Chapter Twenty Seven.

At Last!

“Grandpapa,” whispered Marion, as her husband and her brother drew near, “do you think there ever was so glad and proud a woman as I am to-night?”

He had not time to answer her, but he shook her brother’s hand cordially.

“God bless ye, Willie, man. Welcome home.” And for the moment he quite forgot the shock which the first sight of the young man had given him. It was only for a moment, however, and the remembrance of it brought a cloud to his brow, and sharpened his voice as he said,—

“George, man, I think ye have been forgetting your wife with your speech-making.”

George laughed.

“She will forgive the first offence in that way, for the sake of the occasion.”

“Weel, weel! haste ye home now for it’s mair than time baith for her and the bairn. No, ye’ll go with her yourself I have sent Robbie Saugster with the inn fly to your aunt’s, and they’ll all come out in it. And I’m going to walk. I have a word to say to Captain Calderwood. Not go?” added the old man sharply as a look of hesitation and doubt passed over Willie’s face. “Where on earth should you go but to your ain sister’s house? It’s hers while she’s in it, and so it’s yours, to say nothing o’ George there, who surely is your friend and brother, whatever ye may ca’ me.”

And as Captain Calderwood had something to say to him also, they set off together. But they walked half the distance before either uttered a word. Willie waited for Mr Dawson to speak, and he, remembering that no one bad seen him at his sister’s house, was at a loss how to begin. But when they came in sight of Saughleas, Captain Calderwood paused.

“Mr Dawson, I must say a word to you now, or I shall be taking a welcome from you under false pretences. I love your daughter. I have loved her all my life.”

Here was an opening with a vengeance!

“And what says she to that?” asked Mr Dawson grimly.

“I have never spoken a word to her. May I speak to her now?”

“And how was that—since it’s been all your life?” said Mr Dawson ignoring the question.

“There were reasons enough. I was only the mate of the ‘John Seaton,’ and she was the young lady of Saughleas. And I had promised my mother that I would never even look my love without your sanction. Afterwards there were other reasons as well.”

“I dare say ye may have a guess as to what her answer might be?”

“Mr Dawson, give me your leave to ask her. I have not seen her for years. Yes, I have seen her—but she has not seen me, and we have not spoken a word to each other, since the day before May’s marriage.”

“And I mind ye left in a hurry. Did she send ye awa’?”

“No. I did not speak to her; but if I had stayed I must have spoken. And what would you have thought of my pretensions beside those of Captain Harefield? And indeed, I knew well that, except for my love of her, I wasna her equal. So I said, I will forget her and I went away?”

“That’s a long time since. And ye have never seen her again?”

“Yes. I have seen her. I saw her once in the Park riding with her brother and Captain Harefield, and I saw her looking at the pictures among all the great folk, and I used to see her whiles, playing in the garden with her sister’s bairns.”

“And that was the way ye took to forget her?” said Mr Dawson dryly.

“No. I had given that up as impossible. That was the way I took to teach myself the folly of remembering her.”

“And what has happened to make it less like folly now?”

“Well,” said Captain Calderwood after a pause, “the first gleam of hope I got was when Sir Percy Harefield proposed to take ship with me on the ‘Ben Nevis.’ He has gotten his answer, I thought. And I vowed that if ever I came home again I would speak to you—”

“Jean is of age, and in a sense her own mistress. She could do as she pleased, even if I were to refuse you.”

“I shall never speak to her unless I have your full and free consent.”

It was queer, Mr Dawson thought George had said the same to him about Marion, and had meant it too, as possibly this young man meant it also. He cast a sidelong glance at the strong, grave face beside him. It had grown white through all its healthy brown.

“Curious!” thought Mr Dawson. “Now, I dare say that didna happen in the very face o’ the tempest. Surely a love that has lasted all his life must be a good thing for any woman to have.”

But all the same he wished with all his heart that he could refuse to let him speak. Not that he had any special fear of Jean. She would surely have given some token during all these years, if her fancy had turned to Willie Calderwood. But he had returned a hero—“in a small way,” as Mr Dawson put it, and young lassies are so open to impressions of that kind. And the lad was every inch a man, that could not be denied.

“I ken well she might look higher. Who is worthy of her?” said Willie humbly.

“It teems to me ye can ken little about her,” said Mr Dawson irritably. “There’s George now, what says he? He kens all this, doubtless?”

“He kens, doubtless,” repeated Willie gravely. “But his sister’s name has never been named between us—in that way.”

So the father had not even that excuse for vexation. He had no excuse. The young man was acting honourably in the matter, and he told himself that he was not afraid about Jean’s answer. And yet in his secret heart he was a little afraid. They had come to the gate by this time.

“Mr Dawson, do you bid me come into your house, after what I have told you?”

“Bid ye come in! And your sister waiting for you at the door, and your friend and brother as weel! I would hardly venture in myself without you. And indeed I welcome you heartily to my house, for your own sake as well as theirs. And as to—that other matter—we’ll say nae mair about that the nicht.”

With this the young man was obliged to content himself George’s eyes were full of questions, but his lips uttered not one as he took him to his room, to supply all that had been left in the bag forgotten in the town. Before they came down again the fly had crept up to the door, but there was no one waiting for them in the hall except Miss Jean, and she was ready with a second welcome.

“It is good to see ye here, Willie,” said she as they went into the parlour together.

Jean had gone straight to the dining-room, and her father heard her there giving orders to Phemie in her usual voice. By and by she came out, carrying her head high—“the young lady of Saughleas” indeed; and Mr Dawson smiled at his fears as she came slowly toward him. She went up the long room in the same stately way, holding out her hand and saying gravely,—

“You are welcome home, Captain Calderwood.”

But when they looked into each other’s faces—these two who had been strangers so long—how it all happened cannot be told. Did he clasp her to him? or did she lay her head upon his breast?

It was only amazement that the father felt at first. No one knew less than he did himself whether he was glad or sorry at the sight. And then Miss Jean came over to him with slow soft steps, and they went out together.

“George,” said she gently, “I think I might say that I have nothing else to wish for here, if I were sure that this didna trouble you.”

“It canna be helpit, it seems, whether or no,” said he, but he let her take his hand, and his eyes looked soft and kindly.

George and Marion came in at the moment and made a diversion.

“Are ye no’ ower weary to be down again, my dear?” said Mr Dawson. “Ye ha’e had an afternoon of exertion and excitement, and ye maun mind that ye ha’e anither dependin’ on ye now.”

“Tired! Do I look tired?” said Marion.

Certainly there was no sign of fatigue in the bright face of the young mother as she came smiling toward him.

“Weel, then, George, ye’ll bring in your aunt and Mrs Calderwood. The dinner has waited long, and it shall wait no longer.” And he gave his arm to Marion as he spoke.

“My dear,” said he, leading her to Jean’s place at the head of the table, “sit ye here, for I doubt Jean will want little dinner the day.” And it was Marion’s seat ever after.

“Has any thing happened to Jean?” said Marion. “Nothing is wrong, I hope.”

“Nothing that can be helpit, I doubt. Ye’ll hear in time, I dare say.” And then he nodded to Mrs Calderwood who had grown very white.

“Ay, it’s the old way. I doubt your Willie is thinking as little of you as my Jean is of me at this moment. But we’ll take our dinner anyway.”

Mrs Calderwood sat down without a word. It was an awkward hour for every one of them, though Miss Jean and her nephew did what they could to keep up conversation for them all. It was all the more so for Mr Dawson, that he was not sure what his own feelings were or ought to be. He sat hardly hearing what was said, though he put in a word now and then, but all the time he was thinking,—

“If any one had said to me four years since that the widow Calderwood’s daughter would be sitting at the head of my table, and that I should be glad to see her there, would I have believed it? And her mother too, the very sight o’ whose widow’s cap used to anger me in the kirk itself. As for Jean, my sister, I ay ken when she’s pleased, though she says nothing. And George too, though I dare say he’s sorry for me, and will say no word to his friend, till I give him leave—as I maun do now, I suppose, whether I’m pleased or no’.”

But Mr Dawson was less displeased than he supposed himself to be. He had been taken utterly by surprise, which was never agreeable to him, even when the surprise was a pleasant one. And it came to him with a feeling of comfort that neither his sister nor his son was likely to make a mistake, and be glad for the wrong thing where Jean was concerned. But it was a long hour to him, and when it was over he went away as his custom was for a while’s peace to his own peculiar domain.

And here after a little Jean found him. She went in, feeling very much as she used to feel long ago, when some piece of girlish mischief more than usually serious, made her conscious of meriting a rebuke from her father.

She had been upstairs since she came home, and now wore one of her prettiest gowns, as befitted the occasion, and she had put a rose in her hair, which had not happened for a long time; and when her father turned at the sound of her voice, he saw as fair and sweet a daughter as ever gladdened a father’s heart.

She had always been fair and sweet, but there was a new look in her face to-day. Her eyes fell before his; but he knew it was rather to veil the happiness that shone in them, than to hide the shyness which made it not easy for her to look up. His heart could not but grow soft as he looked.

“Were you wanting me, papa?” said Jean, feeling more and more like the childish culprit that was to be chidden first and then forgiven. Mr Dawson himself thought of those days, when his hardest words to Jean were sure to end gently, as he bade her be a good lassie and go to her mother. But he did not let the softness pass into his look or his voice as he said,—

“What is this that I have been hearing of you, Jean?”

“Are ye very angry, papa? I couldna help it.”

“Dinna ye think I have a right to be angry, hearing such a tale after all these years?”

“But, papa, I didna ken. I thought he had forgotten me, and whiles I wasna sore that he had ever cared; and, papa, nothing has been said even yet.” Mr Dawson laughed.

“And ye wouldna have broken your heart, even if this confident sailor had never come home?”

“No, papa. I don’t think it. There is always plenty of work in the world, and I would have tried to do my share, as Auntie Jean has done. I should not have broken my heart, but—you are not very angry, papa?”

“My dear, my anger is neither here nor there. Ye are your ain mistress now, and can do as you please without asking my leave.”

Jean went white as she listened, and sat suddenly down, gazing at him with wide, startled eyes. She had expected her father to be disappointed, perhaps angry, but she had expected nothing so terrible as this.

“Papa,” she said, rising and coming a step nearer, “nothing can happen without your full and free consent. If you cannot give it, you must send—Captain Calderwood away—”

“They have all said that,” said Mr Dawson to himself. Aloud he said with a dubious smile, “And ye’ll promise no’ to break your heart about him yet?” But his eyes softened wonderfully as he looked at her. “Papa,” said Jean laying her hand on his shoulder as she stood a little behind him, “we love one another dearly. And you ay liked Willie, papa, and so did—mamma.”

“My dear, I like him well. But have you thought of all you will have to bear as a sailor’s wife?—the anxiety and suspense, the long, long waiting, and—”

“But, papa, I should have that anyway. I have had it, though—”

“My dear, ye little ken. And it might have been so different with you?”

“No, papa. It never could have been different. I wouldna have broken my heart, but I could never have cared for any one else.”

A knock at the door prevented any thing more, and in answer to Mr Dawson’s voice Captain Calderwood entered.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Dawson. I thought you were alone,” said he in some embarrassment.

“Come awa’ in,” said Mr Dawson. “I thought, my lad, there was nothing more to be said the nicht?”

“And so did I. And indeed there has been little said as yet.”

Mr Dawson laughed uneasily. No one was less fitted to act the part of the mollified father at the last moment, and he felt quite as little at his ease as either of them. But he could not but look with pride and pleasure on the handsome pair.

“I doubt there is little more that need be said.”

“Only a single word from you, sir. I know as well as you that I am not worthy of her, but man and boy I have loved her all my life.”

Mr Dawson had risen and Jean’s face was hidden on his shoulder. He raised her face and kissed her, saying softly,—

“I doubt the word is with Jean now.”

It is possible that even now Mr Dawson might have resented a triumphant claiming of Jean on her lover’s part. But he only smiled, well pleased when the young man bowed his handsome head and kissed her hand as if it had been the hand of a royal princess. And then he sent them away to be congratulated by Aunt Jean and the rest.

“And if they are any of them more surprised at my consent than I am myself, it will be strange,” said he to himself as he sat down again, not sure even yet that he was not displeased, or at least disappointed still. But by the time he heard the slow unequal steps of his sister coming, as was her custom when any thing more than usual was going on, for a word or two with him before she went to her bed, he was able to receive her softly spoken congratulations cheerfully enough.

She did not use many words; for she had an intuitive knowledge that some of her brother’s thoughts about this matter had better not be uttered. But there was no mistaking the grave gladness of her face, and it came into her brother’s mind that his sister’s thoughts about most things were such as usually commended themselves to him in the end.

As for the others to whom Captain Calderwood after a little conducted his promised wife, none of them except Marion confessed to surprise, and none of them seemed to share the old man’s doubt as to whether it was matter for rejoicing or no. Jean’s first glance at Mrs Calderwood was a little wistful and beseeching, as though she were not quite sure of a daughter’s welcome. But two or three low spoken words set that at rest forever. Captain Calderwood’s doubtful looks were cast on Miss Jean.

“I ken weel I’m no worthy of her, auntie,” he said.

“Ah! weel!—if she thinks it—that is the main thing,” said Miss Jean.

“My friend, and twice my brother,” was all George said to him. And to Jean he said softly, “Happy woman?” and that was all.

Not a soul in Portie but had something to say about them on the occasion. Every body was surprised at the first announcement of the news, though afterwards there were two or three who had had, they said, an inkling of it all along. There was a whisper among the fine folk in the High-street which implied that Miss Dawson might have laid herself open to the suspicion of having “passed through the wood to find a crooked stick at the last.” But even in the High-street no one ventured to say it aloud. For the handsome sailor, though he was not a rich man, was as good as the best of them, even in their own partial opinion.

It was a grand ending to Captain Calderwood’s romance of the sea in the opinion of all the seafaring folk of the town. The hand of the best and bonniest lass in Portie was a suitable reward for the hero. And when it was whispered that they “had ay cared for one another since they were bairns together” the tokens of the general approbation were given with enthusiasm.

“And that is an end o’ the twa Miss Jeans. But it’s o’ George Dawson himsel’ that I’m ay thinkin’,” said Mrs Cairnie to all who would listen to her. “As for auld Miss Jean—her consent was what ye would expect. She was ay soft-hearted, and she has had an experience o’ her ain. But as for auld George!—”

But even Mrs Cairnie owned that if he was not satisfied with the prospects of his daughter, “ye wouldna ken it by him.” And Mr James Petrie, who watched him closely, and had better opportunities, said the same, and so did Portie generally.

One token of his satisfaction was of a kind that all Portie could appreciate, though those chiefly concerned would gladly have dispensed with it. He insisted on a grand wedding, and as Captain Calderwood’s time was limited, the wedding had to be hastened, and there was some dismay at Saughleas at the thought of it. But May, who agreed with her father heartily on this point, came down, and took the matter into her own hands, and distinguished herself on the occasion.

It was a grand wedding. There were many guests and many gifts, and it must be confessed many opinions entertained, though not expressed, as to the wisdom of the marriage. But no one ventured to hint that the wedding itself was not a splendid success.

Strangely enough, Sir Percy Harefield was there and his sister. They were visitors at Blackford again. Mrs Eastwood looked with silent and rather scornful amazement on the girl who had slighted all that her brother had to offer, and who was now giving herself to this—sailor.

Even Mrs Eastwood could not look at Captain Calderwood on his wedding morning and join any contemptuous term to his name. He was like a young sea king among them all, she acknowledged; and he was a hero, it seemed, to these quaint northern folk that made his world. With a dim remembrance of her own youthful dreams, she acknowledged that perhaps, after all, Miss Dawson’s choice was not so surprising; and even her love and admiration for her brother could not make her blind to the contrast which the two men made. But she was scornful of Jean’s choice all the same.

Sir Percy was scornful of no one, but friendly and admiring, though a little heavy and dull, among so many gay folk. But he presented the bride with an elegant bracelet and bore no malice. He offered his congratulations to both bridegroom and bride with sufficient heartiness, and not even his sister could tell whether any painful sense of regret touched his heart that day.

One good thing came out of the grand wedding. There were guests from far and near, and among the rest—as one of the bridesmaids—came pretty Emily Corbett. Not the slip of a lassie who had clambered over the rocks and run about the sands with her little brother and sister and the rest of the bairns that happy summer long ago, but a stately young Englishwoman, tall and fair and wise.

In her presence Mr James Petrie forgot several things, and among the rest, his father’s pawky hints about Miss Langrigs and her tocher, which were to be had for the asking, as he thought. And despite many prophecies to the contrary, James married for love a portionless bride, and was made a man of by the doing it.

The “young sea king” and his bride had a few days among the Highland hills, and a few days more among the English lakes. But the real “wedding journey” was made in the “Ben Nevis.” They sailed away together into a new summer beneath Southern skies, and Jean got a glimpse of a new world full of wonders to her untravelled eyes.

Happily both voyages were as peaceful and pleasant as the last had been tempestuous, and nothing happened to darken a single hour of that happy time. Through the quiet of the soft sunny days, and the glory of nights made beautiful by the light of unfamiliar stars, these two young people, who had been for the last five years almost as strangers to each other, renewed their acquaintance, and indeed grew into a truer and deeper knowledge of each other than years of common life might have brought them, and before the happy outward voyage was over, there mingled with Jean’s love for her husband the reverence which no true heart can withhold from the man “who is good before God.”

It was not a full experience of sea life which his wife had got, Captain Calderwood owned, but this was less to be regretted, that she looked forward to many another voyage in the years that were before them. In the mean time she came home to her own house in the High-street where Miss Jean and Mrs Calderwood had been living together all this time. It was her home and theirs for many a happy year, and other homes in Portie were made happier through the happiness of theirs.

Jean had much work laid to her hand in her own home as the years went on, and she found also something to do beyond it. She was her father’s almoner to many a widow and orphan child in Portie; and she helped her brother with higher work than her father’s almsgiving.

Through her Miss Jean enjoyed in her last days, that which had made the happiness of her life for many years—the ministry of love to the “stranger,” the “naked,” the “sick, and in prison,” for His sake who said, “Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto me.”

And her experience as a sailor’s wife and the mother of children, did not make her less fit for this work, but more. It made her wise to understand, and strong to help other sailors’ wives in their time of need, and firm as well as tender in her dealings with many a child whom the cruel sea made fatherless.

And to many “puir auld bodies,” who had forgotten the events of yesterday, and last year, and of many a long year besides; and had come in their second childhood to live over the days of their youth again, the help and comfort which made their days of waiting a quiet rest, before the last “flitting,” still came to their belief as help and comfort used to come through “The Twa Miss Jeans.”

The End.