Chapter Sixteen.
The “John Seaton.”
Mrs Calderwood stood waiting outside Mrs Horne’s door, when her son came there.
“Is it you, mother?”
“Is it you, Willie? Thank God?”
“Amen. Mother, I bring heavy news to this house.”
“Ah! poor soul! I dared not go in till I knew the worst. Is it long since it happened?”
“Three months and more. He was long ill, and glad to go.”
“And must I tell her? Oh, if Miss Jean were here!”
“I will tell her, but I wanted you here. Does she ken that the ship is in?”
“She must ken, I think. But it is no’ like her to go out among the throng. She’s just waiting. God help her, poor woman!”
“Ay, mother, ye ken.”
“But, Willie—I must say one word. George Dawson? He sailed with you?”
“Yes, mother, but—”
A voice from within bade them enter, and there was time for no more. We shall not enter with them. The first tears of a childless widow suddenly bereaved, must not be looked upon by eyes indifferent. There was much to be told—much that must have made her thankful even in her bitter sorrow. But it was a painful hour to the returned sailor, and there were tears on his cheeks when at last he came out to clasp his joyful only sister at the door.
But he could not linger long. He had more to do before he returned to the ship.
“I must go to Saughleas,” said he, as they paused at the corner where his sister must turn towards home.
“To Saughleas? Oh! Willie let me go with you,” she cried clinging to him. “Mother will maybe bide with Mrs Horne a’ nicht. Oh, Willie, let me go! I’ll keep out o’ sicht, and naebody will ken. If ye maun go, let me go with you.”
“I maun go. I promised Geordie.”
“Geordie? Have ye seen him? Did he sail in the ‘John Seaton’? And has he come home?”
“Ye dinna mean that ye never heard that he sailed with us?”
“I never heard. Did Miss Dawson ken? It must have been that that made her e’en grow like my mother’s when she looked out over the sea.”
They were on their way to Saughleas by this time. They had much to say to one another. Or rather Marion had much to say, and her brother had much to hear. A few words were enough to tell all that he needed to tell until his mother should hear him also.
But Marion had to give him the news of a year and more,—the ups and downs, the comings and goings of all their friends and acquaintance; the sickness of one, the health of another; the births and deaths; the marriages past and in prospect. With the last the name of May Dawson was mentioned, and being herself intensely interested in the matter, Marion went into particulars.
“He is an Englishman; but they all like him. I like his lace. Yes, I saw him once, and Jean made me sing a song to him—‘The bonny House o’ Airlie.’ And auld Miss Jean likes him, she told my mother. He is no’ a rich man, and folk wonder at Mr Dawson being so well pleased. But what seems strange to me is, that May should be married before her sister. And I whiles think, that maybe if he had seen Jean first—but love goes where it is sent, they say,” added Marion gravely.
“And her sister’s turn will come next,” said Willie.
“Oh! as to that—” said Marion, and then she was silent, adding after a little, “and he was an Englishman too. May is nice, ye ken, but there’s no’ another in all Scotland like Jean.”
They were approaching Saughleas by this time. They went slowly round the drive to the open hall door. The summer gloaming was not at its darkest yet, and there were no lights visible. As they stood for a moment at the door, they heard enough to make them aware that a messenger had preceded them.
“It’s Robbie Saugster, Miss Dawson. He says he has news for you—or for Mr Dawson, I canna say which. Will you come but the house and see him? or will I send him ben to you?”
But Jean did not need to answer. Robbie had followed his message.
“Miss Dawson, it’s the ‘John Seaton.’ She’s won safe hame. But there’s ill news. It’s the Captain. But I saw Willie Calderwood, and he said—”
It was hard on Robbie that after all his trouble, the telling of the news should fall to another. A heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice said,—
“That’ll do, Robbie, lad. I’ll say my ain say.”
And then Jean stood face to face with Willie Calderwood. For one wonderful moment they clasped hands and gazed into each other’s eyes. Not a word, not even the name, of George was spoken. And then came a joyful cry from May,—
“It is Willie Calderwood. Oh, Willie! Willie! Papa, the ‘John Seaton’ has come.”
Then there was a minute or two of confusion in the hall, hand shaking and congratulations, and then Mr Dawson ordered lights, and they went into the parlour where auld Miss Jean was sitting, for she had not moved with the rest. She drew down the young man’s handsome head and kissed him.
“Oh, your happy mother!” said she softly.
But the mate of the “John Seaton” did not sit down. He stood erect beside Miss Jean’s chair, with his eyes cast down upon the floor. He must go back to the ship at once. He would report himself at Mr Dawson’s office to-morrow; he had come to-night because of a promise—
“Did I hear something about ill news?” said Mr Dawson. “Jean, what was it the laddie said about Captain Horne.”
“Yes,” said the sailor, “it is bad news. It is three months and more since we lost him; a heavy loss. A better sailor never sailed—nor a better man.”
There was silence for a minute.
“His wife! Puir body!” said Miss Jean.
“My mother is with her,” said the sailor. “They were wishing for you, Miss Jean, to tell her. I almost think she kenned what was coming.”
The young man seemed to forget where he was for the moment.
There were more questions asked, and more particulars given, and all the while the mate stood beside Miss Jean’s chair, making his answers clear and brief, and suffering no sympathetic friendliness to soften voice or manner, except when he spoke to Miss Jean.
“And are there any more sorrowful hearts in Portie the nicht?” asked she gravely. “Did a’ the lave win hame?”
“Saugster, the second mate, did not, nor two others. But nobody need grieve for Saugster. There was never less occasion. He’ll be home all right, I hope soon.”
And then he told how they had met in with an American fishing vessel partially disabled from encountering a heavy storm, and far out of her course. She had lost four of her men, one of them the mate, from the capsizing of a boat. The captain was down with fever, and the ship was at the mercy of the winds and waves as there was no one on board who had the knowledge or skill to sail her.
“We might have taken the rest of the men on board, but it would not have been right to abandon their ship, and as Tam Saugster and—two others were willing to go, there was nothing to be said. I dare say they are safe in Portland harbour by this time.”
Mr Dawson asked some questions as to the cargo and value of the vessel taken in charge, and the mate answered them briefly, and then he said, “And now I must go. I came to-night, because of a promise I made—”
Jean had been sitting all this time in the shadow of her lather’s high-backed chair, a little out of sight. She rose now and stood gazing at the mate with dilated eyes and a face on which not a trace of colour lingered. He did not look at her, but at her father, who had risen also, ready to give his hand at parting.
“It is a letter,” said the sailor. “I must give it into your own hand, as I promised George.”
“George!” repeated Mr Dawson suddenly falling back into his chair again, with a face as white as Jean’s.
“Yes. He sailed with us. You surely must have heard of that.”
“I heard nothing of it.”
“Well, that is queer?”
He hesitated and remained silent, as he might not have done if he had seen the agony of the father’s face. Jean had stretched out her hand and touched him. She was trying to say something, but her lips uttered no sound.
“My son! my son! Oh, dinna tell me that he didna come home?”
It was an exceeding bitter cry.
“He didna come home—”
“Oh, Willie, tell him?” cried an eager voice, and his sister sprang forward and a hand was laid on the old man’s arm. “He hasna come home, but he’s safe and well and he is coming home. And he is—good now. He was ay good, but now he is sorry, and he’s coming home. And—Oh, sir, I beg your pardon—” added Marion, coming to herself, and she would have darted away again, but Jean held her fast.
Willie’s heart softened as he met the old man’s look.
“George was one of the two that went with Saugster. There is no better sailor than Tam, as ye ken; but he’s open to the temptation o’ strong drink. If there is any one that can keep Tam straight, it’s George. I dare say they are in port by this time.”
“Willie,” said Miss Jean, “tell us how it happened that he sailed with you. Surely you should have told us before you let him go?”
“I did my best, Miss Jean. He came on board that last morning with some of the men who had been making a night of it on shore, but I did not know it till we were nearly ready to set sail. I did my best to persuade him to stay at home. I sent three different messages to his father, but he couldna be found; and I wrote a line to—”
Mr Dawson groaned.
“I had heard that he had been seen in the town, in company with Niel Cochrane of the How. I went there to seek him, and the ship had sailed before I came back again.”
“It was to be,” said the sailor. “And though I was sorry at the time, I was glad afterwards, and ye’ll be glad too, sir. It has done him no ill, but good. He has gathered himself up again. He is a man now—a man among a thousand. And ye havena read your letter.”
A curious change had come over the young man’s manner, though there was no one calm enough to notice it but Mr Manners. He had for the greater part of the time not been looking at Mr Dawson, but over his head, or at any one else rather than the master of the house when he spoke. But now he sat down near him, his voice softening wonderfully, and his face looking like the one that was leaning on Miss Dawson’s shoulder on the other side of the old man’s chair.
It was a very handsome face, but for that Mr Manners would have cared little. It was a noble face, strong and true; a face to trust, “a face to love,” said he to himself. He had heard of Willie Calderwood before, as he had by this time heard of the most of May’s friends, and he had gathered more from the story than May had meant to tell. And now he noticed that the handsome face had hardly turned towards Jean, and that Jean had not spoken since he came into the room.
Mr Dawson opened his letter with fingers that trembled. There was only a line or two, and when he had read it, he laid it on the table, and laid his face down upon it without a word; and when he lifted it again there were tears upon it.
“Oh, Willie, man! if ye had brought him home! There is nothing of mine but ye might have had for the asking, if ye had but brought him home!”
The young man rose and walked up and down the room once or twice, and then sat down again, saying gently,—
“I had no right to prevent his going. He was in his lather’s ship of his own will, and though he submitted to command through all the voyage, that was of his own will too. And I am no’ sure that I would have kept him, even if I could have done it. It was to save life that he went. Danger? Well, it turned out that there was really less danger than was supposed when he offered to go. I went on board with him and we overhauled the ship and did what was needed to make all safe. As to its being his duty—he had no doubts o’ that. It was to save life.”
“Dinna go yet, Willie, man,” said Mr Dawson, putting out his hand as the mate rose. “We are a’ friends here. This is Hugh Corbett, his father was your father’s friend. And this is Mr Manners who has come seeking our May. It is no secret now, my lassie.”
The two shook hands heartily—each “kenning a man when he saw him.” And then the sailor offered his hand to May. And if Jean had had any doubts remaining as to the nature of the mutual interest of these two they were set at rest now. May blushed, but met his look frankly, and for the first time since he came Willie smiled brightly—a smile that “minded” Jean of the days before trouble of any kind had fallen upon them.
The rest of the story might have kept till another day, as Willie said, but he yielded to entreaty and sat down again. He had nothing to tell of George’s story before he found him on board ship. He had come home meaning to see his father, but had fallen into bad hands, and, discouraged and ashamed, had changed his mind, not caring whether he lived or died. If he had not been allowed to go in the “John Seaton,” there were other vessels leaving Portie in which he could have sailed.
“I could only have kept him at home by using force, or by betraying him, as he called it. I thought he was better at sea with a friend than on shore with those who did him no good—for home he would not go. So I risked the captain’s anger and said nothing. But I never supposed but you would hear about his sailing, as there must have been more than one who knew it.”
No one made any reply to this. Captain Horne, a good and just, but stern man, was sorely displeased when he found that his owner’s son had sailed secretly with them; and he showed his displeasure by ignoring his presence on board after the very first, and leaving him to suffer all the hardships of the lot he had chosen. George accepted the situation, asked no favours, and shirked no duty, but lived in the forecastle, and fared as the rest fared there.
After a time he grew strong and cheerful and did his part for the general entertainment, chatting and chaffing—singing songs and spinning yarns, and winning the good-will of every man and boy on board. Nor did he lose his time altogether, as far as self-improvement was concerned. He read every book on board, and at leisure times gave himself to the reading of mathematics and the study of navigation with his friend, and had done it to some purpose, his friend declared.
They reached the Arctic seas in good time, and had there met with more than the usual success, so that they had good hope of getting home to Portie before the year was over. But after that heavy storms had overtaken them, and they had driven before the wind many days and nights without a glimpse of sun or star, and so had drifted far out of their course. They had taken shelter at last in an unknown bay and had lain ice bound for many months.
Here sore sickness fell on Captain Horne, against which—being a man strong and brave and patient—he struggled long, only to yield at last, and take to his berth helpless, and for a time, hopeless. A good man, a true Christian—(“ane o’ your kind, Miss Jean,” said the sailor),—he had yet fallen into utter despondency, out of which, strangely enough, the foolish lad who had wandered so far from home, and from the right way, had helped him.
When he came to this part of the story, the mate rose and took two or three turns up and down the room again; then he came and stood beside Miss Jean’s chair, saying softly,—
“Sometime, Miss Jean, when Geordie comes home, ye must ask him about it. I could never tell you all he was to the sick man in those days. No son ever served a father more faithfully. No mother ever nursed, cared for, and comforted a sick child with more entire forgetfulness of self. Whiles he read to him out of the Bible, and out of other books, and whiles he talked to him and told him things that he had heard—from his mother, I dare say, and from you, Miss Jean, and whiles—once at least in my hearing—he prayed with him, because in the darkness that had fallen on him the old man couldna pray for himself I mind that night well.”
There was a long pause after this, and then he went on; “Geordie will tell you all about it better than I could do. A good while before the end, light came back to the captain—and, oh! the brightness of it! and the peace that fell on him! The good book says ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive,’ and that was the way with Geordie. For as much good as came to our captain through him, there came more to himself; and it came to him first.
“You are one of those, Miss Jean, who believe in a change of nature,—coming from darkness to light—from ‘the power of Satan onto God.’ Well, I would have said that Geordie needed that change less than most folk, but it was like that with him. Even I, who saw few faults in him before, could see the difference afterward. But it canna be spoken about, and it is more than time that I were away.”
However he sat down again for a moment on the other side of the table where he had been sitting before, and went on to tell, how after a few bright days, the captain died, and they buried him in the sea.
At last they got away from the ice, and were beginning to count the days, before they might hope to see the harbour of Portie, when they fell in with the ship in distress, and this ended in Tam Saugster being sent to take her to her port, and in George going also, to help Tam to withstand his foe. For the “John Seaton” was a temperance ship, and Tam had tasted nothing stronger than tea or coffee since he lost sight of Portie harbour.
“He had sailed with us, just to give himself another chance, he said, and, poor lad, he had gone far the wrong gait—and he was another man; a fine fellow truly, when he was out of the way of temptation. And whiles I have thought it was for Tam’s sake, more even than for the sake of the Yankee ship and its crew, that George was so fain to go. It cost him much no’ to come home with us, for he had come to a clearer sight of—two or three things,—he told me. But I think he made a sort of thank-offering of himself for the time, and even if I could have hindered him, I could hardly have found it in my heart to do it. And he is sure to come soon.”
“He is in safe keeping,” said Miss Jean.
“Yes, he is that, and we may hear from him any day.” There was not much more said. Mr Manners had some questions, and so had Miss Jean, and May asked if her brother had changed much as to looks; and Mr Dawson looked from one to the other as each spoke, but he did not say another word, nor did Jean till Willie rose to go. “Now, Marion, it is late and we must make haste.” Then Jean said softly—it was the first word she had uttered since he came into the house—
“No, Marion. It is too late to go. Willie will tell your mother that you are going to bide with me to-night.”
Of course that was the wisest thing for the girl to do, as Mrs Calderwood might remain all night with poor Mrs Horne, and it was necessary that her brother should go back to the ship. And so the mate went away alone.