"Ay. It's ay said that twa women canna agree in the same house. But I
think, Jean, ye might show them something else. I'm sure Marion wouldna
be ill to live with."
"It is not a matter of agreement or disagreement, papa. There cannot be
two mistresses in any house with comfort to, any one concerned. And
there need not be two if Marion were willing. And if I were not there
she would fall naturally into her right place. I might go away for a
little while, papa, and when I came back I might fall into the second
place, and make no work about it. Or I might bide with Auntie Jean."
"Nonsense! Bide with Auntie Jean, indeed! If you were going to a house
of your ain, it might do. But good and dear as Marion is, I could ill
bear to see you put out of your place in your father's house, even for
her."
"Yes, if I cared, papa. I might once when I was younger. But I dinna
think that I could care much now."
Mr Dawson looked at her curiously, but Jean's eyes were turned away to
the sea.
"But even if that were the best way--which I am far from thinking--there
is ay Mrs Calderwood and her wishes to be considered. I doubt we'll
just need to let them go."
"But I think--and Aunt Jean thinks--which is more to the purpose--that
Mrs Calderwood would hardly content herself in her daughter's house
wherever it was, for a continuance. I mean that she would rather be in
a home of her own. That might be got over."
There was silence between them for some time, and then Jean said with
more earnestness than she had shown yet,--
"Papa, will you let me tell you just what I would like? I would like
you to give me the house in the High-street for a present--as a part of
my portion--just as if I were to be married, ye ken. And then I would
persuade my aunt and Mrs Calderwood to live there together. And by and
by when I grow old--and have not you any longer, I could live there
myself."
Mr Dawson listened to her with mingled feelings, but he said quietly,
"What would two women folk, seeing little company, do with a big house
like that? And you could never persuade them."
"But they would see company more or less, and have folk coming for the
summer. And the house is not so very big, and none too good for the
`auld laird's' sister, and the `young laird's' mother. And I think I
could persuade them. And if this were all settled George would be
content to bide with you at Saughleas. And I could--come and go."
"Jean," said her father gravely, "why do you ay speak as if you were
never to have a house of your own? I'm no' pleased to hear you."
"But, papa, I never do. That is what I am wanting--a house of my own--
sometime--not just yet."
"But I am not thinking of such a home as ye could make to yourself in
the house in the High-street, but of something quite different." Jean
laughed. "I canna help it, papa."
"But ye might have helped it."
"No, papa, I never could yet."
"Weel! weel! We'll say nae mair about it. It's nae ower late yet. We
maun ha'e patience, I suppose."
Though Jean laughed her face grew strangely grave and sad, her father
thought, as they went on in silence together.
"You might think about it, papa, and speak to Aunt Jean about it. I
should never feel safe or happy to be long away from Portie, unless
there were some one ay with Aunt Jean. And I think that she and
Marion's mother would suit one another as no one else would suit either
of them. They would be busy and happy together, and I should feel safe
about my aunt wherever I might be."
"But why should you speak as if you were not to be here? Why should you
go away?"
"Only for a little while, papa. And then George and Marion would stay.
And it is not for that altogether. I would like to go a while for my
own sake. I think I need a change."
"Are ye no' weel?" said her father in some surprise.
"Oh! I am well enough; but I would like to go away for a little. I am
tired, I think. We have been anxious, you know, especially when George
and Mrs Calderwood were away. And I think I am wearying for a sight of
May and the bairns. I know a change would be good for me, for a little,
I mean."
She spoke with some difficulty, and the colour was coming and going on
her cheek. Her father's surprise changed to anxiety as he regarded her.
He saw as her aunt had seen, that she had grown thin and pale, and that
her eyes looked large and anxious, like eyes that had slept little of
late.
"What ails ye, my lassie? Ye're surely no' weel. If it's only May and
her bairns that ye're wanting, ye can easy get them. Only," continued
Mr Dawson after a little, "it might hardly look kind to go away now,
till the `Ben Nevis' has been heard from again."
"No, I suppose not."
"And if we shouldna hear--ye'll be needed all the more. Willie
Calderwood will be a hero to the seafaring folk o' Portie when he does
come. And I dare say ye'll like to see him as well as the rest."
"Yes. It is long since I saw him."
"If he brings the `Ben Nevis' safe to an English port, his reputation
will be established, and his fortune will be made. That is as far as a
mere sea captain can be said to be able to make a fortune by his
profession. He must be a man of great courage and strength of
character, as George says, even to have made the attempt to bring the
ship home. They may weel be proud of him,--his sister and his mother,
and we must do nothing that would seem to lichtlify him--neither you nor
me."
Jean looked at her father in a strangely moved way which he remembered
afterwards, but she said nothing.
"I mind ye were ay fond o' sea-heroes; and all his friends will need to
make much o' him when he wins safe home."
They were drawing near the cottage by this time. Mr Dawson would not
let Jean go in because of the fever, and she sat down on the dyke at the
house end. But her father did not keep her waiting long. John had
fallen into a sleep which might be the saving of him yet, and must not
be disturbed, and promising, if it were possible, to see him to-morrow,
he came quickly out to Jean.
They had little to say to each other as they turned homewards. Jean
acknowledged herself tired with her walk, and when she said she had
promised to go back again to her aunt's to walk home with Mrs
Calderwood, her father bade her wait there, and the pony carriage, when
George and Marion returned, should be sent for them both.
Mr Dawson pursued his homeward way alone, but he had not gone very far
before he met a messenger and turned back again.
"Good news! good news!" shouted young Robbie Saugster as soon as he was
within hearing distance. "The `Ben Nevis' is safe in port, and Captain
Calderwood is here in Portie, I saw him mysel' at the station, and I
told him that his mother was at Miss Jean's, and then I ran on to
Saughleas with the news; but there was naebody there to hear it but
Phemie and Ann. And I'm glad to see you, sir, anyway."
"Good news!" That it was, well worth the half crown which Mr Dawson
put into the hand of the astonished laddie. He had heard no news so
good for many a day, he said, as he turned toward the town again. But
when he came to his sister's house, and went softly in, he was not so
sure of its being the best of news to him.
For the first sight he saw was his daughter Jean lying on her aunt's
sofa with a face as white as death, and her bright hair tossed and wet
falling down to the floor. Leaning over her, but not touching so much
as a finger, was a sailor in rough sea clothes; and though he neither
moved nor spoke, there was no mistaking the tale told by his working
face and his eager eyes. Mrs Calderwood stood beside him with her hand
on his shoulder.
"Willie," she entreated, "you must come away. She must not see you when
she comes to herself. She was startled, and you have no right--"
"No, mother. I know I have no right--except that I have loved her all
my life--"
"But you must come away. It is not fair to her. And think of her
father."
"Yes. I have ay thought of him. Yes, mother, I will go with you," and
he stooped and touched, not with his fingers, but with his lips, the
shining braid of hair that hung down to the floor, and then he turned
and went out.
It was hard on Mr Dawson. He had been more than anxious for the
sailor's return for his mother's sake and his sister's, as well as for
his own, and he had meant to give him the best of friendly welcomes.
But now what was this he saw?
Astonishment was his first feeling. He had never once thought of these
two in this way, at least he had not for a long time. Then he was
angry. Had Jean been deceiving him all this time. But his anger was
only momentary. He knew his daughter too well to believe that possible.
He knew not what to think, except that his welcome to the sailor was
not so ready as it would have been an hour ago.
Fortunately it was not called for at the moment, for Captain Calderwood
turned into Nannie's kitchen and went out the other way without seeing
him.
Seldom in his life had the old man been so startled. Instead of going
into the house, he turned down to the pier to consider the matter. He
had not much comfort in that. As he turned again into the High-street,
he heard the sound of voices far up in the square, and as he went on, he
caught sight of his own low carriage standing in the midst of what
seemed a crowd of people, not waiting there quietly, but eager and
excited, over something which had pleased them well.
And could it be possible? In the carriage sat his daughter-in-law with
his grandson on her lap. He knew that he was angry then, and he pushed
his way forward intending to say so plainly, and to put an end to all
this, at least as far as she was concerned.
But when he drew nearer, and Marion, with the tears running over her
smiling face, stretched out both hands to him over her son, claiming his
sympathy in the great joy that had come to her, somehow he forgot his
anger and shook her hands kindly and joyfully; yes, and kissed her there
before all the folk, to their intense amazement and delight.
It had not been at Marion that he had been angry. And he had not even
the excuse of danger for his anger, for young Robbie Saugster had placed
himself at the heads of the ponies, and there was not the slightest
danger of their running away.
And when he had time to look about him, there was half the folk in
Portie assembled to welcome the returned sailor, and in the midst of
them stood George, with his arm laid across the shoulders of his friend.
It was something to see these two faces--the one fair, smiling,
noble,--the other no less noble, but brown and weatherbeaten, and with a
cloud upon it, notwithstanding all the joy of home coming. They were
brothers in heart, he saw that, whatever might befall. Before he could
make up his mind to push his way toward them, a hush fell on the crowd.
Captain Calderwood was making a speech.
It was not much of a speech that Captain Calderwood made, however.
He had only done his duty, he said, as nobody knew better than the
seafaring folk of Portie, every one of whom would have done the same in
his place, if they had seen the same reason. He was glad to be safe
home again with his ship and cargo, and not a life lost, and he was
proud of the welcome they were giving him--for there was no place like
Portie to him, and no folk like the folk of Portie whom he had known all
his life.
That was all. But George made a speech, and said just enough and no
more--"as he ay does," his proud father thought as he listened.
Still standing with his hand on his friend's shoulder he said a few
words about what Captain Calderwood had done. He could not tell them
the story, because he had heard nothing as yet, more than the rest. But
he knew as well as if he had been told, how all things had been ordered
on board of the "Ben Nevis," both before the storm and after it, because
he knew Captain Calderwood.
He had done his duty. That was all. But he need not tell the men of
Portie--the Saugsters and the Cairnies, the Smiths and the Watts, the
Bruces and the Barnets, who had had sailors among their kin longer ago
than the oldest of them could mind--what duty meant to a sailor.
It meant to him, whiles, what heroism meant to other folk. It meant
courage to face danger, patience undying through want and weariness and
waiting, cheerful endurance through wakeful nights and toilsome days,
and long banishment from friends and home.
It meant to the master, a power to command himself, as well as his men;
it meant skill and will, and wisdom to act, and strength to bear up
under the terrible responsibility of holding in his hand other men's
lives, no one but him coming between them and God.
To the men it meant obedience, entire and unquestioning, sometimes,
alas! to unreasonable commands--to tyranny to which, in the hands of
evil men, unrestrained power might easily degenerate. It meant to all
and each--to master and to man--a taking his life in his hand--a daily
and nightly facing of death--ay, and of suffering death. It might mean
that to some of their own, now far away. It might have meant that to
Captain Calderwood, for instead of coming home with ship and cargo safe
and with not a life lost, he might have given his own life in doing his
duty, as his father had done before him, and his grandfather, as all the
men of Portie knew.
"And is he less a hero to us to-day because he has only done his duty?
And if instead of having him here among us to-day--to fill with joy and
pride every sailor's heart in Portie--there had come to us from the sea,
first a vague and awful rumour of danger and loss, and then one or other
of the tokens that have come to some here--a spar, a broken piece of the
ship, a word or two written beneath the very eyes and touch of death--
would he not have been a hero to us then? And all the more, that having
no thought of what men's eyes might see in his deeds, or men's tongues
tell of them, he had lived through the violence of the tempest, and
through the lingering days of peril that followed, only to do his duty?"
It was here that George's speech ought to have come to an end. It was
at this point that his father thought he had said "just enough and no
more." And it was here also that Willie shrugged his shoulders under
the hand that still rested lovingly on them as he muttered,--
"Hoot, man, Geordie! Cut it short." But the folk--who had listened in
a silence so absolute that the "click, click" of Mrs Cairnie's crutch
could be heard on the stone causeway--stirred a little and murmured, and
then waited for more. And George had more to give them.
"And now, men of Portie--sailors and fishers--ay, and sutors and
saddlers, masons and merchants--every man among you, I have just one
word more to say to you all--but chiefly to you sailors. Willie here
has whispered two words in my ear, and one of them I'll give you.
"Never through all that terrible storm that beat upon them, nor after
it, when the bitter thought that the ship must be forsaken was forced
upon them, nor during the long doubtful days--harder to bear--that
followed, when in the morning none could say whether hope or fear was to
win the day, or at night whether there was to be another day to them--
through all that time, I say, not a man among them looked to the devil
for courage to dare his fate, or deaden his fears. There passed not the
lips of a man among them a drop of that which has lost more ships, and
broken more hearts, and beguiled more sailors from their duty, than you
and I, and all here could count in a day."
"Is that so, Willie?" cried a voice from the crowd. "Ay, is it. And no
man here needs me to point the moral."
Willie had had enough of it by this time. He would not be beguiled into
answering questions or telling tales. So he slipped his shoulder from
under George's hand and withdrew a little from him.
But George did not move. He stood with glad eyes looking down on the
familiar faces of his townsfolk and with a sweet and kindly gravity
which was better to see than a smile, and when he lifted his hand, the
movement in the crowd and the murmur of talk that had risen were hushed.
The last word had been from his friend. This was from himself. It was
only a word. It was not about the courage or skill or immovable
patience of the young commander that he spoke; but of something that lay
behind all these, and rose above them--the living belief in an eye that
saw him, in a hand that held him, in a will that controlled and guided
and kept him through all, and in a love and care that could avail in
shipwreck and loss; ay, in death itself.
It was this living belief in the Lord above as a living Lord that had
stood him in such stead in those terrible days.
"Was Willie _feared_, think ye?" said George, coming back to their
common speech in his earnestness. "Some o' ye ha'e come through, and
mair than aince, the terrors o' storm and threatened shipwreck, and ye
ha'e seen how strength and courage, and common humanity itself, whiles
fails before the blackness and darkness and tempest; and it's ilka ane
for himsel', be he master or man.
"But, with this belief in a living Lord who has called Himself and
proved Himself friend and brother in one, was there danger of this to
Captain Calderwood and those whom he commanded?
"Belief, said I? Nay, lads, who of us can doubt that the Lord Himself
stood by him, as He stood by Paul His servant at such another time,
giving him promise of life to them who saw only death waiting them.
"Was Captain Calderwood afraid? Look ye at his clear eye, and take a
grip o' his steady hand, and hearken to what his men may have to say of
him, and ye'll ken that he came out of it all by other help and a better
strength than his own--a help and a strength that we a' need, on land
and sea, and that we can get for the seeking--as some o' ye ken better
than I can tell you--and may it be baith yours and mine when our time of
trouble shall come--" said George ending rather abruptly at last.