The Twa Miss Dawsons Part 45

Happily Captain Calderwood's outward voyage and his stay in Melbourne had been shorter than his mother had calculated upon, so that as yet no thought of anxiety had come to disturb her, and she was glad to go with George, believing that she could pay a few weeks in Scotland with her daughter, and still be in London in time to receive her son when he should return.

It was Mrs Calderwood's first visit after an absence of several years, to a place which had been her home during the greater part of her life.

There were many to welcome her, and there was much to see and hear, and she was greatly occupied. But George wondered sometimes that she should live on from day to day, showing no misgivings, even no surprise, at the continued absence of her son.

He need not have wondered. She had been a sailor's daughter, and a sailor's wife, and she had lived the greater part of her life among sailors' wives and widows, and had learned the necessity of giving no unwise indulgence to fancies and fears, and to keep quiet and face them when fears and fancies had to give place at last to a knowledge of disaster and loss.

She had had anxious thoughts doubtless while she awaited the expected summons to meet her son, when the s.h.i.+p should be heard from, but outwardly she was calm and even cheerful. It was wise for her own sake not to dwell on her fears--which indeed were hardly fears as yet, but only a vague movement of surprise and impatience that she should have to wait so long. And it was wise also for the sake of her daughter, who was not so strong as usual. So she kept herself cheerful and seemed to be taking so little thought of what might be awaiting her, that George questioned at last whether it might not be both kind and wise to prepare her for the shock which he began to fear must come soon. This painful task did not fall to him however, and Mrs Calderwood was already better prepared for it than he knew.

It was drawing near the end of February by this time, and it was a milder season than Portie often sees. There were weeks of bleak weather to come yet, for this eastern coast rarely escapes a full share of that sooner or later. But in the mean time the days were fair and calm, and looking over a pale grey sea, bright now and then with a blink of suns.h.i.+ne, thoughts of storm and danger did not come so readily, as with a wild and angry sea they might have done. But even Marion was beginning to wonder that her mother said nothing of what might be keeping the "Ben Nevis" so long.

And then a single word came to break the silence between them, and they knew that the mother's quietness had cost her something. But she was quiet still when doubts and fears and even despair were busy at her heart.

They were still sitting at breakfast one fair morning when Jean came in.

She was just as usual, they all thought at the moment, but afterwards each remembered the look on her face as she opened the door. The air had brought a colour to her cheeks, so she was not pale, but there was a startled look in her eyes as she turned them from one to another before she uttered a word. It changed as she marked the unmoved face of each.

She kissed Marion, and then, strangely enough, she kissed Mrs Calderwood, and laid two pale primroses, the first of the season, on a book which she held in her hand.

They were friendly, these two, and even more than friendly, but there was always a touch of shyness and reserve between them, even when they were most friendly. Marion, who so dearly loved them both, saw it and wondered at it often, but she smiled now as Jean stooped and touched her lips to her mother's cheek. Mrs Calderwood grew a shade paler, and a question came into her eyes as she met Jean's look. But Jean had no answer for it.

"I found them in a sheltered nook in the wood when I was out this morning. They are come earlier than usual, and there will soon be more of them."

Jean did not meet her look as she thanked her, but turned to George who was preparing to go out, nor would she sit down.

"I only looked in as I pa.s.sed, to see if all was well with you. I have many things to do, but I will come in again before I go home, unless I should be detained longer than I expect in the town." So in a little she and her brother went out together. "Are you taking the paper with you, George?" said Mrs Calderwood following them to the door.

"Not if you wish to see it. I will send for it by and by when I want it."

"You have seen it, George?" said Jean as they went on. "If you mean the paragraph about the 'Ben Nevis,' yes, I have seen it. It does not say much beyond the usual, 'Fears are entertained for the safety, etc.'"

"And now she will see it."

"Yes, I think it is as well. It will help to prepare her for what she may have to hear later."

"George," said Jean in a little, "does that mean that you are afraid?"

"There is cause for anxiety. There was that before we left London. I only wonder that Mrs Calderwood has said so little about it."

"And you left London more than six weeks ago." George told her of the succession of terrible storms that had swept over the Southern seas about the close of the year, in lat.i.tudes where possibly the "Ben Nevis"

had been at that time, acknowledging that there would be reason to fear for the fate of the s.h.i.+p unless she were heard from soon. His anxiety had been greater than he knew, and he had kept it to himself so long that to speak was a relief, which led him to say more to his sister than he would otherwise have done. His words were less hopeful than he meant them to be, until Jean said, "Do you mean that you give them up?"

"By no means. I do not even give up the s.h.i.+p. I know Willie Calderwood and what he can do too well to do that yet a white. And even if they had to forsake the s.h.i.+p, the chances are in favour of safety for the men. All that depends on circ.u.mstances of which we can know nothing.

But I by no means give up the s.h.i.+p even yet."

"But, George, should you not have stayed to tell Mrs Calderwood so?"

"No, I think not. There will be time enough for that, and she is of a nature to meet the first pain best alone."

"But Marion?"

"She will not speak to Marion at once. And, Jean, it is as well that the awful possibility of loss should be admitted. But my hopes are stronger than my fears."

"The awful possibility of loss?" Jean repeated the words with white lips, not knowing that she did so. They had lengthened their walk, pa.s.sing Miss Jean's house and going on to the pier. They turned now and came back in silence. At Miss Jean's door they paused.

"It will be as well to say nothing as yet," said George.

"Not to Aunt Jean?"

"Oh! yes. I have spoken to her already. I mean to people generally.

And, Jean, go and see Marion and her mother again before you go home."

But Jean said nothing to her aunt about what she had heard. She stayed her usual time, and discussed certain purchases that were to be made of material for the summer outfit of some of her aunt's "puir bodies," and went into matters of detail as to quant.i.ty, and needles and thread, and as to the help that each would need in the making of her gown. And then she went away and did all else that she meant to do when she left home, and lingered over it, till it was too late, she told herself, to go to the High-street again.

Three days pa.s.sed before she went there, and the like had seldom happened since Marion came home. She did not know how she could speak to the mother of the anguish and suspense that lay before her, and she shrank from a betrayal of her own pain.

But when she went in on the fourth day it struck her with surprise to see that they were just the same as usual. No change of grief or terror had pa.s.sed upon them. Mrs Calderwood was grave and pale, but she spoke about various matters cheerfully enough, though she made no allusion to the fears for her son.

Marion spoke of her brother, and said how hopeful George was about him, and how the old sailors about the pier were saying to one another, that Captain Calderwood was not the man to be caught unprepared for a storm, and being prepared, with plenty of sea room, what was there to fear? He would bring his s.h.i.+p home all right. There was no fear of that.

But the next news that came made even the old sailors shake their heads when the s.h.i.+p was spoken of. A boat had been picked up by a South American vessel, filled with men from the wreck of the "Ben Nevis" and from the Southern port to which these had been carried came the tidings.

They had encountered a succession of storms, which had so strained and shattered the good s.h.i.+p "Ben Nevis," that there seemed a fairer chance of escaping with life by betaking themselves to the boats than by remaining with the s.h.i.+p. There were not many pa.s.sengers on board, only seventeen all told. Nine of these, with four sailors, were in the boat which the American had saved when they had been five days away from the wreck.

They could say nothing of those whom they had left on board, though they had still seen the s.h.i.+p afloat in the distance on the second day. There was no familiar name in the list of the rescued, but it was said that the weather had moderated while they were in the vicinity of the s.h.i.+p, and there seemed no reason to doubt that the rest of the pa.s.sengers and crew had been able to save themselves.

Captain Calderwood's name was mentioned in terms that brought tears of pride and sorrow to the eyes of those who loved him. His courage and kindness and patience had never failed through all the terrible days of storm. Discipline had been maintained through all, as perfectly as during the summer calm that preceded those awful days; and the last sight which the rescued saw as they drew off from the s.h.i.+p, to await the manning of the other boats, was their captain standing on the deck encouraging them with hand and voice.

And that was all. But that was much, and now they could wait for further tidings with patience. On the whole they kept in good heart for a while. But as time went on, the suspense and anxiety of the days that went before, seemed to pa.s.s into each new day as it came. For they knew that each pa.s.sing day without tidings mocked the hope they had so long cherished.

Through all the mother waited quietly. Never quite without hope that she would see her son again, but after a while the poor pretence of cheerfulness for which she had striven, because of Marion, failed beyond her power to help it. The silent patience which had been the habit of her life under other troubles, stood her in good stead now. And when this failed her, and the restlessness, of a slowly dying hope came upon her, she would go away by herself till she could hide all tokens of her pain again.

Sometimes she went to Miss Jean's for comfort, but often when her daughter believed her to be there, she was walking up and down the wet sands, or sitting in some sheltered nook among the rocks, striving for calmness to bear to the end. She had gone through it all before, and now she seemed to be waiting again and longing and fearing for his father, while she waited for her only son. When other eyes were upon her she was calm enough, and troubled no one with her trouble, but she needed the rest which solitude gave her to carry her through the lengthening days.

Marion bore the long suspense well, they all said. She was young, and it was her nature to look for brightness rather than gloom, and no such trouble had come upon her as had darkened the life of her mother. There were only hopeful views expressed in her presence, and though she knew that cheerfulness was encouraged and often a.s.sumed for her sake, she had the sense and courage to respond to the efforts of those who loved her, and to keep herself quiet and patient for their sakes.

One good came to Mrs Calderwood out of the trouble of those days. She had forgiven Mr Dawson the hard words and unreasonable anger of the old days, or she believed that she had, but even to herself she could not say that she had forgotten them. She was never quite at her ease in his presence. It was not so much that she disliked him, as that she could not convince herself that he did not dislike her. The sight of her could only, she thought, recall to him much that he could not but wish to forget; and if she could do so, without remark, she generally chose to be out of the way during his frequent visits to the house.

But whatever he might feel towards her, there could be no doubt as to the esteem in which he held her son, or as to the anxiety which he shared with them all. He was not, as a general thing, ready with words of sympathy, but she had seen tears in his eyes more than once as he spoke her son's name, and her heart could not but soften towards him, and a real friendliness, which in other circ.u.mstances might have come but slowly, grew up in this troubled time between them.

There was no lack of sympathy. Not a man or woman in Portie, but felt deeply for the trouble of Willie Calderwood's mother and sister, though they were for the most part shy as to any expression of it. Indeed Mrs Calderwood kept out of the way of words. George guarded his wife from the hearing of any thing that would move her out of her usual quiet, and when he was not at hand, Jean guarded her as carefully for his sake.

To Jean, as to the rest, the days pa.s.sed slowly and heavily. To the eyes of even her aunt she was just as usual, no graver nor sadder than was natural since a friend, and one who was more than a friend to those she loved, was in danger. But no one ever heard her speak of the anxiety that oppressed them all. She listened in silence when, as is the way at such times, the causes for hope or fear were gone over, and over, and over again, or she went away and did not listen, but she never put in her word with the rest.

It was only as a friend that she had a right to grieve for Willie Calderwood, she told herself. They had never been lovers. They had cared for one another long ago--oh! so long ago now. But they had not seen one another for years, because he had not cared to see her, and it was all past now. She had been angry at first, and then sorry. Yes, she had suffered sharply for a while, she acknowledged. But she was neither sorry nor angry now. She was anxious for his safety, and she longed for his return, as all his friends did. And her heart ached for his mother and his sister, and for George, to whom he was both brother and friend. And that was all.

But a day came when her heart spoke, nay, cried out as the heart of no mere friend could cry. She was sitting one day in Miss Jean's parlour, when her brother came in. There were tears in his eyes and a strange, uncertain smile on his lips, and he laid his hand on her shoulder as she stood by the window, pausing a moment before he spoke, as if he were not sure of his voice.

"Jean," he said, "there is news at last."