawson had
difficulty in recalling some of the folk she asked about.
"Ye should come back and renew acquaintance with them all."
"Oh! wouldna I like it! And maybe I may--some day. We thought Miss
Dawson was coming with you," said Marion with a little change of face
and voice!
"Jean? yes, I thought that too; but she had some good reasons of her own
for staying at home. Her aunt is not just so strong as she might be,
and she didna like to leave her. She'll come soon, however. She is a
friend of yours, it seems."
"She was ay good to me," said Marion softly, and there was nothing more
said for a while.
"But what have I been thinking about all this time?" said Marion
suddenly.
She left the room and returned almost immediately with a child in her
arms--May's eldest, a beautiful but rather delicate looking boy of a
little more than a year old.
"This is George Dawson--the precious darling. He is just a little shy
at first, but he is not going to be shy with his own grandpapa, is he,
my pet, my darling, my bonny boy?" And she fell into a soft babble of
fond words, which would have had no meaning to an indifferent listener,
but the grandfather listened, well pleased. The "bonny boy" showed his
shyness by clinging to his nurse, but he looked at his grandfather
bravely enough, and did not resent the cautious advances made to him.
He was persuaded to show all his pretty tricks of action and speech, and
smiled, and cooed, and murmured his baby words; and it would not have
been easy to say whether his nurse or his grandfather was most delighted
at the success of the introduction.
"And now," said Marion, "I think we may tell grandpapa our secret. And
it will not be long a secret now, will it, my bonny boy? For mamma is
coming down to-day, and all the world must know."
Then setting the child safely in a corner, she moved a step or two away,
and held out her arms. Then there were more sweet foolish words, and
then the venture was made, and two or three uncertain steps taken, and
the little hero was safe again in her arms.
Again and again, with a skill and courage that increased as the distance
was lengthened, the journey was made in triumph. Then Marion knelt
down, and steadying the child before her, said softly and firmly,--
"Now go to grandpapa." And forgetting his shyness in the glory of
success, away he went with eager, faltering steps, and sprang joyfully
into the old man's arms. The door had opened softly and the young
mother, pale but smiling, stood on the threshold seeing it all. As the
child turned she stooped and held out her arms, and again he crossed the
space between them with quick, uncertain steps; and May kissed her
father with her child in her arms.
Then, after a whispered word, Marion went out and returned in a little
carrying a tiny bundle with trailing white robes, and presented to Mr
Dawson another grandson. If she had been at all afraid of him at first,
her fear had not outlasted the play with the child, and Mrs Manners saw
with mingled surprise and amusement the good understanding between them,
and the interest her father allowed to appear in the pretty ways and
pleasant words of the girl whom in the old days they had found it best
to keep a little out of his sight.
He listened to their lamentations about Jean's not coming patiently, and
answered with a good grace, more questions in ten minutes than ever she
had ventured to put to him in as many days.
"She has wonderfully improved since she left Portie," said he, when
Marion had carried away the baby again.
"She was ay a bonny lassie," said May.
She was not going to put him on his guard against the fascinations of
her friend by praising her too earnestly.
"I like her to be here with me when I cannot go out. She is very nice
with Georgie."
That was all she said to him, but she told her husband that night, that
Marion, with the help of the "bonny boy," had made a conquest of her
father.