Chapter Three.
A Dreary Day.
The folk looking out of their windows in Portie might well wonder what could be bringing the young ladies of Saughleas into the town on such a dismal day. Though April was come in, it might have been the wintriest month of the year; for the wind that met them was dashing the wet sleet in their faces, and tangling their bright brown curls about their eyes, till laughing and breathless they were fain to turn their backs upon it before they were half down the High-street. They were in shelter for a little while as they crossed through a side street, but the wind met them again as they went round a corner, and came close upon the sea. They were going to their aunt’s house and a few steps brought them to the door; but for all the wind and the sleet, they did not seem in haste to enter. They lingered, taking off their dripping cloaks and overshoes.
“Auntie will wonder to see us on such a day.”
“She’ll wonder to see you. She kens that I am not afraid of wind or rain.”
As they lingered the door opened.
“Eh! Miss Dawson and Miss May. Is it you on sic a day? Wha would ha’e expected to see you—and on your ain feet too. Wet enough they must be.”
“We’ll go to the kitchen, Nannie, and no’ wet the carpet,” said May; and they staid there chatting with the maid for a minute or two. The expected greeting met them at the parlour door.
“Eh! bairns! Here on such a day!”
“Papa had to come to the town,” said Jean.
“And so we thought we might as well come with him,” said May.
“Weel, ye’re welcome anyway, and ye’re neither sugar nor salt to be harmed by a drop of rain. But come in by to the fire.”
But their tussle with the wind had made the fire unnecessary.
“It’s a good thing that your curls are no’ of a kind that the rain does ill with, May, my dear. But you might as well go up the stair and put them in order now.”
“Oh! I needna care. We have only a minute to stay, and it’s hardly worth my while.”
“Papa went straight to the inn with the dog-cart, and we only walked down the High-street. It is a dreary day.”
“And we’ll need to go to the inn and wait for him. For he said nothing of coming here,” said May.
“But it’s likely he’ll come for all that. He maistly ay looks in. It’s a pity he came out on sic a day, and him no weel. But I suppose he had to come. The ‘John Seaton’ sails the day,” said their aunt.
The sisters gave a sudden involuntary glance at each other. May reddened and laughed a little. Her sister grew pale. Their aunt looked from one to the other, thinking her own thoughts, but she did not let this appear.
“She mayna sail the day. They have lost some of their men, it is said, and that may hinder them.”
“And the wind and the waves are fearsome,” said the elder sister with a shiver.
“Ay, but the wind is in the richt airt. That wouldna hinder them,” said her aunt; and then she added in a little.
“Willie Calderwood goes as her first mate. That’s a rise for him. I hope he may show discretion. He’s no’ an ill laddie.”
“And he’s on a fair way to be a captain now,” said May. “So he told me—in awhile.”
“Ay, in a while,” said her aunt dryly. “But he has a long and dangerous voyage before him, and it’s no’ likely that all who sail awa’ the day will ever come hame again.”
The eldest sister was standing with her face touching the window.
“The sea looks fearsome over yonder,” said she.
“Ay. But they’ll ha’e room enough when once they are outside the harbour bar, and then the wind will drive them off the rocks and out to sea; and they are in God’s hands.”
“Auntie Jean,” said the girl turning a pale face toward her, “why do you say the like of that to-day?”
“It’s true the day as it’s true ilka day. Why should I no’ say it? My dear, the thought of it is a consolation to many a puir body in Portie the day.”
“But it sounds almost like a prophecy of evil to—to the ‘John Seaton,’ as you said it. And the sea is fearsome,” repeated she, turning her face to the window again.
“Lassie, come in by to the fire. Ye’re trembling with cold, and I dare say ye’re feet are no’ so dry as they should be. Come in by and put them to the fire.”
“But we havena long to bide.”
However she came at her aunt’s bidding, and sat down on a stool, shading her face with a paper that she took from the table.
“Auntie Jean,” said May, “I have seen just such a picture in a book, as you would make if you were painted just as you are, with your hands folded on your lap, and your stocking and your ball of worsted beside you, and your glasses lying on the open book. Look, Jeannie, look at auntie. Is she not like a picture as she sits now?”
“What’s the lassie at now, with her picturing and her nonsense?” said her aunt, not sure whether she should be pleased with all this. “I’m just as usual, and so is the room. No more like a picture than on other days.”
She was in full dress—according to her ideas of full dress—and she was that every day of the year. She had on a gown of some soft black stuff, the skirt of which was partly covered by a wide black silk apron. A snowy kerchief was pinned across her breast, and fastened at her neck with a plain gold brooch, showing a braid of hair of mingled black and grey. Her cap was made in the fashion worn by the humblest of her countrywomen, but it was made of the finest and clearest lawn, and the full “set up” borders were edged with the daintiest of “thread” lace, and so were the wide strings tied beneath her chin. Not a spot nor a speck was visible upon it, or upon any part of her dress, nor indeed on any article which the room contained. She and her room together would have made a picture homely and commonplace enough, but it would have been a pleasing picture, with a certain quaint beauty of its own.
“It is that you are so peaceful in here always, and untroubled. That is what May means when she says it is like a picture in a book. And after the wind, and the sleet, and the stormy sea, it is quieting and restful to look in upon you.”
“Weel, maybe. But it is the same picture ilka day o’ the year, and I weary of it whiles. And the oftener you look in upon it, the better it will be for me. What ails the lassie? Canna ye bide still by the fire?”
For Jean had risen from her low seat, and was over at the window again.
“The clouds are breaking away. It is going to be fair, I think. We’ll need to be going, May, or we may be late. I’ll come over to-morrow, auntie, and good-bye for to-day.”
“But, lassie, what’s a’ your haste? Your father will be sure to come for you. Bide still where you are.”
“I think I’ll bide still, anyway,” said May. “I am no’ going, Jeannie. I’m no’ caring to go.”
“Yes, you are coming with me,” said her sister sharply. “You must come. I want to speak to you—and—yes, come away.”
May pouted and protested, but she followed her sister to the kitchen where they had left their cloaks, and they went away together. They kept for a while in the shelter of the houses nearest the sea, but they did not speak till they were beyond these. The wind was still high, but neither rain nor sleet was falling, and they paused a minute to take breath before they turned to meet it again.
“The ‘John Seaton’ sails the day,” said May, turning her laughing face toward her sister. Jean did not laugh. “As though that werena the very thing that brought us both out as well as papa, though we said nothing about it before we came. To the high rocks? But it would be more sensible like to go to the pier head, and then we might get a chance to shake his hand and say God bless him. And it’s not too late yet.”
“No, I’m no’ going. It would do no good and it would anger my father.”
But May persisted.
“Why shouldna we be there as well as half the town? Papa mightna like it, but he couldna help it, if we were once there. And ye ken ye never said good-bye to Willie Calderwood.”
“May,” said her sister, “when did you see Willie? I mean, when did he tell you that he was to be first mate of the ‘John Seaton,’ and maybe captain by and by?”
“Oh! I heard that long ago, and I saw him last night. He came a bit of the way home with me. He would have come all the way to say good-bye to you, but he had something to do, that couldna be put off. And I’m sure he’ll expect to see you at the pier to-day.”
“But I canna go.”
And then she added—“Well, and what more did he say?”
“Oh! what should he say? He said many a thing. He told me if I would stand on the high rocks above the Tangle Stanes and wave my scarlet scarf when the ‘John Seaton’ was sailing by, he would take it as a sign of good luck, and that he would come safe home again, and get his heart’s wish.”
“And we are going there.”
“Oh! I dinna ken. It’s cold, and the ship mayna sail, and we might have to wait. I’m not going.”
“Did he say that to you? Yes, you are going. Do you mean that you would let him be disappointed at the very last, and him taking it for a sign?”
“But the mist is rising, and it’s all nonsense—and he winna see.”
“Where is your scarlet shawl? Did you no’ bring it?”
“Oh! yes. I brought it fast enough,” said May, laughing and lifting her dress, under which the shawl was fastened. “As we were going to Auntie Jean’s I thought it as well to keep it out of sight. But, Jean, it is wet and cold, and he was only half in earnest.”
“How could he speak out all that he wanted to say, kenning my father! But you must go.”
“Go yourself. He’ll never ken the difference.”
“No, he’ll never ken the difference. But when he comes home—what will you say to him then? And besides it was your being there that was to be the sign of his safe coming home—and—his getting his heart’s wish. You are coming.”
They turned their steps northward, in the direction of a high ledge of rocks, that half a mile above the harbour jutted out into the sea. It was this point both had been thinking of when they left home, for they well knew that the young ladies from Saughleas could not, on such a day, go to loiter on the pier with all the town, just to see a whaling ship set sail for northern seas. If the day had been fine, they might have gone with a chance companion or two to see what was to be seen, and to while away an hour. Even in the wind and sleet Jean might have gone with her father, if the ship had not been the “John Seaton,” or if Willie Calderwood had not been on board. But as it was, she could not even name such a thing to her father. He would have been angry, and it would have done no good.
So it was to the rocks above the Tangle Stanes they must go. If the day had been fine, there would have been other folk there, and many a signal would have been given as the ship went by. But they had the high desolate rocks to themselves when they had clambered up at last, and it was all they could do to keep their footing upon it, for the wind which had met them so fiercely even on the level, raged here with tenfold violence.
And there was no sign of the ship. There was nothing but great wild waves rising and falling as far as they could see, and masses of white foam here and there, where they broke themselves on half hidden rocks beneath. There was no sign of life except that now and then a solitary sea-gull shrieked sadly through the blast.
“Eh! but it’s dreary and cold,” said May with a shudder.
“Go down to yon sheltered nook and bide there till I tell you that she is coming.”
“But it’s a’ nonsense, Jean. She mayna come at all, as auntie said.”
“Since we’re here, we’ll bide a while:” So May went down to the sheltered nook, and wrapping her cloak about her, she took from her pocket a biscuit or two with which she had providently supplied herself, and prepared to wait with what patience she could till her sister chose to go. And Jean, unable to stand still in the bitter wind, struggled up and down the narrow limits of the ledge,—not thinking—hardly feeling—for she needed all her power to keep her footing on the slippery rock—only waiting for the ship.
She came in sight at last, but, driven by the wind, as soon as she was beyond the harbour bar, she drifted so far to the eastward, that it was doubtful whether any signal from those on shore could be seen on board.
“Are you coming, May? Haste you,” cried Jean, and while her sister lingered, she let the long shawl float its full length on the wind. At the moment the clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunshine lighted the rock and the girlish figure, and the waving signal which she held. It was but for a moment. Before May had clambered to her side, the clouds met again, and dimness and dreariness were over all.
“Take it, May. It is you he is thinking of now when he sees it. He must have seen it when the sun shone out. Take it, and hold it fast.”
“It is easy said, hold it fast, and it’s all nonsense,” said May pettishly, and from her uncertain fingers the wind caught the scarlet signal, and carried it out to sea.
“My shawl!” gasped May. “My bonny scarlet shawl?”
“It’s an ill omen, I doubt,” said Jean in a whisper. “But never mind the shawl; you shall have my bonny blue one instead. And now we may go home.”
“It is all folly from first to last,” said May. “And what I am to say about my shawl, I canna tell.”
“Say nothing. Who has a right to ask? And, May, I think I’ll walk home—to warm myself, for I am cold.” She looked cold and could not keep herself from trembling. “Go back to Auntie Jean’s. My father will be sure to seek us there, and I’ll be home before you.”
May was not sure of the wisdom of consenting to meet her father without her sister, lest he might ask any questions as to how they had spent the afternoon. But hoping that she might get to her aunt’s house before him, she hurried away, scarcely remembering till she sat beside her aunt’s pleasant fire, that she had left her sister standing there on the desolate wind-swept height.
And there she stood while the ship went slowly on its northern way, “carrying her life with it,” she said to herself, in vague wonder at the utter faintness of heart, and weariness of body which had fallen upon her.
“What has come to me?” she muttered. “What is Willie Calderwood to me, but a friend? He has ay been that, and ay will be, and if he is more to my bonny May—why that makes him more to me—and not less, surely. And friends must part. There is many a sair heart in Portie the night—and folk man just thole whatever is sent, and say nothing. And oh! if Geordie would but come home?”
Again the clouds parted, and a gleam of sunshine touched the water, giving her one more glimpse of the white sails of the ship before she went down to the north, and then there was but “the fearsome waves of the sea,” from which she could scarcely turn her dazed eyes. But she had to take her way down the steep rocks, and through the wet fields, the near way home. She lingered and walked wearily, and it was growing dark when she went in at the gate.
“Is it you, Miss Dawson?” said a voice in the darkness. “Has any thing happened? Are ye your lane?”
“Nothing has happened. I preferred to walk. Are they not come yet?”
“Nobody has come yet, Miss Dawson, and there has been nobody here but Robbie Saugster, wantin’ a book that you promised him—or Miss May maybe it was,” said Phemie. “You were hardly awa’ ere he was here, and he said he’d come back the morn.”
Jean sat down wearily in the hall.
“I am wet and tired,” said she.
“I was sure you would be that,” said Phemie, “and I made a bit fire in your ain room, and I’ll bring warm water and bathe your feet in a jiffy. No wonder you are tired.”
“That was well done. They cannot be long now in coming. I’ll go and make myself ready, and have the tea made at once.”
Phemie was up with the warm water almost as soon as her mistress.
“Eh! Miss Dawson, but you are white and spent looking. It’s the heat, I dare say, after being in the cold.”
She knelt and took off her shoes and stockings, and bathed her weary feet with kindly care, and Jean let her do as she would, saying nothing for a while.
“I’m better now. Yes, it must have been coming into the warm room after the cold of the afternoon. Thank you, Phemie, that is comfortable. I will be down in a minute now.”
She was sitting behind the urn with a book in her hand when her father came in.
“You are late, papa.”
“Yes—too late—too late,” said he, and then he sat down by the fire without taking off his greatcoat or the heavy plaid which was on his shoulders above it.
“Something has happened,” said Jean to herself. But she knew he would not in his present mood answer her questions. She rose and took the plaid and his hat, and carried them away. Then she helped him to take off his coat. He did not resist her, but he did not speak, and by the time he was seated at the table, May came down. Her sister met her at the door, asking softly,—
“What has happened to my father?”
“Has any thing happened? I do not know. I waited at auntie’s till I was weary, and then I went to Jamieson’s, and waited there. He came at last, but he has not opened his lips all the way home.”
And he did not open his lips during the meal. He ate and drank as usual, and as usual took his notebook from his pocket when he was done, and turned the leaves and wrote a word or two. He was scarcely more silent than was his wont, but there was a look on his face that Jean had seen only once or twice upon it—a look at once grieved and angry, of which she had learned to be afraid. She longed to ask him if any new trouble had befallen him, but she did not dare to ask, and she sat in silence with her work in her hands till Phemie appeared at the door.
“If you please, Miss Dawson, will you speak here a minute. It’s Robbie Saugster again.”
Jean rose and went out of the room, conscious that her father’s eye followed her, with something of suspicion in its glance. She went into the room where her father’s books and papers were kept, and in a minute Phemie ushered in a boy who looked as though he had had the benefit of all the wind and the rain that had fallen through the day. He waited till Phemie had shut the door, and then he said:
“It is this I was bidden give you, Miss Jean. I cam’ afore, and then I looked for ye on the pier and a’ way, but I couldna see ye, and I doubt it’s ower late for an answer new.”
He offered her a soiled and crumpled note, which she read at a glance and put in her pocket.
“What is this about a book that I promised you, Robbie?” she asked.
“Oh! ay, Miss Dawson. I had to tell Phemie something. And I’ll be glad o’ an orra book or two, as I’m goin’ to the school—a count-book or maybe a Latin grammar. But I’ll come back for it again.”
“Wait a minute, Robbie,” said Jean. She went into the parlour again where her father was sitting.
“May, what is this about a book for Robbie Saugster? Did you promise him one? He says he is going to the school.”
“A book? I dinna mind. Maybe I did. What kind of a book was it? I canna look it out to-night, I am too tired.”
The father’s eyes had gone from one to the other with eager scrutiny.
“There are old school books enough, and I’ll tell him that you’ll look them out to-morrow.”
“You should have had them ready, no’ to keep the laddie coming back again,” said her father sharply.
“I didna mind about it, and I dare say Jean promised as well as me,” she answered pettishly.
“Mind next time then; and, Jean, tell Phemie to give the laddie his supper before he goes home.”
“Yes, papa,” said Jean as she shut the door.
“Something has happened and he was watching. It is about poor Geordie, and I’m not sure whether I should tell him or not I must think about it first.”
Robbie got his supper, and the promise of the books, and then Jean came in and sat down with her work at her father’s side, working quietly and busily as usual, but all the time putting a strong restraint upon her thoughts lest she should betray herself unawares by look or sign. May, weary with the exertion of the afternoon, by and by fell asleep in her chair.
“Bid them come ben to worship, and let the lassie go to her bed,” said her father.
When worship was over, Jean folded her work, saying she was weary too. “Unless you may want any thing, papa,” said she turning before she reached the door.
He looked at her a moment as if in doubt, and then he said shortly, “I want nothing,” and Jean went away to let herself think over it all.
“No answer!” said she as she took the note from her pocket again. A leaf torn from an account-book it seemed to be. She spread it before her on the table; there were only a few words written on it.
“Miss Dawson,—
“If it is possible, come to the pier head before the ‘John Seaton’ sails. Maybe the sight of you will do what no persuasion of mine can do. But no ill shall come to Geordie that I can keep from him. Come at all risks.
“Your humble servant,—
“W.C.”
“And I might have been there, if I had but known. What will he think of me? And can it be that Geordie has sailed on the ‘John Seaton’? No wonder that my heart grew sick as the ship went out of sight. And oh how can I ever tell my father?”