Chapter Twenty One.
A Meeting.
Mr Dawson and Miss Jean were sitting on the terrace by the parlour window as they went in. Jean knew by many signs that her father and Marion had come to be very good friends, and she was prepared to see him give her a warm and kindly welcome. But she was a little surprised at the ease and pleasure with which Marion met him. She did not turn away after a shy brief greeting, as the young people who came there were rather apt to do, but smiled brightly and answered merrily when he asked her whether she had enjoyed all that she had expected to enjoy when she came to Portie. And then she sat down on the grass at Miss Jean’s feet, and looked round with a sigh of satisfaction at “the bonny place.”
“What kept you on the way?” asked Miss Jean. “Oh! we came round by the shore,” said her niece, “and we sat a while at the Tangle Stanes, and then we went in to see Mrs Cairnie—and by the by—we didna see her after all.”
“She was sleeping,” said Marion.
“And we were admiring the fine things that Captain Saugster has been gathering for his bride,” said Jean.
“That would hardly have kept you long,” said Mr Dawson. “A few chairs and a table, and a bed and blankets, and some dishes.”
“But we saw more than that; didna we, Marion?”
“Yes. Even Annie herself wasna thinking of chairs and tables and dishes. It was of the new home that is to be there, we were thinking, and it never might have been, if—Jean, tell them what Annie said.”
“Tell it yourself,” said Jean.
“I canna just mind all,” said Marion with hesitation. “But it was to Mr George Dawson that they owed it all—their happiness, I mean—and that it was a grand thing to have a hand in saving such a lad as Tam.”
“She thinks muckle o’ Tam, it seems,” said Mr Dawson laughing. “And he is a good sailor, if he can only keep hold o’ himsel’ where the drink is concerned.”
“His Master will keep hold of him, I trust,” said Miss Jean.
“And is he to sail the ‘John Seaton,’ papa?” asked Jean.
“That is what George says. There is a risk, but we’ll take it, and Tam will be none the less safe for the responsibility, let us hope.”
“Annie is proud and glad, and so are all the Saugsters,” said Marion.
“But the proudest and gladdest of all must be—George.”
“Ay, even the angels are glad over a sinner repenting,” said Miss Jean.
Mr Dawson looked from one to the other.
“Saved, is he! And George did it? But Tam has hardly been tried yet.”
“Oh! yes. He is surely to be trusted now. Three whole years since he has touched a glass. Yes, nearly three years Annie told me once—and I think she wouldna be vexed at my telling you, because—George belongs to you,” said Marion, turning a soft bright glance on Mr Dawson. She rose in her eagerness, and stood before them, and with softened voice and changing colour told the story of one dark night on board the “John Seaton,” when some kind word of George’s had touched a sore spot in poor Tam Saugster’s remorseful heart, and had opened his lips to utter all his shame and sorrow over a life worse than wasted. The very first thought of hope that had come to Tam since Annie forsook him, came when George laughed at him for saying that his life was nearly over. He was but a lad yet, and his life was before him, and the way was to let the past be past, and begin again with better help than he had asked for yet. And Tam was not ashamed to say that his tears had fallen fast into the sea as he listened, and if he had been his own brother, George could not have been more patient with him, or have done more for him than he had done. “And I think,” added Marion, turning her shining eyes on the old man, “that George must be even happier than his friend.”
She paused suddenly, turning a startled look to Miss Jean, who had gently touched her hand. Jean was looking at her father with a smile upon her lips, but he was looking away to the sea.
“Shouldna I have said it? Was it wrong? Tell me what you are thinking about, Miss Jean,” said Marion in dismay.
“I’m thinking the wind has been making free with your hair, my lassie, and it is near tea-time.”
Jean kissed her laughing.
“Come with me and put your hair in order, as auntie says. No, never mind. There is nothing to look grave about. It was only that my aunt was surprised to hear any body say so many words to my father, and about George too. Oh! yes, he liked it, you may be sure. I’m glad that he heard it anyway.”
“But I’m afraid that Miss Jean must have thought me—forward,” said Marion, hesitating over the hateful word.
“Nonsense, you are not a child any longer. And she was as well pleased as I am that my father should hear it all.”
It was Mr Dawson who broke the silence that fell on them when the girls went away.
“She is an outspoken lassie yon.”
“Ye canna judge her as ye might any o’ the common sort,” said Miss Jean shortly.
“I’m no’ seeking to judge her. She seems a nice lassie enough. I like her frank, free way.”
“She’s but a bairn—though she is the height of our Jean, and coming on to womanhood,” said Miss Jean with a sigh.
“Ay. She is a weel grown lassie,” said Mr Dawson, rising, and then he went away and moved up and down the walks, pausing at shrub or tree, or flower bed, as his manner was when he was at leisure, and he only returned in time to give Miss Jean his arm when they were called into the house.
That evening they were so fortunate as to have the company of James Petrie and his sisters, and several other young people, among whom was Mr Charles Scott, to whom the eldest Miss Petrie was engaged. The young people enjoyed themselves, but Marion was not able to forget the touch of Miss Jean’s fingers upon her arm, and she was rather grave and silent, the others thought. They had music, in which she took her part, singing a song or two, and then Miss Petrie played her masterpiece, a very grand piece indeed, in the midst of which Mr Dawson went out to the little gate to wait for his son.
He had gone there many times since that first night of his son’s coming home. He did not always wait till he came in sight. He moved away sometimes, as his footsteps drew near, slow to acknowledge to himself, or to let his son see how much his home coming meant to him. But to-night he waited.
“There are young folk at the house to-night,” said he, as though giving a reason for being in the garden at that hour.
“The Petries are there, and young Scott, who seems to be one of them. And your aunt is over and her visitor. Will you go and see them?”
“Oh! yes, surely; only I would need to go upstairs first. Jamie Petrie! What brings him here? I thought that was over,” said George with a laugh.
“Is it Jean you mean?” said Mr Dawson gravely. “But it’s no’ Jean the nicht.”
Very evidently it was not Jean, Mr Dawson thought when he went in again. Young Mr Petrie had eyes for only one, and that was Marion, who, sitting at Miss Jean’s side, seemed busy with a piece of worsted work. Mr Petrie was talking eagerly and confidentially, as though he had a right as well as a pleasure in doing so.
“He has put Jean out of his head soon enough,” said Mr Dawson to himself, by way of accounting for the uncomfortable feeling of which he was conscious at the sight.
“Are we to have no more music? Will you not give us another song, Miss Petrie?” said he.
Certainly Miss Petrie would give him more than one, but Marion Calderwood must come with her—not to sing, but to turn her music for her, a task to which Mr Scott was not quite equal. And so it happened that Marion was standing gravely at her side, in the full light of the lamp, when George came to the door of the room. He stood for a moment, with his eyes, full of wonder and pain, on the fair thoughtful face of the girl, and his father saw him grow white as he gazed.
“He hasna forgotten,” thought he with a sudden, sharp pang of regret and anger.
Would the memory of the dead girl ever stand between him and his son? He had not thought Marion like her sister; but as he saw her now, standing so still with a face of unwonted gravity, there came a vivid remembrance of the young girl who in his hearing had said so quietly and firmly to her mother,—
“He will never forget me, and I will never give him up.”
“She should never have been brought here. What could Jean have been thinking about? What could I have been thinking about myself?”
When he looked again George was gone. When, however, he came into the dining-room, where they were all assembled later, he appeared just as usual, and greeted the young people merrily enough. But Mr Dawson forgot to notice him particularly, so startled was he by the sudden brightness of Marion’s face at the sight of him. George did not see her at first—at least he did not seem to see her, and she stood beside Miss Jean’s chair, her smile growing a little wistful as she waited for his coming. Miss Jean looked grave as she watched her.
“George,” said his sister, laying her hand on Marion’s and drawing her forward, “George, who is this? Have you forgotten our wee Maysie?”
No, that was not likely, he said; but he could scarcely have been more ceremoniously polite in his greeting had she been a strange young lady from London, and not the Marion whom he had petted and played with as a child. He lingered a moment beside her, asking about her mother, and if there had been any news from her brother, and then he went to his place at the table, and made himself busy with his duty there.
Something was said about the anticipated trip to the continent, and the time of setting out George had intended to leave at once if his sister were ready, but he found he must stay in Portie a few days longer.
“But next week, Jean, we must go, or give it up altogether.”
“The sooner you go now, the better, or the best season will be over,” said Mr Petrie.
“Oh! as to that, any season is good for what we mean to do.”
“Still, the sooner the better. Could not I do what would be necessary to let you go at once?” said his father.
George laughed and shook his head.
“I am afraid not. It seems I stand pledged to be best man at Captain Saugster’s marriage, and he has no idea of putting off the happy day for a month or more—since his time may be short. So he is to hasten it on instead, and I must wait and see him through it.”
“That will hardly be fair on Annie,” said Miss Jean.
“Oh! she is ready, I dare say; and she can finish her preparations afterwards,” said Miss Petrie.
“And it is to be very quiet. Indeed, hardly a wedding at all in the usual sense,” said George.
“But that is rather mean of Tam, I think,” said Mr Petrie. “He ought to give a dance on board the ‘John Seaton,’ if he is to have the command of her.”
His sisters were charmed with the idea. And would not Mr George put the thought into Tam’s head?
“The ‘John Seaton’ is not in yet. He would hardly consent to wait for that,” said Mr Scott.
“Don’t you call it a risk, giving a man like Tam Saugster the command of a vessel like the ‘John Seaton’?”
Mr Petrie asked the question not at George, but at his father.
“There is ay a risk of one kind or another about all seafaring matters,” said Mr Dawson quietly.
“But there ought to be a fine wedding. Tam is quite a credit to the town now. We could all go to the dance,” said Miss Annie Petrie.
“But I am afraid Tam would not long be a credit to the town if the whiskey were to flow as freely as it usually does at sailors’ weddings. That could hardly be dispensed with, the whiskey, I mean. It would test Tam’s principles at any rate, in which I cannot say I have very great faith,” said James with a little sneer.
“I think keeping out of the way of temptation might be a better proof of his wisdom,” said Mr Dawson coldly. “I doubt, Jean, your aunt is getting wearied. She should be allowed to go.”
But Jean had long ago sent word to Nannie that her mistress was to stay at Saughleas for the night. The young people did not linger much longer. George went out with them to the gate, and did not return till the rest had gone upstairs. Nor did they see him in the morning. He had taken an early breakfast and gone away long before any one was down.
On each of the three days that passed before Jean and her brother went away, George went to his aunt’s house as was his daily custom; but he scarcely saw Marion. The first day she had gone out, the next his father was with him, and the third time there were several of Marion’s young companions with her, so that no word passed between them till the day of Tam Saugster’s marriage.
“If marriage it could be called,” said some of Tam’s indignant friends, “going off on the sly as gin he were ashamed o’ himsel’.”
They were by no means ashamed of themselves. Tam and Annie went quietly to the manse with Tam’s father and mother, where Miss Dawson and her brother and Marion Calderwood and Maggie and Robbie Saugster were waiting for them, and they “got it putten ower quaietly,” as Tam’s father rather discontentedly said. His judgment doubtless approved of “a teetotal” marriage in Tam’s case, but neither his taste nor his sense of the fitness of things was satisfied. Who had a better right to feast their friends and “fill them fou” on such an occasion than the Saugsters? And to go back to Tam’s house just to tea and jelly and fushionless sweet cakes!—It might be prudent, but it wasna pleasant, and any thing but creditable, in his father’s opinion.
And while he grumbled secretly the bride’s mother, poor Mrs Cairnie, openly resented and railed at the manner of the marriage as mean, and as a confession of most shameful weakness on Tam’s part. Even shrewd and sensible Mrs Saugster, though joyful over her returned prodigal and thankful to escape the risks attending a marriage as usually ordered in their rank of life, even she did not think it wrong to connive at the brewing of a steaming bowl of “toddy” for the comforting of the old folks when Tam and his wife had set out on their week of pleasure, and all the rest of the young folk were gone away.
It was a “bonny nicht,” Jean said, as they lingered in their walk down the street. Over the soft glow of sunset fading in the west hung the pale new moon, and a star showed here and there among the grey wreaths and flakes of cloud that floated far beneath the blue. The tide was out, and over the sands came the soft “lap, lap” of tiny waves, with a sound more restful than silence. They stood still a minute at the point where they were to turn into the High-street.
“We may as well go home the long way. It is not late yet,” said Jean.
“Going home the long way,” meant turning back, and going over the sands, the mile that lay between the town and the Tangle Stanes, and they turned with one accord.
“It is our last night for a while,” said Jean, and scarcely another word was spoken till they found themselves climbing the broken path that led to the High Rocks. The night air blew cool from the sea, and Jean led the way to the sheltered seat a little further down. The two girls sat down together, and George stood above them with folded arms, looking out upon the sea.
They spoke about “the happy couple,” who had gone away to begin their new life together, about Tam’s long voyage and Annie’s hopeful waiting, and the chances they had of happiness, because they loved one another. And then they went on to other things, some of them glad, and some of them sad, and “do you mind that time?” and “have you forgotten this?” they said, and sometimes they sighed, and sometimes they smiled, and at last they fell into silence. By and by Jean rose and moving upward, paced up and down the narrow ledge, as she had done so many a time before in so many a mood. The two who remained were silent still, busy with their own thoughts, till George, stooping down and speaking softly, said.
“Marion, do you mind one day coming here with—Elsie and me?”
“Ay, George, I mind it well.”
Marion turned, and took in both hers the hand that he held out to her.
“Poor George!” said she, drooping her head till her cheek just touched it. Then she rose and stood beside him still holding his hand. George stood with his face turned away, and neither spoke or moved for a good while.
“George, do I mind you of her? Does it grieve you to see me?”
George turned and met the look in her sweet wistful eyes.
“You mind me of her, but it does not grieve me to see you—my dear little sister.”
And then George did an unwise thing. He clasped and kissed her, and held her to him, “as I might have clasped and kissed my own sister,” he said to himself afterward, trying to still the voice that said it was not wise.
And Marion went home smiling in the darkness, and saying to herself,—
“Now I have two brothers, and which of them I love best; I’m sure I canna say.”
So George and Jean set out on their travels next day, and Miss Jean and her visitor were left to entertain one another, and they did not find it a difficult thing to do. Miss Jean had lived too much alone, to care even for pleasant company continually, and Marion had friends and engagements enough to call her away, so as to leave her to her solitude for a while each day. And whether she was out with her friends, or at home with Miss Jean, she was happy as the day was long.
They had many quiet hours together, when the wisdom which had come to the elder woman out of her sore troubles and solitary days which God had blessed, and out of willing service given to the needy and the suffering for His sake, was spoken for the good of the girl who had all her troubles and her solitary days before her. These were the hours that afterwards Marion liked best to remember.
It seemed a very happy world to her in those days. Nothing evil or sad seemed possible to her in her young strength and hopefulness. And even trouble itself, sickness or pain or disappointment, if it brought to her what had come through all these to Miss Jean—a heart at peace, a heavenly hope, surely even of these things she need not be afraid. When she said something like this to Miss Jean, her old friend smiled and answered,—
“Surely not. Even when you feel the pain you needna fear the evil. And when the pain hurts most—is worst to bear, I mean—it doesna really harm. Why should I fear for you?”
“And do you fear for me more than for the rest?” said Marion gravely.
“I ought to fear less for you than for some, because I hope ye’re one who winna lose the good which is meant to come out of all trouble. But ye’re young and bonny and winsome, and whiles troubles come to such that pass others by; and a heart both strong and tender, such troubles hurt sore. But the sorer the pain the deeper and sweeter the peace, if it sends you to the feet of the Master,” added Miss Jean cheerfully.
There was silence for a little while, and Miss Jean looked up with surprise at Marion’s first words.
“Am I bonny, Miss Jean? As bonny as our Elsie was?”
Miss Jean looked at her a moment without speaking. Elsie Calderwood had indeed been a bonny lassie, but looking at her sister, Miss Jean could not but acknowledge that she was far more than that. She was like her sister. She had the same sweet eyes and lovely colour, the same wealth of shining hair. But in the face before her Miss Jean’s discerning eye saw a beauty beyond that of mere form and colouring. It might have come to Elsie too, with cultivation, and a higher intelligence, and the wisdom that experience brings. But Miss Jean, remembering well the girl who was dead, saw in her living sister’s face a beauty that had never been in Elsie’s.
“Does your mother think ye’re like your sister?” said she, evading the question.
“My mother hardly ever speaks about my sister. But once—some one said—that I minded him of her.”
As she spoke, a feint, sweet colour overspread her face. Her eyes did not fall before the grave eyes of her old friend, but there came into them a soft, bright gleam, “like a glint o’ sunshine on the sea,” Miss Jean told herself as she gazed.
“Ay, ye’re like her. I think them that mind her weel would say that ye’re like her.”
Marion’s head drooped and rested on her hand.
“Whiles I wonder how it would have seemed if Elsie hadna died.”
“It was a mysterious Providence indeed, her early death. The living should lay it to heart,” said Miss Jean; and then she took up the book that lay at her hand—a sign that no more was to be said at that time.