And so the summer wore over, and May went home with all her children,
though Jean would fain have kept one boy with her. But her mother
feared the bleak east winds for the rather delicate Georgie who was the
favourite at Saughleas, and she had reasons that satisfied herself for
taking little Keith home also, but she promised to send them both back
again as soon as the winter was over.
The summer ended, and autumn days grew short, and a quiet time came that
reminded Jean of the days when May had gone to London "to meet her
fate," and she was waiting for the coming home of the "John Seaton."
There was the same long dreaming in the gloaming, before her father came
in, the same listening to the woeful voices of the winds and the sea,
and the same shadow on Jean's face and in her wistful eyes that her
father had seen in those days--now so long ago. He sometimes surprised
it now, but, if this happened, it went hard with Jean if she did not
make him forget it before he slept.
About the new year Mrs Calderwood's old friend died, and when her will
was read, to her surprise Mrs Calderwood found that she had left her
money enough to enable her to live henceforth free from the cares which
accompany the task of making too little do the work of enough, as had
been her lot during the greater part of her life of widowhood.
George, who had gone to London to be with her at that time, insisted on
bringing her back to Scotland with him. She had exhausted herself in
attendance on her old friend, and she needed a change. Later she was to
return and make all necessary arrangements, but in the mean time it
would have been neither wise nor kind he thought to leave her there
alone.
For this George had a better reason than he gave to her. News had come
of terrible storms that had passed over Southern seas. Already rumours
of disaster and loss had reached England, and the owners of Captain
Calderwood's ship, the "Ben Nevis," were beginning to feel some anxiety
with regard to her.
Another ship, the "Swallow," had arrived from Melbourne, bringing word
that the "Ben Nevis" was to have sailed three days after the time she
had put to sea. The voyage had been a long one, though happily the
"Swallow" had passed beyond the latitudes where the storms had raged
most fiercely before the danger had arisen. The "Ben Nevis" was the
swifter vessel of the two, and by rights, she ought to have reached
England before her. And when ten days passed, and then ten more, there
was good reason for fear for her safety.
Happily Captain Calderwood's outward voyage and his stay in Melbourne
had been shorter than his mother had calculated upon, so that as yet no
thought of anxiety had come to disturb her, and she was glad to go with
George, believing that she could pay a few weeks in Scotland with her
daughter, and still be in London in time to receive her son when he
should return.
It was Mrs Calderwood's first visit after an absence of several years,
to a place which had been her home during the greater part of her life.
There were many to welcome her, and there was much to see and hear, and
she was greatly occupied. But George wondered sometimes that she should
live on from day to day, showing no misgivings, even no surprise, at the
continued absence of her son.
He need not have wondered. She had been a sailor's daughter, and a
sailor's wife, and she had lived the greater part of her life among
sailors' wives and widows, and had learned the necessity of giving no
unwise indulgence to fancies and fears, and to keep quiet and face them
when fears and fancies had to give place at last to a knowledge of
disaster and loss.
She had had anxious thoughts doubtless while she awaited the expected
summons to meet her son, when the ship should be heard from, but
outwardly she was calm and even cheerful. It was wise for her own sake
not to dwell on her fears--which indeed were hardly fears as yet, but
only a vague movement of surprise and impatience that she should have to
wait so long. And it was wise also for the sake of her daughter, who
was not so strong as usual. So she kept herself cheerful and seemed to
be taking so little thought of what might be awaiting her, that George
questioned at last whether it might not be both kind and wise to prepare
her for the shock which he began to fear must come soon. This painful
task did not fall to him however, and Mrs Calderwood was already better
prepared for it than he knew.
It was drawing near the end of February by this time, and it was a
milder season than Portie often sees. There were weeks of bleak weather
to come yet, for this eastern coast rarely escapes a full share of that
sooner or later. But in the mean time the days were fair and calm, and
looking over a pale grey sea, bright now and then with a blink of
sunshine, thoughts of storm and danger did not come so readily, as with
a wild and angry sea they might have done. But even Marion was
beginning to wonder that her mother said nothing of what might be
keeping the "Ben Nevis" so long.
And then a single word came to break the silence between them, and they
knew that the mother's quietness had cost her something. But she was
quiet still when doubts and fears and even despair were busy at her
heart.
They were still sitting at breakfast one fair morning when Jean came in.
She was just as usual, they all thought at the moment, but afterwards
each remembered the look on her face as she opened the door. The air
had brought a colour to her cheeks, so she was not pale, but there was a
startled look in her eyes as she turned them from one to another before
she uttered a word. It changed as she marked the unmoved face of each.
She kissed Marion, and then, strangely enough, she kissed Mrs
Calderwood, and laid two pale primroses, the first of the season, on a
book which she held in her hand.
They were friendly, these two, and even more than friendly, but there
was always a touch of shyness and reserve between them, even when they
were most friendly. Marion, who so dearly loved them both, saw it and
wondered at it often, but she smiled now as Jean stooped and touched her
lips to her mother's cheek. Mrs Calderwood grew a shade paler, and a
question came into her eyes as she met Jean's look. But Jean had no
answer for it.
"I found them in a sheltered nook in the wood when I was out this
morning. They are come earlier than usual, and there will soon be more
of them."
Jean did not meet her look as she thanked her, but turned to George who
was preparing to go out, nor would she sit down.
"I only looked in as I passed, to see if all was well with you. I have
many things to do, but I will come in again before I go home, unless I
should be detained longer than I expect in the town." So in a little
she and her brother went out together. "Are you taking the paper with
you, George?" said Mrs Calderwood following them to the door.
"Not if you wish to see it. I will send for it by and by when I want
it."
"You have seen it, George?" said Jean as they went on. "If you mean the
paragraph about the `Ben Nevis,' yes, I have seen it. It does not say
much beyond the usual, `Fears are entertained for the safety, etc.'"
"And now she will see it."
"Yes, I think it is as well. It will help to prepare her for what she
may have to hear later."
"George," said Jean in a little, "does that mean that you are afraid?"
"There is cause for anxiety. There was that before we left London. I
only wonder that Mrs Calderwood has said so little about it."
"And you left London more than six weeks ago." George told her of the
succession of terrible storms that had swept over the Southern seas
about the close of the year, in latitudes where possibly the "Ben Nevis"
had been at that time, acknowledging that there would be reason to fear
for the fate of the ship unless she were heard from soon. His anxiety
had been greater than he knew, and he had kept it to himself so long
that to speak was a relief, which led him to say more to his sister than
he would otherwise have done. His words were less hopeful than he meant
them to be, until Jean said, "Do you mean that you give them up?"
"By no means. I do not even give up the ship. I know Willie Calderwood
and what he can do too well to do that yet a white. And even if they
had to forsake the ship, the chances are in favour of safety for the
men. All that depends on circumstances of which we can know nothing.
But I by no means give up the ship even yet."
"But, George, should you not have stayed to tell Mrs Calderwood so?"
"No, I think not. There will be time enough for that, and she is of a
nature to meet the first pain best alone."
"But Marion?"
"She will not speak to Marion at once. And, Jean, it is as well that
the awful possibility of loss should be admitted. But my hopes are
stronger than my fears."
"The awful possibility of loss?" Jean repeated the words with white
lips, not knowing that she did so. They had lengthened their walk,
passing Miss Jean's house and going on to the pier. They turned now and
came back in silence. At Miss Jean's door they paused.
"It will be as well to say nothing as yet," said George.
"Not to Aunt Jean?"
"Oh! yes. I have spoken to her already. I mean to people generally.
And, Jean, go and see Marion and her mother again before you go home."
But Jean said nothing to her aunt about what she had heard. She stayed
her usual time, and discussed certain purchases that were to be made of
material for the summer outfit of some of her aunt's "puir bodies," and
went into matters of detail as to quantity, and needles and thread, and
as to the help that each would need in the making of her gown. And then
she went away and did all else that she meant to do when she left home,
and lingered over it, till it was too late, she told herself, to go to
the High-street again.
Three days passed before she went there, and the like had seldom
happened since Marion came home. She did not know how she could speak
to the mother of the anguish and suspense that lay before her, and she
shrank from a betrayal of her own pain.
But when she went in on the fourth day it struck her with surprise to
see that they were just the same as usual. No change of grief or terror
had passed upon them. Mrs Calderwood was grave and pale, but she spoke
about various matters cheerfully enough, though she made no allusion to
the fears for her son.
Marion spoke of her brother, and said how hopeful George was about him,
and how the old sailors about the pier were saying to one another, that
Captain Calderwood was not the man to be caught unprepared for a storm,
and being prepared, with plenty of sea room, what was there to fear? He
would bring his ship home all right. There was no fear of that.
But the next news that came made even the old sailors shake their heads
when the ship was spoken of. A boat had been picked up by a South
American vessel, filled with men from the wreck of the "Ben Nevis" and
from the Southern port to which these had been carried came the tidings.
They had encountered a succession of storms, which had so strained and
shattered the good ship "Ben Nevis," that there seemed a fairer chance
of escaping with life by betaking themselves to the boats than by
remaining with the ship. There were not many passengers on board, only
seventeen all told. Nine of these, with four sailors, were in the boat
which the American had saved when they had been five days away from the
wreck.
They could say nothing of those whom they had left on board, though they
had still seen the ship afloat in the distance on the second day. There
was no familiar name in the list of the rescued, but it was said that
the weather had moderated while they were in the vicinity of the ship,
and there seemed no reason to doubt that the rest of the passengers and
crew had been able to save themselves.
Captain Calderwood's name was mentioned in terms that brought tears of
pride and sorrow to the eyes of those who loved him. His courage and
kindness and patience had never failed through all the terrible days of
storm. Discipline had been maintained through all, as perfectly as
during the summer calm that preceded those awful days; and the last
sight which the rescued saw as they drew off from the ship, to await the
manning of the other boats, was their captain standing on the deck
encouraging them with hand and voice.
And that was all. But that was much, and now they could wait for
further tidings with patience. On the whole they kept in good heart for
a while. But as time went on, the suspense and anxiety of the days that
went before, seemed to pass into each new day as it came. For they knew
that each passing day without tidings mocked the hope they had so long
cherished.
Through all the mother waited quietly. Never quite without hope that
she would see her son again, but after a while the poor pretence of
cheerfulness for which she had striven, because of Marion, failed beyond
her power to help it. The silent patience which had been the habit of
her life under other troubles, stood her in good stead now. And when
this failed her, and the restlessness, of a slowly dying hope came upon
her, she would go away by herself till she could hide all tokens of her
pain again.
Sometimes she went to Miss Jean's for comfort, but often when her
daughter believed her to be there, she was walking up and down the wet
sands, or sitting in some sheltered nook among the rocks, striving for
calmness to bear to the end. She had gone through it all before, and
now she seemed to be waiting again and longing and fearing for his
father, while she waited for her only son. When other eyes were upon
her she was calm enough, and troubled no one with her trouble, but she
needed the rest which solitude gave her to carry her through the
lengthening days.
Marion bore the long suspense well, they all said. She was young, and
it was her nature to look for brightness rather than gloom, and no such
trouble had come upon her as had darkened the life of her mother. There
were only hopeful views expressed in her presence, and though she knew
that cheerfulness was encouraged and often assumed for her sake, she had
the sense and courage to respond to the efforts of those who loved her,
and to keep herself quiet and patient for their sakes.
One good came to Mrs Calderwood out of the trouble of those days. She
had forgiven Mr Dawson the hard words and unreasonable anger of the old
days, or she believed that she had, but even to herself she could not
say that she had forgotten them. She was never quite at her ease in his
presence. It was not so much that she disliked him, as that she could
not convince herself that he did not dislike her. The sight of her
could only, she thought, recall to him much that he could not but wish
to forget; and if she could do so, without remark, she generally chose
to be out of the way during his frequent visits to the house.
But whatever he might feel towards her, there could be no doubt as to
the esteem in which he held her son, or as to the anxiety which he
shared with them all. He was not, as a general thing, ready with words
of sympathy, but she had seen tears in his eyes more than once as he
spoke her son's name, and her heart could not but soften towards him,
and a real friendliness, which in other circumstances might have come
but slowly, grew up in this troubled time between them.
There was no lack of sympathy. Not a man or woman in Portie, but felt
deeply for the trouble of Willie Calderwood's mother and sister, though
they were for the most part shy as to any expression of it. Indeed Mrs
Calderwood kept out of the way of words. George guarded his wife from
the hearing of any thing that would move her out of her usual quiet, and
when he was not at hand, Jean guarded her as carefully for his sake.
To Jean, as to the rest, the days passed slowly and heavily. To the
eyes of even her aunt she was just as usual, no graver nor sadder than
was natural since a friend, and one who was more than a friend to those
she loved, was in danger. But no one ever heard her speak of the
anxiety that oppressed them all. She listened in silence when, as is
the way at such times, the causes for hope or fear were gone over, and
over, and over again, or she went away and did not listen, but she never
put in her word with the rest.
It was only as a friend that she had a right to grieve for Willie
Calderwood, she told herself. They had never been lovers. They had
cared for one another long ago--oh! so long ago now. But they had not
seen one another for years, because he had not cared to see her, and it
was all past now. She had been angry at first, and then sorry. Yes,
she had suffered sharply for a while, she acknowledged. But she was
neither sorry nor angry now. She was anxious for his safety, and she
longed for his return, as all his friends did. And her heart ached for
his mother and his sister, and for George, to whom he was both brother
and friend. And that was all.
But a day came when her heart spoke, nay, cried out as the heart of no
mere friend could cry. She was sitting one day in Miss Jean's parlour,
when her brother came in. There were tears in his eyes and a strange,
uncertain smile on his lips, and he laid his hand on her shoulder as she
stood by the window, pausing a moment before he spoke, as if he were not
sure of his voice.
"Jean," he said, "there is news at last."
Jean grew very white.
"Well?" said she sitting down.
"Is it good news, George, man?" said his aunt hastily.
"It is just such news as one would expect to hear from Willie
Calderwood. Yes, I call it good news, whatever may come next."
And then he told them how another of the "Ben Nevis'" boats had been
heard from. After much suffering from anxiety and exhaustion, they who
left the ship in it had landed somewhere on the West African coast, and
had, after some delay, been taken from thence in a Portuguese vessel to
Lisbon. And now some of them at least had reached England. And this
was the news they brought.
When those who were to go in the second boat were about to take their
places in it, Captain Calderwood had, to their utter amazement, declared
his intention of remaining with the ship for that night at least. The
vessel was new and strongly built, and within the hour he had seen some
tokens that led him to believe that, during the storm, it had not gone
so hardly with her as had been at first feared.
The cargo was a valuable one, and his duty to his employers demanded
that, while there was a chance of saving it and the ship, he should
remain on board. At the same time he acknowledged, that as far as could
now be judged, there was but a chance in ten, that he could do this,
while by taking to the boats at once, there was a fair prospect of their
being picked up by one of the many homeward bound vessels which at that
season followed the course which they had taken.
Then he called for volunteers to remain with him. Not a man among the
sailors but would have stayed at his bidding. But an able crew was
placed in the departing boat, and he was left with just men enough to
work the ship, among them three passengers, should all go well. Should
they find when the night was over, that chances were against saving the
ship, they also were to take to the boat and do what might be done to
escape with the rest.
They who were in the second boat had stayed in the vicinity of the ship
that night and the next day and night, but when the second morning
dawned she was no longer to be seen. Whether she had sunk or whether
she had sailed away out of their sight they had no means of knowing, nor
could they form any conjecture as to the fate of those who remained on
board. They might have betaken themselves to the boat at the last
moment, or they might have gone down with the ship.
But whatever had happened this was sure--No braver man or better sailor
than Captain Calderwood had ever commanded a ship. This was all that
was to be told about the "Ben Nevis."
"And what do you gather from it all?" said Miss Jean in a little. "Ye
dinna give up all hope?"
"We can only wait patiently a little longer. If the bringing home of
the disabled ship was a thing to be done, Captain Calderwood was the man
to do it. No, I by no means give up hope. He may come any day now."
They had said this many times before, and now none of them had the
courage to say that he should have been home long ago if all had been
well.
"I fear it was an unwise courage that led him to undertake an impossible
work," said Miss Jean sadly.
"No, aunt. You must not say that. He must have seen more than a
possibility, or he would never have risked life. It was his simple duty
as he saw it, neither more nor less. We may be sure of that, knowing
him as we do."
"But, oh! George, what is a ship's cargo, or even the ship itself, in
comparison with a young strong life like his?"
"Ay, aunt. But duty is the first thought with a true man like Captain
Calderwood. And he has all the resources that strength and patience and
skill and courage can give to a man, and I cannot but hope that he'll
come safe home yet."
"He is in God's hands," said Miss Jean.
"Ay, is he. And God bless him wherever he is," said George with a break
in his voice.
Jean had sat in silence, turning her eyes from one to the other as each
had spoken.
"Have you told his mother?" said Miss Jean.
"Yes, she has heard all. It seems two of the sailors have reported
themselves to the owners in London, and she thinks she must see them,
though I fear it will do little good."
"It will give her something to do anyway," said Miss Jean. "But she is
quite worn out with anxiety, though she has said so little about it, and
I doubt she ought not to go alone."
"No, I shall go with her," said George. "It would make Marion miserable
to think of her mother with her sore heart solitary in London. We need
not stay long."
"And after a day or two she will think of her daughter's need of her,
and come home. If only the suspense were over one way or another--"
"No, aunt, don't say that. We have hope yet--strong hope of seeing him
again. If you only heard the tales I hear on the pier about the
wonderful escapes that skill and courage have won. Hope! Yes, I have
hope."
"My dear, I have heard all that could be told before you were born. But
all the same there has many a ship gone down since then, and many a sore
heart has waited and hoped in vain. But I'm no' goin' to say all that
to Willie Calderwood's mother, true though it be."
"And, George," said Jean speaking for the first time, "you may be quite
at peace about Marion."
"Yes. I leave her with you. She will keep herself quiet."
"We will take her to Saughleas. That will please my father."
And so it was settled, and the long days went on. Jean busied herself
with her father and her sister, and went out and in just as usual,
giving no time when other eyes were upon her to her own thoughts. But
she welcomed the night. Sitting in the darkness, with only the grey
gleam of the sea for her eyes to rest upon, she gave herself up to
thoughts of her friend.
She called him her friend, but she knew that he was more than a friend
to her; and she had at least this comfort now, that she was no longer
angry or ashamed to care for him still, although he had forgotten her.
He would always be her friend now, whether he lived or died. She might
grieve for those who loved him, and whom he loved, and for the young
strong life lost to the world which needed such as he to do its best
work, but he would still be hers in memory, and more in death than in
life.
And yet she had a vague dread of the dreariness and emptiness of a world
in which he no longer lived and moved, and doubted her power to adapt
herself to its strangeness. She knew, or she tried to believe, that
good would come out of it all even to her, and when she came to this she
always remembered her aunt.
It had been by "kissing the rod" under such discipline as this that her
aunt, after long, patient years, had grown to be the best, the most
unselfish woman that she knew; yes, and the wisest with the highest
wisdom.
Sometimes she had said to herself and to others, that she meant to grow
to be such a woman as her aunt, and so take up her work in the world
when it should be time for her to lay it down. And now, perhaps, the
Lord was taking her at her word, and was about to prepare her for His
own work, in His own way, which must be best; and she tried to be glad
that it should be so. But when she looked on to the life that lay
before her, her heart sank at the length of the way.
"I am not like Aunt Jean. I am not good enough to get her work to do,
and to take pleasure in it. Maybe after long years I might be able to
do it. If I only had the heart to care for any thing any more!
"But I must be patient. The pain is new and sore yet, but time heals
most wounds, and as auntie says, `The Lord is ay kind.'"
This was her last thought most nights; but there were times when she
could not get beyond the darkness, and lay lost and helpless till the
morning. Then she put aside her own pain, and grew cheerful and hopeful
for the sake of others. If she came to the task with white cheeks and
heavy eyes, as happened now and then, no one wondered, or indeed noticed
it much, for she was none the less ready with cheerful words and kindly
deeds for the comfort of them all.