No; they did not know about Geordie; but they saw the weary, wistful looks ever turned to the sea, and they could not but know that they must mean something, though neither kith nor kin of hers had sailed from the harbour of Portie, as far as they knew, for many a day. And thinking about their words and their looks, she told herself, that unless she meant to fall into utter uselessness and folly, she must shake herself free from this dull brooding over her fears. For the suspense must continue for months yet—perhaps for many months, and she began to be afraid for herself at the thought.
“I wonder what the sailors’ wives do, and their mothers and sisters all these wintry months? Do they sit and think of the danger, and the distance, and the long suspense? No, they must live and have patience, and take the good of other things, and trust in God—as I must, if I would not go wild. They get through, and I must.
“But then I must never speak about him, and my fears for him, and that must make it worse to bear. Oh, if I had but told my father that first night! How can I wait on for months like this?” and Jean suffered herself to cry as she had never cried before. She might cry this once since there was no one at home to notice the traces of tears. But all the same she knew that she must make a braver stand against the trouble that oppressed her, and even amid her tears she was saying that to-morrow she would begin.
And so when to-morrow came, instead of going toward the wild sea shore above the town, she set out to go directly to her aunt. It was not an agreeable day for a walk. It was not raining, but the mud was deep on the road, and the fields which Jean liked best at such times, were in places under water; and a wide ditch here and there was so full, that she had doubts of being able to get across, since the footing on either side could not but be insecure in the prevailing wetness. So she kept the highway, warily picking her steps, and meeting the wind from the sea with a sense of refreshment—and by and by with a conscious effect to throw off the weight of care which had so long oppressed her.
When she came to the corner at which she turned into the High-street, she saw Marion Calderwood coming toward her with her music book under her arm. A pretty sight she was to see, and a welcome as she sprang forward, greeting her joyfully. But a shadow passed over the girl’s face when the first words were spoken.
“Oh! yes. I am very glad to see you, and Miss Jean will be glad too. But if ye hadna come in this morning, I was going out to see what had become of you. Your aunt bade me ask my mother to let me go when my lesson was over—and—I think she would have let me.”
“And she’ll let you still. Run away now to your lesson, and you’ll find me at Aunt Jean’s, and we’ll go out together.”
Marion looked doubtful. “My mother would have let me go to oblige Miss Jean, but—she does not approve of my leaving my other lessons, for one thing—and besides—”
“Run away. I’ll ask your mother. She’ll let you go home with me, if I ask her.”
Marion was not very sure, nor was Jean. For Mrs Calderwood was a very proud woman, and her pride took the form of reserve, and a determined avoidance of any thing that looked like claiming consideration or attention from those whom, from their circumstances, she might suspect of wishing to hold themselves above her.