"I did but what I thought my duty. I did but what her mother was as
keen to do as I was. I tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish
thing. And I dare say she thinks that I killed her sister."
"No, it is not that. But ye ha'e ay been kind to her, and she thinks
the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. And so
she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. Well, she will soon be
away now, and whether she'll come back again with young Mr Petrie--I
canna say. He'll hardly have the courage to ask her this time."
"I wouldna promise. There are few things that seem to him to be beyond
his deserts--though I canna say I'm of his opinion."
Miss Jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to
restrain himself as he rose to go.
"A thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but I doubt this has done
most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. And it is a pity--"
added Miss Jean.
"He'll get through it. It winna be the first time," said Mr Dawson
angrily.
"Are ye awa'? I think we need hardly expect those lads till morning.
They'll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht," said Miss Jean.
"It depends on several things--the light and the tide and the wind. It
was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first
spoke of it. But we needna expect them till we see them."
And then he went away. He paused a little when he was outside the door,
looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not
as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. It was not so fine a
night as Miss Jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier.
There were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and
the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring
around her and not very far away--sure token that a storm was near.
"They ken the signs better than I do. They'll lose no time."
He lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite
deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last.
"It will be a long night, I doubt!"
And so it was. Many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight
grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. A long and heavy night
it was. Sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and
unreasonable, which he could not put away--with painful dreams, and
startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last--a
dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening
all things.
It brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten
early to the town. There was no real cause for anxiety he assured
himself, the fog would account for their delay. They would be home
soon. He was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier
head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were
and when they would be home. And so it was noon before he called at his
sister's door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm.
The fog would account for the long delay. There might have been danger
to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current
along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two.
What a long day it was! And when the gloaming began to fall, there was
still no word of them. He went on to Miss Jean's house, and at the door
Marion met him. He got a good look of her face this time. Whatever had
grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. Her eyes asked
eagerly for tidings.
"No word o' them yet, but they canna be long now," said Mr Dawson
cheerfully. "I have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though I dare say
ye have had yours lang syne. Ye maunna be anxious, my dear. There is
really no cause to fear for them as yet."
He had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing
sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from Marion,
he knew that he could not hide it from his sister.
"We maun just ha'e patience," was all that Miss Jean said.
Marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to
be done. She made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it,
and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half
beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. But there was not much
said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier
head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. Marion
looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in
her eyes, as she turned them to Miss Jean.
"My dear lassie," said her old friend, "they are safe in God's hands."
"Yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again.
But O, Miss Jean!--"
"Ay, lassie! Try ye and measure the blessedness o' that knowledge. It
is no' in the power o' evil to harm them, whatever may befall. And, my
dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. They may
be in at any moment, as my brother says."
"I might licht the lamp, mem," said Nannie at the door.
"There is no haste," said Miss Jean.
"Only its e'erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha'e anxious
thoughts for company. Though there's no occasion as yet. What's a day
and a nicht! Many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and
nichts. They may be in at any minute, and I maun keep the kettle
boiling, for they'll be baith cauld and hungry."
Then Nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she
could give since her own fears were so strong.
Mr Dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned
and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. The fears
which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer
put away from him. The sickness of the heart with which he had slept
and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again,
strange yet familiar. Was it never to leave him more? Was the time
coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a
dream?
How many fathers had wandered up and down Portie sands, waiting for sons
who had never returned! Who was he that he should escape what so many a
better man had endured?
But it had not come to that with him yet. Surely God would be merciful
to him, and spare so good a man as George to do His own work in the
world. He was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words
that rose to his lips, lest God should judge him for them.
"I am losing myself, I think," said he, making a strong effort to
restrain his thoughts. "I may as well go back to Jean, or to the pier
head."
No, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful
for his hearing,--to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon
as his face was turned away. And as for Jean--
Well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less
than he. But he was not ready for Jean yet Jean had a way of thinking
her prayers answered whatever befell. If George never were to come
home, it would not come into Jean's mind that God had turned a deaf ear
to her cry. She would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered
in a better way than she could see. That had ay been her way all her
life.
"But as for me--when a time like this comes, I canna be sure. It's like
putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught
to meet their helplessness."
That had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear
children and their dearer mother. No voice had answered, no help had
come. They had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been
left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful God in whom
Jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all.
He had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the
townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he.
The clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his
face, and heard a voice say,--
"If it has been the fog that has keepit them, they'll soon be in now,
for it will be a clear nicht, and Willie Calderwood kens ilka neuk and
ilka rock on the coast for miles. They'll soon be in now, if the fog is
all that has keepit them."
"What could ha'e keepit them but the fog?" said a woman's voice. "Ye
speak as if ye werena expectin' them."
"I'm no' sayin'. Only if it's the fog, they'll soon be in now."
Mr Dawson moved on lest he should hear more. Of course they would be
home now, since the fog was lifting. What should hinder them? But he
had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the
way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness.
As he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of Willie
Calderwood's face when he came that night with tidings of his son. Oh!
the joy of it! Had he not been grateful to God for His goodness then.
Was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a
thank-offering that night! God did seem near to him then.
"I had an inkling that night of what Jean may mean when she speaks o'
the blessedness o' them that rest themselves on God."
But as to grudging! He was not so sure. Even before he saw his son,
had he not been afraid lest, being "a changed man," as his friend had
called him, George might have other aims and other plans of life than he
had for him, and disappoint him after all? True he had hated himself
for the thought, but it had been there that first night. And afterwards
he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen
him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and
their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and
the honour that his father coveted for him among men.
That had all passed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased
to grudge, but because, as the father put it, "it had answered well."
George stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew
him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations
been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to
acknowledge it.
George was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little
movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he
turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and
he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky.
Unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept
them last night might keep them still. How could he bear another night
of such suspense?
Another night! It might be days and nights, for all that he could tell.
He turned with a sinking heart towards the town again.
"O! Geordie! Oh! my son!"
He did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and
a hand was laid on his in the darkness.
"Miss Jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold
and wet," said Marion Calderwood. "Winna ye come with me, Mr Dawson?
And, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming
at C--Only John Fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were
any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions.
But it is sure to be them. And, Mr Dawson, winna ye come with me to
Miss Jean?"
He had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings
up and down the sands. He scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but
he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped
the hand she had laid on his.
"Ay. We'll gang in to Jean," said he.
He leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew
near the house. There was light streaming from the windows and from the
open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,--
"All's weel, Mr Dawson. They're coming hame safe enough."
"Glad tidings of great joy." That was what came into Marion's mind when
she heard the words.
They had come already. At Miss Jean's door Marion was clasped in the
arms of her brother, and George wrung his father's hand and brought him
in to the light.
"The Lord is ay kind, George," said Miss Jean.
But Mr Dawson said nothing. He was too deeply moved for words for a
little while, and indeed so were they all.
Nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the
entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for
George and Mr Dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide
the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down
together. Afterwards they were glad of this, for Mr Dawson did not see
either Marion or her brother again before they went away, and George
only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out.
They lingered a good while at the table, though even Willie owned
himself tired enough to wish to rest. They had been in no special
danger. The misfortune was that the small compass, to which they were
to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been
left in the ship in the pocket of George's coat, and so they had had no
means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little
during the day. They had been farther out at sea than they supposed,
and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they
had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell.
"And I canna say that I am proud o' mysel' on this occasion," said
Willie laughing.
"But except for the fright that we have given you all, I canna say that
I shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep," he
added after a moment. George said nothing, but his eyes and his smile
assented to the words of his friend.
The brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do
during the day that remained, so it happened that neither George nor Mr
Dawson saw them when they called next day at Miss Jean's, and George
only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. There
were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he.
James Petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not
so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed
himself to be. His sisters were there also, and some other of Marion's
friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes
that remained after George came.
And it was Willie that George came to see, they thought. For he stood
with his hand on his friend's shoulder, and the face of each was grave
enough as they said their last words to one another.
But George got the last touch of Marion's hand, and the last glance of
her sweet eyes, and the last words which Marion heard, George spoke, and
they were words that she had heard him say before--
"My dear little sister."
Mr Dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that
night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last
he came in sight George moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and
though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and
gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes.
"How little I am in his life besides what he is in mine!" thought the
old man with a sigh. "But so it ay maun be between father and son, and
he is a good son to me--a good son. And it's no' for what I have to
give him," added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at
his heart. "Though bonny Saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold
and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he
would be a good son still. And he would not be unhappy, for his
portion--that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain
to him."
The old man's heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as
usual when George came in. "Ye're late the nicht."
"Yes. I went round by the station to see the Calderwoods off. And I
think I have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. I must be
tired, I suppose."
"And no wonder. And so they are gone. And was nothing said about their
coming back to Portie again?"
"No. There was time for few words, and there were other people there to
see them off--the Petries, and Maggie Saugster, and some others."
"Was James Petrie there? Then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe
he hasna asked the question. I dare say he was as wise."
To this George made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a
little he left the room. But his father's first words went back to the
same subject.
"It is no' so unwise a thing in James Petrie as it looks, because--"
"His wisdom has to be proved," said George gravely. And then he held
out a letter to his father.
"I don't believe in bringing business to Saughleas, as a rule, but I
thought it as well to let you see this to-night."
His father took it and read it. It was a business letter--important,
but still it might have waited till morning.
"It is because he doesna wish to hear about James Petrie and his hopes.
It is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking," said his father
with a sigh. "His is a true and tender heart, and oh! I wish that I
could do him a pleasure." Suddenly there returned to him the thought
that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands
that weary time of waiting.
"There is nothing which I possessed, that I would not have given for a
thank-offering that night. And there is nothing that I would not give
now."
And when George came into the room after a long hour or two, his father
was pondering the same matter still.
In a few days Mr Dawson declared that it was quite time that Jean were
coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced
his intention of going to fetch her.
For in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, Jean was
quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way,
and there was no need of his going for her sake. But he went, and
stayed a few days, and they came home together. Jean had no light to
throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he
thought she needed his escort home.
But in a few days there came a letter from Mrs Manners to her aunt
which said,--
"The strangest thing happened when my father was in London. He went to
see Mrs Calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years.
Marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. And her
mother never told her what he had to say. He only left a small parcel
which her mother was to give her when she came home. It turned out to
be an exquisite little gold watch. Mrs Calderwood would have refused
so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would
have been very absurd, as I told Marion. For what is a few pounds more
or less to my father. But I would give my own watch and chain too, to
know just what was said between them.
"I have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads
Jean's letters, and he might not be pleased that I have told it. But if
you think it wise, you may tell George; I am sure he will be glad to
hear it. And as for Marion--I do not wonder that she has stolen my
father's heart in spite of him."
Mrs Manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed.
In one way it was very little.
Mr Dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and Mrs
Calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see
George.
"I have come to say, `let by-ganes be by-ganes' between us. If you can
forgive all that is past, give me your hand."
He spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke
sincerely and even eagerly, and Mrs Calderwood could hardly have
refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she
herself hoped to be forgiven.
"I have never borne ill-will, Mr Dawson," said she.
"No. And now I see it might have been different if I had been wiser.
But--I was hardly myself in those days. He was my only son--and--I had
lost his mother--"
He suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood
long looking out into the darkening street. His face was quiet enough
when he turned toward her again.
"The least said the soonest mended," said he; "if you will let by-ganes
be by-ganes, as I said before. I have had many thoughts since I--well
this while--and the other night when they were in danger together--your
son and mine--I got a glimpse of what should be. They are true friends,
these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than
friends also."
Mrs Calderwood was a woman not easily moved. If he had given her time
to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of
doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might
have met them less cordially. But when this man, whom she had long
thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking
with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put
hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness.
And that was all. Mr Dawson did not even sit down. He did not name
Marion till he put the little packet in her mother's hand, and he did
not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so;
and no one ever knew from him that he had been there.
But even before their sister's letter came, both George and Jean knew
that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father.
When one day they were together in their aunt's house and she gave them
their sister's letter to read, they understood that something which had
burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off
forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their
aunt's presence, and she never spoke of it to them.
But she saw, as other folk did, that in their father's company a new
gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she
also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness
George's face grew brighter, but on the face of Jean a shade of sadness
fell.