“And you are not vexed with me, papa?”
“So that you are sure o’ yourself. That is the main thing. You might take longer time to think about it.”
“No, no. A longer time would make no difference. It would not be fair to Captain Harefield—and I am quite sure of myself.”
Miss Jean, as her manner was, had kept silence during the whole interview.
“Her time will come, I dare say, but she is fancy-free at present,” said her father as Jean left the room.
“She has done wisely this time,” said her aunt. “And it is well that she should wait till her time come.”
“That is well over,” said Jean to herself. “And I can wait—yes, though it be all my life—if so it must be.”
For Jean had found herself out long before this time—before the “John Seaton” had come home even. She knew that she “cared for” Willie Calderwood as she could care for no other man. And since that night when they had clasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes she had not been ashamed of her love. For there had been more than the gladness of home coming in Willie’s eyes, his hand-clasp had told of more than friendship.
True he had guarded eyes and hands and voice since then, and he might keep silence still for years—there was cause enough, Jean acknowledged, remembering “bonny Elsie.” But he “cared for her,” and she could wait. “Patiently? Yes, hopefully, joyfully,” she had told herself often, and now she said it again as she sang softly to herself as she went about the house.
But that night her brother came home with a sadder face than usual, for he had heard sad news, he said. Willie Calderwood had declined the command of the “John Seaton.” He was about to sail as second officer in one of the great ocean steamships. Indeed he had already sailed, for his note to George was written at the last moment, he said; and he must cross the wide Atlantic twice before she should see him again.