Chapter Eleven.
A Visitor.
Mr Dawson was longer away than he had intended to be when he left. A visit was made to the Corbetts on the way, and from thence came a letter telling Jean to prepare to receive another visitor when her father should return. Hugh, the Corbett who came next after Emily, a schoolboy of fourteen, had been so unfortunate as to hurt his knee in some of his holiday wanderings during the previous summer, and had been a prisoner in the house for months, and Mr Dawson proposed to bring him to Portie for a change.
Jean was promised no pleasure from the visit. The lad was ill, and “ill to do with,” irritable and impatient of his long confinement in the house. There was little enough space in the Corbett house for those who were well, and it would do the lad good to see something else besides the four walls of the rather dim parlour where he had been a prisoner so long. He must be a prisoner even at Saughleas for a time, poor lad; but when the spring came so that he could get out, and get the good of the sea air, he would doubtless be better; and in the mean time, said her father, Jean must make the best of him.
The next letter was from London, telling of their safe arrival, and kind reception, but neither that nor the next, told the day on which Mr Dawson might be expected home. Indeed it told nothing in a very satisfactory manner; but Jean gathered that they found themselves in very favourable circumstances for seeing many of the wonderful sights of London, and the only thing they seemed to regret was, that Jean was not there to enjoy it all with them. A good many names of people and places were mentioned, but no very clear idea was conveyed with regard to them all, and Jean was advised to wait patiently for her father’s return to hear more; and this she was content to do.
Her father came home the better for his trip, Jean saw at the first glimpse she got of his face. Of course the first minutes were given to care of the lame boy, who was tired and shy, but when he had got his tea, and was happily disposed of for the night, Jean sat down to hear what her father had to tell. Not that she expected to hear much at any one time. His news would come out by little and little on unexpected occasions, as was his way with news, but he answered her questions about her sister, and her friends, and gave his opinion of them and their manner of life readily enough. He had evidently enjoyed his stay among them, and acknowledged that he had known nothing of London before this visit.
Jean listened, pleased and interested; but all the time she was waiting to hear a certain name which had occurred more than once in the brief letters of her sister, and which had also been mentioned once at least by her father.
“And you went to the British Museum?” said she at last.
“Yes. I had been there before, but this was different. It is one thing to wander about, looking at things which you don’t understand, till eyes and mind and body grow weary,—and never a clear idea of any thing gotten, to keep and carry away to look at afterwards—and it is quite another thing to go about in the company of one who, by two or three words, can put life and spirit into all there is to see. Mr Manners was with us that day.”
And it seemed that Mr Manners had been with them other days, and on one occasion when her father had mentioned his name several times, Jean asked,—
“And who is Mr Manners? You have not told me who he is.”
“He is a man with a clear head o’ his ain, who will make his mark yet, or I’m much mistaken. No, he was not staying with the Seldons, though he was there often. He has rooms near the university in which he is a professor. I thought much of him.”
“What is he like? Is he old or young?” asked Jean.
“Oh! he is not young. Not that he is to call old either. He is tall and thin rather, and stoops a little, and he wears glasses whiles, but not when he is reading.”
Jean laughed.
“Stoops and wears glasses!”
She was laughing at herself. She had been conscious of a little discomfort, at the frequent mention of this man’s name. A new interest and influence had come into her sister’s life in which she had no part, and it saddened her though she acknowledged that her sadness was unreasonable. But she was a little anxious as well as sad, because, having so long watched over her sister, she feared that in the new circumstances in which she found herself, her care might be needed and missed—which was also unreasonable, since she might have gone with her had she cared to do so, and since her sister had both sense and judgment to care for herself.
And for the special danger which was in Jean’s thoughts—though she would not allow that she feared it—surely May was safe from that. The child liked attention and admiration, and got them wherever she went; but her heart was not in her own keeping, as Jean believed, and so she was safe, and would come back to them as she went; and Jean acknowledged her own folly in being either anxious or sad. But all the same she laughed and was, pleased, that the new friend she had found should be “not young, though not just to call old,” as her father had said, and that he should stoop a little and wear glasses. So she determined to put all unpleasant possibilities out of her thoughts, and the fact that the professor’s name no longer found frequent place in her sister’s letters, made it all the easier for her to do so.
Besides, she had more to occupy herself as the winter passed away, and less time to brood and vex herself; and as it was not in her nature when she was well to vex herself without sufficient occasion, her occupations helped her to a better kind of cheerfulness than that which of late she had sometimes assumed for her father’s sake.
Young Corbett was her best help toward a more reasonable frame of mind with regard to all things. The journey had been too much for him, or he had in some way injured his knee again, for he suffered much pain in it for a time, and his young hostess was kept constantly busy, ministering to both mind and body. Dr Maitland, the chief Portie practitioner, took a different view of the lad’s case from that which the doctor at home had taken, and he was subjected to different treatment which told to his benefit after a time. But just at first he suffered a good deal, and Jean “had her ain adoes wi’ him,” as Phemie, her maid, declared.
He was not an ill-tempered boy, though Mr Dawson had received that impression from what he had seen and heard in his own home. He suffered, and he was irritable, and impatient of necessary restraint. But he made an effort towards patience and submission to circumstances in the presence of strangers which he possibly would not have made at home, and the change and the quiet of the house helped his patience on to cheerfulness before very long.
“How my father and mother should have ventured to inflict such a nuisance upon you amazes me; and how you should consent to it amazes me more still,” said he to Jean when he had been two days in the house, and when he was beginning to feel himself not so strange and forlorn as he had felt at first.
“But I did not consent I was not consulted,” said Jean laughing.
“No,” said the boy gravely. “And you could hardly refuse to have me when I was laid down at your door. But that only makes it all the more surprising that you should—take so much trouble with me.”
“But then it was to my father’s door you came, and he brought you himself. Don’t be foolish. If I were lame and ill and needed your help, would not you be willing to give it to me?”
“But that would be quite different. And I could not help you, besides.”
“Well, never mind. I am glad papa brought you here. I am going, by and by, to send you home strong and well, and fit to do a man’s work in the world. And in the mean time—though I acknowledge that you are whiles a wee fractious and ill to do with—I like you. I’m glad my father brought you here, and we’ll be friends always,” and Jean held out her hand.
The tears started in the lad’s eyes.
“It is very good of you,” said he with a gasp.
After that, life went better with him. When after a little he could be taken every day and laid on the sofa in the parlour, he began to feel the good of the change. He had plenty to amuse him. He liked reading, well enough, as boys like it, but he was not a book worm; and Jean might have found him heavy on her hands during the first weeks after he came down-stairs, if he had had only books to fall back upon. But to her surprise and his own, an unfailing source of interest and pleasure presented itself to him.
Scarcely a vessel for the least ten years had come into the harbour of Portie without bringing some curious or beautiful thing to one member or another of the Dawson family, until the house was filled with them. A wonderful collection they made,—corals, shells, minerals, stuffed birds, beetles, and butterflies; and a scarcely less wonderful collection of objects of art and skill. A great trouble this accumulation became to housemaids, and even to the young mistress of the house, who could not always trust the dusting and keeping them in order to unaccustomed hands. There were many valuable and beautiful things among them, and almost all of them had some pleasant association with the giver, which made it not easy to part with them even to persons who would have valued them, or to put them out of sight. So there were a great many of them scattered up and down in the house.
In these the boy found constant interest and delight, and when he had gone over all that were within his reach, he was quite ready to begin again. And then Jean bethought herself of the quantities of things which in past years had been bestowed in out-of-the-way corners of the house, to make room for new treasures, and with some trouble to herself, but with some pleasure also, these were sought out, and brought to the lad, as he could not go to them.
Of course the result was an untidy room, and after a while, confusion so utter as not to be endured patiently. This lasted for a few days, and then a chance word from the lad, suggested the idea of proper cases being made in which all these things might be bestowed, and so arranged as that they might be more carefully preserved, and made useful as well as pleasant to look at.
“There are few things in our town museum at home so rare or so beautiful as several of these. I have been through ours scores of times. I like it.”
Rather to Jean’s surprise and much to her delight, her father took up the idea as a good one, and entered into the discussion of the different kinds of cases required, with interest. The cabinet-maker was sent for, and by the help of Hugh’s description of the arrangements made for such things in the museum of his native town, they succeeded in settling all things in a satisfactory manner. The long hall extending from one side of the house to the other was the place to receive them. Therefore the cases must be handsome as furniture as well as convenient for the reception of the articles to be arranged in them; and in a shorter time than would have at first seemed possible, John Helvie finished the work in a way which pleased himself and his employers.
In the mean time May was written to for books about shells and minerals, and all such things; and Hugh, and even Jean, grew enthusiastic over them. And so the last months of winter passed more quickly than the first had done. May’s visit was prolonged beyond the six weeks which had been at first stipulated for, and the third month was nearly at an end before any thing was said about her return. She was well and happy, and her friend was happy in her company. She was not especially needed at home, and neither her father nor her sister cared to shorten her holiday, as she called it. But if Jean had known what was to be the end of it all, the chances are that she would have been speedily recalled.
As Hugh grew better and the weather became milder, a new means of pleasure and health was presented to him by Mr Dawson in the shape of a small Shetland pony. He was one trained to gentleness and past his youth, so that there was no risk in riding, when the doctor’s permission had been obtained. It could hardly be called riding for some time. It was slowly creeping along, with some one at his side, to make sure that no stumble should harm the still painful knee; but it was a source of much enjoyment to the lad who had been a prisoner so long.
Jean was most frequently his companion, and at such times their favourite course was along the sands when the tide was out, or by the path which led over the rocks. They lingered often on their way, to talk to the old sailors who remembered the lad’s father and grandfather, and who had much to tell about his grandfather’s goodness, and his father’s wild exploits as a lad. They talked with the fishwives also in the town, and made friends with the bairns, who, as the days grew milder, came in flocks to their favourite playground, the sands above the town. All this was good for the lad, who caught a little healthy colour from the fresh sea breezes, and day by day, Mr Dawson thought, grew more like his companion and chief friend in the days when they were both young.
But it was not so good for Jean. For their talk with the old sailors, and the fishwives, and indeed their talk together, was mostly of the sea and its dangers, the treasures which it hid, and the far lands that lay beyond it. She told him tales of the sea, and repeated songs and ballads made about sea kings and naval heroes of all times, and sang them in the gloaming, with their wild refrains, which look like nonsense written down, but which sung, as Jean could sing them, deepened the pathos of the sad and sometimes terrible tales which were told; and the lad was never weary of listening.
And all this was not good for Jean. It stirred up again the old fears and doubts and questionings as to whether she had done right to keep silence about her brother, and whether she ought even now to speak. The wistful, far-away look which her father could not bear to see, came back to her eyes, now and then; and on stormy nights, when the moan of the wind was in the trees, and the sound of the sea came up like a sigh, the old restlessness, which in her father’s presence she could only quiet by constant and determined devotion to work of some kind, came upon her. She could not read at such times or even listen. Her “white seam,” on which her father used to remark, was her best resource. He remarked on it still, and not always pleasantly, and Jean began to be aware that his eyes now followed her movements as they had done in the first part of the winter, and that even when he occupied himself with a book, or with his papers, he listened to the talk into which she and Hugh sometimes fell. She did her best to be cheerful, and with the lad’s help it was easier than it had once been; and she comforted and strengthened herself with the thought that the year was nearly over, and that it could not now be long before the “John Seaton” came home.