The Twa Miss Dawsons Part 14

This of course required no reply.

"And are ye your leafu' lane at Saughleas? But I suppose ye're used with it now--the big hoose and the few in it. It is changed times since ye used to bide in the High-street. But being an eddicated leddy, ye'll ha'e resources in yoursel', as the books say."

No, Miss Dawson did not like being "her leafu' lane" in the big empty house, and she turned to Mrs Calderwood with her request for Marion's company. But Tibbie had not yet said her say.

"Your leafu' lane! It's little ye ken what that means. Bide ye till the time come when ye lie through the lang nichts o' a hale (whole) winter, hearkening to the awfu' things that the winds and the waves are crying in at your window and doon your lum (chimney), and some o' yours far awa' on the sea--and syne ye'll ken. Oh! the weariness o't, and the dreariness o't, and nae help frae Heaven aboon nor frae earth beneath, but just to sit still and wait for their hame coming. And whiles they come, and whiles they never come--and ane canna be sure even o' their loss till years go by. Eh! woman' ye little ken, but speir ye at Mrs Calderwood."

She paused a moment in the surprise of seeing Jean's face grow pale as she listened, but went on again before any one spoke.

"I'm through wi't, for the last o' mine was lost lang syne. But she has ane yet--as far as she kens. G.o.d be gude to him! Ye've had no word o'

the 'John Seaton' as yet, mem?"

"Not yet; it is not to be expected yet," said Mrs Calderwood quietly.

"Martha will give you a cup of tea. You will be the better of it, as you were able to take little breakfast; and I hope your thumb is past the worst now."

Mrs Cairnie felt herself to be dismissed beyond even her power to linger.

"Many thanks to ye, mem, and ye ha'e nae occasion to be mair anxious than ordinar' as yet. And ye can just encourage ane another--and I'se awa' hame."

"Poor bodie! she has had her share of trouble in her day, and some of it she brought on herself, which makes it none the lighter, I dare say,"

said Mrs Calderwood as she shut the door.

"You are not growing anxious, Mrs Calderwood, are you?" said Jean. "It is not time to be anxious yet?"

"Not anxious--more than usual. Oh, no! Of course the wind and the waves have something to say to me most nights. But I can only wait."

"Yes, it is the waiting that is so terrible. And it must be for a good while yet."

"For months. We cannot say how many. We seldom see the ships home within the year."

"And the 'John Seaton' sailed on the tenth of April. It is nearly three months still till then. And to think of all who are waiting even here in Portie--wives and mothers and sisters. It makes one's heart sick to think about it."

Then she sat silent, with her eyes turned toward the window, through which was to be seen the dull grey sea, all unconscious of the uneasy glances with which Mrs Calderwood was from time to time regarding her.

"Mrs Calderwood," said she at last, "how will you ever bear it as the time draws near? The waiting and the suspense, I mean?"

"My dear, I have had worse troubles to bear."

"Ah! yes; but those will make this all the worse to bear."

"I can but trust in G.o.d and have patience. He is very merciful."

"Very merciful. But then--He lets terrible things happen whiles."

Mrs Calderwood rose and moved about the room. She was startled out of her usual quiet by the girl's changing colour and the sad eagerness of the eyes that looked out upon the sea. She was afraid of what might be said if they went on. She wished to hear no sorrowful secret from the girl's lips. She would hear none, she said to herself with a sudden sharp pang of remembrance. George Dawson's daughter could have nothing to say to which it would be right for her to listen. At last Jean left the window and came and stood near the fire.

"I came in to ask you if I might have Marion home with me for a day or two. I am 'my leafu' lane,' as Tibbie says. And I think she would like to come with me."

"There is little doubt of that," said Mrs Calderwood sitting down with a sense of relief, for she thought the danger was over.

"There is no danger of her falling behind in her lessons for a day or two, and I can help her with her music. I will take good care of her, and her company will be a great pleasure to me."

There was no sufficient reason why the child should not have this pleasure--at least there was none that could be spoken about. She had no time to make clear to herself why she would have liked to refuse, she could only say,--

"You are very kind. The child will be pleased to go," and Jean thanked her, accepting it as consent.

She was still standing with her m.u.f.f in her hand as though she were about to take her leave. But she did not go. She stood, not looking at her friend, but past her, seeing nothing, with her eyes full of eagerness and anxiety, and before Mrs Calderwood, moved by a sudden fear, could find words to avert it, that which she feared had come upon her. Jean came a step nearer.

"Mrs Calderwood, may I tell you something? I have no one else, and you will at least help me to be patient. You were my mother's friend, and you have had much to bear, and will you help me?"

But there was no friendly response in Mrs Calderwood's face. She withdrew herself from the eager girl, with something like terror in her eyes, actually moving away till she touched the wall of her narrow parlour, holding up her hands entreatingly.

"No. Do not tell me. I am not the right person to receive confidences from--from any one. I am not sympathetic I do not care to hear secrets.

And--you have your aunt."

Jean looked at her with surprise but with no anger in her eyes.

"My aunt! I tried to tell her once, but she said unless I were quite sure that she could help me, I should not speak. It would have grieved her--and--"

"She was quite right, I have no doubt," said Mrs Calderwood. "The least said is soonest mended, as the old saying has it. Silence is almost always best, even between friends."

Mrs Calderwood had come forward again to the table, and her hands were busy moving about various things upon it, hurriedly and heedlessly, as though she hardly knew what she was doing; while Jean looked on saying nothing for a little.

"Is silence always best? It would be such a comfort to me to be able to tell some one. I daze myself thinking about it. I am sorry now that I did not tell my father at once, though at the time it did not seem the wisest thing to do--or even possible. It was on the very day the ship sailed--the tenth, ye ken. And--"

"Whisht, la.s.sie! I will not hear your secret," said Mrs Calderwood with a cry which told of many things. "It is to your father that you must tell it, if you have not the sense and courage to keep silence forever. As for me, I will hear no secret from the lips of your father's daughter. No good could come of it. Oh! must I go through with all that again! And my poor, foolish Willie that I thought so wise and strong!"

She hardly seemed to know what she was saying for the moment. But she made a great effort to restrain herself, and rose and came forward, holding out her hand as if the visit were at an end. But she paused, startled as she met Jean's look.

A sudden momentary wave of colour crimsoned her face and even her throat, and pa.s.sing left her as white as death. Through it all she never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.

"Mrs Calderwood," said she in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper, "I think I must tell you now--that my brother George sailed in the 'John Seaton.'"

Mrs Calderwood sat down on the sofa without a word. Of what horrible thing had she been guilty? What words had she spoken? She could not recall them, but the girl's changing colour showed that her thoughts had been understood. In her sorrow and shame she could have knelt and entreated forgiveness. But she well knew that _now_ at least, silence was best. No words of hers could help the matter now. It cost her positive pain to raise her eyes to the girl's face. The colour came and went on it still, almost at every word; but Jean spoke quietly and firmly, and never turned her eyes from the face of her friend.

"You are right perhaps, and I ought to have spoken to my father at once; but since I have waited so long, it may be as well to wait till the 'John Seaton' comes in--and I must have patience--like the rest of those who wait."

"Are you sure he went? My son said nothing to me about George--poor dear Geordie?" said Mrs Calderwood, with a sudden rush of tears.

Jean sat down on the other side of the table and leaned her head on her hand.

"Did he not? Still I think he must have gone--or what can have become of him?"

"Who told you he went? It is strange that you have never spoken of it all this time. Why do you think that your brother sailed in the 'John Seaton'?"

"Is it strange? Perhaps I was quite wrong. But I did not know till afterwards. Robbie Saugster brought word that day to Saughleas, but I had gone to the town. That night he came back again, but it was too late. The ship had sailed, and we had been at the high rocks to see her pa.s.s, May and I--never thinking whom she was carrying away."

"And had Robbie seen him?"