The Twa Miss Dawsons Part 40

"Yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again.

But O, Miss Jean!--"

"Ay, la.s.sie! Try ye and measure the blessedness o' that knowledge. It is no' in the power o' evil to harm them, whatever may befall. And, my dear, we have no reason to doubt that we shall see them again. They may be in at any moment, as my brother says."

"I might licht the lamp, mem," said Nannie at the door.

"There is no haste," said Miss Jean.

"Only its e'erie like sitting in the dark when folk ha'e anxious thoughts for company. Though there's no occasion as yet. What's a day and a nicht! Many a boat has come hame safe eneuch after many days and nichts. They may be in at any minute, and I maun keep the kettle boiling, for they'll be baith cauld and hungry."

Then Nannie retreated to her kitchen, doubtful as to the comfort she could give since her own fears were so strong.

Mr Dawson went to the pier head, but he did not linger long, he turned and wandered up and down the sands in the gathering darkness. The fears which he had refused to acknowledge during the day, he could no longer put away from him. The sickness of the heart with which he had slept and waked so many a night and morning in past years, came back again, strange yet familiar. Was it never to leave him more? Was the time coming when the happiness of the last two years would seem to him like a dream?

How many fathers had wandered up and down Portie sands, waiting for sons who had never returned! Who was he that he should escape what so many a better man had endured?

But it had not come to that with him yet. Surely G.o.d would be merciful to him, and spare so good a man as George to do His own work in the world. He was afraid to be angry, afraid to utter the rebellious words that rose to his lips, lest G.o.d should judge him for them.

"I am losing myself, I think," said he, making a strong effort to restrain his thoughts. "I may as well go back to Jean, or to the pier head."

No, he could not go to the pier head, to listen to words made hopeful for his hearing,--to see cheerful looks that would grow pitiful as soon as his face was turned away. And as for Jean--

Well, she was doubtless praying for the lad whom she loved scarcely less than he. But he was not ready for Jean yet Jean had a way of thinking her prayers answered whatever befell. If George never were to come home, it would not come into Jean's mind that G.o.d had turned a deaf ear to her cry. She would say that her prayers had doubtless been answered in a better way than she could see. That had ay been her way all her life.

"But as for me--when a time like this comes, I canna be sure. It's like putting out my hands in the darkness, never knowing that there is aught to meet their helplessness."

That had been the way when he saw death drawing near to his dear children and their dearer mother. No voice had answered, no help had come. They had gone down to the darkness of the grave, and he had been left in deeper darkness, never knowing whether the merciful G.o.d in whom Jean trusted had given a thought to him through it all.

He had gone far by this time, and he turned to avoid meeting some of the townspeople who were out on the sands waiting for tidings as well as he.

The clouds were lifting, and as he turned he felt the west wind in his face, and heard a voice say,--

"If it has been the fog that has keepit them, they'll soon be in now, for it will be a clear nicht, and Willie Calderwood kens ilka neuk and ilka rock on the coast for miles. They'll soon be in now, if the fog is all that has keepit them."

"What could ha'e keepit them but the fog?" said a woman's voice. "Ye speak as if ye werena expectin' them."

"I'm no' sayin'. Only if it's the fog, they'll soon be in now."

Mr Dawson moved on lest he should hear more. Of course they would be home now, since the fog was lifting. What should hinder them? But he had a bad half hour and more as he moved up and down keeping out of the way of the groups, whose voices came to him through the darkness.

As he waited there came to him a sudden clear remembrance of Willie Calderwood's face when he came that night with tidings of his son. Oh!

the joy of it! Had he not been grateful to G.o.d for His goodness then.

Was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! G.o.d did seem near to him then.

"I had an inkling that night of what Jean may mean when she speaks o'

the blessedness o' them that rest themselves on G.o.d."

But as to grudging! He was not so sure. Even before he saw his son, had he not been afraid lest, being "a changed man," as his friend had called him, George might have other aims and other plans of life than he had for him, and disappoint him after all? True he had hated himself for the thought, but it had been there that first night. And afterwards he had looked on with something like anger, as day by day he had seen him giving ten thoughts to the helping of others in their cares and their troubles, where he did not give one to the winning the place and the honour that his father coveted for him among men.

That had all pa.s.sed away long ago; not, however, because he had ceased to grudge, but because, as the father put it, "it had answered well."

George stood higher to-night in the respect and esteem of those who knew him, than he would have done had his aims and plans and expectations been those of his father, who saw all things too clearly not to acknowledge it.

George was a man among a thousand, he said to himself with a little movement of exultation, half forgetting his fears, till the wind, as he turned again, dashed the heavy drops of another shower in his face, and he saw that the clouds had gathered close again over all the sky.

Unless they had already landed, the fog and the darkness which had kept them last night might keep them still. How could he bear another night of such suspense?

Another night! It might be days and nights, for all that he could tell.

He turned with a sinking heart towards the town again.

"O! Geordie! Oh! my son!"

He did not know that he spoke the words aloud, but they were heard, and a hand was laid on his in the darkness.

"Miss Jean thinks you should come into the house, for you must be cold and wet," said Marion Calderwood. "Winna ye come with me, Mr Dawson?

And, dear sir, there has been word of a boat that landed in the gloaming at C--Only John Fife, who brought the word, hadna heard that there were any fears for any one, and he came away without asking any questions.

But it is sure to be them. And, Mr Dawson, winna ye come with me to Miss Jean?"

He had eaten little all day, and he was weary with his long wanderings up and down the sands. He scarcely caught the meaning of her words, but he knew that she was saying something hopeful, and he frankly grasped the hand she had laid on his.

"Ay. We'll gang in to Jean," said he.

He leaned on her strong young arm more heavily than he knew as they drew near the house. There was light streaming from the windows and from the open door, but before they reached it a voice said cheerily,--

"All's weel, Mr Dawson. They're coming hame safe enough."

"Glad tidings of great joy." That was what came into Marion's mind when she heard the words.

They had come already. At Miss Jean's door Marion was clasped in the arms of her brother, and George wrung his father's hand and brought him in to the light.

"The Lord is ay kind, George," said Miss Jean.

But Mr Dawson said nothing. He was too deeply moved for words for a little while, and indeed so were they all.

Nannie, notwithstanding her fears, had made great preparations for the entertainment of the wanderers, and though it might have been wiser for George and Mr Dawson to go home at once, there was no time to decide the matter before the supper was on the table, and they all sat down together. Afterwards they were glad of this, for Mr Dawson did not see either Marion or her brother again before they went away, and George only saw them for a moment, just as they were setting out.

They lingered a good while at the table, though even Willie owned himself tired enough to wish to rest. They had been in no special danger. The misfortune was that the small compa.s.s, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the s.h.i.+p in the pocket of George's coat, and so they had had no means of directing their course during the night, and indeed as little during the day. They had been farther out at sea than they supposed, and when, as day began to decline, they got a glimpse of the sun they had to row hard to get sight of land before the darkness fell.

"And I canna say that I am proud o' mysel' on this occasion," said Willie laughing.

"But except for the fright that we have given you all, I canna say that I shall ever regret the day and the night we have been on the deep," he added after a moment. George said nothing, but his eyes and his smile a.s.sented to the words of his friend.

The brother and sister had many people to see and many things to do during the day that remained, so it happened that neither George nor Mr Dawson saw them when they called next day at Miss Jean's, and George only saw them a moment at the station as they were going away. There were a good many other people there to see them off as well as he.

James Petrie was there, looking a little anxious and uncertain, and not so ready with just the right word to say, as he generally supposed himself to be. His sisters were there also, and some other of Marion's friends, and she was monopolised by them during the two or three minutes that remained after George came.

And it was Willie that George came to see, they thought. For he stood with his hand on his friend's shoulder, and the face of each was grave enough as they said their last words to one another.

But George got the last touch of Marion's hand, and the last glance of her sweet eyes, and the last words which Marion heard, George spoke, and they were words that she had heard him say before--

"My dear little sister."