betty leicester's christmas by sarah orne jewett boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge 1899 copyright, 1894 and 1899, by sarah orne jewett all rights reserved to m. e. g. [illustration: in solemn majesty] list of illustrations page in solemn majesty (page 62) _frontispiece_ "i was so glad to come" 20 a tall boy had joined them 42 betty, edith, and warford 50 betty leicester's christmas i there was once a story-book girl named betty leicester, who lived in a small square book bound in scarlet and white. i, who know her better than any one else does, and who know my way about tideshead, the story-book town, as well as she did, and who have not only made many a visit to her aunt barbara and aunt mary in their charming old country-house, but have even seen the house in london where she spent the winter: i, who confess to loving betty a good deal, wish to write a little more about her in this christmas story. the truth is, that ever since i wrote the first story i have been seeing girls who reminded me of betty leicester of tideshead. either they were about the same age or the same height, or they skipped gayly by me in a little gown like hers, or i saw a pleased look or a puzzled look in their eyes which seemed to bring betty, my own story-book girl, right before me. * * * * * now, if anybody has read the book, this preface will be much more interesting than if anybody has not. yet, if i say to all new acquaintances that betty was just in the middle of her sixteenth year, and quite in the middle of girlhood; that she hated some things as much as she could, and liked other things with all her heart, and did not feel pleased when older people kept saying _don't!_ perhaps these new acquaintances will take the risk of being friends. certain things had become easy just as betty was leaving tideshead in new england, where she had been spending the summer with her old aunts, so that, having got used to all the tideshead liberties and restrictions, she thought she was leaving the easiest place in the world; but when she got back to london with her father, somehow or other life was very difficult indeed. she used to wish for london and for her cronies, the duncans, when she was first in tideshead; but when she was in england again she found that, being a little nearer to the awful responsibilities of a grown person, she was not only a new betty, but london--great, busy, roaring, delightful london--was a new london altogether. to say that she felt lonely, and cried one night because she wished to go back to tideshead and be a village person again, and was homesick for her four-posted bed with the mandarins parading on the curtains, is only to tell the honest truth. in tideshead that summer betty leicester learned two things which she could not understand quite well enough to believe at first, but which always seem more and more sensible to one as time goes on. the first is that you must be careful what you wish for, because if you wish hard enough you are pretty sure to get it; and the second is, that no two persons can be placed anywhere where one will not be host and the other guest. one will be in a position to give and to help and to show; the other must be the one who depends and receives. now, this subject may not seem any clearer to you at first than it did to betty; but life suddenly became a great deal more interesting, and she felt herself a great deal more important to the rest of the world when she got a little light from these rules. for everybody knows that two of the hardest things in the world are to know what to do and how to behave; to know what one's own duty is in the world and how to get on with other people. what to be and how to behave--these are the questions that every girl has to face; and if somebody answers, "be good and be polite," it is such a general kind of answer that one throws it away and feels uncomfortable. i do not remember that i happened to say anywhere in the story that there was a pretty fashion in tideshead, as summer went on, of calling our friend "sister betty." whether it came from her lamenting that she had no sister, and being kindly adopted by certain friends, or whether there was something in her friendly, affectionate way of treating people, one cannot tell. ii betty leicester, in a new winter gown which had just been sent home from liberty's, with all desirable qualities of color, and a fine expanse of smocking at the yoke, and some sprigs of embroidery for ornament in proper places, was yet an unhappy betty. in spite of being not only fine, but snug and warm as one always feels when cold weather first comes and one gets into a winter dress, everything seemed disappointing. the weather was shivery and dark, the street into which she was looking was narrow and gloomy, and there was a moment when betty thought wistfully of tideshead as if there were no december there, and only the high, clear september sky that she had left. somehow, all out-of-door life appeared to have come to an end, and she felt as if she were shut into a dark and wintry prison. not long before this she had come from whitby, the charming red-roofed yorkshire fishing-town that forever climbs the hill to its gray abbey. there were flocks of young people at whitby that autumn, and betty had lived out of doors in pleasant company to her heart's content, and tramped about the moors and along the cliffs with gay parties, and played golf and cricket, and helped to plan some great excitement or lively excursion for almost every day. there is a funny, dancing-step sort of walk, set to the tune of "humpty-dumpty," which seems to belong with the whitby walking-sticks which everybody carries; you lock arms in lines across the road, and keep step to the gay chant of the dismal nursery lines, and the faster you go, especially when you are tired, the more it seems to rest you (or that's what some people think) in the long walks home. whitby was almost as good as tideshead, to which lovely town betty now compared every other, even london itself. betty and her father had not yet gone to housekeeping by themselves (which made them very happy later on), but they were living in some familiar old clarges street lodgings convenient to the green park, where betty could go for a consoling scamper with a new dog called "toby" because he looked so exactly like the beloved toby on the cover of "punch." betty had spent a whole morning's work upon a proper belled ruff for toby, who gravely sat up and wore it as if he were conscious of literary responsibilities. papa had gone to the british museum that rainy morning, and was not likely to reappear before the close of day. for a wonder, he was going to dine at home that night. something very interesting to the scientific world had happened to him during his summer visit to alaska, and it seemed as if every one of his scientific friends had also made some discovery, or something had happened to each one, which made many talks and dinners and club meetings delightfully important. but most of the london people were in the country; for in england they stay in the hot town until july or august, while all americans scatter among green fields or seashore places; and then spend the gloomy months of the year in their country houses, when we fly back to the shelter and music and pictures and companionship of town life. this all depends upon the meeting of parliament and other great reasons; but even betty leicester felt quite left out and lonely in town that dark day. her best friends, the duncans, were at their great house in warwickshire. she was going to stay with them for a month, but not just yet; while her father was soon going to pay a short visit to a very great lady indeed at danesly castle, just this side the border. this "very great lady indeed" was perfectly charming to our friend; a smile or a bow from her was just then more than anything else to betty. we all know how perfectly delightful it is to love some one so much that we keep dreaming of her a little all the time, and what happiness it gives when the least thing one has to do with her is a perfectly golden joy. betty loved mrs. duncan fondly and constantly, and she loved aunt barbara with a spark of true enchantment and eager desire to please; but for this new friend, for lady mary danesly (who was mrs. duncan's cousin), there was something quite different in her heart. as she stood by the window in clarges street she was thinking of this lovely friend, and wishing for once that she herself was older, so that perhaps she might have been asked to come with papa for a week's visit at christmas. but lady mary would be busy enough with her great house-party of distinguished people. once she had been so delightful as to say that betty must some day come to danesly with her father, but of course this could not be the time. miss day, betty's old governess, who now lived with her mother in one of the suburbs of london, was always ready to come to spend a week or two if betty were to be left alone, and it was pleasanter every year to try to make miss day have a good time as well as to have one one's self; but, somehow, a feeling of having outgrown miss day was hard to bear. they had not much to talk about except the past, and what they used to do; and when friendship comes to this alone, it may be dear, but is never the best sort. the fog was blowing out of the street, and the window against which betty leaned was suddenly flecked with raindrops. a telegraph boy came round the corner as if the gust of wind had brought him, and ran toward the steps; presently the maid brought in a telegram to betty, who hastened to open it, as she was always commissioned to do in her father's absence. to her surprise it was meant for herself. she looked at the envelope to make sure. it was from lady mary. _can you come to me with your father next week, dear? i wish for you very much._ "there's no answer--at least there's no answer now," said betty, quite trembling with excitement and pleasure; "i must see papa first, but i can't think that he will say no. he meant to come home for christmas day with me, and now we can both stay on." she hopped about, dancing and skipping, after the door was shut. what a thing it is to have one's wishes come true before one's eyes! and then she asked to have a hansom cab called and for the company of pagot, who was her maid now; a very nice woman whom mrs. duncan had recommended, in as much as betty was older and had thoughts of going to housekeeping. pagot's sister also was engaged as housemaid, and, strange as it may appear, our tideshead betty was to become the mistress of a cook and butler. pagot herself looked sedate and responsible, but she dearly liked a little change and was finding the day dull. so they started off together toward the british museum in all the rain, with the shutter of the cab put down and the horse trotting along the shining streets as if he liked it. iii mr. leicester was in the department of north american prehistoric remains, and had a jar of earth before him which he was examining with closest interest. "here's a bit of charred bone," he was saying eagerly to a wise-looking old gentleman, "and here's a funeral bead--just as i expected. this proves my theory of the sacrificial--why, betty, what's the matter?" and he looked startled for a moment. "a telegram?" "it was so very important, you see, papa," said betty. "i thought it was bad news from tideshead," said mr. leicester, looking up at her with a smile after he had read it. "well, my dear, that's very nice, and very important too," he added, with a fine twinkle in his eyes. "i shall be going out for a bit of luncheon presently, and i'll send the answer with great pleasure." betty's cheeks were brighter than ever, as if a rosy cloud of joy were shining through. "now that i'm here, i'll look at the arrowheads; mayn't i, papa?" she asked, with great self-possession. "i should like to see if i can find one like mine--i mean my best white one that i found on the river-bank last summer." papa nodded, and turned to his jar again. "you may let pagot go home at one o'clock," he said, "and come back to find me here, and we'll go and have luncheon together. i was thinking of coming home early to get you. we've a house to look at, and it's dull weather for what i wish to do here at the museum. clear sunshine is the only possible light for this sort of work," he added, turning to the old gentleman, who nodded; and betty nodded sagely, and skipped away with pagot, to search among the arrowheads. she found many white quartz arrowpoints and spearheads like her own treasure. pagot thought them very dull, and was made rather uncomfortable by the indian medicine-masks and war-bonnets and evil-looking war-clubs, and openly called it a waste of time for any one to have taken trouble to get all that heathen rubbish together. such savages and their horrid ways were best forgotten by decent folks, if pagot might be so bold as to say so. but presently it was luncheon time; and the good soul cheerfully departed, while betty joined her father, and waited for him as still as a mouse for half an hour, while he and the scientific old gentleman reluctantly said their last words and separated. she had listened to a good deal of their talk about altar fires, and the ceremonies that could be certainly traced in a handful of earth from the site of a temple in the mounds of a buried city; but all her thoughts were of lady mary and the pleasures of the next week. she looked again at the telegram, which was much nicer than most telegrams. it was so nice of lady mary to have said _dear_ in it--just as if she were talking; people did not often say _dear_ in a message. "perhaps some of her guests can't come; but then, everybody likes to be asked to danesly," betty thought. "and i wonder if i shall dine at table with the guests; i never have. at any rate, i shall see lady mary often and be with papa. it is perfectly lovely! i can give her the indian basket i brought her, now, before the sweet grass is all dry." it was a great delight to be asked to the holiday party; many a grown person would be thankful to take betty's place. for was not lady mary a very great lady indeed, and one of the most charming women in england?--a famous hostess and assembler of really delightful people? "i am going to danesly on the seventeenth," said betty to herself, with satisfaction. iv betty and her father had taken a long journey from london. they had been nearly all day in the train, after a breakfast by candle-light; and it was quite dark, except for the light of the full moon in a misty sky, as they drove up the long avenue at danesly. pagot was in great spirits; she was to go everywhere with betty now, being used to the care of young ladies, and more being expected of this young lady than in the past. pagot had been at danesly before with the duncans, and had many friends in the household. mr. leicester was walking across the fields by a path he well knew from the little station, with a friend and fellow guest whom they had met at durham. this path was much shorter than the road, so that papa was sure of reaching the house first; but betty felt a little lonely, being tired, and shy of meeting a great bright houseful of people quite by herself, in case papa should loiter. but suddenly the carriage stopped, and the footman jumped down and opened the door. "my lady is walking down to meet you, miss," he said; "she's just ahead of us, coming down the avenue." and betty flew like a pigeon to meet her dear friend. the carriage drove on and left them together under the great trees, walking along together over the beautiful tracery of shadows. suddenly lady mary felt the warmth of betty's love for her and her speechless happiness as she had not felt it before, and she stopped, looking so tall and charming, and put her two arms round betty, and hugged her to her heart. "my dear little girl!" she said for the second time; and then they walked on, and still betty could not say anything for sheer joy. "now i'm going to tell you something quite in confidence," said the hostess of the great house, which showed its dim towers and scattered lights beyond the leafless trees. "i had been wishing to have you come to me, but i should not have thought this the best time for a visit; later on, when the days will be longer, i shall be able to have much more time to myself. but an american friend of mine, mr. banfield, who is a friend of your papa's, i believe, wrote to ask if he might bring his young daughter, whom he had taken from school in new york for a holiday. it seemed a difficult problem for the first moment," and lady mary gave a funny little laugh. "i did not know quite what to do with her just now, as i should with a grown person. and then i remembered that i might ask you to help me, betty dear. you know that the duncans always go for a christmas visit to their grandmother in devon." "i was so glad to come," said betty warmly; "it was nicer than anything else." [illustration: "i was so glad to come"] "i am a little afraid of young american girls, you understand," said lady mary gayly; and then, taking a solemn tone: "yes, you needn't laugh, miss betty! but you know all about what they like, don't you? and so i am sure we can make a bit of pleasure together, and we'll be fellow hostesses, won't we? we must find some time every day for a little talking over of things quite by ourselves. i've put you next your father's rooms, and to-morrow miss banfield will be near by, and you're to dine in my little morning-room to-night. i'm so glad good old pagot is with you; she knows the house perfectly well. i hope you will soon feel at home. why, this is almost like having a girl of my very own," said lady mary wistfully, as they began to go up the great steps and into the hall, where the butler and other splendid personages of the household stood waiting. lady mary was a tall, slender figure in black, with a beautiful head; and she carried herself with great spirit and grace. she had wrapped some black lace about her head and shoulders, and held it gathered with one hand at her throat. "i must fly to the drawing-room now, and then go to dress for dinner; so good-night, darling," said this dear lady, whom betty had always longed to be nearer to and to know better. "to-morrow you must tell me all about your summer in new england," she said, looking over her shoulder as she went one way and betty another, with pagot and a footman who carried the small luggage from the carriage. how good and kind she had been to come to meet a young stranger who might feel lonely, and as if there were no place for her in the great strange house in the first minute of her arrival. and betty leicester quite longed to see miss banfield and to help her to a thousand pleasures at once for lady mary's sake. v somebody has said that there are only a very few kinds of people in the world, but that they are put into all sorts of places and conditions. the minute betty leicester looked at edith banfield next day she saw that she was a little like mary beck, her own friend and tideshead neighbor. the first thought was one of pleasure, and the second was a fear that the new "becky" would not have a good time at danesly. it was the morning after betty's own arrival. that first evening she had her dinner alone, and afterward was reading and resting after her journey in lady mary's own little sitting-room, which was next her own room. when pagot came up from her own hasty supper and "crack" with her friends to look after betty, and to unpack, she had great tales to tell of the large and noble company assembled at danesly house. "they're dining in the great banquet hall itself," she said with pride. "lady mary looks a queen at the head of the table, with the french prince beside her and the great earl of seacliff at the other side," said pagot proudly. "i took a look from the old musicians' gallery, miss, as i came along, and it was a fine sight, indeed. lady mary's own maid, as i have known well these many years, was telling me the names of the strangers." pagot was very proud of her own knowledge of fine people. betty asked if it was far to the gallery; and, finding that it was quite near the part of the house where they were, she went out with pagot along the corridors with their long rows of doors, and into the musicians' gallery, where they found themselves at a delightful point of view. danesly castle had been built at different times; the banquet-hall itself was very old and stately, with a high, carved roof. there were beautiful old hangings and banners where the walls and roof met, and lower down were spread great tapestries. there was a huge fire blazing in the deep fireplace at the end, and screens before it; the long table twinkled with candle-light, and the gay company sat about it. betty looked first for papa, and saw him sitting beside lady dimdale, who was a great friend of his; then she looked for lady mary, who was at the head between the two gentlemen of whom pagot had spoken. she was still dressed in black lace, but with many diamonds sparkling at her throat, and she looked as sweet and quiet and self-possessed as if there were no great entertainment at all. the men-servants in their handsome livery moved quickly to and fro, as if they were actors in a play. the people at the table were talking and laughing, and the whole scene was so pleasant, so gay and friendly, that betty wished, for almost the first time, that she were grown up and dining late, to hear all the delightful talk. she and pagot were like swallows high under the eaves of the great room. papa looked really boyish, so many of the men were older than he. there were twenty at table; and pagot said, as betty counted them, that many others were expected the next day. you could imagine the great festivals of an older time as you looked down from the gallery. in the gallery itself there were quaint little heavy wooden stools for the musicians: the harpers and fiddlers and pipers who had played for so many generations of gay dancers, for whom the same lights had flickered, and over whose heads the old hangings had waved. you felt as if you were looking down at the past. betty and pagot closed the narrow door of the gallery softly behind them, and our friend went back to her own bedroom, where there was a nice fire, and nearly fell asleep before it, while pagot was getting the last things unpacked and ready for the night. vi the next day at about nine o'clock lady mary came through her morning-room and tapped at the door. betty was just ready and very glad to say good-morning. the sun was shining, and she had been leaning out upon the great stone window-sill looking down the long slopes of the country into the wintry mists. lady mary looked out too, and took a long breath of the fresh, keen air. "it's a good day for hunting," she said, "and for walking. i'm going down to breakfast, because i have planned for an idle day. i thought we might go down together if you were ready." betty's heart was filled with gratitude; it was so very kind of her hostess to remember that it would be difficult for the only girl in the house party to come alone to breakfast for the first time. they went along the corridor and down the great staircase, past the portraits and the marble busts and figures on the landings. there were two or three ladies in the great hall at the foot, with an air of being very early, and some gentlemen who were going fox hunting; and after betty had spoken with lady dimdale, whom she knew, they sauntered into the breakfast-room, where they found some other people; and papa and betty had a word together and then sat down side by side to their muffins and their eggs and toast and marmalade. it was not a bit like a tideshead company breakfast. everybody jumped up if he wished for a plate, or for more jam, or some cold game, which was on the sideboard with many other things. the company of servants had disappeared, and it was all as unceremonious as if the breakfasters were lunching out of doors. there was not a long tableful like that of the night before; many of the guests were taking their tea and coffee in their own rooms. by the time breakfast was done, betty had begun to forget herself as if she were quite at home. she stole an affectionate glance now and then at lady mary, and had fine bits of talk with her father, who had spent a charming evening and now told betty something about it, and how glad he was to have her see their fellow guests. when he went hurrying away to join the hunt, betty was sure that she knew exactly what to do with herself. it would take her a long time to see the huge old house and the picture gallery, where there were some very famous paintings, and the library, about which papa was always so enthusiastic. lady mary was to her more interesting than anybody else, and she wished especially to do something for lady mary. aunt barbara had helped her niece very much one day in tideshead when she talked about her own experience in making visits and going much into company. "the best thing you can do," she said, "is to do everything you can to help your hostess. don't wait to see what is going to be done for you, but try to help entertain your fellow guests and to make the moment pleasant, and you will be sure to enjoy yourself and to find your hostess wishing you to come again. always do the things that will help your hostess." our friend thought of this sage advice now, but it was at a moment when every one else was busy talking, and they were all going on to the great library except two or three late breakfasters who were still at the table. aunt barbara had also said that when there was nothing else to do, your plain duty was to entertain yourself; and, having a natural gift for this, betty wandered off into a corner and found a new "punch" and some of the american magazines on a little table close by the window-seat. after a while she happened to hear some one ask: "what time is mr. banfield coming?" "by the eleven o'clock train," said lady mary. "i am just watching for the carriage that is to fetch him. look; you can see it first between the two oaks there to the left. it is an awkward time to get to a strange house, poor man; but they were in the south and took a night train that is very slow. mr. banfield's daughter is with him, and my dear friend betty, who knows what american girls like best, is kindly going to help me entertain her." "oh, really!" said one of the ladies, looking up and smiling as if she had been wondering just what betty was for, all alone in the grown-up house party. "really, that's very nice. but i might have seen that you are mr. leicester's daughter. it was very stupid of me, my dear; you're quite like him--oh, quite!" "i have seen you with the duncans, have i not?" asked some one else, with great interest. "why, fancy!" said this friendly person, who was named the honorable miss northumberland, a small, eager little lady in spite of her solemn great name,--"fancy! you must be an american too. i should have thought you quite an english girl." "oh, no, indeed," said betty. "indeed, i'm quite american, except for living in england a very great deal." she was ready to go on and say much more, but she had been taught to say as little about herself as she possibly could, since general society cares little for knowledge that is given it too easily, especially about strangers and one's self! "there's the carriage now," said lady mary, as she went away to welcome the guests. "poor souls! they will like to get to their rooms as soon as possible," she said hospitably; but although the elder ladies did not stir, betty deeply considered the situation, and then, with a happy impulse, hurried after her hostess. it was a long way about, through two or three rooms and the great hall to the entrance; but betty overtook lady mary just as she reached the great door, going forward in the most hospitable, charming way to meet the new-comers. she did not seem to have seen betty at all. the famous lawyer, mr. banfield, came quickly up the steps, and after him, more slowly, came his daughter, whom he seemed quite to forget. a footman was trying to take her wraps and traveling-bag, but she clung fast to them, and looked up apprehensively toward lady mary. betty was very sympathetic, and was sure that it was a trying moment, and she ran down to meet miss banfield, and happened to be so fortunate as to catch her just as she was tripping over her dress upon the high stone step. mr. banfield himself was well known in london, and was a great favorite in society; but at first sight his daughter's self-conscious manners struck one as being less interesting. she was a pretty girl, but she wore a pretentious look, which was further borne out by very noticeable clothes--not at all the right things to travel in at that hour; but, as has long ago been said, betty saw at once the likeness to her tideshead friend and comrade, mary beck, and opened her heart to take the stranger in. it was impossible not to be reminded of the day when mary beck came to call in tideshead, with her best hat and bird-of-paradise feather, and they both felt so awkward and miserable. "did you have a very tiresome journey?" betty was asking as they reached the top of the steps at last; but edith banfield's reply was indistinct, and the next moment lady mary turned to greet her young guest cordially. betty felt that she was a little dismayed, and was all the more eager to have the young compatriot's way made easy. "did you have a tiresome journey?" asked lady mary, in her turn; but the reply was quite audible now. "oh, yes," said edith. "it was awfully cold--oh, awfully!--and so smoky and horrid and dirty! i thought we never should get here, with changing cars in horrid stations, and everything," she said, telling all about it. "oh, that was too bad," said betty, rushing to the rescue, while lady mary walked on with mr. banfield. edith banfield talked on in an excited, persistent way to betty, after having finally yielded up her bag to the footman, and looking after him somewhat anxiously. "it's a splendid big house, isn't it?" she whispered; "but awfully solemn looking. i suppose there's another part where they live, isn't there? have you been here before? are you english?" "i'm betty leicester," said betty, in an undertone. "no, i haven't been here before; but i have known lady mary for a long time in london. i'm an american, too." "you aren't, really!" exclaimed edith. "why, you must have been over here a good many times, or something"--she cast a glance at betty's plain woolen gear, and recognized the general comfortable appearance of the english schoolgirl. edith herself was very fine in silk attire, with much fur trimming and a very expensive hat. "well, i'm awfully glad you're here," she said, with a satisfied sigh; "you know all about it better than i do, and can tell me what to put on." "oh, yes, indeed," said betty cheerfully; "and there are lots of nice things to do. we can see the people, and then there are all the pictures and the great conservatories, and the stables and dogs and everything. i've been waiting to see them with you; and we can ride every day, if you like; and papa says it's a perfectly delightful country for walking." "i hate to walk," said edith frankly. "oh, what a pity," lamented betty, a good deal dashed. she was striving against a very present disappointment, but still the fact could not be overlooked that edith banfield looked like mary beck. now, mary also was apt to distrust all strangers and to take suspicious views of life, and she had little enthusiasm; but betty knew and loved her loyalty and really good heart. she felt sometimes as if she tried to walk in tight shoes when "becky's" opinions had to be considered; but becky's world had grown wider month by month, and she loved her very much. edith banfield was very pretty; that was a comfort, and though betty might never like her as she did mary beck, she meant more than ever to help her to have a good visit. lady mary appeared again, having given mr. banfield into the young footman's charge. she looked at sister betty for an instant with an affectionate, amused little smile, and kept one hand on her shoulder as she talked for a minute pleasantly with the new guest. a maid appeared to take edith to her room, and lady mary patted betty's shoulder as they parted. they did not happen to have time for a word together again all day. by luncheon time the two girls were very good friends, and betty knew all about the new-comer; and in spite of a succession of minor disappointments, the acquaintance promised to be very pleasant. poor edith banfield, like poor betty, had no mother, but edith had spent several years already at a large boarding-school. she was taking this journey by way of vacation, and was going back after the christmas holidays. she was a new-yorker, and she hated the country, and loved to stay in foreign hotels. this was the first time she had ever paid a visit in england, except to some american friends who had a villa on the thames, which edith had found quite dull. she had not been taught either to admire or to enjoy very much, which seemed to make her schooling count for but little so far; but she adored her father and his brilliant wit in a most lovely way, and with this affection and pride betty could warmly sympathize. edith longed to please her father in every possible fashion, and secretly confessed that she did not always succeed, in a way that touched betty's heart. it was hard to know exactly how to please the busy man; he was apt to show only a mild interest in the new clothes which at present were her chief joy; perhaps she was always making the mistake of not so much trying to please him as to make him pleased with herself, which is quite a different thing. vii there was an anxious moment on betty's part when edith banfield summoned her to decide upon what dress should be worn for the evening. pagot, whom betty had asked to go and help her new friend, was wearing a disapproving look, and two or three fine french dresses were spread out for inspection. "why, aren't you going to dress?" asked edith. "i was afraid you were all ready to go down, but i couldn't think what to put on." "i'm all dressed," said betty, with surprise. "oh, what lovely gowns! but we"--she suddenly foresaw a great disappointment--"we needn't go down yet, you know, edith; we are not out, and dinner isn't like luncheon here in england. we can go down afterward, if we like, and hear the songs, but we girls never go to dinner when it's a great dinner like this. i think it is much better fun to stay away; at least, i always have thought so until last night, and then it did really look very pleasant," she frankly added. "why, i'm not sixteen, and you're only a little past, you know." but there lay a grown-up young lady's evening gowns as if to confute all betty's arguments. "how awfully stupid!" said edith, with great scorn. "nursery tea for anybody like us!" and she turned to look at betty's dress, which was charming enough in its way, and made in very pretty girlish fashion. "i should think they'd make you wear a white pinafore," said edith ungraciously; but betty, who had been getting a little angry, thought this so funny that she laughed and felt much better. "i wear muslins for very best," she said serenely. "why, of course we'll go down after dinner and stay a while before we say good-night; they'll be out before half-past nine,--i mean the ladies,--and we'll be there in the drawing-room. oh, isn't that blue gown a beauty! i wish i had put on my best muslin, pagot." "you look very suitable, miss betty," said pagot stiffly. pagot was very old-fashioned, and edith made a funny little face at betty behind her back. the two girls had a delightful dinner together in the morning-room next betty's own, and edith's good humor was quite restored. she had had a good day, on the whole, and the picture galleries and conservatories had not failed to please by their splendors and delights. after they had finished their dessert, betty, as a great surprise, offered the hospitalities of the musicians' gallery, and they sped along the corridors and up the stairs in great spirits, betty leading the way. "now, don't upset the little benches," she whispered, as she opened the narrow door out of the dark passage, and presently their two heads were over the edge of the gallery. they leaned boldly out, for nobody would think of looking up. the great hall was even gayer and brighter than it had looked the night before. the lights and colors shone, there were new people at table, and much talk was going on. the butler and his men were more military than ever; it was altogether a famous, much-diamonded dinner company, and lady mary looked quite magnificent at the head. "it looks pretty," whispered edith; "but how dull it sounds! i don't believe that they are having a bit of a good time. at home, you know, there's such a noise at a party. what a splendid big room!" "people never talk loud when they get together in england," said betty. "they never make that awful chatter that we do at home. just four or five people who come to tea in tideshead can make one another's ears ache. i couldn't get used to it last summer; aunt barbara was almost the only tea-party person in tideshead who didn't get screaming." "oh, i do think it's splendid!" said edith wistfully. "i wish we were down there. i wish there was a little gallery lower down. there's lord dunwater, who sat next me at luncheon. who's that next your father?" there was a little noise behind the eager girls, and they turned quickly. a tall boy had joined them, who seemed much disturbed at finding any one in the gallery, which seldom had a visitor. edith stood up, and seemed an alarmingly tall and elegant young lady in the dim light. betty, who was as tall, was nothing like so imposing to behold at that moment; but the new-comer turned to make his escape. [illustration: a tall boy had joined them] "don't go away," betty begged, seeing his alarm, and wondering who he could be. "there's plenty of room to look. don't go." and thereupon the stranger came forward. he was a handsome fellow, dressed in eton clothes. he was much confused, and said nothing; and, after a look at the company below, during which the situation became more embarrassing to all three, he turned to go away. "are you staying in the house, too?" asked betty timidly; it was so very awkward. "i just came," said the boy, who now appeared to be a very nice fellow indeed. they had left the musicians' gallery,--nobody knew why,--and now stood outside in the corridor. "i just came," he repeated. "i walked over from the station across the fields. i'm lady mary's nephew, you know. she's not expecting me. i had my supper in the housekeeper's room. i was going on a week's tramp in france with my old tutor, just to get rid of christmas parties and things; but he strained a knee at football, and we had to give it up, and so i came here for the holidays. there was nothing else to do," he explained ruefully. "what a lot of people my aunt's got this year!" "it's very nice," said betty cordially. "it's beastly slow, _i_ think," said the boy. "i like it much better when my aunt and i have the place to ourselves. oh, no; that's not what i mean!" he said, blushing crimson as both the girls laughed. "only we have jolly good times by ourselves, you know; no end of walks and rides; and we fish if the water's right. you ought to see my aunt cast a fly." "she's perfectly lovely, isn't she?" said betty, in a tone which made them firm friends at once. "we're going down to the drawing-room soon; wouldn't you like to come?" "yes," said the boy slowly. "it'll be fun to surprise her. and i saw lady dimdale at dinner. i like lady dimdale awfully." "so does papa," said betty; "oh, so very much!--next to lady mary and mrs. duncan." "you're betty leicester, aren't you? oh, i know you now," said the boy, turning toward her with real friendliness. "i danced with you at the duncans', at a party, just before i first went to eton,--oh, ever so long ago!--you won't remember it; and i've seen you once besides, at their place in warwickshire, you know. i'm warford, you know." "why, of course," said betty, with great pleasure. "it puzzled me; i couldn't think at first, but you've quite grown up since then. how we used to dance when we were little things! do you like it now?" "no, i hate it," said warford coldly, and they all three laughed. edith was walking alongside, feeling much left out of the conversation, though warford had been stealing glances at her. "oh, i am so sorry--i didn't think," betty exclaimed in her politest manner. "miss banfield, this is lord warford. i didn't mean to be rude, but you were a great surprise, weren't you?" and they all laughed again, as young people will. just then they reached the door of lady mary's morning-room; the girls' dessert was still on the table, and, being properly invited, warford began to eat the rest of the fruit. "one never gets quite enough grapes," said warford, who was evidently suffering the constant hunger of a rapidly growing person. edith banfield certainly looked very pretty, both her companions thought so; but they felt much more at home with each other. it seemed as if she were a great deal older than they, in her fine evening gown. warford was very admiring and very polite, but betty and he were already plunged into the deep intimacy of true fellowship. edith got impatient before they were ready to go downstairs, but at last they all started down the great staircase, and had just settled themselves in the drawing-room when the ladies began to come in. "why, warford, my dear!" said lady mary, with great delight, as he met her and kissed her twice, as if they were quite by themselves; then he turned and spoke to lady dimdale, who was just behind, still keeping lady mary's left hand in his own. warford looked taller and more manly than ever in the bright light, and he was recognized warmly by nearly all the ladies, being not only a fine fellow, but the heir of danesly and great possessions besides, so that he stood for much that was interesting, even if he had not been interesting himself. betty and edith looked on with pleasure, and presently lady mary came toward them. "i am so glad that you came down," she said; "and how nice of you to bring warford! he usually objects so much that i believe you have found some new way to make it easy. i suppose it is dull when he is by himself. mr. frame is here, and has promised to sing by and by. he and lady dimdale have practiced some duets--their voices are charming together. i hope that you will not go up until afterward, no matter how late." betty, who had been sitting when lady mary came toward her, had risen at once to meet her, without thinking about it; but edith banfield still sat in her low chair, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, while lady mary did not find it easy to talk down at her or to think of anything to say. all at once it came to edith's mind to follow betty's example, and they all three stood together talking cheerfully until lady mary had to go to her other guests. "isn't she lovely!" said edith, with all the ardor that betty could wish. "i don't feel a bit afraid of her, as i thought i should." "she takes such dear trouble," said betty, warmly. "she never forgets anybody. some grown persons behave as if you ought to be ashamed of not being older, and as if you were going to bore them if they didn't look out." at this moment warford came back most loyally from the other side of the room, and presently some gentlemen made their appearance, and the delightful singing began. betty, who loved music, sat and listened like a quiet young robin in her red dress, and her father, who looked at her happy, dreaming face, was sure that there never had been a dearer girl in the world. lady mary looked at her too, and was really full of wonder, because in some way betty had managed with simple friendliness to make her shy nephew quite forget himself, and to give some feeling of belongingness to edith banfield, who would have felt astray by herself in a strange english house. viii the days flew by until christmas, and the weather kept clear and bright, without a bit of rain or gloom, which was quite delightful and wonderful in that northern country. the older guests hunted or drove or went walking. there were excursions of every sort for those who liked them, and sometimes the young people joined in what was going on, and sometimes betty and edith and warford made fine plans of their own. it proved that edith had spent much time with the family of her uncle, who was an army officer; and at the western army posts she had learned to ride with her cousins, who were excellent riders and insisted upon her joining them. so edith could share many pleasures of this sort at danesly, and she was so pretty and gay that people liked her a good deal; and presently some of the house party had gone, and some new guests came, and the two girls and warford were unexpected helpers in their entertainment. sometimes they dined downstairs now, when no one was asked from outside; and every day it seemed pleasanter and more homelike to stay at danesly. there were one or two other great houses in the neighborhood where there were also house parties in the gay holiday season, and so betty and edith saw a great deal of the world in one way and another; and lady mary remembered that girls were sometimes lonely, as they grew up, and was very good to them, teaching them, in quiet ways, many a thing belonging to manners and getting on with other people, that they would be glad to know all their life long. [illustration: betty, edith and warford] "don't talk about yourself," she said once, "and you won't half so often think of yourself, and then you are sure to be happy." and again: "my old friend, mrs. procter, used to say, '_never explain, my dear. people don't care a bit._'" warford was more at home in the hunting field than in the house; but the young people saw much of each other. he took a great deal of trouble, considering his usual fashion, to be nice to the two girls; and so one day, when betty went to find him, he looked up eagerly to see what she wanted. warford was busy in the gun room, with the parts of a gun which he had taken to pieces. there was nobody else there at that moment, and the winter sun was shining in along the floor. "warford," betty began, with an air of great confidence, "what can we do for a bit of fun at christmas?" warford looked up at her over his shoulder, a little bewildered. he was just this side of sixteen, like betty herself; sometimes he seemed manly, and sometimes very boyish, as happened that day. "i'm in for anything you like," he said, after a moment's reflection. "what's on?" "if we give up dining with the rest, i can think of a great plan," said betty, shining with enthusiasm. "there's the old gallery, you know. couldn't we have some music there, as they used in old times?" "my aunt would like it awfully," exclaimed warford, letting his gunstock drop with a thump. "i'd rather do anything than sit all through the dinner. somebody'd be sure to make a row about me, and i should feel like getting into a burrow. i'll play the fiddle: what did you mean?--singing, or what? if we had it christmas eve, we might have the christmas waits, you know." "_fancy!_" said betty, in true english fashion; and then they both laughed. "the waits are pretty silly," said warford. "they were better than usual last year, though. mr. macalister, the schoolmaster, is a good musician, and he trained them well. he plays the flute and the cornet. why not see what we can do ourselves first, and perhaps let them sing last? they'd be disappointed not to come at midnight under the windows, you know," said warford considerately. "we'll go down and ask the schoolmaster after hours, and we'll think what we can do ourselves. one of the grooms has a lovely tenor voice. i heard him singing 'the bonny ivy tree' like a flute only yesterday, so he must know more of those other old things that aunt mary likes." "we needn't have much music," said betty. "the people at dinner will not listen long,--they'll want to talk. but if we sing a christmas song all together, and have the flute and fiddle, you know, warford, it would be very pretty--like an old-fashioned choir, such as there used to be in tideshead. we'll sing things that everybody knows, because everybody likes old songs best. i wish mary beck was here; but edith sings--she told me so; and don't you know how we sang some nice things together, the other day upon the moor, when we were coming home from the hermit's-cell ruins?" warford nodded, and picked up his gunstock. "i'm your man," he said soberly. "let's dress up whoever sings, with wigs and ruffles and things. and then there are queer trumpets and viols in that collection of musical instruments in the music-room. some of us can make believe play them." "a procession! a procession!" exclaimed betty. "what do you say to a company with masks to come right into the great hall, and walk round the table three times, singing and playing? lady dimdale knows everything about music; i mean to ask her. i'll go and find her now." "i'll come, too," said warford, with delightful sympathy. "i saw her a while ago writing in the little book-room off the library." ix it was christmas at last; and all the three young people had been missing since before luncheon in a most mysterious manner. but betty leicester, who came in late and flushed, managed to sit next her father; and he saw at once, being well acquainted with betty, that some great affair was going on. she was much excited, and her eyes were very bright, and there was such a great secret that mr. leicester could do no less than ask to be let in, and be gayly refused and hushed, lest somebody else should know there was a secret, too. warford, who appeared a little later, looked preternaturally solemn, and edith alone behaved as if nothing were going to happen. she was as grown-up as possible, and chattered away about the delights of new york with an old london barrister who was lady mary's uncle, and warford's guardian, and chief adviser to the great danesly estates. edith was so pretty and talked so brightly that the old gentleman looked as amused and happy as possible. "he may be thinking that she's coming down to dinner, but he'll look for her in vain," said betty, who grew gayer herself. "not coming to dinner?" asked papa, with surprise; at which betty gave him so stern a glance that he was more careful to avoid even the appearance of secrets from that time on; and they talked together softly about dear old tideshead, and aunt barbara, and all the household, and wondered if the great christmas box from london had arrived safely and gone up the river by the packet, just as betty herself had done six or seven months before. it made her a little homesick, even there in the breakfast-room at danesly,--even with papa at her side, and lady mary smiling back if she looked up,--to think of the dear old house, and of serena and letty, and how they would all be thinking of her at christmas time. the great hall was gay with holly and christmas greens. it was snowing outside for the first time that year, and the huge fireplace was full of logs blazing and snapping in a splendidly cheerful way. dinner was to be earlier than usual. a great festivity was going on in the servants' hall; and when warford went out with lady mary to cut the great christmas cake and have his health drunk, betty and edith went too; and everybody stood up and cheered, and cried, "merry christmas! merry christmas! and god bless you!" in the most hearty fashion. it seemed as if all the holly in the danesly woods had been brought in--as if christmas had never been so warm and friendly and generous in a great house before. christmas eve had begun, and cast its lovely charm and enchantment over everybody's heart. old dislikes were forgotten between the guests; at christmas time it is easy to say kind words that are hard to say all the rest of the year; at christmas time one loves his neighbor and thinks better of him; christmas love and good-will come and fill the heart whether one beckons them or no. betty had spent some lonely christmases in her short life, as all the rest of us have done; and perhaps for this reason the keeping of the great day at danesly in such happy company, in such splendor and warm-heartedness of the old english fashion, seemed a kind of royal christmas to her young heart. everybody was so kind and charming. lady dimdale, who had entered with great enthusiasm into the christmas plans, caught her after luncheon and kissed her, and held her hand like an elder sister as they walked away. it would have been very hard to keep things from lady mary herself; but that dear lady had many ways to turn her eyes and her thoughts, and so many secret plots of her own to keep in hand at this season, that she did not suspect what was going on in a distant room of the old south wing (where warford still preserved some of his boyish collections of birds' eggs and other plunder), of which he kept the only key. there was a steep staircase that led down to a door in the courtyard; and by this mr. macalister, the schoolmaster, had come and gone, and the young groom of the tenor voice, and five or six others, men and girls, who could either sing or play. it was the opposite side of the house from lady mary's own rooms, and nobody else would think anything strange of such comings and goings. pagot and some friendly maids helped with the costumes. they had practiced their songs twice in the schoolmaster's own house at nightfall, down at the edge of the village by the church; and so everything was ready, with the help of lady dimdale and of mrs. drum, the housekeeper, who would always do everything that warford asked her, and be heartily pleased besides. so lady mary did not know what was meant until after her christmas guests were seated, and the old vicar had said grace, and all the great candelabra were lit, high on the walls between the banners and flags, and among the staghorns and armor lower down, and there were lights even in the old musicians' gallery, which she could see as she sat with her back to the painted leather screen that hid the fireplace. suddenly there was a sound of violins and a bass-viol and a flute from the gallery, and a sound of voices singing--the fresh young voices of warford and betty and edith and their helpers, who sang a beautiful old christmas song, so unexpected, so lovely, that the butler stopped halfway from the sideboard with the wine, and the footmen stood listening where they were, with whatever they had in hand. the guests at dinner looked up in surprise, and lady dimdale nodded across at mr. leicester because they both knew it was betty's plan coming true in this delightful way. and fresh as the voices were, the look of the singers was even better, for you could see from below that all the musicians were in quaint costume. the old schoolmaster stood in the middle as leader, with a splendid powdered wig and gold-laced coat, and all the rest wore coats and gowns of velvet and brocade from the old house's store of treasures. they made a charming picture against the wall with its dark tapestry, and lady dimdale felt proud of her own part in the work. there was a cry of delight from below as the first song ended. betty in the far corner of the gallery could see lady mary looking up so pleased and happy and holding her dear white hands high as she applauded with the rest. nobody knew better than lady mary that dinners are sometimes dull, and that even a christmas dinner is none the worse for a little brightening. so betty had helped her in great as well as in little things, and she blessed the child from her heart. then the dinner went on, and so did the music; it was a pretty programme, and before anybody had dreamed of being tired of it the sound ceased and the gallery was empty. after a while, when dessert was soon coming in, and the christmas pudding with its flaming fire might be expected at any moment, there was a pause and a longer delay than usual in the serving. people were talking busily about the long table, and hardly noticed this until with loud knocking and sound of music, old bond, the butler, made his appearance, with an assistant on either hand, bearing the plum pudding aloft in solemn majesty, the flames rising merrily from the huge platter. behind him came a splendid retinue of the musicians, singing and playing; every one carried some picturesque horn or trumpet or stringed instrument from lady mary's collection, and those who sang also made believe to play in the interludes. behind these were all the men in livery, two and two; and so they went round and round the table until at last warford slipped into his seat, and the pudding was put before him with great state, while the procession waited. the tall shy boy forgot himself and his shyness, and was full of the gayety of his pleasure. the costumes were all somewhat fine for christmas choristers, and the young heir wore a magnificent combination of garments that had belonged to noble peers his ancestors, and was pretty nearly too splendid to be well seen without smoked glass. for the first time in his life he felt a brave happiness in belonging to danesly, and in the thought that danesly would really belong to him; he looked down the long room at lady mary, and loved her as he never had before, and understood things all in a flash, and made a vow to be a good fellow and to stand by her so that she should never, never feel alone or overburdened again. betty and edith and the good schoolmaster (who was splendid in his white wig, and a great addition to the already brilliant company) took their own places, which were quickly made, and dessert went on; the rest of the musicians had been summoned away by mrs. drum, the housekeeper,--all these things having been planned beforehand. and then it was soon time for the ladies to go to the drawing-room, and betty, feeling a little tired and out of breath with so much excitement, slipped away by herself and to her own thoughts; of lady mary, who would be busy with her guests, but still more of papa, who must be waited for until he came to join the ladies, when she could have a talk with him before they said good-night. it was perfectly delightful that everything had gone off so well. lady dimdale had known just what to do about everything, and edith, who had grown nicer every day, had sung as well as mary beck (she had becky's voice as well as her look, and had told betty it was the best time she ever had in her life); and warford had been so nice and had looked so handsome, and lady mary was so pleased because he was not shy and had not tried to hide or be grumpy, as he usually did. betty liked warford better than any boy she had ever seen, except harry foster in tideshead. they would be sure to like each other, and perhaps they might meet some day. harry's life of care and difficulty made him seem older than warford, upon whom everybody had always showered all the good things he could be persuaded to take. x betty was all by herself, walking up and down in the long picture gallery. there were lights here and there in the huge, shadowy room, but the snow had ceased falling out of doors, and the moon was out and shone brightly in at the big windows with their leaded panes. she felt very happy. it was so pleasant to see how everybody cared about papa, and thought him so delightful. she had never seen him in his place with such a company of people, or known so many of his friends together before. it was so good of lady mary to have let her come with papa. they would have so many things to talk over together when they got back to town. the old pictures on the wall were watching miss betty leicester of tideshead as she walked past them through the squares of moonlight, and into the dim candle-light and out to the moonlight again. it was cooler in the gallery than in the great hall, but not too cold, and it was quiet and still. she was dressed in an ancient pink brocade, with fine old lace, that had come out of a camphor-wood chest in one of the storerooms, and she still held a little old-fashioned lute carefully under her arm. suddenly one of the doors opened, and lady mary came in and crossed the moonlight square toward her. "so here you are, darling," she said. "i missed you, and every one is wondering where you are. i asked lady dimdale, and she remembered that she saw you come this way." lady mary was holding betty, lace and lute and all, in her arms, and then she kissed her in a way that meant a great deal. "let us come over here and look out at the snow," she said at last, and they stood together in the deep window recess and looked out. the new snow was sparkling under the moon; the park stretched away, dark woodland and open country, as far as one could see; off on the horizon were the twinkling lights of a large town. lady mary did not say anything more, but her arm was round betty still, and presently betty's head found its way to lady mary's shoulder as if it belonged there. the top of her young head was warm under lady mary's cheek. "everybody is lonely sometimes, darling," said lady mary at last; "and as for me, i am very lonely indeed, even with all my friends, and all my cares and pleasures. the only thing that really helps any of us is being loved, and doing things for love's sake; it isn't the things themselves, but the love that is in them. that's what makes christmas so much to all the world, dear child. but everybody misses somebody at christmas time; and there's nothing like finding a gift of new love and unlooked-for pleasure." "lady dimdale helped us splendidly. it wouldn't have been half so nice if it hadn't been for her," said betty softly,--for her christmas project had come to so much more than she had dreamed at first. there was a stir in the drawing-room, and a louder sound of voices. the gentlemen were coming in. lady mary must go back; but when she kissed betty again, there was a tear on her cheek, and so they stood waiting a minute longer, and loving to be together, and suddenly the sweet old bells in danesly church, down the hill, rang out the christmas chimes. * * * * * electrotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and co. the riverside press cambridge, mass., u. s. a. * * * * * books by sarah orne jewett. deephaven. play-days. stories for children. old friends and new. country by-ways. the mate of the daylight, and friends ashore. a country doctor. a novel. a marsh island. a novel. a white heron, and other stories. the king of folly island, and other people. betty leicester. a story for girls. tales of new england. strangers and wayfarers. a native of winby, and other tales. the life of nancy. the country of the pointed firs. houghton, mifflin and company, boston and new york. niece catherine by mary hampden author of 'alison's ambition' 'the girl with a talent' 'stranger margaret' etc. london the religious tract society 56 paternoster row and 65 st paul's churchyard butler & tanner, the selwood printing works frome, and london. [illustration] contents chapter i. the heroine chapter ii. uncle ross chapter iii. uncle jack chapter iv. catherine's resolution chapter v. an unshaken resolution chapter vi. a sunday's experiences chapter vii. a ray of light chapter viii. the coming of catherine's betrothed chapter ix. an important offer chapter x. the unexpected happens chapter xi. confidences and an attempt chapter xii. good-bye chapter xiii. the fate of a letter chapter xiv. catherine's appeal chapter xv. as god willed chapter i the heroine 'catherine!--_catherine!_' mrs. arderne stood at the foot of the staircase, looking upward, and calling her companion. though her voice sounded impatient there was an amused smile on her face, because she could hear merry laughter from the night-nursery, where 'catherine' was helping nurse to put ted and toddie into bed. the last call produced the effect desired. a tall slim young woman came running downstairs, explaining and apologising. 'oh, i am really very sorry! have you been trying to make me hear? i didn't know that you were calling, not until a minute ago; and then ted was on my lap, and made himself _so_ heavy when i tried to lift him back into his cot!' 'you spoil my children.' the mother was still smiling. catherine laughed aloud, and very musically, the laugh of a girl to whom people had always been kind. 'if you seriously meant that accusation, mrs. arderne, i should have to try to prove my innocence; but as i am sure you didn't, i will only tell you what a darling ted has been to-night. he said his hymn right through, and afterwards composed a dear little prayer for "mother's wicked headache to be taken right away." now could i refuse to tell him about _jack and the beanstalk_ after that?' catherine was trying to smooth back her brown hair with her hands as she spoke, for several curly locks were fluttering round her equally brown eyes, toddie having 'rumpled dear carr's head all up,' as the little girl herself would have expressed it. 'kiss the tiny fellow "good-night" for me, dear,' said mrs. arderne, leading the way into the villa drawing-room. 'i called you down that you might fasten this flower in my dress, your fingers are so deft.' after having performed the task catherine stood back a few paces to survey the effect. 'you look delightful,' she remarked. 'but i'm not certain that it's a "companion's" place to tell you so!' 'the remark might be flattery. "companions" are supposed to flatter.' catherine made a grimace. this was a bad habit she had, a trick copied unconsciously from her boy cousins in melbourne. 'i won't ever be a first-rate "companion" then. mrs. arderne, it was tremendously good of you to take me, to give me a home, and a salary. until i came to england i hadn't the least idea how ignorant, and peculiar, and--and--and independent a creature i am!' 'you were just going to use a stronger term of opprobrium!' 'yes, dreadful slang. i checked myself for once, just because i am in real earnest. oh, i _am_ grateful to you! i want to learn to be of use to you,--to repay some of your goodness to me; please teach me to be a satisfactory companion in every way but that of flattery!' there were tears sparkling in the brown eyes now, and a sweet pleading expression on the whole face. mrs. arderne, being a woman of the world, did not show how much she was touched, and answered laughingly,-'catherine, you are beautiful! why did you spoil all my best plans for you by getting engaged to brian north?' a series of dimples played round the girl's lips. she put her hands behind her back, dropped a curtsey, after the manner of charity children before a benefactress, and blushed. 'please, ma'am, i think it was because--i love him.' 'romantic nonsense! my dear, you could as easily have loved another man. mr. north is not a paragon of every virtue and charm. he happened to love you, and so, soft-heartedly, you tried to pay him back for love, just as you want to pay me back because i offered you a home when you were in want of one.' 'you didn't try to patronise me. you came to me, and spoke like the dear true woman you are, as a sister might have spoken; and you burdened yourself, or rather let me burden you, with an untrained, wild, hot-tempered girl, an individual who knew simply nothing of etiquette, whose manners were all learned in the bush! that is a gentle description of me,--you know it is! and i don't believe you needed a companion at all!' 'i have learned to appreciate the advantages of possessing one, then. but seriously, catherine, have you no expectations at all? who is this uncle, who lives in this neighbourhood, to whom you were writing this afternoon?' 'uncle ross, or uncle jack--which do you mean? i wrote to them both. oh, uncle ross, i suppose, for he is the elder. he is ross carmichael, esq., of carm hall, beverbridge, and he used to be very nice to me when i was a child. he and uncle jack came out to australia once, years ago, before they quarrelled, and i have written to them every christmas ever since.... uncle jack was quite a darling!' 'why did they quarrel?' 'about an adopted nephew, named loring carmichael, whom they both loved. uncle ross wanted to make a business man of him; uncle jack wished him to go into the army. i never heard quite the rights of the matter, for i never met loring, though my melbourne cousins knew him well; in fact, one of them was in egypt at the time he was. he became a soldier, but only a "private," for he enlisted; he left home hoping that his absence would heal the feud between his uncles.' 'whereabouts _is_ carm hall?' 'i asked the stationmaster when we arrived this afternoon, and he said, "it's four miles straight up the road from woodley villa, miss." so i shall walk up to see my uncles to-morrow morning, with your consent. four miles are nothing!' 'since they have quarrelled, they maybe living in different places, not in the old home.' 'oh, i hope not. the stationmaster said "yes," when i asked if they were both well. he looked as though he wanted to talk a lot about them, but of course i could not allow him to gossip about my own relatives.' 'but is the adopted nephew dead? there is the "fly" at the door, and i must go, but i want to find out first what expectations you have, my dear. tell me, in a few words!' catherine's face was quite grave now. 'yes, he died in battle, in the third year after he left home. uncle ross means to leave all his fortune to charities, and uncle jack never had any money to speak of, so my "expectations" are _nil_, mrs. arderne, dear. i shall earn my own living until brian can afford to get married. if uncle's intentions had not been fully explained to me in one of his own letters, i should not have expected any part of his fortune, for my melbourne cousins are nearer kin to him than i.... now let me help you on with your cloak.... wasn't it wonderful that you should have taken a furnished house in this very neighbourhood?' 'i've many friends here, you see. after to-night you must come out with me, child. a little gaiety will do you good.' the expressive face lit up with smiles again, as catherine cried,-'how kind you are! but please, please, don't worry over me. i believe you are often quite unhappy for my sake, just because my stepfather squandered all my money. dear mrs. arderne, _money doesn't matter_, it really doesn't. if i were delicate, unable to earn my living, i might merit pity, but not as i am. why, i've never been ill in my life, and i'm _so_ happy always, that it's not the least bit of a wonder that i feel i must thank god every minute for all his goodness to me!' mrs. arderne gave an impatient shrug, and hastily kissed her companion's rosy cheeks. 'child, you are rather ridiculous sometimes. there, good-night. that "fly" has been at the door five minutes, and i shall be late for mrs. dumbarton's dance.' catherine ran out into the hall to wave a hand as her employer and friend was driven away, then went upstairs again to peep at the children, to whom she was devotedly attached. six-year-old ted was slumbering quite peacefully, his usually mischievous expression having given place to a seraphic smile. as the girl bent above him he laughed in his sleep, so she dared not linger by his side, lest he might wake to clamour for the history of _jack and the beanstalk_ all over again. passing into the inner room, she found 'toddie' (otherwise nora) likewise wrapped in slumber, and not in danger of being disturbed by a kiss. toddie was a very calm, sensible little person, a model of deportment and good conduct, compared with that enchanting rebel ted, who was but one year her junior. presently catherine stole away, into the sanctum of her bedroom; and there, kneeling on the hearth, with her hands stretched out to the blaze of a glorious fire, she gave herself up to pleasant thoughts, many of which were connected with the portrait of brian north, which occupied the place of honour on the mantelpiece. it was a fine photograph. the keen eyes looked straight out at the observer, with an earnestness of gaze betokening earnestness of purpose. the features and contour of the face were both delicate and strong; and the mouth, sensitive as well as resolute, was shadowed, not hidden, by the dark moustache. this young man was an intellectual worker--a journalist by profession, an author by predilection--and already the dark hair over his brow was streaked with grey, though he was only thirty. from her kneeling posture on the rug catherine, looking up at the portrait, mentally apostrophized it. 'my dear, hard-working old boy! mrs. arderne wonders why i accepted the offer you made me--why i valued it! she thinks i could have loved any one else just as well! isn't it wonderful how dense the nicest people are sometimes? ah, yes, even _you_, dear!' at this point in her meditation catherine's eyes saddened. 'you are dense on the greatest subject of all. do you guess how much i pray god to _make you see_? if i were not so sure that you, being you, must grow wise before long, must shake off the contagion of the world's indifference, your want of faith would be enough to do away with all the happiness i have been boasting about. but you will soon learn, brian dear; you will let my persuasion rouse you. god must love you so well that he will surely show the beauty of his love to you.' brian north had been brought up by a father who had taught him to feel scorn for that profession of religion which so many men make without ruling life by it--the empty show of faith in god without any attempt to serve him. no mother had ever shown brian the truth of christianity--since his birth he had been motherless. the clever lad had always admired his father, and had willingly been led by him. in early life he had even been proud of doubting that which the majority of men believe. of late years, indeed, as his intellect had ripened, he had begun to perceive the folly of unbelief--had come to see that religion, pure and honest, is for every man the matter of supreme importance, and that faith, though dishonoured by some hypocrites, remains the chief glory in a glorious world. but, until catherine carmichael had talked to him of these subjects, he had tried to put them out of his thoughts, to imagine that he had not been specially 'called' to the leading of that christian life which he owned was a noble one. his hours were spent in business struggles; his times of leisure were few, and he always brought to them a brain wearied by money-earning, and, often, the despondency of baffled ambitions. his heavenly father had now indeed 'called' to him by the voice of the woman of his love, and well might she hope for great things from his faith, when it was once thoroughly aroused. to-night nearly all her thoughts were of brian, of his needs. she could scarcely spare one reflection for the matter which mrs. arderne considered all-important--the possible reception which rich uncle ross might give her. when she remembered the two old men, it was to feel pleasantly sure of their affection, not to long for a share in the fortune of the elder. her heart was full of tenderness to-night, and it was partly because she was so earnestly sorry for brian, who did not possess her secret of happiness, that she let him monopolize her thoughts to such a degree. it was not his lack of money of which she was thinking when she prayed, 'o god, make my dear boy rich! he is so poor and needy, while i can never thank thee enough for the gifts thou hast lavished upon me. no one can be content without thee, my god.' and long before mrs. arderne returned from the dance catherine was sleeping soundly and peacefully, like ted with the smile on his lips. chapter ii uncle ross ross carmichael, esq., of carm hall, beverbridge, was not a punctual person at the best of times, but on this particular morning he was the cause of his servants' despair, for never had he been so late in coming down to breakfast. the cook had begged the footman to let her have back the bacon to 'hot up,' but he had replied that he dared not remove the dish from the table: 'master might come down any minute now, and it would never do for him to have to wait while the dish was carried upstairs again.' now mr. carmichael had never been known to lose his temper with a servant, so their alarmed anxiety would have appeared ridiculous to any one ignorant of the peculiar awe that old gentleman inspired. he never scolded harshly, nor raised his voice in remonstrance, but his reproof would have been sarcasm, and the memory of the fault would have lingered for days in his mind. his expression was severe generally; only those persons who had not been so unfortunate as to offend him nearly always found out that his face did not do his heart justice. a man of prejudices, and keen, though controlled passions, was ross carmichael, very self-sufficient, and terribly unwilling to forgive or forget the smallest injury. this morning, however, he did not mind whether his bacon were well or ill-cooked, hot or cold, and the fact that one egg was boiled too hard quite escaped his attention. his 'good-morning, james,' was spoken as usual, then he sat down to the breakfast-table and ate the habitual meal in silence. james began to grow anxious about his master. he was not often so taciturn. at the end of a quarter of an hour the man ventured to inquire whether his master felt the room cold and would like a fire. mr. carmichael lifted his eyes from his plate (fine, dark eyes they were, in striking contrast to the bent white brows above them), checked a desire to frown at the interruption to his reflections, and answered: 'no, james, thank you. a fire? you know i never have one lit in this room until october. this is only september.' 'yes, sir; but unusually cold to-day is.' mr. carmichael returned to his breakfast and meditation. in a few seconds, however, he looked up again and smiled. 'do you remember that it was in september, ten years ago, that we returned from australia, you and i, james?' 'yes, sir, that i do. it was a capital journey, so we was told, but the sea was a deal too playful for my tastes.' 'tut, tut; the sea was smooth--perfectly smooth--most of the time. you will not have forgotten the "station" then, the homestead, and little miss catherine?' 'the young lady as used to ride better than most men do over here, sir? it was a sight, and no mistake, to see her clearing the paling round that place they called the gum paddock--and she not more than fourteen or fifteen, or thereabouts.' 'i never gossip,' said the old gentleman, after another pause. 'no, sir; of course not.' 'i had a reason when i spoke about the journey to and from australia, and the "homestead" where i stayed, you have served me tolerably well, and i am sure loyally, to the best of your ability for so long now, james, that i feel able to talk to you as i would to none of your fellow-servants.' 'i'm sure i hope so, sir,' cried the man, sorely puzzled, and not a little hurt by the dictatorial and patronising tone of his master. his chagrined look touched mr. carmichael's heart. 'why, certainly, james; i regard you as a proved friend. don't look as though i had called you a murderer. we've faced perils together, and--and----' suddenly the 'squire' discovered that he was speaking strangely after the manner of his brother (catherine's uncle jack), and this surprising fact made him break down altogether in his speech. the question to which he had been gently leading up, in order not to surprise james into feeling curious about it, burst without any warning from his lips. 'do you think miss catherine liked me--was fond of me--in those days, james?' 'indeed, yes, sir; why, she was for ever talking about her uncles.' 'ah! but _which_ did she prefer?' 'which uncle, sir?' 'yes. it was her uncle john, was it not, james?' 'mr. jack, sir? well, she was certainly remarkably attached to him, but then so she was to you, sir, and she seemed able to do anything she liked with you, sir, and it's not many people that could be said of.' the squire pondered the answer, until he chuckled over it. the chuckle ended with a sigh, though. rising from the table, he drew a letter from his pocket and said shortly: 'wrongly addressed; send newton at once with it. and, james, after all you may light the fire here, and another in the drawing-room, for i expect miss catherine to see me this morning.' james gave a start of surprise. before he had recovered from his amazement sufficiently to reply, the squire had left the room, and was shut up in the library. '"miss catherine" coming to carm hall! why, "miss catherine" must be quite grown up by this time!' then james read the address on the letter in his hand: 'colonel j. carmichael, carm hall, beverbridge.' 'poor mr. jack! she reckoned he would be still here, in the old home!' sighed the man to himself, as he hurried away to send newton at once with the missive. 'strange, too, as the postman didn't know better than to deliver his letter here; but no doubt he only looked at the address, that's plain enough,--and where _he_ ought to be too!' the elder mr. carmichael was not studying in the library. his account-books lay untouched on his secretary-table; his morning papers were not cut yet; the huge volumes of reference stood upright on the shelves. he was sitting in his 'office-chair' before the desk, and there was a lot of business correspondence awaiting his attention; but he was only reading and re-reading the letter from his niece catherine. 'woodley cottage, 'beverbridge. 'my dear uncle ross,- 'i am coming to see you to-morrow morning--a few hours after you will receive this! since i wrote to you, last christmas, my worldly circumstances have undergone such a tremendous change that i am obliged to earn my own living; for which fact many kind-hearted, well-meaning folk have pitied me. _i wonder why_ they think me so unfortunate? at the homestead i worked fifty times harder than my duties as mrs. arderne's companion oblige me to do now; and, after all, work is happiness, when god sanctions it. you shall hear no grumbles from me, i promise you! my stepfather is not dead, only bankrupt, and the station has passed into other hands. mother's money, the little fortune she left me, has vanished, and alice is married. mrs. arderne offered me a home just when i found myself without one. the dear kind soul has no real need of a "companion," so i tell her often; yet, as she does not wish me to leave her, i feel justified in remaining under her roof. _this_ is a hired roof, by-the-bye, uncle--a furnished villa, taken for six months, because she has friends in the neighbourhood. is it not a splendid opportunity for me to see you both again? it is ten years since we last met, when i rode with you as far as the boundary-rider's hut on the curra paddock. we said good-bye at wattle creek, do you recollect? uncle jack, seeing that i was nearly crying, tried to cheer me by inviting me to beverbridge for next christmas; but i went home in tears, because i knew i shouldn't be allowed to go to england all by myself. yet here i am--ten years later! i'm grown up now, though; not "little catherine" any longer! 'my pen has been running on, while i ought to have reserved all my news to tell you to-morrow, when i see you again; and i have not been able to resist writing to uncle jack as well as to you. 'good-bye again, dear uncle, for a very short time now. 'your affectionate niece, 'catherine carmichael.' 'ha!--couldn't resist writing to "uncle jack" as well!' the squire sighed and frowned as he pondered this admission. ten minutes later the library door behind him opened and shut, and he was startled by a voice which cried: 'uncle, you didn't want me to wait ceremoniously in the drawing-room, did you?' 'bless my soul, it is you, catherine!' the girl let both her hands remain in his grasp, and stood facing him, smiling, scrutinizing his face eagerly. 'yes, catherine at twenty-five instead of fifteen! _you_ look very little older, only your beard has turned quite white!... how is uncle jack? shall i see any difference in him? is he as upright as ever?' 'he--i--i really do not know, my dear.' '_not know?_ oh, you mean that people who are always together are easily deceived on such points.' 'no, i did not, catherine. it is three years since your uncle john and i were always together!' 'your own, only brother! perhaps he is abroad, serving his queen and country?' 'he lives in beverbridge still, but not here. your letter has been sent on to him by one of my servants, though i might reasonably have returned it to jenkins, the postman, who should have known his business better than to have delivered it wrongly. now come into the drawing-room, my dear; there is a fire there.' 'please let us stay here. you look at home in this room. the drawing-room will be a chilly-looking place, i know, in spite of the fire.' mr. carmichael's gaze softened as it rested on the merry pleading face. 'still the same roguish young lady, catherine? bent on having your own way, even in trivial matters! ah, well, you _ought_ to have it, if it doesn't spoil you.' 'that latter sentence was an after-thought, uncle! thank you! remember, i am not a spoilt child of fortune any longer, but poor miss carmichael, the companion!' her hearty laugh was not echoed by her relative. in his opinion the loss of money was a great evil,--a few years earlier he would have been disposed to think it the greatest possible, only he was beginning to realize that riches are less powerful than is usually supposed. catherine, being quick to note changes of expression in those dear to her, cried suddenly: 'uncle! you are sorry for me!' 'is that so remarkable, my dear?' 'perhaps not, only i--i regret it. why should you worry over my case, when it does not in the least distress me? if i were _very_ rich, i should worry about the responsibility of such a stewardship, for fear i might not make the best use of it, and so disappoint god.' mr. carmichael smiled involuntarily. 'you have an extraordinarily familiar way of speaking of god!' 'because i used the words "disappoint god"? does he not yearn over sinners? did christ not weep over jerusalem? are we not told, "ye have wearied the lord with your words"? if you, uncle, had showered love and wonderful gifts upon a creature who cast away the affection and the help, would not you be disappointed?... oh, forgive me! my thoughtlessness has hurt you! i--i forgot loring!' her penitence was very real, and tears had come into her eyes. she felt desperately angry with herself for having reminded uncle ross of the nephew who had run away to be a soldier. 'loring certainly disappointed me--he has left my home lonely; and you are right in supposing that i prefer not to speak of him.' the old man's brow had contracted with a frown, which deepened as he went on speaking. 'while we are upon the subject, catherine, let me remind you that, had not loring despised money, as you seem to do, he would not have behaved badly to me. i consider that men and women ought to desire and respect wealth.' it was the office-chair in which catherine was sitting. she swung it round, that she might face her uncle, who was standing beside her, and impulsively laid her hand on his, as she answered: 'it is difficult to be quite frank with you, yet sincerity is always best, isn't it? i don't despise money,--indeed, i do desire it,--at least i should like more than i have, because--because i am engaged to a very poor hard-working man, and we shall not be able to marry until his circumstances have improved.' 'engaged, catherine?' she blushed and nodded. 'but please let me make my explanation first,--i will tell you all about _him_ presently. some one suggested to me that--that some people might suppose that i--expected help from you, or--or----oh, _please_ understand, uncle dear, without any more explaining!' 'some one suggested that the pretty niece was going to see a rich old uncle who would probably make her his heiress,--was that it? in this cynical world motives are generally misjudged, my dear girl.' 'i told the person (it was not brian) that my melbourne cousins were nearer kin to you than i,--i am only a stepniece, though we have the same surname,--and also that you have resolved to leave your fortune to charities, as you told me by letter. all the same, i was foolishly nervous lest you might misunderstand me; so i assured you, too bluntly, that i am quite happy with mrs. arderne, and enjoy earning my own living.' the frown had gone from the squire's brow. it was with a serene smile that he asked, pressing catherine's hand: 'and i may believe without undue vanity, that you wanted to see the old uncle again for his own sake?' 'yes; yes, indeed!' 'now tell me about this brian. is he worthy of you?' 'of course he is!' 'that reply was expected.' 'you mustn't tease me, if you want to hear about my first and last romance!' catherine was not used to speaking much about herself, so it was the relation of brian north's merits, talents, and history which she told uncle ross, rather than the story of how she had learned to love this man to whom her promise was plighted. the squire paid most attention to the description of brian's abilities; in fact, the moneyed gentleman was trying to calculate the author's worth by estimating his possible financial success or failure. 'if the young fellow has tact and imagination, and a practised pen, he may win you a fortune yet, my dear; but if, as i suspect, he is one of the large army of obstinate, blind, proud geniuses, then he isn't likely to be able to offer you a home at all; in which case, i can only trust you will grow tired of believing in him.' catherine felt that her pleasure in meeting this uncle again was all gone--dissipated by a few unsympathetic words! yet, being genuinely fond of him, and knowing that his worldly wisdom was far more on his lips than in his heart, she tried to make allowances for him. still, her feelings had been really hurt. 'you would not mistrust him if you knew him, uncle!' she cried eagerly. 'you wouldn't like me to have given him a half-hearted kind of love, would you? if i didn't believe in him, trust him wholly, i should not have promised to be his wife.' 'girls are too tender-hearted,' said the squire. 'and where their affections are concerned they are utterly incapable of judgment. i will try to believe in your impecunious betrothed, catherine, and soon you must make him come down to beverbridge to see me, or rather that i may see him.... in the meantime we will not discuss him. you will stay and spend the day with me, of course?' 'no, i cannot, uncle. i am sorry, but my time is not my own, you know. i have to be back for lunch at one o'clock.' 'then you certainly need not spring up now! sit down again, and i will ring for my housekeeper, mrs. marlin,--a worthy soul,--to relieve you of your hat and jacket.' 'but it is a four-mile walk home, and--i must go to see uncle jack.' again the frown came on mr. ross carmichael's brow, and his voice regained a cynical tone as he replied: 'you are not likely to find my brother indoors in the morning; i believe he employs his time in the office of the 3rd battalion of the royal beverbridge volunteers. he will not have received your letter yet. if you can bear to postpone your visit to him until evening, you had better do so, unless indeed you want to spend some hours alone with agatha.' 'poor agatha! how is she?' 'worse, i believe. a life like that is better ended.' 'god doesn't think so, that is evident,' said catherine. chapter iii uncle jack mrs. arderne made catherine give a full account of her visit to uncle ross, but wisely refrained from commenting upon the recital, knowing that her companion would be distressed by any expression of her own firm opinion that a fortune and a good position were to be had for even less than the asking. the kindly-natured, worldly woman was quite excited over catherine's prospects, though she dared not speak of them. a rich, lonely old uncle, with no relatives near him but a brother from whom he was estranged, and that brother's invalid ward, a girl twelve years of age,--where could catherine be more sure to find a benevolent patron for brian north (if she was resolved to be faithful to her promise to him), or to whom could she more reasonably look for help in her orphanhood and poverty? but catherine was such an oddly unpractical, independent young woman that she absolutely refused to speculate as to her chances! for this reason, mrs. arderne felt positively bound to speculate for her, and to persuade her to behave to uncle ross in a manner likely to please him. needless to say, therefore, she strongly disapproved of catherine's intention of visiting uncle jack on this, her first whole day at beverbridge. 'my dear child, you really ought not to go roaming about the country after nightfall,' she remonstrated. ted and toddie had just been sent back to the nursery, after the usual game of play following upon dessert, and catherine's cheeks were flushed, her brown hair rumpled by exercise. she was now seated on a low stool at mrs. arderne's side, smiling up at her confidentially. 'why, i simply couldn't get lost on a starlight night,--besides, i have a compass on my watch-chain! do you think i relied upon the aid of street-lamps and sign-posts in australia? uncle jack lives quite near us, in a bye-lane or street of the village. the postman looked so pleased just now when i asked him about colonel john carmichael! "the nicest gentleman i ever met, miss," he said. "quite one of the old sort. there's no telling the kindnesses he's shown to the poor; not so much money-giving, for folk do say he isn't well off enough for himself, but in other ways, that mean more, usually. oh, that village postman is quite a philosopher, i assure you!' 'you delayed her majesty's mail while you gossiped with him!' catherine laughed. 'i forgot that; he didn't seem in any hurry, and i'm sure he enjoyed telling me about uncle jack.' mrs. arderne reverted to the original subject. 'i am not at all certain that i shall let you out to-night, miss carmichael.' 'you--you _don't_ mean that, do you?' 'why should you annoy your uncle ross, who seems to have been very nice to you? i am certain he will be vexed by your going at once to seek out the brother with whom he has quarrelled.' 'but the right of the quarrel is all on uncle jack's side,' said the girl simply. 'you will understand that when you have met him.' 'he persuaded loring carmichael to rebel against his elder uncle's authority.' 'he only talked to him enthusiastically of the army; uncle jack, dear old fellow, never could talk even to me for a quarter of an hour without mentioning sebastopol! he is such a thorough, devoted soldier, and he always abhorred mere money-earning life-occupations!' 'the world would say that, in persuading his rich brother's adopted son to rebel, he was probably actuated by money interests himself.' catherine was silent and very grave. this was her habitual manner when disappointed or grieved. mrs. arderne bent down to glance at the saddened young face, and promptly repented for having banished its customary smile. 'there, i'm sorry i said that! no doubt mr. jack is a guileless hero; but such persons are often tiresome! go and find him this evening, if you must, only don't perversely quarrel with the other uncle on his account,--that other, who has certainly been very badly treated!' so, after tea, catherine set forth at a brisk pace through the village, smiling to herself all the way so happily that many of the cottagers, seeing her, smiled too for sympathy. yes, here was the lane, or street rather, of which the postman had told her, leading out of the old market square. a small white house stood on the right, planted sideways, within a high wall. there was no proper entrance to it, only a narrow wooden door, painted green, and inscribed with the name, redan cottage. at the sight of that address (which, after the manner of country dwellers, the postman had omitted to mention, having called the house 'carmichael's'), catherine's smile widened, and her heart began to beat fast in her eagerness. redan cottage!--of course that was the name uncle jack _would_ have chosen for his house! no sooner had she rung the bell than the door opened as if by magic, and a rosy-cheeked lad invited her to follow him across a tiny stone-floored yard, under an ivied porch, and indoors. 'i am expected!' thought catherine. indeed, the boy had not paused to ask her name or business, and now preceded her into a little dark room, with the announcement: 'miss catherine's come at last, please, sir!' uncle jack had been pacing the room--a short promenade! his niece had just time to find out how overwhelmingly delighted she was to see him once again, before he had put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her cheek, as a father might have done. 'my darling! what, crying? oh, it's a long while since we said good-bye at wattle creek, isn't it? i couldn't tell you how often i've wanted my niece since then. but i believed we should meet again some day, and i've found out that the times chosen by the great commander are always best and fittest, lassie.' 'uncle jack, why didn't you write oftener to me? why did you let me forget even a little bit how good you were to me, and how fond we were of one another? when you call me "lassie" it all comes back to me. i used to fancy that my father must have been like you.' 'an uncle isn't as much good as a father; still, he may be some use. and you are poor now--your possessions have melted away! we won't call the absent bad names, lassie, will we? but i always saw "rascal" written on your stepfather's brow. he couldn't stand fire properly, though he ought to have been used to it out there. i remember once i held my sword to his throat, too--to show him how poor northcote died; and he winced under it. still, i won't blame him, since we are the gainers by his wrong-doing, agatha and i.' 'gainers? how is that?' 'because you are coming home, my dear, to live with us. sit there in the basket-chair--it was bought for you this morning, for this room was rather short of chairs--and good old harriet made the cushions. i verily believe she went without her dinner that she might get them finished. ah, you kept us waiting a long time, lassie! robert has been in the yard nearly all day, he was so anxious not to keep you on the doorstep.' catherine sat down in the chair, and could not find words to answer with all at once. home! uncle jack had taken her consent to his invitation for granted! _home!_ and even the postman knew that he 'wasn't well enough off for himself'! oh, the dear, true-hearted, generous old man! and what could she say? she could not bear to hurt his feelings, yet she must not be a burden upon him. tears were in her eyes, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she steadied her voice to thank him. 'gratitude? nonsense, my dear (if i may use such a word to a lady). think of the joy your presence will be to us--agatha, myself, old harriet, and even robert. i haven't been able to resist talking about you to the servants, and they have been very curious to see you; you would have laughed at harriet's endeavour to get a cake made ready to greet you. she is not the typical, cross housekeeper, resenting interference. indeed, she told me to-day that we all need some one to smarten us up, and that you, "being a travelled young lady," would be sure to do it!' in this way did colonel jack talk on, softly patting catherine's hand, and trying to give her time to control her evident emotion. she understood this, and appreciated it. soon her eyes began to smile through her tears, and she cried: 'you _know_ i am grateful, so i need not speak any more thanks to you; but oh, uncle jack, dear, until you offered me a home i had not realized the loneliness of being without one. mrs. arderne has always been so kind to me (you remember her, don't you?) that i've never been sorry for myself while with her, and uncle ross's pity this morning only made me feel more independently cheerful!' 'so i've taught you to be lonely, lassie?' 'no; you first made me long for a home, and then you gave me one! i cannot come to live in it altogether, for i must earn my living--not be an idle creature, you know; but redan cottage is "home" for me from henceforth--"home," to love, to remember, to dream of, to visit, to spend my holidays in!' uncle jack looked troubled. 'catherine, you are not--what is commonly called "an advanced woman," are you? you are not of opinion that women should do all the work in the world?' she laughed. 'no, indeed! but a penniless young woman certainly should support herself, if she is able to do so. dearest of uncles, don't you think that, by coming "home" to subsist upon the income which keeps up this establishment, i should be defrauding agatha, if not you?' 'the poor child would receive benefits that no money could buy her: your love and care--and counsel, especially counsel.' 'whose counsel can be better than yours?' there was a shake of the white head. 'i'm a beginner in christianity, catherine,' said the colonel thoughtfully. 'in my youth i wasn't taught much about god, and then my ambitions and enthusiasm for the service left me no time, so i imagined, for other than military studies. naturally, when my comrades were falling around me, i prayed, for them and for myself, if i were about to fall too; still, i knew next to nothing of the lord whose help i asked. lately i _have_ been studying the bible, and i'm honestly ashamed of my purposeless past. every time i pray i make the best excuse i can to the creator, by assuring him that had i been so fortunate as to know him earlier, i would have served him as loyally as, thanks be to him, i have always served my queen.' catherine's smile was very tender as she looked at the colonel's reverential face. 'god must quite understand you!' 'do you think so? you used to talk of him in the old days, i recollect, but i regarded your piety as a mere part of a gentle girl's sentiments--as a sort of beautiful romance unsuitable for men to share. dear, what a fool i was, catherine (if you will excuse the strong expression)!' 'you are god's own soldier now, dear uncle. i am glad indeed. nothing is equal to the peace of serving him who died for us.' 'ah, what a soldier he was!--the great commander is the title i like best to give him. you will teach me all you know about him, will you not, my child?' catherine's fingers returned the pressure of his hand. 'we will teach each other, uncle jack. and even when we are absent one from another we shall know that we are both looking in the same direction, towards the glory of the prince of peace and the king of battles.' 'if you _must_ earn your living, lassie!' 'it seems to be a clear duty. i will never stay away from home out of pride, or because i do not like to take favours from you, you may be quite sure of that. and if brian could only find employment in this neighbourhood, oh, how glad i should be! he is not very strong, his health would be so much better in the country, and he would have quiet hours in which to write.... oh, i forget--you don't know about brian yet!' 'your bright face tells your secret, lassie. tell me you love him, and that he loves you with all his heart, and then i shall be quite satisfied!' 'yes, to both those questions! he is a poor, hard-working journalist, earning a bare livelihood for himself.' 'that doesn't matter; his love will give him courage to work on for you, and god will reward him some day!' 'he does not call god "father" yet; his mind is only just groping nearer to the light; his heart has not yet been taken captive by the lord.' 'you will teach him, as i want to be taught. god will help you.' 'uncle jack, you are the dearest consoler and encourager possible! brian shall love you almost as well as i do! he shall come to see you very, very soon! uncle ross wants to see him too; isn't it strange?' 'surely not strange, lassie. he would naturally be interested. if my brother offers you a home with him--what then? you will be standing in your own light if you refuse. he is a rich man; carm hall is more fitted than this cottage to be your shelter. you mustn't allow any--any affection for me to--to influence you in this matter.' yet, bravely though the colonel was looking this possibility in the face, nobly though he was anxious for catherine's welfare rather than for his own pleasure, the contemplation of his vision of what might be, cast a shadow into his eyes. watching him, catherine learned how sincerely he wanted her. though a most unworldly young woman (as mrs. arderne had often told her), she could not help understanding that she had made a choice which most people would blame and ridicule. she had promised always to regard redan cottage as home. though she honestly believed that uncle ross would keep to his intention of leaving his wealth to be divided among charities, she could not deny that he might offer her, and even her husband, a home during his lifetime--possibly a small portion of his fortune might be set aside for them. yet, as she had said, she believed 'the right of the quarrel to be on uncle jack's side,' and never could she deny this belief. the result of her short reflection was that she said happily, 'i have got a home now, and i prefer it to any other at present existing in all the world, dear colonel!' 'then my duty is done! i need never again try to persuade you to desert me, lassie! and if brian is vexed with me----' 'but he won't be.' 'no doubt you can answer for him, so i won't trouble over any supposition! ross does not need you, as agatha does. he is a good man, in his own way; heaven forbid i should judge him harshly, but he would not be grateful for being taught religion.' 'my choice is made, uncle dear, and you may be sure i shall never, never regret it!' 'god bless you, lassie!' the old gentleman bent his lips to his niece's hand, and they were both silent for a minute or two, gazing into the fire. then he said: 'i must take you to agatha now; the poor little maid will be wearying for you.' so catherine was led out of the tiny parlour, across the hall of this doll's house of a cottage, past the open door of the kitchen, where old harriet and robert were waiting to catch a glimpse of her as she passed, and into another room as wee as the parlour, where bright pictures, pink curtains and upholstery generally, and the presence of flowers, betokened the colonel's fatherly care for his adopted ward. chapter iv catherine's resolution agatha had been an invalid all her short life. suffering had made her fretful and terribly nervous, especially of death, which she always imagined to be coming soon to her. she was not at all resigned to her lot, nor anxious to learn resignation, unless to escape the punishment that she feared must be the result of rebellion. a more unhappy, self-tormenting child could scarcely exist. directly catherine caught sight of the piteous-looking countenance, with its great dark passionate eyes, her heart went out to agatha. the little girl was lying flat on a wheel-couch before the fire, with her face turned away from the warmth, towards the door of the room. there were tears on her cheeks; she had been indulging in a stormy fit of crying because she had been, as the colonel had surmised, wearying for the coming of catherine. 'you might have come to me sooner!' these were her first words. bending to kiss her--a greeting that was warmly returned--catherine answered: 'it is such a long while since i saw uncle jack that it was excusable for us to have a great deal to say to one another, wasn't it? don't scold me on the very first evening of our acquaintance, agatha, for you and i will be friends soon, i hope. it is very nice of you to be anxious to share your home with me, dear. i cannot come to live here, but i shall pay you frequent visits, and spend my holidays with you both.' 'you won't come altogether?' 'i cannot give up my work.' agatha laughed bitterly, and shrugged her shoulders with the gesture of a spoiled child. 'i suppose you're afraid of offending our enemy! guardian, don't look cross with me because i said that! he _is_ our enemy, if he isn't more willing to make up the quarrel than you say he is. miss carmichael, you'll be very silly if you don't take uncle ross's side of the dispute, not ours! being poor, and living in a tiny cottage, and having to be economical, _is_ so horrid!' the colonel showed no sign of being cross; there was only an expression of perplexity in the gaze he bent upon his ward. 'now, dearie, do not try to shock catherine--she will not understand, as i do, that you never mean one half the shocking things you say.' 'oh, guardian, i can't be polite to her, just as though she were a stranger, for i'm much too glad she's come. catherine, if you make uncle ross adopt you, i suppose you'll be cutting us out, spoiling any chances we may have, you know, but i don't mind that a bit, and you can see guardian doesn't. will you promise _always_ to remember that? i _would_ like the quarrel to be made up, just so that we went back to carm hail to live, but that's all! i don't want any one to leave money to us, because----oh, never mind about why. only say you won't misunderstand when i grumble! i want _you_ most of all; if you'd come and live here, it wouldn't be as dull, and it's only the dulness that matters much.' this extraordinary series of sentences was delivered in a jerky, half-shy, half-reckless fashion, and agatha's glance remained fixed on catherine's face. stroking the child's thin cheek, miss carmichael asked playfully: 'don't you know that you would have to be still more economical if i came to live here, dear?' to her amazement agatha burst into tears. 'there! you will misunderstand me! i only mind economy because i'm miserable often, and dull, and frightened. now you've forced me to tell the truth, and guardian's feelings will be hurt. oh, i'm always doing wrong somehow!' catherine sat down on the edge of the couch, and laid her face on the tumbled mass of brown curls. 'you little goose! i was half in fun. i do believe that you want me to come; only i can't, so you must be content to have me sometimes.' the sobs still continued. uncle jack smiled wistfully at his niece, shook his head with a puzzled air, and stole out of the room, wisely thinking that the two girls, of ages so different, would arrive sooner at mutual understanding if they were left alone together. catherine refrained from asking for an explanation of the sobs, and presently agatha raised a tear-strewn face out of the pillows, and nestling her cheek against her new friend's arm, said penitently: 'i'm sorry i'm such a little beast. my ideas are all in a muddle, so that it's impossible for me to make you understand what i mean. and i was trying to be diplomatic, and you've no notion how difficult that is when one's head is always aching!' 'poor little woman! but why want to be diplomatic? simplicity is true, noble and best. your guardian has a simple heart.' 'i am going to _try_ to make you understand, catherine!' cried agatha resolutely. 'ever since guardian adopted me i've heard praises of you--of your courage, and sincerity, and beauty, and talents--until you've become a sort of _ideal_ to me. do you see?' 'a very poor basis to found an ideal upon!' laughed catherine. 'i know all about your australian life--how you found out when the stockman (jock was his name, wasn't it?) was being cruel to the cattle, and you told your stepfather about him, in spite of his threats of revenge. i've made a map of the station, and guardian marked the paddock-fence where your pony threw you when you were a child, and you called to your mother that you were "all right," though your leg was broken! i know how you used to spend your time, working for poor people, and trying to make the awful rough men kinder to their wives and children--and teaching the children about god and reading the bible to invalids. oh, you're a very satisfactory ideal, i assure you!' catherine's face was one bright blush at this enthusiastic commendation. she was about to protest against it, but agatha went on eagerly: 'don't contradict, please don't, for it's all true. i told you about it, so that you might leave off being surprised at my wanting you so much. you _can't_ seem like a stranger. i made up my mind to love you, long before i guessed you'd come to england, so when your letter came this morning i went just wild with delight. guardian said at once that you would live with us, and then i thought how beautiful life would be. there was nothing but happiness in my mind until then.' she paused, frowning at the consideration of what came afterwards. 'go on, dear,' said catherine encouragingly. 'then i found out that my wishes were all in a muddle too. living in a cottage _is_ so tedious! there's nothing to see, and nothing to do. guardian's out a great deal, busy over the volunteers, and there's no one but robert to help harriet, so he can't be spared often to wheel my chair. i do most dreadfully want to go back to carm hall to live, to have nice food, and pretty rooms, and money to buy presents, and--oh, and everything i used to have! now, i suppose, you think me horrid and mean!' 'no, dearie.' 'uncle ross--i always called him that, you know--won't make the first advance, so the quarrel won't ever be made up unless guardian tries to do it. he would if he wasn't so proud, for he's very unhappy about being at war with a brother. you should just hear him pray about it every morning and night,--for we've family prayers now, with harriet and robert,--his voice often shakes, and on uncle ross's birthday the prayers are ever so long. at christmas, and easter, and any home-anniversary, he is just wretched, catherine. yet he is too proud to be persuaded to make any more advances.' 'any _more_?' repeated miss carmichael, questioningly. 'yes, he made lots at first. he used to write, until uncle ross refused to open any more letters; he sent congratulations to him on his birthday, until that message came back unread; he always spoke on sundays in the churchyard, until once, when it was the anniversary of loring's going away, and through a chance word the quarrel got as bad as ever again; and now uncle ross always passes us by with a stiff bow. oh, guardian is in the right, only he's unhappy, and uncle ross isn't. catherine, i scarcely know _what_ i want! that is the truth! i should hate for uncle to adopt you, because that would take you away from us; yet i almost began to hope that your coming would patch up the feud somehow. can't you be peacemaker?' 'i will do everything in my power to promote peace, dear.' 'yet by choosing this cottage for "home" you'll offend uncle ross bitterly. it'll be like loring's choice all over again!--between carm hall and riches, and guardian and poverty. for it was his love for guardian that made loring want to be a soldier. dear loring! he was always so good to me! catherine, most people would call your choice dreadfully silly!' catherine was aware of this, but her brave spirit was quite undaunted by the reflection. the choice had been offered her suddenly, between hurting uncle jack's feelings and accepting the home he had so lovingly offered her; and as her heart had dictated, so had she acted. in gratitude and affection had the choice been made. now, far from regretting it, she had become aware of many strong reasons in its favour. to begin with, it gave her the chance to be uncle jack's confidante, even in a humble way his helper, in religious questions; it provided her with freedom which she could use in trying to heal the quarrel between her uncles; it offered her a new task and duty, that of helping poor, fretful, ignorant, passionate agatha to find peace in the thought of jesus christ. had catherine remained homeless, she could have done, perhaps, much of the work she was already yearning to perform, but uncle ross might have doubted her perfect sincerity. now she could not be suspected of mercenary motives in trying to influence him. had she waited until he had offered her a home at carm hall, which might have happened, she would either have been obliged to offend him by refusing, or probably would have been forbidden to visit redan cottage. no!--though the world might ridicule her unselfish choice, she was proud and glad of it! for brian north's sake it was natural that she should momentarily regret the lost chance of uncle ross's help for him; but she was perfectly sincere in the hearty words by which she assured agatha that, though her choice might be ridiculed by some, she was yet both determined and happy in it. the girl clung to her, and protested both against her resolution to stay with mrs. arderne and her obligation to return now to woodley villa. but catherine was firm. 'you'll come again to-morrow, won't you?' 'if i possibly can, darling.' 'oh, i want you so badly! i think you'll help me not to be so miserable. i'm _very_ ill, you know; the pain's often bad, and then i think i'm going to die at once, and--and if i _did_, i'm certain i shouldn't--go to heaven.' '_agatha!_' with attempted bravado agatha laughed. 'no, of course i shouldn't! i'm beastly selfish, and i've never done anything but _think_ grumbles at god. i'm not resigned a bit,--not meek and humble of heart,--i don't see why i should be.' 'don't you? have you never thought about the debt we sinners owe to the son of the heavenly father, who died upon the cross for us, that we might become entitled to the glorious eternity of heavenly life?' 'but god made me,--crippled, useless, invalided as i am!' 'but, dearie, suppose some great physician came to tell you that you must suffer and be helpless for one short hour, and that then you would recover your health and strength for eighty or ninety years, would you not bless his name?' 'of course i would!' 'and supposing that the physician had obtained your cure through making some colossal sacrifice himself as a propitiation?' 'catherine--you--you mean that christ is the great physician!' 'yes, dear. when from the eternal heavens you look back upon your life of pain and weariness on earth, it will seem but as a fleeting hour, and you will wonder why you couldn't understand god's loving promises better while you lived,--why you grumbled at the moments of suffering which his compassion sent you to purify your soul from sin, to prevent your caring too much for the things of this earth. why, agatha, don't we despise a little child who cries and storms about some momentary, necessary pain? yet we all of us behave just as weakly before the eyes of our father.' 'but i shan't ever get to heaven. i'm not good.' 'jesus came on earth to save sinners. remember how we are told, "the lord thy god in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing." tell me, is that a picture of a cruel god? of one who does not feel for the weakness and perversity of human nature? oh, my dearie, think over those three words only, "he will save," and offer him your heart, with all its imperfect longings. he is the saviour who "pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by transgression," who "retaineth not his anger for ever, because he delighteth in mercy."' agatha's dark eyes gazed wonderingly at catherine's sweet, smiling face. 'i--i will think about him,' she whispered after a pause. 'but, oh, do come again to-morrow if you can. guardian doesn't talk about god as clearly as you do; he's groping after him still, catherine, but you speak and look just as though you'd been to heaven yourself, and seen him face to face!' 'so may we all see him, dear,--in the blessings of earth, in daisies, and sunsets, and storms; in love, and humility, and suffering. for heaven is where he is, and he is everywhere! i shall pray that you may receive him into your heart, and so make heaven there, little agatha.' chapter v an unshaken resolution when catherine ran up the steps of the villa on her return that night, she caught sight of mrs. arderne's anxious eyes peeping through a front window at her, and the door was quickly opened by that lady herself. 'my dear girl, i have been worrying about you! how dark it is outside!' 'i am not late for supper, am i?' 'no. i only worried because you were out alone in the darkness.' 'you dear soul! it was very kind of you, but there was nothing at all terrible to be met with in this peaceful english village! the poorer people are all out now, shopping for to-morrow--it is saturday night, you know. there! i don't believe that a companion ought to call her employer "you dear soul." why don't you scold me when i forget our new relation to one another?' mrs. arderne patted catherine's rosy cheek, and taking her arm led her into the sitting-room, where supper was spread for two. 'because i do not wish you to be a bit different, child, except in the way of having more worldly wisdom in your private affairs. i hoped that your impecunious uncle jack would disappoint you, and his ward prove a captious, annoying, spoiled invalid, instead of which he has evidently pleased you so well that even miss agatha has not been able to put you out of spirits.' 'poor little agatha!--indeed, she too pleased me!' mrs. arderne sighed. 'it is a disappointment to _me_, i assure you, to see you come back wearing that radiant face!' 'they have been so good to me! and the night air is deliciously cold, and i'm as hungry as a hunter! i must be an expensive companion, for i eat so much, don't i?' 'not a morsel more than a healthy girl should. satisfy your appetite, catherine; then we will sit round the fire while you give me an honest account of your visit to redan cottage.' so, when the servant had cleared away, the two friends began a cosy chat, the younger seated as usual on a low stool, leaning her right arm on the elder's knee. it was a joy to catherine, this description of her visit to her uncle jack and agatha, for it enabled her to recall the incidents of an eventful evening, and helped her to understand better both his character and that of his ward. the more she reflected and spoke, the more did she see that she had chosen rightly, and mrs. arderne's well-meant regrets only made her own courage and gratitude the stronger. after some discussion mrs. arderne asked, in bewildered tones: 'is it mere preference for one uncle that has made you choose to sacrifice all your chances, child?' 'no. there are many, many reasons why i could not have chosen otherwise. you would not have had me refuse a kind offer, hurt uncle jack's feelings, disappoint agatha, and deny my own wishes as well, and all for the sake of a possible financial advantage, would you? uncle ross did not offer me a home at all; and if he had done so, i don't think i could have accepted it. he would have expected me to share his line of policy towards uncle jack. besides, i should have felt a mercenary wretch. since i am blessed with health and an opportunity to earn my own living, i ought not to live in idleness and luxury at any relative's expense. and i should be wrong, were i to accept from one uncle the wealth which belongs rightly to his nearest relative--the other uncle.' 'now i do begin to understand!' cried mrs. arderne. 'your pride influenced you principally in the making of your choice.' catherine raised her frank eyes to meet the disapproving gaze of her friend. 'i don't think it was a bad kind of pride,' she answered simply. 'and i was only leading up to my biggest reason of all.' 'probably that is as absurd as the others, my dear!' 'i hope you won't try to think lightly of it, dear mrs. arderne, for it is the best and sincerest part of me. it is--my love for god. uncle jack and agatha are actually in need of help that i can give them, while they in their turn will help me to lead the higher life, which is the only worthy one. we shall encourage one another to serve god better.' 'but you are not going to live at redan cottage, thank goodness!' 'no. i shall only spend most of my spare hours there so long as we are in the neighbourhood, and all my holidays will pass there, at home. then i can write to them very, very often during the times i am away. as a rule people do not make half enough use of the post. it offers a splendid means of communication between friends who are parted.' 'and if you had agreed to live at carm hall, you would have been within five miles of these beloved relatives!' 'i should have been dependent upon a man who behaves persistently ill to them. dear, kind friend, do you not suppose that if uncle ross became my benefactor, to the extent of giving me my daily all, he would not try, and be more or less justified in expecting, to make me obedient to his wishes in all important matters? if i let him be as a father to me, shouldn't i owe him consideration? and "consideration" in his opinion would mean giving up constant intercourse with those who have offended him.' 'but, child, child, your uncle jack and agatha can surely become religious without your aid, if they desire to.' catherine laughed blithely. 'why, of course--only i think that i can help them, and that god means me to do so. if a poor man asked you for an alms, and you were _sure_ he was very hungry, you wouldn't refuse to give to him because some one else might be just as well able to do so. i have had experience in regard to the destitution of souls that know not god's peace. there is a spiritual hunger which is worse, far, far worse, both to bear and to witness, than mere bodily starvation!' an impatient sigh escaped mrs. arderne's lips. 'you are an incorrigible zealot, evidently!' 'i hope so.' 'at least you will admit that you could be just as religious yourself at carm hall as at redan cottage.' 'oh yes; but uncle ross doesn't like people to be religious. he would attack my faith daily with sharp little weapons of perfectly courteous ridicule, and when i repulsed the attack he would be angry at heart with me.' 'you could have borne that for brian's sake, i should have thought, and you could have told your uncle jack to apply for religious instruction to the proper person, namely, the clergyman of the parish.' 'mr. burnley, if he is still here, could scarcely be expected to spare time to smooth away all my poor little agatha's nervous fears and doubts, even supposing she could be persuaded to tell them to him. dear mrs. arderne, do not try to destroy my choice, for it is irrevocably made, and i am very happy in it.' 'it is full of conceit, catherine! you imagine you have a solemn mission from god to convert your heathen relatives.' catherine's face clouded. '_don't, dear!_' she pleaded earnestly. 'don't try to be bitter or cynical, for those moods are quite unlike you. i may be conceited, i daresay i am, about other matters, but not about my knowledge of the love and mercy of our saviour. that is a subject upon which i own my ignorance, for every hour that i live i make some new, beautiful, blessed discovery in it! but it is certain that god gives to each one of us some particular duties, some work to be performed to his honour and glory, and i cannot refuse to do that which seems to me both right and necessary. you wouldn't really wish me to choose to serve mammon instead of god!' mrs. arderne would not own that she was convinced of catherine's wisdom, though she could not advance another argument against the latter's decision. she contented herself with exclaiming: 'you are a most disappointing young woman, catherine!' 'as a companion, please, ma'am?' asked the culprit, who was genuinely amused by this description of herself. 'n-no; disappointing to your friends--to me especially, because i had set my heart upon seeing you reinstated in a position suited to you, either by your uncle or by your marriage.' 'my brian does not please you?' 'you will not please him by this last folly.' 'he isn't a bit mercenary. you will see, he will approve my choice, when he has read the long letter i mean to write him before breakfast to-morrow morning. he will sympathise, too, with my great wish, which is that, with god's help, i may be able to act as peacemaker between my uncles.' 'good gracious, child, i never contemplated that possibility!' 'did you not? it will be a difficult task.' 'so i should imagine.' 'but if i could but do it, they would all be so much happier! dear uncle jack frets about the quarrel; he is really attached to his brother. uncle ross is terribly lonely in his big house, with no one to love him. then agatha could have the care and nursing she needs.' 'and catherine carmichael could have----' 'i don't understand you,' said the girl slowly, trying to read mrs. arderne's meaning in her face. 'i--should lose redan cottage for a home. and--oh, i suppose "home" would be carm hall then. how funny!' 'how ridiculously unpractical you are! a veritable _baby_! this new plan of yours, miss peacemaker, is the one way in which you can make up to your friends, your lover, and yourself for the folly of your choice! reconcile your uncles and go to live with them. mr. ross carmichael will alter his will, and leave his thousands to you instead of to charities.' there was a very mischievous smile playing round catherine's lips while she listened to mrs. arderne's eagerly explained advice, a smile which increased as she answered, 'i _am_ glad that you approve of me for something, and that our wishes coincide for once! i mean to try my very hardest to bring about that reconciliation; but i shall work for dear uncle jack's sake principally, then for agatha's, lastly for uncle ross's. and if i am happy enough to succeed, i shall be so glad and proud that no worldly prospects of my own could possibly make me happier!' '_i_ can be mercenary-minded for you--that is one comfort, child.' 'it would be nicer if you would not.' 'nonsense; you surely aren't so mad that you despise wealth and power?' 'no; only i hate to calculate about them, and i don't covet them. god will send me enough daily bread, and that is all that matters.' 'for the sake of brian----' 'riches and position are not always blessings, dear mrs. arderne. we are told in the bible, "he that hasteth to be rich hath an evil eye," "he that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver," and "how hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of god!" neither for brian nor for myself can i covet a stewardship the duties of which we may not be fitted to perform, which might take from us the best wealth--god's love.' 'of course i cannot say any more, since you have taken to quoting the bible, catherine. my memory for texts was always a bad one.' 'ted and toddie shall not be able to say that when they are grown up--not unless they wilfully forget all i teach them, and they love their scripture lessons too well to do that. do you know, toddie told me yesterday that god seems ever so much _realer_ than other kings? wasn't it sweet of her?' mrs. arderne gave catherine's brow a quick kiss. 'naturally _i_ think most of toddie's speeches sweet. go on training my babes in the knowledge of the creator, catherine, for i--i shouldn't like them to grow up to be worldly like their mother.' 'you only _try_ to be worldly, your heart isn't one bit so.' 'yes, it is; i love all the pleasures and vanities of life. now go to bed, catherine, child, or you will oversleep yourself in the morning, and not be able to write that lengthy letter to brian north.' the girl sprang up, and clasped her strong young arms round her friend, crying: 'good-night, then, you dearest of employers. tell me once again that you _do_ really want me, and that you will give me notice directly i cease to be of use to you.' 'have i not told you, just this minute, that i want you for my babies' sakes as well as for my own? if ted and nora had not their "dear carr" to teach them about god, they might question mother, and find out how little her knowledge is on the subject. you have another mission here, catherine, for the enlightenment of ignorance.' 'and "mother" knows where to seek knowledge, whereas babies do not. thank you again and again, dear, for making me welcome.' mrs. arderne turned the conversation into a more shallow channel by laughingly reminding her young friend: 'we shall probably get on together famously for the future, because your plan and my plan for you are identical. we are both bent upon the reconciliation of your uncles.' chapter vi a sunday's experiences catherine carmichael was up and dressed next day fully two hours before any one else was stirring in woodley villa. then she said her prayers, and read her bible, and still had plenty of time left for the writing of her letter. softly opening the bedroom window, which was in the front of the house, she placed her desk on a small table, and sat down where she could feel the fresh wind and look out occasionally over the country scene. a september sunrise, and an open window! mrs. arderne would have been horrified at catherine's imprudence, but to this girl an open-air life had been natural in all weathers, and for early hours she had a strong preference. 'before breakfast' was always her thinking-time. she was of opinion that men and women need leisure in which to reflect upon their lives, and to remember both the high purpose and the unimportance of earthly existence. beginning the day thus, with happy realization of the creature's indebtedness to the creator, she found daily crosses and perplexities much easier to bear with serenity, while joys and innocent pleasures acquired double powers of satisfaction, by being hallowed with foreseeing gratitude. the country was very quiet at this early hour of the sabbath; no agricultural workers were abroad, and smoke had scarcely begun to issue from the picturesquely irregular chimneys of the village. in front of the villa were fields, pasture land upon which grazed some venerable horses, and across which a path wound away to a distant wood. over the trees hung a pearl-tinted mist, which the sunshine was beginning to dispel. when, presently, the sun contrived to peep between two barriers of cloud, the wood gleamed golden and gorgeous, as the light struck upon its copper beeches. catherine unconsciously smiled at the loveliness spread out before her eyes, and remembered the words of a poet: 'what sweeter aid my matins could befall than this fair glory from the east hath made? what holy sleights hath god, the lord of all, to bid us feel and see! we are not free to say we see not, for the glory comes, nightly and daily, like the flowing sea.' then she took up her pen and began to write to brian. this was no hard task, for she knew that he liked her letters to be rambling and unstudied, consisting of sentences from her heart, just as she loved best to make them. all her pure girl's fancies and imaginings about the higher life, all her tender anxieties--on the subject of himself usually--her fears for his health, and longings for his complete understanding of god, all her merry discoveries in her daily life, all the kindnesses she received, all her hopes for the future, these were written down simply for his interest. fortunately, brian north could be trusted to appreciate and reverence catherine's sincerity. the letter, when written, was a precious revelation of a good woman's very soul. probably the 'good woman' herself would never guess how large an effect her letters wrought upon brian's heart and intellect, how he was learning to accept her ideas, see god through her eyes, and exchange his worldly ambitions for her lofty content with aspirations infinitely nobler. she was quite unconsciously setting him a lovable model of a christian life, as all god-serving girls should be able to do for those who are dear to them. her pen flew over the several sheets of paper, until she felt satisfied that her lover had been given a really accurate description of her new experiences at beverbridge. she had honestly tried not to allow her great affection for uncle jack to prejudice her in writing of uncle ross, yet she wanted brian to be prepared to be devoted to the former. mrs. arderne's suggestion that brian would not approve of his betrothed's acceptance of redan cottage as 'home' scarcely occurred to catherine this morning. she had not the least doubt that she had acted in the best way in regard to uncle jack's offer, and so, loyally, she felt certain that brian must agree with her when he considered the subject. the letter, though of even unusual length, was finished some time before the hour for breakfast, so catherine began to write another to her cousin george in melbourne, the cousin who had been in the same regiment with poor loring carmichael. after sending messages to george's relatives, and giving him a spirited account of her experiences in london, describing the sights she had seen, she continued as follows: 'do you remember that you used to call me "the most meddlesome of girls"?--that year when i tried to reconcile my stepfather and his men. well, i am going to be meddlesome again, for i want, if god will let me, to make peace between our two english uncles. would you believe that they are living in different houses in the same neighbourhood, and are still estranged because of loring's choice of a profession? yet i can see that they both desire to be friends again, if once their pride could be overcome. now that loring is dead, uncle jack must partly regret having persuaded him to be a soldier, and uncle ross should be able to forgive the choice, especially as he has been chiefly to blame for the strength to which this foolish family feud has attained. if you can tell me anything, george, about loring's death, since you, his friend, were with him when he fell, i might be fortunate enough to effect a reconciliation through their mutual interest in the news. did loring send no messages to either uncle? please let me know all you know, for i, being on the spot, can perhaps make good use of the knowledge.' this letter was also finished, and the envelope addressed and stamped, before the breakfast bell sounded. catherine ran downstairs, to find ted and toddie awaiting her in the dining-room, two solemn-faced little people, wearing their best frocks, and standing side by side, hand in hand, on the hearth-rug. 'we've been _vewwy_ good, an' we're so tired wiv it,' announced toddie, with emphasis. 'we didn't fink muvver was ever comin', nor you, nor bweakfast,' explained ted. 'bweakfast comed first though, an' we didn't peep one bit under the cover, did we, toddie?' 'no, but it's sausages, i fink, 'cause it smells like it.' 'then you comed next, dearie carr, an' we won't have to be good no longer.' ted's face was roguish again, and he scrambled on to catherine's knee as she sat down in the arm-chair, while toddie, regardless of her sunday dress, sank down in a happy heap on the rug at her feet. 'not good any more! oh, ted, you know i always want you to be good!' she exclaimed, trying to preserve discipline. 'oh yes, of course!' cried the culprit, 'only the nurse says "be vewwy good children," when she just wants us not to cwumple our clothes. _you_ don't do that. _you_ don't like us best when we're _stiff_, does you, carr?' 'you mustn't spoil your nice clothes on purpose, ted and toddie, but you--you needn't keep on remembering them. why, they are sensibly-chosen clothes, they will not easily take harm. some poor little children are always dressed in silks and satins, so grand that they are expected to take great care of them, but your kind mamma likes you to be happy and able to romp about.' '_silks an' satins!_' repeated toddie. 'gwacious!--_wouldn't_ we cwumple them all up!' mrs. arderne came into the room, and found the usual picture awaiting her vision--catherine and the babies laughing together, clinging together, perfectly happy in their merriment. 'ah, chickies, plaguing "carr" again. catherine, dear, in a weak moment yesterday i promised those infants that they should spend sunday with us, and come to church.' 'we'll be _vewwy_ good.' 'we'll twy dreffully hard not to laugh.' catherine kissed them both as she lifted them comfortably on to their chairs close to the table. 'you must promise faithfully not to talk in church, children, not even if there is a funny-looking old lady in front of you, or any naughty little boys try to make you laugh at them.' 'not if there's anover lady who can't find her pocket, carr?' 'or an old, old man wiv a spider cweeping up his back?' 'not for any reason at all. you must promise to try to remember all the time that you are in church to please god, not to amuse yourselves.' 'but we mustn't speak pwayers out loud.' 'muvver, you don't always 'member, _does_ you?' 'i'se _sure_ muvver doesn't, 'cause once she laughed an' spoke to carr something about bonnets,' cried toddie delightedly. 'now you are beginning to talk too much, and about matters you do not properly understand,' said miss carmichael quickly. 'say grace, and eat your breakfasts, dears.' the mother and children, and the companion, sallied forth early to find the village church. ted and toddie walked most demurely, one on either side of catherine, sometimes uttering their quaint criticisms of the people and objects they passed, and proudly carrying their prayer-books, so that their own destination was plainly intimated to all persons curious on the subject. 'won't look as though we was goin' no wicked walk,' explained toddie. the church proved to be quite a long walk away. it was a beautiful old grey brick building, wreathed and wrapped round by ivies of many species, and stood, in the midst of its little graveyard, on the summit of a hill. two roads approached it from different sides of the country, and there was also a much-used footpath leading from a vista of park-like meadows to the vestry door. by this path came the clergyman, a venerable-looking gentleman, whom catherine guessed to be the mr. burnley of whom her uncles had told her many years ago. just as catherine passed at the wicket-gate of the churchyard she became aware of the approach of mr. ross carmichael, who had just stepped out of his carriage. it was a rare event for him to be seen in the precincts of a church. the tall, straight old gentleman was dressed with his accustomed care, from the glossy hat to the perfectly-fitting _suã©de_ gloves, and the white 'spats' over patent-leather boots. catherine noticed that his step was very firm, unlike that of uncle jack, who was approaching from a greater distance, coming slowly uphill, beside agatha's wheel-chair, which robert was pushing. the military uncle's face had none of the deep lines which creased that of the business man, yet he seemed the elder and less strong, and his moustache was quite as silvery as was the other's short beard. probably uncle ross was aware of the approach of uncle jack, for he advanced quickly to greet his niece, who introduced him to mrs. arderne. 'this is a pleasure. i trust you will add to it by helping to fill my pew.' now this invitation could not easily be refused, though catherine reflected regretfully that her other relative might object to her having accepted it. mrs. arderne settled the question by answering gratefully: 'that is exceedingly kind of you, mr. carmichael. it is sometimes so difficult for strangers to find good seats in country churches. i only hope that the children will do nothing to make you regret your considerate offer.' ted and toddie were gazing in an awe-stricken manner up into the face of the austere-looking, handsome old gentleman, who now shook hands ceremoniously with them both. uncle jack and agatha were nearly at the gate by this time. uncle ross, after a glance over his shoulder, lingered outside the porch to ask: 'catherine, i am anxious for another talk with you. can you come to see me to-morrow? will you be able to spare her, mrs. arderne?' 'oh, certainly.' 'i will walk up in the afternoon then,' said the girl; adding, with a laugh and a blush, 'and if by any happy chance brian should run down to-morrow to see me, may i bring him also?' 'it will gratify me to make his acquaintance. excuse my leading the way into church.' uncle jack and agatha were not more than twelve steps behind now, but catherine could not refuse to follow uncle ross through the porch and up the aisle. ted and toddie peeped across her skirts at one another, and murmured, '_dwefful_!' 'i will speak to uncle jack at all costs, even if i have to appear rude to uncle ross, after service,' catherine decided. she tried her utmost to forget her family quarrel, at least its difficulties and perplexing incidents, while she listened to the sermon; and endeavoured, as she prayed for god's help in her effort at peace-making, not to be conscious of the reproachful glances which agatha, from her chair in a side aisle, was directing towards her. afterwards, when the congregation had nearly dispersed, uncle jack and uncle ross remained in church, each waiting for the other to move first. each happened to be resolved not to do so. uncle ross wished to prevent catherine from speaking to his brother. uncle jack was simply determined to speak to her, as he and agatha both desired to do so. at length, when the long wait was becoming ridiculous, and ted and toddie were beginning to fidget, mr. ross carmichael rose, and walking with more than usual stiffness, led the way out of church. immediately the colonel marched out, too, down the side aisle. the groups joined in the porch, and passed into the open air together. catherine saw the two old gentlemen exchange the stiffest of bows, but her quick eyes noted also the restrained impulse of uncle jack's right hand, and the wistful expression in the gaze with which he regarded his brother, who was now bending courteously over agatha's chair, inquiring after her health. 'i'm tired, and in pain, but then i always am,' said the child fretfully. 'and i've had a lot of neuralgia lately; the air seems damp and horrid down in the village, where _we_ live.' uncle ross murmured polite regrets, and after bowing to mrs. arderne, and reminding his niece, 'i shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, then,' turned away by the footpath across the fields. by this time mrs. arderne and the colonel were chatting together. agatha beckoned to catherine to come near, and whispered: 'you ought to have sat in _our_ seat.' 'no; if i have accepted a "home" from one uncle, surely i may accept the occasional loan of a pew from the other? you must not be unreasonable, dear, if you want me to try to effect a reconciliation; you must leave me free to use my own methods.' 'horrid old man! and you are going to him to-morrow!' 'well, i am coming to you to-day. mrs. arderne has kindly promised to spare me this evening.' 'come early, then, for i want some of you all to myself!' ted and toddie ran up to the side of the wheel-chair at this moment, and scrutinized agatha. 'can't you get up?' 'no.' 'never mind, though,' said toddie, anxious to be consoling. 'you look vewwy nice, an' you must feel comfor'ble. i wish _we_ had sofas in church. carr wouldn't let us even kneel back'ards this mornin'.' ''cause of the stiff old man,' ted explained. '_your_ old man's ever so much nicer!' chapter vii a ray of light 'i don't suppose she'll come at all, guardian. everything turns out disappointing. that mrs. arderne will keep her indoors, or she'll be afraid to walk in the rain, or she'll forget all about me, or those--those extraordinary children will coax her to stay with them.' agatha had been fretting all the afternoon in this fashion, until she had forced herself to believe her own dismal prophecies, and no words of her guardian availed to comfort her. he was standing beside her couch now, holding her thin right hand in his firm grasp, smilingly trying to persuade her to be more reasonable, and to take the tea and hot buttered toast which harriet had prepared with so much care. the colonel was enveloped in a huge cloak, for he was going out to read aloud at a young men's club,--a habit of his on many sunday evenings. 'catherine is true to her promises, i am certain of that, dear. she will come to you if she possibly can.' 'very likely; but she is sure to be afraid of the weather. just listen to the wind and rain! it is a shame, when the morning was so lovely.' 'god's weather, my little woman: that must be for the best.' 'oh, _bother_!' was the rude answer, and agatha turned her head away from her best friend. the colonel did not take offence. he was grieved by her rebellion against god far more than by her impertinence to himself; and he was sufficiently humble to recollect how short a time it was since he had learned to trust the all-father, saying in his thoughts, 'if i, a grown man, could be both ignorant and stubborn-willed, how dare i be shocked by this invalid child's foolishness?' so, instead of scolding, he slipped an arm under agatha's shoulders to raise her up, that she might take her tea before he was obliged to leave her. 'if catherine comes, you will need strength to entertain her cheerfully. be brave and good, dear.' agatha longed to push the cup away from her, but his patient kindness prevailed over her cross mood. 'i'm a savage little beast. guardian, i'm--i'm sorry!' 'there's a dear girl! no doubt pain is very bad to bear.' 'i haven't any pain now--only in my temper. but i don't pretend to be _religiously_ sorry, you know; i don't want to be bad to you--that's all.' 'your father in heaven loves you better than i, your adopted father on earth, can do.' 'you only love me out of duty. it must be that, because i'm not a bit nice; so probably my father in heaven gave me up long ago!' 'agatha, my darling, do you not know better than that?' 'better than _which_, guardian? better than to doubt god's love or yours?' she asked, smiling through tears that seemed to burn her weary eyes. 'i might answer truthfully, "both"; but if you cannot trust in my love, you should be able to lean confidently upon the love of your maker.' 'are you _really_ fond of me? would you be sorry if i were to die?' colonel jack looked his ward gravely in the face, his eyes filled with sincerity. he was a man of action, not of words, so he made no lengthy protestations, only saying with heartfelt fervour: 'i love you, for your own sake and that of my old friend, your father; and i should be lonely without you.' agatha gazed at him in silence for a minute or two, studying the sincerity of his eyes, which had so often looked at death calmly. then she pressed her lips to his hand, and cried: 'i'm happier now, then! it's dreadful to think that no one does. perhaps--i mean, i'll believe god does.' '"greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends,"' quoted the colonel reverently. 'guardian, you are always repeating that. i believe it's the only text you know by heart!' seeing agatha's natural expression come again to her face--the teasing, audacious, little smile he knew so well--he was contented. 'it is the best i _could_ remember, little woman. now, promise me you will not fret any more to-night, while i am away. catherine will come to you, unless she is unavoidably prevented.' 'i'll try to be reasonable. it would be much nicer if you could stay with me till she comes, though. there's something very odd about persuading young men and boys to go to a club on sunday evenings, just to hear reading, when they could quite well go to church.' 'none are allowed in but those who have been to church in the morning, and mr. burnley tells me that many go to service (who used never to be seen in church before), just that they may be entitled to join our sunday evening circle. we read interesting books to them, and sometimes there are recitations of poems,--it is not surprising how many great literary works there are which raise the heart and mind to god. then we always begin and end with prayer. it is not a bad service itself, agatha; and the young fellows would not go to church twice a day--they would probably spend their evenings in gambling and drinking, or in the company of street loafers. beverbridge has its bad characters.' 'now, why is it that you never address meetings of the club?' asked his ward mischievously. 'that was quite a speech!' he laughed. '_i_ speak? my courage fails me even when i begin to read aloud! no, no, that is not the kind of action for which my poor powers are suitable.... now, good-bye, my dear. keep a brave heart until catherine comes. be god's plucky little soldier!' only half an hour later agatha was nestling her face against catherine carmichael's shoulder, smiling up at her radiantly. they were talking of agatha's own life,--its trials, pleasures, wants, and blessings. 'oh, you can't guess how badly i've wanted a girl-friend, some one to tell everything to! i used to dream about you, when you were out in australia, and i nearly began to write long letters to you.' 'i wish you had written.' 'you couldn't have known what i was like. i should have hated you to think me nice, and then to have come to england and been disappointed. it's best as it is. help me, cath; _do_ help me! what am i to do to be nicer?' 'leave off thinking so much about yourself.' 'why? i ought to meditate continually upon my faults, ought i not? people have told me so.' 'that is a morbid idea of religion and duty, dear. be as sorry as possible for your sins, but spare time to meditate upon god's mercy and goodness, otherwise how can you learn to love him? then again, by thinking always of your faults, you grow into a spiritual hypochondriac. how ill a person would feel who spent all his time in considering the exact strength and nature of every small pain or weariness! no, no, agatha; to be healthily religious, you must trust in god a great deal more, and, in remembering him, forget yourself!' 'it must be much easier for you, catherine,' said the little girl wistfully, 'for _you_ never feel too ill to do anything but be cross, do you?' 'no, dear. but there will be a wonderful reward due to you in heaven, if, in spite of your bodily weakness, you serve the father bravely. tell him your difficulties; speak to him quite simply, at all hours, out of the fulness of your heart, and he will understand. you will learn to feel sure of his presence near you; you will love to bear pain patiently, to please him, and in remembrance of the agony he chose for his portion in order that we, his rebellious servants, might be eternally happy. once you have learned this lesson, you will never feel lonely any more.' catherine's face was glorified by the light of the peace of which she was speaking, that peace which truly passeth understanding! perhaps agatha learned more by watching her friend's face than even by listening to her words. certainly she was both convinced and comforted. 'catherine, i'll try.' the promise (for as a promise the words were spoken) came slowly, earnestly, eagerly from the child's lips. then, laying her head on her friend's shoulder, she went on to say: 'it won't be easy, i know that; and it means never trying to please myself only, never speaking angrily just to make other people angry, never calling uncle ross our enemy and trying to hate him, never.... oh yes, it _will_ be difficult! only now i seem to understand, as i never did before, that it isn't only people who want to be extra good, but it's _every one_ who ought to serve god _thoroughly_. do you know what i mean?' 'yes, dear. it is very common for persons to say or think, "_i_ needn't devote my whole efforts to serving god. _i_ shall be all right, so long as i do not sin in great matters." but that is a form of ignorance. directly such a person is asked, "why were you created?" "are you fulfilling the creator's purpose?" there is no answer forthcoming, except an admission of failure. now we all of us despise failures that are the result of idleness; so how can we expect god, at the last judgment, to reward us for failing through our ill-will and slothfulness?' 'it all seems quite plain, when you talk of religion.' catherine's gentle hands were stroking agatha's hot forehead, passing and repassing over her eyes with a soft touch which was very soothing. 'my mother taught me all these truths, and i have never forgotten them,' she answered. 'so you are going to give god your whole heart?' 'i'll begin this very evening, and i shall write down the promise, in cypher, in my diary, that i mayn't ever be able to forget for long. cath, if i were to die now ... should i go to hell?' 'if _you_ had a servant who had neglected his duty, but who was honestly sorry, and promised you that he would never wilfully sin against you again, would you wish to condemn him to eternal misery? oh, childie, when you doubt god's mercy, you do him a terrible injustice, for he is many million times more generous than the greatest and best of his creatures can ever become.' 'oh, catherine, you _are_ beautiful!' 'why, what sudden nonsense is this, my pet?' was the amused question. 'i was watching you. does mr. north love you very, _very_ much? he ought to.' blushes stole over the face that had been praised. 'he loves me a great deal more than i deserve.' 'i made guardian tell me all you told him. you don't mind my knowing, do you?' 'of course not. it will be nice to be able to talk and write of him to you, little one, for there was no one to sympathise with my romance until i found you and uncle jack.... brian _may_ come down to see me to-morrow, but i am trying not to hope too much, or else i shall feel dismal if a disappointment follows. still, he hasn't telegraphed yet, nor written for two whole days, so i think he must be coming.' 'if he does, you will bring him here?' asked agatha excitedly. catherine nodded. 'i am simply longing to show him to uncle jack; they are sure to love one another. in the afternoon i have agreed to go to see uncle ross, and to take brian with me, if possible.... now, agatha! what a dreadful frown!' 'it's gone, now, and i know you are quite right and wise, cath. please go on with what you were going to say.' 'but i shall insist upon leaving carm hall in time to spend the evening here. i shall say you have invited me to supper. that will be true, won't it?' 'yes, yes, and harriet shall lay the cloth and make the table look very nice, before she goes out for her "evening." ah, cath, you have made me happy!' 'god bless you, darling! he will teach you to be a great deal happier yet, i hope.' when the colonel returned from his work at the club he heard agatha's laughter resounding through the cottage,--a sound that was strange indeed. the girls were neither of them in the least tired of their _tãªte-ã -tãªte_, yet they gladly welcomed him and soon the three were chatting as gaily as two had done. before catherine went home she shared in the evening prayer at redan cottage, and heard the colonel's voice falter as he offered up one special petition for the 'welfare, spiritual and temporal, of all relatives and friends.' no wonder that the girl's heart was filled with rejoicing as she walked back to woodley villa! she had been able to comfort poor little agatha, and had persuaded her to serve god. and there was still plenty of work to be done, a beautiful reconciliation to effect, if god would give her grace and aid sufficient. not for an instant did she count up the gains that might accrue to herself from this peace-making. her intentions were pure and unselfish. little world-loving mrs. arderne would have marvelled again, had she been able to read her companion's heart to-night. chapter viii the coming of catherine's betrothed by ten o'clock on monday morning brian north had earned a holiday. he had been up and working since the small hours, but instead of going back to his lodgings to rest, he hurried to a station and took train for beverbridge. catherine's letter had been brought to him, and had made a precious interlude to his occupation. generally he was as busy in the evening as in the morning, but his other occupation had been taken away from him,--a loss which he was obliged to regret, although it had obtained him an opportunity for a few days' holiday in the neighbourhood of catherine carmichael. had she been in london, brian would have remained there, too; so when the landscape began to be green, and the buildings few, and the sky showed a clear expanse above, his spirits revived with his gratitude for the fact that his dear girl was in the country. the fresh pure air strengthened him already. beverbridge was a long journey from town, but he found time pass pleasantly, as he leaned back close to the open window, and let his thoughts rove over the subject of catherine's perfections. there would be need to ponder over the question how to gain some new work, how secure a prize in an overcrowded amphitheatre, since his marriage would be delayed until he could earn not only a sufficient income to provide a home, but also a small sum 'laid by' as provision for 'rainy days.' brian was resolved not to persuade catherine to make an improvident marriage; he had seen much misery resulting from such folly, and his love for her was deep enough to make his plans unselfish. there was a smile on his lips as he sat thinking, alone in the railway carriage--the smile which thoughts of catherine always created. tired, disappointed, harassed though he was, his life was blessed by a great happiness, and but for the fear of being guilty of hypocrisy, he would have thanked god for it. these were the doubts which prompted the fear: 'was he not supposed to be resigned to any possible manifestation of god's will? without this resignation would not gratitude be guilty of mockery, since the creator possessed undoubtedly the right to take, as well as to give? how could he honestly thank god for the gift of catherine, if he were not prepared also to acknowledge god's right to take catherine from him? it may be thought that brian was too sincere with himself in this matter. the girl he loved was strong and healthy, and likely, humanly speaking, to live to a good old age. but he was essentially thorough, and now that he was groping after the light, he was anxious to invite it to shine into every corner of his heart. he had already perceived that religion must be all or nothing, a sham or a whole, so that he could not rest content with any reservations. if he was to love god, then to the creator must be given more love than to the creature. human tenderness and sympathy do not enter into the devotion that a soul must cherish for its maker. he was not so foolish as to expect to feel the same impulses of longing for a vision of god, for instance, as it was natural for him to feel for the presence of catherine; but he was not able yet to give the love which is commanded, the perfect acknowledgment of god as author of all good, the resignation of praying 'thy will be done,' of owning 'thy will must be best,' and the confidence of leaving the future entirely, gladly, in god's care. brian often worried about the future. his health suffered from the feverish manner in which he pursued fortune--all for catherine's sake. as a youth he had fretted for fame; now he spent his life in restlessly striving after money and a secured position. his pale, lined face, the grey hairs threading the dark curls over his temples, and his sunken eager eyes, proclaimed his want of peace. there was no one but a porter in the little beverbridge station when brian arrived. just as he was calling the man to take charge of his bag, and to direct him to a respectable inn, he chanced to look up at the bridge which spanned the rail. a tall girl standing, holding a little boy in her arms--catherine herself! lovers' eyes are seldom deceived in such cases. catherine, out for a walk with ted and toddie, had brought them within the precincts of the railway, not only because the small folks delighted in the sight of 'a big puffing engine,' but also because there was a possibility that brian might come down to-day by the london express. her beaming smile as she gazed down at him over the parapet of the bridge was the cause of sympathetic beams upon his face. 'that gentleman is--a great friend of mine, ted and toddie!' she cried exultantly. 'how nice!' said ted. 'he _must_ be nice if _you_ like him, carr.' 'he's comin' up. oh, poor, poor man! is he ill, carr?' 'no, dears, only hard-worked; and he lives in smoky dark london.' by this time brian had mounted the steps and emerged through the doorway on to the bridge. catherine had put down the child, so she put both her hands into brian's, and so they stood for a few minutes, smiling, silent, looking into one another's eyes, in delicious contentment at having met once more. then the woman's practical mind read the significance of the presence of a bag. 'you are come, and you haven't got to go away again yet!' 'i may spend three days in beverbridge, dear.' 'god is good!' was catherine's simple answer. '_i'm_ ted arderne,' announced a little voice. 'and i'm toddie,' said another. brian responded warmly to the children's greeting, gave ted his umbrella to play with, and made toddie laugh at the energy with which he shouldered his bag. together they went along the quiet country road and through the pretty village, brian delighting in the autumnal crispness of the wind and in the beauty of the unpretentious scenery. 'did you expect me, catherine?' he asked. 'i only hoped for you.' mrs. arderne welcomed brian most kindly. true, she did not think that in becoming engaged to him catherine had acted wisely, but her womanly instinct was aroused to take benevolent interest in a love affair. she could not help being prepossessed in brian's favour by the first glimpse of his expressive, clever-looking, worn face. and the manner in which she showed her kindness was the best evidence she could have given of her sympathy. 'i will take care of the children,' she said. 'you and mr. north can have a quiet half-hour in the garden before lunch. you must have reams to say to each other.' so catherine led him out, and they strolled up and down the narrow gravel paths, under the gnarled branches of venerable apple trees, in and out among the flower beds, and past the vegetables. then he began to tell her about his troubles. 'you are much poorer, then, than you were?' she said quickly, glancing at his face. 'and i might have helped you--i mean, i might have schemed to gain a fortune--and i won't even try to do so. brian, tell me all that is in your heart now, all the thoughts that came to you when you read my long letter.' 'i love and admire my dear brave girl more than ever. when i had read her letter all through, i told myself that she was a woman in a thousand, that it was a privilege indeed to be allowed to work for her. then, if you want a complete account, i smiled over the description of uncles ross and jack, and reflected, "what a first-rate old chap the colonel must be!"' 'did you? i'm glad. you must love him. and you do not in the very least wee bit blame me for having accepted the home he offered me?' 'no, catherine; i would have you happy and free to follow your own ideal. we should neither of us know much happiness, my dear one, if we were a rich relative's pensioners, obliged to humour all his whims, and keep silent when we disapproved of his practices.' 'you are--just the brian i knew you were!' she exclaimed gratefully. 'only poorer.' 'a new post will be found some day. meanwhile you will have a badly-needed rest!' 'the literary labour-market is fearfully overcrowded, catherine. i doubt if i shall obtain more employment,--not before christmas, at all events. every week of idleness postpones our wedding day.' 'god will help us, even in worldly matters, if we ask him to, and if we trust him, dearest. tell me, have you _thought_, as you promised to think? have you studied your bible? have you prayed for faith?' 'yes, to all three questions. i do believe, but my new faith is not strong enough to stand some tests i have put it to--one test especially.' 'what is it?' 'if god took you away from me, cath, i could not forgive him.' 'yet god gave me to you. but for his will we should never have crossed one another's paths, never loved one another.' 'that truth would in no way minimise the loss we are supposing.' 'if i were to die, you would not wish that we had never loved one another?' 'no, no!' 'then, by your own admission, god would have conferred a boon upon you, even if he had done that which, in thought, appals you.' 'the apparent cruelty of his will would not be less.' 'you are not rebellious now because we are parted for weeks together, brian.' 'because i am hoping for a time when we shall be always together, dearest.' she smiled radiantly. 'ah! you have answered your own doubt! _life_ is only as a day compared with eternity. what though god, for some wise and good purpose, were to part us on earth! has he not promised an everlasting home of perfect happiness after life? oh, dear boy, let us praise him every hour for the gift of love he has generously bestowed on us. don't let us use his gift to deny him! besides, it is wrong for a weak human creature to consider persistently and hopelessly all the possible sorrows of his future. god has promised not to fail us, to send us grace sufficient for the differing needs of every crisis. we can't expect to be brave _in advance_, but we must trust him to give us our "daily bread."' 'you mean that if god takes you from me some day, he will give me strength to bear the blow?' 'yes, dear; that is certain.' 'and i am no hypocrite if i thank him for a gift which i cannot yet bear the thought of his recalling?' 'not if you try honestly to pray, as he taught us, "thy will be done." that does not mean that you think yourself ready, unaided, to bear the blow, only that you admit his right to do as he pleases with his own creations, and that you believe his will to be designed for our highest welfare.' brian sighed, as a man does from whom a great trouble has departed. 'i will believe that god is good, therefore that he is merciful to the weakness of his servants. my faith grows stronger when you teach me, catherine.' chapter ix an important offer mrs. arderne had kindly invited brian north to stay to lunch, as he and catherine were to go to carm hall early that afternoon. 'on your return from the visit to mr. carmichael you can take your bag and find an inn,' she suggested. during the meal she occupied herself in studying brian, 'drawing him out,' by artful questions on literary and other matters. while quite aware of her scrutiny and purpose, he allowed himself to gratify her curiosity as much as possible, acknowledging tacitly her right as catherine's friend to be anxious lest catherine's lover should prove a simpleton or a cad! brian was keenly amused. not being a very young man, he was free from self-consciousness under the investigation, and was able to repay study by study. vivacious, worldly little mrs. arderne, with her contradictory feelings towards catherine's lover--half desirous of agreeing with catherine's choice, yet disappointed because catherine had been 'so romantic' as to accept a penniless suitor--was a charmingly inconsistent character for the writer to consider. the result of this mutual interest was naturally twofold. brian decided that he was glad catherine possessed so true-hearted a friend, and mrs. arderne came to the conclusion that brian was a man of delightful manners, brilliant wit, good breeding, and undoubted talents--a fit husband for catherine in every way but that of fortune! lunch over, ted and toddie came down to be played with as usual, and immediately insisted upon questioning mr. north at great length as to where he lived, and why he lived there, what he did all day long, and why he did it, etc., etc. by his answers he gave purposely an accurate account of his circumstances,--more for the information of mrs. arderne than to please her children. 'i write for papers--sometimes all night long, while you little people are comfortably sleeping,' he said, laughingly lifting them on to his knees. 'it is tiring work, and i can't say i'm fond of doing it; i should like to sit at home and write about things that interest me--to make books, you know. only people are not paid for doing the things that amuse them, and if i did not work for money i shouldn't ever have any jam to eat with my bread and butter. i really doubt if i should have even the bread without the butter!' ted and toddie stared solemnly at him. 'it's _your_ lessons. we don't get money at all for doing ours, though.' 'for shame, ted!' cried catherine. 'you get prizes when you are good, industrious children, and your work is not worth money yet. some day, when you are quite grown up, you will be able to earn payment, as mr. north does, but only if you learn well while you are young.' 'did _you_ learn well when you were six?' asked toddie, anxiously peering into his face. 'i am not quite certain, dear, but i was always very fond of reading.' 'and i say, are you working for prizes too, as we are?' brian glanced smilingly at catherine, who blushed radiantly as he answered: 'yes, ted, for a prize that is very beautiful; but i cannot stay to tell you now what the prize is, because i am going out with miss carmichael this afternoon.' 'carr, you'll tell us all about it to-night, won't you?' ''bout mr. north's prize!' added toddie. an interruption occurred at this moment. a servant brought in a note for catherine, and explained that mr. carmichael's carriage had come for her. the letter was as follows: 'carm hall. 'my dear niece,- 'i hope you will give me as much of your society as possible to-day (bringing mr. north with you, if he has arrived yet in beverbridge); but apart from this desire of mine, pray keep the carriage waiting as long as suits your convenience. 'believe me to be, 'your affectionate uncle, 'ross carmichael.' 'oh, good-bye to our nice walk!' sighed the girl mischievously, as she handed the note to brian. 'a closed carriage too! i see it through the window! and this is such a lovely autumn day! dear old uncle, i ought to be ashamed of my grumbles, though, for he meant to show me a most considerate attention!' brian laughed, as he answered: 'the walk is a loss, certainly, but by driving we shall be able to spend a longer time at carm hall, and i am anxious to make the acquaintance of your relatives.' 'mr. carmichael is a charming old gentleman,' said mrs. arderne. 'and what is colonel carmichael, please, ma'am?' 'my darling girl, don't question me in that impertinent fashion. my admiration for your elder uncle does not make me blind to the charm of the younger.' 'uncle jack impressed you favourably, i am certain, though you saw so little of him!' 'mr. north, do you mean to allow catherine to obstinately insist upon offending mr. ross carmichael?' brian looked from the interrogator to catherine's demurely smiling face, then back again. 'if i wished catherine to be worldly-wise, mrs. arderne, i should be wishing her to give me up.' 'no, not necessarily,' cried the kind little woman, anxious to make amends for having reminded him of his poverty. 'if mr. ross takes a fancy to you, he might--do anything for you both. he is already much attached to his niece. it is only her obstinate choice of a home with uncle jack that stands in the way of her heiress-ship!' 'while catherine sees a work awaiting her, she will become happy only by doing it. i would rather she should be happy than rich.' 'then _you_ believe in her possession of a serious vocation to convert the inhabitants of redan cottage?' 'i always believe in a woman's vocation to do that good which she clearly sees ought to be done, and for which her gifts and sympathies fit her,' he answered gravely. 'oh, brian, thank you!' the girl cried gratefully. 'i thought that only catherine was quixotic and imprudent, but now i see that you are both in the conspiracy to ruin your prospects!' was mrs. arderne's regretful reply. 'at least you need not let uncle ross's horses catch their deaths of cold! go and get ready, catherine, foolish child!' as they were driven along the well-kept country road leading to carm hall, catherine and brian talked of their 'prospects' almost as practically as mrs. arderne could have done, but they were the prospects of finding work for him, not an heiress-ship for her! and to an irreligious or god-forgetting person their trust in the efficacy of asking heavenly aid would, no doubt, have seemed childish. they were content, however, because now they both believed that god would provide for the necessities of those who turned to him in faith. it was mr. carmichael's footman, not his personal attendant, james, who opened the door of carm hall to them, and they were ushered into the large drawing-room, where the master of the house was awaiting them. 'uncle ross, i have brought brian, you see!' 'i am glad to make your acquaintance, mr. north.' these were the first words spoken. some time elapsed before the trio could shake off the strangeness of their meeting; even the elderly man was conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. brian, who had come to be inspected, was perhaps most at ease. it was due, chiefly, to his adroit management of the situation that conversation became more confidential before long. in speaking of some news of the day, he alluded to the opinion advocated on the subject by the paper for which he had formerly worked, and expressed his regret at having lost his employment. 'for, as you know, sir, i am a very poor man, with the best possible reason for desiring success in my profession.' 'catherine says you are a hard worker when work is ready for you to do,' said mr. carmichael. 'it would be strange if i were not, since our home depends upon my industry,' answered brian, with a smile. 'we have been making each other very hopeful--haven't we, catherine?--by deciding that work usually comes to those who are anxious and _able_ to do it.' 'work, perhaps--though personally i doubt your optimistic theory--but not always the kind of work desired.' 'it would only be a question of capability with me. i would do any honourable remunerative task.' uncle ross began to question brian closely as to the writing he had done, and the extent of his literary and journalistic experience, and the talk became animated, interspersed with anecdotes of celebrated literature, and keen, clever expressions of opinion by the younger man. catherine sat silent, listening and taking pride in her lover. that uncle ross was pleased was evident. it was after tea--over which catherine presided--that a chance question brought discord among them. mr. carmichael asked their plans. was mr. north staying long in beverbridge? and how much of his time was already allotted? 'none, except this evening, when i believe i am to have the pleasure of making your brother's acquaintance,' answered brian. the frown, almost habitual, but which had been invisible during the last hour, returned to the squire's brow. 'i regret that my niece continues to court the favour of those persons--i should say of the person--who has wronged me.' 'it was an involuntary wrong; uncle jack desires nothing so much as to have his share in the quarrel forgiven him!' 'when trust has been once broken, trust can never again be established. catherine, i wish you to be happy; mr. north, i hope to make you an offer which you will be able to accept without loss of independence; but i do require from you both some practical evidence of your consideration.' 'but, uncle dear, i have been offered a home at redan cottage, and though i do not mean to give up my situation as mrs. arderne's companion, i have promised always to regard uncle jack's home as my own.' 'you have done this in defiance of my objection?' 'agatha wants me, poor lonely little soul! and from whom but an uncle could i accept a shelter?' 'true. i regret that my offer was not made first. however, all that is necessary now is that you should inform--the--the other uncle that you are obliged, for mr. north's sake, to withdraw your acceptance of the home.' 'why "for mr. north's sake"?' asked the girl, going at once to the root of the matter. uncle ross knew that this inducement was the strongest he could offer, and she, by her question, admitted as much. 'i will tell you my plan,' said mr. carmichael, 'though i had intended waiting for a day or two, until mr. north and i had begun to understand one another more. it is this. i purchase the paper known as _the circle_, and become sole proprietor. it is in the market, and is as safe an investment as any i know. then i offer mr. north the editorship, with a yearly increasing share in the profits. at my death he shall become proprietor in my stead. the sole return i require from either of you is a reasonable amount of companionship--say a frequent saturday to monday visit, as the paper is a weekly one, and occasional longer stays here at carm hall--with a cessation of your visits to the brother who has injured me. in the interests of peace and goodwill, i would sanction a meeting between you and him at christmastide.' while the squire had been speaking he had watched the faces of his auditors, had noted and apprised the strength of glad surprise, of gratitude, of hope, of disappointment, of disapproval. he could scarcely believe that his offer would be refused, yet he saw how trustfully brian turned towards catherine, leaving her to answer, and how brave was the determination in catherine's eyes. 'uncle, your offer of help is a very large one, and we both thank you for it; but i cannot, even for brian's sake, break my word to uncle jack, who was the first to offer me a home, and to agatha, who wants me. neither could i enter upon a share in the quarrel, taking your part in it, since i believe that, though uncle jack may have acted imprudently, he never meant to make loring turn against you. i think that you might hold out a hand to him. he would be so glad, for he frets over your estrangement, and prays for you every day.' 'my dear niece, even a young and charming woman is not entitled to give advice to her elders. on my part, i advise you not to let mere sentiment stand in the way of your future husband's advancement in life.' 'i could not be so much indebted to you while i blame you in my heart. oh, uncle, if a young woman ought not to judge her elders, when she is called upon to decide between them, she is obliged to consider what is her duty! my choice was declared when uncle jack made to me the best offer in his power, and brian will not wish me to break my word to him, to agree to behave towards him as though i possessed one tithe less of the respect, love and admiration i have always felt for him!' brian responded to this appeal gravely and resolutely. 'while regretting the necessity to refuse so generous an offer, i think catherine is quite right. this family quarrel exists through no fault of ours, so maybe it is not fair that we should suffer through it; but as we have to choose a side in it, we are bound in honour to make the choice in sympathy with our honest opinion of the right, not letting ourselves be influenced by the gain or loss of any worldly advantage. in catherine's name, as well as in my own, sir, i express a hope that our being unable to accept favours from you will not prevent our owning your friendship.' the squire turned abruptly aside and crossed the room to the window, where he stood for a few minutes gazing out. land, houses, wealth, position, ease,--all these things had been scorned once by young loring carmichael; now they were once again refused by catherine and her poor journalist lover. yet the squire had spent his lifetime in amassing these goods,--had made great sacrifices for them, had toiled feverishly in his youth, and plodded through his best years of manhood,--had believed that wealth rules the world, and is the chief power over men and women. this second blow was a hard one, but he was too proud a man to wish to show chagrin. as he returned from the window he replied to brian. 'you must forgive me if i think you foolish. having made you an offer, for which you have been good enough to express gratitude, it would be unreasonable were i to quarrel with you for refusing it. your peculiarly delicate conscience will interfere with your chances in life, i fancy; but argument with an obstinate man is worse than useless.' catherine approached him, and clasped his right arm with her two hands, crying pleadingly: 'uncle, say you forgive me for refusing. i don't want to lose your affection. i told you the other day that i sought you out for the sake of your old kindness to me, with no idea that a penniless niece might be helped by your money.' the ring of truth in her voice touched the old man's heart, making him yet more regret her refusal of his offer. here was honesty shining behind those frank brown eyes, and he half repented having hedged his plan round with conditions. but obstinacy, the fault of his old age, prevented him from withdrawing one of his former words. 'i forgive you, catherine. i trust you may not suffer much through your folly,' was his sole answer. chapter x the unexpected happens catherine's choice had been finally made, approved by brian and declared. they decided that there was no need to tell uncle jack of the offer uncle ross had made them, not unless he were to question them in such a manner that truth would be sacrificed by silence. and this did not happen. the colonel was anxious to be assured that his brother would not quarrel with them on account of catherine's promise to regard redan cottage as home, and when he was gratified by receiving this assurance he believed that all was well. 'uncle ross has forgiven me. i shall go to see him sometimes, just as i have been doing,' she said. those were delightful days during which brian remained in beverbridge. not only did mrs. arderne kindly invite him a great deal to her house, but she allowed her companion so much liberty that the young people were almost constantly in one another's company. 'i'm afraid i haven't been of much service to you lately!' the girl exclaimed penitently, when brian had returned to town. 'nonsense, my dear!' was the little lady's prompt answer. 'you simply obeyed my wishes, which happened to coincide with your own. i derived a great deal of entertainment as well as pleasure from observing you and your lover. good gracious, what a weary-looking, thin fellow he is! but his holiday did him good, and his face was rapidly gaining a peaceful expression, which i hope it won't lose directly he sets to work again.' 'oh no, that expression has come to stay!' catherine replied, with a happy smile. 'what do you mean, you perplexing young woman? how can you possibly tell? your brian will begin to overwork himself again just as soon as he gets an opportunity. and unless he does, thanks to your united folly, you will never be able to get married.' 'brian's peace doesn't come from any cause that can be taken away from him, dear mrs. arderne. not even great fatigue, nor a breakdown in health could rob him of it.' 'religion again, catherine!' 'yes; trust in god. oh, i wish you would rejoice with me over brian's new knowledge! i wish you would understand what true happiness is, you dearest of employers!' mrs. arderne kissed the speaker, but shook her head. 'i've not a religious mind, catherine. it refuses to concern itself chiefly with spiritual matters. the unseen thing called faith was always a mystery to me. of course, god must exist, since we do, and the earth must have been made by him; but if he wants us to love him, he should manifest himself to us.' 'so he does, in wonderful ways to those who seek him. you would not have him speak intimately to persons who will not listen for his voice? in countless mysteries he is always proving his power, in the things he has created; but human beings turn away their eyes from the evidences of his power and their own helplessness. directly a soul begins to grope after the light, light comes in plenty. it is those souls which do not wish for faith which remain desolate for want of it!' 'no wonder, say i, that some do not wish for it, since its possession seems to entail upon them such extremes of self-sacrifice.' catherine pondered this remark, mrs. arderne watching her face meanwhile, and admiring the grace of her bended neck and the sweetness of her smile. 'do you know, dear friend, i think all the better parts of ourselves are in great sympathy with self-sacrifice' (this was the outcome of her reflections), 'since love is the greatest joy we know, and love means preferring another's happiness to our own. if a man loves a comrade, he will go into dangers for his sake; if a woman loves her husband, even if he be unkind to her, she will spend her life in trying to make his happiness, and in shielding him from blame; and what will not some mothers give up for the sake of their children? this seems to me to be the truth of the matter--that self-sacrifice becomes happiness when it is founded upon sufficient love. no doubt happiness follows any renunciation for the sake of duty; but the other is the more human point of view.' 'and what lesson do you deduce from that truth, catherine?' mrs. arderne was interested in the study of her companion's opinions. 'that love of god makes sweet and easy every sacrifice made for him. christ, the great model of self-renunciation, appeals for sympathy to the better self within each one of us--which was created in us--the breath of god in man. and it is only those who let god live within the soul, who do not hinder his work, who desire his guidance and control, who feel strong enough to be happy in a life which is all uncertainty. the luckiest man in all the world may be destined for overwhelming misery and pain to-morrow; it is only the man whose happiness consists in obedience to god's will, and in hope for an eternity cf perfect joy, whose peace neither fear nor suffering _can_ overwhelm!' 'it is a pity that we do not have female clergy, my dear. if we did, you might become a popular preacher.' 'oh, you are laughing at me! am i too fond of talking about my opinions? i was only trying my best to answer the questions you asked me.' 'yes, i know. i like to listen to you, though i wish you were less convincing. my own life always looks a poor, dreary, selfish one, filled with perils i've no courage to face, and my longing to be braver always frets me, after i have heard some of your sermonettes, child. if great misery or suffering were to overwhelm me to-morrow, i don't know what i should do!' 'you would lay your burden upon the saviour, would you not, you darling?' 'how could i, after ignoring his existence so long as my life was placid. certainly he must be generous, or he would send trials at once to test me, and to prove his power.' 'if he did, it would only be in his mercy, in order to expose you to the influence without which you will not seek the only lasting happiness.' mrs. arderne sighed. 'i _will_ turn over a new leaf; you shall help me, dear. i have been very much worried of late, because my husband wants me to rejoin him soon in india, and i don't want to go out there. my babes must stay in england. i will not have their health injured, perhaps permanently, by my selfish longing to keep them with me; and how can i bear to part from the darlings?' there was a tremor in the mother's voice. catherine clasped the little woman in her arms, and laid her cheek against her face. 'oh, you might have told me sooner of your anxiety! would it not have been easier to bear, if you had told some one, even me, who would have sympathised?' 'i knew you would say i must go. it _is_ my duty, i admit. henry has let me have a long holiday trip--first to australia, now to england. i have seen all my friends and relatives, and recovered my own health. with the exception that it is terribly hard to leave my children, there is not the slightest excuse for me to stay here.' 'is the climate _really_ so bad?' 'for children, yes. they shall not grow up sickly because their mother thought more of her own happiness than of their welfare.' 'and you expressed a wonder, only a few minutes ago, that any one could desire faith which might entail self-sacrifice! oh, you dear, brave little mother, even while you are lonely for want of your babies, will you not be proud and glad because you have loved them better than yourself? that is the way in which gladness comes from loving god. and it is he alone who can comfort you, to whom you can pray for ted and toddie; to whose loving care you can confide them, knowing that he can guard them better even than your love could do, were you always close beside them!' mrs. arderne laid her hand on her companion's shoulder, and indulged in a hearty cry. 'oh, cath!' she said at last, 'i _must_ learn to love god now, for i shall be so lonely in india, and i must feel that i can do something for the babies when i am far away from them. he won't be angry and refuse to listen to me, will he, because so long as i was quite happy i did not serve him?' 'the labourer who came at the eleventh hour into the vineyard received the same pay as those who had borne the heat and labour of the whole day. for god sent not his son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.' after another silence mrs. arderne said: 'when i go, you will take charge of ted and toddie? promise me that, catherine. whether you live in redan cottage, or in your husband's home, you can give a shelter to my babes. there need be no difficulty about money, for i can make a liberal allowance for their comfort, and to do _something_ towards recompensing your care of them. this idea only occurred to me the other day, after i received henry's letter asking me to come back soon to him, and then i felt i could have hugged you for refusing to be adopted by your uncle ross!' 'he did not want to adopt me, dear. i should have had a home of my own. still, perhaps he would not have liked me to bring ted and toddie on constant visits to carm hall; and if i have charge of them, i will never be parted from them.' 'if? tell me you _will_, catherine. i can only be happy about them if i leave them in your care.' 'i promise i will have them, if uncle jack does not refuse, and he is not likely to do that.' 'you do not speak of brian's opinion.' 'there is no need. brian will be glad for me to do anything in the world that i can do to ease your anxiety. besides, are you not making me a most helpful offer? you are going to keep on your companion, letting her live at home. she would be altogether delighted, were it not that she will be parted from you!' 'you must write to me, cath, very, _very_ often; and you won't let the babes forget me, will you? oh, but i know you will not! your salary must be doubled, so that you are no expense to uncle jack, and we will decide on a sum to pay for the board of ted and toddie. dear child, it is a comfort to me to feel that you will benefit by my misfortune. you'll be able to save money, to help your lover, and in a few years henry will bring me back to england.' after a little more discussion of this plan, mrs. arderne sent catherine to take the news to redan cottage. chapter xi confidences and an attempt only agatha was at home this evening, and her joy may be imagined. 'oh, _catherine_; you will come to live here, with those two dear children? we shall have you, just as we planned to do! and you are _glad_ to come!' a short while ago the little girl would have said, '_i_ shall have you,' and would not have troubled to question whether or not the arrangement would bring joy to others; but the influence of catherine's teaching was working within this heart. 'glad?--yes indeed, dearie!' 'and you will talk to me every day about god, until he seems real and near? then i shall not be so dreadfully afraid of dying.' the colonel returned to the house early in the evening, to be greeted by the radiant smiles of his niece and ward. the former rose from her low seat by agatha's couch, and advanced to meet him with her hands outstretched, and cried,-'i want to come "home" to stay, dear uncle. will you have me?' it was sweet for her to see the joyous light that broke over his face as he listened to her explanations, for she learned to understand more and more how much he had wanted her. his earnest words of welcome were not necessary, though they also were sweet to catherine. later, when he was walking back to woodley villa with her, she learned a fact which robbed her prospects of some of their joyousness, but which made her trebly thankful that she was to live 'at home' for the future. they had reached the gate of mrs. arderne's house, when uncle jack laid his hand detainingly on his niece's arm, and said,-'lassie, you know that my pension is a very small one, and that it will die with me?' 'yes?' 'when agatha comes of age, if she lives, she will come into a tiny fortune; but meanwhile, the sum that was allowed me for her maintenance is barely sufficient.' 'are you afraid that i shall prove an extravagant housekeeper?' 'no, dear,--no. but if i were to die,--what would become of agatha?' 'could i take care of her,--i mean, would she suffer if i had to provide for her altogether out of that sum which you say is barely sufficient?' 'you could do it, lassie, but she would be a great tie.' 'i will never desert her while she needs me. even if brian would not let me have her with me, and you know that is an unnecessary supposition, i could make arrangements for her to board and lodge somewhere quite near, so that i could be often with her. you meant, did you not, that you could not bear to think of her being left lonely, and obliged to think and manage for herself? i would prevent that.' uncle jack smiled, and squeezed the arm he was holding. 'god bless you, dearest,--you have taken a load of anxiety off my mind! yes, that _was_ all i meant. i couldn't endure the thought that my poor agatha might be utterly alone. probably my brother would offer her a home,--but i could not count upon that.' 'but you--you are not going to die soon. i mean you--you are not ill?' 'for a year past i have had need to be careful of myself. my heart is in a wrong condition, so the doctor tells me. in fact, lassie, his warnings simply amount to this, which we all believe of ourselves,--that i might die any moment, if god so pleased.' for a while catherine was speechless. then she realised the truth which the colonel's words had suggested--threatened his life might be, but it could not end until the creator had ordained that he should die. 'no wonder you have been anxious about agatha. dearest uncle, do not worry about her any more. please god, we will keep you for many, many years to come, but if he were to call you away from us, we would cling to one another for all our lives.' 'lassie, lassie,--i didn't mean to bring tears into your eyes! you mustn't be less brave than your words. we are all under orders,--and a good soldier never lets himself fear the next command.' 'no, i will remember your advice,--colonel.' there was a smile on her lips now, as she gazed lovingly into the old man's face. 'this is a secret from agatha, of course--she is not strong enough yet to bear burdens that can be spared her. you and i are more like comrades, lassie, who can hearten and strengthen one another by exchanging ideas and knowledge.' 'i shall always ask god to help me to help you, then, uncle jack, for you are naturally a brave fighter, while i am but a girl.' 'many a woman's courage has shamed a man! i remember hearing how, just before the battle of inkerman----' and then followed an anecdote, the telling of which brought fire into the eyes of the old soldier, and a thrill into his voice. catherine, watching him, guessed that it was in this unconscious manner that he had inspired poor loring carmichael with that love for the military profession which had caused him to anger his uncle ross. an unconscious influence!--this it was for which uncle ross would not forgive his brother, who daily grieved for the estrangement between them! and though loring had died young, had he not died honourably? since there must be soldiers, why, some must die young,--and all honour be to them! surely uncle jack had done loring no great injury after all. the young man had been spared the temptations of long life, and had gone to find the reward which the king of battles gives to all loyal-hearted fighters. while hearing the anecdote of the battle of inkerman, catherine carmichael once more resolved to make every effort to bring about a reconciliation between her uncles. 'that was a fine story!' she cried, when the tale was ended. 'yes, lassie; women are very brave,--often. you have made me happy to-night. i could say you have taken away my last trouble, if it were not for ross' anger against me. god knows i would give the rest of my life, if possible, in exchange for the reinstating of the old regard we had for one another! we were devoted to one another as lads and young men, catherine. there was never a quarrel between us,--and we were friends, true, absolute friends, until ross caught the gold fever, that passion for money-earning and hoarding which ruins many men.' 'that was the beginning of your estrangement?' 'that began to put us out of sympathy; but i want him just as badly as ever, lassie. after almost a lifetime of brotherly affection, this separation is terrible. i think the tie that binds one man's heart to another is tremendously powerful. i shouldn't wonder if ross were wishing for my friendship all the while almost as strongly as i long for his; but his pride has grown very stubborn, and i did him an undoubted injury, though i meant no harm.' 'god will answer our prayers, uncle jack, dear. the reconciliation will come some day.' 'his will be done!' was the reverent answer. then the colonel suddenly remembered how long he had kept his niece standing talking by the gate,--and they parted with a great hand-clasp,--'just like comrade-soldiers,' as catherine thought to herself. she ran indoors, and sought out mrs. arderne, who was in the nursery putting away the toys which ted and toddie had been playing with before they had been carried away to bed. 'cath! your face has a cloud over it!' 'oh, you quick-sighted friend!--yes, i want to tell you about something--about uncle jack.' the little woman drew a chair forward, and made the tall girl sit down; then standing beside her, pillowed her brown head on her arm. 'let me hear all,--it is my turn to try to comfort you now!' gradually the tale was told, and catherine did not pretend not to be deeply grieved about her uncle's illness. warm-hearted, tender-natured as she was, she could not fail to sorrow over the news he had told her of his state of health, although she never lost consciousness of that beautiful truth that god was taking care of him. 'you see, god may mean to take him from me soon,' she explained, clinging to the encircling arm. 'i cannot tell _how_ soon. god has a right to do so. his decrees are always for our good, but--but--i love uncle jack so truly, and i have only just found him! it seems so hard to contemplate the possibility of having to give him up to god just yet. you won't think me wicked, or a hypocrite, to be feeling like this, will you?' 'no, no, childie! your religion would not be beautiful at all, if it did not make allowance for natural human feelings. resignation must be the result of sorrow, mustn't it? poor, dear old gentleman! i hope and trust that he may be spared to you for a long, long time. and you know, dear, threatened lives are often lengthy. you must take great care of him.' 'indeed i will! do you not think that his trouble must be very bad for him?--his regret about the quarrel? he told me to-night that he would gladly give the rest of his life, if by so doing he could become friends again with his brother.' 'can't you soften mr. carmichael's heart by telling him of his brother's illness?' catherine raised her face, and eagerly considered this suggestion. 'oh, if i only could coax him to make the least advance, or even to meet uncle jack somewhere for a talk, the battle would be won! it is dreadfully selfish of me to be sitting here crying, when i ought to be forming plans of action and praying for success with them!' 'oh, you energetic young woman, you need not grudge yourself five minutes' rest and indulgence in tears! why, a good cry sometimes does a girl a world of good, and acts as a tonic, so that she can work fifty times better after it.' 'i know, and you are such a dear to cry upon!' 'we are to be parted so soon, cath, that it is best for us to help one another all we can now.' 'will it be very soon? agatha asked me, but i told her that i did not know.' 'i have been making my plans while you were away, and i have decided to leave england the week after next. nurse can have board wages instead of her notice, unless, indeed, you would like to keep her on. you are quite welcome to do so, if you prefer it.' 'there would be no room for her in redan cottage, and i would much rather have ted and toddie all to myself. you do not imagine that i regard a nurse's daily work as hard or derogatory, do you? why, it is some of the best and greatest labour a woman can possibly find to do!' 'my children are extraordinarily lucky little people to be left in your care, catherine!' said the mother gratefully. 'so you will be with your husband for christmas?' 'yes,--poor henry! i had contemplated inviting lots of friends down to stay with me, and indulging in all the yule-tide frivolities and entertainments of the neighbourhood--dances, etc.; but my heart has reproached me too strongly. thanks to you, i'm not half as pleasure-craving a butterfly as i used to be. duty seems not only best, but happiest. once i have got over the parting with you and the chicks, i know i shall be glad to be with henry, in spite of the climate.' the two women kissed one another, and clung together, feeling that their troubles had wrought a strong tie of sympathy between them. then ensued a long, thoughtful silence, which was broken at last by catherine's earnest, low-toned voice, saying,-'do you remember the words of jesus christ to simon peter: "i have prayed for thee that thy faith fail not; and when thou are converted, strengthen thy brethren"? i have always thought that so touching an instance of our lord's mercy! for he knew that peter was about to deny him, yet he prayed that in sin he might not lose his faith, but, in spite of his errors, come to be a teacher of others. dearest of friends, i am only an ignorant, sinful creature, but if we ask god to help me, he will teach me how to watch over and train ted and toddie, so that they may not suffer for want of their mother's presence.' 'cath,--teach them to be like yourself, and i shall be more than satisfied!' chapter xii good-bye catherine wrote two long letters next morning--one to brian, the other to uncle ross--to acquaint them with her new prospects. she concluded the letter to her uncle in this way:- 'i shall be sorry if my going to live at redan cottage displeases you, but i know you will be glad for me to do anything i can to serve my kind friend, mrs. arderne,--and remember, you promised not to quarrel seriously with 'your affectionate niece, 'catherine carmichael.' in the course of the same day she received his reply, brought down to her by a groom. her uncle assured her of his esteem for mrs. arderne, and his unalterable affection for herself, and expressed satisfaction that the proposed change in her circumstances would be of pecuniary advantage to her. redan cottage was not so much as mentioned, nor was uncle jack nor agatha. brian's reply, which was lengthy, greatly comforted catherine. not only did he thoroughly approve mrs. arderne's plan, but he sent such earnest sympathy, combined with encouragement, on the subject of the colonel's state of health, that his promised wife felt that she possessed in him a consoler upon whose perfect understanding and stable judgments she could always rely. and, in advising her to hope for success in her efforts to effect reconciliation, he alluded to 'your happy faith, which you have taught me to share.' during the following days uncle jack and mrs. arderne, agatha, and the children, met many times, and inaugurated friendships, greatly to catherine's delight. 'that old man is a hero and a darling!' the vivacious little lady told her companion one evening, after they had spent some hours at redan cottage. 'yet you once wanted me to give up his friendship, to refuse his offer, to practically behave as though i did not love him, and all for the sake of uncle ross's money!' 'cath, don't throw my past folly in my face! i didn't know your uncle then, and i felt sure you were championing the one because he was the poorer,--out of a mingling of quixotic chivalry and obstinate pride.' 'what is your opinion of my poor little agatha?' 'i don't like her--i've not advanced far enough in the study or practice of universal charity to feel sure that i love her, as we are told to love all men! as for loving her specially, as you seem to do, that is quite out of the question for me,--a thing far beyond the bounds of possibility.' 'she only shows you her outward self,--the bad manners and forgetfulness of others of a spoilt child; if she had shown you her heart, with all its pathetic longings, fears, and affections, all its contradictory beauty and ugliness, you would be just as fond of her as i am.' 'i can't think so. the only reason why i feel the least tenderness towards her is the fondness she shows for my babies.' 'the more you see of her the faster will grow that tenderness. she is one of the many girls who suffer countless deprivations on account of their unconciliatory manners, and who remain lonely and morbid because no one ever loves them well enough to gain their confidence.' 'but supposing there seems nothing worth loving?' 'that can't ever be--not to a person who sees god's handiwork--something, therefore, of god's own beauty--in every human face,' said catherine. before the day came for mrs. arderne's departure from beverbridge, she had become genuinely interested in agatha, and much more friendly towards her. ted and toddie, with the impulsiveness of their youth, had forced their passage into agatha's love. 'we only just wanted to be nice at first, 'cause we was sowwy for you, 'cause you can't get up,' ted announced once; 'but now we weally loves 'oo.' and after a speech of this description, delivered by a truthful, confiding, kissable urchin six years of age, and echoed by his more demure but equally kissable sister, what could agatha's pride do but yield? she was always happy, even when suffering pain, if ted and toddie were playing about the room, running up to her couch every few minutes to ask her opinion or advice, or to bestow a 'weal good cuddle' upon her. 'muvver, you've _no_ idea how _vewwy_ nice ag'tha is,' declared toddie. ted one evening determined to break the ice between his mother and agatha, and proceeded to act upon his intention with his usual all-subduing bluntness. 'ag'tha,' he announced, 'you like muvver, don't you? and muvver, you like ag'tha, don't you? so s'pose you just kiss one anover an' be fwends ever afterwards?' the kiss was given, laughingly; indeed, it could not well be refused. agatha wondered if ted were right, if mrs. arderne did really like her; and this thought made her manner gentle and timid, the consequence of which was that the child's surmise was proved accurate, even though it had been a mistake at first. the time for the mother's departure arrived all too rapidly. she had superintended the fitting up of ted and toddie's nursery in redan cottage, had found out, with pride, that the little people were already beloved by all the household, and knew that they were certain to be quite happy with catherine. perhaps her heart suffered a few pangs because of her knowledge that they would have grieved far more, had it been catherine who was obliged to leave them; but this reflection she resolutely put away from her, as one likely to encourage selfishness. after all, the fact was not strange. it was catherine who had appealed to the souls of the babies, taken notice of their young emotions, studied their characters, helped and consoled them in their troubles; she, the mother, had petted them egregiously when they pleased her, and banished them without remorse when their prattle had tired her. by assiduously caring for their health, she had imagined that her duty had been fully done, but now, when it was too late, she realized that even small children should be taught to respect the justice of praise and blame, punishment and reward, and that they turn naturally with the greatest affection to those who appeal to their generosity. while catherine had taught them 'be good, or you will grieve your loving father in heaven, who sees you every minute of the day and night, who is sorry when you are naughty, and glad when you are trying to please him,' mrs. arderne had ruled by alternate bribes and threats, such as, 'if you are naughty, you shall not have that picture-book i promised you,' or, '_do_ be good, ted and toddie, then you shall have those nice chocolates out of the cupboard.' often and often had ted's spirit failed to be subdued by these means; he had been known to answer, 'don't care! do wivout choc'lates'; but a few minutes' talk with catherine had never been found to result in anything but meekness and repentance. it was the old story--when worldly measures proved worthless, god's love produced wonders. the day of farewells came at last, after a few days which had seemed to lag because they had been filled with sorrow. mrs. arderne was to start very early for london, so the parting with ted and toddie was a silent one. bending over them where they lay happily asleep in their cots--ted pouting and toddie smiling seraphically--the mother would not waken them to gratify herself at their expense. 'it's best that they don't know,' she whispered, 'for they would cry, though you could soon comfort them.' then she kissed the rosy cheeks, laid her hands on the golden head and the brown one, and let catherine lead her out of the room. 'oh, cath, cath, be good to them!' 'you know i will, dearest.' 'don't let them forget me. try to make them remember their mother's good points only, if she has any. i have not been the best of mothers, but it was through ignorance; and, please god, i'll learn all about him, so that the children may not find me wanting in sympathy when i come home to them.' 'pray for them night and morning, just when you feel sure they are saying their prayers and asking god to bless "muvver."' 'oh, their dear little lisps! they won't be babies any longer when i see them again, my darlings!' this was the worst parting; though the little woman clung to catherine at the last moment in the railway carriage, and felt, as she owned, that she could scarcely bear to let her go, the mother's sorrow was naturally the stronger, as was proved by her last words. 'be good to them, cath, take care of them.' as the girl returned alone to the villa, to superintend the removal of herself and the children to redan cottage and to part with the nurse, she was conscious of a feeling of dread at the responsibility she had adopted, as well as of a loneliness due to the loss of her friend; and it was only by means of prayer that she regained courage. not until ted and toddie were installed in their new home did catherine break the news to them of their mother's departure. '_oh, carr, she's not gone'd?_' the pathetic cry, the startled look went straight to the girl's heart. 'ted, she is coming back again!' she cried, clasping him to her breast, 'and you must try ever so hard to grow good, wise, and clever, that she may be really proud of her boy!' toddie sat down on the floor and began to weep, refusing utterly to be comforted until she had had her cry out, when she displayed healthy curiosity regarding her new doll's cradle, her mother's parting gift. ted had by far the more affectionate disposition, and grieved trebly as much as his sister, as catherine had expected. he tried to hide his unhappiness, even from her, until night, when she found him sobbing pitifully in the dark, and had to spend a long while in endeavouring to soothe him. at last he cried himself to sleep in her arms. it was many days before the little fellow ceased to fret, and at one time catherine began to fear for his health; but she and agatha managed him so adroitly that he was surprised into laughing over a new game one evening, and after that laugh his spirits gradually returned to him. 'his mother will cry over the letter i have sent her, describing ted's way of bearing his first big sorrow,' said catherine to agatha; 'but they will be tears that will do her heart good.' toddie was quite placid again by this time, and was becoming the idol of all but agatha and catherine, who could not help loving ted best, though they tried to show no preference. 'uncle jack' was the tiny girl's favourite friend, and he spent most of his leisure in her company, which never failed to cheer him. how greatly he was in need of cheering, catherine now began to discover. she loved him so well that her power of character-reading was greatly aided in his case. when agatha thought him merely tired, catherine knew that he was dejected; when he was laughing aloud over his games with the children, catherine saw the weary look in his eyes, detected a wistful cadence in his voice, and knew that he was thinking of the quarrel which was as a dark shadow over these years of his old age. morning and night, at family prayers, a petition was offered up for the reconciling of all family feuds, the forgiveness of injuries between friends, the health and happiness of relatives. and one day some time after christmas the colonel turned to those around him, saying simply:-'this is the anniversary of the day when i and my brother ross quarrelled, when he told me we could live together no longer. will you all pray silently for his welfare, here and hereafter, and for our reconciliation, if god in his mercy wills it? i know i have always prayed aloud for this before, in other years; but to-day--my courage fails me.' 'catherine, if i should die suddenly,' he said when next alone with his niece, 'i trust to you to tell ross i have never borne him any ill-will, and that i hope to meet him in the kingdom where all the secrets of men's hearts will be made plain, and where the god of love reigns for ever and ever.' 'i promise to bear your wish in mind, dearest uncle,' was her answer. and she resolved that not another day should pass before she made one more attempt to soften her other uncle's heart and overrule his pride. chapter xiii the fate of a letter next morning dawned fair. catherine was astir early, as was her custom; but, instead of writing letters, devoted all her time to meditating upon her resolution to plead with uncle ross. these meditations were interspersed with earnest prayers, and with a study of those parts of the bible which she thought would best help her in her task. 'i must go to work very humbly,' she told herself, 'or else i may make some serious mistake, and maybe increase instead of lessening uncle jack's trouble. if i remember all the time that no action of mine can be the least use unless god helps me, then i am not likely to do harm.' her desire to make another effort on uncle jack's behalf was just as strong by morning light as it had been the preceding evening, but the difficulties in the way of success looked more colossal. what could she say, that would not be mere repetition of all she had already said? nothing, except that now she could plead for the reconciliation to take place because the colonel's life was in danger. and if uncle ross did not care sufficiently for his brother to be touched by this news, influenced by the dread lest the quarrel should continue until death, there was no strong argument upon which the pleader could fall back as a last resource. but surely, surely uncle ross _would_ care! the lonely old man, surrounded by riches and comforts, _must_ be longing all the while for the brotherly love he had cast away, and repeatedly refused to welcome back again! catherine's warm heart glowed with affection for all who were good to her, but more especially for those to whom she felt drawn by the tie of sympathy; and she could not believe that a brother could possibly continue to refuse to clasp a brother's hand, nor that any one could long withstand the gentle fascination of uncle jack's sincerity. the more she prayed and meditated, the more hopeful did she become. she even found herself smiling over the contemplation of a dream-picture--the possible result of the efforts she was planning--of the brothers meeting once again as friends, not foes, and trying to outdo one another in their expressions of sorrow for the years of misunderstanding. 'uncle ross is generous at heart, i feel sure he is!' she thought. 'it is only, as uncle jack told me, that he has allowed his business career to spoil his outward character--he has grown too fond of money--hard, calculating, and cynical. but, in spite of his wealth, he is unhappy and lonely--he has come to regard his life as a failure. he will welcome the friendship and unmercenary devotion of the brother who has never ceased to sorrow for the loss of his regard!' before going downstairs to breakfast catherine woke and dressed the children and listened to their prayers. they clung round her and begged for a 'talk,' and this too she gave them--a quaint little morning homily--dealing with the probable events of the day, containing a promise to have a real, long game of play with them in the evening, to make up for leaving them with agatha until dinner-time. 'you will be dear, good little people, will you not, so that i may go to see uncle ross quite happily, without worrying about having left you at home?' ted laughed wickedly, but was instantly rebuked by toddie. 'naughty boy not to pwomise at once! _i'll_ be good, carr dear, but i can't keep ted fwom bein' bad.' 'ted will not break his word to me, i am certain of that,' said catherine, gravely regarding the mischievous-looking urchin. 'that's why didn't want to pwomise,' explained the rebel. 'feels naughty this mornin'.' 'come and kiss me.' this invitation could not be resisted. in a second he had scrambled on to her knee, was clasping both his fat little arms round her neck, and showering kisses upon her cheeks and brow. 'oh, ted, you do not wish to vex our good god, and to worry your own carr, do you?' '_ni-ever!_' cried ted with emphasis. 'only wanted to play pwanks, go an' tease hawwiet in the kitchen, an' make ag'tha let me do everything i like best!' 'you will do none of those things,' announced catherine firmly. ted, scarcely believing she could be angry, yet awed by the decided tone, gazed up at her, asking,-'_why_ won't i?' 'because you love me, ted. i cannot have that which _i_ like best, if you are determined to try to please yourself this morning. i shall have to stay at home to take charge of you, if you mean to be naughty.' 'an' you _weally_ want to go to see that howwid old man?' 'oh, ted,' put in toddie the virtuous, 'you _are_ a wicked, bad boy to-day! i wonder carr has any patience wiv 'oo.' 'i shall be _very much_ disappointed if i cannot go to carm hall.' ted meditated for a minute, then he laughed delightedly,-'then i'll save all the pwanks up!' he announced. 'i promise dweffully solemnly that i'll be won'erful good all the times you'se away, carr lovey!' when catherine, having completed her conquest over ted's mischievous longings, ran downstairs to breakfast, she found a letter awaiting her. it proved to be from her melbourne cousin george, to whom she had written so long ago asking him for news of the last hours of poor loring carmichael. robert was shovelling away at the fire, and harriet was laying the meal, so after a few words to them catherine slipped away into the garden to read the long letter in peace. she was not in the least cold, though the january air was fresh, as she paced round and round the narrow gravel walk which surrounded the small lawn. her cheeks were glowing with a healthy colour, and her brown hair, having just been rumpled by that naughty ted, was blown in bewitching locks and curls about her brow. there was a happy smile of pleased expectation on her lips as she began to read, but it faded away and was replaced by a look of anxiety and grief long before she had finished the letter. after a few unimportant sentences george carmichael wrote:-'i know that i ought to have answered your letter long ago, and i should have done so, had i been certain how much i was justified in telling you about poor loring. you say you are in a position to make use of any information i can send you, but my knowledge seems to me to be of a kind which, if shared with our uncles, would only increase their quarrel, not lessen it. loring dictated two letters before he died, which i wrote and despatched as he desired--the one to uncle ross, the other to uncle jack. they were addressed to carm hall. as he was able to write through me, he did not give any verbal messages when he was dying. have you never heard of these letters? it is not possible, is it, that uncle jack never received his? there! that question is as bad as a lie, so please consider it scratched out. i know, by something you said in your last letter to me, that uncle j. can't have received it. these are the facts of the case. loring was offered his choice between giving up his intention to be a soldier, or accepting an income of â£2000 a year, with the prospect of inheriting almost all uncle ross's fortune. this sounds straight enough, but it was not straight, for he was bound over not to tell uncle jack of the bribe offered. uncle j. thought he was choosing simply between the army and an office stool. uncle ross offered him money down, and a life of idleness, spent where he pleased; in fact, there was nothing he would not have offered in order to buy out his brother's influence. when loring lay dying he considered himself freed from that promise of secrecy which he had made for his lifetime, and he wrote to uncle jack telling him how ross had acted. he also explained that he had left home without any farewells, in order to leave them free to forget him, the cause of their quarrel, and because he was indignant at the secrecy, which seemed dishonourable, of the offer made him. "you," he wrote, "would have scorned to privately bribe me, had you possessed my other uncle's wealth. i chose to follow my own wish in the matter of choosing a profession, since i felt that, by attempting to bribe me, uncle ross had absolved me from all obligation due to his former care of me. until he made that offer, which few young men would have refused, i was trying to subdue my longing for a soldier's life, that i might repay him for making me his heir. you never tried to influence me; you only told me true stories of a soldier's life. _it was entirely owing to uncle ross's secret persuasion that i left home to enlist._" there, my dear catherine, as nearly as i can remember, those were the words poor loring wrote to uncle jack by my hand in that letter which it is clear enough uncle jack has not received. my own opinion is, that it reached carm hall after the colonel's departure, and that uncle ross (knowing some of its contents through loring's letter to him) purposely refrained from forwarding it. if my suspicion is correct, the news i send you will surely increase the family quarrel rather than lessen it; but i place it in your hands to be used or not used, as you judge best. my opinion is that a reconciliation will never take place, if it cannot come to pass without a confession by the squire. it is more often the person who has done the injury, not the person injured, who refuses to forgive. if you ever wish for it, catherine, i can send you a copy of loring's letter to the colonel, for i have at home the rough notes for it--the words that his failing breath dictated to me.' [illustration] 'catherine, dear!' uncle jack had come to the open window of the dining-room, and was calling her in from the garden. 'coming!' there was no time to think over the letter she had been reading, and she must laugh and talk over the breakfast just as though no news had come to startle her. catherine made a brave effort to appear unconcerned, and, luckily, agatha was in a cheerful, unobservant mood; and the colonel, though he noticed that his niece's merriment was rather strained, guessed that she was tired, or maybe disappointed at having received no communication from brian. when prayers had been said, and agatha carried back to the couch in her own little sitting-room and given charge over ted and toddie, who promised to be 'beautifully good all mornin',' catherine was free to put one or two careful questions to her uncle. she went to him where he was sitting before his writing-table, and clasping his arm, knelt by his side, gazing affectionately into his face. 'dear, i--have been thinking a great deal about poor loring this morning.' 'ah! my dear boy! he was the best of lads; so honourable and high-spirited!' 'did he send you a message--or a letter--before he died, dear?' 'no, not a word. but you must not blame him for that, lassie. he may have had no time, have remained unconscious until the end; or i sometimes think he may have learned to regret his adoption of the profession, since for a gentleman a "private's" life is a hard one, and he may have felt anger against me for having caused him to become a soldier.' 'but you did not directly counsel him to enter the army, did you, uncle?' 'no, no; i never counselled him to refuse to obey the wishes of the uncle to whom he owed all. i only pleaded with ross for him, and no doubt i talked to him a great deal about the service--i could not help that; and he used to question me so eagerly. yet i have no doubt that i was to blame, as ross says i was, for the lad's rebellion and decision.' catherine rose, and kissed the old man's forehead before leaving him. 'i do not believe that loring ever regretted his decision or ceased to be grateful to you, dear uncle,' she said softly. she thought over george's letter while she walked the four miles to carm hall; but her resolution had sprung into being directly she had heard the colonel's self-blaming answer to her questions. she was indignant now on his behalf. had the squire indeed kept back the dying lad's letter to his best friend, the relative whom he had loved more than any other living creature? if so, then the time had come for her to make a bold attempt to force a reconciliation, unless she could persuade uncle ross to yield for reason's, for honour's, and for pity's sake. and uncle jack had said, 'i would gladly give the rest of my life, if possible, in exchange for the reinstating of the old regard we, ross and i, had for one another. i want him just as badly as ever, lassie!' oh, supposing the wrong were proved to have been done--and of this catherine could not have much doubt--if uncle ross would but ask for pardon, how gladly, generously, would not uncle jack give it! 'o my god, help me!' prayed the girl, as she hurried along the country road. 'without thy aid i can do nothing. help me not to judge others harshly, to remember that i _can't judge_ of the strength of those temptations to which others have yielded. let me forget myself and my own poor opinions; let me not speak angrily or foolishly; and if thy will does not forbid it, let me see my uncles true brothers again--uncle ross forgiven by the man he has injured, as a prelude to being pardoned by thee!' chapter xiv catherine's appeal when catherine carmichael reached carm hall she found that a groom was leading the squire's horse up and down the carriage drive. her uncle appeared at the hall door, booted for riding, just as she arrived at it; but he smilingly welcomed her, and gave orders that the spirited bay should be taken back to the stable. 'i do not receive visits from you so often that i can afford to cut them short, my dear,' he replied to her promise that she would not detain him long. 'don't take me into the drawing-room,' she petitioned. 'i have a great deal to say to you, uncle, and the library is so much more cosy. if you treat me as a stranger, my courage will fail me, and i shall not be able to find words in which to explain my reason for coming to-day.' he smiled. 'your wish is, of course, a command to me. i trust that nothing is troubling you? mr. north is not ill?' 'no; the trouble does not concern brian.' he wheeled the largest arm-chair near to the fire for her, and stood beside her, looking down into her face. his figure was upright, his eyes keen, but the lines in his brow were deeply cut, and his beard and hair were quite white. a fine old man, a typical squire, with an autocrat's expression. even while admiring her uncle, catherine was remembering the secret wrong he had done--the dishonouring small sins of which he had been guilty. his proud air and haughty manner hid remorse and self-condemnation; surely this must be so! 'your friend, mrs. arderne, is not ill either? the children cannot be unwell, or you would not have left them.' 'the troubles all concern uncle jack and--and you.' there was a great fear in her heart, and her voice trembled. oh, if this dread, this mastering weakness of will, were to continue, there would be no chance of influencing this stern, self-possessed man by her words! in that moment catherine both despised and detested herself. but she had sought powerful aid; she had put her case into the hands of her heavenly father, beseeching him to plead her cause for her through her own lips; and the remembrance of his mercy and goodness came back to her mind just as she needed it most. with god's help, wonders and miracles might be accomplished! at the mention of uncle jack the squire's frown had appeared. it was a visible effort to him to show the unvarying courtesy he deemed due to a woman when catherine would speak of his enemy. 'forgive me if i say that you had better have chosen a different confidant, if you wish to discuss affairs concerning my brother.' 'no other confidant would do, and i knew you would not refuse to listen to me.' 'i am powerless to refuse a lady's request, when it is in my power to grant it, when the lady is my niece, to whom i am attached, and when she proffers the request under my own roof. i can only request her to desist from making it.' 'uncle, i have such strong motives that i cannot yield my will to yours this time!' he smiled cynically. 'my dear catherine, you have not exhibited any willingness ever to consider my desires rather than your own!' a hot retort was just springing from her lips, but she restrained the wrong impulse. 'i am sorry, truly sorry, that i have not been able to please you. had i been in your favour, my task to-day would have been so much easier. uncle, let me stand beside you; i can talk better when i stand, and i am tall enough to look right into your eyes! don't be angry with me, dear! you were never vexed with "little catherine" in the old days. do you recollect one great argument we had about the necessity for men, as well as women, to lead religious lives? i was only a child; it was not easy for me to bear my part in that argument. i lost my temper, and behaved very impertinently to you, i'm afraid, yet you were not angry--certainly not the least bit sarcastic! when i apologised afterwards, you told me you "liked my spirited defence of that which i believed right!"' the squire's expression softened, and he laid his hand on that small but firm one which had stolen through his arm. 'are you preparing to lose your temper again, catherine?' 'no, i will try not to do so; i don't think i shall want to. uncle ross, you have not the least idea how unhappy this family quarrel is making your brother. he longs for your friendship, for the old affection between you. he told me, only a little while ago, that he would gladly give the remainder of his life in exchange for the reconciliation; only god does not let his creatures bargain with him in that way. i have come here to-day to plead for uncle jack, not to begin by defending him. i appeal to your sense of generosity first, to your memory of the love that united you brothers in your childhood, youth, and young manhood.' 'there is an insuperable obstacle against the proposed reconciliation.' catherine watched his face as he spoke this quiet sentence. yes, there was the obstacle of his false pride. he would not confess himself in the wrong; he could not endure the thought of humbling himself. the harsh tone of voice, the fixed tension of the brows, the weary, cynical smile--all these betokened the squire's sacrifice to his idol, self. that he still cared for his brother catherine felt certain. a warm regard, the growth of years and years of intimacy, does not melt away in a short time, nor can it be entirely obliterated by any quarrel. the seeds of affection were springing ever fresh in a heart which would not let love blossom and bear fruit. there was sadness in the words 'an insuperable obstacle.' 'you wish that obstacle did not exist?' for a few minutes ross carmichael hesitated. he was reading his own mind. did he not regret that unworthy attempt to secretly bribe loring to reject uncle jack's influence? did he not repent of the impulsive hiding away of that last letter of loring's--the deception of an instant which had obliged him to practise deceit ever since? 'yes, catherine, i regret the obstacle.' 'and is it not in your power to overcome it?' yes, it was, in two ways. either the squire could confess the injury he had done his brother, or he might make overtures of friendship without ever owning the secret wrong. the first method was too distasteful to his false pride; the second was impossible to a man whose honour had been twice denied, but had never succumbed beneath the treatment. call jack brother, welcome him home, press his hand, live in his company day after day, and all the while deceive him? no; the squire's nature rebelled fiercely against this idea. 'you will find me a--tolerably patient listener, my dear; but i refuse to be "heckled,"' was his answer. 'forgive me, uncle! i am so much in earnest that maybe i am imprudent! you know that i care very truly for you; that i care also for uncle jack; and while i _know_ that he grieves for your friendship, i believe you miss his presence here more than you will own. god gave you to one another; let your warm affection be a joy to you; and now that you are estranged you both are sorry for the loss of one another. uncle jack tells me, "i long for ross more than ever, now that i am growing old."' 'catherine, catherine, for heaven's sake desist from these appeals and arguments, which have no respect for my feelings, but which are totally useless!' 'it is those feelings to which i wish to appeal. they have slept too long; it is well for them to be roused!' cried the girl, clasping his arm with both her hands. 'you will feel remorse and sorrow all the years of your life, if uncle jack dies before you have made all the amends in your power!' '_dies!_' the squire's face had become ashen; his repetition of the word catherine had used betrayed the shock it had caused him. '_dies!_' he repeated. 'john is my junior. the chance is that i die before him.' 'no, uncle; for his life is threatened; it might end any minute, so the doctors tell him.' there was silence in the library for a while, only the fire flickered and spluttered fiercely, and the heavy drops of a rain-storm dashed against the windows. the squire stood erect, gazing straight before him, with not a change of one muscle of his face. yet no one, least of all catherine, could have seen that face without learning that a struggle and a grief were tearing his heart. while he was silent he was looking into the far past, to the childish days when jack had been all-in-all to him, when his affection for him had been of the loyal protecting order of the elder for the younger; looking back to the youth of mutual aspirations after higher things than worldly ambition, to the confidences of young manhood, to the devotion for one woman, which had never separated them, because for each it had been equally hopeless. how jack had proposed, after that sorrow, 'let us keep together through life, you and i, ross. we shall always understand and respect one another's memories'! how the promise had been kept, even when absence made letter-writing the only method of communication! how nothing but the elder's change of disposition had weakened the old tie! money, money, money,--this had become ross's idol; in serving it he had lost touch with the finer nature of his soldier brother, whose loyal, pure heart had remained faithful. then the episode of loring carmichael's adoption; their mutual pride in the prospects of the clever lad who was to carry the old name honourably into another generation, and keep the home and estate in order. then loring's favouritism for uncle jack; the squire's growing jealousy, and attempt to purchase his allegiance secretly. later, loring's choice, loring's departure; lastly, loring's death, and the concealed letter! no, not lastly, for years of estrangement had followed, beginning with a mere quarrel which could easily have been made up, but which had been sealed, as it were, by the squire's act of deception, that dishonouring wrong to which he would not own. he saw himself in his true colours now, and was bitterly shamed by the vision. but to be ashamed, and to own to the shame, were two different things. he contrived to hide his emotion. 'i am exceedingly sorry to hear of my brother's ill-health, catherine. still, that does not efface the wrong he did me.' 'what if i can prove to you that loring was not influenced in his final choice by uncle jack?' 'i fail to understand how that could be. you never met--my nephew.' 'no, uncle, but you have another nephew, who was his friend, who was with him before his death, who wrote for him two letters of farewell--one to you, one to uncle jack--my cousin george in melbourne.' the squire's expression changed again. he glanced anxiously into catherine's face. how much did she know? was his wrong-doing to be exposed, brought home to him by this penniless niece, who had refused to sacrifice her sense of duty for the gain of a fortune?--this girl, whose spirit he had admired in times past? it was too strange that she should humble him! could he not think of any way in which to make sure of her silence? no; for she was absolutely unselfish and honest. there was admiration for her in his mind, even while she was so calmly defying him. her truthful brown eyes did not falter beneath his glance; her temper was not aroused. she was simply in earnest--doing battle for uncle jack. he could not think how to answer her, until she spoke again, quietly: 'i know _all_ about the quarrel, uncle ross. george has written to me. the only thing i do not know is what became of loring's letter to uncle jack, for it was not delivered to him.' if catherine had expected to break down the reserve of his manner, she was disappointed. ross carmichael was bent upon enduring his position as well as possible. 'the letter came here after my brother's departure, and i omitted to forward it. had he sent for it at any time, he could have had it. it lies in the locked drawer of a bureau in the hall.' 'will you let me take it to him?' 'certainly.' 'oh, uncle, george told me one sentence that is in it. loring declared, "it is entirely owing to uncle ross's secret persuasion that i left home to enlist." now that you know that uncle jack did not do you the injury of influencing loring to leave you, won't you forgive and be friends with him again?' catherine's voice was no longer calm. her appeal was made in impassioned tones, and her eyes were full of tears. the squire unclasped her hands from his arm and turned away. 'if i am not mistaken, the--the position is changed between my brother and myself. john will probably be indignant because i--did not trouble to--to forward the letter. there was no absolute necessity for me to do so; it was his affair that he left me and went to live by himself.' 'since you have wronged him, do you not wish to make amends to him?' 'that will be done--at least, the wrong will be ended when you have taken him the letter.' 'no, uncle, for he cares far more for you than he ever cared for loring. he longs for your love again--your confidence. will you not make some advance to him, as he has made so many which you have ignored? think--it is in your power to make these later years of his life happy instead of sad! can you be so hard-hearted as not to do it?' the squire walked away to the window, where he stood, turning his back upon his niece,--silently fighting with his feelings. catherine watched him, and prayed. at last the answer came, in a voice unlike the squire's usual harsh accents. 'you shall take the letter, and you may tell john i--am sorry. i shall be in beverbridge this evening, at the club quite near you. you can send for me if--if john wants me.' chapter xv as god willed 'let me be driven down, and let your carriage wait to bring uncle jack back to you as soon as he has read loring's letter. don't you know him better than to think that he will be content to wait to answer you until this evening?' pleaded the girl, with an odd little choke in her voice. her mission was almost accomplished, for there was not the least doubt as to the nature of the reply one brother would make to the other. and at that instant the unexpected happened. the library door opened, and the colonel himself stood on the threshold. his gaze went past catherine, to the tall, straight figure at the window. '_ross!_' '_john!_' the squire had turned; the two men stood looking at one another. the younger advanced with his right hand outstretched: 'forgive me for coming, especially for forcing myself on you unannounced. my excuse was a telegram for catherine. james let me in. don't be angry with a faithful servant on my account. ross, i've tried before to make up the quarrel between us, but i have not tried _hard_ enough. to-day i've been reproaching myself.' 'god knows you have no cause, jack!' the two right hands were clasped now. 'i've been thinking a great deal about loring, poor, dear fellow, and i seem to have realised what a blow losing him was to you, ross. you wanted some one to be proud of, and he was worthy; and i, garrulous old man that i was, persuaded him to long to be a soldier. it was a great injury to you.' 'hush, john, you mustn't say so. i----' 'i have come to speak my mind out. let me do it. have patience with me just for a few moments. you refused my overtures towards reconciliation a few times, ross, and my pride kept me from offering any more. that was where i was wrong--most wrong. i called myself a christian, but my conduct was utterly un-christlike. _pride?_ what is that between brothers? we loved one another once, and it shall be no fault of mine if our hearts are divided. and to-day i have been remembering the exhortation, "let brotherly love continue." ross, if it is to end, it shall not be by my fault. so i have come to ask your pardon for all the ill i have ever done you, purposely or unconsciously.' 'no, no, john. all the wrong has been mine. you will not want to ask my pardon when you know all. i have deceived you, and----' catherine heard no more, for she stole out of the room, leaving the brothers together. * * * * * 'and to-morrow we go home!' agatha was the speaker. it was the evening of the same day, and she was nestling in catherine's arms. from the other little room across the hall came the sound of voices. uncle jack and uncle ross were together there, talking over the many memories they shared, making plans for their future, agreeing to forget the past. 'yes,' agreed the elder girl, in the happiest of tones. 'you and i, ted and toddie, even harriet and robert--we are all to leave the cottage for the hall. my dear little woman, your wish has come true. i am so very glad.' 'it is all your doing, catherine. oh, it is a lovely ending to the family quarrel! i never saw guardian look as radiant as he does now. you do believe i'm most pleased about that, don't you? i used to covet comforts and money most dreadfully, but you've taught me to understand how little joy they can give.' 'you've grown a great deal wiser lately, dearie; but that is because you have learned to love god.' 'and i never should have known much about him and his wonderful love for us all, if you hadn't come to teach me, catherine. don't you feel proud of all the good you've done? you've made me less horrid (i _was_ a little wretch before you came). you've helped guardian to find peace in religion; you've reconciled him and uncle ross; you've taken care of ted and toddie, so that mrs. arderne can't be anxious about them. _when_ did she say she was coming home?' 'the telegram said, "henry has been offered a good post. we come home in a month's time."' 'but you will live with us until you are married, won't you? you do not mean to go back to be mrs. arderne's companion?' the squire and the colonel entered the room, arm-in-arm, and heard agatha's eager question. 'my dear, catherine has promised not to desert us,' said uncle ross with a smile--'not until she marries. but as i mean brian north to become editor of _the circle_ as soon as possible, her stay with us may not last as long as we could wish for our own sakes.' 'oh, uncle, you _are_ good to me!' the squire turned to his brother. 'niece catherine scarcely seems to know the value of the work she has done for me, john. i am under an obligation to her which i can never repay. money is not of the immense value i believed it to be, my dear; but i am thankful it can help you and brian to be happy.' catherine tried to express her feelings in words, but the task was a difficult one. her eyes were full of tears of joy as she looked from one uncle to the other, as they stood side by side, smiling at one another. 'god be blessed and praised for the mercy he has shown us, and the manner in which he has taken away our trials!' said uncle jack. 'the troubles are over for us all; it is well for us to remember the words, "let us love one another, for love is of god." lassie, this is the happiest day of my life!' 'even happier than the day when you first wore the queen's uniform, guardian?' asked agatha. 'yes, dear,' answered the colonel. 'i was a young, untried fellow then. it is when an old man, who has known sorrow, obtains his heart's desire, that happiness is greatest. the light is dearer to those who have lived in darkness.' 'john, it was all my fault.' 'no, no, ross; we were both to blame.' niece catherine came forward and stood between them, radiantly smiling. 'the past may be forgotten now, may it not, my dear uncles?' she asked. 'since the family quarrel is dead, let it be buried.' 'it is well for a man to remember his faults,' said colonel carmichael firmly. 'i was un-christian. i consider that my pride was----' 'nonsense, john!' interrupted the squire. 'as i have told you again and again, the wrong was entirely my doing. the part of the quarrel _i_ don't wish to forget is the fact that, after all, you came to me,--though god knows i didn't deserve you should do it.' niece catherine listened to this friendly altercation, and knew that the brothers would continue to loyally endeavour each to bear the greater load of blame, and saw by their faces that their hearts were filled with emotion which, being men, they felt obliged to master, the old quarrel being mutually, forgiven, the old regard being not only renewed, but increased. her 'mission,' as mrs. arderne had named it, was indeed accomplished; but she was certain that uncle jack had earned all praise for the happy consummation. but agatha, silent upon her couch, was remembering some verses of a poem she had read that morning, and applying them to catherine, her heroine:- 'who toil aright, for those life's pathway, ere it close, is as the rose. the spires of wisdom stand, piled by the unconscious hand, from grains of sand. and pleasure comes unsought, to those who take but thought for that they ought.' after days of fog stanley heath, a stranger whose power-boat runs aground on the treacherous cape cod shoals, stumbles into the homestead and into the life of marcia howe, a young widow with whom half the men in the village are already in love. out of his clothing falls a leather case crammed with gems and the enigma of this puzzling possession provides the pivot around which the story revolves. marcia's blind, intuitive belief in the man's innocence brings its own reward. the hamlets of wilton and belleport, already so well known to miss bassett's readers, are again the setting of this new novel. a sparkling love story of cape cod. shifting sands other books by sara ware bassett the harbor road the green dolphin bayberry lane twin lights shifting sands sara ware bassett the penn publishing company · philadelphia copyright 1933 by the penn publishing company shifting sands manufactured in the united states of america _our lives are like the ever shifting sands which ocean currents whirl in the ebb and flow of their unresisting tides_ chapter i _the widder_ lived on the spit of sand jutting out into crocker's cove. just why she should have been singled out by this significant sobriquet was a subtle psychological problem. there were other women in belleport and in wilton, too, who had lost husbands. maria eldridge was a widow and so was susan ann beals. indeed death had claimed the head of many a household in the community, for to follow the sea was a treacherous business. nevertheless, despite the various homes in which solitary women reigned, none of their owners was designated by the appellation allotted to marcia howe. moreover, there seemed in the name the hamlet had elected to bestow upon her a ring of satisfaction, even of rejoicing, rather than the note of condolence commonly echoing in the term. persons rolled it on their tongues as if flaunting it triumphantly on the breeze. "marcia ought never to have married jason howe, anyway," asserted abbie brewster when one day she reminiscently gossiped with her friend, rebecca gill. "she was head an' shoulders above him. whatever coaxed her into it i never could understand. she could have had her pick of half a dozen husbands. why take up with a rollin' stone like him?" "she was nothin' but a slip of a thing when she married. mebbe she had the notion she could reform him," rebecca suggested. "mebbe," agreed abbie. "still, young as she was, she might 'a' known she couldn't. ten years ago he was the same, unsteady, drinkin' idler he proved himself to be up to the last minute of his life. he hadn't changed a hair. such men seldom do, unless they set out to; an' jason howe never set out to do, or be, anything. he was too selfish an' too lazy. grit an' determination was qualities left out of him. well, he's gone, an' marcia's well rid of him. for 'most three years now, she's been her own mistress an' the feelin' that she is must be highly enjoyable." "poor marcia," sighed rebecca. "poor marcia?" abbie repeated. "lucky marcia, i say. 'most likely she'd say so herself was she to speak the truth. she never would, though. since the day she married, she's been close-mouthed as an oyster. what she thought of jason, or didn't think of him, she's certainly kept to herself. nobody in this village has ever heard her bewail her lot. she made her bargain an' poor as 'twas she stuck to it." "s'pose she'll always go on livin' there on that deserted strip of sand?" speculated rebecca. "why, it's 'most an island. in fact, it is an island at high tide." "so 'tis. an' zenas henry says it's gettin' to be more an' more so every minute," abbie replied. "the tide runs through that channel swift as a race horse an' each day it cuts a wider path 'twixt marcia an' the shore. before long, she's goin' to be as completely cut off from the mainland at low water as at high." "it must be a terrible lonely place." "i wouldn't want to live there," shrugged the sociable abbie. "but there's folks that don't seem to mind solitude, an' marcia howe's one of 'em. mebbe, after the life she led with jason, she kinder relishes bein' alone. 'twould be no marvel if she did. furthermore, dynamite couldn't blast her out of that old daniels homestead. her father an' her grandfather were born there, an' the house is the apple of her eye. it is a fine old place if only it stood somewheres else. of course, when it was built the ocean hadn't et away the beach, an' instead of bein' narrow, the point was a wide, sightly piece of land. who'd 'a' foreseen the tides would wash 'round it 'til they'd whittled it down to little more'n a sand bar, an' as good as detached it from the coast altogether?" "who'd 'a' foreseen lots of pranks the sea's played? the cape's a-swirl with shiftin' sands. they drift out here, they pile up there. what's terra firma today is swallered up tomorrow. why, even wilton harbor's fillin' in so fast that 'fore we know it there won't be a channel deep enough to float a dory left us. we'll be land-locked." "well, say what you will against the sea an' the sand, they did a good turn for marcia all them years of her married life. at least they helped her keep track of jason. once she got him on the point with the tide runnin' strong 'twixt him and the village, she'd padlock the skiff an' there he'd be! she had him safe an' sound," abbie chuckled. "yes," acquiesced rebecca. "but the scheme worked both ways. let jason walk over to town across the flats an' then let the tide rise an' there he be, too! without a boat there was no earthly way of his gettin' home. marcia might fidget 'til she was black in the face. he had the best of excuses for loiterin' an' carousin' ashore." "well, he don't loiter and carouse here no longer. marcia knows where he is now," declared abbie with spirit. "i reckon she's slept more durin' these last three years than ever she slept in the ten that went before 'em. she certainly looks it. all her worries seem to have fallen away from her, leavin' her lookin' like a girl of twenty. she's pretty as a picture." "she must be thirty-five if she's a day," rebecca reflected. "she ain't. she's scarce over thirty. i can tell you 'xactly when she was born," disputed the other woman. "but thirty or even more, she don't look her age." "s'pose she'll marry again?" ventured rebecca, leaning forward and dropping her voice. "marry? there you go, 'becca, romancin' as usual." "i ain't romancin'. i was just wonderin'. an' i ain't the only person in town askin' the question, neither," retorted mrs. gill with a sniff. "there's scores of others. in fact, i figger the thought is the uppermost one in the minds of 'most everybody." abbie laughed. "mebbe. in fact, i reckon 'tis," conceded she. "it's the thought that come to everyone quick as jason was buried. 'course, 'twouldn't be decent to own it--an' yet i don't know why. folks 'round about here are fond of marcia an' feel she's been cheated out of what was her rightful due. they want her to begin anew an' have what she'd oughter have had years ago--a good husband an' half a dozen children. there's nothin' to be ashamed of in a wish like that. i ain't denyin' there are certain persons who are more self-seekin'. i ain't blind to the fact that once jason was under the sod, 'bout every widower in town sorter spruced up an' began to take notice; an' before a week was out every bachelor had bought a new necktie. eben snow told me so an' he'd oughter know bein' the one that sells 'em." "abbie!" "it's true. an' why, pray, shouldn't the men cast sheep's eyes at marcia? can you blame 'em? she'd be one wife in a hundred could a body win her. there ain't a thing she can't do from shinglin' a barn down to trimmin' a hat. she's the match of any old salt at sailin' a boat an' can pull an oar strong as the best of 'em. along with that she can sew, cook, an' mend; plow an' plant; paper a room. an' all the time, whatever she's doin', she'd bewitch you with her smile an' her pretty ways. it's a marvel to me how she's kept out of matrimony long's this with so many men millerin' 'round her." "she certainly's takin' her time. she don't 'pear to be in no hurry to get a husband," smiled rebecca. "why should she be? her parents left her with money in the bank an' the homestead to boot, an' marcia was smart enough not to let jason make ducks and drakes of her property. she dealt out to him what she thought he better have an' held fast to the rest. as a result, she's uncommon well-off." "all men mightn't fancy havin' a wife hold the tiller, though." rebecca gill pursed her lips. "any man marcia howe married would have to put up with it," abbie asserted, biting off a needleful of thread with a snap of her fine white teeth. "marcia's always been captain of the ship an' she always will be." gathering up her mending, rebecca rose. "well, i can't stay here settlin' marcia's future," she laughed. "i've got to be goin' home. lemmy'll be wantin' his supper. he can't, though, accuse me of fritterin' the afternoon away. i've darned every pair of stockin's in this bag an' there was scores of 'em. you turn off such things quicker when you're in good company." a scuffling on the steps and the sound of men's voices interrupted the words. the kitchen door swung open and zenas henry's lanky form appeared on the threshold. behind him, like a foreshortened shadow, tagged his crony, lemuel gill. "well, well, 'becca, if here ain't lemmy come to fetch you!" abbie cried. "'fraid your wife had deserted you, lemmy? she ain't. she was just this minute settin' out for home." "i warn't worryin' none," grinned lemuel. "what you two been doin'?" abbie inquired of her husband. "oh, nothin' much," answered the big, loose-jointed fellow, shuffling into the room. "we've been settin' out, drinkin' in the air." the carelessness of the reply was a trifle overdone, and instantly aroused the keen-eyed abbie's suspicions. she glanced into his face. "guess we're goin' to have rain," he ventured. "i wouldn't wonder," rejoined lemuel gill. humming to prove he was entirely at his ease, zenas henry ambled to the window and looked out. "where you been settin'?" demanded abbie. "settin'? oh, lemmy an' me took sort of a little jaunt along the shore. grand day to be abroad. i never saw a finer. the sea's blue as a corn-flower, an' the waves are rollin' in, an' rollin' in, an'--" "they generally are," abbie interrupted dryly. "just where'd you particularly notice 'em?" lemuel gill stepped into the breach. "'twas this way," began he. "zenas henry an' me thought we'd take a bit of a meander. we'd been to the postoffice an' was standin' in the doorway when we spied charlie eldridge goin' by with a fish-pole--" "charlie eldridge--the bank cashier?" rebecca echoed. "but he ain't no fisherman. what on earth was he doin' with a fish-pole?" "that's what we wondered," said lemuel. "charlie eldridge with a fish-pole," repeated abbie. "mercy! where do you s'pose he was goin'?" "i never in all my life knew of charlie eldridge goin' a-fishin'," rebecca rejoined. "not that he ain't got a perfect right to fish if he wants to outside bankin' hours. but--" "but charlie fishin'!" interrupted abbie, cutting her friend short. "why, he'd no more dirty his lily-white hands puttin' a squirmin' worm on a fish-hook than he'd cut off his head. in fact, i don't believe he'd know how. you didn't, likely, see where he went." "wal--er--yes. we did." zenas henry wheeled about. clearing his throat, he darted a glance at lemuel. "havin' completed the business that took us to the store--" he began. "havin', in short, asked for the mail an' found there warn't none," laughed abbie, mischievously. zenas henry ignored the comment. "we walked along in charlie's wake," he continued. "followed him?" "wal--somethin' of the sort. you might, i s'pose, call it follerin'," zenas henry admitted shamefacedly. "anyhow, lemmy an' me trudged along behind him at what we considered a suitable distance." "where'd he go?" rebecca urged, her face alight with curiosity. "wal, charlie swung along, kinder whistlin' to himself, an' ketchin' his pole in the trees and brushes 'til he come to the fork of the road. then he made for the shore." "so he was really goin' fishin'," mused abbie, a suggestion of disappointment in her voice. "he certainly was. oh, charlie was goin' fishin' right 'nough. he was aimed for deep water," grinned zenas henry. "he wouldn't ketch no fish in wilton harbor," sniffed rebecca contemptuously. "wouldn't you think he'd 'a' known that?" "he warn't," observed zenas henry mildly, "figgerin' to. in fact, 'twarn't to wilton harbor he was goin'." with a simultaneous start, both women looked up. "no-siree. bank cashier or not, charlie warn't that much of a numskull. he was primed to fish in more propitious waters." "zenas henry, do stop beatin' round the bush an' say what you have to say. if you're goin' to tell us where charlie eldridge went, out with it. if not, stop talkin' about it," burst out his wife sharply. "ain't i tellin' you fast as i can? why get so het up? if you must know an' can't wait another minute, charlie went fishin' in crocker's cove." "crocker's cove!" cried two feminine voices. zenas henry's only reply was a deliberate nod. "crocker's cove?" gasped abbie. "crocker's cove?" echoed rebecca. "crocker's cove," nodded zenas henry. "mercy on us! why--! why, he--he must 'a' been goin'"--began abbie. "--to see _the widder_," rebecca interrupted, completing the sentence. "i'd no notion he was tendin' up to her," abbie said. "wal, he warn't 'xactly tendin' up to her--least-way, not today. not what you could really call tendin' up," contradicted zenas henry, a twinkle in his eye. "rather, i'd say 'twas t'other way round. wouldn't you, lemmy? wouldn't you say that instead 'twas she who tended up to him?" sagaciously, lemuel bowed. the tapping of abbie's foot precipitated the remainder of the story. "you see," drawled on zenas henry, "no sooner had charlie got into the boat an' pulled out into the channel than he had the usual beginner's luck an' hooked a stragglin' bluefish--one of the pert kind that ain't fer bein' hauled in. law! you'd oughter seen that critter pull! he 'most had charlie out of the boat. "i shouted to him to hang on an' so did lemmy. we couldn't help it. the idiot had no more notion what to do than the man in the moon. "in our excitement, we must 'a' bellered louder'n we meant to, 'cause in no time _the widder_ popped outer the house. she took one look at charlie strugglin' in the boat, raced down to the landin' an' put out to him just about at the minute he was waverin' as to whether he'd chuck pole, line, an' sinker overboard, or go overboard himself. "quicker'n scat she had the fish-pole, an' while we looked on, charlie dropped down kinder limp on the seat of the boat an' begun tyin' up his hand in a spandy clean pocket handkerchief while _the widder_ gaffed the fish an' hauled it in." "my soul!" exploded abbie brewster. "my soul an' body!" "later on," continued zenas henry, "charlie overtook us. he'd stowed away his fish-pole somewheres. leastway, he didn't have it with him. when lemmy an' me asked him where his fish was, he looked blacker'n thunder an' snapped out: 'hang the fish!' "seein' he warn't in no mood for neighborly conversation, we left him an' come along home." chapter ii in the meantime, marcia howe, the heroine of this escapade, comfortably ensconced in her island homestead, paid scant heed to the fact that she and her affairs were continually on the tongues of the outlying community. she was not ignorant of it for, although too modest to think herself of any great concern to others, her intuitive sixth sense made her well aware her goings and comings were watched. this knowledge, however, far from nettling her, as it might have done had she been a woman blessed with less sense of humor, afforded her infinite amusement. she liked people and because of her habit of looking for the best in them she usually found it. their spying, she realized, came from motives of interest. she had never known it to be put to malicious use. hence, she never let it annoy her. she loved her home; valued her kindly, if inquisitive, neighbors at their true worth; and met the world with a smile singularly free from hardness or cynicism. bitter though her experience had been, it had neither taken from, nor, miraculously, had it dimmed her faith in her particular star. on the contrary there still glowed in her grey eyes that sparkle of anticipation one sees in the eyes of one who stands a-tiptoe on the threshold of adventure. apparently she had in her nature an unquenchable spirit of hope that nothing could destroy. no doubt youth had aided her to retain this vision for she was still young and the highway of life, alluring in rosy mists, beckoned her along its mysterious path with persuasive hand. who could tell what its hidden vistas might contain? her start, she confessed, had been an unpropitious one. but starts sometimes were like that; and did not the old adage affirm that a bad beginning made for a fair ending? furthermore, the error had been her own. she had been free to choose and she had chosen unwisely. why whine about it? one must be a sport and play the game. she was older now and better fitted to look after herself than she had been at seventeen. only a fool made the same blunder twice, and if experience had been a pitiless teacher, it had also been a helpful and convincing one. marcia did not begrudge her lesson. unquestionably, it had taken from her its toll; but on the other hand it had left as compensation something she would not have exchanged for gold. the past with its griefs, its humiliations, its heartbreak, its failure lay behind--the future all before her. it was hers--hers! she would be wary what she did with it and never again would she squander it for dross. precisely what she wished or intended to make of that future she did not know. there were times when a wave of longing for something she could not put into words surged up within her with a force not to be denied. was it loneliness? she was not so lonely that she did not find joy in her home and its daily routine of domestic duties. on the contrary, she attacked these pursuits with tireless zeal. she liked sweeping, dusting, polishing brasses, and making her house as fresh as the sea breezes that blew through it. she liked to brew and bake; to sniff browning pie crust and the warm spiciness of ginger cookies. keen pleasure came to her when she surveyed spotless beds, square at the corners and covered with immaculate counterpanes. she found peace and refreshment in softened lights, flowers, the glow of driftwood fires. as for the more strenuous tasks connected with homemaking, they served as natural and pleasurable vents for her surplus energy. she revelled in painting, papering, shingling; and the solution of the balking enigmas presented by plumbing, chimneys, drains and furnaces. if there lingered deep within her heart vague, unsatisfied yearnings, marcia resolutely held over these filmy imaginings a tight rein. to be busy--that was her gospel. she never allowed herself to remain idle for any great length of time. to prescribe the remedy and faithfully apply it was no hardship to one whose active physique and abounding vigor demanded an abundance of exercise. like an athlete set to run a race, she gloried in her physical strength. when she tramped the shore, the wind blowing her hair and the rich blood pulsing in her cheeks; when her muscles stretched taut beneath an oar or shot out against the resistance of the tide, a feeling of unity with a power greater than herself caught her up, thrilling every fibre of her being. she was never unsatisfied then. she felt herself to be part of a force mighty and infinite--a happy, throbbing part. today, as she moved swiftly about the house and her deft hands made tidy the rooms, she had that sense of being in step with the world. the morning, crisp with an easterly breeze, had stirred the sea into a swell that rose rhythmically in measureless, breathing immensity far away to its clear-cut, sapphire horizon. the sands had never glistened more white; the surf never curled at her doorway in a prettier, more feathery line. on the ocean side, where winter's lashing storms had thrown up a protecting phalanx of dunes, the coarse grasses she had sown to hold them tossed in the wind, while from the point, where her snowy domains dipped into more turbulent waters, she could hear the grating roar of pebbles mingle with the crash of heavier breakers. it all spoke to her of home--home as she had known it from childhood--as her father and her father's father had known it. boats, nets, the screaming of gulls, piping winds, and the sting of spray on her face were bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh. the salt of deep buried caverns was in her veins; the chant of the ocean echoed the beating of her own heart. lonely? if she needed anything it was a companion to whom to cry: "isn't it glorious to be alive?" and she already had such a one. never was there such a comrade as prince hal! human beings often proved themselves incapable of grasping one another's moods--but he? never! he knew when to speak and when to be silent; when to be in evidence and when to absent himself. his understanding was infinite; his fidelity as unchanging as the stars. moreover, he was an honorable dog, a thoroughbred, a gentleman. that was why she had bestowed upon him an aristocratic name. he demanded it. she would never want for a welcome while he had strength to wag his white plume of tail; nor lack affection so long as he was able to race up the beach and race back again to hurl himself upon her with his sharp, staccato yelp of joy. when easterly gales rocked the rafters and the wind howled with eerie moanings down the broad chimney; when line after line of foaming breakers steadily advanced, crashing up on the shore with a fury that threatened to invade the house, then it was comforting to have near-by a companion unashamed to draw closer to her and confess himself humbled in the presence of the sea's majesty. oh, she was worlds better off with prince hal than if she were linked up with someone of her own genus who could not understand. besides, she was not going to be alone. she had decided to try an experiment. jason had had an orphaned niece out in the middle west--his sister's child--a girl in her early twenties, and marcia had invited her to the island for a visit. in fact, sylvia was expected today. that was why a bowl of pansies stood upon the table in the big bedroom at the head of the stairs, and why its fireplace was heaped with driftwood ready for lighting. that was also the reason marcia now stood critically surveying her preparations. the house did look welcoming. with justifiable pride, she confessed to herself that heaven had bestowed upon her a gift for that sort of thing. she knew where to place a chair, a table, a lamp, a book, a flower. she was especially desirous the old home should look its best today, for the outside world had contributed a richness of setting that left her much to live up to. sylvia had never seen the ocean. she must love it. but would she? that was to be the test. if the girl came hither with eyes that saw not; if the splendor stretched out before her was wasted then undeterred, she might go back to her wheat fields, her flat inland air, her school teaching. if, on the other hand, wilton's beauty opened to her a new heaven and a new earth, if she proved herself a good comrade--well, who could say what might come of it? there was room, money, affection enough for two beneath the homestead roof and sylvia was alone in the world. moreover, marcia felt an odd sense of obligation toward jason. at the price of his life he had given her back her freedom. it was a royal gift and she owed him something in return. she was too honest to pretend she had loved him or mourned his loss. soon after the beginning of their life together, she had discovered he was not at all the person she had supposed him. the gay recklessness which had so completely bewitched her and which she had thought to be manliness had been mere bombast and bravado. at bottom he was a braggart--small, cowardly, purposeless--a ship without a rudder. endowed with good looks and a devil-may-care charm, he had called her his star and pleaded his need of her, and she had mistaken pity for love and believed that to help guide his foundering craft into port was a heaven-sent mission. alas, she had over-estimated both her own power and his sincerity. jason had no real desire to alter his conduct. he lacked not only the inclination but the moral stamina to do so. instead, day by day he slipped lower and lower and, unable to aid him or prevent disaster, she had been forced to look on. her love for him was dead, and her self-conceit was dealt a humiliating blow. she was to have been his anchor in time of stress, the planet by which when he married her he boasted that he intended to steer his course. but she had been forced to stand impotent at his side and see self-respect, honor, and every essential of manhood go down and he shrivel to a fawning, deceitful, ambitionless wreck. sometimes she reproached herself for the tragedy and, scrutinizing the past, wondered whether she might not have prevented it. had she done her full part; been as patient, sympathetic, understanding as she ought to have been? did his defeat lay at her door? with the honesty characteristic of her, she could not see that it did. she might, no doubt, have played her role better. one always could if given a second chance. nevertheless she had tried, tried with every ounce of strength in her--tried and failed! well, it was too late for regrets now. such reflections belonged to the past and she must put them behind her as useless, morbid abstractions. her back was set against the twilight; she was facing the dawn--the dawn with its promise of happier things. surely that magic, unlived future touched with hope and dim with the prophecy of the unknown could not be so unfriendly as the past had been. it might bring pain; but she had suffered pain and no longer feared it. moreover, no pain could ever be as poignant as that which she had already endured. and why anticipate pain? life held joy as well--countless untried experiences that radiated happiness. were there not a balance between sunshine and shadow this world would be a wretched place in which to live, and its maker an unjust dealer. no, she believed not only in a fair-minded but in a generous god and she had faith that he was in his heaven. she had paid for her folly--if indeed folly it had been. now with optimism and courage she looked fearlessly forward. that was why, as she caught up her hat, a smile curled her lips. the house did look pretty, the day was glorious. she was a-tingle with eagerness to see what it might bring. calling prince hal, she stood before him. "take good care of the house, old man," she admonished, as she patted his silky head. "i'll be home soon." he followed her to the piazza and stopped. his eyes pleaded to go, but he understood his orders and obeying them lay down with paws extended, the keeper of the homestead. chapter iii the train was ten minutes late, and while she paced the platform at sawyer falls, the nearest station, marcia fidgeted. she had never seen any of jason's family. at first a desultory correspondence had taken place between him and his sister, margaret; then gradually it had died a natural death--the result, no doubt, of his indolence and neglect. when the letters ceased coming, marcia had let matters take their course. was it not kinder to allow the few who still loved him to remain ignorant of what he had become and to remember instead only as the dashing lad who in his teens had left the farm and gone to seek his fortune in the great world? she had written margaret a short note after his death and had received a reply expressing such genuine grief it had more than ever convinced her that her course had been the wise and generous one. what troubled her most in the letter had been its outpouring of sympathy for herself. she detested subterfuge and as she read sentence after sentence, which should have meant so much and in reality meant so little, the knowledge that she had not been entirely frank had brought with it an uncomfortable sense of guilt. it was not what she had said but what she had withheld that accused her. marcia howe was no masquerader, and until this moment the hypocrisy she had practiced had demanded no sustained acting. little by little, moreover, the pricking of her conscience had ceased and, fading into the past, the incident had been forgotten. miles of distance, years of silence separated her from jason's relatives and it had been easy to allow the deceit, if deceit it had been, to stand. but now those barriers were to be broken down and she suddenly realized that to keep up the fraud so artlessly begun was going to be exceedingly difficult. she was not a clever dissembler. moreover, any insincerity between herself and sylvia would strike at the very core of the sincere, earnest companionship she hoped would spring up between them. even should she be a more skillful fraud than she dared anticipate and succeed in playing her role convincingly, would there not loom ever before her the danger of betrayal from outside sources? everyone in the outlying district had known jason for what he was. there had been no possibility of screening the sordid melodrama from the public. times without number one fisherman and then another had come bringing the recreant back home across the channel, and had aided in getting him into the house and to bed. his shame had been one of the blots on the upright, self-respecting community. as a result, her private life had perforce become common property and all its wretchedness and degradation, stripped of concealment, had been spread stark beneath the glare of the sunlight. it was because the villagers had helped her so loyally to shoulder a burden she never could have borne alone that marcia felt toward them this abiding affection and gratitude. they might discuss her affairs if they chose; ingenuously build up romances where none existed; they might even gossip about her clothes, her friends, her expenditures. their chatter did not trouble her. she had tried them out, and in the face of larger issues had found their virtues so admirable that their vices became, by contrast, mere trivialities. moreover, having watched her romance begin, flourish, and crumble; and having shared in the joy and sorrow of it, it was not only natural, but to some degree legitimate they should feel they had the right to interest themselves in her future. not all their watchfulness was prompted by curiosity. some of it emanated from an impulse of guardianship--a desire to shield her from further misery and mishap. she was alone in the world, and in the eyes of the older inhabitants who had known her parents, she was still a girl--one of the daughters of the town. they did not mean to stand idly by and see her duped a second time. the assurance that she had behind her this support; that she was respected, beloved, held blameless of the past, not only comforted but lent to her solitary existence a sense of background which acted as a sort of anchor. not that she was without standards or ideals. nevertheless, human nature is human nature and it did her no harm to realize she was not an isolated being whose actions were of no concern to anyone in the wide world. separated though she was by the confines of her island home, she was not allowed to let her remoteness from wilton detach her from it, nor absolve her from her share in its obligations. she had her place and every day of the year a score of lookers-on, familiar with her general schedule, checked up on her fulfillment of it. if, given limited leeway, she did not appear for her mail or for provisions; if she was not at church; if the lights that should have twinkled from her windows were darkened, someone unfailingly put out across the channel to make sure all was well with her. nay, more, if any emergency befell her, she had only to run up a red lantern on the pole beside her door and aid would come. what wonder then that, in face of such friendliness, marcia howe failed to resent the community's grandmotherly solicitude? she had never kept secrets from her neighbors--indeed she never had had secrets to keep. her nature was too crystalline, her love of truth too intense. if she had followed her usual custom and been open with jason's sister, the dilemma in which she now found herself would never have arisen. granted that her motive had been a worthy one had it not been audacious to make of herself a god and withhold from margaret hayden facts she had had every right to know, facts that belonged to her? such burdens were given human beings to bear, not to escape from. why should she have taken it upon herself to shield, nay prevent jason's flesh and blood from participating in the sorrow, shame, disappointment she herself had borne? the experience had had immeasurable influence in her own life. why should it not have had as much in margaret's? alas, matters of right and wrong, questions of one's responsibility toward others were gigantic, deeply involved problems. what her duty in this particular case had been she did not and would now never know, nor was it of any great moment that she should. margaret was beyond the reach of this world's harassing enigmas. if with mistaken kindness she had been guided by a pygmy, short-sighted philosophy, it was too late, reflected marcia, for her to remedy her error in judgment. but sylvia--jason's niece? with her coming, all the arguments marcia had worn threadbare for and against the exposure of jason's true character presented themselves afresh. should she deceive the girl as she had her mother? or should she tell her the truth? she was still pondering the question when a shrill whistle cut short her reverie. there was a puffing of steam; a grinding of brakes, the spasmodic panting of a weary engine and the train, with its single car, came to a stop beside the platform. three passengers descended. the first was a young portuguese woman, dark of face, and carrying a bulging bag from which protruded gay bits of embroidery. behind her came a slender, blue-eyed girl, burdened not only with her own suit-case but with a basket apparently belonging to a wee, wizened old lady who followed her. "now we must find henry," the girl was saying in a clear but gentle voice. "of course he'll be here. look! isn't that he--the man just driving up in a car? i guessed as much from your description. you need not have worried, you see. yes, the brakeman has your bag and umbrella; and here is the kitten safe and sound, despite her crying. goodbye, mrs. doane. i hope you'll have a lovely visit with your son." the little old lady smiled up at her. "goodbye, my dear. you've taken care of me like as if you'd been my own daughter. i ain't much used to jauntin' about, an' it frets me. are your folks here? if not, i'm sure henry wouldn't mind--" "oh, somebody'll turn up to meet me, mrs. doane. i'll be all right. goodbye. we did have a pleasant trip down, didn't we? traveling isn't really so bad after all." then as marcia watched, she saw the lithe young creature stoop suddenly and kiss the withered cheek. the next instant she was swinging up the platform. the slim figure in its well-tailored blue suit; the trimly shod feet; the small hat so provokingly tilted over the bright eyes, the wealth of golden curls that escaped from beneath it all shattered marcia's calculations. she had thought of sylvia hayden as farm-bred--the product of an inland, country town--a creature starved for breadth of outlook and social opportunity. it was disconcerting to discover that she was none of these things. in view of her sophistication, marcia's proposed philanthropy took on an aspect of impertinence. well, if she herself was chagrined, there was consolation in seeing that the girl was equally discomfited. as she approached marcia, she accosted her uncertainly with the words: "pardon me. i am looking for a relative--a mrs. howe. you don't happen to know, do you--" "i'm marcia." "but i thought--i expected--" gasped the girl. "and i thought--i expected--" marcia mimicked gaily. for a moment they looked searchingly into one another's faces, then laughed. "fancy having an aunt like you!" exclaimed the incredulous sylvia, still staring with unconcealed amazement. "and fancy having a niece like you!" "well, all i can say is i'm glad i came," was the girl's retort. "i wasn't altogether sure i should be when i started east. i said to myself: 'sylvia you are taking a big chance. you may just be wasting your money.'" "you may still find it's been wasted." "no, i shan't. i know already it has been well spent," announced the girl, a whimsical smile curving her lips. "wait until you see where you're going." "i am going to paradise--i'm certain of it. the glimpses i've had of the ocean from the train have convinced me of that. do you live where you can see it, aunt marcia? will it be nearby?" "i shall not tell you one thing," marcia replied. "at least only one, and that is that i flatly refuse to be aunt marcia to you!" "don't you like me?" pouted sylvia, arching her brows. "so much that your aunt-ing me is absurd. it would make me feel like methuselah. i really haven't that amount of dignity." "ah, now my last weak, wavering doubt is vanquished. not only am i glad i came but i wish i'd come before." she saw a shadow flit across her aunt's face. "you weren't asked until now," observed marcia with cryptic brevity. "that wouldn't have mattered. had i known what you were like, i should have come without an invitation." in spite of herself, marcia smiled. "here's the car," she answered. "what about your trunk?" "i didn't bring one." "you didn't bring a trunk! but you are to make a long visit, child." "i--i wasn't sure that i'd want to," sylvia replied. "you see, i was a wee bit afraid of you. i thought you'd be a new england prune. i had no idea what you were like. if i'd brought my things, i'd have been obliged to stay." "you're a cautious young person," was marcia's dry observation. "'twould serve you right if i sent you home at the end of a fortnight." "oh, please don't do that," begged sylvia. "it's in _the alton city courier_ that i have gone east to visit relatives for a few weeks. if i should come right back, everybody would decide i'd stolen the family silver or done something disgraceful. besides--my trunk is all packed, locked, strapped and i've brought the key," added she with disarming frankness. "it can be sent for in case--" "i see!" nodded marcia, her lips curving into a smile in spite of herself, "i said you were cautious." "don't you ever watch your own step?" as the myriad pros and cons she had weighed and eliminated before inviting her guest passed in quick review before marcia's mind, she chuckled: "sometimes i do," she conceded grimly. chapter iv the village store, grandiloquently styled by a red sign the wilton emporium, was thronged with the usual noontime crowd. it was a still, grey day, murky with fog and the odors of wet oilskins, steaming rubber coats, damp woolens blended with a mixture of tar, coffee and tobacco smoke, made its interior thick and stuffy. long ago the air-tight stove had consumed such remnants of oxygen as the room contained. the windows reeked with moisture; the floor was gritty with sand. these discomforts, however, failed to be of consequence to the knot of men who, rain or shine, congregated there at mail time. they were accustomed to them. indeed, a drizzle, far from keeping the habitués away, rendered the meeting place unusually popular. not but that plenty of work, capable of being performed as well in foul as in fair weather, could not have been found at home. zenas henry brewster's back stairs were at the very moment crying out for paint; the leg was off his hair-cloth sofa; the pantry window stuck; the bolt dangled from his side door and could have been wrenched off with a single pull. here was an ideal opportunity to make such repairs. yet, why take today? nobody really saw the stairs. if the sofa pitched the brick tucked underneath, it at least prevented it from lurching dangerously. the pantry window was as well closed as open, anyway. and as for the side door--if it was not bolted at all, no great harm would result. "nobody's got in yet," zenas henry optimistically philosophized as, despite his wife's protests, he slipped into his sou'wester, "an' i see no cause to think thieves will pitch on today to come. fur's that goes, wilton ain't never had a burglary in all its history. we could leave all the bolts off the doors." to this cheery observation he added over his shoulder a jaunty "goodbye!" and, striding out through the shed, was off to join his cronies. the argument with abbie had not only delayed him, but had left him a bit irritated, and he was more nettled still to find, when he crossed the threshold of the post-office, that the daily conclave was in full swing. nevertheless, the session had not become as interesting as it would after those who dropped in simply to call for mail or make purchases had thinned out. he had, to be sure, missed seeing the letters distributed, but the best yet remained. shuffling over to the counter where his friends were huddled, zenas henry unostentatiously joined them. "yes-siree, there'll be somethin' doin' in wilton now," enoch morton, the fish-man, was saying. "that sand bar's goin' to be the centre of the town, if i don't miss my guess. there'll be more'n charlie eldridge fishin' in the channel." a laugh greeted the prediction. "who's seen her?" captain benjamin todd inquired. "i have," came the piping voice of lemuel gill. "me and 'becca rowed over from belleport saturday. we went a-purpose, takin' some jelly to marcia as an excuse. the girl's jason's niece all right, same's folks say, though she looks no more like him than chalk like cheese. a prettier little critter 'twould be hard to find. it 'pears that at the outset marcia invited her for no more'n a short visit. inside the week, though, the two of 'em have got so friendly, sylvia's sent home for her trunk, an' is plannin' to stay all summer. she's head over heels in love with the place. i'm almighty glad she's come, too, for it's goin' to be grand for marcia, who must be lonely enough out there with only the setter for company." "it's her own fault. she could have other companions was she so minded," declared captain phineas taylor, significantly. "oh, we all know that, phineas," agreed the gentle lemuel gill. "there's plenty of folks hankerin' to be comrades to marcia. the only trouble is she doesn't want 'em." "with this girl at her elbow, she'll want 'em even less, i reckon," asaph holmes interposed. "mebbe. still, i figger that ain't a-goin' to discourage her admirers none. why, within the week sylvia's been here, i happen to know marcia's had four buckets of clams, a catch of flounders, an' a couple of cuts of sword-fish presented to her," ephraim wise, the mail carrier announced. "that stray blue-fish of charlie eldridge's must 'a' swelled the collection some, too," put in lemuel. "when i asked charlie what he done with it, he owned he left it over at the homestead. he said he never wanted to see another fish long's he lived." "that ain't all the gifts the widder's had, neither," volunteered silas nickerson, the postmaster, who now joined the group. "not by a long shot. i can see the whole of that spit of sand from my back porch, an' often after i've had my supper an' set out there smokin' an' sorter--" "sorter keepin' a weather eye out," chuckled a voice. "smokin' an' takin' the air," repeated silas, firmly. "i look in that direction, 'cause it's a pleasant direction to look. that's how i come to know more'n one lobster's been sneaked to marcia after dusk." "i don't so much mind folks makin' marcia friendly donations," captain jonas baker declared with guilty haste. "in my opinion, it's right an' proper they should. but when it comes to eleazer crocker, who's head of the fire department an' undertaker as well, goin' over there for the entire evenin' with the keys to the engine house in his pocket, i think the town oughter take some action 'bout it. s'pose there was to be a fire an' him hemmed in by the tide t'other side the channel? the whole village might burn to the ground 'fore ever he could be fetched home." "that certainly ain't right," zenas henry agreed. "eleazer'd either oughter hang the keys on a bush near the shore or leave 'em with some responsible person when he goes a-courtin'." "when you went courtin', would you 'a' wanted the whole town made aware of it?" queried enoch morton. chagrined, zenas henry colored. "well, anyhow, he's got no business goin' off the mainland. even if there ain't a fire, somebody might die. he's a mighty important citizen, an' his place is at home." "oh, i wouldn't go that fur," soothed peace-loving lemuel gill. "fires an' dyin' don't happen every day." "no. but when they do come, they're liable to come sudden," maintained zenas henry stoutly. "not always. besides, we've got to go a bit easy with eleazer. remember from the first he warn't anxious to be undertaker, anyway. he said so over an' over again," put in the gruff voice of benjamin todd. "he 'xplained he hadn't a mite of talent for the job an' no leanin's toward it. it was foisted on him 'gainst his will." "well, somebody had to be undertaker. i didn't hanker to be town sheriff, but i got hauled into bein'," rejoined elisha winslow. "in a place small as this honors sometimes go a-beggin' unless folks muster up their public spirit." "i don't see, 'lish, that the duties of sheriff have been so heavy here in wilton that they've undermined your health," grinned captain phineas taylor. "you ain't been what one could call over-worked by crime. was you to need a pair of handcuffs in a hurry, it's my belief you wouldn't be able to find 'em. as for eleazer--nobody's died for nigh onto a year; an' the only fire that's took place was a brush one that we put out 'most an hour 'fore the key to the engine-house could be found, the door unlocked, an' the chemical coaxed into workin'." "that's true enough," conceded captain benjamin. "still, i'll bet you a nickel was you to come down hard on eleazer, an' tell him that in future he'd have to choose 'twixt undertakin' an' courtin', he'd pick the courtin'. he's human. you can't press a man too hard. besides, you've no right to blame that mix-up 'bout the engine-house key on him, cap'n phineas. give the devil his due. eleazer warn't responsible for that. his sister borrowed the brass polish for her candle-sticks an' afterward slipped the key into her pocket by mistake. remember that? at the minute the fire broke out she was leadin' a women's missionary meetin' at the church an' was in the act of prayin' for the heathens out in china. it didn't seem decent to interrupt either her or the lord. unluckily the prayer turned out to be an uncommon long one an' in consequence the chemical got delayed." "well, anyhow, i'm glad this niece of marcia's come," broke in lemuel gill, shifting the subject. "she's a pleasant little critter an' will kinder stir things up." "oh, there's no danger but she'll do that all right, lemmy," zenas henry drawled. "you can generally depend on a pretty girl to raise a rumpus. give her a month in town an' she'll most likely have all the male population cuttin' one another's throats." fortunately both marcia and sylvia were at the moment too far out of ear-shot for this menacing prediction to reach them. cut off by curtains of fog and a tide that foamed through the channel, they were standing in the homestead kitchen. the builder of it would have laughed to scorn the present day apology for an interior so delightful. here was a room boasting space enough for an old-fashioned brick oven; an oil stove; two sand-scrubbed tables, snow white and smooth as satin; a high-backed rocker cushioned in red calico; braided rugs and shelves for plants. a regal kitchen truly--one that bespoke both comfort and hospitality. the copper tea kettle, singing softly and sending up a genial spiral of steam, gleamed bright as sunshine; and the two big pantries, through which one glimpsed rows of shining tins and papered shelves laden with china, contributed to the general atmosphere of homeliness. fog might shroud the outer world in its blanket of unreality, but it was powerless to banish from marcia's kitchen the cheer which perpetually reigned there. before the fire, stretched upon his side, lay prince hal, his body relaxed, his eyes drowsy with sleep; while from her vantage-ground on the rocking-chair above, the tiger kitten, winkie-wee, gazed watchfully down upon his slumbers. it was sylvia, however, who, in a smock of flowered chintz, lent the room its supreme touch of color. she looked as if all the blossoms in all the world had suddenly burst into bloom and twined themselves about her slender body. out of their midst rose her head, golden with curls and her blue eyes, large and child-like. with her coming, a new world had opened to marcia. the girl's lightness of touch on life; her irrepressible gaiety; her sense of humor and unique point of view all bespoke a newer generation and one far removed from her aunt's environment. not that she was without moral standards. she had them, but they were kept far in the background and were not the strained and anxious creeds which the woman of new england ancestry had inherited. to see sylvia jauntily sweep aside old conventions; to behold the different emphasis she put upon familiar problems; to witness her audacious belittling of issues her elders had been wont to grapple with was an experience that continually shocked, stimulated, challenged and amused. yet, there was something big and wholesome in it withal; something refreshingly sincere and free from morbidity; a high courage that took things as they came and never anticipated calamity. marcia found herself half reluctantly admiring this splendidly normal outlook; this mixture of sophistication and naïveté; her niece's novel and definitely formed opinions. for, youthful though sylvia was, she had personality, character, stratums of wisdom far in advance of her years. a very intriguing companion, marcia admitted, one of whose many-sidedness she would not soon tire. "now what shall our menu be, marcia, dear?" she was asking. "remember, according to our compact, it is my turn to get the dinner." "anything but fish!" marcia answered with a groan. "i'm so tired of salt-water products it seems as if never again could i touch another." "but my dear, if you will have a stag line of nautical admirers, what can you expect? you must pay the penalty. besides, i think you're ungrateful," sylvia pouted. "i love clams and other sea foods." "you've not had so many of them in your lifetime as i have. besides, i suspect you are not telling the truth. come, confess. aren't you a wee bit fed up on clams? clam chowder monday night, steamed clams tuesday noon; clam fritters tuesday night. and then that blue-fish. why, it was big as a shark! i almost lost my courage when the sword-fish and the flounders came, but fortunately with the aid of prince hal and the kitten, we disposed of them fairly well. the lobsters, alas, yet remain. i used to think it would be romantic to be a lorelei and live deep down beneath the waves; but this avalanche of fish--!" despairingly she shrugged her shoulders. sylvia laughed. "i don't feel at all like that. i've had a feast of fish and enjoyed it. but if i were to express a preference it would be for the hard-shelled suitors. do select one of those for a husband, marcia," begged she, whimsically. "the others are all very well. indeed, that blue-fish swain was magnificent in his way, but me for the crustaceans." "sylvia! you absurd child!" "just consider the clam character for a moment--so silent, so close-mouthed; never stirring up trouble or wanting to be out nights. in my opinion, he would be an ideal helpmate. not sensitive, either; nor jealous. marcia, do marry one of the clams! "i'm not so sure," went on the girl reflectively, "whether he would be affectionate. he seems somewhat undemonstrative. still, contrast him with the lobster. oh, i realize the lobster has more style, originality, and is more pretentious in every way. however, say what you will, he is grasping by nature and has a much less gentle disposition. besides, he is restless and always eager to be on the move. "yes, all things taken together, i lean strongly toward a nice, peaceable clam husband for you, marcia. he'd be twice as domestic in his tastes. i acknowledge the blue-fish has more back-bone, but you do not need that. you have plenty yourself. most women, i suppose, would be carried away by his dash, his daring, his persistence. he has a certain sporty quality that appeals; but he is so outrageously stubborn! he never gives in until he has to. he'd be dreadful to live with." "sylvia, you are ridiculous!" marcia protested. "you forget i am your aunt." "my mistake. i did forget it, i'll confess; and what's more i probably always shall. to me you are just a girl i'd be head-over-heels in love with if i were a man. i don't blame all the clams, lobsters, and flounders for flocking over here to make love to you." "stop talking nonsense." "but it isn't nonsense. it's the truth. isn't that precisely what they're doing? you certainly are not deluding yourself into thinking these men come gallivanting out here over the flats with the mere philanthropic purpose of seeing you don't starve to death, do you?" sylvia demanded. "perhaps they come to see you," hedged marcia feebly. "me! now marcia, pray do not resort to deceit and attempt to poke this legion of mermen off on me. as a relative, i insist on having a truthful, respectable aunt. consider my youth. isn't it your christian duty to set me a good example? whether you wed any of these nautical worshippers or not is your own affair. but at least honesty compels you to acknowledge they're your property." a shadow, fleet as the rift in a summer cloud, passed over marcia's face, but transient as it was sylvia, sensitively attuned and alert to changes of mood in others, noticed it. "what a little beast i am, marcia," she cried, throwing her arm impulsively about the other woman. "forgive my thoughtlessness. i wouldn't have hurt you for the world. you know i never saw uncle jason. he left home when i was a child and is no reality to me. even mother remembered him only as he was when a boy. she kept a little picture of him on her bureau, and on his birthdays always placed flowers beside it. she was fond of him, because he was only six when grandmother died. after that, mother took care of him and brought him up. she worried a good deal about him, i'm afraid, for it was a great responsibility and she herself was nothing but a girl. however, she did the best she could." sylvia stole a look at marcia who had stiffened and now stood with eyes fixed on the misty world outside. "mother felt sorry, hurt, that uncle jason should have left home as he did, and never came back to see her. he was an impulsive, hot-headed boy and she said he resented her watchfulness and authority. but even though he ran away in a moment of anger, one would think years of absence would have smoothed away his resentment. "for a little while he wrote to her; then gradually even his letters stopped. she never knew what sort of a man he became. once she told me she supposed there must be lots of mothers in the world who merely sowed and never reaped--never saw the results of their care and sacrifice." "jason--jason loved your mother," marcia murmured in a voice scarcely audible. "i am sure of that." "but if he loved her, why didn't he come to see her? i know it was a long journey, but if he could only have come once--just once. it would have meant so much!" "men are selfish--unfeeling. they forget," replied marcia, bitterly. "you give your life to them and they toss aside your love and devotion as if it were so much rubbish." the outburst, sharp with pain, burst from her involuntarily, awing sylvia into silence. what did she know of jason, that dim heritage of her childhood? of marcia? of their life together, she suddenly asked herself. dismayed, she stole a glance at her companion. it was as if idly treading a flower-strewn path she had without warning come upon the unplumbed depths of a volcano's crater. to cover the awkwardness of the moment, she bent to caress prince hal who had risen and stood, alert and listening beside her. only an instant passed before marcia spoke again--this time with visible effort to recapture her customary manner. "suppose we have lobster newburg this noon," suggested she. "i'll get the chafing-dish. what's the matter, hal, old man? you look worried. don't tell me you hear more fish swimming our way?" chapter v the nose of the setter quivered and, going to the window, he growled. "he does hear something," asserted sylvia. "what do you suppose it is?" "gulls, most likely. they circle above the house in clouds," was marcia's careless answer. "the prince regards them as his natural enemies. he delights to chase them up the beach and send them whirling into the air. apparently he resents their chatter. he seems to think they are talking about him--and they may be for aught i know--talking about all of us." a faint echo of her recent irritation still lingered in the tone and, conscious of it, she laughed to conceal it. again the dog growled. almost immediately a hand fumbled with the latch, and as the door swung open, a man staggered blindly into the room. he was hatless, wet to the skin, and shivering with cold, and before marcia could reach his side, he lurched forward and fell at her feet. "quick, sylvia, close the door and heat some broth. the poor fellow is exhausted. he's chilled to the bone." "who is it?" "no one i know--a stranger. bring that pillow and help me to slip it under his head. we'll let him rest where he is a moment." her fingers moved to the bronzed wrist. "he's all right," she whispered. "just cold and worn out. he'll be himself presently." she swept the matted hair, lightly sprinkled with grey, from the man's forehead and wiped his face. an interesting face it was--intelligent and highbred, with well-cut features and a firm, determined chin. a sweater of blue wool, a blue serge suit, socks of tan and sport shoes to match them clung to the tall, slender figure, and on the hand lying across it sparkled a diamond sunk in a band of wrought gold. it was not the hand of a fisherman, tanned though it was; nor yet that of a sailor. there could be no doubt about that. rather, it belonged to a scholar, a writer, a painter, or possibly to a physician, for it was strong as well as beautifully formed. sylvia bent to adjust the pillow, and her eyes and marcia's met. who was this man? whence came he? what disaster had laid him here helpless before them? as if their questions penetrated his consciousness, the stranger slowly opened his eyes. "sorry to come here like this," he murmured. "the fog was so thick, i lost my bearings and my power-boat ran aground. i've been trying hours to get her off. she's hard and fast on your sand-bar." "not on the ocean side?" marcia exclaimed. the man shook his head. "luckily not. i rounded the point all right, but missed the channel." he struggled to rise and marcia, kneeling beside him, helped him into an upright position where he sat, leaning against her shoulder. "i seem to have brought in about half the sea with me," he apologized, looking about in vague, half-dazed fashion. "no matter. we're used to salt water here," she answered. "how do you feel? you're not hurt?" "only a little. nothing much. i've done something queer to my wrist." attempting to move it, he winced. "it isn't broken?" "i don't know. i was trying to push the boat off, and something suddenly gave way." turning his head aside, he bit his lip as if in pain. "we'll telephone doctor stetson. the town is fortunate in having a very good physician. meantime, you mustn't remain in these wet clothes. there is no surer way of catching cold. do you think you could get upstairs if sylvia and i guided you?" "i guess so--if it isn't far. i'm absurdly dizzy. i don't know why. i suppose, though, i must shed these wet togs." "you certainly must. come, sylvia, lend a hand! we'll help him up." "oh, i'm not in such a bad way as all that. i can get up alone," he protested. "only please wait just another minute. the whole place has suddenly begun to pitch again like a ship in midocean. either i've lost my sea-legs or i'm all sea-legs, and nothing else. perhaps i may be faint. i haven't eaten anything for a day or two." "why didn't you tell me? the soup, quick, sylvia. i only wish i had some brandy. well, at least this is hot, and will warm you up. i'll feed you." "no, no. i needn't trouble you to do that. i'm sure i can manage with my left hand." "don't be silly. you'll spill it all over yourself. goodness knows, you're wet enough as it is. hand me the cup and spoon, sylvia." "but i feel like a baby," fretted the stranger. "no matter. we must get something hot inside you right away. don't fuss about how it's done," said the practical-minded marcia. "there! you look better already! later you shall have a real, honest-to-goodness meal. run and call doctor stetson, sylvia, and open the bed in the room opposite mine. you might light the heater there, too." as the girl sped away, marcia turned toward her visitor. "suppose we try to make the rocking-chair now. shall we? we won't aspire to going upstairs until the doctor comes. you're not quite good for that yet. but at least you needn't sit on the floor. what worries me is your wet clothing. i'm afraid you'll take your death of cold. let me peel off your shoes and socks. i can do that. and i believe i could get you out of your water-soaked sweater if i were to cut the sleeve. may i try? we needn't mind wrecking it, for i have another i can give you." the man did not answer. instead, he sat tense and unsmiling, his penetrating brown eyes fixed on marcia's face. apparently the scrutiny crystalized in him some swift resolution, for after letting his glance travel about the room to convince himself that no one was within hearing, he leaned forward: "there is something else i'd rather you did for me first," he whispered, dropping his voice until it became almost inaudible. "i've a package here i wish you'd take charge of. it's inside my shirt. but for this infernal wrist, i could reach it." "i'll get it." "i'd rather you didn't talk about it," continued he, hurriedly. "just put it in a safe place. will you, please?" "certainly." puzzled, but unquestioning, marcia thrust her hand beneath his sodden clothing and drew forth a small, flat box, wrapped in a bedraggled handkerchief. "if you'll look out for it, i'll be tremendously obliged." "of course i will," smiled marcia. "is it valuable?" the question, prompted by a desire to perform faithfully the service entrusted to her, rather than by curiosity, produced a disconcerting result. the man's eyes fell. "i shouldn't like to--to lose it," he stammered. "i'll be careful. you yourself shall see where it is put. look! here is my pet hiding-place. this brick in the hearth is loose and under it is plenty of space for this small box. i'll tuck it in there. just hold it a second until i pry the brick up. there we are! now give it to me." she reached hurriedly for the package, but as their hands met, the moist, clinging handkerchief became entangled in their fingers and slipping from its coverings a leather jewel-case dropped to the floor. out of it rolled a flashing necklace and a confusion of smaller gems. marcia stifled an involuntary cry. nevertheless, she neither looked up nor delayed. "sorry to be so clumsy," she muttered, as she swiftly scooped up the jewels. it was well she had made haste, for no sooner was the clasp on the box snapped and the treasure concealed beneath the floor than sylvia returned, and a moment later came both doctor jared stetson and elisha winslow. "mornin', marcia," nodded the doctor. "'lish happened to be in the office when your niece called up, an' hearin' you had a man patient, he thought mebbe he might be of use. what 'pears to be the trouble, sir?" "i've done something to my right wrist." "h--m--m! keepin' your diagnosis private, i see. that's wise. a wrist can be broken, fractured, dislocated, or just plain sprained an' still pain like the deuce." with skilled hand, he pushed back the dripping sleeve. "you're a mite water-logged, i notice," observed he. "been overboard?" "something of the sort," returned the man with the flicker of a smile. "mr.--" for the fraction of a second, marcia hesitated; then continued in an even tone, "--mr. carlton grounded his boat and had to swim ashore." "you don't say! well, i ain't surprised. 'tain't no day to be afloat. you couldn't cut this fog with a carvin'-knife. but for knowin' the channel well's i do, i might 'a' been aground myself. how come you to take your boat out in such weather?" the doctor demanded. "i was--was cruising." "oh, an' the fog shut down on you. i see. that's different. fog has a trick of doin' that, unless one keeps an eye out for fog symptoms. now, what i'd recommend for you first of all, mr. carlton, is a warm bed. you look clean beat out. had an anxious, tiresome trip, i'll wager." "yes." "i 'magined as much. well, you can rest here. there'll be nothin' to disturb your slumbers. we sell quiet by the square yard in wilton." a kindly chuckle accompanied the words. "better let 'lish an' me help you upstairs, an' out of your wet things, 'cause with a wrist such as yours, i figger you won't be very handy at buttons. not that 'lish is a professional lady's maid. that ain't exactly his callin'. still, in spite of bein' town sheriff, he can turn his hand to other things. it's lucky he can, too, for he don't get much sheriffin' down this way. wilton doesn't go in for crime. in fact, we was laughin' 'bout that very thing this noon at the post-office. 'pears there's been a robbery at one of the long island estates. quantities of jewelry taken, an' no trace of the thief. the alarm was sent out over the radio early yesterday an' listenin' in 'lish, here, got quite het up an' not a little envious. he said he 'most wished the burglary had took place in our town, excitement bein' at a pretty low ebb now." "zenas henry suggested mebbe we might hire an up-to-date robber, was we to advertise," put in the sheriff, "but on thinkin' it over, we decided the scheme wouldn't work, 'cause of there bein' nothin' in the village worth stealin'." he laughed. marcia, standing by the stove, spun about. "now, elisha, don't you run down wilton. why, i have twenty-five dollars in my purse this minute," she asserted, taking a worn pocket-book from her dress and slapping it with challenging candor down upon the table. "i keep it in that china box above the stove." "that might serve as a starter," remarked the stranger, regarding her quizzically. she faced him, chin drawn in, and head high and defiant. "besides that, in my top bureau drawer is a string of gold beads that belonged to my great-grandmother," she continued, daring laughter curling her lips. "they are very old and are really quite valuable." "we'll make a note of those, too," nodded the man, his eyes on hers. "i'm afraid that's all i can offer in the way of burglary inducements." "that bein' the case, s'pose you an' me start gettin' the patient upstairs, 'lish," broke in doctor stetson. "if we don't, next we know he'll be havin' pneumonia as well as a bad wrist. besides, i want to get a good look at that wrist. mebbe 'tain't goin' to be bad as it 'pears." the stranger's admiring glance fixed itself on marcia's. "what is my next move?" he inquired. "i told you before--you must take off your wet things and rest," she repeated. "you still prescribe that treatment?" "i still prescribe it." "in spite of the--the symptoms?" "why not?" was her quick answer. "very well. i am ready, gentlemen." erect, even with a hint of defiance in his mocking smile, the man rose to his full height. "before we go, however, i must correct a slight error. you misunderstood my name. it is not carlton. it is heath--stanley heath." chapter vi "and yet you told me, marcia, this was a quiet, adventureless place!" burst out sylvia, the instant the door had closed. "isn't it?" "it doesn't seem so to me. when shipwrecked mariners fall into your arms entirely without warning, i call it thrilling. who do you suppose he is?" "he told us his name." "of course--heath. stanley heath. it's quite a romantic name, too. but i didn't mean that. i mean where did he come from and why? didn't he tell you?" "not a word." obviously the girl was disappointed. "i thought perhaps he might have while i was upstairs. i was gone long enough for him to pour out to you his entire history. at least it seemed so to me. i ransacked every closet and drawer in sight trying to find something for him to put on. it wasn't until i struck that old sea-chest in the hall that i discovered pajamas and underwear. i hope you don't mind my taking them." a shiver passed over marcia. "no. they were jason's. i ought to have told you they were there. i kept them because i thought they might sometime be useful." "well, they certainly are," replied sylvia. "they will exactly fit mr. heath. he must be lots like uncle jason." "he isn't," contradicted marcia sharply. "he isn't at all like him." "in size, i mean," amended sylvia, timidly. "oh, in size. possibly. i haven't thought about it," came tersely from marcia. "let me see! we planned to have lobster this noon, didn't we? but that won't do for him. he will need something more substantial." "there are chops," suggested sylvia, following to the door. "so there are!" marcia brightened. "i'd forgotten that. we have had such a confusing morning--" absently she reached for the plates. "shall i put some potatoes in the oven?" "what?" "potatoes. shall i put some in the oven? for him, i mean." "oh, yes--yes. of course. chops and--" regarding the girl vaguely, marcia fingered the dishes in her hand. "and baked potatoes," sylvia repeated, a trifle sharply. "yes. chops and baked potatoes," echoed marcia, dragging her mind with an effort from the thoughts she was pursuing. "that will do nicely. and hot tea." "won't tea keep him awake?" "i don't believe anything could keep him awake." marcia was herself now and smiled. "where do you suppose he came from? and how long has he been knocking about in that boat, i wonder," ventured sylvia, her curiosity once again flaring up. "how do i know, dear?" marcia sighed, as if determined to control her patience. "you know as much about him as i do. i mean," she corrected, honesty forcing her to amend the assertion, "almost as much. i did, to be sure, talk with him a little while waiting for the doctor, but he did not tell me anything about himself." "one would never suspect you were such a matter-of-fact, unimaginative person, marcia," laughed sylvia, "now i am much more romantic. i am curious--just plain, commonplace curious--and i don't mind admitting it." again marcia's conscience triumphed. "i am curious, too," she confessed. "only perhaps in a different way." the moving of chairs overhead and the sound of feet creaking down the stairway heralded the return of jared stetson and elisha. she went to meet them. "'tain't a broken wrist, marcia," was the doctor's greeting on entering the kitchen. "leastways, i don't think it is. i've bandaged it an' 'lish an' me have your friend snug an' warm in bed. tomorrow i'll look in again. mebbe with daylight, i'll decide to whisk him down to the hyannis hospital for an x-ray just to make sure everything's o.k. there's no use takin' chances with a thing so useful to a feller as his wrist. but for tonight, the bandage will do. a hot water-bottle mightn't be amiss. nor a square meal, neither. beyond them two things, there ain't much you can do at present, but let him sleep." "we were starting to broil some chops." "fine!" doctor stetson rubbed his hands. "nothin' better. he was a mite fretted 'bout the boat; but i told him some of us men would ease her up 'fore dark an' see she was anchored good an' firm. there's a chance she'll float at high tide, i wouldn't wonder--that is if she ain't stuck too firm. the life-savin' crew will lend us a hand, i reckon. cap'n austin an' the boys have been itchin' for a job. anyhow, i told mr. heath to quit troublin' 'bout his ship an' go to sleep, an' he promised he would. seems a nice sort of feller. known him long?" "not so very long." "why, marcia--" broke in sylvia. "one sometimes comes to know a person rather well, though, even in a short time," went on the older woman, ignoring the interruption. "s'pose 'twas a-comin' to see you that brought him down this way," elisha volunteered. "somehow i don't recall meetin' him before." "he hasn't been here before," was the measured response. "oh, so he's new to wilton waters, eh? that prob'ly accounts for his runnin' aground. i was certain i'd 'a' remembered his face had i seen it. i'm kinder good at faces," declared the sheriff. "fine lookin' chap. has quite an air to him. nothin' cheap 'bout his clothes, neither. they was a1 quality clear through to his skin. silk, with monograms on 'em. must be a man of means." silence greeted the observation. "likely he is--havin' a power-boat an' leisure to cruise round in her," persisted the undaunted elisha. "i really couldn't say." "well, apparently he ain't one that boasts of his possessions, an' that's to his credit," interposed jared stetson good-humoredly. elisha's interest in the stranger was not, however, to be so easily diverted. "seen the boat?" he inquired. "no." "oh, you ain't! i forgot to ask heath the name of her. i'm sort of a crank on the names of boats. it always riles me to have a foolish name given a boat. no matter how small she is, her plankin' is all that divides her owner from fathoms of water, an' in view of the fact he'd oughter regard her soberly an' give her a decent name." elisha stroked his chin, rough with the stubble of a reddish beard. "years ago," he continued, "folks stood in awe of ships an' understood better what they owed 'em. in them days there warn't no wireless, nor no big ocean liners an' a man that sailed the deep warn't so hail-feller-well-met with the sea. it put the fear of god into him. when he started out on a cruise across the atlantic or round the horn, there warn't no slappin' his ship on the back. he respected her an' named her accordin'ly. _the flyin' cloud!_ can you beat that? or _sovereign of the seas_? them names meant somethin'. they made you want to lift your hat to the lady. but now--! why, last season a feller come into the harbor with as pretty a knockabout as you'd want to see. small though she was, every line of her was of the quality. a reg'lar little queen she was. an' what do you s'pose that smart aleck had christened her? the _ah-there_! thought himself funny, no doubt. 'twould 'a' served him right had she capsized under him some day when he was well out of sight of land an' left him to swim ashore. yes-siree, it would. if a man has no more regard for the keel that's under him an' the floorin' that's 'twixt him an' forty fathoms of water than that he deserves to drown an' i wouldn't care the flip of a cod's tail if he did," elisha blustered. "oh, come now, 'lish--you know you wouldn't stand by an' see no feller drown, no matter what kind of a fool he was," laughed the doctor. "yes, i would," elisha insisted, tugging on his coat. "well, all i can say is i hope the name of mr. heath's boat will meet with your approval," ventured sylvia archly. "i hope 'twill," was the glum retort, as the sheriff followed doctor stetson through the doorway. the moment the door banged behind them, sylvia turned toward marcia. "forgive my butting in, dear," apologized she. "but i was so surprised. you did say you didn't know mr. heath, didn't you?" "yes." "but--but--" "sometimes it's just as well not to tell all you know--especially in a place like this," was the evasive response. was the reply a rebuke or merely a caution? sylvia did not know. and what was the meaning of the rose color that flooded the elder woman's cheek? had marcia really meant to give the impression that she knew stanley heath? and if so, why? sylvia wracked her brain for answers to these questions. why, only an hour before, she and marcia had been on the frankest footing imaginable. now, like a sea-turn, had come a swift, inexplicable change whose cause she was at a loss to understand and which had rendered her aunt as remote as the farthest star. sylvia would have been interested indeed had she known that while she wrestled with the enigma, marcia, to all appearances busy preparing the tray for the invalid upstairs, was searching her heart for answers to the same questions. why had she sought to shield this stranger? why had she evaded doctor stetson's inquiries and deliberately tried to mislead him into thinking she and stanley heath were friends? what had prompted the deception? the man was nothing to her. of his past she had not the slightest knowledge, indeed he might be the greatest villain in the world. in fact, circumstances proclaimed him a thief. nevertheless, she did not, could not, believe it. there was something too fine in his face; his eyes. true, he had made no attempt either to defend himself or to explain away the suspicions he must have known would arise in her mind. on the contrary, with a devil-may-care audacity that fascinated her, he actually appeared to have tried to deepen in her mind the impression of his guilt. still she refused to believe. even in the face of overwhelming evidence she clung to her unreasoning faith in him. suppose he had stolen the gems and fled with them from long island? suppose he had lost his bearings in the fog; tossed aimlessly on the sea for a day and a night; and then run aground at her doorstep? it was possible, quite possible, even probable. yet was it? not for a man like stanley heath. marcia stubbornly insisted. so deep was the conviction, she shrank lest he should feel called upon to justify or defend himself. far from demanding explanations, she resolved she would give him no chance to make them. therefore, when his meal was ready and every last inviting touch had been given the tray, she said casually to sylvia: "suppose you take it up, dear?" "i?" "yes. why not? do you mind?" "not at all. i just thought perhaps you'd rather." marcia shook her head. "i want to stir the newburg and see it doesn't catch," she explained, avoiding the girl's eyes. "we are too hungry to risk having our dinner spoiled. you might just wait and cut the chops for mr. heath and fix his potato. find out, too, if there is anything more he wants. you needn't hurry back. i'll keep things hot." the task suggested did not, apparently, displease sylvia. she dimpled and sauntering to the mirror, she glanced in giving her mass of golden curls a feminine poke. she even slipped a vanity-case from her pocket and powdered her wee, up-tilted nose. "we may as well look our best," laughed she over her shoulder. "certainly." "perhaps i might take off my smock and go up in my dark dress." "i wouldn't. the smock is gay and suits you. invalids need cheering up." "so they do," agreed sylvia demurely, now quite self-possessed. a flutter of anticipation had put a sparkle into her eyes and faint color into her cheeks. she looked bewilderingly pretty. "here goes red-ridinghood," she murmured, taking up the tray. "all is, if i don't come back, you'll know the wolf has eaten me." in spite of herself, marcia smiled. she opened the door and stood watching while the girl ascended the stairs, for the hall was unlighted and the tray heavy. "i'm safe," called a merry voice from the topmost stair. marcia came back into the kitchen. she finished preparing the lobster, straightened the silver on the table, let in prince hal who came bounding to her side, picked a few dead blossoms from the geraniums, and sat down to wait. ten minutes passed! fifteen! half an hour went by. she fidgeted and stooped to pat the setter. then she went to the window. slowly the fog was lifting. it hung like a filmy curtain, its frayed edges receding from a dull steel-blue sea and through it she could discern the irregular sweep of the channel and the shore opposite where dimly outlined stood the spired church and the huddle of houses clustered like wraiths about the curving margin of the bay. yes, it was clearing. the tide had turned and a breeze sprung up. by afternoon the weather would be fine--just the right sort to get the boat off. she would go up the beach and watch the men while they worked. the house was close. she longed for air and the big reaches of the out-of-doors. a jingle of glass and silver! it was sylvia returning with the tray. her eyes were shining. "he ate every bit!" she cried. "you should have seen him, marcia. it would have done your heart good. the poor lamb was almost starved. he asked for you the first thing. i don't think he altogether liked your not carrying up the tray, although of course, he was too polite to say so." "you explained i was busy?" "yes. but at first he didn't seem satisfied with the excuse. however, he soon forgot about it and became gay as a lark. didn't you hear us laughing? the potato would fall off the fork. i'm not as good a nurse as you. my hands weren't so steady. i'm going back again for his wet clothes. we can dry them here by the fire, can't we?" "yes, indeed." "it's a pity there isn't a tailor at hand. his suit ought to be pressed." "i can do it," marcia declared with eagerness. "i'm quite used to pressing men's clothes. i always pressed jason's." this time the name dropped unnoticed from her lips. indeed she was not conscious she had uttered it. she was not thinking of jason. chapter vii it was late afternoon and, alone in the kitchen, sylvia yawned. since noontime she had sat reading and straining her ears for a sound in the room overhead, but there had been none. he was sleeping after his hearty dinner and that was encouraging. doctor stetson had hoped the wrist would not be painful enough to interfere with the rest the patient so obviously needed, and apparently this hope was being realized. sylvia was glad he was asleep--very glad indeed. she did not begrudge him a moment of his slumber. but what a delightful person he was when awake! his eyes were wonderful--so dark and penetrating. they bored right through you. and then he listened with such intentness, watching every curve of your lips as if fearing to lose a word. such attention was distinctly flattering. even though your chatter was trivial, he dignified it and transformed it into something of importance. how interested, for example, he had been in marcia; in learning she had been married and now lived a widow in the old daniels homestead! and what a host of inquiries he had made about jason--the sort of man he was and how long ago he had died! sylvia had not been able to answer all his questions, but of course she had asserted that marcia had adored her husband because--well, not so much because she actually knew it, as because widows always did. certainly marcia had declared she loved the homestead so deeply she never intended to leave it, and was not that practically the same thing as saying she loved jason, too? anyway, how she had felt toward him was not really a matter of any great importance now because he was dead. the thing that really mattered was mr. heath's interest in her--sylvia; in her trip east and her description of alton city, the little mid-western town which was her home. how he had laughed at her rebellion at being a school-teacher, and how insidiously he had hinted she might not always be one! and when she had tossed her curls at him as she often tossed them at billie sparks, the soda fountain clerk, how cleverly he had remarked that sunlight was especially welcome on a grey day. oh, he knew what to say--knew much better than billie sparks or even horatio fuller, the acknowledged beau of the town. in fact he made both of them seem quite commonplace--even hortie. fancy it! probably that was because he had traveled. apparently he had been almost everywhere--except to alton city. odd he should never have been there when he had visited just about every other corner, both of america and of europe. not that he had deliberately said so. he was far too modest for that. it was while trying to find out where his home was that she had stumbled upon the information. and come to think of it, she did not know now where he lived, she suddenly remembered. at the time she thought he had named the place; but she realized on reviewing the conversation that he had not. in fact, he had not told her much of anything about himself. it had all been about surfboating in the pacific; skiing at lake placid and st. moritz; climbing the alps; motoring in brittany. she actually did not know whether he had a father or a mother; a brother or a sister. at alton city you would have found out all those things within the first ten minutes. perhaps that was the reason he piqued her interest--because he was not like alton city--not like it at all. why, were stanley heath to stroll up maple avenue on a fine, sunny afternoon everybody--even the boys that loafed in front of bailey's cigar store and the men who loitered on the post-office steps--would turn to look at him. he would be so different from everybody else he would seem a being from another planet. it would be fun, she mused, to walk with him through this main street while those on both sides of it craned their necks and asked one another who he was. more fun yet to dash through its shaded arch of trees in a smart little car, talking and laughing with him all the way, and pretending to be unconscious of the staring spectators, although of course she would be seeing them all perfectly well out of the corner of her eye. she had done this sometimes with hortie fuller, simply because she knew every girl in alton city envied her his devotion. but what was hortie compared with mr. stanley heath? sylvia tilted her small up-tilted nose even higher. so occupied was she with these dramatic fancies she had not thought once of prince hal. in fact she had supposed that he had gone up the beach with marcia. now she suddenly became aware that he stood sniffing about the hearth, scratching at its surface as if he scented something beneath. he must not do that, and she told him so in no uncertain terms. nevertheless, in spite of the rebuke, he continued to poke away at the spot, whining faintly, until his persistence aroused her curiosity and she went to see what disturbed him. one brick projected ever so slightly from the others, and it was at this the setter was clawing. "what is it, prince? what's the matter?" whispered she. delighted to have gained her attention, the dog barked. "oh, you mustn't bark, darling," she cautioned, muzzling his nose with her hand. "you'll wake mr. heath. tell missy what the trouble is. do you smell a mousie under there?" for answer the dog wagged his tail. "i don't believe it," sylvia demurred. "you're only bluffing. between you and winkie-wee there isn't a mouse about the place. still, you seem terribly sure something is wrong. well, to convince you, i'll take up the brick." fetching from the pantry a steel fork, she inserted the prongs in the crack and pried the offending brick out of its hole. instantly the dog snatched from the space beneath a handkerchief containing a small, hard object. sylvia chased after him. "bring it here, hal! that's a good dog! bring it to missy." the setter came fawning to her side and unwillingly dropped his prize at her feet. as it fell to the ground, out rolled such a glory of jewels the girl could scarcely believe her eyes. there was a string of diamonds, dazzling as giant dewdrops; a pearl and sapphire pendant; several beautiful rings; and an oval brooch, its emerald centre surrounded by tier after tier of brilliants. sylvia panted, breathless. she had never seen such gems, much less held them in her hands. how she longed to slip the rings upon her fingers and try the effect of the diamonds about her slender throat! prudence, however, overmastered the impulse. marcia might return and surprise her at any moment. before that the treasure must be returned to the place from which it had been taken. gathering the rainbow heap together, she reluctantly thrust it into its blue leather case, snapped the catch, and placed it once more under the brick. then with relief she stood up and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. it was not until she was again in her chair, book in hand, and struggling to quiet her quick breathing that she discovered she still held in her hand the handkerchief that had been wrapped about the jewel-case. how stupid of her! how insufferably careless! well, she dared not attempt to replace it now. there was no time. instead, she smoothed it out and inspected it. it was a man's handkerchief of finest linen and one corner bore the embroidered initials s. c. h. she had known it all the time! there was no need to be told the jewels were his. what puzzled her was when he had found time to hide them. he had not, so far as she knew, been left alone a moment and yet here was his booty safe beneath the floor. she rated it as booty, because there could be no doubt he had stolen it. he had stolen it from that long island estate, escaped in his speed boat and here he was--here, under this very roof! a robber--that was what he was! a robber--a bandit, such as one saw in the movies! that explained why he was so well-dressed, so handsome, had such fascinating manners. he was a gentleman burglar. all up-to-date villains in these days were gentlemen. not that she had ever encountered a villain in the flesh. still, she had read romances about them and was there not one in every moving-picture? they were not difficult to recognize. now here she was, actually in the same house with one! how thrilling! here was an adventure worthy of the name. she was not in the least frightened. on the contrary, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet she tingled with excitement. she could feel the hot, pulsing blood throb in her throat and wrists. it was exhilarating--wonderful! of course marcia must not know. she, with her puritan ideas, would unquestionably be shocked to discover that the man she was sheltering was a thief. she would probably feel it her christian duty to surrender him to elisha winslow. how unsuspecting she had been! how naïvely she had clapped her purse down on the table and proclaimed exactly where her gold beads were kept! a thief in the room overhead! think of it! the very thief for whom all the police in the countryside were searching! he was no small, cheap type of criminal. he did things on a big scale--so big that radio announcements had been broadcast about him and no doubt at this instant detectives and crime inspectors were chasing up and down the highways; dashing through cities; and keeping telephone wires hot in wild search for the gentleman asleep upstairs! sylvia stifled her laughter. the whole thing was ironic. why, that very morning had not elisha winslow, the wilton sheriff, who had frankly admitted he yearned for excitement, helped undress the wretch and put him comfortably to bed? the humor of the situation almost overcame her. it seemed as if she must have someone to share the joke. but no one should. no! nobody should be the wiser because of her. the poor, hunted fellow should have his chance. he was an under-dog and she had always been romantically sorry for under-dogs. it was a little venturesome and risky, she admitted, to obstruct justice and should she be found out she would, without doubt, be clapped into jail. still she resolved to take a chance. after all, who could prove she had known stanley heath to be what he was? nobody. she would not even let him suspect it. the important thing was to await an opportunity and soon--before he was able to be about--return the handkerchief she held in her hand to its place beneath the brick. then all would be well. this should not be difficult. it would be quite easy to get marcia to take up mr. heath's supper. in the meantime, the situation was intensely amusing. its danger appealed to her. she had always enjoyed hair-breadth escapades. anything but dullness. that had been the trouble with alton city--it had been dull--deadly dull. but wilton was not dull. in spite of the fact that only this morning elisha winslow had complained the town was in need of a stirring up, it seethed with electricity. if she chose, she could hurl a bomb-shell into its midst this very minute. but she did not choose. instead she intended to play her own quiet game and keep what she knew to herself. she wondered why. perhaps she was falling in love with this adventurer. yes, that must be it. she was in love with him--in love with a bandit! how scandalized alton city would be! how the whole town would hold up its hands in horror if it knew! horatio fuller--dubbed hortie because of his high-hat manners and because his father owned the largest store in town--picture his dismay if he guessed her guilty secret! perhaps he would shoot the fellow--or the fellow shoot him. that was what usually happened in moving-pictures, somebody always shot somebody else. she wouldn't want hortie to be shot. the thought of it sobered her. after all, hortie was a dear, she liked him--liked him very much. on the other hand, she would not want stanley heath shot either. perhaps it would be just as well to leave out all this shooting, why heap horror upon horror? to be married to a bandit was adventure enough without being the wife of a murderer. sylvia's imagination had traveled so swiftly and so far that it came to earth with a crash when marcia opened the door. her hair, tossed by the wind, clustered about her face in small, moist ringlets; her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes shone. it was not alone the buffeting of the salt breeze nor the exhilaration of walking against it that had transformed her into something radiantly lovely. from within glowed a strange fire that made her another creature altogether. "why--why--marcia!" breathed sylvia, bewildered. "i've had such a glorious walk, dear!" cried marcia. "the fog has lifted and the sky is a sheet of amethyst and gold." "did the men get the boat off?" "yes. she is floating tranquilly as a dove." "what is her name?" "_my unknown lady._" "mercy on us! that ought to satisfy even elisha." "it did," said marcia. chapter viii sylvia's plans, so well laid and apparently so easy of execution did not, to her chagrin, work out, for instead of awaking and demanding supper stanley heath slept without a break until morning. had not marcia insisted on leaving her door ajar lest the invalid call, the girl might have slipped down stairs in the darkness and returned the handkerchief. as it was, fate forced her to put it into her bureau drawer and await more favorable opportunity. this, alas, did not come. sun was tinting the lavender sands to rose and gilding the water with its first flecks of gold when she saw marcia standing at the foot of her bed. "mr. heath has a high fever and can scarcely speak aloud," explained she. "i'm afraid he is quite ill. i wish you'd call up doctor stetson." "mercy on us!" the girl, drowsy and heavy-eyed, sprang out of bed. "i'll be down in just a minute," she exclaimed. "how do you happen to be up so early?" "i've been up off and on all night," answered marcia. "mr. heath was restless and thirsty. about midnight i heard him tossing about, and thinking he might be hungry, i heated some broth and took it to him." "i didn't hear you. i must have been dead to the world. why didn't you speak?" "there was no need of it. you were tired." "no more than you." "i was wakeful, anyway. i don't know why. perhaps i had him on my mind. if so, it is fortunate, for he did not call." "i'm dreadfully sorry he feels so miserable." "he won't admit it. he declares he is going back to new york today." "but he can't--he mustn't." "he is determined to. he says he has something very important to attend to. of course i have no authority over him but perhaps doctor stetson can exert some. that is why i am anxious to reach him before he goes out," explained marcia, moving toward the door. "i will call him right away." "i'll go down and start breakfast, then. mr. heath is dozing. he has promised not to get up for at least an hour. we must have the doctor here within that time." "i'll tell him to hurry." marcia tiptoed down the stairs. the freshness of early morning was upon the day. through the kitchen window pale shafts of light shot across the floor, brightening the colored rugs and making brass and copper glisten. starting the fire, she threw open the door to let in the salt breeze. the dampness and chill of the night had disappeared and the air was mild with the breath of coming spring. mingling with the gulls' cries she could hear the twitter of sparrows and the occasional chirp of a robin. the village, still hazy in mist, was taking on sharper outlines and from the bay the voices of fishermen and the chug of a motor-boat drifted distinctly across the water. prince came bounding into the house from some distant pilgrimage of his own, almost knocking her down in his eagerness for breakfast. she glanced far up the shore and saw, serenely rocking with the tide, _my unknown lady_. as she whispered the name, she was conscious of hot blood rushing to her cheeks. how ridiculous! stanley heath was simply a stranger of a night, he was nothing to her. well indeed was it, too, that he was not! during her hours of sleeplessness the ardor of her faith in him had, to a degree, cooled. true, she still maintained her belief in his innocence; but that belief, she now realized, was only a blind unfounded intuition. both the circumstances and sober second thought failed to back it up. the man's impatience to be gone, his complete silence with regard to the jewels, although perfectly justifiable, did not strengthen it. marcia conceded he had every right to keep his affairs to himself. she was close-mouthed and therefore sympathetic with the quality in others. but such an unusual happening! what more natural than that one should offer some explanation? last night, transported by emotion to a mood superheroic, she had wished none; nay, more, she had deliberately placed herself beyond the reach of it. today she toppled from her pedestal and became human, shifting from goddess to woman. had stanley heath started to confide his secret to her, she would even now have held up her hand to stay him. it was the fact that through the dim hours of the night, while she sat at his elbow trying to make the discomforts he suffered more bearable, he talked of almost everything else but the thing uppermost in both their minds. that was what hurt. she did not want to know. she wanted to be trusted; to help; to feel his dependence upon her. instead he held her at arm's length. oh, he voiced his gratitude for what she had done. he did that over and over again, apologizing at having caused her so much trouble. as if she minded! why, she was glad, glad to be troubled! he spoke with almost an equal measure of appreciation of the crew who had dragged his boat off the sand-bar, appearing to consider them also tremendously kind--as undoubtedly they were! still, they had not begun to come into the close contact with him that she had. marcia caught herself up with a round turn. here she was being sensitive, womanish. how detestable! why should stanley heath pour out his soul to her? she had never laid eyes on him until yesterday. in a day or two he would be gone never again to come into her life. she was glad of it. it was better so. she had just reached a state of complete tranquillity and happiness. why have her serenity stirred into turmoil and she herself transformed once more from a free woman to a slave? her mind should dwell no more on this man or his affairs. if he decided to go back to new york today, ill as he was, she would not attempt to deter him. his business was his own and he must manage it as he thought best. this decision reached, she drew in her chin, lifted her head a wee bit and began to get the breakfast. even doctor stetson's arrival and his subsequent verdict that the patient had bronchitis and would take his life in his hands should he leave his bed, afforded her only scant satisfaction. so she was to keep stanley heath under her roof after all--but against his will. it was not a very flattering situation. she sent sylvia up with his coffee and toast, and began her usual round of morning duties. and then just as they were finished and the clock was striking eleven, he called. she went up, cheerful but with her head still held high, and paused on the threshold. glancing at her he smiled. "you look like a bird about to take flight. won't you sit down?" she went nearer. nevertheless she did not take the chair he indicated. "i see you are busy," he said. "i thought perhaps your housework might be done by this time and you might have a moment to spare. well, i mustn't interrupt. forgive me for calling." "i'm not busy." "you seem hurried." "i'm not. i haven't a thing in the world to do," marcia burst out. "good! then you can stay a little while," he coaxed. "now answer this question truthfully, please. you heard what doctor stetson said about my returning to new york today. i don't want to be pig-headed and take a risk if it is imprudent; that is neither fair to others nor to myself. still, it is important that i go and i am anxious to. what is your advice?" "i think you are too ill." a frown of annoyance wrinkled his forehead. "if you will consent to stay where you are a few days, you will then be all right to go," she added. obviously the suggestion did not please him. however, he answered more mildly: "perhaps you're right. yet for all that i am disappointed. i want very much to go. it is necessary." "can't anything be done from here?" queried she. "such as--?" "letters, telegrams--whatever you wish. i can telephone or telegraph anywhere. or i can write." surprise stole over his face, then deepened to admiration. "you would do that for me--blindfolded?" "why not?" "you know why." "i simply want to help. i always like to help when i can," she explained hurriedly. "even when you do not understand?" piercingly his eyes rested on her face. "i--i--do not need to understand," was her proud retort. for the fraction of a second, their glances met. then she turned away and a pause, broken only by the crash of the surf on the outer beach, fell between them. when at last he spoke his voice was low--imperative. "marcia--come here!" she went--she knew not why. "give me your hand." again, half-trembling, half reluctant, she obeyed. he took it in his and bending, kissed it. "i will stay and you shall telegraph," was all he said. she sprang to fetch paper and pencil, as if welcoming this break in the tension. "i'm afraid i cannot write plainly enough with my left hand," he said. "will you take down the message?" "certainly." "_mrs. s. c. heath_" her pencil, so firm only an instant before, quivered. "have you that?" "yes." "_the biltmore, new york city._" "yes." "_everything safe with me. do not worry. marooned on cape cod with cold. nothing serious. home soon. love. stanley._" "got that?" "yes." had something gone out of her voice? the monosyllable was flat, colorless. heath looked at her. even her expression was different--or did he merely imagine it? "perhaps i would better just glance over the message before you send it--simply to make sure it's right." "let me copy it first," she objected. "copy it? nonsense! what for? nobody's going to see it." he reached for the paper. still she withheld it. "what's the trouble?" "it isn't written well enough. i'd rather copy it." "why?" "it's wobbly. i--i--perhaps my hands were cold." "you're not chilly?" "no--oh, no." "if the room is cool you mustn't stay here." "it isn't. i'm not cold at all." "will you let me take the telegram?" she placed it in his hand. "it is shaky. however, that's of no consequence, since you are to 'phone western union. now, if you truly are not cold, i'd like to dictate a second wire." "all right." "this one is for currier. _mr. james currier, the biltmore, new york city. safe on cape with my lady. shall return with her later. motor here at once, bringing whatever i need for indefinite stay._ _stanley c. heath_ "got that?" "o.k.," nodded marcia. this time, without hesitation, she passed him the paper. "this, i see, is your normal hand-writing," he commented as he placed the messages side by side. "i must admit it is an improvement on the other." taking up the sheets, he studied them with interest. "hadn't i better go and get off the messages?" suggested marcia, rising nervously. "what's your hurry?" "you said they were important." "so i did. nevertheless they can wait a few minutes." "the station might be closed. often it is at noontime." "it doesn't matter if they don't go until afternoon." "but there might be some slip." he glanced at her with his keen eyes. "what's the matter?" "matter?" "yes, with you? all of a sudden you've turned easterly." "have i?" lightly, she laughed. "i probably have caught the habit from the sea. environment does influence character, psychologists say." "nevertheless, you are not fickle." "how do you know? even if i were, to change one's mind is no crime," she went on in the same jesting tone. "the wind bloweth whither it listeth, and the good god does not condemn it for doing so." "but you are not the wind." "perhaps i am," she flashed teasingly. "or i may have inherited qualities from the sands that gave me birth. they are forever shifting." "you haven't." "you know an amazing amount about me, seems to me, considering the length of our acquaintance," she observed with a tantalizing smile. "i do," was the grim retort. "i know more than you think--more, perhaps than you know yourself. shall i hold the betraying mirror up before you?" "the mirror of truth? god forbid! who of us would dare face it?" she protested, still smiling but with genuine alarm. "now do let me run along and send off the messages. i must not loiter here talking. you are forgetting that you're ill. the next you know your temperature will go up and doctor stetson will blame me." "my temperature has gone up," growled stanley heath, turning his back on her and burying his face in the pillow with the touchiness of a small boy. chapter ix sylvia, meanwhile, had heard stanley heath call marcia and hailed her aunt's departure from the kitchen as the opportunity for which she had so anxiously been waiting. no sooner was the elder woman upstairs and out of earshot than she tiptoed from her room, the monogrammed handkerchief in her pocket. she had pried out the brick and had the jewel-case in her hand, wrapped and ready for its return when conversation overhead suddenly ceased and she heard marcia pass through the hall and start down stairs. sylvia gasped. she must not be found here. yet what was she to do? there was no chance now to put the package back and replace the brick which fitted so tightly that its adjustment was a process requiring patience, care, and time. flustered, frightened, she jammed the jewel-case into her dress and frantically restoring the brick to the yawning hole in the hearth as best she could, she fled up the back stairs at the same moment marcia descended the front ones. once in her room, she closed and locked the door and sank panting into a chair to recover her breath. well, at least she had not been caught and in the meantime the jewels were quite safe. mr. heath was too ill to be up and about for several days and until he was able to leave his room there was not the slightest danger their absence would be discovered. long before that time, marcia would doubtless go to walk or to the village for mail and leave her ample opportunity to put the loot back where mr. heath had hidden it. she took the case stealthily from her pocket. now that the gems were in her possession, it certainly could do no harm for her to look at them--even try them on, as she had been tempted to do when she first discovered them. probably never again in all her life would she hold in her hand so much wealth and beauty. no one, not heath himself, could begrudge her a peep at the trinkets. accordingly she unwound the handkerchief and opened the box. there lay the glistening heap of treasure, resplendent in the sunshine, a far more gorgeous spectacle than she had realized. going to the bureau, sylvia took out the jewels, one by one. she clasped the diamonds about her neck; fastened the emerald brooch in place; put on the sapphire pendant; then added the rings and looked at herself in the gold-framed mirror. what she saw reflected dazzled her. who would have believed jewels could make such a difference in one's appearance? they set off her blonde beauty so that she was suddenly transformed into a princess. no wonder stanley heath had risked his life and his freedom for spoils such as these! if she could have only one of the jewels she would be satisfied--the string of diamonds, the brooch, a ring--which would she choose? of course she never could own anything so gorgeous or so valuable. notwithstanding the certainty, however, it was fun to imagine she might. slowly, and with conscious coquetry, like a preening bird, she turned her head this way and that, delighting in the creaminess of the neck the gems encircled, and in the fairness of her golden curls. she really ought to have jewels. she was born for them and could carry them off. there were myriad women in the world on whom such adornment would be wasted--good and worthy women, too. fancy maria eldridge or susan ann bearse, for instance, arrayed in pomp like this! but marcia would be magnificent, with her rich complexion, her finely poised head, her splendid shoulders, her lovely neck. marcia dressed in all this wealth would be well worth looking at. then a voice interrupted her reverie. it was stanley heath calling. she heard marcia reply and come hurrying upstairs. guiltily sylvia took off her sparkling regalia; tumbled it unceremoniously into its case; and slipped it into the drawer underneath a pile of nightdresses. then she softly unlocked the door and sauntered out. it was none too soon, for marcia was speaking to her. "sylvia?" "yes." "how would you feel about going over to the village for the mail and to do some errands? the tide is out and you could walk. prince needs a run." "i'd love to go." "that's fine. here is a list of things we need at the store. just be sure not to dally too long and get marooned over in town." "i'll watch out." "you're sure you don't mind going?" "no, indeed. i shall enjoy being out." then suddenly sylvia had an inspiration which she instantly acted upon. "why don't you go?" she inquired. "you didn't sleep much last night, and a walk might do you good." "oh, i couldn't," objected marcia with haste. "i've a hundred and one things to do." "tell me what they are and i'll do them for you." "i couldn't. they are things i must do myself. thanks just the same." "well, you know your own business best. is this the list?" "yes. there are quite a few items, but they won't be heavy. here is the basket. prince will carry it. that is his job and very proud he is of doing it. goodbye, dear." "she's dreadfully anxious to get us out of the way, isn't she, prince?" commented young sylvia as she and the setter started out over the sand. "now what do you suppose she has on her mind? she's up to something. marcia isn't a bit of an actress. she's too genuine." marcia, standing at the window watching the girl in her blue sweater and matching beret swing along over the flats mirrored with tiny pools of water, would have been astonished enough had she heard this astute observation. she did want sylvia out of the way. the girl had read her correctly. she must telephone the messages to the station-master at sawyer falls, the adjoining town where the railroad ended and the nearest telegraph station was. she got the line and had no sooner dictated the telegrams than she heard heath's voice. during the interval that had elapsed since she had left him, both of them had experienced a reaction and each was eager to make amends. marcia regretted her flippancy. it had been childish of her to give way to pique and punish heath simply because it was proved he had a wife. why should he not be married? no doubt the absent mrs. stanley heath was a dashing, sophisticated beauty, too, who lived in luxury at the great city hotel to which the first wire had been sent. heath had been quite frank about the message and its destination. on thinking matters over, it occurred to marcia he might have considered this the easiest way to inform her of things he found it embarrassing to put into words. she had been made aware in delicate fashion that he was rich, married and moved in a circle far removed from the humble one she herself occupied. no doubt he felt she should realize this. it regulated their relationship and prevented any possible misunderstandings. and she? instead of appreciating his honesty, chivalry, gentlemanly conduct as she should have done, and receiving it graciously, surprise had betrayed her into displaying resentment. she was heartily ashamed of herself. no matter how much it humbled her pride, she must put things right. fortunately it was not too late to do so. therefore, a very different marcia howe responded to stanley heath's summons. she was now all gentleness, friendliness, and shyly penitent. if her former coquetry had been bewitching, this new artless self of hers was a hundredfold more alluring. stanley, again master of himself, welcomed her with amazement. could man ever fathom a woman's moods, he asked himself? why this chastened and distractingly adorable marcia? it was he who had been in the wrong and given way to temper, yet instead of demanding the apology which trembled on his tongue, here she was taking the blame and passing over his irritability with the charity of a mother humoring a fretful child. well, if he could not fathom her, he at least was grateful for her understanding. nevertheless he did mentally observe he had not dreamed her to be so many-sided or credited her with a tithe the fascinations he had so unexpectedly discovered her to possess. "here i am, mr. heath. what can i do for you?" was her greeting. this time she did not hesitate, but went directly to the chair beside his bed and sat down. he smiled and, meeting his eyes, she smiled back. this was better. heath sighed a sigh of relief. "i've been thinking, since you went down stairs, about currier. he ought to arrive late tonight or early tomorrow morning. he will start the moment he gets my wire. although he will not know in which house i am quartered, he will have the wit to inquire, for he has more than the ordinary quota of brains. i don't know what i should do without him. he has been with me for years and is an admirable crichton and a good man friday rolled into one. i shall have him leave the car in the village and after he has delivered over the clothing he is to bring, he can take the noon train back to new york, carrying the jewels with him." "i see," nodded marcia. she did not see. she did not understand any of the snarl of events in which so unwittingly she found herself entangled. nevertheless she heartily welcomed the intelligence that the jewels with their damning evidence, if evidence it was, were to be removed from the house. the sooner they were out of the way the better. if they were not damning evidence they at least were a great responsibility. suppose something were to happen to them? suppose somebody suspected they were in the house? the thought had occurred to her more than once. "so," continued stanley heath, "i think sometime today when you have a good opportunity you'd better get the case and bring it up here. i shall then have it here in my room and i can hand it over to currier without any trouble." "i'll go and fetch it now. sylvia has gone to the village and this is a splendid chance," cried marcia. "fine!" "i'll be right back." he heard her speed down the stairs and listened to her step in the room below. then there was silence. a few moments later she came racing back, white and breathless. "they're gone!" she cried. "the place is empty! the jewels are not there!" her terror and the fear lest her pallor foreshadowed collapse produced in heath that artificial calm one sometimes sees when a strong nature reins itself in and calls upon its reserve control. marcia had fallen to her knees beside the bed and buried her face, trembling with agitation. the man thought only of how to quiet her. reaching out, he touched her hair. "hush, marcia. the jewels will be found. don't give way like this. i cannot bear to see you. the whole lot of them are not worth your tears." "but you left them in my care. it was i who suggested where to hide them," she moaned. "i know. and it was a splendid idea, too. besides, we had no time to hunt hiding-places. we were forced to act right away. i could not let that sheriff of yours peel off my clothes and find the diamonds on me. he isn't a man of sufficient imagination--or perhaps he is one of far too much. i am not blaming you,--not in the least. we did the best we could in the emergency. if things have gone wrong, it is no fault of yours." "but you trusted me. i ought to have watched. i should not have left the kitchen day or night," declared marcia, lifting her tear-stained face to his. "you have been there most of the time, haven't you?" "i went to see them get the boat off yesterday." "still, someone was here. sylvia was in the house." "yes, but she knew nothing about the jewels and therefore may not have realized the importance of staying on deck. how could she, unless she had been warned? all i asked her to do was to remain within call. she may have gone upstairs, or into another room." "when she comes back, you can ask her." it was he who now soothed and cheered, his caressing hand moving from her shoulder down her arm until her fingers lay in his. convulsively she caught and clung to them. "now we must pull ourselves together, dear," went on stanley gently. "it is important that we do not give ourselves away. sylvia may know nothing and if she does not, we must not let her suspect. the fewer people there are mixed up in this dilemma the better." "yes." she rose but he still held her hand, a common misery routing every thought of conventionality. the firmness and magnetism of his touch brought strength. it was a new experience, for during her life with jason, marcia had been the oak--the one who consoled, sustained. for a few delicious moments, she let herself rest, weary and unresisting, within the shelter of stanley heath's grasp. then she drew away and, passing her hand across her forehead as if awaking from a dream murmured: "i'd better go down. sylvia will be coming." "very well. now keep a stiff upper lip. remember, i depend on you to see the apple-cart does not upset." "i will--i'll do my best." even as she spoke the outer door opened, then closed with a bang. "there's sylvia now. i must go." the girl came in, aglow from her walk. "i'm awfully sorry i banged the door," she apologized. "a gust of wind took it. i do hope i didn't wake up mr. heath. here's the marketing. i thought i should never get out of that store. everybody in the whole town was there for mail and i had to stop and tell each one all about mr. heath and his shipwreck, his boat and his health. i must have answered a million questions. people are dreadfully curious about him. "and marcia, what do you suppose? i had a letter from hortie fuller--that fellow back home that i've told you about. he's sent me a five-pound box of candy and he wants to come to wilton and spend his summer vacation." the girl's eyes were shining and she breathed quickly. "of course i don't care a button for hortie. still, it would be rather good fun to see him. he always dropped in every day when i was at home. it seems ages since i've laid eyes on him. you know how it is--you get used to a person who is always under foot. you have to think about him if only to avoid stepping on him. and after all, hortie isn't so bad. thinking him over from a distance, he really is rather nice. come and sample the candy. it's wonderful. he must have blown himself and sent to chicago for it, poor dear! i suppose eben snow read the address, because he called out 'guess you've got a beau out west, miss sylvia.' everybody heard him and i thought i should go through the floor. he looked the letter all over, too. i'll let you see the letter, all except the part which is too frightfully silly. you wouldn't care about that. i don't myself." sylvia shrugged her shoulders. alas, this was no moment to talk with her, and artfully draw from her the happenings of the previous day. inwardly distraught but outwardly calm, marcia took the letter and tried valiantly to focus her attention upon it. to her surprise, it was a manly, intelligent letter, filled with town gossip, to be sure, yet written in delightfully interesting fashion. "your mr. fuller sounds charming," she said as she gave it back. "oh, hortie is all right--in some ways." patronizingly slipping the letter into her pocket, sylvia shifted the subject. nevertheless, a betraying flush colored her cheeks. "now we must start dinner, mustn't we? see, it's noon already. i had no idea it was so late." she tossed her hat into a chair. "don't you want to ask mr. heath which way he prefers his eggs--poached or boiled? i suppose with a temperature, he isn't going to be allowed anything but simple food. and marcia, while you're there, do put a pair of fresh pillow-slips on his pillows. the ones he has are frightfully tumbled. i meant to do it this morning." as the door closed behind the elder woman, artful young sylvia smiled. "there! that will keep her busy for a few moments at least. i know those pillow-cases. they fit like a snake's skin and are terribly hard to get off and on." she crept into the hall and listened. yes, marcia and stanley heath were talking. she could hear her aunt's gentle insistence and the man's protests. that was all she wished to know. the pillow-cases were in process of being taken off. up the stairs flew sylvia, to return a second later, the jewel-case swathed in its loose wrappings. "if i can only scramble it in there before she comes," whispered she. "i shall draw the first long breath i've taken since last night. i wouldn't own those things if they were given me. they would worry me into my grave." an anxious interval elapsed before the brick was pried out and the case slipped beneath it. nevertheless the feat was accomplished and triumphant, relieved, happy sylvia set about preparing dinner. she even ventured to hum softly that when marcia returned she might find her entirely serene. "mr. heath, alas, will never know how becoming his jewelry was to me," she mused. "had a hollywood producer seen me, he would have snapped me up for a movie star within ten minutes. i certainly looked the part." what a long while marcia was staying upstairs! why, one could change a dozen pillow-slips in this time. "i guess they are tighter than i remembered them. i needn't have rushed as i did," pouted sylvia. "what can she be doing?" when at last marcia returned, something evidently was wrong. "what's the matter?" demanded sylvia. "is mr. heath worse?" "worse? no indeed. what made you think so?" "you look fussed." "do i? you'd be fussed had you wrestled with those pillow-slips as i have," was the reply. "either the pillows have swelled or the cases have shrunk frightfully. well, they are on now, anyway." "come and get dinner then. i'm starved. my walk has made me hungry as a bear. you must go out this afternoon, marcia. it is a glorious day and you need to be pepped up. i know what staying in the house means. didn't i sit in this kitchen all yesterday afternoon until i got so dopey i could scarcely keep my eyes open? not that i wasn't glad to," she added hastily. "i never mind staying in when there is a reason for doing it, and of course i want to do my bit toward taking care of mr. heath. still, indoors isn't the same as outdoors. we all need exercise. i've had my quota for the day. you must have yours." to her surprise, marcia demurred. "thank you, dear, but i think i won't go out today." "why not?" "i don't feel like it. i'd rather sit here and read." "nonsense, marcia! you're getting middle-aged and lazy. you'll lose your nice slim, hipless figure if you don't watch out." "i guess i shan't lose it today. soon mr. heath will be gone and we can both go." "but i can play nurse for the afternoon." "i'm too tired to go out." "the air would rest you." "not today, dear," marcia said with finality. "i have some mending to do and lots of other little things that i have been saving up for a long time. since i prefer to stay, why don't you tramp up the shore and see _my unknown lady_? she is beautiful and you haven't seen her yet." "i'd love to--if i cannot coax you to go out." "you can't. i'm adamant on not stirring out of this room." "well, if your mind is made up to that extent, i suppose there is no use in my trying to change it. i would like to see the boat." "i'm sure you would. stay as long as you like. there will be nothing to do here. somebody ought to enjoy the sunshine and blue sky. mr. heath will probably sleep and in the meantime i shall get my sewing done." as marcia spoke the words, her mind was busy. so sylvia had not stirred from the kitchen on the previous afternoon! the theft of the jewels must, then, have taken place during the night. nevertheless, she was puzzled, for she had no memory of finding anything awry when she came down at sunrise to lay the fire. moreover, she now recalled she had been in the kitchen several times during the night, heating soup and getting water for stanley heath. there had been nothing wrong then, at least she had noticed nothing. when had the gems been taken, and who had taken them? no wonder she craved solitude to ponder the conundrum! this, however, was not the paramount reason she desired to be alone. despite the enigma of the jewels; despite the mystery surrounding stanley heath, deep in her heart something that would not be stilled was singing--singing! chapter x in the meantime, the throng of neighbors sylvia had precipitately left in the village post office had received their mail and reached that anticipated interval for gossip which never failed to be stimulating. clustered about the counter loitered the standbys. zenas henry was speaking: "a mighty fine little girl--that sylvia," commented he. "a high stepper! we'd oughter tie her down to wilton so'st she won't go back west. she's too pretty to be spared from the cape." "i figger you'd have trouble keepin' her here," rejoined silas nickerson, the postmaster, sauntering out from his wicker cage. "she's got a beau in her home town. had a letter an' a box of candy from him today. same writin' an' same postmark on both of 'em, i noticed. she blushed red as a peony when i passed 'em out to her." "didn't by any chance see the name, did you, silas?" eleazer crocker inquired. "wal, come to think of it, it did catch my eye. you know how such things will. fuller, he's called. horatio fuller." "horatio fuller, eh?" eleazer repeated. "kinder high soundin'. wonder who he is? from alton city, you say." silas nodded. "that was the address." "never heard of the place," captain benjamin todd put in. "that don't in no way prevent its existin', ben," answered zenas henry with his customary drawl. "if we had a map handy we might look it up," suggested captain phineas taylor. "i'd like to see just where it's located." "i tried doin' that," the postmaster admitted. "i got out my map, but the place warn't on it." "no wonder i never heard of it!" blustered benjamin todd. "that don't prove nothin', benjamin," his friend phineas taylor expostulated. "silas's map was drawed before the flood. even wilton ain't on it." "it ain't?" a simultaneous gasp rose from the assembly. "then all i can say is it's a darn poor map," enoch morton sniffed. "a map that ain't got wilton on it might as well be burned. 'tain't worth botherin' with." "it's all the map i've got," silas apologized. "you'd oughter ask the government for another. why don't you write to washington, explainin' that neither wilton nor alton city are on this one an' ask 'em for a better one?" "'fore you start complainin', you might make sure belleport's down," suggested lemuel gill, a resident of the adjoining village. "last i knew, that warn't on this map, neither." "'twarn't?" "who makes these maps, i wonder?" bristled zenas henry. "some numskull who ain't traveled none, i'll bet a hat. why don't he go round an' see what places there is 'fore he starts map-makin'? why, any one of us knows more 'bout the job already than he does. we know there's belleport, an' wilton, an' alton city." "bet you couldn't tell what state alton city is in, though, zenas henry," silas challenged. "alton city? let me think! alton city!" thoughtfully he stroked his chin. "'tain't my business to know where 'tis," he presently sputtered. "if everybody knew where all the blasted places in the country were, what use would they have for maps? 'twould put the map-makin' folks clean out of business." "if map-makers don't know where wilton an' belleport are they'd better be out of business, in my opinion," countered benjamin todd. "say, ephraim," he exclaimed, inspired by a bright idea, "you're the mail carrier. you'd oughter be primed on the location of places. where's alton city?" "alton city? hanged if i know. to hear you talk, anybody'd think 'twas my job to tote round the country deliverin' letters in person at the doors of every house in the united states." "but you must have some notion 'bout geography. ain't you got no pocket atlas nor nothin'?" "i may have a small map somewheres; i carry most everything," ephraim grinned. with deliberation, he began to disgorge upon the counter the contents of his many pockets. there was a tangle of pink string; two stumpy pencils without points; a fragment of fish-line; a soiled scrap of court-plaster; a box of matches; a plug of tobacco; a red bandanna handkerchief; three cough-drops, moist and sticky; several screws; a worn tube of paste; a jack-knife. "my soul, eph!" ejaculated zenas henry. "you're a reg'lar travelin' junk shop, ain't you?" "i have to have things by me." "was you robinson crusoe, you'd never have call for any such mess of truck as this. where's the map?" "must be in my breast pocket," replied the mail-carrier, thrusting his hand inside his pea-coat. "my eye! if i ain't forgot that telegram!" he abruptly exclaimed. "the station-master at sawyer falls gave it to me when he handed out the mail. it clean went out of my mind." "a telegram!" came in chorus from his audience. "who for?" "it's for that chap heath who's stayin' over at the widder's." "hadn't you been wool-gatherin' you might 'a' given it to sylvia to take back with her. she was here only a little while ago," silas nickerson said. "i know it." "s'pose i was to take it over," elisha winslow suggested eagerly. "i'm willin' to." "fur's that goes, i can carry it," captain phineas taylor piped. "give it to me, eph, an' i'll see it's landed there within half an hour," proposed benjamin todd, elbowing his way forward. "now there's no use in all you fellers volunteerin'," eleazer crocker asserted. "i'm goin' straight over to marcia's, as it happens, soon's i've et my dinner, an' i'll take the telegram." with an air of authority, he held out his hand. the crowd fell back. yet notwithstanding their acquiescence, zenas henry, not to be awed into subjection, had the temerity to add: "remember, though, eleazer, you ain't to go off the mainland without leavin' the key to the engine-house where we can get it. we've no hankerin' to be burnt alive while you're philanderin' at the widder's." "hang it on the peg inside benjamin todd's fish shanty as you go by," called another voice. "i'll do that," eleazer agreed as he pocketed the telegram. * * * * * early afternoon found marcia alone in the homestead sitting-room. a driftwood fire flickered upon the hearth, for although spring was on the way, the large, high-studded rooms were not yet entirely free of winter's chill and dampness. sylvia had gone up the beach. stanley heath was asleep; and at last the delicious interval of solitude which the woman coveted was here. the basket at her elbow overflowed with mending, but she had not yet taken up her needle. instead she sat motionless before the blaze, dreamily watching the vivid blues and greens as they flared up into the glow of the flame there to blend with its splendor, and afterwards melt into embers of scarlet and orange. she could not work. try as she would, her mind wandered off into by-ways too fascinating to be resisted--by-ways which no matter how remote their windings, invariably led her back to stanley heath. in retrospect she lived over again every incident, every word, every look that had passed between them until she came to the barrier of the unknown which her fancy bridged with intricate rainbow-hued imaginings. while the fire crackled and flashes of sapphire and emerald shot up and died away, she twisted possible explanations this way and that and would contentedly have continued the pastime had not eleazer crocker knocked at the door. eleazer could not have chosen a more inopportune moment to drag her back to earth. with a frown and a deep sigh, marcia went reluctantly to let him in. "wal, now ain't it nice to find you by yourself!" was his greeting. "the kitchen looks cozy as can be. spring may be comin' but for all that cool weather still hangs on. where was you settin'?" "i was in the front room, but perhaps we better drop down here so i can listen in case mr. heath should call." "anywhere you say. wherever you are suits me." "i'll just run in and put the screen round the fire and get my mending," marcia replied a trifle uneasily. "let me go." "no, indeed. you wait here. i'll be right back." left to himself, eleazer smiled a smile of satisfaction. the kitchen was warm, marcia was alone and apparently not busy. could circumstances be more propitious? fortune certainly was with him. today, this very afternoon, he would take his future in his hands and put to her the question he had so often determined to put. times without number he had mentally rehearsed what he meant to say. in fact he habitually fell into this intriguing dialogue whenever he had nothing else to occupy him. it commenced with a few preliminary observations concerning the weather, the springtime, the birds--the birds who would soon be mating. that was the keynote--mating. the rest followed very naturally. it was, eleazer felt, a neat, in fact quite a poetic proposal. he cleared his throat in preparation. when marcia came back, he was primed and ready to begin his declaration. "weather's been fine, ain't it?" he started out. marcia took up her sewing. "do you think so?" questioned she, raising her brows. "seems to me we've had lots of rain and fog." "wal, yes, now you mention it i do recall a few thick days. still, spring is comin'." "i'd like to shingle the south ell this spring," announced marcia, giving a disconcertingly practical twist to the conversation. "how many shingles do you suppose it would take?" eleazer frowned. the dialogue was not proceeding along the lines he had mapped out. determined to fetter it and bring it back into the prescribed channels, he answered: "i'd have to reckon that out. it's a good notion, though, to make the ell tight. that's what the birds are doin'." astonished, marcia glanced up from her work. "i mean," floundered on eleazer, "they're gettin' their nests built an' kinder pickin' out their mates. pickin' the right mate's quite a job for some folks." he saw marcia turn scarlet. mercy! what a slip! she thought he was twitting her about jason. "what i set out to say was that when you get the wrong mate you know it," he countered hastily. no sooner, however, were the words out of his mouth than he saw they were no better. perhaps it would be well to abandon the mating question and start on a new tack. he had tried the spring. suppose he took summer as his theme? "summer's a nice season, ain't it?" ventured he. "yes, although i never enjoy it as much as the other months. i don't like the heat and i detest the summer boarders." eleazer swallowed hard. he would better have clung to the spring. he saw that now. he would retrace his steps. "spring is nice," he agreed. "with the birds a-buildin' their nests, an'--" at last he was back on familiar ground. "i did not realize you were so much interested in birds, eleazer," marcia exclaimed. "i have a fine bird book i must lend you. it's in the other room. i'll fetch it." springing up, she disappeared. "drat it!" murmured eleazer. "could anything be more exasperatin'? an' me neither knowin' nor carin' a hang whether a bird's a robin or a sparrow. just when i was gettin' the way paved so nice, too." he wandered to the window. "oh, heavens, who's this comin'? if it ain't 'lish winslow! now what in thunder does he want, buttin' in? he's walkin' like as if the evil one was at his heels." eleazer threw open the door. before he could speak, however, elisha puffing and out of breath bawled: "where in the name of goodness did you put the engine-house key, eleazer? whipple's hen house is afire an' we've hunted high an' low for it." eleazer purpled. "my soul an' body," he gasped. "i clean forgot to leave it. must be here in my pocket." wildly he began to search. "you're a fine head of the fire department, you are!" roared elisha. "if you'd put your mind on town business 'stead of on marcia howe, we'd all be better off. traipsing over here to see her in the middle of the day, palmin' off that telegram as an excuse--" if eleazer had been purple before, he was livid now. "well, you better go straight back to the village fast as you can leg it an' carry the key with you," went on the accuser. "don't wait for nothin'. i'll explain matters to marcia." "but i've got to see her. i've got to speak to her private," protested the wretched official. "private? ain't you been talkin' to her private an' hour or more? what else have you got to say to her?" "i want to give her somethin'." "give it to me. i'll hand it to her." elisha's extended palm was not to be ignored. "this--this--telegram," quavered eleazer. "i ain't had a chance to--" "do you mean to say you ain't given her that telegram yet?" "i was intendin' to. i was just about to when--" "wal, of all the--" words failed elisha. "here, give it to me," he commanded. "i can be depended on to deliver messages if you can't. i'll see she has it. in the meantime, the best thing you can do is to hoof it to town quick's ever you can. if the whole place ain't burned to the ground an' if they don't tar an' feather you when you put in your appearance, you'll be lucky." "ain't you comin'?" "i? no. fire's ain't in my line. long's marcia's here by herself an' ain't busy, i'm goin' to pay her a call," elisha grinned. "i've got to deliver the telegram." "still, you don't need to stay," pleaded eleazer, facing his triumphant rival. "mebbe i do," was elisha's hectoring retort. "mebbe this is the very time for me to linger behind. the coast's clear. why shouldn't i stay?" "you might be needed at the fire." "i shan't be," was the calm reply. "not unless there's somethin' criminal about it." "it might be arson." "i'll take a chance on it startin' from dan whipple's cigarette. in fact he owned as much. dan's terrible careless with his cigarettes. now, hop along, eleazer, else the whole conflagration will be out 'fore you get there." the unlucky fire-chief had no choice. "drat it!" raged he, as he strode off across the sand. "drat it! ain't that just my luck!" chapter xi either the book for which marcia searched was not to be found or she was in no haste to return to her awaiting suitor. whatever the explanation, her absence lengthened from a few moments into a quarter of an hour. in the meantime elisha, like his predecessor, was formulating his mode of attack. eleazer, apparently, had not been successful. might not this be his own golden opportunity? before another snatched the prize from him; before heath with his yacht and his monogrammed silken garments recovered his strength, he would put his fate to the test. women were unaccountable creatures. you never could predict what they might do. smoothing a man's pillow and feeding broth to him sometimes brought about surprising results. furthermore, thus far no one had been able to find out how well marcia really knew this stanley heath. perhaps a romance of long standing, of which the village was ignorant, existed between them. who could tell? in any case, it behooved an aspirant for the hand of this matchless creature to put in his claim without delay. elisha wandered about the empty kitchen, mentally summing up the situation. he had a small deposit in the bank which, added to marcia's larger fortune, would provide sumptuously for his old age. in addition, if she became his wife she would, of course, do the cooking and housework and he could dismiss may ellen howard, his housekeeper, thereby saving her salary. as to a house, he could not quite decide whether it would be wiser to take up residence in the homestead or continue to live in his own smaller abode in wilton. the homestead undoubtedly was finer and more pretentious, but it was large and probably expensive to heat. furthermore, its location was breezy and draughts always aggravated his rheumatism. if it could be sold, it should net a neat sum. well, he need not decide these questions now. there would be time enough to smooth out all such trivial details after the wedding. he strolled up to the stove and, standing on the hearth with his back to the fire, rocked back and forth on his heels reflectively. as he did so, a brick beneath his feet rocked with him. elisha looked down. he saw it was quite loose. "that thing's goin' to trip up somebody some fine day," commented he. "it oughter be cemented." he stooped to investigate. it was then he noticed for the first time an edge of linen projecting above the masonry. "marcia must 'a' stuffed a rag in there to keep the thing from wobblin'," he mused. "ain't that like a woman? she ain't helped matters none, neither. it wobbles just the same. i can fix it better'n that." producing his knife, elisha pried the brick from its place. as he lifted it out, a handkerchief came with it disgorging at his feet a flat, blue leather case. if the sheriff's eyes bulged when he caught sight of it, they all but popped from his head when, egged on by curiosity, he pressed the catch on the box. quick as a flash the whole situation clarified in his mind. these were the widely heralded long island jewels; and the thief who had stolen them was here beneath this roof! it was plain as a pikestaff. hidden by fog he had escaped in his boat and inadvertently run aground at the mouth of wilton harbor. of course marcia did not know. even though a friendship existed between herself and heath, she was unquestionably ignorant of the nefarious means by which he earned his living. far from cherishing anger or resentment toward the person who exposed his villainy and prevented her from sacrificing herself to such an unprincipled adventurer, would she not regard her rescuer with deepest gratitude? elisha's head whirled. nevertheless, confused though he was, it was clear to him he must not make a misstep and neglect to perform his official duty with dignity. heath was ill. there would be no danger of his leaving the homestead at present, especially as he had no suspicion the jewels had been discovered. the best plan was for him to return to the mainland; get his badge and handcuffs; find out what formalities such a momentous event as an arrest demanded; and return later and round up the criminal. he did not dally. carefully putting the gems back where he had found them, he placed the telegram upon the table and went out, softly closing the door behind him. it flashed into his mind that as the tide was coming in it might be well to borrow marcia's boat and row back to shore. this would serve two purposes. he would reach home sooner; and heath, cut off by the sweep of the channel, would in the meantime be unable to escape. elisha rubbed his hands. he was pretty farsighted--pretty cute. in fact, his management of this affair was going to put a big feather in his cap. he could see now his name emblazoned on the front pages of the papers: _elisha winslow, wilton sheriff, makes daring arrest! cape official rounds up gem thief!_ all over the country people would read that it was he who had tracked down this notorious criminal. and the police--those brass-buttoned city men who rated themselves so high and looked down on village constables and sheriffs as if they were the dirt beneath their feet--they would be given a lesson they would remember! they would be pretty sore about it, too, when they found the glory of making this capture going to a small-town deputy. never had elisha rowed as he rowed that day! the dory fairly leaped through the water. reaching shore, he sprang from it and dragged it up on the sand. then, trembling with excitement, he set out for home. everything must be done in ship-shape fashion. there must be no bungling--no slips that would detract from the dignity of the event. he was almost at his gate when to his consternation he saw eleazer puffing after him. "you didn't make much of a stop at the widder's, i see," jeered he. "no. had other business," came crisply from elisha. "you don't say! i can't imagine your havin' business important enough to cut short a call on marcia howe. mebbe she didn't urge you to loiter." "i didn't see marcia. i come away 'fore she got back," snapped the sheriff. unbelievingly, eleazer scanned his countenance. "you 'pear to be kinder stirred up, 'lish," he commented. "what's the matter?" elisha determined upon a sudden and bold move. "say, eleazer," began he cautiously, "was you ever at an arrest?" "an arrest!" "yes. did you ever see a man arrested?" "wal, i dunno as i ever did--not really. i've seen it done, though, in the movies." "that oughter be up-to-date an' proper. just how was the proceedin' put through?" thoughtfully eleazer regarded the toes of his boots. "wal, near's i can recollect, the policeman went up to the criminal an' grabbin' him by the arm says: 'you villain! i've got you now. scram!' i ain't exactly positive he says scram at that precise minute, but in all such scenes, somebody always says scram to somebody else 'fore the mix-up is through. that, in the main, is what happens." "i s'pose the policeman wore a badge an' carried handcuffs." "oh, law, yes. but what's the game? what do you want to know for?" furtively elisha glanced up and down the empty road and after peering over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a confidential whisper and hissed: "'cause i'm goin' to make an arrest--a big arrest! i've tracked down the thief that committed the long island burglary. moreover, i know this very second where the jewels are." eleazer's jaw dropped. "i'm goin' to 'phone the new york police i've got their man," he concluded, drawing himself to his full height and expanding his chest until the buttons on his coat threatened to burst off. "you be? my soul an' body!" "yes, i'm goin' to call long distance straight away." eleazer's cunning mind worked quickly. "i don't know, 'lish, as i'd do that," he cautioned. "why not?" "wal, in the first place, you might be mistook in your calculations an' not only get yourself into hot water but make the town a laughin' stock. furthermore, was you wrong, you might get sued for defamin' the accused's character." "i ain't wrong. i'm right." "wal, even so, i'd move careful," urged his companion. "most likely there's a reward out for this criminal. why split it with a host of others? why don't you an' me divide it? i'll help you land your man, since you're a bit--" eleazer, fearing to offend, hesitated, "--a bit out of practice 'bout arrestin'." the advice was good. elisha, shrewd in his dealings, instantly saw the advantages of the plan proposed. "wal, mebbe 'twould be better if i didn't let too many ignorant city chaps in on a big thing like this," he conceded pompously. "you an' me know what we're about. i figger we could handle it." "sure we could. we can put it through in first-class shape. first you must change your ole clothes for your sunday ones. a black frock coat's what you really oughter wear. i wish we dared borrow the minister's. still, i reckon your sunday suit'll do. then you must pin your sheriff's badge on your chest where it'll show good an' plain. be sure to bring along your handcuffs, 'cause you're certain to need 'em with an experienced criminal such as this. he won't have no mind to be took up. he'll have a gun an' put up a fight." "have a gun?" "sure he'll have a gun! in fact he'll prob'ly have several of 'em." elisha paled and a tremor twitched his lips. "that needn't concern you none, though. all you'll have to do will be to steal up behind him, put your pistol 'twixt his shoulder-blades an' shout: 'stick 'em up!'" "stick 'em up?" "yes." "stick what up?" "his hands, man--his hands," explained eleazer impatiently. "i ain't got no pistol." "for the land's sake! you ain't got a pistol? you--a sheriff?" "somehow i never got round to purchasin' a pistol," elisha apologized. "i ain't fond of fire-arms. in fact, i don't know's i ever shot off a revolver in my life." "wal, i have. i've shot dozens of skunks." "you might lend me yours." "i s'pose i might. it ain't, though, workin' very well right now. it's kinder rusty. furthermore, i'm out of ammunition." "that wouldn't matter. i ain't calculatin' to fire it." "but you'll have to." elisha's mounting disapproval changed to consternation. turning, he faced eleazer. "say, eleazer," he faltered, "s'pose we was to make a deal on this thing. s'pose, for the time bein' i was to take over your job an' you was to take over mine. s'pose you did the arrestin'? this affair's a big one an' oughter be given all the frills a city policeman would give it. that's due the town. now you seem to know a sight more 'bout how to manage it than i do." "you put on the badge; you tell the thief to stick 'em up; you put the pistol 'twixt his shoulders, or wherever you think 'twill do the most good; an' you snap the handcuffs on him. i'll see you get full credit for it. meanwhile, if there's a fire or an undertakin' job, i'll manage 'em somehow." eleazer shook his head. "that wouldn't do, 'lish, no way in the world," he objected. "we can't go swappin' offices voted us by the town. folks wouldn't like it. was i, a common citizen, to shoot the criminal, i'd likely be hauled up for murder. i'm willin' to stand by you to the extent of goin' along an' keepin' you company; but you must be the one that bears the brunt of the job." "i could resign my office." "when?" "right now. in fact, i've had a notion to do so, off an' on, for some time. you see, i never did want to be sheriff. the office was foisted on me. i'm findin' it pretty wearin'." "man alive! bein' sheriff in wilton can't be wearin'." "u--m. wal, mebbe it don't 'pear to be to an onlooker. still, it's an almighty big responsibility for all that," elisha insisted. "besides, 'twas kinder understood when i took the office there'd be no arrestin' nor shootin'. jewel robberies warn't in the contract." "but man alive, you ain't been burdened with jewel robberies. 'tain't as if they come every day in the week." "they're wearin' when they do come," elisha persisted. "everything's wearin' when it comes--fires an' all such things. did they happen seven days in the week, we'd all be wore to the bone. but they don't." "n--o." "wal, then, what you wailin' about? i should think you'd kinder welcome a break in the monotony instead of groanin' over it. 'twill give you a chance to show folks what you can do. the feller can't do more'n shoot you an' should you be shot at the post of duty, why the town would give you a big funeral an' i myself would lay you out in just the style you'd hanker to be laid out in." "but--but--i don't hanker to be laid out," whimpered elisha in an aggrieved tone. "i don't s'pose you do. none of us does. still, you might display a measure of gratitude for the offer." "oh, i appreciate your kindness," amended the wretched sheriff, fearful of losing his solitary prop. "i appreciate it very much indeed." eleazer appeared mollified. "you ain't told me yet none of the details of this business," he suddenly remarked. "if i'm goin' to help you, i'd oughter be told everything about it. who is the criminal? an' where is he? an' how'd you come to get track of him?" alas, the questions were the very ones elisha had hoped to escape answering. he had no mind to lay his cards on the table. nevertheless, he knew of no way to evade his confederate's curiosity. eleazer was touchy. it would not do to risk offending him a second time. reluctantly, cautiously, elisha poured out his story and was rewarded to see the other town official gape at him, open-mouthed. "bless my soul," he reiterated. "bless my soul! who would 'a' drempt it?" he burst out when he could contain himself no longer. "wal, i never did like that feller heath. i suspected from the first there was somethin' wrong about him. prob'ly he has queer eyes. you can always spot a criminal by his eye. kinder shifty an' fishy." "i didn't notice he had fishy eyes," mildly rejoined elisha. "you ain't seen as much of the world as i have, 'lish," was the patronizing retort. "i don't know why," bristled the sheriff. "you ain't never been twenty miles beyond wilton." "possibly i ain't. possibly i ain't," grudgingly confessed eleazer. "travelin' ain't all there is to life, though. i'm observin', i am. i understand human nature. this heath feller, now. i understand him." "then p'raps you can foretell what he's likely to do when i arrest him," put in elisha eagerly. "i can," eleazer nodded. "i can prophesy just about what he'll do." "what?" "it's better i shouldn't tell you. 'twouldn't be wise. we must do our duty no matter what comes of it." again elisha's knees weakened beneath him. "seems to me," went on eleazer, "that 'stead of loiterin' here discussin' the calamities of the future you'd better be gettin' on to your house. you've got to put on your other clothes. the press, most likely, will want to photograph you. then you must hunt up your badge, your handcuffs an' all your paraphernalia. i'd better cut across the field, meantime, an' oil up my pistol. mebbe i can fix it so'st it'll go off. i'll try an' find you some cartridges, too. i wouldn't want to stand by an' see you struck down without your havin' some slight defense, poor as 'tis." with this dubious farewell, eleazer bustled off across the dingle and was lost to sight. chapter xii left alone, elisha gloomily pursued his way to his own cottage and entering it by the side door passed through the back hall and upstairs. from the shed he could hear may ellen, his housekeeper, singing lustily as she mopped the floor to the refrain of _smile, smile, smile_. the sentiment jarred on him. he could not smile. going to the closet, he took out his sunday suit, shook it, and with the air of one making ready his shroud, spread it upon the bed. it exhaled a pungent, funereal mustiness, particularly disagreeable at the moment. next he produced a boiled shirt, a collar, and a black tie. it took him some time to assemble these infrequently used accessories, and he was dismayed to find no collar-button. nervously he searched the drawers, tossing their contents upside down in fruitless quest for this indispensable article. a collar-button was the corner-stone of his toilet--the object on which everything else depended. should it fail to be forthcoming, the game was up. he could not administer the law without it. perhaps, viewing the matter from every angle, its disappearance was a fortunate, rather than an unfortunate, omen. now that he had had time for sober reflection, the enterprise on which he had embarked appeared a foolhardy--almost mad undertaking. to grapple with an experienced criminal was suicidal. it was bad enough to do so if forced into the dilemma by chance. but to seek out such an issue deliberately! he wondered what he had been thinking of. excitement had swept him off his feet and put to rout both his caution and his common sense. he wished with all his heart he had never mentioned the matter to eleazer. but for that, he could pull out of it and no one would be the wiser. suppose the criminal did escape? were not lawbreakers doing so every day? one more at large could make little difference in the general moral tone of society. anyway, no criminal--no matter what a rascal he might be, was worth the sacrifice of a man's life--particularly his life, argued elisha. but, alas, there was eleazer to whom he had precipitately confided the entire story! no, there was no possibility of his backing out of the affair now and washing his hands of it. he must go through with it. nevertheless, he would postpone the moment for action as long as he was able. therefore, instead of donning his official garb, he went down stairs to hunt up his badge and handcuffs. these he kept in the drawer of the tall secretary in the sitting-room and although he had not seen them for months, he felt certain they would still be there. in order to make no noise and arouse may ellen's phenomenal curiosity, he took off his shoes. to his consternation, the drawer was empty! and not only was it empty but it had been left open as if a marauder possessed of sticky hands had hastily abandoned it. elisha paused, confounded. who could have taken these symbols of the law? who would wish to take them? certainly not may ellen. even if her inquiring mind had prompted her to ransack his property, she was far too honest a person to make off with it. furthermore, what use could a peaceable woman have for a sheriff's badge and a pair of handcuffs? unwilling to believe the articles were gone, elisha peered feverishly into every corner the piece of furniture contained. he even hauled out the books and ran his hand along the grimy shelves behind them. but beyond a thick coating of dust, nothing rewarded his search. at length, as a last resort, he reluctantly shouted for may ellen. she came, a drab woman--thin-haired, hollow-chested with a wiry, hipless figure and protruding teeth. "wal, sir?" "may ellen, who's been explorin' this secretary of mine? some of the things that oughter be in it, ain't," blustered he. "what things?" the woman's eye was faded, but it held a quality that warned the sheriff she was not, perhaps, as spiritless as she looked. "oh--oh, just some little things i was huntin' for," he amended, adopting a more conciliatory tone. "if i knew what they was, i could tell you better where they might be lurkin'." alas, there was no help for it! "i'm lookin' for my handcuffs an' sheriff's badge," answered elisha. "there ain't been a crime? you ain't goin' to arrest somebody?" "i ain't at liberty to answer that question just now," replied elisha with importance. "mercy on us! you don't tell me a crime's been committed in wilton! i guess it's the first time in all the town's history. won't folks be agog? it'll stir up the whole community." the sentiment held for elisha a vaguely familiar ring. as he speculated why, he recalled with dismay that it was he himself who, not a week ago, had brazenly willed the very calamity that had now befallen the village. to be sure, he spoke in jest. still it behooved a man to be careful what he wished for. providence sometimes took folks at their word and answered prayers--even idle ones. "you mustn't peep about this outside, may ellen," he cautioned. "was you to, no end of harm might be done. the criminal, you see, is still at large an' we want to trap him 'fore he suspects we're after him." "i see," replied the woman with an understanding nod. "i won't breathe a breath of it to a soul. but while we're mentionin' it, i would dearly like to know who the wretch is." "that's a secret of the law. i ain't free to publish it. you shall be told it, though, soon's the arrest is made. now 'bout the badge an' handcuffs. you see how important 'tis i should have 'em. they was in the drawer an' they'd oughter be there now. instead, the whole place is messed up an' sticky as if some person who had no business meddlin' had overhauled it." he saw may ellen's faded eyes dilate with sudden terror. "it's that miserable tommy cahoon!" interrupted she. "his mother left him an' willie here with me a week ago when she went to sawyer falls shoppin'. i saw 'em playin' policeman out in the back yard, an' noticed one of 'em was wearin' a badge, but i thought nothin' of it, supposin' they'd brought it with 'em. the little monkeys must 'a' sneaked indoors when i wasn't lookin' an' took that an' the handcuffs. i'm dretful sorry. still, boys will be boys, i reckon," concluded she with a deprecatory smile and a shrug of her angular shoulders. "but--but--good heavens--" sputtered elisha. "i'm sure we can find the missin' articles, unless the children took 'em home--which i doubt," went on the woman serenely. "last i saw of the imps they was out yonder under the apple trees. s'pose we have a look there." almost beside himself with an indignation he dared not voice, elisha followed may ellen out of doors. yes, trampled into the sodden ground lay the badge--its gleaming metal surface defaced by mud, and its fastening broken. there, too, lay the handcuffs, tightly snapped together and without a trace of a key to unlock them. elisha, livid with rage, opened his lips prepared to consign to the lower regions not only tommy and willie cahoon, but their mother and may ellen as well. before he could get the words out of his mouth, however, the suave voice of his housekeeper fell gently on his ear. "'course you can't lay this mishap up against me, elisha," she was saying. "i ain't no more responsible for the children's thievin' than you are for the crime of the criminal you're preparin' to arrest. the actions of others are beyond our control. all we can do is to live moral lives ourselves." "but--but--" "if you do feel i'm to blame, you'll just have to get somebody else to do your work. i wouldn't stay in no situation an' be regarded as--" "i ain't blamin' you a mite, may ellen," elisha hurriedly broke in, panic-stricken lest his domestic tranquillity trembling so delicately on the brink of cataclysm topple into the void and be swallowed up. "as you say, the doin's of others are somethin' we can't take on our shoulders. thank you for helpin' me hunt up these things." as he spoke, he dubiously eyed the muddy objects in his hand. well, at least, thought he, everything was not lost. he had gained time. to wear his badge until a new pin was soddered to it was out of the question. in addition, the handcuffs were of no use at all unless a key could be found to unlock them. he felt like a doomed man who had been granted an unlooked-for reprieve. eleazer would be nettled. when he came steaming back with the revolver he would storm and rage like a bluefish in a net. nevertheless, accidents were unavoidable and in the meantime, while the emblems of the law were being repaired, who could tell what might happen? stanley heath might escape and take the jewels with him--escape to some other part of the world and pass on to a larger and more competent party of criminal investigators the unenviable task of arresting him. elisha was quite willing to forego the honor. no longer did he desire to see his picture emblazoned on the front pages of the papers or behold his name in print. if he could shrink back into being merely a humble, insignificant citizen of cape cod, it was all he asked. as he turned to reënter the house, eleazer hailed him. "i've had the devil of a time with this revolver," announced he, puffing into the yard and jauntily flourishing the weapon. "take care, eleazer! don't you go pointin' that thing at me!" elisha yelled. "i ain't pointin' it at you. even if i was, there'd be no chance of it hurtin' you. 'tain't loaded." "that's the kind that always goes off," the sheriff insisted. "for heaven's sake, wheel it the other way, can't you? or else aim it at the ground." "wal, since you're so 'fraid of it, i will. but for all that, there ain't an atom of danger." then regarding his comrade's greenish countenance, he remarked abruptly, "say, what's the matter with you, 'lish? you ain't got on your other suit, nor your badge, nor nothin'. what in thunder have you been doin' all this time? i've been gone 'most an hour." elisha told his story. "wal, if that ain't the ole harry!" fumed eleazer. "that's goin' to ball us all up. there's no use doin' this thing if it ain't done in bang-up style. we don't want a lot of city cops jeerin' at us. we got to get that badge soddered an' them handcuffs unlocked 'fore another move can be made. i s'pose mebbe nate harlow over to belleport could help us out." "an' go blabbin' all over town the predicament the wilton sheriff was in? no--sir--ee! not if i know it. i wouldn't turn to a belleport man for aid was the criminal to rush from hidin' an' go free. the only thing to do is to motor to sawyer falls an' hunt up pete mcgrath, the blacksmith. he's a wizard with tools. i never knew no job to stump him yet. he'll know what to do. the notion of goin' over there ain't such a bad one, neither, 'cause artie nickerson, the station-master's, got a relation on the chicago police force an' had oughter be able to give us a few pointers 'bout how folks is arrested." accordingly the two men set forth on their errand. as the shabby ford rattled over the sandy thoroughfare, elisha's strained countenance began gradually to relax. "nice day for a ride," remarked he glancing toward the sea. "fine weather's certainly on the way. air's mild as summer. 'fore long we'll be havin' days worth noticin'." "so we will. april's 'bout over an' may'll be on us 'fore we know it. then june'll come--the month of brides an' roses." the allusion was an unfortunate one. elisha stiffened in his seat. amid the whirlwind happenings of the day, he had forgotten that the man at his elbow was his rival. "you plannin' to wed in june, eleazer?" asked he disagreeably. "that's my present intention." "it's mine, too," said elisha. "humph! expectin' to live at the homestead?" elisha nodded. "so'm i," grinned eleazer. "hope you'll invite me over, now and then," elisha drawled sarcastically. "hope you'll do the same," came from eleazer. for an interval they rode on in uncomfortable silence. "them boats is pretty heavy loaded," eleazer presently volunteered, gazing off towards the horizon where a string of dull red coal barges trailed along in the wake of a blackened tug. "makin' for new york, i reckon," elisha responded, thawing a little. "wouldn't be s'prised if that heath chap came from new york," ruminated eleazer. "confound heath! i wish i'd never laid eyes on him!" exploded elisha. "oh, i dunno as i'd go so fur as to say that," came mildly from his companion. "ain't heath's comin' goin' to put wilton on the map? bad's he is, we've got him to thank for that. with him safely handed over to the authorities, our fortune's made. what you plannin' to do with your half of the reward?" here was a delightful topic for conversation! elisha's eyes brightened. "i ain't decided yet," smiled he. "wonder how much 'twill be? oughter come to quite a sum, considerin' the risk one takes to get it." elisha's newly captured good-humor vanished. lapsing into moody silence, he did not speak again until the white spire of the sawyer falls church appeared and, rounding the bend of the road, the car rolled into the town. compared to the villages of wilton or belleport, this railroad terminus was quite a metropolis. it boasted two dry-goods stores, an a & p, a drug store, a coal office, a hardware shop, and a grain shed. around its shabby station clustered a group of motor cars, a truck or two, and the usual knot of loitering men and boys. in spite of his depression, elisha's spirits took another upward turn. it was interesting to see something different, something more bustling and novel than his home town. "s'pose we drop in an' get a moxie," he suggested. "'twould go kinder good. i want to buy a roll of lozengers, too, an' some cough drops now i'm here." "come ahead." "don't you s'pose we'd oughter go to the smithy first an' leave the badge? it may take some little time to get it mended," eleazer said. the badge! would the man never cease dangling before his vision the wretched memories elisha was struggling so valiantly to forget? with an ungracious, wordless grunt, he grudgingly turned the nose of the car toward the railroad. the small shed where the forge stood was close by the tracks and as he pulled up before it, he espied through its doorway not only peter mcgrath, the blacksmith, but also the rotund figure of artie nickerson, the sawyer falls station agent. "art's inside! ain't that luck?" he remarked, clambering out of the car. "the station must be closed an' he's come across the road to neighbor with pete." they went in and after the usual greetings, elisha stated his errand. mcgrath took the handcuffs and badge to the light and examined them. "humph! looks as if you'd been in some sort of a scrimmage," he commented. "i ain't. things get weared out in time. the pin on that badge warn't never right. 'twouldn't clasp. as for the handcuffs, i reckon they're o.k. 'cept for the key bein' gone. think you can make me one?" "sure. that ain't no trick at all. i can hammer you out a skeleton key which, though 'twon't take no prize as to beauty, will do what you want it to. i can sodder some sort of a pin an' catch on the badge, too. s'pose you ain't in no 'special hurry for 'em. there don't 'pear to be a cryin' need round here for such articles," he concluded with a chuckle. "nevertheless, i would like 'em," elisha demurred. "you see i'm plannin' to take 'em back with me. i don't often get over here an' you never can tell these days when such things may be wanted." "just as you say. i'll start on 'em straight away. i ain't busy on nothin' that can't be put aside." elisha strolled over to a box and sat down to wait. "how are you, art?" he inquired. "tol'able. havin' some rheumatism, though. reckon we've all got to expect aches an' pains at our age." "that's right. speakin' of handcuffs an' badges, didn't you have a nephew or a cousin 'sociated with a police force somewheres?" "bennie, you mean? oh, yes. he's a policeman out in chicago." "how's he gettin' on?" "fine! fine! just now he's laid up in the hospital, but he 'spects to be out again 'fore long. got shot through the arm a couple of weeks ago." "you don't say? huntin'?" elisha queried pleasantly. "huntin'? mercy, no! he got winged by a stray bullet while chasin' up a guy that had broke into a store. the shrimp hit him. luckily he didn't kill him. ben thought he got off pretty easy." elisha's smile faded. "these fellers that's at large now don't give a hang who they murder," went on the station agent affably. "they're a desperate crew. they'd as soon kill you as not. bennie landed his man, though, 'spite of bein' hurt. 'twill, most likely, mean a promotion for him. he'd oughter be promoted, too, for he's done great work on the force. been shot three or four times while on duty. 'tain't a callin' i myself would choose, but he seems to get a big kick out of it." elisha, pale to the lips, suddenly decided he had heard enough of bennie and shifted the subject. "s'pose you're still goin' round in the same ole treadmill over at the station, art," he observed. "yep. same ole rut. two trains a day as usual. i've had, though, a bit more telegraphin' to do of late than formerly. it's all come from your part of the world, too. know a feller over to wilton named heath? he's sent off several wires." both elisha, perched on the box, and eleazer astride a keg straightened up. "heath? yes, indeed. he's stoppin' in town for a while." "so i gathered. lives in new york at one of them big hotels." "who told you that?" eleazer demanded. "he sent a wire to his wife. leastways, i figger 'twas his wife. he signed himself _lovingly, stanley_, an' addressed it to mrs. stanley heath." "you don't say! that's news to me," elisha cried. he darted a glance at eleazer. artie, gratified at seeing he had created a sensation, beamed broadly. "'course i ain't permitted to divulge messages that go through my hands. they're confidential. but for that i could tell you somethin' that would make your eyes pop outer their sockets." "somethin' about heath?" "somethin' he said in a telegram." "you might give us a hint," eleazer suggested. "i couldn't. was i to, i might lose my job." "oh, i ain't askin' you to repeat no private wire." "i couldn't even if you did." emphatically artie shook his head. then elisha had an inspiration. "s'pose i was to ask you officially?" he suggested. "s'pose it's important for me to know what was in that message? s'pose i demanded you tell me in the name of the law?" "shucks, 'lish. you don't get round me that way," the station agent laughed. "i ain't attemptin' to get round you. i'm askin' you seriously as sheriff of the town of wilton." "are you in earnest? what do you want to know for?" artie asked. "never you mind. that's my business. i've a right to the information." "oh, that's different. still, i reckon it's as well i shouldn't repeat what heath said word for word. 'twouldn't interest you, anyhow. the wire was just sent to a friend. the part that astonished me was its beginnin'. it ran somethin' like this: "'_safe on cape with my lady. shall return with her later._'" simultaneously elisha shot up from the box on which he was sitting and eleazer sprang from the keg of nails. "what interested me," droned on artie, "was who this lady could be. heath, apparently, is a married man. what business has he taggin' after some wilton woman an' totin' her back to new york with him when he goes?" "he ain't got no business doin' it," eleazer shouted. "he's a blackguard--that's what he is! but don't you worry, artie. he ain't goin' to put no such scurvy trick over on any wilton woman. me an' 'lish'll see to that. we're onto him an' his doin's, we are. how much more tinkerin' have you got to do on them trinkets, pete? the sheriff an' me is in a hurry to get home." "you'll have to give me a good half hour more." "the deuce we will!" "can't do it in less." "that'll mean we won't fetch up at wilton 'til after dark," eleazer fretted. "sorry. i'm workin' at top speed. i can't go no faster. you've set me quite a chore." "there's no use goin' up in the air an' rilin' pete all up, eleazer," elisha intervened. "we'll just have to be patient an' put off what we was plannin' to do until tomorrow. i reckon mornin'll be a better time, anyway. certainly 'twill do just as well." "mebbe," eleazer grumbled. "still, i'm disappointed. wal, that bein' the case, s'pose you an' me step over to the drug store while we're hangin' round an' do them errands we mentioned." elisha agreed. a faint flush had crept back into his cheeks and his eyes had regained their light of hope. chance was on his side. he had wrested from fate another twelve hours of life, and life was sweet. chapter xiii dawn was breaking over wilton and the first shafts of sunlight transforming its pearly sands into sparkling splendor and its sea into spangled gold, when a trim motor car, bearing a new york number plate, slipped quietly into the village and drew up at the town garage. from it stepped a man, small and somewhat bent, with rosy cheeks, kindly brown eyes, a countenance schooled to stolidity rather than naturally so, and hair touched with grey. "may i leave my car here?" he inquired of the lad who was sweeping out the building. "sure!" "fill her up for me, please. and you might clean her a bit. some of the roads were pretty soft." "they always are at this season of the year, sir. you are astir early. i thought i was, but i reckon you've beaten me. come far?" "new york." "been riding all night?" the stranger nodded. "i like traveling at night," he volunteered. "less traffic. can you tell me where a mr. heath is staying?" "heath? the chap who ran aground on the crocker cove sand bar?" "he came in a boat," replied the other cautiously. "then he's your party. he's over to the widder's." "the widow's?" "u--h--aah." "where's that?" "new round here, ain't you? if you warn't, you wouldn't be askin' that question. the widder lives out yonder at the homestead." "how does one get there?" "wal, there are several ways. when the tide's low, folks walk. it's even possible to motor round by the shore if you've a light car. the quickest way, though, an' the only way to reach the house when the tide's full, as 'tis now, is to row." although the keen eyes of his listener narrowed, they expressed no surprise. apparently he was accustomed to obstacles, and the surmounting of them was all in the day's work. "where'll i find a boat?" "that i couldn't say. the widder keeps hers t'other side of the channel. mebbe, though, if you was to go down to the beach some fisherman would give you a lift across. 'most any of 'em would admire to if you're a friend of marcia howe's." the stranger bowed but offered no comment. if curiosity stirred within him concerning the information the lad vouchsafed, at least he gave no sign. "thank you," he replied briefly. "you'll see the car is put in good shape?" "the very best." "much obliged. will this road take me to the beach?" "straight as an arrow. pity you have to tote that suit-case." "i'm used to carrying luggage. it never bothers me. good morning." without wasting additional words or time, the stranger nodded and started off briskly in the direction indicated. nevertheless, swiftly as he moved, his eyes missed none of the panorama stretched before him. the swelling expanse of sea, rising and falling to the rhythm of its own whispered music, caught his ear; he noted the circling gulls that dipped to the crests of the incoming waves or drifted in snowy serenity upon the tide; saw the opalescent flash of the mica-studded sands. twice he stopped to fill his lungs with the fresh morning air, breathing deeply as if such crystalline draughts were an infrequent and appreciated luxury. when he reached the beach he halted, glancing up and down its solitary crescent and scanning eagerly the silvered house beyond the channel. discovering no one in sight, he dragged from the shore a yellow dory, clambered into it, and catching up the oars began to row toward the dwelling silhouetted against the water and the glory of the morning sky. * * * * * in the meantime, both marcia and sylvia had wakened early and were astir. the kitchen fire was already snapping merrily in the stove, however, and the table was spread before the latter made her appearance. she came in, sweater and beret in hand, and carrying a thick envelope with its dashingly scrawled address still wet. "why, sylvia, how you startled me!" marcia exclaimed. "i did not hear you come down stairs. why are you up so early?" "i'm going to town to catch the morning mail." "the mail? but, my dear child, why such haste?" sylvia colored. "i have to get off this letter." "have to?" "yes--to hortie. you see, if i didn't answer promptly he might think the candy had gone astray," explained the girl stepping to the mirror and arranging a curl that rippled distractingly above her forehead. "oh, of course, you must thank him for the candy," marcia agreed. "still, is it necessary to do so in such a rush--to walk to the village this morning?" "i mean to row over." "i'm afraid you can't, dear. i discovered last night the boat was gone. eleazer crocker must have appropriated it when he was here yesterday." "how horrid of him! what earthly right had he to take it?" "none at all." "didn't he ask if he might?" "no. to tell the truth, i went to find a book for him and was gone so long he apparently became either peeved or impatient at my delay and like a silly small boy went home mad, taking the boat with him--at least that's my version of the story." "perhaps he did it to punish you." "perhaps. anyway, whether he took it as a joke or as a reprisal, i shall give him a good lecture when i see him. it is a serious thing to be left out here with no way of getting to land. we might have needed the dory sorely. in fact, here we are with this tremendously important letter that must be posted immediately--willy-nilly." with eyes brimming with laughter, marcia shot a mischievous glance at her companion. "it isn't just to thank hortie for the candy that i'm writing," that young lady replied sedately. "you see, he asked if he might come to wilton for his summer vacation. he has to know so he can make his plans." "but it is only the last of april, beloved." "men need to know such things well in advance. they have to adjust their business," returned sylvia magnificently. "i see," smiled marcia. "under such conditions, i suppose the sooner the letter is sent the better." she did not say precisely what conditions were in her mind, but evidently the comment mollified sylvia who, after wriggling her mop of curls through the neck of her blue sweater, tossed beret and letter into a chair and began, in high spirits, to help with the breakfast. yet notwithstanding she did so graciously, it was quite obvious her eyes were on the clock and that she was fidgeting to be off; so as soon as the coffee and toast were ready, marcia begged her not to delay. the girl needed no urging. "the sooner i start, the sooner i shall be back, i suppose," she answered with feigned reluctance. "men are so unreasonable. it's a perfect nuisance to trot to wilton with this letter at this hour of the morning, especially if i must go the long way round. still, there's no other way to get it there. any errands?" "not today, thanks. just the mail." "i'll wait for it." the eagerness betrayed by the reply left not the slightest doubt that sylvia would wait, and gladly. as the door closed behind her, marcia smiled whimsically. she continued to smile, even to hum softly to herself while she prepared heath's breakfast tray, and she was just about to take it upstairs when there was a gentle knock at the kitchen door. a stranger stood upon the threshold. "is mr. stanley heath staying here?" inquired he. "yes." "i am currier. mr. heath sent for me." "of course! come in, won't you? mr. heath is expecting you. i'll tell him you are here." "you needn't do that, madam. mr. heath is quite accustomed to my coming to his room at all hours. if you will just show me where he is--" "at the head of the stairs." "very good. thank you, madam. i will go up." "tell him i am bringing his breakfast very soon." "i will, madam." "have you breakfasted yourself?" "i? no, madam. but i beg you will not--" "i'll bring coffee and toast enough for both of you." "please--" "it is no trouble." "i will come back and fetch mr. heath's breakfast, madam. afterward, if i may have a snack here in the kitchen, i shall be grateful." "any way that you prefer." marcia saw rather than heard the stranger mount the staircase. his step was like velvet. so noiseless was it, it made not a sound either on the broad creaking staircase, or on the floor overhead. nevertheless, he must have entered stanley heath's room, for soon she detected the invalid's voice, imperative and eager, each sentence ending with an interrogation. the lapses of silence which intervened and which at first she took to be pauses, she presently decided represented the inaudible and subdued replies of currier. to judge from the sounds, heath was pouring out an avalanche of questions. sometimes he choked as if words came faster than he could utter them; and once he broke into peals of hearty laughter, followed by a paroxysm of coughing. still, currier failed to return for the waiting tray. "he has forgotten all about it," murmured marcia. "the coffee will be stone cold and the toast ruined. i'll carry them up myself." she mounted the stairs softly that her coming might break in as little as possible upon the conversation of her two guests. "she was alone in the library when i went in," heath was saying, "and turned so white i feared she might faint or scream. luckily she did neither. steadying herself against the table, she faced me. "'you know what i'm after,' i said--'the jewels.' "she hedged a moment. "'what makes you think i have them?' "'i know. come, hand them over.' "at that, she began to cry. "'quickly,' i repeated. 'someone may come.' "with that, she fumbled under her skirt and produced the jewel-case, pouring out a torrent of explanations. "i stopped no longer than i had to, i assure you. with the jewels in my hand, i slipped through the french window and made for the landing where i had left the boat. in no time i had made my get-away. every detail of my plan would have gone smoothly but for the fog. i lost my bearings completely. imagine my amazement at finding myself here." marcia waited to hear no more. her knees trembled beneath her. so heath really had taken the jewels--taken them from the resisting woman who owned them--taken them against her will and made off with them! he owned it! nay, more! far from regretting what he had done, in his tone rang a note of satisfaction in his accomplishment. she had never believed him guilty. even with the gems spread out before her and every evidence of crime apparent, she had not believed it. not until she heard the bitter, irrevocable confession from his own lips did she waver, and even then she battled against the truth, refusing to be convinced. there must be some explanation, she told herself. nevertheless, the shock of what she had learned was overwhelming. it seemed as if every ounce of strength left her body. her head swam. her heart beat wildly. "i must not give way!" she reiterated to herself. "i must put on a brave front. he must not suspect i know." it took a few moments for her to regain her grip on herself, to quiet her throbbing heart, to drag back her ebbing strength. then she knocked at the door. "here is your coffee, mr. heath," she called. she hoped his friend would open the door and relieve her of the tray that she might immediately withdraw, but instead, heath himself responded: "come in, mrs. howe. i'm afraid we've delayed you. i had entirely forgotten about breakfast and so, i'll be bound, had currier. you met my right-hand man down stairs, i take it. by traveling all night, he made very good time." "he must be tired after his trip!" "oh, currier is used to traveling at all hours. night or day are both alike to him," laughed heath. "you found the house without trouble?" marcia inquired, making an effort to address the newcomer in a natural, off-hand manner. "yes, mrs. howe. a young man at the garage directed me to the beach and there i discovered a yellow dory which i appropriated. i don't know as i should have taken it, but as i needed a boat, i pressed it into service." "the boat happens to be mine." "indeed. then perhaps you will pardon my using it." "certainly. in fact, i am glad you did. it was left on the mainland by mistake." as marcia turned to go, her unfailing courtesy prompted her to add: "mr. currier is welcome to stay if he wishes to, mr. heath. we can put him up perfectly well." "oh, no. he is returning directly. it seems wiser for him to go back in the boat and leave the car for me to use here. nevertheless, i greatly appreciate your kindness." "mrs. heath is anxious," put in currier. "she begged me to come home as soon as possible that she might know how mr. heath was. naturally she has been much worried." "there, there, currier--that will do," broke in stanley heath, flushing. "and now, since mrs. howe is here and is in our secret, i may as well break to you something i have not yet had the chance to tell you. part of the mission on which you came cannot be accomplished. you cannot take the gems back with you to new york. a calamity has befallen them." "a calamity, sir?" the small, grey-haired man looked from stanley heath to marcia, and for the first time, his imperturbable countenance betrayed mingled amazement and distress. presently, however, he had it under control and as if he had donned a mask, it became as expressionless as the sphinx while he waited for the rest of the story. "mrs. howe helped me conceal the jewels downstairs in a hiding-place under the kitchen floor," continued stanley heath. "when she went to get them, they were gone." "you don't tell me so, sir!" "it is all very mysterious," broke in marcia, taking up the tale. "i cannot in any way account for their disappearance and am much distressed." "naturally so, madam--naturally so," responded currier politely. "and you have searched the place carefully? sometimes such things get misplaced." "i've looked everywhere. they are not there." "have you any theory as to who could have taken them?" inquired currier with more animation than he had up to the moment displayed. "absolutely none. i cannot even see how anybody had the chance to take them. no one knew they were there." "would you be willing to show me where they were hidden and allow me to investigate?" "certainly. i fear, however, search will be useless." "still i should like to look." "i'll take you downstairs then, while we have the opportunity. you must have something to eat, too, for you must be hungry after your long ride." "i could do with a cup of coffee, if convenient." "you shall have more than that--a hearty breakfast. i am sure you need it. when do you start back?" "that is for mr. heath to decide." "right off. as soon as you can get under way," stanley heath said decisively. "it is a fine day and you had better make the most of the tide." "that certainly would be wise, sir." "go down now with mrs. howe, since she is so gracious, and have your breakfast. examine, too, the place where we concealed the jewel-case. you may discover a clue she has missed." "that is extremely unlikely, i fear, sir," was the man's modest answer. "still, i will look." "i am sick at heart about all this," marcia murmured as the two descended the stairs. "you see, it was i who suggested to mr. heath where to hide the gems. we were hurried and had no time to think up a place. i had used this hide-out before and as it had always proved safe, i thought it would be so now. i feel responsible--as if this loss was my fault." "it is a great pity," was currier's ambiguous reply. preceding him into the kitchen, marcia went straight to the hearth and pointed to the brick at her feet. "it was here we put the jewel-case," she said. "i think, with your permission, i will take up the brick," the little man at her elbow quietly announced. "certainly," acquiesced marcia wearily. "there might be some crevice, some opening--" "i fear there isn't. still you can try." taking out his knife, currier knelt and soon had the brick out of its hole. beneath it lay the jewel-case, wrapped as before in stanley heath's monogrammed handkerchief. marcia could not believe her eyes. "but--but--it wasn't there when i looked. i could swear it wasn't." "who could have taken it out? and if someone did why return anything so valuable?" currier inquired. "i don't know. i do not understand it at all," the woman replied, passing a hand across her forehead in complete bewilderment. "there is something uncanny about the whole affair." "well, at any rate, the gems are here now," said currier in a matter-of-fact tone. "mr. heath will be much relieved. their loss must, i am sure, have distressed him deeply. shall i go up and--" "i'll go," marcia cried. "it won't take me a minute. i'll be right back." "as you prefer, madam." off flew marcia. her haste, the radiance of her face must have suggested to the stranger a thought that had not occurred to him before, for after she had gone, he stood immovable in the middle of the floor looking after her. then a slow, shadowy smile passed across his features. thrusting his hands into his pockets, he took two or three meditative strides up and down the room. "so--ho!" he muttered. "so--ho!" it happened he had quite an opportunity for thought before his hostess returned and he employed it to the utmost. he was still absorbed in reverie when marcia, breathless and flushed, rejoined him. she made no apology for her absence. perhaps she did not realize the length of time she had been gone. "well," queried she, "what conclusion have you arrived at?" "a very interesting one," currier returned promptly. "really? what is it?" the man appeared taken aback. "i misunderstood your question," he faltered. "i had something else in mind." "i don't see how you could have. i can think of nothing but the jewels and their recovery. i am so happy i had completely forgotten your breakfast. forgive me. you shall have it right away." "if you would allow me, i can prepare it myself. i am accustomed to doing such things." "no, indeed. scrambled eggs take only a few moments; and bacon. you might run up to see mr. heath while i am getting them ready." "i will do that. i shall be leaving at once and he may have final orders for me, or perhaps a letter for mrs. heath." "mrs. heath!" marcia repeated, as if the name suddenly brought before her consciousness something hitherto forgotten. "yes, yes! of course!" then turning her head aside, she inquired with studied carelessness: "how long, i wonder, does mr. heath plan to remain in wilton?" "i could not say, madam." "i think," hurried on the woman, "that as soon as he is able to make the journey he would better go home. this climate is--is--damp and he will, perhaps, pick up faster away from the sea. if you have any influence with him, won't you please advise it?" the man's small, grey eyes narrowed. "i have no influence with mr. heath," replied he. "mrs. heath has, however. shall i tell her?" "i wish you would." * * * * * an hour later _my unknown lady_ weighed anchor and on the breast of the high tide, rounded the point and disappeared out to sea, carrying with her currier and the jewels. marcia watched until the last snowy ripple foaming in her wake had disappeared. when the infinitesimal, bobbing craft was no longer visible, she sank into a chair and brushed her hand across her eyes. the lips which but a short time before had curled into smiles were now set and determined. "and that's the end of that foolishness!" she muttered. "the end!" chapter xiv in spite of elisha's indignation toward stanley heath, and his resolve to go to the homestead with the break of dawn, it was noon before he and eleazer got under way. in the first place, the two men disagreed as to the proper method of arresting the alleged criminal. "you can't take him on no warrant, 'lish," eleazer objected, "'cause you ain't actually got proof he's guilty." "proof? ain't i got a clear case? ain't i roundin' him up with the loot on him?" blustered elisha. "mebbe. still, it's my opinion you can't do more'n take him on suspicion." "suspicion!" elisha repeated scornfully. "suspicion! would you call a fistful of diamonds suspicion? i wouldn't." "p'raps--p'raps you didn't really see the jewels," eleazer quavered. "sometimes folks get to imaginin' things--seein' what ain't there. are you plumb certain you saw them things?" "certain?" "come, come! don't go up in the air, 'lish. i ain't doubtin' your word. nothin' of the sort. i just want to make sure we don't take no missteps an' make jackasses of ourselves," eleazer explained. "this is a big affair. we've got to move careful." "humph! you're shifty as the sands. you didn't talk like this yesterday." "no, i didn't. but after sleepin' on the matter, i've thought more 'bout it." "sleepin' on it! you were lucky if you could sleep on it. i didn't. i never closed my eyes from the time i went to bed 'till mornin'. heard the clock strike every hour. you can't 'cuse me of not thinkin'. i'll bet i've done full as much thinkin' as you--mebbe more. had you the prospect of bein' shot ahead of you, you'd think--think pretty hard, i figger," elisha growled. "no doubt i would," conceded eleazer mildly. "wal, 'long's we've both chewed the matter over, i reckon there's nothin' more to be done now but go ahead." "take heath on suspicion, you mean? humph! seems an awful cheap sort of way to do it, in my opinion. kinder meechin'. there ain't no dignity to it." "what's the use of standin' here bickerin' half the mornin', 'lish?" eleazer said fretfully. "let's get started. next we know heath may get wind of what we're up to an' light out." "no danger of that with the homestead dory on this side of the channel," elisha sniffed. "for all that, no purpose is served by puttin' off the evil hour. i say we get under way," eleazer urged. "have you got everythin'?" "i--i--guess so," elisha said weakly. "pete fixed up your badge in great shape, didn't he?" was eleazer's cheerful comment. "it's bright as a new dollar. anybody could see it a mile away." elisha offered no reply. "an' the handcuffs, too--they look grand. why don't you kinder dangle 'em so'st they show? why stuff 'em in your pocket? was i in your place, i'd stalk into the homestead with the handcuffs in one hand an' the pistol in the other." "you ain't in my place!" elisha snapped. "i wish to heaven you were." "no, i ain't," his confederate returned promptly. "i'm only playin' second fiddle on this job. the whole responsibility's yours." "don't i know it? why rub it in?" "i ain't rubbin' it in. i'm just sorter cautionin' myself. you see when i'm mixed up in a job, i get so interested i'm liable to forget an' go ahead as if the whole enterprise was my own." "you're welcome to shoulder this one if you want to. i give you permission," elisha said eagerly. "oh, i wouldn't think of doin' that, 'lish. i wouldn't want to steal the glory from you. you're the big shot on this occasion," cajoled eleazer. "wal, what do you say to our settin' out?" elisha did not move. "don't it 'most seem as if we'd oughter eat somethin' 'fore we go? i might turn faint doin' arrestin' on an empty stomach." "but man alive, you et your breakfast, didn't you?" "that was some little while ago," argued elisha. "i'm feelin' a wee mite gone a'ready. i'd oughter have a lunch or somethin'." "wal, since you mention it, i could do with a couple of doughnuts an' slab of cheese myself," eleazer confessed. this information delighted elisha. "we might put off goin' 'til after dinner," he suggested. "then we'd be primed by a good square meal an' be braced for it." "oh, we can't wait that long," his comrade immediately objected. "n--o, i s'pose we can't. wal, anyhow, i'll go hunt up a snack of somethin'." "don't bring nothin' but doughnuts an' cheese," eleazer bellowed after him. "we can munch on them while walkin' to the beach." the stroll to crocker's cove was not a hilarious one, even may ellen's twisted crullers failing to stimulate elisha's rapidly ebbing strength. with each successive step his spirits dropped lower and lower. "you walk like as if you was chief mourner at your own funeral, 'lish," eleazer fretted. "we'll never make the cove if you don't brace up." "my shoes kinder pinch me." "walk on your toes." "it's my toes that hurt." "walk on your heels then. walk anywhere that's most comfortable, only come along." "i am comin'." "at a snail's pace," eleazer retorted. "soon folks will be comin' from the noon mail an' what we're doin' will get noised abroad." reluctantly elisha quickened his steps. at last they came within sight of the bay. "where'd you leave the boat?" eleazer questioned. "i pulled her up opposite the fish-shanty." "she ain't here." "ain't here!" "no. look for yourself." "my soul an' body!" "i told you you hadn't oughter dally. what's to be done now?" "i reckon we'll just have to give it all up," the sheriff responded with a sickly grin. "call it off." "call it off? but you can't call it off. officers of the law have got to do their duty no matter what." "yes--yes! of course. i only meant we'd call it off for the present--for today, p'raps." "an' let the thief escape? no sir--ee! we've got to go through with this thing now we've started if it takes a leg. we'll walk round by the shore." "it's too far. my feet would never carry me that distance." "they've got to. come along." "i can't walk in all these clothes. this collar is murderin' me." "oh, shut up, 'lish. quit whinin'." "i ain't whinin'. can't a man make a remark without your snappin' him up, i'd like to know? who's sheriff anyhow--me or you?" eleazer vouchsafed no reply. in high dudgeon the two men plodded through the sand, its grit seeping into their shoes with every step. it was not until they came within sight of the homestead that the silence between them was broken. "wal, here we are!" eleazer announced more genially. "yes--here--here we are!" his comrade panted. "s'pose we set down a minute an' ketch our breath. my soul an' body--what a tramp! there's blisters on both my heels. i can hardly rest 'em on the ground." "you do look sorter winded." "i'm worse'n winded. i'm near dead! it's this infernal collar. it's most sawed the head off me," groaned elisha. "i don't see how it could. every mite of starch is out of it. it's limp as a pocket handkerchief." "mebbe. still, for all that, it's sand-papered my skin down to the raw. collars are the devil's own invention. nobody oughter wear 'em. nobody oughter be made to wear 'em," raged elisha. "had i known when i was made sheriff i'd got to wear a collar, i'd never have took the job--never. 'twarn't fair play not to tell me. in fact, there was nothin' fair 'bout any of it. this arrestin', now! i warn't justly warned 'bout that." "mebbe not," eleazer agreed. "still, i don't see's there's anything to be done 'bout all that now. you're sheriff an' your duty lies straight ahead of you. you've got to do it. come along." "wait a minute, eleazer. just hold on a second. let's take 'count of stock an' decide how we're goin' to proceed. we've got to make a plan," pleaded elisha. "but we've made a plan a'ready." "no, we ain't--not a real plan. we've got to decide 'xactly how we'll go 'bout the affair," contradicted his companion. "after you've knocked at the door an' gone in--" "i knocked an' gone in?" "yes, yes," elisha repeated. "after that, you'll sorter state the case to marcia, 'xplainin' why we've come an' everythin'--" "an' what'll you be doin' meantime?" eleazer inquired, wheeling sharply. "me? why, i'll be waitin' outside, kinder loiterin' 'til it's time for me to go in--don't you see?" "i don't. the time for you to go in is straight after the door is opened. it's you that'll enter first an' you who'll do the explainin'." "but--but--s'pose heath was to put up a fight an' rush past me?" "then i'll be outside to stop him," eleazer cut in. "that's where i'm goin' to be--outside." "you promised you'd stand by me," reproached elisha with an injured air. "wal, ain't i? if i stay outside ready to trip up the criminal should he make a dash for freedom, ain't that standin' by you? what more do you want?" "i think 'twould be better was you to go ahead an' pave the way for me. that's how it's done in plays. some kinder unimportant person goes first an' afterward the hero comes in." "so you consider yourself the hero of this show, do you?" commented eleazer sarcastically. "ain't i?" "wal, you don't 'pear to me to be. where'd you 'a' got that pistol but for me? who egged you on an' marched you here--answer me that? you'd 'a' given up beat hadn't i took you by the scruff of the neck an' hauled you here," eleazer burst out indignantly. "if you ain't the most ungrateful cuss alive! i've a big half mind to go back home an' leave you to do your arrestin' alone." "there, there, eleazer, don't misunderstand me," elisha implored. "i was only jokin'. 'course it's you an' not me that's the hero of the day. don't i know it? that's why i was sayin' 'twas you should go into the house first. in that way you'll get all the attention an'--" "an' all the bullets!" supplemented eleazer grimly. "no--sir--ee! you don't pull the wool over my eyes that way, 'lish winslow. you're goin' to be the first one inside that door an' the last one out. see? you're to do the arrestin'. if there's undertakin' to be done afterwards, i 'tend to do it. you get that clear in your head. otherwise, i go home." "don't do that, eleazer, don't do that!" elisha begged. "don't go home an' leave me--now--at the last minute." "you'll do the knockin' at the door? the announcin' of our errand?" "yes. yes. i swear i will." "very well," eleazer agreed magnificently. "then i'll remain an' give you my moral support." "i hope you'll do more'n that," urged elisha timidly. "i may. i'll see how matters work out," eleazer returned pompously. with lagging feet, the sheriff approached the door of the big grey house. "there's the dory," observed eleazer, pointing in the direction of the float. "somebody's rowed it over." "i wonder who?" "p'raps an accomplice has arrived to aid heath. what's the matter? you ain't sick, are you?" "i dunno. i feel kinder--kinder queer." "indigestion! them doughnuts most likely. you et 'em in a hurry," was eleazer's tranquil reply. "want a soda mint? i most generally carry some in my pocket." "no. i--i--i think it's my heart." "heart--nothin'. it's just plain indigestion--that's what it is. i often have it. don't think 'bout it an' 'twill go away. put your mind on somethin' pleasanter--the arrestin' of heath." "that ain't pleasanter." "wal, think of somethin' that is then. anything. an' while you're thinkin', be walkin' towards the house. you can think as well walkin' as settin' still, i reckon." "i don't believe i can." "wal, try it, anyhow." eleazer had a compelling personality. under the force of his will, elisha found his own weaker one yielding. he got up and, dragging one foot after the other, moved toward the house. "now knock," commanded the dictator. twice the sheriff reached forth his hand, wavered and withdrew it. "why don't you knock, man?" eleazer demanded. "i'm goin' to." tremulously he tapped on the door. no answer came. "knock, i tell you! that ain't knockin'. give the door a good smart thump so'st folks'll hear it an' be made aware somethin' important's goin' on. i'll show you." eleazer gave the door a spirited bang. "law, eleazer! a rap like that would wake the dead," elisha protested. "i want it should--or at any rate wake the livin'," eleazer frowned. "i hear somebody. stand by me, eleazer. where are you goin'? come back here, can't you? you promised--" "i didn't promise to go in first, remember. we had that out an' settled it for good an' all. you was to do that," eleazer called from his vantage ground round the corner. "but--but--" elisha whimpered. there was no more time for argument. the door swung open and marcia stood upon the sill. chapter xv "why, elisha!" exclaimed marcia. "how you startled me. come in. you're all dressed up, aren't you? have you been to a funeral?" "no. i--we--" the sheriff cleared his throat. "me an' eleazer--" he began. "eleazer? did he come with you?" elisha nodded. "where is he?" "outside." "isn't he coming in?" "yes--yes. he's comin' presently." "perhaps he doesn't dare," marcia remarked with spirit. "i don't wonder he hesitates. he ran off with my dory yesterday." "that warn't eleazer. that was me." "you? but i didn't know you were here." "i was. i took the boat on official business," elisha explained. marcia's laughter, crystalline as a mountain stream, musical as its melody, rippled through the room. "official business!" she repeated derisively. "official business indeed! when, i'd like to know, did wilton ever have any official business? don't joke, elisha. this taking my boat is no joking matter. it is a serious thing to leave me here with no way of getting ashore quickly. i didn't like it at all." "i'm sorry," apologized the sheriff uncomfortably. "you see, an emergency arose--" "no emergency is important enough for you to take my boat without asking. please remember that." "i will," squeaked the offender, coloring under the reprimand like a chastened schoolboy. "i won't do it again, i promise you." "all right. you're forgiven this time. now sit down and tell me the news." his dignity, his pomposity put to rout elisha, feeling very small indeed, backed into the nearest chair. instead of making the rafters of the homestead quake at his presence; instead of humbling heath, reducing marcia to trembling admiration, here he sat cowed and apologetic. it was not at all the sort of entrance he had mapped out. it would not do. he had got a wrong start. before eleazer put in an appearance, he must right himself. with a preliminary ahem, he hitched forward in the rocking chair. "you won't mind if i go on with my baking, will you?" marcia said, bustling toward the stove. "i'm makin' dried apple turnovers. they'll be done in a second and you shall have one." "i thought i smelled pie crust," elisha murmured vaguely. "you thought right." kneeling, marcia opened the door of the oven. "isn't that a sight for sore eyes?" inquired she as she drew out a pan of spicy brown pastries and placed them, hot and fragrant, on the table. "now, i'll get you a plate, fork and some cheese." "i don't need no fork," elisha protested. "i can take it in my fingers." "oh, you better not do that. it's sticky and you might get a spot on your sunday clothes." his sunday clothes! elisha came to himself. he rose up. "i oughtn't to be eatin', anyhow," he called after marcia as she retreated into the pantry. "you see, i come here this mornin' to--" "i guess a nice hot apple turnover won't go amiss no matter what you came for," interrupted the woman, returning with the plate, fork and cheese. with deftness she whisked the triangle of flaky pastry onto the plate and extended it toward her guest. its warm, insidious perfume was too much for elisha. he sat down with the plate in his lap. he had taken only an introductory mouthful, however, when the door parted a crack and eleazer crept cautiously through the opening. for a moment he stood transfixed, viewing the scene with amazement; then he burst out in a torrent of reproach. "'lish winslow, what on earth are you doin'? here i've been waitin' outside in the wind, ketchin' my death of cold an' worryin' lest you was dead--hearin' neither word nor sign of you--an' you settin' here by the stove rockin' an' eatin' pie! what do you think you come for, anyhow?" "i know, eleazer, i know," elisha stammered, ducking his head before the accusing finger of his colleague. "it may, mebbe, seem queer to you. i just hadn't got round to the business in hand, that's all. i'm comin' to it." "comin' to it? you don't look as if you was." "i am," protested the sheriff, cramming the turnover into his mouth and drawing his hand hurriedly across his lips. "i'm comin' to it in time. be patient, eleazer! be patient, can't you?" "i've been patient half an hour a'ready an' you ain't, apparently, even made a beginnin'." "yes i have, eleazer. i've made a start. the pie's et. that's done an' over." "but you had no right to stop an' eat. you had no business eatin' pie, anyhow. ain't you got indigestion?" "i--wal, yes. i do recall havin' a qualm or two of dyspepsia," elisha owned in a conciliatory tone. "that's gone, though. i reckon the fresh air kinder scat it off. i'd clean forgot about it." "mebbe you'd clean forgot what you come here to do, too," derided eleazer. "no. oh, no. i didn't forget that. i was just leadin' up to it in a sorter tactful way." "there ain't no way of bein' tactful when you're arrestin' folks. you've got the thing to do an' you have to go straight to it." a fork clattered from marcia's shaking hand to the floor. "arresting folks?" she repeated, looking from one man to the other. "yes. since 'lish is so spineless at his job, i may's well tell you what we come for. he don't 'pear to have no notion of doin' so," eleazer sneered. "pretty kind of a sheriff he is! you'd think to see him he was at an afternoon tea." "you better look out, eleazer crocker, how you insult an officer of the law," elisha bawled angrily. "say a word more an' i'll hail you into court." "if you don't land me there faster'n you do heath i shan't worry," jeered eleazer. "heath? mr. heath?" marcia repeated. "yes. we come over here this mornin' to place mr. stanley heath under arrest," eleazer announced. the woman caught at the edge of the table. "place him under arrest? what for?" so they knew the truth! in some way they had found it out and the net of the law was closing in. her mind worked rapidly. she must gain time--worm out of them how much they know. "of what are you accusing mr. heath?" she demanded, drawing herself to her full height and unconsciously moving until her back was against the door leading to the stairway. "of the long island robbery," eleazer answered. "you mean to say you think him a thief?" "we know he's one--leastways elisha does." "don't go foistin' it all on me," snarled elisha. "but you do know, don't you? you said you did." "i--yes! i'm tol'able sure. i have evidence," elisha replied. "at least i figger i have." "shucks, 'lish!" eleazer cried. "where's your backbone? you figger you have! don't you know it? ain't you beheld the loot with your own eyes?" elisha nodded. "then why on earth don't you stand up in your boots an' say so?" the door opened and sylvia entered then stopped, arrested on the threshold by the sound of angry voices. inquiringly she looked from marcia to the men, and back again. no one, however, heeded her presence. marcia, with whitened lips but with face grave and determined, remained with her back to the stairway door, her arms stretched across its broad panels, her eyes never leaving elisha winslow's. there was something in her face sylvia had never seen there--a light of battle; a fierceness as of a mother fighting for her child; a puzzling quality to which no name could be given. suddenly, as the girl studied her, recognition of this new characteristic flashed upon her understanding. it was love! anger, perhaps terror, had forced marcia into betraying a secret no other power could have dragged from her. sylvia marveled that the men whose gaze was riveted upon her did not also read her involuntary confession. apparently they failed to do so. "ain't i said a'ready i had proof? what more do you want me to do, eleazer?" elisha fumed. "what proof have you?" marcia interposed. elisha shifted from one foot to the other. "i've seen the jewels," he whispered. "they're here--in this room. don't think i'm blamin' you, marcia. 'course heath bein' what he is, is nothin' against you," he hurried on breathlessly. "we're all aware you wouldn't shelter no criminal did you know he was a criminal; nor would you furnish a hidin' place for his stolen goods. what i'm sayin' is news to you an' a shock. i can see that. naturally it's hard to find our friends ain't what we thought 'em. when faced with the evidence, though, you'll see the truth same's eleazer an' me see it. "heath, the feller overhead, is the long island jewel robber. "the jewels he stole are under that brick. i've seen 'em." with finger pointing dramatically toward the hearth, elisha strode forward. sylvia, however, sprang before him, standing 'twixt him and his goal. "what a ridiculous story, mr. winslow!" she cried. "what a fantastic yarn! do you imagine for one moment there could be anything hidden under those bricks and marcia and i not know it? why, one or the other of us has been in this room every instant since mr. heath arrived. when could he get the chance to hide anything? didn't you and doctor stetson get here almost as soon as he did? wasn't it you who undressed him? had he brought jewels with him you would have found them inside his clothing. you took off every rag he wore. did you discover any such thing?" "n--o." "well, then, don't you see how absurd such an accusation is? how could the gems get here?" "i don't know how they got here. all i know is they're here," elisha repeated stubbornly. sylvia's brain was busy. that elisha by some means or other had stumbled upon the truth there could be no doubt. how was she to prevent it if he insisted upon searching as it was obvious he intended to do? not only was marcia ignorant of heath's true character but also that the jewels lay concealed close at hand. she would receive an overwhelming shock if the proof of his guilt came upon her in this brutal fashion. did she not believe in him? love him? it was for marcia sylvia was fighting, not heath--marcia whom she adored and whom she was determined to save from elisha's power at any cost. if after the two meddling officials had gone she could be convinced that the hero on whom her heart was set was unworthy, that was matter for later discussion. all that was of import now was to defend him; shield him from discovery; give him the chance for escape. it was at the moment she reached this decision that marcia's voice, calm and unwavering, broke upon the stillness: "if you are so certain about the jewels, elisha, why don't you produce them?" she was saying. "no--no, marcia!" sylvia protested. "there is nothing here, mr. winslow, truly there is nothing. i swear it." "nevertheless, let him look, sylvia." "but marcia--" begged the girl. "step aside, dear, and let him look. let them both look." "please--please, marcia--!" sylvia was upon her knees now on the hearth, and the men, hesitating to remove her by force, halted awkwardly. her face, drawn with terror, was upturned to marcia and was pitiful in its pleading. marcia regarded her first with startled incredulity--then with coldness. so sylvia loved heath, too! she was fighting for him--fighting with all her feeble strength. a pang wrenched the older woman's heart. what if heath had played a double game--made love to sylvia as he had made love to her? convinced her of the depths of his affection with an ardor so compelling that against all odds she, too, believed in it? if so--if the man were a mountebank the sooner they both found it out--the sooner all the world knew it, the better. if, on the other hand, he was innocent, he should have his chance. the older woman went to the side of the pleading figure. the surprise of her discovery crisped her voice so that it was short and commanding. "get up, sylvia," she said. "the sheriff must search. he must do his duty. we have no right to prevent it." obedient to the authoritative tone, the girl arose. "now, gentlemen, you may search," marcia said. neither elisha winslow nor his companion had cause now to complain of any lack of dignity in the law's fulfillment. as if she were a magistrate seeing justice done, marcia, magnificent in silence, towered above them while they stooped to perform their task. her face was pale, her lips tightly set. the brick was lifted out. a smothered cry escaped sylvia and was echoed by elisha. "why--land alive--there's nothin' here!" gasped the sheriff. "i told you there was nothing!" sylvia taunted, beginning to laugh hysterically. "i told you so--but you would not believe me." tears were rolling down her cheeks and she wiped them away, strangling a convulsive sob. "wal, 'lish, all i can say is you must either 'a' been wool gatherin' or dreamin' when you conceived this yarn," eleazer jeered. "i warn't," hissed elisha, stung to the quick. "i warn't dreamin'. them jewels was there. i saw 'em with my own eyes. i swear to heaven i did." then as if a new idea flashed into his mind, he confronted sylvia. "they was there, young lady, warn't they? you know they was. that's why you was so scairt for me to look. you've seen 'em, too." "i?" "yes, you. deny it if you dare." "of course i deny it." "humph! but marcia won't. you can lie if you want to to save the skin of that good-for-nothin' critter upstairs--though what purpose is served by your doin' it i can't see. but marcia won't. she'll speak the truth same's she always has an' always will. no lie will cross her lips. if she says them jewels warn't here i'll believe it. come now, marcia. mebbe you've evidence that'll hist me out of the idiot class. was there ever diamonds an' things under this brick or warn't there?" "yes." "you saw 'em?" as if the admission was dragged from her, marcia formed, but did not utter, the word: "yes." "they was under this brick, warn't they?" "yes." "there! then i ain't gone daffy! what i said was true," elisha acclaimed, rising in triumph and snapping his finger at eleazer. "the jewels were mr. heath's. he hid them for safe keeping." "he told you that?" "yes." "a likely story! he stole 'em--that's what he did." "i don't believe it." "i do," leered the sheriff. "prove it then," challenged marcia, with sudden spirit, a spot of crimson burning on either cheek. "prove it?" elisha was taken aback. "wal, i can't at the moment do that. i can't prove it. but even if i can't, i can make out a good enough case against him to arrest him on suspicion. that's what i mean to do--that's what i come for an' what i'll do 'fore i leave this house." marcia swept across the floor. once again she was poised, back against the door leading to the stairs. "mr. heath is sick." "i guess he ain't so sick but what i can go up an' cross-examine him." "i ask you not go to. i forbid it." "law, marcia!" "i forbid it," repeated the woman. "drop this matter for a day or two, elisha. mr. heath shall not leave the house. i promise you that. i will give you my bond. leave him here in peace until he is well again. when he is able to--to--go with you i will telephone. you can trust me. when have i ever been false to my word?" "never, marcia! never in all the years i've known you." "then go and leave the affair in my hands." "i don't know--mebbe--i wonder if i'd oughter," ruminated elisha. "'tain't legal." "no matter." "i don't see why the mischief you're so crazy to stand 'twixt this heath chap an' justice, marcia. the feller's a scoundrel. that's what he is--an out an' out scoundrel. not only is he a thief but he's a married man who's plottin' behind your back to betray you--boastin' openly in telegrams he is." "what do you mean?" "i wouldn't like to tell you. in fact i couldn't. 'twould be repeatin' what was told me in confidence," hedged elisha, frightened by the expression of the woman's face. "you must tell me." "mebbe--mebbe--there warn't no truth in what i heard." "i must judge of that." "i ain't got no right to tell you. things are often told me in confidence, 'cause of my bein' sheriff, that it ain't expected i'll pass on." "i have a right to know about the telegram you mention. will you tell me or shall i call up the sawyer falls operator?" "oh, for heaven's sake don't do that," elisha pleaded. "artie nickerson would be ragin' mad did he find i'd told you. if you must know what the message was, i can repeat it near 'nough, i reckon. it ran somethin' like this: "_safe on cape with my lady. shall return with her later._" "and that was all?" inquired marcia calmly. "all! ain't that enough?" elisha demanded. "there was a word or two more 'bout clothes bein' sent here, but nothin' of any note. the first of the message was the important part," concluded the sheriff. as she vouchsafed no reply and the ticking of the clock beat out an embarrassing silence, he presently continued: "i don't want you should think i told you this, marcia, with any unfriendly motive. it's only that those of us who've seen you marry one worthless villain don't want you should marry another. jason was a low down cuss. you know that well's i." the woman raised her hand to check him. "i'm aware 'tain't pleasant to hear me say so out loud, but it's god's truth. every man an' woman in wilton knows 'tis. folks is fond of you, marcia. we don't want you made miserable a second time." "marcia!" sylvia burst out. "marcia!" "hush, dear. we'll talk of this later. elisha, i think i must ask you and eleazer to go now. i will let you know when mr. heath is able to take up this affair with you." "you ain't goin' to tell me where the jewels are?" "i don't know where they are." "nor nothin' 'bout--'bout the telegram." "nothing except to thank you for your kind intentions and say you quoted it quite correctly. i sent it for mr. heath myself." "but--but--" "_my lady_, as you have apparently forgotten, is the name of mr. heath's boat--the boat you yourself helped pull off the shoals." "my land! so 'tis," faltered elisha. "i'm almighty sorry, marcia--i ask your pardon." "me, too! we come with the best of intentions--" rejoined eleazer, fumbling for his cap. "honest we did." "it's all right. just leave us now, please." as the two men shuffled across the kitchen, a heavy object dropped to the floor, interrupting their jumbled apologies. "pick up them handcuffs, 'lish, an' come along double-quick," eleazer muttered beneath his breath. "you've made a big enough fool of yourself as 'tis. don't put your foot in any deeper." "and here's your hat," added sylvia, handing the bewildered sheriff his property with an impish bow. "take it and scram--both of you." as the door banged behind the discomfited officials, clear as a bell on the quiet air came the twitting voice of eleazer: "wal, scram got said, didn't it, 'lish, even if 'twarn't you said it? that gal is an up-to-date little piece. she knows what's what. i told you no shindy of this sort was complete unless somebody said: scram!" chapter xvi left alone, marcia, weary and spent, collapsed into a chair and closed her eyes, appearing to forget the presence of the girl who, with parted lips, hovered impatiently at her elbow. something in the woman's aloofness not only discouraged speech but rendered any interruption an intrusion. at length, however, she roused herself and sighing deeply looked about, and taking the gesture as permission to break the silence, the torrent of words sylvia had until now held in check, broke from her: "was it true, marcia--what they said about uncle jason i mean? was it true?" "i'm afraid so, dear." "but you never told me; and you never told mother, either. of course i see why. you didn't want her to know because it would have broken her heart. so you kept it all to yourself. you did not mean i should find it out, did you?" "not if i could help it." sylvia knelt, taking the cold hands in hers. "i hate him!" cried she fiercely. "i hate him for making you unhappy and spoiling your life!" "hush, child. jason has not spoiled my life," contradicted marcia with a grave, sad smile. "but he has scarred it--dashed to pieces all the dreams you started out with--those beautiful dreams a girl has when she is young. i know what they are, for i dream them myself sometimes. they are lovely, delicate things. we never quite expect they will come true; yet for all that we believe in them. i know you had such fancies once, for you are the sort who would. and jason came and trampled on them--" "he made me see life as it was. perhaps it was better i should." "we all have to see life as it is sooner or later. but there are plenty of years ahead in which to do it. the man who destroys the world of illusion in which a girl lives destroys something no one can ever give back to her." "i don't know that i should say that," returned marcia with a faint, shadowy smile as if pursuing some secret, intriguing fancy. "but it's never the same again, i mean--never the same." "no, it's never the same," agreed the woman soberly. "was jason as bad as they said, marcia? ah, you don't have to answer. there is no need for you to try to reconcile your desire to spare me--spare him--with the truth. he was as bad--probably much worse. dear, dear marcia." impulsively sylvia bent her lips to the hands so tightly clasped in hers. "i cannot imagine," she rushed on, "why, when one of my family had made you as wretched as he did, you should have wanted another in the house. had i suffered so i should never have wished to lay eyes on any more howes as long as i lived." "but jason had nothing to do with you, sylvia." "the same blood ran in our veins." "perhaps that was the reason." "because you could forgive, you mean?" whispered sylvia. "you are a better christian than i, my dear. i could never have forgiven." "i have tried not only to forgive but to forget. i have closed the door on the past and begun a new life." "and now into it has come this stanley heath," the girl said. for the fraction of a second marcia did not reply; then almost inaudibly she murmured: "yes." sylvia slipped one of her strong young arms about the bowed shoulders. "it just seems as if i could not bear it," she burst out passionately. "sylvia, look at me. tell me the truth. do you, too, love stanley heath?" "i?" "was that the reason you fought against elisha's finding the jewels? tell me. i must know." "no," she answered without hesitation. "at first he did fascinate me. he is a fascinating person. an older man always fascinates a younger girl if he has charm. i changed my mind, though, later on. not because on acquaintance he became less charming. it wasn't that. if anything, he became more so. i just--just--changed my mind," she repeated, avoiding marcia's eyes. "as for the jewels, i could not bear to let that little runt of a sheriff win out. you see, i thought the gems were there under the brick and that when you urged him to search, you did not know it. "i had known all along they were in the house, for i stumbled upon them by accident one day when i was here alone; but i had no idea you had. i truly believed mr. heath had hidden them beneath the hearth, and i was determined elisha should not find them." "i knew they weren't there." "you'd moved them? put them somewhere else?" "no, indeed. didn't you hear me tell elisha i did not know where they were?" "oh, of course. but you'd have said that anyway," smiled sylvia, dimpling. "why--why, sylvia!" "you certainly wouldn't have let those men find them," she added comfortably. "on the contrary, if the jewels had been in the house and i had been compelled to tell what i knew, i should have told the truth." "you would? you would have showed those two miserable blood-hounds where they were?" asked the girl incredulously. "certainly." "i wouldn't," flashed sylvia, clinching her small hands. "i would have fought that sheriff tooth and nail. i'd have lied--stooped to any means to prevent him from unearthing the evidence he was after." "but the law, sylvia--the law." "i wouldn't give a rap for the law. you love stanley heath. that's enough for me. besides, he is being tracked down--trapped. i want him to go free." "you think he took the jewels?" asked marcia, slowly. "certainly i do. don't you?" "no." "but, marcia, can't you see how plain it all is? i know it is terrible for you, dear. it almost breaks my heart. it is an awful thing to believe of anybody--harder still of a person one loves. nevertheless, we must face the facts. people do not carry such things about with them--especially men. he came by them in no honest way, you may be sure of that. hasn't he told you anything?--haven't you asked him?" "i wouldn't think of asking him," marcia replied with a lift of her chin. "and he has not volunteered any information?" "no." "most men, if honest and caught in such an odd situation, would explain," continued sylvia. "the very fact that mr. heath has not is suspicious in itself. he is guilty, marcia--guilty." "i do not believe it," was the stubborn protest. "i realize, dear, it is hard for you to own it," soothed sylvia. "we hate to admit the faults of those we--we--care for. still, nothing is to be gained by remaining blind to them." "you speak as if such a sin were a mere trivial flaw of character, sylvia. why, it is fundamental--a crime." "how can we measure sins and decide which ones are big and which little? perhaps mr. heath was horribly tempted to commit this one. we do not know. we are not his judges. the thing for us to do is to help him out of the mess he is in." "help him?" "get him off. aid him to escape." "believing him guilty--you would do that?" "surely i would." "you mean you would help him to evade the law? the punishment such wrongdoing merits?" emphatically, sylvia nodded her curls. "i'd help him to get away from those who are tracking him down just as i'd help a fox to escape from the hunters." "regardless of right or wrong?" "yes. to give him a sporting chance, the start of those who are after him. you love stanley heath. don't you want to see him go free?" "not if he is guilty." "marcia! you mean you would deliver him over to the law?" "i would have him deliver himself over." "as if he would! as if any criminal would." "a criminal who thought of his soul might." "but criminals don't think of their souls, dear. they think only of their bodies--that's probably why they are criminals." marcia made no answer. "well, anyway, nobody is going to round up mr. heath if i can prevent it," asserted sylvia, throwing back her head. "if you won't help him get away, i will. he must go in the boat--now--today." "the boat has gone." "gone!" "mr. currier arrived this morning after you had gone and took the boat back to new york with him." "and the jewels?" "yes, the jewels, too." "humph! so that's where they are!" "yes." "pretty cute of him to make so neat a get-away!" commented the girl with admiration. "currier is, of course, the understudy--the accomplice." marcia started. "what sort of man was he? a gentleman, like mr. heath?" the older woman colored. "well, no. at least he--he--. oh, he was polite and had a nice manner--a quiet voice--" "but he was different from mr. heath--an inferior--one who took orders," interrupted sylvia. "i hardly know. i saw very little of him," marcia replied guardedly. "but mr. heath did tell him what to do. currier did as he said." "i suppose so--yes." "in other words, he is the hands and mr. heath the brains of the team." "how can you, sylvia?" quivering, marcia shrunk into her chair as if she had been struck. "because i must, marcia--because we must both look this affair in the face. confess the circumstances are suspicious." "they seem to be," she owned with reluctance. "they are suspicious." "that proves nothing." "perhaps not. nevertheless it is all we have to go by and we should be fools not to take them at their face value, shouldn't we? we should at least consider them." "of course we should do that," evaded the woman. "have you considered them?" sylvia suddenly inquired. marcia drew her hand across her forehead. "i--i--yes. i have thought them over." "and what conclusion have you arrived at?" "i don't understand them at all. nevertheless, i do not believe stanley heath is guilty," was the proud retort. "that is because you don't want to--because you won't." "leave it at that, then, and say i won't," cried marcia, leaping defiantly to her feet. "you are making a great mistake, if you will pardon me for saying so," sylvia responded gently. "you are deliberately closing your eyes and mind to facts that later are bound to cause you bitter unhappiness. let alone the man's guilt. he has a wife. you seem to forget that. as elisha winslow remarked, you have already been miserable once. why be so a second time? help stanley heath to get out of wilton and forget him." "i cannot do either of those things. in the first place, i have given my word to hand mr. heath over to the authorities. as for forgetting him--why ask the impossible?" sylvia's patience gave way. "go your own way then," she snapped. "go your own way and if by and by you regret it--as you surely will--do not blame me. don't blame me, either, if i do not agree with you. stanley heath shall never remain here and be betrayed to the law. i've enough mercy in me to prevent that if you haven't. stick to your grim old puritanism if you must. i'll beat it by a more charitable creed. i'll help him get away." she started toward the stairway. "sylvia, come back here!" marcia cried. "i shall not come back." "i beg you! insist!" the command fell on deaf ears. marcia rushed after her, but it was too late. sylvia was gone. chapter xvii stanley heath was lying with expectant face turned toward the door when sylvia entered. "what's the rumpus?" he demanded. "you heard?" "heard? certainly i heard," he laughed. "i could not hear what was said, of course, but anyone within five miles could have heard those men roaring at one another. what's the trouble?" "the trouble is you," answered the girl. "me?" "yes. didn't you expect trouble sometime?" "we all must expect trouble sooner or later, i suppose," was the enigmatic answer. "to just what particular variety of trouble did you refer?" "i guess you know. there is no use mincing matters or beating about the bush. we haven't the time to waste. the jewels have gone and you must go, too." the man looked dumbfounded. "don't misunderstand me, please," sylvia rushed on. "i'm not blaming you--nor judging you. i don't know why you took them. you may have been tempted beyond your strength. you may have needed money sorely. all that is none of my business." "you believe i stole them?" "certainly i do." "suppose i didn't?" "i expected you'd say that," was the calm retort. "let it go that way if you prefer. i don't mind. what i want to do is to help you to get away." "even if i am guilty." "yes." "but why?" "because you're sick and in a trap; because i--i--well--" she faltered, her lips trembling, "i just can't bear to have that mean little sheriff who's after you catch you." "what's that?" startled, heath sat up. "that wretched elisha winslow who came here this morning with eleazer crocker tagging at his heels. in some way they had found out about the jewels and where you had hidden them. prying into other people's affairs, no doubt, when they would have much better minded their own business. well, it doesn't matter how they found out. they know the truth, which is the important thing. they even attempted to come upstairs and arrest you post haste; but marcia wouldn't allow it." "marcia!" he spoke the name softly. "she heard the story, too?" "of course." "poor marcia!" "you may well say poor marcia," sylvia echoed sarcastically. "you have made her most unhappy. oh, mr. heath, marcia has not had the sort of life that i told you she had. she has been wretched--miserable. go away before you heap more suffering upon her. she is fighting to make something of her wrecked life. leave her and let her make it. i'll help you get out of town. i am sure we can devise a plan. i'll row you across to the mainland and contrive somehow to get you safely aboard a train. if we only had a car--" "my car is at the wilton garage." "oh, then it will be easy," exclaimed she with evident relief. "not so easy as it seems." heath held up his bandaged hand. "i doubt if i could drive any distance with this wrist," he said. "of course it is on the mend. nevertheless, it is still stiff from disuse, and pretty clumsy." "couldn't i drive? i've driven quite a lot. what make is your car?" "a buick." "i've never driven one of those. i wonder if i'd dare try? how i wish hortie were here! he could drive it. he can drive anything." "hortie?" "horatio fuller--a man i know out west. if only he wasn't so far away! he'd help us in a minute. he'd do it and ask no questions. that's what we need--someone who'll ask no questions." she frowned, thoughtfully. "well, no matter. we can find somebody, i am sure--especially if we pay them liberally. i'll see what i can do." "wait just a moment. what does marcia say?" "marcia? oh, you must not listen to marcia. she is too much upset to be depended on. she cannot see the case at all as it is. her advice wouldn't be worth twopence. trust me in this, please. trust me, mr. heath. i promise you i'll stand by you to the last ditch. i'm not afraid." "i think i'd better talk with marcia first." "don't! it will only be a waste of time." "still, i must hear what she has to say." "you won't like it. marcia is hard, merciless. her conscience drives her to extremes. even should you get her opinion, you would not follow it." "what makes you so sure i wouldn't?" "because it would be madness, sheer madness. you'll realize that, as i do," insisted sylvia with an impatient tapping of her foot. "marcia stubbornly shuts her mind to the truth and will only look on one side. she just repeats the same words over and over again." "what words?" "i shall not tell you." "then she must tell me herself. will you ask her to come up, please?" "i'd rather not." "you prefer i should call her?" baffled, the girl turned away. "no. i'll send her to you--if i must. but remember, i warned you." "i shall not soon forget that, sylvia, nor the splendid loyalty you've shown today. i shall always remember it. whatever happens, please realize that i am grateful," heath said earnestly. then in less serious vein he added: "i never dreamed you were such a valiant little fighter." his smile, irresistible in brightness, brought a faint, involuntary reflection into sylvia's clouded countenance. "oh. i can fight for people--when i care," cried she, impulsively. did the artless confession, the blush that accompanied it, soften the voice of the man so observantly watching until it unconsciously took on the fond, caressing tone one uses toward a child? "so i see. run along now, little girl, and fetch marcia." "i wish i could make you promise not to listen to her," coaxed sylvia, making one last wistful appeal. "i cannot promise that." "i'm sorry. you'd be wiser if you did." * * * * * it was some moments before marcia answered the summons and when at last she came, it was with downcast eyes and evident reluctance. "you sent for me?" she said, halting stiffly at the foot of the bed. "won't you please sit down?" heath replied. "i've only a few moments. i'd rather stand." "but i cannot say what i wish to say while you flutter there as if poised for flight," urged the man, annoyance discernible in his husky voice. unwillingly marcia slipped into the chair beside him. "that's better," he said, smiling. "now tell me exactly what happened down stairs." "didn't sylvia tell you?" "she told me something. i want your version of the story." as if realizing the futility, both of protest and evasion, the woman let her gaze travel to the dim purple line where sea met sky and began to speak. she related the incident tersely; without comment; and in a dull, impersonal manner. stanley heath, scrutinizing her with keen, appraising eyes, could not but note the pallor of her cheeks, the unsteadiness of her lips, the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands. the narrative concluded, her glance dropped to the floor and silence fell between them. "and that is all?" he inquired when convinced she had no intention of speaking further. "that is all." "thank you. now what had i better do?" she made no answer. "what do you think it best for me to do?" he repeated. "best? how do you mean--best? best for your body or best for your soul?" "for both." "but suppose the two should not coincide?" "then i must reconcile them or choose between them." "you cannot reconcile them." "choose between them then--compromise." at the word, he saw her shiver. "well, you are not advising me," he persisted when she offered no reply. "how can i? you know your own affairs--know the truth and yourself far better than i." "granting all that, nevertheless, i should like your opinion." "you will not thank me for it," cautioned she, bitterly. "sylvia says i am quixotic, impractical." "never mind sylvia. tell me what you think." "but how can i give a just opinion? i cannot judge," she burst out as if goaded beyond her patience. "i know none of the facts. to judge the conduct of another, one must know every influence that contributed to the final catastrophe. no person but god himself can know that." a radiance, swift as the passage of a meteor, flashed across stanley heath's face and was gone. "suppose you yourself had taken these jewels and were placed in this dilemma?" pressed he. "that would be entirely different." "why?" "the case would not be similar at all." "why not?" heath reiterated. "because--because i should be guilty." "you mean--you think--" "i do not believe you took the jewels," was the quiet answer. "marcia! marcia!" he reached for her hand, then sharply checked the gesture. "why don't you believe i took them?" "it isn't like you." "the evidence is against me--every whit of it." "i cannot help that." "have i ever told you i did not take them? ever led you to suppose me innocent?" "you have never told me anything about it." "you have never asked." "as if i should put to you a question like that," she said proudly. "you had the right to inquire." "i did not need to." once again the man restrained an impulse to imprison her hands in his. "suppose i did take them?" he went on in an even, coolly modulated voice. "suppose the case stands exactly as this shrewd-eyed wilton sheriff suspects it does? what am i to do?" he saw the color drain from her face. "i only know what i should do, were i in your place." "tell me that." "i should go through with it--clear my soul of guilt." "and afterward?" "start over again." "that would be very difficult. the stigma of crime clings to a man. its stamp remains on him, try as he will to shake it off. my life would be ruined were i to pursue such a course." "not your real life. you would, of course, lose standing among your supposed friends; but you would not lose it among those whose regard went deeper. even if you did--what would it matter?" "but to be alone, friendless! who would help me piece together the mangled fragments of such a past--for i should need help; i could not do it alone? do you imagine that in all the world there would be even one person whose loyalty and affection would survive so acid a test?" "there might be," she murmured, turning away her head. "even so, would i have the presumption to accept such a service? the right to impose on a devotion so self-effacing?" "the person might be glad, proud to help you--consider it a privilege." "who would, marcia? do you know of anyone?" she leaped to her feet. "why do you ask me?" she demanded, the gentleness of her voice chilling to curtness. "you have such a helpmate near you--or should have." "i don't understand," pleaded the man, puzzled by her change of mood. "perhaps we'd better not go into that now," was her response. "it is beside the point." "on the contrary it is the point." "i don't see how. what happens after the penalty has been paid has nothing to do with the paying of it." "in this case it has everything." "i cannot stay," she whispered, frightened by his insistence. "i must go." "wait just a moment." "i cannot. i must get dinner." "never mind the dinner!" she looked at him then for the first time. "we have to eat," she declared making an attempt at lightness. "not always. sometimes there are things more important." "to think of a man saying that!" the ring of the telephone chimed in with her silvery laughter. "i'll go, sylvia," she called with a promptness that indicated the interruption was a welcome one. "yes. yes, this is mrs. howe at wilton. "it's long distance," she called to heath. "new york is on the line. "yes, he is here. he can speak with you himself. "mrs. heath wishes to speak with you," she announced formally. "slip on your bathrobe and come." heath took the receiver from her hand. "joan? this certainly is good of you, dear. yes, i am much better, thank you. bless your precious heart, you needn't have worried. currier will be back late tonight or early tomorrow morning and he will tell you how well i am progressing. yes, he has the jewels. put them in the safe right away, won't you? "i can't say when i shall be home. something has come up that may keep me here some time. i cannot explain just now. it is the thing you have always predicted would happen to me sometime. well, it has happened. do you get that? yes, i am caught--hard and fast. it is a bit ironic to have traveled all over the world and then be taken captive in a small cape cod village. i guess i believe in fate, destiny--whatever you call it. "i'm in something of a tangle just at present. i may even have to call on you to help me straighten it out. that's sweet of you, dear. you've never failed me. oh, i can talk--it doesn't hurt me. you mustn't mind my croak. i'm not so badly off as i sound. i'll let you know the first minute i have anything definite to tell. "goodbye, dear. take care of yourself. it's done me a world of good to hear your voice." heath returned the receiver to its hook and in high spirits strode back into his room. if, however, he hoped there to take up the threads of the conversation so unexpectedly broken off, he was disappointed. marcia's chair was empty. she was nowhere to be seen. chapter xviii the days immediately following were like an armed truce. marcia watched sylvia. sylvia watched marcia. heath watched them both. when, however, no further reference to the events of the past week was made, the tension slowly began to lessen, and life at the howe homestead took on again its customary aspect. one agency in this return to normal was the physical improvement of the invalid, who as a result of rest, fresh air, sleep, and good nursing now became well enough to come down stairs and join the family group. an additional, and by no means unimportant contributory factor, was the sudden onrush of fine weather. never had there been such a spring--at least never within the memory of the owner of the house on the point. the soft breath of the south wind; the radiance of the sunshine; the gentle lapping of the waves on the spangled shore; the stillness; the vivid beauty of the ocean's changing colors--all these blended to make a world that caught the breath and subordinated every mood save one of exuberant joy. against a heaven gentian blue, snowy gulls wheeled and dipped, and far beyond them, miniature white sails cut the penciled indigo of the horizon. the old grey house with its fan-light and beaded doorway stood out in colonial simplicity from the background of sea and sky like a dim, silvered picture, every angle of it soft in relief against the splendors that flanked it. marcia sang at her work--sang not so much because there was peace in her heart as because the gladness about her forced her to forget her pain. sylvia sang, too, or rather whistled in a gay, boyish fashion and in company with prince hal raced like a young colt up the beach. only a day or two more passed before it was possible to get stanley heath, warmly wrapped in rugs, out on the sheltered veranda where, like the others, he reveled in the sunshine. his cheeks bronzed, his eyes became clear and bright, laughter curled his lips. if just around the corner the spectre of trouble loitered, its presence was not, apparently, able to put to flight his lightheartedness. over and over again he declared that every hour spent in this lotus-eaters' country was worth a miser's fortune. sometimes when he lay motionless in the steamer-chair looking seaward beneath the rim of his soft felt hat, or following the circling gulls with preoccupied gaze marcia, peeping at him from the window wondered of what he was thinking. that the fancies which intrigued him were pleasant and that he enjoyed his own company there could be no question. no attitude he might have assumed could have been better calculated to dispel awkwardness and force into the background the seriousness of the two women, whose interests were so inextricably entangled with his own, than the merry, bantering one he adopted when with them. even marcia, who at first had avoided all tête-à-têtes, quivering with dread whenever she found herself alone with him, gradually, beneath the spell of his new self, gained sufficient confidence to perch hatless on the piazza rail beside him in an unoccupied moment and spar with him, verbally. for he was a brilliant talker--one who gave unexpected, original twists to the conversation--twists that taxed one's power of repartee. the challenge to keep pace with his wit was to her like scouring a long disused rapier and seeing it clash against the deft blade of a master fencer. here indeed was a hitherto undreamed-of stanley heath, a man whose dangerous charms had multiplied a hundredfold and who, if he had captivated her before now riveted her fetters with every word he spoke, every glance he gave her. she struggled to escape from the snare closing in on her, then finding combat useless, ceased to struggle and let herself drift with the tide. after all, why not enjoy the present? soon, all too soon, its glamorous delights would be gone and she would be back once more in the uneventful past which had satisfied her and kept her happy until heath had crossed her path, bringing with him the bewildering adventures that had destroyed her tranquillity. would she ever find that former peace, she frequently asked herself. would her world ever be the same after this magician who had touched it with the spell of his enchantment had left it? for he would leave it. a time must come, and soon now--when like a scene from a fairy play the mystic lights would fade, the haunting music cease, the glitter of the whole dreamlike pageant give place to reality. it was too beautiful, too ephemeral an idyll to last. in loving this stranger of whom she knew so little, she had set her heart upon a phantom that she knew must vanish. the future, grim with foreboding, was constantly drawing nearer. in her path stood a presence that said: thou shalt not! there were, alas, but two ways of life--the way of right and the way of wrong, and between them lay no neutral zone. this she acknowledged with her mind. but her rebel heart would play her false, flouting her puritan codes and defying the creeds that conscience dictated. meantime while she thus wrestled with the angel of her best self, sylvia accepted the situation with characteristic lightness. her life in this vast world and wide had been of short duration, but during its brief span she had learned a surprising amount about the earth and the human beings that peopled it. she knew more already about men than did marcia--much more. long ago they had ceased to be gods to her. she was accustomed to them and their ways, and was never at a loss to give back to each as good as he sent--frequently better. her sophistication in the present instance greatly relieved the strain. she jested fearlessly with heath, speaking a language with which he was familiar and one that amused him no end. often he would sit watching her furtively, his glance moving from the gold of her hair to the blue of her eyes, the fine poise of her fair white throat, the slender lines of her girlish figure. often, too, in such moments he would think of the possibilities that lay in the prodigal beauty she so heedlessly ignored. that he took pleasure in being with her and treating her with half playful, half affectionate admiration was incontestable. yet notwithstanding this, his fondness was nicely restrained and never slipped into familiarity or license. it was the sort of delicately poised relation in which the girl was thoroughly at home and with which she knew well how to cope. today heath was taking his first walk and the two had strolled down to the water's edge where deep in a conversation more serious than usual they sat in the sun on the over-turned yellow dory. to marcia, watching from the porch, they appeared to be arguing--sylvia pleadingly, heath with stern resistance. the woman could not but speculate as to the subject that engrossed them. not that she was spying. she would have scorned to do that. she had merely stepped outside to shake a duster and they had caught her eye. it seemed, too, that she had chosen an inopportune moment for observation, for just at that instant sylvia placed her hand entreatingly on heath's arm and though he continued to talk, he caught and held it. the fact that sylvia neither evinced surprise, nor withdrew it forced her to the disconcerting conclusion that the thing was no unusual happening. marcia turned aside, jealousy clutching at her heart. when, later in the day, the pair reëntered the house heath, with a few pleasant words, caught up his overcoat and went out onto the steps to smoke, while sylvia hurried to her room. marcia, passing through the hall, could see her golden head bent over the table as intent with pen and paper she dashed off page after page of a closely written letter. it was a pity the elder woman could not have read that letter, for had she been able to, it would not only have astonished but also have enlightened her and perhaps quieted the beating of her troubled heart. it was a letter that astonished sylvia herself. nevertheless, much as it surprised her, her amazement in no way approached that of young horatio fuller when he read it. so completely did it scatter to the winds of heaven every other thought his youthful head contained that he posted two important business documents--one without a stamp, and the other without an address. after that he decided he was unfit to cope with commercial duties and pleading a headache hastened home to his mother. now horatio's mother, far from possessing the appearance of a tower of strength to which one might flee in time of trouble, was a woman of colorless, vaguely defined personality indicative of little guile and still less determination. she listened well and gave the impression she could listen, with her hands passively folded in her lap, forever if necessary. she never interrupted; never offered comment or advice; never promised anything; and yet when she said, as she invariably did, "i'll talk with your father, dear," there was always infinite comfort in the observation. that was what she said today to horatio junior. accordingly that evening after horatio senior had dined, and dined well; after he had smoked a good cigar and with no small measure of pride in his own skill put into place all the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle that had defied his prowess the night before--his wife artfully slipping them beneath his nose where he could not fail to find them--then and not until then did mrs. horatio take out the pink afghan she had been making and while she knit two and purled two, she gently imparted to alton city's leading citizen the intelligence that his son, horatio junior, wished to go east; that he was in love; that, in short, he wished to marry. up into the air like a whizzing rocket soared horatio senior! he raged; he tramped the floor; he heaped on the head of the absent horatio junior every epithet of reproach his wrath could devise, the phrases driveling idiot and audacious puppy appearing to afford him the greatest measure of relief. continuing his harangue, he threatened to disinherit his son; he smoked four cigarettes in succession; he tipped over the boston fern. the rest of the things horatio senior said and what he did would not only be too gross to write down in the chronicles of the kings of judah, but also would be improper to record here. in the meantime, mrs. horatio knitted on. at last when breathless and panting horatio senior, like an alarm clock ran down and sank exhausted into his chair, mrs. horatio began the second row of knit two, purl two and ventured the irrefutable observation that after all horatio junior was their only child. as this could not be denied, it passed without challenge and gaining confidence to venture farther, she presently added, quite casually that a wife was a steadying influence in a young man's career. horatio senior vouchsafed no reply. perhaps he had no breath left to demur. at any rate his wife, considering silence a favorable symptom, followed up her previous comments with the declaration that sylvia hayden was a nice little thing. this drew fire. horatio senior sputtered something about "nothing but a penniless school-teacher--a nobody." very deliberately then mrs. horatio began the fourth row of her knitting and as her needles clicked off the stitches, she murmured pleasantly that if she remembered rightly this had been the very objection horatio senior's father had made to their own marriage. at this horatio senior flushed scarlet and said promptly that fathers did not know anything about choosing wives for their sons; that his marriage had been ideal; that his jennie had been the one wife in the world for him; that time had proved it--even to his parents; that she was the only person on earth who really understood him--which latter statement unquestionably demonstrated that all that proceeded out of the mouth of horatio senior was not vanity and vexation of spirit. after this nothing was simpler than to complete the pink stripe and discuss just when horatio junior had better start east. * * * * * had sylvia dreamed when she licked the envelope's flap with her small red tongue and smoothed it down with her pretty white finger she was thus loosing alton city's thunderbolts, she might, perhaps, have hesitated to send the letter she had penned and perhaps would not have started off so jauntily late that afternoon to post it. as it was, she was ignorant of the future consequences of her act and went skipping across the wee azure pools the tide had left behind as gaily as if she were not making history. and not only did she go swinging off in this carefree fashion, but toward six o'clock she telephoned she was at the doanes and henry and his mother--the little old lady she had met on the train the day she arrived--wanted her to stay to supper. he would bring her home early in the evening. there would be a moon--marcia need not worry. marcia had not thought of worrying until that minute, but now, in spite of knowing sylvia was safe and in good hands she began, paradoxically enough, to worry madly. her heart would palpitate, her hand tremble while she spread the cloth and prepared the supper; and when she could not put off the dreaded and yet anticipated moment any longer, timidly as a girl she summoned stanley heath to the small, round table. "sylvia isn't coming," she explained, all blushes. "she telephoned she was going to stay over in town." they seated themselves. it was the first time they had ever been alone at a meal and the novelty of finding themselves opposite one another awed them into silence. "would you--do you care for cheese soufflé?" stammered marcia. "thank you." "perhaps you don't like cheese." "i do--very much." "i hope it is done." "it is perfect." "it's hard to get it out of the oven at the right moment. sometimes it falls." "this one hasn't," beamed stanley. "i don't know. perhaps i might have left it in a second or two longer." "it's wonderful!" "i'm glad you like it. rolls?" "rather! my, but you are a marvelous cook." "oh, not really. you're hungry--that's all. things taste good when you are." "it isn't that. everything you put your hand to is well done." "nonsense!" "it isn't nonsense and you know it. you're a marvelous person, marcia." "there is nothing marvelous about me." "there is--your eyes, for one thing. don't drop them, dear. i want to look at them." "you are talking foolishness." "every man talks foolishness once in his life, i suppose. perhaps i am talking it tonight because our time together is so short. i am leaving here tomorrow morning." "stanley!" across the table he caught her hand. "i am well now and have no further excuse for imposing on your hospitality." "as if it were imposing!" "it is. i have accepted every manner of kindness from you--" "don't call it that," she interrupted. "what else can i call it? i was a stranger and you took me in. it was sweet of you--especially when you knew nothing about me. now the time has come for me to go. tomorrow morning i am giving myself up to the wilton sheriff." "oh, no--no!" "but you said you wanted me to. it is the only square thing to do, isn't it?" she made no answer. he rose and came to her side, slipping an arm about her. "marcia. dearest! i am doing what you wish, am i not?" "i cannot bear it." the words were sharp with pain. "you wanted me to go through with it." she covered her face and he felt a shudder pass over her. "yes. but that was then," she whispered. at the words, he drew her to her feet and into his arms. "marcia, beloved! oh, my dear one, do i need to tell you i love you--love you with all my heart--my soul--all that is in me? you know it--know that every moment we have been together has been heaven. tell me you love me, dear--for you do love me. don't deny it--not tonight--our last night together. say that you love me." "you--know," she faltered, her arms creeping about his neck. he kissed her then--her hair, her eyes, her neck, her lips--long, burning kisses that left her quivering beneath the rush of them. their passion brought her to herself and she drew away. "what is it, dear?" he asked. "we can't. we must not. i had forgotten." "forgotten?" "something stands between us--we have no right. forgive me." "but my dear--" "we have no right," she repeated. "you are thinking of the past," he challenged. "marcia, the past is dead. it is the present only in which we live--the present--just us two--who love." "we must not love." "but we do, sweetheart," was his triumphant cry. "we do!" "we must forget." "can you forget?" he reproached. "i--i--can try." "ah, your tongue is too honest, marcia. you cannot forget. neither can i. our pledge is given. we belong to one another. i shall not surrender what is mine--never." "tomorrow--" "let us not talk of tomorrow." "we must. we shall be parted then." "only for a little while. i shall come back to you. our love will hold. absence, distance, nothing can part us--not really." "no." "then tell me you love me so i may leave knowing the truth from your own sweet lips." "i love you, stanley--god help me!" "ah, now i can go! it will not be for long." "it must be for forever, dear heart. you must not come back. tonight must be--the end." "marcia!" "tonight must be the end," she repeated, turning away. "you mean you cannot face tomorrow--the disgrace--" "i mean tonight must be the end," she reiterated. through narrowed lids, he looked at her, scanning her averted face. then she heard him laugh bitterly, discordantly. "so we have come to the great divide, have we?" he said. "i have, apparently, expected too much of you. i might have known it would be so. all women are alike. they desert a man when he needs them most. their affection has no toughness of fibre. it snaps under the first severe strain. the prospect of sharing my shame is more than you can bear." again he laughed. "well, tonight shall be the end--tonight--now. don't think i blame you. it is not your fault. i merely rated you too high, marcia--believed you a bigger woman than you are, that's all. i have asked more than you were capable of giving. the mistake was mine--not yours." he left her then. stunned by the torrent of his reproach, she stood motionless, watching while, without a backward glance, he passed into the hall and up the stairs. his receding footsteps grew fainter. even after he was out of sight, she remained immovable, her frightened eyes riveted on the doorway through which he had disappeared. prince hal raised his head and sensing all was not well came uneasily to her side and, thrusting his nose into her inert hand, whined. at his touch, something within her gave way. she swayed, caught at a chair and shrank into it, her body shaking and her breath coming in gasping, hysterical sobs. the clock ticked on, the surf broke in muffled undertone, the light faded; the candles burned lower, flickered and overflowed the old pewter candle sticks; and still she sat there, her tearless, dilated eyes fixed straight before her and the setter crouching unnoticed at her feet. chapter xix sylvia, bubbling over with sociability after her evening at the doanes', was surprised, on reaching the homestead, to find a lamp set in the window and the living-room empty. ten o'clock was not late and yet both occupants of the house had gone upstairs. this was unusual. she wondered at it. certainly marcia could not be asleep at so early an hour; nor heath, either. in fact, beneath the latter's door she could see a streak of light, and could hear him moving about inside. marcia's room, on the other hand, was still. once, as she paused listening, wondering whether she dared knock and go in for a bedtime chat, she thought she detected a stifled sound and thus encouraged whispered the woman's name. no response came, however, and deciding she must have been mistaken she tiptoed away. having, therefore, no inkling of a change in the delightful relations that had for the past week prevailed, the atmosphere that greeted her when she came down the next morning was a shock. stanley heath stood at the telephone talking to elisha winslow and on the porch outside were grouped his suit-case, overcoat and traveling rug. he himself was civil--nay, courteous--but was plainly ill at ease and had little except the most commonplace remarks to offer in way of conversation. marcia had not slept, as her pallor and the violet shadows beneath her eyes attested. sylvia could see that her duties as hostess of the breakfast table taxed her self-control almost to the breaking point and that only her pride and strong will-power prevented her from going to pieces. although the girl did not understand, she sensed marcia's need of her and rushed valiantly into the breach--filling every awkward pause with her customary sparkling chatter. her impulse was to cry out: "what under the sun is the matter with you two?" she might have done so had not a dynamic quality vibrant in the air warned her not to meddle. when at length the meal was cut short by the arrival of elisha winslow, all three of the group rose with unconcealed relief. even elisha's presence, hateful as it would ordinarily have been, came now as a welcome interruption. "wal, mr. heath, i see you're expectin' me," grinned the sheriff, pointing toward the luggage beside the door. "i am, mr. winslow." "i've got my boat. are you ready to come right along?" "quite ready." heath went to sylvia and took her hand. "thank you very much," murmured he formally, "for all you've done for me. i appreciate it more than i can say. and you, too, mrs. howe. your kindness has placed me deeply in your debt." "i wish you luck, mr. heath," called sylvia. "thanks." "and i, too," marcia rejoined in a voice scarcely audible. to this the man offered no reply. perhaps he did not hear the words. they followed him to the door. it was then that marcia sprang forward and caught elisha's arm. "where are you taking him, elisha?" she demanded, a catch in her voice. "where are you taking him? remember, mr. heath has been ill. you must not risk his getting cold or suffering any discomfort. promise me you will not." "you need have no worries on that score, marcia," replied the sheriff kindly, noticing the distress in her face. "you don't, naturally, want all you've done for mr. heath thrown away. no more do i. i'll look out for him." "where is he going?" "to my house for the present," elisha answered. "you see, the town ain't ever needed to make provision for a criminal. i can't lock him up in the church 'cause he could get out had he the mind; an' out of the school-house, too. besides, them buildin's are kinder chilly. so after weighin' the matter, i decided to take him 'long home with me. i've a comfortable spare room an' i figger to put him in it 'til i've questioned him an' verified his story. "meantime, nobody in town will be the wiser. i ain't even tellin' may ellen why mr. heath's at the house. if i choose to harbor comp'ny, that's my business. not a soul 'cept eleazer's in on this affair an' he's keepin' mum. when him an' me decide we've got the truth, we'll act--not before." "that relieves my mind very much. mr. heath is--you see he--" "he's a friend of yours--i ain't forgettin' that. i shall treat him 'cordin'ly, marcia." "thank you, elisha--thank you a hundred times." there was nothing more to be said. heath bowed once again and the two men walked down to the float where they clambered with the luggage into elisha's dory and put out into the channel. sylvia loitered to wave her hand and watch them row away, but marcia, as if unable to bear the sight, waited for no further farewell. even after the girl had followed her indoors and during the interval they washed the breakfast dishes together, sylvia did not venture to ask any explanations. if marcia preferred to exclude her from her confidence, she resolved not to intrude. instead, she began to talk of her evening with the doanes and although well aware marcia scarcely listened, her gossip bridged the gulf of silence and gave the elder woman opportunity to recover her poise. by noon marcia was, to outward appearances, entirely herself. she had not been able, to be sure, to banish her pallor or the traces of sleeplessness; but she had her emotions sufficiently under control to talk pleasantly, if not gaily so that only an understanding, lynx-eyed observer like sylvia would have suspected she was still keyed to too high a pitch to put heart in what she mechanically said and did. that day and the next passed in much the same strained fashion. that the woman was grateful for her niece's forbearance was evident in a score of trivial ways. that she also sensed sylvia's solicitude and appreciated her loyalty and impulsive outbursts of affection was also obvious. it was not until the third morning, however, that the barriers between the two collapsed. marcia had gone into the living-room to write a letter--a duty she especially detested and one which it was her habit to shunt into the future whenever possible. today, alas, there was no escape. a business communication had come that must be answered. she sat down before the infrequently used desk and started to take up her pen when sylvia heard her utter a cry. "what's the matter, dear?" called the girl, hurrying into the other room. no answer came. marcia was sitting fingering a slip of green paper she had taken from a long envelope. with wild, despairing eyes she regarded it. then, as sylvia came nearer, she bowed her head upon the desk and began to sob as if her heart would break. "marcia, dear--marcia--what is it?" cried sylvia, rushing to her and clasping the shaking figure in her arms. "tell me what it is, dear." "oh, how could he!" moaned the woman. "how could he be so cruel!" "what has happened. marcia?" "stanley--he has left a check--money--thrown it in my face! and i did it so gladly--because i loved him. he knew that. yet he could leave this--pay me--as if i were a common servant. i had rather he struck me--a hundred times rather." the girl took the check. it was filled out in stanley heath's clear, strong hand and was for the sum of a hundred dollars. "how detestable of him!" she exclaimed. "tell me, marcia--what happened between you and mr. heath? you quarreled--of course i know that. but why--why? i have not wanted to ask, but now--" "i'll tell you everything, sylvia. i'd rather you knew. i thought at first i could keep it to myself, but i cannot. i need you to help me, dear." "if i only could!" murmured sylvia, drawing her closer. as if quieted by the warmth of her embrace, marcia wiped her eyes and began to speak, tremulously. she unfolded the story of her blind faith in stanley heath; her love for him--a love she could neither resist nor control--a love she had known from the first to be hopeless. she confessed how she had fought against his magnetic power; how she had struggled to conceal her feelings; how he himself had resisted a similar attraction in her; how at last he had discovered her secret and forced her to betray it. slowly, reluctantly she went on to tell of the final scene between them--his insistence on coming back to her. "of course i realized we could not go on," she explained bravely. "that we loved one another was calamity enough. all that remained was for him to go away and forget me--return to his wife, his home, and the interests and obligations of his former life. soon, if he honestly tries, this infatuation will pass and everything will be as before. men forget more easily than women. absence, too, will help." "and you, marcia?" "i am free. there is no law forbidding me to remember. i can go on caring, so long as he does not know. it will do no harm if here, far away, where he will never suspect it, i continue to love him." "oh, my dear, my dear!" "i cannot give up my love. it is all i have now. oh, i do not mean to mourn over it, pity myself, make life unhappy. instead, i shall be glad, thankful. you will see. this experience will make every day of living richer. you need have no fears for me, sylvia. you warned me, you know," concluded she with a pathetic little smile. "i was a brute! i ought to have shielded you more," the girl cried. "i could have, had i realized. well, i can yet do something, thank heaven. give me that check." "what do you mean to do?" "return it, of course--return it before stanley heath leaves town. isn't that what you want done? surely you do not wish to keep it." "no! no!" "i'll take it over to elisha winslow's now, this minute." "i wonder--yes, probably that will be best. you won't, i suppose, be allowed to see stanley," speculated she timidly. "i don't suppose so." "if you should--" "well?" "don't say anything harsh, sylvia. please do not blame him, or--" "i'll wring his neck!" was the emphatic retort. "oh, please--please dear--for my sake! i can't let you go if you go in that spirit," pleaded marcia in alarm. "there, there--you need not worry for fear i shall maltreat your romeo, richly as he deserves it," was the response. "i could kill him--but i won't--because of you. nevertheless, i warn you that if i get the chance i shall tell him what i think of him. no power on earth can keep me from doing that. he is terribly to blame and ought to realize it. no married man has any business playing round with another woman. he may get by with it in new york, but on cape cod or in alton city," she drew herself up, "it just isn't done and the sooner stanley heath understands that, the better. that's that! now i'll get my hat and go." "i am half afraid to let you, sylvia." "you don't trust me? don't you believe i love you?" "i am afraid you love me too much, dear." "i do love you, marcia. i never dreamed i could care so intensely for anyone i have known for so short a time. what you did for my mother alone would make me love you. but aside from gratitude there are other reasons. i love you for your own splendid self, dear. please do not fear to trust me. i promise you i will neither be unjust nor bitter. the fact that you care for stanley heath shall protect him and make me merciful." "take the check then and go. i wish i were to see him." "well, you're not! rowing across that channel and hurrying to his side after the way he's treated you! not a bit of it! i'd tie you to your own bedpost first," snapped sylvia. "let him do the explaining and apologizing. let him cross the channel and grovel at your feet. that's what he ought to do!" "you won't tell him that." "i don't know what i shall tell him." "please, sylvia! you promised, remember." "don't fret. some of the mad will be taken out of me before i see mr. heath. the tide is running strong and it will be a pull to get the boat across to the mainland. kiss me and wish me luck, marcia. you do believe i will try to be wise, don't you?" "yes, dear. yes!" "that's right. you really can trust me, you know. i'm not so bad as i sound." tucking the check into the wee pocket of her sweater, sylvia caught up her pert beret and perched it upon her curls. "so long!" she called, looking back over her shoulder as she opened the door. "so long, marcia! i'll be back as soon as ever i can." the haste with which she disappeared, suddenly precipitated her into the arms of a young man who stood upon the steps preparing to knock. "hortie fuller," cried sylvia breathlessly. "hortie! where on earth did you come from?" her arms closed about his neck and he had kissed her twice before she swiftly withdrew, rearranging her curls and saying coldly: "i cannot imagine what brought you here, horatio." chapter xx "i can't imagine," repeated sylvia, still very rosy and flustered, but with her most magnificent air, "what brought you to wilton--i really cannot." "can't you?" grinned horatio cheerfully. "no, i cannot." from his superior height of six-feet-two, he looked down at her meager five feet, amusement twinkling in his eyes. sylvia, however, was too intent on patting her curls into place to heed his glance. "you wrote me to come, didn't you?" he presently inquired. "i wrote you to come!" "well, at least you led me to suppose you'd like it if i were here," persisted horatio. "toward the bottom of page two you said: 'i am positively homesick'; and in the middle of the back of page three you wrote: 'it seems years since i've seen you.'" "what if i did?" answered the girl with a disdainful shrug. nevertheless the dimples showed in her cheeks. "and that isn't all," horatio went on. "at the end of page five you wrote: 'would that you were here'!" sylvia bit her lip. "that was only a figure of speech--what is called poetic license. writers are always would-ing things: would i were a bird; would i were a ring upon that hand; would i were--were--well, almost anything. but it doesn't mean at all that they would really like to be those things." "then you didn't mean it when you said you wished i was here." horatio was obviously disappointed. "why, of course i am pleased to see you, hortie. it is very nice of you to come to the cape to meet my aunt and--" "darn your aunt!" he scowled. "i didn't come to see her." "hush! she's just inside." "i don't care." "but you will when you know her. she's darling." "i am not interested in aunts." "take care! i happen to be very keen on this aunt of mine. if she didn't like you, you might get sent home. don't be horrid, hortie. i truly am glad you've come. you must make allowance for my being surprised. i haven't got over it yet. how in the world did you contrive to get away at this season? and what sort of a trip did you have?" "swell! i stopped overnight in new york at the gardeners. mother wanted me to deliver a birthday cake to estelle who, you may remember, is the mater's god-daughter. she's a pippin, too. i hadn't seen her since she graduated from vassar." sylvia listened. she did not need to be told about the gardeners. they had visited horatio's family more than once and rumor had it the elders of both families would be delighted were the young people to make a match of it. "i'm surprised you did not stay longer in new york," sylvia observed, gazing reflectively at her white shoe. "new york wasn't my objective. i came on business, you see." "oh!" this was not so flattering. "yes," continued horatio, "dad gave me two months off so i could get married." this time he got the reaction for which he had been waiting. sylvia jumped. "i was not aware you were engaged," murmured she in a formal, far-away tone. "i'm not," came frankly from horatio junior. "but i'm going to be. in fact i chance to have the ring with me this minute. want to see it?" "i always enjoy looking at jewels," was her cautious retort. horatio felt of his many pockets. "where on earth did i put that thing?" he muttered. "hope i haven't lost it. oh, here it is." he took out a tiny velvet case and sprang the catch. "oh, hortie! isn't it beautiful!" sylvia cried. "it fairly takes away my breath." "like it?" "it is perfectly lovely!" "try it on." she shook her head. "it wouldn't fit me. my hands are too small." "it's a small ring. here. put it on," he urged, holding it toward her. "well, i suppose i might try it to please you. but i know it will be too large." she slipped it on her finger. "why, it does fit. how odd!" "very odd indeed," he answered drily, as she reached her hand out into the sun and turned the diamonds so that they caught the light. "looks rather well on, doesn't it?" was his comment. "it is a beautiful ring." horatio, standing behind her, twice extended his arms as if to gather her into them and twice withdrew them, deciding the action to be premature. at length with a determined squaring of his shoulders, he locked his hands behind him and stood looking on while she continued to twist the ring this way and that. "well," yawned he after an interval, "i suppose i may as well put it back in the box." "don't you think it would be wiser if i took care of it for you, hortie?" suggested she demurely. "you are dreadfully careless. only a moment ago you had no idea where the ring was. if it is on my finger you'll know exactly." "bully idea! so i shall! now tell me where you're off to. you were in a frightful hurry when you burst through that door." "so i was," agreed sylvia. "and here i am loitering and almost forgetting my errand. come! we must hurry. i've got to go to town. want to row me over?" "you bet your life!" "it may be quite a pull. the tide is running out and that means you will have to row against it." "show me the boat." still she hesitated. "i don't know how nautical you are." she thought she heard him chuckle. leading the way to the yellow dory, she took her place opposite him and he pushed off. as they sat facing one another, her eyes roamed over his brown suit; his matching tie, handkerchief and socks; his immaculate linen; his general air of careful grooming, and she could not but admit he wore his clothes well. she was so accustomed to seeing him that she never before had stopped to analyze his appearance. now after weeks of separation she regarded him from a fresh viewpoint and realized with something of a shock how very good-looking he was. he had the appearance of being scrubbed inside and out--of being not only clean but wholesome and upstanding; of knowing what he wanted and going after it. he was not a small town product. three years in an eastern preparatory school, followed by four years of college life had knocked all that might have been provincial out of horatio junior. nevertheless these reflections, interesting though they were, proved nothing about his knowledge of the water. then she suddenly became aware that the boat was being guided by a master hand. "why, hortie fuller, i had no idea you could row like this!" exclaimed she with admiration. horatio deigned no response. "wherever did you learn to pull such an oar?" "varsity crew." "of course. i had forgotten," she apologized, her eyes following as with each splendid stroke the craft shot forward. although the oarsman ignored her approbation he was not unmindful of it. "where do we land?" he asked. "anywhere." he bent forward and with one final magnificent sweep sent the nose of the dory out of the channel. "come on," he called, leaping to the beach. "but--but, hortie--i can't get ashore here. i'll wet my white shoes." "jump." "it's too far. pull the boat higher on the sand." "not on your life. jump, darling! i'll catch you." she stood up in the bow. "i can't. it's too far." "nonsense! where's your sporting blood? don't be afraid. i'm right here." "suppose you shouldn't catch me?" "but i shall." he would. she was certain of it. still she wavered. "i don't want to jump," she pouted. "you'll have to. come on, beautiful. you're wasting time." "i think you are perfectly horrid," she flung out as she sprang forward. an instant later she was in his arms and tight in a grip she knew herself powerless to loosen. "let me go, hortie! let me go!" she pleaded. "i shall, sweetheart. all in good time. before i set you free, though, we must settle one trivial point. are we engaged or are we not?" she made no answer. "if we're not," he went on, "i intend to duck you in the water. if we are, you shall tell me you love me and go free." "don't be idiotic, hortie. please, please let me go. somebody may come along and see us." "i don't mind if they do. there are other considerations more important." a swift, shy smile illuminated her face. "i--i--don't want to be ducked, hortie," she murmured, raising her arms to his neck. "you precious thing! you shan't be. now the rest of it. say you love me." "i guess you know that." "but i wish to hear you say it." "i--i--think i do." "that's a half-hearted statement." "i--i--know i do, hortie." "ah, that is better. and i love you, sylvia. loving you is an old, old story with me--a sort of habit. i shall never change. you are too much a part of me, sylvia. now pay the boatman and you shall go. one is too cheap. two is miserly. the fare is three. i won't take less." "i consider your methods despicable," announced the girl when at last he reluctantly put her down on her feet. "a warrior must study his adversary and plan his attack accordingly." "you blackmailed me." "i know my sylvia," he countered. "just the same you had no right to take advantage." "perhaps you'd rather i trundled back to new york tomorrow and offered the ring to estelle." "silly! i was only fooling," she protested quickly, linking her arm in his. "this ring would never fit estelle, dearest. her hands are tremendous. didn't you ever notice them? they are almost as large as a man's. i never saw such hands." "she's an awful nice girl just the same." "i don't doubt that. come. we must quit fooling now and hurry or we shall never get home. marcia will be frantic." "marcia?" "my aunt. i have so much to tell you i hardly know where to begin," sighed sylvia. "do listen carefully, for i need your advice." "what about?" "a lot of things. it is a long story. you see marcia has fallen in love with a robber." "a robber? your aunt?" "uh-huh. i know it sounds odd, but you will understand it better after you have heard the details," nodded sylvia. "this man, a jewel thief, came to our house one day shipwrecked and hurt, so we took him in." "a thief?" again she nodded. "yes. we didn't know then, of course, that he was a thief. afterward, when we did, he was sick and we hadn't the heart to turn him out. in fact we couldn't have done it anyway. he was too fascinating. he was one of the most fascinating men you ever saw." "he must have been," horatio growled. "oh, he was. i myself almost lost my heart to him," confessed sylvia earnestly. "don't jeer. i am speaking the truth. i did not quite fall in love with him, but i came near it. marcia did." "your aunt?" "yes. don't look so horrified, hortie. i realize it seems queer, unconventional; but you'll understand better when you see marcia. she is no ordinary person." "i shouldn't think she was." sylvia ignored the comment. "well, anyway, the robber hid the loot and of course marcia and i did all we could to protect him." "why of course?" "i just told you--because he was so fascinating--because marcia did not or would not believe he had stolen it. i knew better. still i helped shield him just the same. then one day the wilton sheriff heard over the radio there had been a jewel robbery on long island, and stumbling upon the hidden gems, arrested mr. heath." "mr. heath?" "the thief, hortie! the thief! how can you be so stupid?" ejaculated sylvia sharply, squeezing his arm. "i get you now. you must admit, though, this is some story to understand." "i know it sounds confused, but in reality it is perfectly simple if you'll just pay attention. well," the girl hurried on, "i cannot stop to explain all the twists and turns but anyway, the sheriff brought the burglar to wilton and marcia is broken-hearted." "broken-hearted! i should think she'd be thankful to be rid of him." "but you keep forgetting she's in love with him." "well, do you wonder i do? what kind of a woman is your aunt? what sort of a gang have you got in with anyhow?" "hush, hortie! you mustn't talk like that," sylvia declared. "this affair is too serious. marcia and the--the--she and mr. heath love one another. it is terrible because, you see, he has a wife." "i should call that a stroke of providence, myself." "horatio, i think you are being very nasty. you are joking about something that is no joking matter." "i beg your pardon, dear. i wasn't really joking. don't be angry. but this yarn is unbelievable--preposterous," explained the man, taking her hand and gently caressing it. "i realize it sounds--unusual." "unusual is mild." "well--perhaps a little theatrical. yet, for all that, it isn't. now do stop interrupting and let me finish. when mr. heath went away from the homestead, he left behind him a hundred dollars in payment for what marcia had done for him. it almost killed her." "she--she--thought she ought to have had more, you mean?" "horatio!" "but--a hundred dollars is quite a sum in these days. she would better have grabbed it tight and been thankful. my respect for this bandit chap is rising. i should call him an honest gentleman." "it is useless to talk with you, horatio--i can see that," sylvia said, stiffening. "a delicate affair like this is evidently beyond your comprehension. you can't seem to understand it. all you do is to make light of every word i say." "i'm not making light. on the contrary i guess i am taking the situation far more seriously than you are. i don't like the moral tone of this place at all. it looks to me as if you had got into most undesirable surroundings. it is high time i came and took you out of them. thieves, and jewel-robberies, and sheriffs, and bandits with wives--heavens! alton city is a garden of eden compared with this town. the sooner you are married to me, young woman, and out of here the better. as for this remarkable aunt of yours--" "stop, horatio! stop right where you are," bridled sylvia. "one more word against marcia and back home you go so fast you won't be able to see for dust. i'm in earnest, so watch your step." "the woman has bewitched you," frowned horatio. "she has. she bewitches everybody. she'll bewitch you." "not on your life!" "wait and see. mr. heath will bewitch you, too." "the--the--?" "yes, the burglar, bandit, thief--whatever you choose to call him. you'll admit it when you meet him. we are going there now." "to--to--call?" "to return the check i just told you about. you're the stupidest man i was ever engaged to, horatio. why can't you listen?" "i am listening with all my ears." "then the trouble is with your imagination," sylvia said in her loftiest tone. they walked on in silence until presently the girl stopped before the gate of a small, weather-beaten cottage. "well, here we are at elisha's," she remarked, turning in at the gate. "what's he got to do with it?" "mercy, hortie. you'll wear me to a shred. elisha is the sheriff. i'm going to coax him to let us see the prisoner." "you don't mean the chap is jailed here! my--!" he clapped his hand over his mouth. "why, any red-blooded man could knock the whole house flat to the ground with a single blow of his fist. i'll bet i could." "there wasn't any other place to put him." "well, if he stays incarcerated in a detention pen like this, he's a noble-minded convict--that's all i have to say." they walked up the narrow clam-shell path, bordered by iris and thrifty perennials. as they did so, the sound of a radio drifted through the open window. sylvia peeped in. elisha, too intent on the music to hear her step, was sitting before the loud speaker, smoking. "i've come to see mr. heath," she shouted above the wails of a crooning orchestra. "you can't. 'tain't allowed." "nonsense! prisoners are always permitted to see visitors. where is he?" "i ain't sure as i'd oughter let you see him," hesitated elisha. "i'll take the responsibility." "wal--mebbe on second thought, 'twill do no harm," he drawled. "he's round on the back porch. i'd come with you warn't i waitin' for the news flashes." "that's all right. i can find him." "say, who you got with you?" called the sheriff over his shoulder. "a friend from my home town." "don't know 'bout his goin'." "oh, he won't do any harm. he's nobody--just my fiancé." "your what?" "the man i am going to marry." "you don't tell me! so you're gettin' married, are you? good lookin' feller! i heard at the post office you had some chap in the offin'. but to let him see mr. heath--i dunno as 'twould be just--" "where i go horatio goes," sylvia retorted. elisha weakened. "wal, in that case--" he began. she waited to hear no more. "come on, hortie," she called. leaving elisha absorbed in a saxophone solo, the two rounded the corner of the cottage and found themselves in the presence of stanley heath. chapter xxi he was looking very fit and comfortable, lying at full length in a gloucester hammock with cushions beneath his head, a book in his hand, and a package of cigarettes within reach. "sylvia!" he cried, springing up and advancing toward her with outstretched hand. "sylvia! what a brick you are to come!" angry as she was, when face to face with him she could not resist the contagion of his smile. "i'm glad to see you so well," she said. "this is mr. horatio fuller of alton city." horatio looked heath up and down and then stepped forward and gripped his hand with unmistakable cordiality. "mighty glad to know you, sir," was his greeting. "you seem to have got yourself into a jam. if there is anything i can do--any way i can be of service--" "horatio, you forget we are not here to make a social call," interrupted sylvia, who had by this time regained her routed chilliness and indignation. "on the contrary, mr. heath, we have come on a very painful errand. we are returning this check to you." she extended it toward him, gingerly holding its corner in the tips of her fingers as if it were too foul a thing to touch. "it was outrageous of you, insulting to leave a thing of this sort for marcia--to attempt to pay in cash--kindness such as hers." "i'm--sorry," heath stammered. "sorry! you couldn't have been very sorry, or you would have sensed such an act would hurt her terribly." horatio fuller fumbled nervously with his tie. "you deserve," swept on young sylvia with rising spirit, "to be thrashed. hortie and i both think so--don't we, hortie?" horatio junior turned crimson. "oh, i say, sylvia, go easy!" he protested. "don't drag me into this. i don't know one darn thing about it." "but i've explained everything to you." "you've tried to. nevertheless, the whole affair is beyond me. i can't make head or tail out of it," shrugged horatio. "suppose i just step inside and listen to the news flashes while you and mr. heath transact your business. it will be less awkward all round. if you want me you can speak." nodding courteously in heath's direction, horatio junior disappeared. "your mr. fuller is a man of nice feeling," stanley heath declared looking after him. "i congratulate you." "thank you." "everything is settled then?" she nodded. "i hope you will be very happy." she did not reply at once. when she did, it was to say with a humility new and appealing: "i shall be. i never appreciated hortie until now. i was too silly." "perhaps you were merely young." "it wasn't that. i was vain--feather-headed. i have realized it since knowing marcia." "we all want to be different after we have seen marcia," stanley heath said gently. "we don't just want to be--we set about it," was the girl's grave reply. "sit down, sylvia, and let us talk of marcia," ventured heath after a pause. "i am deeply sorry if i have wounded her--indeed i am." the girl searched his face. "i cannot understand you, mr. heath," she said. "what has marcia done that you should have left her as you did? hasn't she believed in you through thick and thin? stood up for you against everybody--going it blind at that? few women would have had such faith in a stranger." "i realize that. you do not need to tell me," he answered. "it is precisely because she has gone so far i believed her capable of going farther yet--the whole way." "what do you mean by the whole way?" "to the end." "well, hasn't she?" he shook his head. "no. she has fallen short--disappointed me cruelly. when it came to the final test, her affection collapsed. oh, she has been wonderful," he added quickly. "do not think i fail to appreciate that. she has far out-distanced every other woman i ever have known. i simply expected too much of her, doubtless the impossible. human nature is frail--a woman's heart the frailest thing of all. i have always said so." "you wrong marcia," cried sylvia hotly. "her heart is not frail. neither is she the weak sort of person you have pictured. in all the world you could not match her loyalty or the depth of her affection. i owe marcia a great debt. i could tell you things she has done that would make you thoroughly ashamed of your superficial rating of her. but why go into that? if after the experience we three have lived through together you have not discovered what she is, it is futile for me to attempt to show you. "you came into our lives like a meteor--entirely detached from everything. we knew nothing about you and in the face of damaging evidence you offered neither marcia nor me one word of explanation. marcia asked none. without rhyme or reason she believed in you. i had not her faith. i freely confess i thought you guilty. oh, i liked you sufficiently well to be ready to help you save your skin. but marcia cared enough for you to want you to save your soul. "there is a difference in that sort of caring, mr. heath--a big difference. when you were taken ill, we both nursed you--i willingly, she devotedly. here lay another difference had you been able to detect it. what happened as a result of this enforced intimacy? you know--know far better than i." "i fell in love with marcia," replied the man without an instant's hesitation. "you fell in love!" sylvia repeated, her lip curling. "you call it love--the poor thing you offered her! why, marcia would have gone to the world's end with you, stanley heath, had she the right. she would have faced any humiliation for your sake. if prison doors closed upon you, she would have remained faithful until they swung open and afterward followed you to any corner of the earth in which you chose to begin a new life." "that's where you're wrong, sylvia," contradicted heath. "marcia was not ready to do that. i tried her out and she refused. when i told her i should return to her, and asked her in so many words whether she was willing to face shame and public scorn for my sake she turned her back on me. she could not go to that length." "are you sure she understood?" asked sylvia, stepping nearer and looking fearlessly into his eyes. "there is a shame marcia never in this world would face for any man; but it is not the shame you have just described. "it is the shame of wronging another woman; destroying a home. i know that sounds old-fashioned in days like these. perhaps marcia is old-fashioned. perhaps i am. in the villages where we have been brought up, we do not go in for the new standards sponsored by more up-to-date communities. we believe in marriage as a sacred, enduring sacrament--not a bond to be lightly broken. when you offered marcia less than that--" "i never offered marcia any such shameful position, sylvia," cried stanley heath. "i would not so far insult her." "but you are married." "that is a lie. who told you so?" "the--the wire to mrs. stanley heath--the telephone message. i heard you call her joan." "but, sylvia, mrs. stanley heath is not my wife. she is my young step-mother, my father's widow. i always have called her joan." "oh! i beg your pardon." "i see it all now," the man exclaimed. "you have entirely misunderstood the situation. i'm a junior. since my father's death, however, people have got out of the way of using the term. sometimes i myself am careless about it. so marcia thought--" "of course she did. we both did. so did elisha winslow and eleazer crocker. so did lots of other people in wilton." "heavens!" "well, how were we to know?" sylvia demanded. "how, indeed? if an innocent citizen cannot visit a town without being arrested as a criminal within a week of his arrival, why shouldn't he be married without his knowledge? circumstantial evidence can, apparently, work wonders." then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. "bless you, little sylvia--bless you for setting me right. i told you you were a brick and you've proved it. thanks to you, everything is now straightened out." "not quite everything, i am afraid," the girl protested. "everything that is of importance," he amended. "the rest will untangle itself in time. i am not worrying about it. here, give me your hand. how am i to thank you for what you have done? i only hope that young horatio fuller of yours realizes what a treasure he is getting." "he does, mr. heath--he does," observed that gentleman, strolling at the same instant through the door and encircling his tiny bride-to-be with his arm. "haven't i traveled half way across this big country of ours to marry her?" "oh, we're not going to be married yet, hortie," demurred the girl trying to wrench herself free of the big fellow's hold. "certainly we are, my dear. didn't you know that? i'm surprised how many things there are that you don't know," he went on teasingly. "i thought i explained exactly what brought me east. didn't i tell you this morning i came to get married? i was perfectly serious. dad gave me two months vacation with that understanding. i must either produce a wife when i get home or lose my job. he'll never give me another furlough if i don't." "looks to me as if you had mr. fuller's future prosperity in your hands, sylvia," heath said. "she has. she can make or break me. a big responsibility, eh, little sylvia?" "i know it, hortie," retorted the girl seriously. "she is equal to it, fuller--never fear," stanley heath asserted. "i'm not doing any worrying," smiled horatio. "i--" the sentence was cut short by the radio's loudspeaker: _the much sought long island gem thief was captured this morning at his lodgings in jersey city. harris chalmers, alias jimmie o'hara, a paroled prisoner, was taken by the police at his room on k-street. a quantity of loot, together with firearms and the missing jewels were found concealed in the apartment. the man readily admitted the theft. he has a long prison record._ for a second nobody spoke. then as if prompted by common impulse, the three on the piazza rushed indoors. elisha was sitting limply before the radio. "did you hear that?" he gasped. "well, rather!" horatio fuller shouted with a triumphant wave of his hand. "ain't it the beateree?" exploded the astonished sheriff. "that sends the whole case up in the air. all that's needed now to make me out the darndest fool on god's earth is for eleazer's young nephew-lawyer in new york, who's checking up heath's story, to wire everything there is o.k. if he does, i'll go bury my head. there goes the telephone! that's him! that's eleazer--i'll bet a hat." "_hello!--yes, i heard it.--you ain't surprised? wal, i am. i'm took off my feet.--oh, your nephew wired, did he, an' everything's o.k.? that bein' the case, i reckon there's no more to be said. i feel like a shrimp. how do you feel?_----" elisha hung up the receiver. "wal, mr. heath, the story you told eleazer an' me is straight as a string in every particular," he announced. "you're free! there ain't nothin' i can say. to tell you i'm sorry ain't in no way adequate. i shan't offer you my hand neither, 'cause i know you wouldn't take it--leastways i wouldn't, was i in your place. there's some insults nothin' can wipe out an' this blunder of mine is one of 'em. you'll just have to set me down as one of them puddin'-headed idiots that was over-ambitious to do his duty. i ain't got no other explanation or excuse to make." "i shall not let it go at that, mr. winslow," stanley heath acclaimed, stepping to the old man's side and seizing his palm in a strong grip. "we all make errors. forget it. i'm going to. besides, you have treated me like a prince since i've been your guest." "you are the prince, sir. livin' with you has shown me that. had i knowed you 'fore i arrested you as well as i do now the thing wouldn't 'a' happened. wal, anyhow, all ain't been lost. at least i've met a thoroughbred an' that ain't none too frequent an occurrence in these days." "what i can't understand, mr. winslow, is why you didn't recognize he was a thoroughbred from the beginning," horatio fuller remarked. "you've a right to berate me, young man--a perfect right. i ain't goin' to put up no defense. 'twas the circumstances that blinded me. besides, i had only a single glimpse of mr. heath. remember that. after he was took sick i never saw him again. had we got acquainted, as we have now, everything would 'a' been different. findin' them jewels--" "great hat, man! i had a diamond ring in my pocket when i came to wilton, but that didn't prove i'd stolen it." "i know! i know!" acquiesced the sheriff. "eleazer an' me lost our bearin's entirely. we got completely turned round." "a thief with a phi beta kappa key!" jeered horatio. "godfrey!" then turning to sylvia, he added in an undertone: "well, so far as i can see the only person who has kept her head through this affair is our aunt marcia." elisha overheard the final clause. "that's right!" he agreed with cordiality. "you're 'xactly right, mr. fuller. the widder's head-piece can always be relied upon to stay steady." "whose head-piece?" inquired stanley heath, puzzled by the term. "marcia's. here in town we call her the widder." "well, you'll not have the opportunity to call her that much longer," heath laughed. "you don't tell me!" elisha regarded him, open-mouthed. "humph! so that's how the wind blows, is it? wal, i can see this mix-up would 'a' ended my chances anyway. marcia'd never have had me after this. disappointed as i am, though, there's a sight of comfort in knowin' she won't have eleazer neither. he don't come out of the shindy a whit better'n me. that's somethin'. in fact it's a heap!" chapter xxii intense as was the joy of the three persons, who a little later set out toward the homestead in the old yellow dory, they were a silent trio. too much of seriousness had happened during the morning for them to dispel its aftermath lightly. horatio, pulling at the oars, was unusually earnest, sylvia turned the ring on her finger reflectively and stanley heath looked far out over the water, too deep in thought to be conscious of either of them. when, however, the boat swung into the channel, sylvia spoke. "hortie and i are not coming with you, mr. heath," she said. "we will stay behind. only do, please, promise me one thing. do not tell marcia the whole story before we have a chance to hear it. there are ever so many connecting links i am curious beyond words to have you supply." "such as--?" "the jewels in the first place. i can hardly wait to have that mystery solved." stanley laughed. "the jewels are no mystery at all. i can satisfy your mind about those here and now. they were joan's--mrs. heath's. her maid, corinne, took them and disappeared. soon afterward, purely by accident, i met paul latimer, a friend who lives on long island, and played squash with him at the club and during the course of our conversation, he asked if i knew of a good man servant, saying that julien, their butler, had just given notice that he was to be married shortly to corinne, the new parlor-maid, and return with her to france. "the woman's name instantly caught my attention. "why shouldn't i do a bit of sleuthing on my own account? "thus far the detectives joan and i had hired had made no headway at locating the jewels. "why shouldn't i have a try at it myself? it chanced i had ordered a power-boat built in rhode island and had for some time been awaiting an opportunity to test her out. why not combine the two errands? "i got the boat and used her a couple of days, and finding her satisfactory cruised along to the latimers' at whose house i had frequently stayed, and with the habits of whose household i was familiar. my plan was to arrive early in the morning before the family was astir and catch the parlor-maid alone at her work. "should she prove to be our corinne, i would boldly confront her with the theft and demand the jewels; if, on the other hand, she turned out to be another person altogether, it would be perfectly easy to explain my presence by falling back on my acquaintance with paul. "it seemed, on thinking the matter over, that this would be a far more considerate course anyway than to drag in the detectives, not only because i had no real evidence to present to them, but also because of my friendship for the latimers and for julien, who had been in their employ many years. i knew they esteemed him very highly and would be dreadfully cut up should they find him involved in an affair as unpleasant as this one. beside, i felt practically certain he had had nothing to do with the crime. he was too fine--one of the old-fashioned, devoted type of servant. "to shame such a man and throw suspicion on him if he were blameless would be a pity, especially just on the eve of his resigning from service. it might mean that instead of leaving with the gratitude and good-will of his employers, he might be sent away under a cloud. i did not wish that to happen. "well, my scheme worked to a dot. "i reached the latimers' unobserved; found corinne alone straightening up the library; faced her and demanded the jewels. "the instant she saw me she knew the game was up. nevertheless, she made a pretense of denying the crime until i threatened to send for julien, at which suggestion she broke down and, without more ado, produced the gems from her pocket, shouldering all the blame. "julien, she protested, knew nothing of the theft. he was a self-respecting, honest man. should he be told of what she had done it would end everything between them. she loved him. indeed it was because of him she had committed the crime. "it proved they had been engaged some time and long before had agreed to save their money and sometime pool it so they might be married and buy a little home in france. "julien had saved conscientiously; but corinne had been extravagant and let the major part of her earnings slip through her fingers. he was now asking how much she had laid aside and to her consternation she found she had almost nothing. "she was ashamed to face him. "what could she say? "she did not know what impulse prompted her to take the jewels. she had never stolen before in all her life. the diamonds had been constantly in her care and it had never occurred to her to appropriate them. it had been a sudden, mad temptation created by the need of money and she had yielded to it without thought. scarcely were the gems in her possession before she regretted her action and longed to undo it. she would have taken them back had she not feared the consequences. she begged julien should not be told what she had done. if her crime could be concealed from him she was willing to make any restitution i demanded. "perhaps i was a sentimental fool. anyway i simply could not see it my duty to hand the unhappy creature over to the authorities; destroy julien's faith in her; wipe out the future she had set her heart upon. she was young, with life before her. i felt sure if given a chance she would make good. "promising i would remain silent, i pocketed the gems and came away. "whether i acted rightly or wrongly i do not know. "i suppose by this time the two are married and on their way to france. i believe corinne told the truth and that under other influences she will become an excellent wife and mother. at least she has the opportunity. "the other half of my tale--the half i neither foresaw nor planned--is familiar to you. "the fog that drove me out of my course; my subsequent shipwreck and illness; the coming of currier, our old family servant; the chain of circumstances that brought upon me the calamities from which i have just extricated myself--these are an old story. the only thing that now remains to clear my sky is for me to right myself with marcia." "that will be easy," smiled sylvia. "i wish i thought so," was heath's moody answer. "marcia is no ordinary woman. her understanding and love are measureless. love, mr. heath, forgives a great deal." "i know it does. in that lies my only hope." * * * * * she was not in the house when at last stanley heath overtook her, but far up the beach tossing driftwood into the surf for prince hal to retrieve. the man paused, watching them. hatless, her splendid body aglow with exercise, marcia had the freedom and wholesomeness of a young athlete. she threw the sticks with the overhand swing of a boy pitching a ball. yet with all her strength and muscular ease, there was a grace unmistakably feminine in her every movement. feminine, too, and very beautiful was her finely poised head, her blowing hair, her glorious color, and her sparkling eyes. when she turned and saw him, she uttered a faint cry, but she did not advance to meet him. prince hal did that, racing up the beach, uttering shrill yelps of welcome as he came. a second and the dog was again at marcia's side, and in this ecstasy of delight he continued to run back and forth until stanley heath had covered the sandy curve that intervened and himself stood beside her. "marcia--dearest--i have come back--come to ask your forgiveness. i misjudged you cruelly the night we parted and in anger spoke words i had no right to speak. forgive me, dear! forgive me! can you?" "i forgave you long ago--before you asked," she whispered. "forgave without understanding--how like you! but you must not do that. you have more to forgive in me than you know, marcia. i have been proud, unbelieving, unworthy of a love like yours. i have made you suffer--suffer needlessly. listen to what i have to tell and then see if you can still forgive." turning, they walked slowly along the shore. "i could have told you about the jewels and how i came by them at the outset had i not suddenly conceived the idea of teasing you. the plan to conceal my story came to me as a form of sport--a subtle, psychological game. here i was pitched without ceremony into a strange environment among persons who knew nothing of my background. what would they make of me? how rate me when cut off from my real setting? i resolved to try out the experiment. women are said to be inquisitive, particularly those living in isolation. my advent could not but stimulate questions. i thought it would be an amusing adventure to circumvent not only your curiosity but also that of the village. "i placed scant dependence on feminine discernment and constancy. "when i went to the war, i left behind a girl who pledged herself to love and wait for me. when i came back it was to find her married to my best friend. the discovery shook my confidence in human nature, and especially in women, to its foundations. i derided love, vowing i never would marry and be made a puppet of a second time. "the remainder of the story you know. "i stumbled, a stranger, into your home and instantly you set at naught all my preconceived theories of womanhood by believing in me with an unreasoning faith. you asked no questions. you did not even exhibit a legitimate curiosity in the peculiar network of circumstances that entangled me. you were a new type of being and i regarded you with wonder. "still, i was not satisfied. i felt sure that if pressed too far your trust in me would crumble and, therefore, i tried deliberately to break it down by throwing obstacles in its pathway. when suspicion closed in upon me i put you to further tests by withholding the explanations i could easily have made. it was a contemptible piece of egoism--selfish and cruel--and dearly have i paid for it. but at least remember that if i caused you suffering i have suffered also. "for, marcia, through it all i loved you. i recognized from the moment i first looked into your eyes that a force mightier than ourselves drew us together--a force not to be denied. nevertheless, so bitter had been my experience i dared not yield to this strange new power. instead i opposed it with all my strength, giving my love reluctantly, fighting inch by inch the surrender i sensed to be inevitable. "you, on the other hand, had like myself known betrayal, but you had taken the larger view and not allowed it to warp or mar your outlook on life. when love came knocking a second time, you were neither too proud nor too cowardly to answer it, but freely gave your affection with the gladness and sincerity so characteristic of you. "i do not deserve such a love. "beside the largeness of your nature my own shows itself childish--a small, poor thing for which i blush. "help me to erase the past. "i love you with my whole soul, dear. everything in me loves you. my life is worth nothing unless you share it. "will you? "ah, you need not fear, marcia. sylvia has told me everything. beloved, there is not and never has been a barrier to our marriage. we have misunderstood one another. let us do so no longer. "i am a free man--acquitted. "i also am free of any claim that would hinder our wedding. come to me and let us begin life afresh." she came then, swiftly. as he held her in his arms, the last shadow that separated them melted away. * * * * * under the glow of the noonday sun, they walked back toward the homestead, hand in hand. sylvia came running to meet them and, throwing her arms about marcia, kissed her. "everything is all right--i can see that," she cried. "oh, i am so glad--so glad for both of you! i believe i just could not stand it if you were not happy, because i am so happy myself. hortie is here, you know. didn't stanley tell you? why, stanley heath, aren't you ashamed to forget all about hortie and me? yes, hortie came this morning. we're engaged. see my ring!" "ring!" repeated heath. "mercy on us, marcia, you must have a ring. i cannot allow this young sprite of a niece to outdo you. i am afraid i was not as foresighted as mr. fuller, however. still, i can produce a ring, such as it is. here, dear, you shall wear this until i can get something better." he slipped from his little finger the wrought-gold ring with its beautifully cut diamond. "i picked this up in india," he said. "i am sure it will fit. try it, marcia." "i--i--do not need a ring," murmured she, drawing back and putting her hands nervously behind her. "of course you do," interposed sylvia. "how absurd! a ring is part of being engaged." "a very, very small part," marcia answered. "nevertheless, it is a part," the girl insisted. "come, don't be silly. let stanley put it on." playfully she caught marcia's hands and imprisoning them, drew them forward. on the left one glistened a narrow gold band. "jason's!" cried sylvia. "jason's! take it off and give it to me. you owe nothing to jason. even i, a howe, would not have you preserve longer that worn out allegiance, neither would my mother. the past is dead. you have closed the door upon it. you said so yourself. never think of it again. you belong to stanley now--to stanley and to no one else." as she spoke, sylvia took the ring from the older woman's hand and held it high in the air. "the past is dead," she repeated, "and the last reminder of it--is--gone." there was a gleam as the golden band spun aloft and catching an instant the sunlight's glory, disappeared beneath the foam that marked the line of incoming breakers. "now, stanley, put your ring upon her finger. it is a symbol of a new life, of hope, of happier things. isn't it so, marcia?" "yes! yes!" sylvia drew a long breath. "there! now we'll not be serious a minute longer. this is the greatest day of our four lives. there must not be even a shadow in our heaven. kiss me, marcia, and come and meet hortie. poor dear! he is paralyzed with fright at the thought of appearing into your presence. i left him hiding behind the door. i could not coax him out of the house." "how ridiculous! you must have made me out an ogre." "on the contrary, i made you out an enchantress. i told him you would bewitch him. that's why he became panic-stricken. do be nice to him--for my sake. he really is a lamb." sylvia stepped to the piazza. "horatio," called she imperiously. "come out here right away and meet your aunt marcia. and please, stanley, forgive me for mistaking you for a bandit. i'm dreadfully mortified. still, you must admit circumstantial evidence was strong against you. all of which proves on what shifting sands rest our moral characters!" "say rather our reputations, dear child," heath corrected. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original. the following is a list of changes made to the original. page 19: ensconsed changed to ensconced page 70: s-pose changed to s'pose page 72 & 84: villian changed to villain page 153: housekeper changed to housekeeper the twa miss dawsons by margaret murray robertson published by hodder and stoughton, 27 paternoster row, london. this edition dated 1880. the twa miss dawsons, by margaret murray robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the twa miss dawsons, by margaret murray robertson. chapter one. "auld miss jean." saughleas was not a large estate, nor were the dawsons gentlefolks, in the sense generally accepted in the countryside. it was acknowledged that both the mother and the wife of the new laird had had good blood in their veins; but george dawson himself, had been, and, in a sense, still was, a merchant in the high-street of portie. he was banker and ship-owner as well, and valued the reputation which he had acquired as a business man, far more than he would ever be likely to value any honour paid to him as the laird of saughleas. he had gotten his land honestly, as he had gotten all else that he possessed. he had taken no advantage of the necessities of the last owner, who had been in his power, in a certain sense, but had paid him the full value of the place; and not a landed proprietor among them all had more pride in the name and fame of his ancestry, than he had in the feet that he had been the maker of his own fortune, and that no man, speaking truth, could accuse him, in the making of it, of doing a single mean or dishonest deed. his mother "had come o' gentle bluid," but his father had been first a common sailor and then the mate of a whaling ship that sailed many a time from the little scottish east coast harbour of portie, and which at last sailed away never more to return. his widow lived through years of heart-sickness that must have killed her sooner than it did, but that her two fatherless bairns needed her care. they were but bairns when she died, with no one to look after them but a neighbour who had been always kind to them. the usual lot awaited them, it was thought. the laddie must take to the sea, as most of the laddies in portie did, and the lassie must get "bit and sup" here and there among the neighbours, till she should be able to do for herself as a servant in some house in the town. but it happened quite otherwise. whatever the dawsons had been in old times, there was good stuff in them now, it was said. for "wee jean dawson," as she was called, with few words spoken, made it clear that she was to make her own way in the world. she was barely fifteen at that time, and her brother was two years younger, and if she had told her plans and wishes, she would have been laughed at, and possibly effectually hindered from trying to carry them out. but she said nothing. the rent of the two rooms which the children and their mother had occupied, was paid to the end of the year, and the little stock of pins and needles, and small wares generally, by the sale of which the mother had helped out the "white seam," her chief dependence, was not exhausted, and jean, declining the invitation of their neighbour to take up their abode with her in the mean time, quietly declared her intention of "biding where she was for a while," and no one had the right to say her nay. before the time to pay another quarter's rent came round, it was ready, and jean had proved her right to make her own plans, having shown herself capable of carrying them out when they were made. how she managed, the neighbours could not tell, and they watched her with doubtful wonder. but it was not so surprising as it seemed to them. she was doing little more than she had been doing during the last two years of her mother's life under her mother's guidance. she had bought and sold, she had toiled late and early at the white seam, when her mother was past doing much, and had made herself busy with various trifles in cotton and wool, with crochet-needle and knitting-pins, when white seam failed them, and that was just what she was doing now. and she went on bravely. she accepted offered favours gratefully, but sooner or later, she always repaid them. if bell ray, the fishwife, left a fresh haddock at the door as she passed, she was sure to carry with her some other day a pair of little socks, or a plaything for the bairnie at home. and if mrs sims, next door, kindly took the heaviest part of the girl's washing into her hands, she got in return her sunday "mutch" starched and ironed and its broad borders set up in a way that excited the admiring wonder of all. the two rooms were models of neatness as they had always been. george was comfortably clothed, at least he was never ragged, he very rarely went hungry, and he went to the school as regularly, and to as good purpose, as the banker's son, or the minister's son, and was as obedient to jean as he had been to his mother in the old days. jean was neat, and more than neat in her black print frock and holland apron--it cannot be said of the first half year that she was never hungry. for many a time the portion set aside for the dinner of two was only enough for one, and it cost jean less pain to go without her share than to let the growing laddie be stinted of his needed food. but after the first half year, they had enough, and some to spare to those who had less, and much as jean sometimes needed money to add to her stock in trade, she had been too wisely taught by her mother, not to know that a sufficient quantity of simple and wholesome food was absolutely necessary for health of body and of mind, and therefore necessary for success in life. of course she was successful. in after years, when she used to go back to this time in her thoughts and in her talk, she attributed her success in business, chiefly to two things--her silence, and her determination never to fall into debt. to the talk which "neebour folk" fell into in her little shop, she listened, but she rarely added her word; and she so ordered matters that it never became, as it very easily might have been, a centre of gossip and a cause of trouble in the neighbourhood. as to falling into debt, her determination against it hindered her for a while; but when the "big" merchants of portie came to know her and her ways, they gave her the benefit of the lowest prices in sales, so trifling to them, but so important to her. they helped her with advice, and put some advantages as to fashions and fabrics in her way; and best of all, when geordie's schooling was supposed to be at an end, one of them took him into his employment in a humble capacity indeed, but his rise to the place of honour behind the counter, and then to the book-keeper's desk, was more rapid than generally happens in such a case as his. before jean was seven and twenty years of age, she and her brother were equal partners in a fairly prosperous business established by her in the high-street. after this fortune was secure in the course of time. they were equal partners for a good many years, but gradually, as their resources increased, and new ways of employing energy and capital were open to the brother, this was changed. with her usual prudence, jean refused to engage in risks which she had not sufficient knowledge to guide or strength to control, and a change was made in their business relations, and each continued to prosper in the chosen way. as time went on, jean ruled well her brother's home and helped him in many ways; but she did not, as had been predicted of her, grow into a mere hard business woman--seeing nothing so clearly as the main chance, and loving money itself better than the comfort that money may bring. it was they who knew her least, or who knew her only in her capacity of business woman, who feared this for her. the people who had watched and wondered at her early efforts and success, the neighbours, and the fisher wives who had exchanged kindly gifts with her in these days, did not fear it, nor the "puir bodies" in the back streets and lanes of portie, who enjoyed the pickles o' tea and snuff, and the bits of flannel that found their way to them from her hands, nor the mothers of fatherless bairns who "won through sair straits," and got the better in many a "sair fecht" with poverty and trouble by her help. her silence and reserve, even to her friends--and she had many--looked to those who were not specially her friends, like the coldness and hardness that strengthens with the years. it was by deeds rather than words that her strong and tender nature found expression, and those who needed her help most, knew her best and trusted her most fully, and even in the busiest time of her life, she saw enough of other people's cares and sorrows, to remind her that there was something more needed in life than money, or the good things that money could bring. and, when she ought to have been past "the like o' that," as she said to herself, for she was not far from thirty, the wonderful gift of love was given to her. and then, through her love, came the gift which god is sure, sooner or later, to give to his own,--the gift of sanctified trouble. there came to portie in one of the ships in which her brother had an interest, a lad--he looked scarcely more than a lad--sick with fever. accident brought him to george dawson's house for a night, and in the morning he was too ill to leave it. through long weeks of suffering and delirium, jean nursed him, and cared for him, and saved him from death. he was not a good young man. the wild words uttered in his wanderings, proved this to jean, only too clearly, and if he had gone away as soon as he rose from his bed, he would have taken her interest and her good will with him, and nothing more. but his convalescence was long and tedious, and whatever his sins against himself and others might have been, he was of a sweet and kindly nature, and a handsome and manly lad withal. and of course it was the fairest side of his character that he showed to jean in these days. not that he tried to hide his past follies and even his sins from her. but it was his sorrow for them that he showed her, and his longing to live a better life by her help; and what with his penitence and his gentleness and his winning english ways, he wiled the heart out of her breast before she was aware. and the love was mutual. but whether he ever could have given to her all that she gave to him, was doubtful to the only one who knew what had befallen her. to say that her brother was amazed at her love for a man so much younger and mentally and morally so much beneath her, is to say little. he was utterly dismayed. but he knew her strong and steadfast nature too well to try to move her from her purpose. he only stipulated that there should be time given to prove the young man's love, and to prove also the firmness of his determination to live a new life. it was not a severe test that he insisted on. one voyage the young man was to make, and coming home with the good word of his captain and shipmates, no difficulty should be put in the way of the marriage, strange as he confessed the idea of such a marriage to be. it was to be a six months' voyage only, and though jean did not feel that such a sacrifice need be made, she was yet willing to make it at the will of the brother whom she loved. and so they parted. but six months passed, and then six more, and when three more had worn away tidings came. through these months of waiting jean went in silence, and when the captain's son came home--the only survivor of the crew of the ship that had carried her heart and her hope away--and told the story of their wreck on wintry seas, no one knew that she listened and suffered as no widow of them all suffered for her cruel and utter loss. her lover's name was spoken with the rest, and it was told how brave he had been and kindly, and how he had kept up the courage of the rest and cheered them all to the last, and how the hardest and most careless of the crew had planned together to beguile him into taking more than his share of the food they had, because he was not strong like the rest, and because they loved him. and jean listened to it all, and never uttered a word. nor afterward did she open her lips even to her brother. he tried to speak to her some vague words of comfort, as to its being god's will, and all for the best, but she only put forth her hand to bid him cease, and when he still would fain have spoken a word of his own sorrow for her trouble she rose and went away, and it was many years before either of them returned to the sorrow of that time. she lived through her trouble, and she did not grow hard or bitter under it, as she might have done if he had lived and forgotten her; and comfort came to her as the years went on. it came to her in a strange way, her brother thought, and though he was glad of its coming, it cost him some pain. the first, indeed the only, danger of estrangement that ever came between the brother and sister grew out of this. not that there was any real danger even then; for jean was, in her silent and determined way, so soft and gentle and unprovokable in the new manner of thought and life into which she fell at this time, that though her brother was both angry and ashamed, and suffered both shame and anger to appear to her and to others, it made no real breach between them. and he had cause for neither shame nor anger. it was only that weary of herself and the drowsy ministrations of the parish kirk, jean had strayed one stormy sabbath night into "a little kirkie" lately built in a back street by "a queer kin' o' folk ca'ed missioners," and had there heard words such as she had never heard before, and had found in them more than comfort. not that the words were altogether new, nor the thoughts,--they were in her bible, every one of them--she told her brother afterwards; but, for one thing, they were earnestly spoken by one who believed them, and then they came to one ready for them and waiting, though she knew it not. ah! well, that does not explain it altogether. it was the lord himself who spoke to her by the voice of his servant revealing himself to her, through his own familiar word in a new way. after that she could say of him, "whose i am and whom i serve," and her life took a new meaning. it was his who "had bought her with a price." all that she had done hitherto for pity's sake, she did now _for his sake_. "to one of the least of these," he had said. the world was full of "these little ones" of his, and there were some of them in portie even, and henceforth they were to be her care. her outward life did not change much however. except that at first she "whiles" went to "the little kirkie," and afterwards went there altogether, there was no difference that could be named by her little world generally. her brother saw a difference, and so did the poor folk who shared her care and kindness. her eye was brighter and her step lighter, and the look of suffering she had lately worn was giving place to a look of patient even cheerful peacefulness that was good to see. she had more words, too, at her command. not for her brother--at least not for him at first. but the impulse which her new love for her master had given her, was strong enough to overcome the silence natural to her, and "good words" gently and yet strongly spoken went with her gifts now, and sometimes they were received as gladly as her gifts. but that she should cast in her lot with the handful of "newfangled folk" in stott's lane was a pain and a humiliation to her brother which it took years to outlive. their outward life went on as it had done before for a good while, and then her brother married. his wife was of a family which had had a name and a place in the countryside for generations; but george dawson found her earning her bread as a teacher in a school in aberdeen, and married her "for pure love," portie folk said; and some who had known him best, expected no such thing of george dawson. it was doubtful whether his love for her or his pride in her was strongest. he did not take her to the house above the shop where he and his sister had lived so long, but to a fine house at the head of the high-street in a far pleasanter part of the town, and there they began their married life together. jean did not go with them, though they both wished it. it was better for them to be alone, she said, and as well for her. so she staid still in the house above the shop, making a home for the young men employed in the business, keeping a wise and watchful eye on them and on the business also. after a few years, when her sister-in-law became delicate, and there were little children needing her care, she, with greater self-denial than any guessed, gave up her independent life and went home to them for a while, and lightened the mother's care for them and for the home as well, and found her reward in knowing that her work was not vain. but when more years had passed, and her brother, a richer man than she knew, bought the small estate of saughleas, and took his family there, she did not go with them. she was getting on in years, she was too old to begin a new life in new circumstances, and the bairns were getting beyond the need of her care. so she went to a home of her own that looked out upon the sea, and set herself with wisdom and patience and loving kindness to the work which her master had given her to do. chapter two. the brother's sorrow. george dawson had been very successful in life. he was not an old man when he took possession of his estate of saughleas. he had many years before him in which to enjoy the fruit of his labours, he told himself, and he exulted in the thought. what happy years the first years there were! his children were good and bonny and strong; his wife was--not very strong--but oh! so sweet and dear! what lady among them all could compare with her, so good and true, so fair and stately, and yet so kindly and so well-beloved? "i will grow a better man to deserve her better," he said to himself with a vague presentiment of change upon him--a fear that such happiness could not last. for who was he, that he should have so much more than other men had? so he walked softly, and did justly, and dealt mercifully in many a case where he might have been severe with justice on his side, and strove honestly and wisely to make himself worthy of the woman who had been growing dearer day by day. growing dearer? yes--but who was slipping away from him, slowly, but surely, day by day. he strove to shut his eyes to that which others clearly saw, but deep down in his heart was the certain knowledge that he must lose her. but not yet. not for a long time yet. with care in a warmer climate, under sunnier skies, she might live for years yet-many years. so he set himself to the task of so arranging his affairs, that he might take her away for the winter at least, away from the bleak sea winds to one of the many places where he had heard that health and healing had come to many a one far more ill than she was. and if he could have got her away in time, who knows but so it might have been. but illness came in amongst the children, and she would not leave them even to the wise and loving care of their aunt; and when first one, and then another little life went out, her husband could see with a sinking heart, that she longed to follow where they had gone. when the other children grew better he took her away for a little while. but the drawing of those little graves, and the longing to die at home among those who were still left, brought them back to saughleas--only just in time. he did not lay her in the bleak kirkyard of portie. he _could_ not do it. it was a foolish thing to do, it was said, but in the quietest, bonniest spot in saughleas, in a little wood that lay in sight of the house, he laid her down, when he could keep her no longer, and by and by he lifted her bonny little bairns and laid them down beside her. and then it seemed for a while that to him life was ended. but life was not ended. he had more to do, and more to suffer yet, and indeed had to become a changed man altogether before he could be ready and worthy to look again upon the face that he so longed to see. oh, the length of the days! the weariness of all things! he used to wonder at the sickness that lay heavy on his heart all day--at the anguish that made the night terrible to him. he was growing an old man, he said to himself, and he had thought it was only the young who strove and suffered, and could not yield themselves to the misery of loss and pain. but then--who, old or young, of all the men he had ever known, had lost what he had lost? no wonder that he suffered and could find no comfort. "ay! no wonder that you suffer," said his sister to him once. "but take tent lest ye add rebellion to the sin of overmuch sorrow. have you ever truly submitted to god's will all your life, think ye, george, man? things had mostly gone well and easily with ye. but now this has come upon you, and take ye thought of it. for ye're no' out of god's hand yet, and `whom he loveth he chasteneth.'" she did not speak often to him, but he heard her and made no answer. that was jean's way of looking at things, he thought; and because she had had sore troubles of her own, he did not answer her roughly, as he felt inclined to do. there was nothing to be said. he sent his two daughters away to be educated, first to edinburgh and afterwards to london, and after that, the house of saughleas, except a room or two, was shut up for a time. the father and son left it early and returned to it late, and the father spent his days in working as hard as ever he had done in the days when he was making his own way in the world. the winter was hard to bear, but the coming of the spring-time was even worse. every bonny flower looked up at him with the eyes of her he had lost; every bird, and breeze, and trembling leaf spoke to him with her voice. the sunlight lying on her grave, the still, soft air, the sweetness of the season,--all brought back on him like a flood, the longing for her presence; and he must have gone away or broken down altogether, if it had not been for his son george, his only son. he was a handsome, kindly lad, more like his mother than any of his bairns, and dearer than any of them to his father, because he was her firstborn. george had mourned his mother deeply and truly, but her name had never been spoken between them till on one of the first sunny days of spring, the father found the son lying on his face among the long withered grass that covered her grave. sitting there then, lips and hearts were opened to each other, and it was never so bad to either after that. by and by hope sprang up in the father's heart, in the presence of the son who was so like his mother, and so the weight of his heavy sorrow was lightened. but there were folk in portie, and his sister jean was one of them, who doubted whether the father was doing the best that could be done for his son. he held a situation in the portie bank, and his father's intention was, that he should there, and elsewhere, when the right time came, acquire such a knowledge of business, as should enable him, if not to make money for himself, at least to make a wise use of the money already made for him. but his work was made easy to the lad, as was natural enough, by others besides his father, and his comings and goings were not so carefully noted, as if he had not been his father's son. he had time and money at his disposal; not so very much of either, but more than any of his companions had, and certainly more than was good for him. not that he fell into ill ways at this time, though that was said of him. that only came afterwards; and it might have been helped, if his father had been as wise then as he was determined with him afterwards. but that which raised his father's anger, was almost worse, to his thought, than falling into ill ways, in the common acceptation of the term, would have been. he might have spent money freely, even foolishly, and his name might have been spoken with the names of men whose society his father would have shunned or scorned, and he might have been reproved and then forgiven. but that he should love and be determined to marry a girl in humble life, the daughter of a sailor's widow, and he not one and twenty, seemed to his father worse than folly and even worse than sin. the father had never given a thought to any woman except his sister, till he was thirty-five, and that his son, a mere lad, should wish to marry any one, was a folly not to be tolerated. he blamed his sister in the matter, for bonny elsie calderwood was the daughter of the man who had brought home to her the bitter tidings that her lover was lost, and jean had cared for and comforted his widow and orphans when their turn came to weep for one who returned no more. but he was wrong in this, for she had known nothing of the young man's wishes, certainly she had never abetted him in his folly, as was said. indeed she had taken no thought of danger for him. "they were just a' bairns thegither," she had said, "and had kenned one another all their lives." for the calderwood bairns had been the chosen companions of geordie and his sisters in the days when, openly scorning the attendance of nursemaids, they had clambered over the rocks, and waded in the shallows along the shore, and gathered dulse and birds' eggs with the rest of the bairns of the town. when his sisters went away, after their mother's death; the intimacy was naturally enough continued by george, and all the more closely that he missed his sisters, and was oppressed by the dreariness of the life at home. it was natural enough, though the father could not see it so, and he spoke angrily and unwisely to his son. but mrs calderwood was as proud in her way as mr dawson was in his, and she scorned the thought of keeping the rich man's son to the promise he had made without leave asked of her. she was also as hard in her way as he was in his, and forbade the young man to enter her house, and gave him no chance to disobey her. but in a place like portie young folks can meet elsewhere than at home, and one or other of them must be sent away. so with miss jean's advice and help elsie was sent to get a year at a boarding-school, as was wise and right, all her friends in portie were given to understand. but she went away without giving back her promise for all that her mother could say. she went cheerfully enough, "to make herself fitter to be his wife," she said. but she never returned; a slow strong fever seized her where she was, and first her mother went to her, and then miss jean, whose heart was sore for them all. and then miss jean did what the mother never would have done. when she saw that the end was drawing near, she wrote one letter to her nephew telling him to come and take farewell of his love, and another to his father telling him that so she had done. all this mattered little however. for it was doubtful whether the dying girl recognised the lover who called so wildly on her name. but she died in his arms, and he went home with her mother and his aunt to portie and laid her down in the bleak kirkyard; and then he went away speaking no word to his father, in his youthful despair and anger, indeed never looking on his face. there had been something said, before all this came to pass between them, of the lad's being sent to london for a while, to learn how business was done in a great banking-house, one of the partners of which was a friend of his father; and after a time he was heard of there. but he did not write to his father directly, and he never drew a shilling of the money that his father had deposited in his name. he did not stay long in his place in the london bank, but went away, leaving no trace behind him, and was lost to them all; and it was long before his name was spoken by his father again. even miss jean, having no words of comfort to put with it, never named to him the name of his son, for whom she knew he was grieving with anger and pain unspeakable. it was to be doubted, jean thought, whether these days were not longer, and drearier, and "waur to thole" than even the days that had followed the death of the mother of the lad. but they had to be borne, and he left himself in these days little time for brooding over his troubles. he devoted himself to business, with all his old earnestness, and wealth flowed in upon him, and the fear was strong in his sister's heart, that he was beginning, in the desolation that had fallen upon him, to love it for its own sake. he added to saughleas a few fields on one side, and a farm or two on the other, which the necessities of the owners had put into the market, at this time; but it was more to oblige these needy men, than because he wanted their land. he had the money in hand, he said indifferently to his sister, and the land would ay bring its price. but he took little pleasure in saughleas for a while. when geordie had been gone a year and more, his sisters came home from school. they had been away long, and their father had, as he said, to make their acquaintance over again. they had changed from merry girls of fifteen and sixteen, into grown up young ladies,--"fine ladies" their father called them to their aunt, and a good many people in portie, called them "fine ladies" also, for a while. they looked to be fine ladies, with their london dresses, and london manners, and some folk added, their "london pride." they held their heads high, and carried themselves erect and firmly as they walked, and spoke softly and in "high english," which looked like pride to some of their old friends, who were more than half afraid of the young ladies of saughleas, they said. but it soon came to be known that what looked like pride was more than half shyness, and as for the "high english," the kindly scotch fell very readily from their lips on occasion. it cannot be said that they made themselves very happy in saughleas for a time. they came home in november, and that is a dreary month on the east coast, indeed all the winter is dreary there. there were gay doings in the best houses in portie to welcome them home, and they enjoyed them well. for they had only been school-girls in london, and the gayeties they had been permitted to mingle in there, had been mostly of the kind which are supposed to blend improvement of some sort with the pleasure to be enjoyed, and though they doubtless valued such opportunities and made good use of them, both for pleasure and improvement, the gayeties of portie were quite different and more to their taste. they were young and pretty and gay, and the kindness and the admiration so freely bestowed on them were very pleasant to them both. but they would have preferred the house in the high-street, where they had all been born, in these first days, for their home. saughleas was dull and dreary in the short winter days, and oh! how they missed their mother! it was like losing her again, to come home to the great empty house, which their father left almost before the sun rose for weeks together, not to return again till the lamps had been lighted for hours in the wide hall. and geordie! when they had been at saughleas a month or more, their father had never spoken his name, and when jean, the eldest and bravest of the sisters, putting great force upon herself, asked him when her brother was coming home, he answered so coldly, and with words so hard and bitter, that her heart sank as she heard. they had known for some time that something had gone wrong between them. geordie had told them that, when he had gone to see them in london; but the sad story of poor elsie calderwood they had never heard. they mourned for their brother, and longed for his coming home, thinking that the happy days that were gone would come again with him. though the estate of saughleas was small, the house was both large and stately. the last owner had put into the house, the money which should have been given to enrich the land, and make a beginning of the prosperity of the family which he had hoped to found. so it was like a castle almost, but it was little like a home. the two or three great landed proprietors in the countryside were great people in their own esteem, and in the general esteem also; and george dawson, notwithstanding saughleas, was just the merchant and banker of the high-street to them--a man much respected in his own place, and he was not out of place on occasion, at the table of any of them all. but an interchange of civilities on equal terms between the ladies of the families was not likely to take place, nor was this greatly to be desired. it might have been different if their mother had lived, they said to one another; for in their remembrance of her, she was superior in every way to any lady of them all. but they were quite content with the society of portie, and would have been content with the house in the high-street as well. mr dawson asked his sister to come and live in his house when his daughters came home, but she declined to do so. they did not need her as mistress of the house, and she believed that her influence over them would be more decided and salutary should she remain in her own house. they were good bairns, she said, who meant to do right, and though they might whiles need a word of advice, or a restraining touch, it must be their own guidance that their father must lippen to, and not hers. and auntie jean was right. they were good bairns on the whole, as their aunt said, and they were "bonnie lassies" as well. the first idea that most people had on seeing them, was that in person, mind, and manners, they were very much alike. even their father thought this at first. but it was not long before he discovered that in most respects they were very different may, the youngest, was like her mother, "though _nothing like_ so bonny," he told himself with a sigh. jean was like her aunt, it was said, but auntie jean herself, and the two or three others who remembered auntie jean's mother as she was before her husband's ship went down, said that the elder sister was like her grandmother, who had been a far bonnier woman than ever her daughter had been. in form and features there was a resemblance between the sisters; may was the fairer and slighter of the two, and was often called the prettier. but as time went on the resemblance did not increase. jean was the strongest in person and in mind, and the better able of the two to profit by the discipline, which time and circumstances brought to them both, and of this difference in character her face gave token to those who had eyes to see. they loved each other, and were patient and forbearing with each other when they did not quite agree as to the course which either wished to pursue. but when it came about that one must yield her will to the other, it was may who was made to yield when her will would have led her into wrong or doubtful paths. but if pleasure were to be given up, or a distasteful duty done, or if some painful self-denial had to be borne by one so that the other might escape, such things generally fell to the lot of jean. chapter three. a dreary day. the folk looking out of their windows in portie might well wonder what could be bringing the young ladies of saughleas into the town on such a dismal day. though april was come in, it might have been the wintriest month of the year; for the wind that met them was dashing the wet sleet in their faces, and tangling their bright brown curls about their eyes, till laughing and breathless they were fain to turn their backs upon it before they were half down the high-street. they were in shelter for a little while as they crossed through a side street, but the wind met them again as they went round a corner, and came close upon the sea. they were going to their aunt's house and a few steps brought them to the door; but for all the wind and the sleet, they did not seem in haste to enter. they lingered, taking off their dripping cloaks and overshoes. "auntie will wonder to see us on such a day." "she'll wonder to see you. she kens that i am not afraid of wind or rain." as they lingered the door opened. "eh! miss dawson and miss may. is it you on sic a day? wha would ha'e expected to see you--and on your ain feet too. wet enough they must be." "we'll go to the kitchen, nannie, and no' wet the carpet," said may; and they staid there chatting with the maid for a minute or two. the expected greeting met them at the parlour door. "eh! bairns! here on such a day!" "papa had to come to the town," said jean. "and so we thought we might as well come with him," said may. "weel, ye're welcome anyway, and ye're neither sugar nor salt to be harmed by a drop of rain. but come in by to the fire." but their tussle with the wind had made the fire unnecessary. "it's a good thing that your curls are no' of a kind that the rain does ill with, may, my dear. but you might as well go up the stair and put them in order now." "oh! i needna care. we have only a minute to stay, and it's hardly worth my while." "papa went straight to the inn with the dog-cart, and we only walked down the high-street. it _is_ a dreary day." "and we'll need to go to the inn and wait for him. for he said nothing of coming here," said may. "but it's likely he'll come for all that. he maistly ay looks in. it's a pity he came out on sic a day, and him no weel. but i suppose he had to come. the `john seaton' sails the day," said their aunt. the sisters gave a sudden involuntary glance at each other. may reddened and laughed a little. her sister grew pale. their aunt looked from one to the other, thinking her own thoughts, but she did not let this appear. "she mayna sail the day. they have lost some of their men, it is said, and that may hinder them." "and the wind and the waves are fearsome," said the elder sister with a shiver. "ay, but the wind is in the richt airt. that wouldna hinder them," said her aunt; and then she added in a little. "willie calderwood goes as her first mate. that's a rise for him. i hope he may show discretion. he's no' an ill laddie." "and he's on a fair way to be a captain now," said may. "so he told me--in awhile." "ay, in a while," said her aunt dryly. "but he has a long and dangerous voyage before him, and it's no' likely that all who sail awa' the day will ever come hame again." the eldest sister was standing with her face touching the window. "the sea looks fearsome over yonder," said she. "ay. but they'll ha'e room enough when once they are outside the harbour bar, and then the wind will drive them off the rocks and out to sea; and they are in god's hands." "auntie jean," said the girl turning a pale face toward her, "why do you say the like of that to-day?" "it's true the day as it's true ilka day. why should i no' say it? my dear, the thought of it is a consolation to many a puir body in portie the day." "but it sounds almost like a prophecy of evil to--to the `john seaton,' as you said it. and the sea is fearsome," repeated she, turning her face to the window again. "lassie, come in by to the fire. ye're trembling with cold, and i dare say ye're feet are no' so dry as they should be. come in by and put them to the fire." "but we havena long to bide." however she came at her aunt's bidding, and sat down on a stool, shading her face with a paper that she took from the table. "auntie jean," said may, "i have seen just such a picture in a book, as you would make if you were painted just as you are, with your hands folded on your lap, and your stocking and your ball of worsted beside you, and your glasses lying on the open book. look, jeannie, look at auntie. is she not like a picture as she sits now?" "what's the lassie at now, with her picturing and her nonsense?" said her aunt, not sure whether she should be pleased with all this. "i'm just as usual, and so is the room. no more like a picture than on other days." she was in full dress--according to her ideas of full dress--and she was that every day of the year. she had on a gown of some soft black stuff, the skirt of which was partly covered by a wide black silk apron. a snowy kerchief was pinned across her breast, and fastened at her neck with a plain gold brooch, showing a braid of hair of mingled black and grey. her cap was made in the fashion worn by the humblest of her countrywomen, but it was made of the finest and clearest lawn, and the full "set up" borders were edged with the daintiest of "thread" lace, and so were the wide strings tied beneath her chin. not a spot nor a speck was visible upon it, or upon any part of her dress, nor indeed on any article which the room contained. she and her room together would have made a picture homely and commonplace enough, but it would have been a pleasing picture, with a certain quaint beauty of its own. "it is that you are so peaceful in here always, and untroubled. that is what may means when she says it is like a picture in a book. and after the wind, and the sleet, and the stormy sea, it is quieting and restful to look in upon you." "weel, maybe. but it is the same picture ilka day o' the year, and i weary of it whiles. and the oftener you look in upon it, the better it will be for me. what ails the lassie? canna ye bide still by the fire?" for jean had risen from her low seat, and was over at the window again. "the clouds are breaking away. it is going to be fair, i think. we'll need to be going, may, or we may be late. i'll come over to-morrow, auntie, and good-bye for to-day." "but, lassie, what's a' your haste? your father will be sure to come for you. bide still where you are." "i think i'll bide still, anyway," said may. "i am no' going, jeannie. i'm no' caring to go." "yes, you are coming with me," said her sister sharply. "you must come. i want to speak to you--and--yes, come away." may pouted and protested, but she followed her sister to the kitchen where they had left their cloaks, and they went away together. they kept for a while in the shelter of the houses nearest the sea, but they did not speak till they were beyond these. the wind was still high, but neither rain nor sleet was falling, and they paused a minute to take breath before they turned to meet it again. "the `john seaton' sails the day," said may, turning her laughing face toward her sister. jean did not laugh. "as though that werena the very thing that brought us both out as well as papa, though we said nothing about it before we came. to the high rocks? but it would be more sensible like to go to the pier head, and then we might get a chance to shake his hand and say god bless him. and it's not too late yet." "no, i'm no' going. it would do no good and it would anger my father." but may persisted. "why shouldna we be there as well as half the town? papa mightna like it, but he couldna help it, if we were once there. and ye ken ye never said good-bye to willie calderwood." "may," said her sister, "when did you see willie? i mean, when did he tell you that he was to be first mate of the `john seaton,' and maybe captain by and by?" "oh! i heard that long ago, and i saw him last night. he came a bit of the way home with me. he would have come all the way to say good-bye to you, but he had something to do, that couldna be put off. and i'm sure he'll expect to see you at the pier to-day." "but i canna go." and then she added--"well, and what more did he say?" "oh! what should he say? he said many a thing. he told me if i would stand on the high rocks above the tangle stanes and wave my scarlet scarf when the `john seaton' was sailing by, he would take it as a sign of good luck, and that he would come safe home again, and get his heart's wish." "and we are going there." "oh! i dinna ken. it's cold, and the ship mayna sail, and we might have to wait. i'm not going." "did he say that to you? yes, you are going. do you mean that you would let him be disappointed at the very last, and him taking it for a sign?" "but the mist is rising, and it's all nonsense--and he winna see." "where is your scarlet shawl? did you no' bring it?" "oh! yes. i brought it fast enough," said may, laughing and lifting her dress, under which the shawl was fastened. "as we were going to auntie jean's i thought it as well to keep it out of sight. but, jean, it is wet and cold, and he was only half in earnest." "how could he speak out all that he wanted to say, kenning my father! but you must go." "go yourself. he'll never ken the difference." "no, he'll never ken the difference. but when he comes home--what will you say to him then? and besides it was your being there that was to be the sign of his safe coming home--and--his getting his heart's wish. you are coming." they turned their steps northward, in the direction of a high ledge of rocks, that half a mile above the harbour jutted out into the sea. it was this point both had been thinking of when they left home, for they well knew that the young ladies from saughleas could not, on such a day, go to loiter on the pier with all the town, just to see a whaling ship set sail for northern seas. if the day had been fine, they might have gone with a chance companion or two to see what was to be seen, and to while away an hour. even in the wind and sleet jean might have gone with her father, if the ship had not been the "john seaton," or if willie calderwood had not been on board. but as it was, she could not even name such a thing to her father. he would have been angry, and it would have done no good. so it was to the rocks above the tangle stanes they must go. if the day had been fine, there would have been other folk there, and many a signal would have been given as the ship went by. but they had the high desolate rocks to themselves when they had clambered up at last, and it was all they could do to keep their footing upon it, for the wind which had met them so fiercely even on the level, raged here with tenfold violence. and there was no sign of the ship. there was nothing but great wild waves rising and falling as far as they could see, and masses of white foam here and there, where they broke themselves on half hidden rocks beneath. there was no sign of life except that now and then a solitary sea-gull shrieked sadly through the blast. "eh! but it's dreary and cold," said may with a shudder. "go down to yon sheltered nook and bide there till i tell you that she is coming." "but it's a' nonsense, jean. she mayna come at all, as auntie said." "since we're here, we'll bide a while:" so may went down to the sheltered nook, and wrapping her cloak about her, she took from her pocket a biscuit or two with which she had providently supplied herself, and prepared to wait with what patience she could till her sister chose to go. and jean, unable to stand still in the bitter wind, struggled up and down the narrow limits of the ledge,--not thinking--hardly feeling-for she needed all her power to keep her footing on the slippery rock-only waiting for the ship. she came in sight at last, but, driven by the wind, as soon as she was beyond the harbour bar, she drifted so far to the eastward, that it was doubtful whether any signal from those on shore could be seen on board. "are you coming, may? haste you," cried jean, and while her sister lingered, she let the long shawl float its full length on the wind. at the moment the clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunshine lighted the rock and the girlish figure, and the waving signal which she held. it was but for a moment. before may had clambered to her side, the clouds met again, and dimness and dreariness were over all. "take it, may. it is you he is thinking of now when he sees it. he must have seen it when the sun shone out. take it, and hold it fast." "it is easy said, hold it fast, and it's all nonsense," said may pettishly, and from her uncertain fingers the wind caught the scarlet signal, and carried it out to sea. "my shawl!" gasped may. "my bonny scarlet shawl?" "it's an ill omen, i doubt," said jean in a whisper. "but never mind the shawl; you shall have my bonny blue one instead. and now we may go home." "it is all folly from first to last," said may. "and what i am to say about my shawl, i canna tell." "say nothing. who has a right to ask? and, may, i think i'll walk home--to warm myself, for i am cold." she looked cold and could not keep herself from trembling. "go back to auntie jean's. my father will be sure to seek us there, and i'll be home before you." may was not sure of the wisdom of consenting to meet her father without her sister, lest he might ask any questions as to how they had spent the afternoon. but hoping that she might get to her aunt's house before him, she hurried away, scarcely remembering till she sat beside her aunt's pleasant fire, that she had left her sister standing there on the desolate wind-swept height. and there she stood while the ship went slowly on its northern way, "carrying her life with it," she said to herself, in vague wonder at the utter faintness of heart, and weariness of body which had fallen upon her. "what has come to me?" she muttered. "what is willie calderwood to me, but a friend? he has ay been that, and ay will be, and if he is more to my bonny may--why that makes him more to me--and not less, surely. and friends must part. there is many a sair heart in portie the night--and folk man just thole whatever is sent, and say nothing. and oh! if geordie would but come home?" again the clouds parted, and a gleam of sunshine touched the water, giving her one more glimpse of the white sails of the ship before she went down to the north, and then there was but "the fearsome waves of the sea," from which she could scarcely turn her dazed eyes. but she had to take her way down the steep rocks, and through the wet fields, the near way home. she lingered and walked wearily, and it was growing dark when she went in at the gate. "is it you, miss dawson?" said a voice in the darkness. "has any thing happened? are ye your lane?" "nothing has happened. i preferred to walk. are they not come yet?" "nobody has come yet, miss dawson, and there has been nobody here but robbie saugster, wantin' a book that you promised him--or miss may maybe it was," said phemie. "you were hardly awa' ere he was here, and he said he'd come back the morn." jean sat down wearily in the hall. "i am wet and tired," said she. "i was sure you would be that," said phemie, "and i made a bit fire in your ain room, and i'll bring warm water and bathe your feet in a jiffy. no wonder you are tired." "that was well done. they cannot be long now in coming. i'll go and make myself ready, and have the tea made at once." phemie was up with the warm water almost as soon as her mistress. "eh! miss dawson, but you are white and spent looking. it's the heat, i dare say, after being in the cold." she knelt and took off her shoes and stockings, and bathed her weary feet with kindly care, and jean let her do as she would, saying nothing for a while. "i'm better now. yes, it must have been coming into the warm room after the cold of the afternoon. thank you, phemie, that is comfortable. i will be down in a minute now." she was sitting behind the urn with a book in her hand when her father came in. "you are late, papa." "yes--too late--too late," said he, and then he sat down by the fire without taking off his greatcoat or the heavy plaid which was on his shoulders above it. "something has happened," said jean to herself. but she knew he would not in his present mood answer her questions. she rose and took the plaid and his hat, and carried them away. then she helped him to take off his coat. he did not resist her, but he did not speak, and by the time he was seated at the table, may came down. her sister met her at the door, asking softly,-"what has happened to my father?" "has any thing happened? i do not know. i waited at auntie's till i was weary, and then i went to jamieson's, and waited there. he came at last, but he has not opened his lips all the way home." and he did not open his lips during the meal. he ate and drank as usual, and as usual took his notebook from his pocket when he was done, and turned the leaves and wrote a word or two. he was scarcely more silent than was his wont, but there was a look on his face that jean had seen only once or twice upon it--a look at once grieved and angry, of which she had learned to be afraid. she longed to ask him if any new trouble had befallen him, but she did not dare to ask, and she sat in silence with her work in her hands till phemie appeared at the door. "if you please, miss dawson, will you speak here a minute. it's robbie saugster again." jean rose and went out of the room, conscious that her father's eye followed her, with something of suspicion in its glance. she went into the room where her father's books and papers were kept, and in a minute phemie ushered in a boy who looked as though he had had the benefit of all the wind and the rain that had fallen through the day. he waited till phemie had shut the door, and then he said: "it is this i was bidden give you, miss jean. i cam' afore, and then i looked for ye on the pier and a' way, but i couldna see ye, and i doubt it's ower late for an answer new." he offered her a soiled and crumpled note, which she read at a glance and put in her pocket. "what is this about a book that i promised you, robbie?" she asked. "oh! ay, miss dawson. i had to tell phemie something. and i'll be glad o' an orra book or two, as i'm goin' to the school--a count-book or maybe a latin grammar. but i'll come back for it again." "wait a minute, robbie," said jean. she went into the parlour again where her father was sitting. "may, what is this about a book for robbie saugster? did you promise him one? he says he is going to the school." "a book? i dinna mind. maybe i did. what kind of a book was it? i canna look it out to-night, i am too tired." the father's eyes had gone from one to the other with eager scrutiny. "there are old school books enough, and i'll tell him that you'll look them out to-morrow." "you should have had them ready, no' to keep the laddie coming back again," said her father sharply. "i didna mind about it, and i dare say jean promised as well as me," she answered pettishly. "mind next time then; and, jean, tell phemie to give the laddie his supper before he goes home." "yes, papa," said jean as she shut the door. "something has happened and he was watching. it is about poor geordie, and i'm not sure whether i should tell him or not i must think about it first." robbie got his supper, and the promise of the books, and then jean came in and sat down with her work at her father's side, working quietly and busily as usual, but all the time putting a strong restraint upon her thoughts lest she should betray herself unawares by look or sign. may, weary with the exertion of the afternoon, by and by fell asleep in her chair. "bid them come ben to worship, and let the lassie go to her bed," said her father. when worship was over, jean folded her work, saying she was weary too. "unless you may want any thing, papa," said she turning before she reached the door. he looked at her a moment as if in doubt, and then he said shortly, "i want nothing," and jean went away to let herself think over it all. "no answer!" said she as she took the note from her pocket again. a leaf torn from an account-book it seemed to be. she spread it before her on the table; there were only a few words written on it. "miss dawson,-"if it is possible, come to the pier head before the `john seaton' sails. maybe the sight of you will do what no persuasion of mine can do. but no ill shall come to geordie that i can keep from him. come at all risks. "your humble servant,-"w.c." "and i might have been there, if i had but known. what will he think of me? and can it be that geordie has sailed on the `john seaton'? no wonder that my heart grew sick as the ship went out of sight. and oh how can i ever tell my father?" chapter four. saughleas. saughleas with the june sunshine felling on it was a very different place from saughleas under the "drip, drip" of winter rain and sleet, with the wind moaning or roaring through the bare boughs of its sheltering beeches. the house was plain and heavy looking. it stood too near the road for so large a house, it was said, and it was so high that it made all the trees--except the few great beeches--look smaller than they would have looked elsewhere. but it was built of the cheerful looking reddish granite of the neighbourhood, and with its green adornment of honeysuckle and climbing roses and its low french windows opening on the little terrace above the lawn, it looked in summer-time a handsome and homelike dwelling. there were many trees about it--fruit trees, elms, and poplars, norway spruces, and scotch firs; but most of them had been planted within the last fifteen years, and trees on this east coast--like the children in the song--"take long to grow." the beeches, seven in number, were both old and beautiful--so beautiful and so stately amid the dwarfs around them that they, and not the wavering line of saughs or willows that followed the margin of the burn running through the long low fields, it was sometimes said, should have given a name to the place. there was a narrow belt of wood behind the house which had been planted long ago, and even in it the trees were not very large. but it was a very pretty spot, a real wood, where up through the undisturbed dead leaves of autumn came snowdrops and violets and primroses in the spring. between this wood and the house was a field of grass, which was not cut smoothly every day or two like the lawn in front, but was allowed to grow tall and strong till the right time came to cut it down for hay. through this field a gravelled walk led down to "the well"; a clear, unfailing spring at the edge of the wood, and to a moss-covered stone seat beside it. beyond this a narrower path led through the grass and the last year's dead leaves into the heart of the wood, where, in a circular space, large enough to let the sunlight in though the trees had been higher, lay "mary keith, beloved and honoured wife of george dawson," with her little children at her side. here the turf was soft and green, but there was no adornment of shrub or flower on the grave or near it, only a simple headstone of grey granite and near it a turf seat, over which the slender boughs of a "weeping birch" hung sadly down. beyond the wood were the low fields through which the saugh burn ran. parks they were called, but they were just long grassy fields, with rough stone walls round them, and cows and sheep feeding in them. there was no "park," in the grand sense of the term, about saughleas as yet. there was no space for one without appropriating some of the best fields from the leased farms, and if things had gone right with him, that might have been done in time, mr dawson sometimes said to himself with a sigh. but things had not gone right with him of late. any thing but that--if one might judge from the look of care and pain, that had become almost habitual to him now. "george, man, is it worth your while to wear your life away gathering gear that ye dinna need, when ye might be enjoying what ye have in this bonny place?" "it _is_ a bonny place," was all he said in reply. they were sitting, not on the lawn, but on the other side of the drive, where the sunshine was softened by the fluttering beech leaves overhead. at least, miss jean was sitting there. her brother was "daundering" up and down the walk with his hands clasped behind him, as his way was, lingering a little, now at the gate and now at his sister's side. he had forgotten her for the moment, as he stood looking out toward the distant sea, and the look which his daughter had come to know well, but which his sister was seldom suffered to see, came to his face and rested on it still when he turned along the walk again. and so he spoke. "it _is_ a bonny place," he answered, and then he walked away. but though he let his eyes wander over the gardens and the wood, and the fields beyond, there came to his face no glad look of possession or self-gratulation, and his head drooped lower and his step lagged as he drew near her again. he stood silent at her side, as though he expected her to say more, but she said nothing. "it _is_ a bonny place," said he again, "though it has given me but little pleasure as yet, and whiles i think that i am near done with it-and--there's none to come after me." "george, man! that's an ill thing to say." "but it's true for a' that god knows i was thinking little of myself when i put the winnings of my whole life into the land. and what is likely to come of it? ye might weel say, jean, that god's blessing hasna been upon it." "no, i would never say that." he took his way down the walk again, and went quite round the broad lawn, and she had time for a good many troubled thoughts before he came back. "i doubt ye're overworking yourself, george," said she. she put out her hand to draw forward a garden chair that stood beyond her, and he did not refuse it, as she was afraid he might, but sat down beside her. "where are the girls?" asked he. "they are busy up the stair--about may's dress, i think. but there is nothing to hinder them coming, if ye're wanting them." "no. i'm no' wanting them. i have something to say to you, and i shall find no better time. i am going to make a new will." "well?" "i have waited long, but if any thing were to happen to me, there would be endless trouble--if--unless--" he paused a moment and then added, "i know not well what to do." "need ye do any thing at once?" "i think i should. life is uncertain, though mine may be no more so than that of other men. but no man should put off settling his affairs, for the sake of those that are to come after him. i wish to do justly, but i will not divide the land, and i will not burden it." "no, it wouldna be weel to divide the land nor to burden it," said miss jean. there was a long silence and then mr dawson said gravely, felling into the scottish tongue as he and the rest of them were apt to do when much moved. "gin ony stranger were to go through portie the day and speir at ane and anither up and doon the street, as to who had been the successful man o' these pairts for the last five and twenty years or mair, there's little doubt whose name would be given them. and yet--my life looks and feels to me the day--awfully like a failure." the shock which his unexpected words gave his sister was not all pain. she had thought him only too well content with his life and with what he had done in it. he was going down the hill now. it was well that he should acknowledge--that he should even be made sharply to feel, that all that he had--though it were ten times more--was not enough for a portion. but the bitter sadness of his look smote her painfully. "god help him!" she said in her heart, but to him she said nothing. he did not take her silence for want of sympathy. he was too well acquainted with her ways for that, and in a little he added,-"like other folk i have heard o', i have gotten my wish, but all that made it worth the having has been taken from me. gin she had lived--" his sister did not speak. she just laid her hand on his for a moment, and looked at him with grave, wet eyes. "if she had lived," he went on, not yielding to the weakness that had come upon, him, "if she had lived, the rest might have been hindered." "god knows," said miss jean softly, taking up her knitting again. "ay, he knows, but i dinna seem to be able to tak' the good o' that that some folk do. but good or no good, i man submit--like the lave." "here are the bairns," said miss jean softly as the two sisters came through one of the open windows to the terrace about the lawn--"a sight worth seeing" the father in the midst of his painful thoughts acknowledged. they lingered a moment in the terrace raised a little above the lawn, the one stooping over a bonny bush of wee scotch roses at her feet, the other standing on tiptoe trying to entangle a wandering spray of honeysuckle that it might find support. the eyes of father and aunt could not but rest on them with pleasure. "i wonder that i ever could have thought them so much alike," said their father, in a little. "they're like and they're no' like," said miss jean. they were even less alike than they had been that day when they had startled her coming in on her out of the storm. their dress had something to do with it doubtless. may wore something white and fluffy, with frills and flounces and blue ribbons, and her brown curls were bound back by a snood of blue. she was in her simple finery as fair and sweet a picture of a young maiden as one could wish to see. jean was different. her dress was made of some dim stuff that looked in the distance like brown holland. a seafaring friend of her father's had brought it to her from india, her aunt remembered, and it came into her mind that perhaps there had not been enough of it, to make the frills and flounces, that young people were so pleased with nowadays. it was severely simple in contrast with her sister's, and her hair was gathered in one heavy braid at the back of her head. she had not her sister's fair and smiling loveliness, but there was something in her face that went far beyond it, her aunt thought, as she watched them standing there looking over the lawn to some one approaching along the road. her face was bright and her air cheerful enough at the moment, but for all that there was a look of thoughtfulness and gravity upon it--a silent look-which reminded her father of his sister's look at her age. only she was more beautiful. she was like a young princess, he thought, in his pride in her. "is it her gown?" asked he; "or is it the way that jean puts her hair? what has 'come o' a' her curls this while back?" the question was not to be answered. the opening of a little gate at the side of the lawn made them turn, and then mr dawson rose to greet a stranger who was coming up the walk. he was not quite a stranger to him. he knew his name and that he was a visitor at blackford house, a gentleman's seat seven miles away. it was at this gentleman the girls had been looking, and at the lady who was in the carriage with him, as they passed slowly along the highway. he was a tall fair man--young and good looking--very handsome indeed. he was a little too much inclined to stoutness perhaps, and rather languid in his movements, it might have been thought, as he came up the walk; but no fault could be found with his graceful and friendly greeting. it was miss jean dawson that he wished to see. it had been suggested to his sister, mrs eastwood, that miss dawson would be able to tell her what she wished to hear of a poor woman in whom she took an interest. she had been at miss dawson's house in portie, and hearing she was at saughleas, had called on her way to blackford, to save another journey. she was in her carriage at the gate, and could miss dawson send her a message? or perhaps-the gate was hidden by a clump of firs. miss jean gave a glance in that direction and then laid her hand on her staff. then she beckoned to her nieces who were still on the terrace. jean came quickly toward her, and may followed more slowly. it was worth a body's while, phemie told her fellow servants afterwards, just to see the way the gentleman took off his hat and bowed as miss dawson came near. phemie saw it all from her young lady's window upstairs, and she would have liked well to hear also. "it is about mrs cairnie, jean, my dear. ye ken her daughter annie went south last year, and her mistress promised to see her mother, when she came north, and would like to hear o' her. i might maybe get to the gate with your help?" "certainly not. you are not able to walk so far. if a message will not do, it must wait." miss jean shook her head with a slight smile. she had seen "miss dawson's grand air" before, and so had may, but her father looked at her amazed. it was not her words that startled him so much as her manner. she looked at the stranger who stood with his hat in his hand, as though he were at an immense distance from her. but in a minute she added more gently: "i will take a message, aunt, if you wish. or, i could--" "pray do not think of such a thing. i could not think of troubling you," said the young man confusedly. "or i could write a note," said the young lady taking no notice. "or the lady might drive into the place. she need not leave her carriage," said mr dawson, not quite pleased at his daughter's manner. "certainly that will be much the best way," said the stranger, bowing to miss jean and the young ladies. miss jean the elder was generally sparing of words of reproof, and even of words of advice, unless advice was asked, and she said nothing. but may exclaimed,-"you might have been civil to him at least, jeannie. we have not so many gentlemen coming to see us." "to see us! it was auntie jean he came to see--on an errand from his sister. and i think it was a piece of impertinence on his part to expect miss jean dawson to go at his bidding--and you so lame, auntie," added jean as she saw her aunt's face. "he couldna ken that, and i'm no' sure that he did expect me to go to the gate. and i'm no' feared for my ain dignity, jean lassie, and i dinna think ye need be feared for it either." "dignity!" exclaimed may. "why, he is one of the fine folk that are staying at blackford house." "and that is the very reason," said jean hotly--"the very reason that i--" "it's but a poor reason," said miss jean. but no more could be added, for the carriage was passing round the drive toward the spot where miss jean was sitting. the lady was driving her own ponies, and very nice she looked in her fresh muslins and simple straw hat. she was not very young, judging from her lace, which was thin and rather dark, but she had a youthful air, and a sweet smile, and seemed altogether a pleasing person. even jean could find no fault with her manner, as she addressed her aunt. there was respect, even deference, in every tone of her voice, and in every bend of her graceful head. there was not very much to be said between them however. miss jean told the lady where mrs cairnie lived. any body in portie could have told her that. then there was something said about the poor old lady's wants and ways, and the chief thing was that the daughter had sent some money and other things, which were to be left in miss jean dawson's hands, for a reason which the lady could not explain. but explanation was unnecessary, for miss jean knew more of poor tibby cairnie's troubles and temptations than even her own daughter did. it was all arranged easily enough, but still the lady seemed in no hurry to go. she could hardly have gone at once, for mr dawson had taken captain harefield round among the trees, and they were out of sight at the moment may admired the ponies, and jean stood with her hand on her aunt's chair looking straight before her. "a striking face and graceful figure, and a wonderfully intelligent look as well," thought mrs eastwood, and then in a pretty friendly way she seemed to include the silent girl in the talk she had been making with miss jean about the trees, and the views, and the fine weather they had had of late; and when miss jean became silent, as she generally did unless she had something to say that needed to be heard, jean took her part in the conversation and did it well. when the gentlemen returned, mrs eastwood still seemed in no haste to go. a new idea had seized her. would miss dawson kindly go with her some morning soon to see mrs cairnie? it would be a pleasure to a faithful servant, if she could tell her on her return that she had seen her old mother; and if miss dawson could make it convenient to go with her, she would call some morning soon, and drive her to portie. no serious objection could be made to this, though in her heart miss jean doubted whether the absent annie would care much to have the lady see her old mother, who was not always in a state fit for the eyes of "gentlefolk." however a day was set, and other little matters agreed upon, and then with many pleased looks and polite hopes that they might meet again, their visitors went away. that night when they were sitting alone in the long gloaming, the sisters being not at home, mr dawson suddenly returned to the discussion of the subject which had been touched on in the garden. "i couldna divide the land, but there is enough of money and other property to do fair justice to the other, and i think the land should go to jean." his sister said nothing. "she is the eldest, and the strongest in every way. if she were to give her mind to it, she might, in time, hold her own in the countryside with the best of them." he was silent for a minute. "and she might many, and get help in that way. and her son would have the place. and he might take my name, which is an honest one at least." "ye're takin' a lang look," said miss jean at last. he gave an uncertain laugh. "oh! weel! that's atween you and me, ye ken. it might be. a lad like him that was here the day, for instance--a gentleman by birth and breeding. he is a poor man, as poverty looks to the like of him, a two or three hunder pounds or so a year. it would be wealth to most folk, but it's poverty to the like o' him. but if it should so happen--and i were to live another ten years--i might satisfy even the like o' him." there was much which miss jean might have said to all this, which fell like the vainest folly on her ears, but she said nothing. "and as for my jean!--she needs to see the world and society, and all that, doubtless, but if there's many o' the fine london ladies that will hold a candle to her as far as looks go--it's mair than i think. she might stand before the queen herself with any of them." and still miss jean said never a word. "it might very well be, and i might live to see it. there's more land to be had too, if i'm willing to pay the price for it--and with this in view i might care to do it. i'll do nothing in haste." he seemed to be speaking to himself, rather than to her. "i'll do nothing in haste," he repeated. "but i could do it, and there would be some good in life--if this thing could be." "are ye forgetting that ye ha'e a son somewhere in the world?" said his sister gravely. mr dawson uttered a sound in which pain and impatience seemed to mingle. "have i? it is hardly to be hoped. and if he is--living--it is hardly such a life as would fit him to take his place where--he might have been. i think, jean, it might be as weel to act as if i had no living son." "but yet he may be living, and he may come home." mr dawson rose suddenly and went and leaned against the darkening window. "no, jean, if he had ever been coming home, he would have come ere now. he was seen in portie not three months since, and he never came near me. ye think i was hard on him; but i wasna so hard as all that." "who saw him?" asked his sister greatly startled. "he was seen by more than one, though he was little like himself, if i can judge from what i heard." "but he is living, george. there's comfort in that." "if i had heard that he was living on the other side of the world, i might have taken comfort from it. but that he should have been here, and never came home--there is little comfort in that." "but he is living and he'll come home to you yet. do you think his mother's son will be left to go astray beyond homecoming? he'll come home again." "many a son of a good mother has gone down to death--and that he should have come so near her grave, without coming nearer! i would almost sooner know him to be dead than to know that of him. and when i mind--" that was the last word spoken. mr dawson rose and went out into the faint light of the summer night, and though his sister sat long waiting for him after the girls had come in and had gone to bed, she saw no more of him that night. chapter five. a new acquaintance. mr dawson was just as usual the next morning. he was never so silent, nor in such haste to get through breakfast and away to the town when his sister was in the house, for he took pleasure in her company, and never failed in the most respectful courtesy toward her when she was under his roof--or indeed elsewhere. she saw traces of last night's trouble in his face, but it was not so evident as to be noticed by his daughters. indeed he seemed to them to be more interested than usual in the amusing discussion into which they fell concerning their yesterday's pleasure. they had been at a garden party given by mrs petrie, the wife of their father's partner in the bank, and had enjoyed it, and may especially had much to say about it. "and who do you think was there, papa? captain harefield?" "captain harefield! how came that about?" "james petrie asked him, it seems. but he said he came because he thought we might be there." "but he acknowledged that it was his sister that `put him up to it,'" said jean. "so the petries may thank you for the honour of his company. that would rather spoil the honour to them, if they were to hear it," said mr dawson with a laugh. "well, very likely he may let them know it. i canna say much for his discretion," said may with a shrug. "he asked me who made my sister's gown, and you should have seen his face when i told him that she made it herself." "and didna he admire your gown?" asked her father, to the astonishment of the two jeans, and indeed to may's astonishment as well. "oh! yes. but then he said mine was just like other girls' gowns, `very pretty and all that.' but miss dawson's was `unique,'" said may with a drawl. "and he said he would tell his sister." "and maybe she'll want me to make one for her. she looks like one who cares about her gowns," said jean. "she would be a queer kind o' a woman if she didna," said her father dryly. jean laughed. "but there are degrees in that, as in other things. if captain harefield had spoken to me, i would have offered to make one for her." "and had the captain nothing to say to you; jean?" asked mr dawson. "he was feared at jean," may said laughing. "he just stood and looked at her." "he had plenty to say, if i had had the time to listen. he said his sister insisted on his coming north that he might keep out of mischief. he found blackford house a bore rather," said jean imitating may's drawl with indifferent success. then she added,-"i beg your pardon, auntie. i ken ye dinna like it, and then i don't do it well enough to make it worth my while, like may here." "my dear, ye baith do it only ower weel. and as to my no' liking it-that's neither here nor there. but i have kenned such a power o' mockery give great pain to others, and bring great suffering sooner or later on those that had it. it canna be right, and it should be no temptation to a--christian", was the word that was on miss jean's lips, but she changed it and said--"to a young gentlewoman." may looked at her sister and blushed and hung her head. miss jean so seldom reproved any one, that there was power in her words when she did speak; and may had yesterday sent some of her young companions into agonies of stifled laughter, by echoing the captain's drawl to his face. "i'll never do it again, auntie," said she. "and besides," said her sister, "captain harefield is not fair game. it's not just airs and pride and folly with him, as it is with some folk we have seen; it is his natural manner." "but that is just what makes it so irresistible," said may laughing. "to see him standing there so much at his ease--so strong and stately looking, and then to hear the things he says in his fine english words! it might be simple sandy himself," and she went on to repeat some of his remarks, which probably lost nothing in the process. even her aunt could not forbear smiling as she listened. "well, i must say i thought well of what i saw of him," said mr dawson. "i would hardly call him a sharp man, but he may have good sense without much surface cleverness. i had a while's talk with him yesterday." "and he's a good listener," said jean archly. her father laughed. "i dare say it may have been partly that. he is a fine man as far as looks go, anyway." "very. they all said that," said may. "and mavis said to me, `eh, may, wouldna he do grand deeds if he were the same a' through?' he has the look of `grand deeds.' but i have my doubts, and so had mavis," added may shaking her head. "there are few men that i have ever met, the same a' through. but who is mavis that sets up with you to be a judge?" asked her father. "mavis!"--said may, hanging her head at her father's implied reproof, as he supposed. "mavis--is wee marion--marion calderwood." "and we used--in the old days--to call her mavis because she has a voice like a bird, and to ken her from our may, and marion petrie," said jean, looking straight at her father, and as she looked the shine of tears came to her bonny eyes. "she is but a bairn," said miss jean gravely. mr dawson's face darkened as it always did at the mention of any name that brought back the remembrance of his son. may was not quick at noticing such signs, and she answered her aunt. "a bairn! yes, but `a bairn by the common,' as mrs petrie's eppie says. she is a clever little creature." "she is a far-awa' cousin o' mrs petrie's, and she's learning some things from the governess of her bairns. but she might well have been spared on an occasion like yesterday, i would think," said miss jean. "oh! _all_ the bairns were there, as well as marion. and she looked as a rose looks among the rest of the flowers." "as the violet looks in the wood, i would say," added jean. "she'll be as bonny as her sister ever was." there was a moment's silence, round the table, which jean broke. "she was asking when you would be home, aunt. she has gotten her second shirt finished, and she wants you to see it. she is very proud of it. i told her that you werena going to portie, except on sundays, for a month yet, and she must come here and let you see it." "weel, she'll maybe come. it was me that set her to shirt making. there is naething like white seam, and a good long stretch of it to steady a lassie like marion. and if she learn to do it weel, it may stand her instead when other things fail." "white seam!" exclaimed may. "not she! may calderwood is going to educate herself, and keep a fine school--in london maybe--she has heard o' such things. she's learning german and latin, no less! and i just wish you could hear her sing." "she markets for her mother, and does up her mother's caps," said jean, "and she only learns latin for the sake of helping sandy petrie, who is a dunce, and ay at the foot of the form." "she's nae an ill lassie," said miss jean softly, and the subject was dropped. phemie came in and the breakfast things were removed, and the girls went their several ways. miss jean, who was still lame from a fall she had got in the winter, went slowly to her chair near a sunny window and sat looking out upon the lawn. mr dawson went here and there, gathering together some papers, in preparation for his departure to the town. he had something to say, his sister knew as well as if he had told her, and she would gladly have helped him to say it, as it did not seem to be easy for him to begin. but she did not know what he wished to speak about, or why he should hesitate to begin. at last, standing a little behind her, he said,-"it's no' like john petrie and his wife to do a foolish thing, but they are doing it now. and their son jamie just the age to make a fool o' himself, for the sake o' a bonny face. `a rose among the other flowers,' no less, said may." "but jean said better. `a violet in the wood.' she is a modest little creature--though she has a strong, brave nature, and will hold her own with any petrie o' them a'. and as good as the best o' them to my thinking." "well, that mayna be the father's thought, though it may be the son's." "dinna fash yoursel' about jamie petrie. he'll fall into no such trouble. it's no' in him?" added miss jean with a touch of scorn. "i never saw the lad yet that hadna it in him to ken a bonny lass when she came in his way; and for the lassie's ain sake, ye should take thought for her." "she has her mother," said miss jean, more hastily than was her way. "and any interference would come ill from you or me where this one is concerned. and my bonny mavis is but a bairn," she added more gently, "and she's in no danger from james petrie, who is a well intentioned lad, and who has been ower weel brought up, and who is ower fond of siller and gentility, to have either roses or violets in his plan o' life, unless they're growing in a fine flowerpot, in somebody's fine house. marion calderwood is no' for the like of him." her brother regarded her with anger so evidently struggling with astonishment in his face, that she expected hot words to follow. but he kept silence for a moment, and then he said quietly enough,-"it seldom answers for ane to put his finger into another's pie. there are few men so wise as to profit by a lesson from another man's experience, and i doubt john petrie is no' ane o' them." "and there's few men, it's to be feared, wise enough to take the best lesson from their ain experience," said miss jean gravely. "and that is a sadder thing to say." it was quite true, as captain harefield had said, that it was his sister who "put him up" to going on james petrie's invitation to the garden party that afternoon. the natural desire to get him off her hands, for the rest of the day was her only motive in urging it, and a sufficient one, for it was true that he was bored by the quiet of blackford house, and that he did not suffer alone. but it was the unwonted energy of his admiring exclamations as soon as they had passed out of the gate of saughleas, that had suggested the idea. by "this and by that," were they not beauties, these two girls? who would have thought of coming upon two such without warning? even his sister must acknowledge that they were beautiful. she did acknowledge it, but there was something far more wonderful to her than their good looks. that two country girls--and scotch country girls--should be found at home dressed as these two were, astonished her more than their beauty. "they might have passed at any garden party of the season," said she. "passed! i should think so. i don't know about their gowns, but _they_ would pass, i fancy." "she couldn't have fallen on any thing to suit her style of face and figure better if she had made a study of it." "perhaps she did," said her brother, laughing. "or perhaps they get their gowns from london." "no, they would probably have been dressed alike, in that case, and in the height of the fashion. the white one was very much like the dresses of other girls, but the other was unique. and they seemed nice, lady-like girls." "did they not? and not so very scotch." "well, perhaps not so _very_--but rather so. but then i like the scotch of scotch people better than their english as a rule. however, the few words i heard them speak were softly and prettily spoken, and quite appropriate to the place and time. how it might seem elsewhere i could not say." "it is rather a nice place, too, isn't it? the estate is small, but he has no end of money, they tell me, and he seems a sensible old fellow enough." "the sister is a striking looking woman--with a certain dignity of manner, too." "yes, and young petrie tells me that she used to keep a little shop, in her young days. indeed, not so very long ago." mrs eastwood did not reply to this. her mind was evidently intent on solving the problem of jean's tasteful gown. "and at home too! i have heard that young people of their class, get themselves up in fine style when they go out to tea. but sitting there on the grass, with the old woman in the cap--" "but perhaps they are going out to tea.--to the garden party! `by this and by that'--did i tell you? young petrie at the bank asked me to go. i have a great mind to go." he glanced down at the faultless grey morning suit he wore. "i could not go all the way to blackford house and return again, could i?" "hardly, and you could not improve yourself if you were to go. yes, by all means accept the invitation. you will be sure to meet the misses-dawson is it? and the circumstances will be more favourable for knowing them than they were this morning." it ended in captain harefield's leaving the carriage, and returning to portie on foot. he lunched at the inn, and presented himself at petrie villa in company with the eldest son of the house in the course of the afternoon. it is to be supposed that he enjoyed himself, for this was by no means his last visit, and his sister was able to congratulate herself on getting him off her hands a good deal after this while they remained in the north. various circumstances combined, made this a pleasanter summer in saughleas than the last had been. for one thing, miss jean was there more than usual. the fall which had made her almost helpless for a while, still prevented her from moving about with ease; and the lord's "little ones," for the time, received the aid and comfort which she owed them for his sake, through the hands of others, and she had to content herself with sitting still and waiting his will. she could have contented herself in circumstances more adverse than those in which she found herself. she knew that her presence in the house was a pleasure to her brother, and that it was not an uncomfortable restraint upon her nieces, as it might have become, even though they loved one another dearly, had she assumed any other place than that of visitor among them. so young a mistress of a house, to which there were so many coming and going as there always were in summer, needed the help which the presence of an elder person gave, and it was all the better that the help was given and received with no words about it. jean the younger, was glad of her aunt's stay, because she loved her, and because escaping now and then from the pleasant confusion that sometimes prevailed in the house, she found quiet and rest in her company. and though she might not have acknowledged her need of her help in any other way, she was doubtless the better of it. it cannot be said that it was altogether a happy summer to her, but it was a very busy one. she was mistress and housekeeper, and gave her mind to her duties as she had not done at first. indeed, it seemed that she was determined to give herself and her maidens no rest for a while, so intent was she in doing all that was to be done. and even when her maidens had necessary respite, she took none to herself. in the house or in the garden she occupied herself all the morning. she took long walks in the afternoon if there were no visitors to entertain, and if the rain, or the special need or wish of her aunt or her sister kept her in the house, she employed herself still with work of some sort, sitting at it steadily and patiently, "as if she had her bread to make by it," her father said one day when he had been watching her for some time unperceived. "i should like to know how it would seem to do that," said jean gravely. "you would soon tire of it," said her father laughing. "i dare say. i tire of most things," said she, rising and folding up the long, white garment on which she had been so busy. her father regarded her curiously from behind his newspaper. she did not look either well or happy at the moment, he thought. "it is all nonsense, jean lassie, to keep yourself at your seam, as you have been doing for the last two hours, when there are so many poor women in portie that would be glad to do it for what you would hardly miss." "but i like to do it, papa, for the moment, and one must do something." "it is just a whim of hers, papa," said may laughing. "think of her stinting herself to do so much an hour, when she might as well be amusing herself." "it's good discipline, auntie jean says," said jean laughing. "and i need, it she thinks. at any rate, every woman ought to do white seam in the very best way, and i didna like it when i was young." "but now we have the sewing-machine, and as for the discipline, it's all nonsense." "well never mind, may. now is the time to speak to papa about the children's party. papa, may wants to give a large children's party--for the little corbetts, ye ken. though there must be grown people here too, and it will be great fun, i have no doubt." jean seemed quite as eager about it as may, her father thought, as they went on to discuss the proposed party. of course the result of the discussion was just what the sisters knew it would be. their father said they were to please themselves, only adding several cautions as to the care that must be taken of fruit trees and flower beds, and some doubts as to how the portie bairns, accustomed to the freedom of rocks and sands, would care for a formal tea-drinking in the house, or even in the garden. "the bairns' pleasure is the excuse, and no' the reason, i doubt," said he; but he laughed when he said it. this was one of the things that made this summer pleasanter than the last had been. they had amused themselves last summer and their father had not objected; but as to his enjoying any thing of the kind, such a thought had never entered the minds of his daughters. but now he did not endure their gay doings painfully, protesting against them by his manner, if not by his words, nor did he ignore them altogether as had been most frequently his way. he looked on smiling at the enjoyment of the guests, and took evident pleasure in the success of his daughters in entertaining them. if it had been otherwise, there would have been few visitors to entertain, and few gayeties attempted. for jean did not care enough for these things to make the effort worth her while, and may would have had to content herself with the gayeties provided by other people. but as it was, the elder sister did her part, and did it well; so well that none but her aunt suspected that her heart was not in these things quite as it used to be. certainly her father was far from suspecting any such thing. and sitting apart, seeing them both and watching, and musing upon all that was going on, miss jean could not but wonder at his blindness, and at the folly of the vague and pleasant possibilities he was beginning to see, and to rejoice over in the future. chapter six. a proposal. the garden party at petrie villa had been the first of a series. not a very long series, indeed, for there were not many gardens in portie equal to the requirements of such an entertainment, even according to the limited ideas of those who had never "assisted at" a garden party anywhere else. but there had been several, and the presence of captain harefield would have been generally declared to be the most interesting feature of nearly all of them. he had not always been invited. that is, he had not always been invited in the formal way usually considered necessary on such occasions even in portie. but through the kindness of james petrie at first, and afterward of others, when he became better known, he was sure to make his appearance in the course of the entertainment, and so comported himself and so evidently enjoyed himself, that even those who were at first inclined to resent, as a liberty, his coming so unceremoniously among them, forgot to do so in his presence, and ended in being as pleased and flattered as the rest. of course there was a garden party at saughleas, and of course captain harefield was a guest, formally and specially invited by mr dawson himself. but his presence was not the most interesting circumstance of the occasion, for his sister, mrs eastwood, was there also. mrs eastwood had come according to her promise and had taken miss jean in her carriage to visit mrs cairnie, and it had been a successful visit in every way. for may had given the old woman warning, and she had prepared herself to receive them. not only had she on a clean "mutch" and apron, but her house was "redd up" in a way that would have seemed wonderful to her visitor, if she had been familiar with its aspect on other days. mrs cairnie was a clever old woman, and made the most of her opportunity. she bewailed the loss of her daughter's society, and of the help and comfort she had been to her, but enlarged on her sense of the good fortune that had come to the lassie in being admitted into the service of such a kind and gracious lady. she declared herself overpowered at the condescension and kindness of the visit in terms which did not seem so very much exaggerated to the visitor; but miss jean knew that the bad auld wife was laughing in her sleeve at the english lady and her simplicity. however, the visit was considered a success by those chiefly concerned, and it was to be repeated before mrs eastwood took her departure. on returning to leave miss jean at saughleas, mrs eastwood expressed herself delighted to accept mr dawson's invitation to alight and drink a cup of tea before she set out for blackford house. in a little the tea and all the pretty accessories were brought out to the terrace, and it was charming--every thing was charming, mrs eastwood declared, and "not at all scotch"; but happily the last part of her opinion was reserved till she was relating her afternoon's adventures at blackford house. she herself did her utmost to charm every one, and succeeded very well on the whole, and her suggestion as to an invitation to the garden party came very naturally and gracefully in the midst of the gentle thanks addressed to miss jean because of the kindness shown to her brother. captain harefield, whom she confessed to be a little impatient of the quiet of blackford house. even miss dawson did not seem to think it strange when, in her pretty way, she begged to be allowed to accompany her brother to the garden party on the day appointed. "it was very silly of her," jean said afterwards. "what possible pleasure could she expect?" "i don't see that. why should she not take pleasure in it as well as you? she is young yet," said mr dawson, ready to take the lady's part. "i should have no pleasure in going out of my own sphere," said jean with dignity. "eh! jeannie, i'm no' so sure of that. werena you just the other day playing at `the beds' with mavis, and emily corbett, and the rest of the bairns on the sands? and didna you finish maggie saugster's seam to let her get away with the rest? and didna you--" "nonsense, may! i've played at `the beds' all my life, and i dinna look down on mavis and maggie and the rest. and it was for their pleasure i played with them, and not for my own." "well, it may be for our pleasure that mrs eastwood is coming here, and as for looking down on us--" said may with a toss of her pretty head. "whisht, bairns," said miss jean gently. "i dare say she thinks lang in the country as weel as her brother,--her that's used with london life,-and she would like to come just for a pass-time, with no thought of looking down on any one." "her brother doesna seem to be looking down on any one," said mr dawson with a short, amused laugh. "oh! he makes no secret that it is just for a pass-time, that he favours portie folk with his company. he finds blackford house dull. he gets awfully bored," said may in the captain's languid manner. "it's a wonder he stays on then," said mr dawson. "i said that to him once, and he said--" may hesitated. it would not have been easy to repeat all that had been said on the occasion alluded to; but she put the gist of his communications more clearly and directly than he had done himself, when she added,-"it is a good place not to spend money at, and he does not seem to have much to spend." "weel, he's honest--as to his reasons, at any rate," said her father. "oh! that is what i gathered, rather than what he said. he is out of the reach of duns. that he _did_ say." "he doesna seem to me like an ill-disposed youth," said miss jean. "oh, no, auntie! he's nice and agreeable, and--all that; but he is-soft," said may laughing. her father looked as if he were going to say something sharp, but he did not. "his sister is very fond of him, and very good to him, he says. and he must be a heavy handful whiles," said jean gravely. "in what way?" asked her father. "oh! just having him on her mind to keep sight of, and amuse, and keep out of mischief, as he says. just fancy the weariness of it?" "you seem to have gathered a good deal from him, as well as your sister," said mr dawson, not well pleased. "and you find him a heavy handfu', do you? i have thought whiles that you get on very well with him." "oh, yes, i get on very well with him! i'm not responsible for him, ye ken, and that makes all the difference." "marion petrie says that jean keeps him very much to herself, and jamie looks as if he thought so, too, sometimes," said may laughing. "that is one of your `gatherings,' may, my dear," said her sister. "well, you must make your best of the visitor when she comes," said mr dawson as he went out. and it was very easy to make the best of mrs eastwood. she was amiable and agreeable, and if she looked down on any one, it did not appear. she did not mingle much with the younger portion of the company, but she amused herself by observing all that was going on, and talked pleasantly with miss jean, and afterwards with mr dawson, about various things, but chiefly about her brother, whom she evidently loved dearly, and who as evidently caused her anxiety, though she had no thought of letting this appear. miss jean found her soft flowing talk pleasant to listen to, and all the more that she did not need very often to reply. mr dawson was charmed with her, and it was not, as a general thing, his way to be charmed with strangers. but she was not altogether a stranger. her husband's name-eastwood, the london banker--had long been familiar to mr dawson. he knew him to be a "responsible" man, and that was more than could be said of all the fine english folk, who found it convenient to pass a part of the summer or autumn at blackford house. mrs eastwood herself was of high family, being the granddaughter, or at least the grand-niece, of a living earl, and though mr dawson would doubtless have scorned the imputation, it is possible that he found all the more pleasure in entertaining her because of that mr eastwood was not of high family. he was very rich however, and they got on together, pretty well, may "gathered" from captain harefield's conversation; that is, they never quarrelled, and were content to spare each other to enjoy the society of other people for a good part of the year. but mrs eastwood made much of her husband when speaking of him to mr dawson, and of her brother also. of the brother, she had much to say, and mr dawson listened with great interest to it all, as miss jean could not fail to see. and in the mean time the young people amused themselves in the garden and in the wood, and captain harefield seemed to be at no loss for amusement among them. jean certainly did not keep him to herself to-day, as mr dawson noticed; but then jean was hostess, and had to occupy herself with the duties of her position, and with the party generally. it passed off very well, all things considered, and the children's party was likely to be the same thing over again, with the children added. the little corbetts, who were the reason, or the excuse, of the prospective gayeties, had come from their home in an english manufacturing town, in order that the sea breezes of portie might put strength in their limbs and colour in their wan cheeks; and they had come at the special invitation of mr dawson. their father, the son of the portie parish minister of the time, had been his chief friend in the days of his youth, and they had never forgotten one another, though they had not for a long time been in frequent correspondence. during one of mr dawson's infrequent visits to liverpool, they had met by chance, and had renewed acquaintance to the pleasure of both, and mr dawson allowed himself to be persuaded to go and pass a few days with his friend. mr corbett had not been a very successful man in the way of making money, and he had a large family, few of them able to do much for themselves. but they were cheerful, hopeful people, and made the best of things. there had been illness among them recently, which had left the younger children white and thin, and not likely to mend during the summer heat in a close city street; and when mr dawson asked as many of them as liked to spend a month or two among the sea breezes of portie, the invitation was accepted gratefully. but it was doubtful whether, for economic reasons, they could have availed themselves of it, if mr dawson had not taken matters into his own hand, and insisted on taking some of them home at once. so the two youngest, polly and dick, with an elder sister of fifteen to be responsible for their well-being and well-doing, were carried off to saughleas, and presented unannounced to the startled, but well pleased, household. their coming gave interest, and occupation as well, to every one, for "mr dawson had given mamma no time for preparation," as the pretty, anxious elder sister was fain to explain when she asked miss dawson's advice and assistance in the matter of shoes and stockings, and other things suitable for the perfect enjoyment of the rocks and sands of portie. miss dawson made all that easy, taking the equipment of the children, and the elder sister as well, into her own hands. and the puny city children enjoyed the sands and the sea, the running and clambering, and the free out-of-doors life, as much as their father had done in his boyish days; and their own mother would hardly have recognised their round brown faces before the first month was over. as to their needing entertainment in the way of children's parties, that was not likely. but for the sake of their father and grandfather they had been invited to many houses in portie, and it was but right that they should have a chance to invite their young friends in return. and so the party was decided on, and was much enjoyed, and so might be dismissed with no more words about it, except for a circumstance or two which attended it. mrs eastwood was there again, but not by invitation. she had not been aware that there was to be such gay doings at saughleas, she said, when she came into the garden, and she stayed a while at miss jean's request, to enjoy the sight of so many happy bairns. but she was not bright and beaming and bent on pleasing every one, as she had been the first time she was at saughleas. to tell the truth, she was anxious and unhappy, at a loss what to do, or whether she should do any thing, or just let events take their own course. it was her brother and his affairs that occupied her thoughts. she had been so long accustomed to think for him, and advise him, he had come to her so constantly for help in the various difficulties into which he had fallen during his life, and she had been so successful in helping him, and so happy in doing so, that she could not--though she sometimes tried--divest herself of a feeling of personal responsibility for his well-being. and now that he seemed to be at a turning point in his life, she felt all the anxiety of one who had a decision of importance to make, with no one at hand on whose judgment she could rely for guidance. it added to her unhappiness, that she could not quite free herself from blame in regard to the matter to be decided. she need not have made herself unhappy about her own course. nothing that she had done or left undone, had much to do with the intentions of which her brother had informed her that morning. she had been conscious of a feeling of relief for herself at the chance of his finding the means of amusing himself innocently in the country. that was the uttermost of her sin towards him. but his frequent visits to saughleas, and his loiterings in portie, would have been none the less frequent had he believed that his sister missed and mourned every hour of his absence. and her present anxiety as to his next step was just as vain. she could neither help nor hinder it, and, whatever might be the result, neither praise nor blame could justly fall to her because of it. but she did not see it so, and so she had come to saughleas with many vague thoughts as to what it might be wise to do, but with a firm determination as to one thing that was to be plainly said before she went away again. her first thought when she saw the pleasant confusion that the children were making on the lawn and in the gardens was, that nothing could be said to-day. but by and by, when children and young people, her brother among the rest, went away to amuse themselves with games in the field beyond the wood, the way to speak was opened to her, and she saw no reason why she should not say all that was in her mind. it was to miss jean she had intended to say it, and miss jean was sitting under the beeches with folded hands, ready to listen. and yet, looking into the grave, serene face of miss jean, she did hesitate. she could not tell why; for miss jean was only a person who had kept a shop, and counted and hoarded the pence, and who knew their value. a commonplace, good-natured woman, not easily offended, why should she not say to her all that she had to say--and say it plainly too? and so she did. and miss jean listened with no offence apparently, with only a little gleam of surprise and interest in her eyes, and perhaps a little gleam of amusement also. mrs eastwood was not sure. she did not say much, but she said it very plainly. miss jean must have noticed the frequency of captain harefield's visits to saughleas, and his warm admiration of the young ladies, her nieces. it had gone beyond admiration, she had reason to think, as to one of them. indeed her brother had intimated as much to her, and had filled her with anxiety; for her brother had no fortune. of course if he married he would wish to leave the army. could miss jean tell her whether the fortune which mr dawson could give his daughter would be sufficient to insure the comfort of the young people in case of a marriage? "and did your brother send you to ask?" said miss jean quietly. "and why do you ask me?" "of course he did not i speak because of my own anxiety, and you must see that i could not speak to mr dawson about money until a proposal had been made." "weel, madam, i can give you no help and no information. i have no' sufficient knowledge of my brother's means, or of his intentions. and i could not influence him in this matter, even if i were to try. which of them is it?" but strangely enough mrs eastwood could not answer this question. the intimation she had that morning received of her brother's intention to propose to mr dawson for the hand of his daughter, had not been very definite or very clearly given. it had come in during a discussion of other and painful matters, with which money, or rather the want of money, had to do. and if her brother had told her which of them he intended to honour, she had failed to understand him, or she had forgotten. so her reply did not touch this question. "i cannot say whether i approve or disapprove of his choice. your niece is very pretty and lady-like, and she would take her husband's rank-and, my dear miss dawson, i trust you will not think me mercenary, but my brother can give his wife a high station, and a place in society, and to make the marriage an equal one, or in the least degree suitable, there should not only be beauty and grace, which your niece i must acknowledge has, but--money." "and plenty of it," said miss jean. "of course. and unless there is, as you say, plenty of it, percy should not be allowed to speak." "but if they love one another?" mrs eastwood turned and looked at miss jean. she had rather avoided doing so hitherto. she was not sure that the old woman was not laughing at her. miss jean's face was grave enough however. "if there is not a prospect of--of--a fortune, he should not be allowed to speak. not that i do not admire your niece. i admire her extremely. she is clever, and sensible also, and would restrain--i mean she would influence her husband. she would make a good wife to percy, who is--who needs some one to lean on." "a heavy handfu'," said miss jean, unconsciously repeating her niece's words. there was a silence of several minutes between them, and then mrs eastwood continued, carrying on her own train of thought. "of course i knew that the foolish boy admired the young lady--fancied himself in love; but that has often happened to him before, and i thought it would pass with the month. but they are very pretty and fresh, and the tall one is clever, and she would--yes, she would make him a good wife--provided--" miss jean's spirit was stirred within her, but she said nothing; and mrs eastwood said all the more, unconsciously betraying her belief that it would be the best thing that could happen to her brother, that he should marry and settle down with a wife clever enough to influence him. and to influence him meant, evidently, to keep him from spending too much money, and from the companionship of those who loved to lead him astray. she did not say in plain words that his marriage with such a one would be a great relief to her and that it would be the saving of him to be kept out of london and out of harm's way for the greater part of the year; but miss jean saw clearly that she was more eager for his success than she was willing to acknowledge. miss jean listened silently and patiently. her niece knew her own mind, doubtless, and would not be likely to allow herself to be influenced by the wishes of any one, and she had no call to reprove, or even to resent, the "ill manners" of the lady. so she sat silent and let the softly spoken words "go in at one ear and out of the other," till she heard the tramp of a horse's feet, and knew that her brother was come home, and then she rose, and invited mrs eastwood into the house, hoping that she would refuse the invitation and take her departure. for at the sound of her brother's voice, miss jean's heart misgave her. chapter seven. a misfortune. miss jean's heart misgave her, for she knew that the thought suggested to her brother on the morning when mrs eastwood and captain harefield came to saughleas to inquire about poor tibbie cairnie had returned to him more than once; and she feared that should captain harefield speak to-day, he might not refuse to listen, and then there would be troublous times before them. that there was even a possibility that he should be willing to listen to him was amazing to miss jean. so wise and cautious and far-seeing as he had always shown himself to be, how could he think of trusting any part of the wealth which he had spent his life in gathering, to the hands of a man who had proved himself incapable of making a good use of that which had fallen to him? to say nothing of being willing to trust him with his daughter! there was comfort here, however. jean's welfare was in her own keeping. miss jean was not so much at a loss as mrs eastwood, as to which of her nieces captain harefield intended to seek. and she was glad it was jean, for jean could hold her own against father and lover and all. but still there was trouble before them, for, strangely enough, her brother, hard-working and practical, a thorough man of business, had taken pleasure in the comings and goings of this young man so utterly unlike himself in all essential respects. she had seen it with wonder and a little amusement at first; but she knew now, or she thought she knew, that he had been preparing disappointment for himself and vexation to her bonny jean. "truly we need guidance," she said aloud, and then she rose and invited mrs eastwood to go in to the house and take a cup of tea, hoping all the time that she might refuse, and that she might be away before mr dawson came. it was not to be so arranged however. mr dawson was delighted to see mrs eastwood, and expressed his pleasure so frankly, that miss jean thought it possible the lady might take courage, and make known to him as plainly as she had done to her the cause of her visit. so, instead of moving away with the help of her cane, as she had at first intended to do, she seated herself again. not that she thought that her presence would be likely to prevent her speech, but she was curious to know how the matter, so interesting to the lady, should be presented to a new listener; and curious also to see how her brother might receive it. there were the usual inquiries and compliments as to health, and the usual remarks about the weather and the appearance of the country, and then mrs eastwood spoke of the benefit she had received from her long stay, and her regret that the time of her departure was so near. then mr dawson inquired with more interest than the occasion demanded, whether captain harefield was to leave also. "if he take my advice about it, he will certainly do so," said mrs eastwood. "but that is doubtful. the interest of the season is just beginning to him, and as he has had his leave extended, he may remain." "he is a keen sportsman, i hear," said mr dawson. "oh, yes; and the shooting here is good, they say, and does not involve very much fatigue. yes, he will probably stay for a little; though i think he had much better go, for various reasons." she spoke with a certain significance of tone and manner, and mr dawson remained silent, expecting to hear more; and possibly he might have had the pleasure of hearing of captain harefield's hopes and his sister's opinions, had no interruption occurred. but at the moment a sudden outcry arose somewhere in the garden. they could see nothing where they were sitting, but they heard the sound of many voices--entreating, expostulating, scolding, and at last they heard words. "ye needna tell, may. naebody will ken wha did it." "i wouldna tell mr dawson--for--oh! for ony thing." "an' naebody will ken that it was you that did it." "it wasna me, but it was my fault; and if sandy winna tell, i must, and just take the wyte (blame) mysel'." "eh! marion! yon's him speaking to the leddy. i wouldna be you for something." "something untoward has happened, i doubt," said miss jean. "i hope no ill has come to any of the apple-trees." now mr dawson's apple-trees were the pride of his heart. it is not easy to raise fruit trees of any kind so near to the sea; and as far as apple-trees are concerned, the fruit is not of the best, when success has crowned persevering effort. but on a few young trees, bearing for the first time, there hung several apples beautiful to behold, and they had been watched through all the season with interest by every one in the house, but above all by mr dawson. so when miss jean said "apple-trees," he rose at once to satisfy himself that they were safe. but alas! before he had fairly turned to go, all doubt was at an end. there were many children at a little distance, and two or three were drawing near, and in the hand of one, a girl in her teens, was a broken branch, on which hung two of the half dozen apples from the best of all the trees. mr dawson had watched them with too great interest not to know just where the little branch belonged. he did not speak,--indeed the little maiden did not give him time. "it was a' my wyte, mr dawson, and i'm very grieved," said she, holding up the branch, and looking up into his face with eager, wistful eyes. mr dawson took it, but he looked not at it, but at the child, saying nothing. "i beg your pardon. i'm very grieved," repeated she. mrs eastwood whispered to miss jean what a pretty picture the child made, but miss jean was thinking of other things. "it was sandy," continued the little pleader. "he was taking a' wee david's sweetees, and i couldna bide that, ye ken, and i just--just tried to hinder him; an' he ran awa', and me after him. and he ran in beneath the tree, but he wouldna have gone, if i hadna been after him, and so--" "she licket me, and she tried to rug my lugs," (pull my ears), said a voice in the distance. the change in the girl's face was wonderful to see as she turned to the speaker. a sudden colour rose to her cheeks, and her grey eyes flashed scorn and anger. "if i only had been able!" said she, and then she turned to mr dawson again. "i'm very grieved," repeated she. "it canna be helpit now, maysie," said miss jean. "never heed. run awa' with the lave o' the bairns." for miss jean knew that it was not the apples nor their destruction that had brought that look to her brother's face. "are ye angry with me, sir? and winna ye forgive me?" said maysie, the sweet wistfulness coming back to her eyes. "i'm very grieved." "it canna be helpit. never heed," said mr dawson, repeating his sister's words. "i dinna think i mind your name," added he, not meaning to say it, but making a great effort to recover himself. "i'm marion calderwood," said she, a sudden brightness, followed by a cloud as sudden, passing over her face. she lifted beseeching eyes to his face, and then she turned to miss jean. "run awa', lassie, with the lave o' the bairns," said miss jean. "maybe i should go hame?" "hoot, lassie! never heed. only run away with the lave." quite unconscious that he owed an apology to mrs eastwood for his abrupt departure, mr dawson turned and strode off in another direction. "they must be precious apples," said mrs eastwood, looking after him with surprise not unmingled with disgust. "it's an old trouble," said miss jean sorrowfully. "he'll hear none o' her fine words the night," she added to herself, conscious, amid her trouble, of some satisfaction that it should be so. no, mr dawson was not likely to listen patiently to words of any kind that night. the very first look from the child's eyes smote his heart with a pang in which there was regret, as well as anger and pain. for a sudden remembrance of eyes as sweet, and with the same look of wistful appeal in them came back to him--the eyes of bonny elsie calderwood, who had come between him and his son. almost the last words which his son had spoken to him, the very last such as a son should speak to his father, had been spoken while those wistful eyes entreated him. it had been a moment of great bitterness, and as he passed down the lane that led to the fields, and then to the sea, eager to get beyond the sound of the gay voices ringing from garden and wood, the old bitterness returned, and with it came the added misery of the vain wish that he had yielded his own will that day--a longing unspeakable for all that he had lost. his boy--the only son of his mother who had been so dear, had he lost him forever? would he never return? could he be dead? should he never see his face or hear his voice again? he had a bitter hour or two, this man, whom even his sister, who knew him best and loved him best, called hard in her secret thoughts. and the bitterness did not pass with the hour, nor the pain. silence reigned in the house before he came home that night, and in the morning something of the old gloom seemed to have fallen upon him. captain harefield did go home with his sister; at least he left blackford house with her, and that without returning after the night of the children's party to say "good-bye" to his friends at saughleas. may remarked upon this with a little indignation, and mr dawson said it was not like the young man not to do what was polite and kind, and he also wondered at the omission of the visit. jean said nothing; at least she said nothing to them. to her aunt she acknowledged that she had known of his intended departure, and that she had also known when he bade her good-bye that night, that she was not likely to see him again. but even to her aunt she did not acknowledge that he would have stayed longer if she had bidden him, or that even now a word from her would bring him back again. out of the unfortunate incident of the broken apple-tree, there rose a little talk between "the two jeans." miss jean had for a long time had something on her mind to say to her niece, but it was the younger jean who spoke first. "aunt, what is this they are saying about my father's anger at marion calderwood?" "my dear, he wasna angry!" "did you see it all, auntie? because marion went home greeting, the other bairns say. of course it was a pity about the tree, but it wasna marion who broke it, and it wasna like my father to show anger to a guest, even to a bairn." "my dear, he showed no anger." "but, auntie, there must have been something; for i met mrs calderwood in the high-street this morning, and she went red and then white, and was stiff and distant, as she used to be when we first came home. she had grown quite friendly of late, and to-day she would have passed me without speaking. it must have been because of marion." "it might have been, but i dinna think it. mrs calderwood is a proud woman, jean, my dear,--and--" "well?" "weel, ye have been consorting with fine folk lately, and maybe--" "auntie jean! dinna say more, for that is not your real thought; and that is a terrible thing to say of you." "my dear, it is my real thought, as far as it goes. i ha'e little doubt that was present in mrs calderwood's mind when she met you in the high-street--with other things." "we'll take the other things first then," said jean, the angry colour rising in her cheeks. "you must think your friend but a poor creature, or she must think it of us." it was the first time in all the girl's life, that her eyes with an angry light in them had rested fully on her aunt's face. her aunt did not resent it, or notice it, except by a gentle movement of her head from side to side, and the shadow of a smile passed over her face. she looked grave enough as she answered, however. "i am far from thinking her a poor creature, whatever she may think of us. and, jean, my dear, i think ye maun ken something of the other things, though ye never heard them from me." jean's look grew soft and sad, and she came and leaned on her aunt's chair. "do you mean about bonny elsie, and--our geordie? was it because of elsie that geordie went--and lost himself? tell me about it." "i think ye maun ken all that i could tell you--or mostly all." "i only ken--i mean i used to think that they--cared for one another--oh long ago, before my mother died. and since we came home, i have heard a word dropped now and then, by different folk--marion petrie, and her mother; and once tibbie cairnie said something about my father's cursed pride, and his fine plans that would come to nothing. but it wasna till afterwards that i knew that it was geordie she was thinking about auntie jean, i have had my thoughts, but i ken little. was my father angry? but he must have been sorry for george when poor elsie died. and was it because of elsie that my brother went away?" it was not an easy story to tell, and miss jean put it in as few words as possible, having her own reasons for telling it to jean. she dwelt less upon her father's anger at his son's folly, than upon the heartbreak that his loss had brought him. but she made it clear that "poor bonny elsie" was the cause of their estrangement, and that it would have been the same had elsie lived and had george carried out his determination to marry her against his father's will. "if the poor foolish lad had only waited and had patience in the mean time, much sorrow might have been spared to all concerned. your father might have given in--though i dinna think it; or as they were little more than bairns, they might have forgotten ane anither--though i dinna think that either. but if george had won to man's estate, and had been doing a man's work and getting a man's wages, he would have had a better right to take his own way, and your father _might_ have given in then. at least he must have been silent, and let the lad go his ain gait. i whiles weary myself thinking how it might have been." jean sat without a word, but with a face that changed many times from white to red and from red to white as she listened; and when her aunt paused, and took up the work which in her earnestness she had allowed to fall on her lap, she sat silent still, quite unconscious of the uneasy glances that fell on her from time to time. "it has made an old man of your father," added miss jean in a little. "poor father! and poor geordie! ay, and poor elsie! and nothing can change it now." jean rose from the stool on which she had been sitting at her aunt's feet, and walked restlessly about the room. by and by, she came and stood behind her aunt's chair, leaning upon it. "aunt--there is something i would like to tell you. i wonder if i ought?" "ye maun judge, my dear." "if i were only sure." both were silent for a time. "would i be better able to give help or counsel to you or--to any one-if i were to hear what you could tell?" jean shook her head. "nothing can be done--at least not now," said she sadly. "weel then, dearie, dinna speak. whiles troubles take shape and strength in the utterance and grow persistent, that might have died out or come to little in silence. if a time should come that you are sure that speaking would do any good, tell me then." "it would do no good now. and i am not sure that there is any thing to tell." there was a long silence between them. jean was thinking of the "john seaton" sailing away with her brother to the northern seas. miss jean was thinking of the "john seaton" too, and of willie calderwood, with a sad heart. "they were just a' bairns thegither i thought, but i little kenned. and wae's me! for my bonny jean, gin she has to go through all that--and wae's me! for her father as well. no' that the pain and the trouble need be feared for them, so that they are brought through--and no unfilial bitterness left to sicken my bairn's heart forever more; but i mustna speak, or let her speak. i think she hardly kens yet how it is with her, but she would ken at the first word; silence is best." and silence it was. but by and by more was said about the story of those two "for whom life was ended," as jean said sadly. she was not angry at her father's part in the matter, as her aunt had feared she might be. it could not have been otherwise, looking at things as he looked at them, she acknowledged, and she grieved for him all the more, knowing that there must mingle much bitterness, perhaps remorse, with his sorrow for his son. "if my mother had but lived!" she said sadly. "ay, lassie! but he kens best who took her hence where we'll a' soon follow. we make muckle ado about our gains and our pains, our loves and our losses, forgetting that `our days are as a shadow, and there is no abiding.'" "a shadow to look back upon, auntie, but a reality as we are going through with them day by day." "ay! that's true, my lassie, and a stern reality whiles. the comfort is that it is a' ordered for us." jean shook her head with a doubtful smile. "only it is not till afterward that we get the good of that knowledge." "and coming afterward it comes ower late, ye think, lassie. but bide ye still and see. and indeed no one need wait till afterwards to know the blessedness o' just lying quiet in his hands. and ye needna wait a day for that, my dear bairn." if jean had spoken, the tears must have come; so she rose and kissed her aunt silently, and then went away. chapter eight. willie calderwood. the name of willie calderwood had never been spoken between the sisters since the day when, standing on the high rocks above the tangle stanes, they had watched the "john seaton" making out to sea. jean was silent for one reason, and may for another; and there were reasons enough that both could see why silence was best, to prevent either of them from feeling such silence strange. willie calderwood had been their companion and their brother's chief friend in the days when they all played together on the rocks and sands of portie--in the days before george dawson had admitted into his heart the thought, that the wealth he had won, and the estate he had made his own, gave his children a right to look higher for their friends than among their less prosperous neighbours. but his children were not of the sort that forget easily, nor were the calderwoods the sort of friends to be easily forgotten. willie had always been a leader among them, a handsome, fearless, kindly lad, and he became a hero to them all, when he went to sea and came home to tell of shipwreck first, and then of strange adventures among strange people; of hunger and cold and suffering, and escape at last. a hero! there were many such heroes in portie who had suffered all these things and more--old men and men old before their time who had passed their lives in whaling ships on the northern seas; who had been wounded or maimed in battles with northern bears and walruses, and with northern frost and snow; and even they made much of the lad who had begun his battles so early. so no wonder that he was a hero to his chosen companions and friends. "they were jist a' bairns thegither," as miss jean had said; but it was during that summer, the last of his mother's life, that young george lost his heart to bonny elsie, and it was during that summer too, that the visionary glory that rested on the name of the returned sailor carried captive the imagination of his sister jean. she did not forget him while she was away from portie; but when she returned they did not fall into their old friendly ways with one another. that would have been impossible even if the sad story of george and elsie had never been to tell; for jean was a woman by this time, and she was miss dawson of saughleas, and he was but the second mate of a whaling ship; a brave man and a good sailor, but not the equal of the rich man's daughter as times were now. so they seldom met, and when they did meet, it was not as it used to be in the old times between them. he never sought her out when they met in the houses of their mutual friends, and when the circumstances of the moment brought them together, he was polite and deferential and not at his ease. jean would fain have been friendly and tried to show it, and not knowing then of her father's anger, because of his son's love, she could not but wonder at her ill success. "maybe he is like tibbie cairnie, and thinks you are set up with london pride," said may laughing. "if i were you, i would ask him." but jean never asked him, and he was not long in portie after they returned. but when he came back again it was very much the same. he was at home the greater part of the winter before he sailed with the "john seaton," and they met him often at other houses, though he never went to saughleas. there were times when they seemed to be felling back into their old friendliness, and jean, who was noted in their small circle for the coolness with which she accepted or rejected the compliments, or the graver attentions of some who seemed to seek her favour, grew gentle and winning, and even playful or teasing, when any movement in the room brought the young sailor to her side. "she is just the jean of the old days," poor willie said to himself, and he could say nothing better than that. they fell back at such times into the kindly speech of their childhood "minding" one another of this or that happy day when they were "a' bairns thegither." they could say little of elsie who was dead, or of george who was lost, in a bright room with others looking on, but the tears that stood in jean's "bonny een" told more than words could have done of her love and sorrow for them both. if she had known all, she might have thought it wise to say nothing; but her words and her wet eyes were as drops of sweet to the lad in the midst of much bitterness. he did not always go home cheered and comforted after the sweetness; but jean did, telling herself that at last they were friends as they used to be--till they met again, and then the chances were, that her "friend" was as silent and deferential and as little eager, apparently, to seek her company as ever; and she could only comfort herself with the thought that the fault was not hers. so it went on strangely and sadly enough for a while, and then jean began to see that though he shunned rather than sought her, he seemed friendly enough with her sister. he seemed to seek her out, and to have much to say to her; and why he should be friendly with may and not with her, she could not easily understand. "unless--and even then?" said jean to herself with a little sinking of the heart. she did not follow out her thought at the moment, but it came back to her afterwards, and on the high rocks as they watched the departing ship, she thought she saw it all clearly, and that she was content. he was her friend, and if he were may's lover, he would still be her friend, and all the more because of that, and time would make all things that might hinder their friendship now, clear to them both. but she did not speak to her sister about this. it was for may to speak to her, she thought at first, and after a while it would not have been easy to speak, and on the whole, silence was best. then as she listened to her aunt's story of their brother and elsie, and of their father's opposition and anger, she was not sure that silence was best. how much of it may might know, she could not tell; but sooner or later she must know it all, and if there was trouble before her, it would make it none the easier to bear, but all the heavier, the longer the knowledge was kept from her. but she shrank from speaking all the same. "i will tell her to-night," she said as she sat by her aunt's side. but she did not, nor the next, and even on the third night she sat long in the dark when the house was silent, listening to the wind among the trees, and the dull sound of the sea, and the painful beating of her own heavy heart, before she found courage to go into her sister's room. "if she is asleep, i will not wake her." but may was not asleep. she had been lingering over various little things that she had found to do, and had only just put out her light when her sister softly opened the door. she seemed to sleep, however, as jean leaned over to listen, but as she turned away, may laughed softly. "well, what is it? i dinna think i have done any thing so very foolish to-day--not more than usual, i mean." for, in her elder sisterly care for her, jean thought it wise to drop a word of counsel now and then, and this was the hour she usually chose to do it. she stooped down and kissed her as she turned, a circumstance that did not very often occur between them. for though they loved one another dearly, they were--after the manner of their kin and country-shy of any expression of love or even of sympathy in the way of caresses. "is there any thing wrong?" said may startled. "did any one ever tell you about--about our geordie and elsie calderwood, may? auntie jean has been speaking about them to me lately." it was not a very good beginning, but she did not know what better to say. may raised herself up, and looked eagerly in her sister's face. "i have heard something. do you mean that you only heard it the other day?" "tell me all you know," said jean, leaning down on the bed beside her. "and why did you not tell me before?" "i did not like--and i thought you must ken about it." "ah! yes. it is sad enough. no wonder you didna like to speak about it. but tell me now all you know." and may did so, and it was very nearly all there was to tell. she had heard the story, not straight through from beginning to end, as jean had heard it from her aunt, but from words dropped now and then by one and another of their friends. and jean could not but wonder that, may having heard so much, she herself should have heard so little. but may knew little of the part her father had taken in the separation of the lovers, how angry he had been, and how determined to put an end to what he called the folly of his son. it was just this that may ought to know, and jean told it in as few words as possible. she wondered a little at the way in which her sister seemed to take it all. "poor elsie! but she might have died even if she had not been sent to the school. how little folk ken! they say in portie that her mother sent her away that she might learn things that would fit her to be the wife of young mr dawson, and by and by the lady of saughleas--and that her pride got a fall. it is a sorrowful story, jean." "and the saddest part of it to us is, that poor geordie is lost and gone from us. and even if he were to come home, it might be little better." "is my father angry yet, jean? or is he sorry? would he do the same if it were all to do over again?" "who can say! he has many thoughts about it, doubtless, and some of them cannot but be bitter enough. but as to his doing differently--" jean shook her head. "but, jean, i canna blame my father altogether. his heart was set on his only son, and george was but a boy." "yes, and aunt jean says if he had but waited with patience my father might have yielded at last." "or george might have changed. he had seen no one else, and though elsie was good, and bonny too, there was a great difference between her and--and some that we have seen,--ladies educated and accomplished as well as beautiful. and, jean, i canna but be sorry for my father." "sorry! that says little. my heart is like to break for him whiles-and it might have been so different!" said jean sadly. "if he were living, we should have heard from him before this time." "who can say? oh! he is living! i canna think he is dead. poor papa, he must have a sore heart often." "jean," said her sister after a long silence, "do you think he would do it all over again? i mean--do you think he would be as hard on--you or me?" "do you mean--willie?" asked jean at last. "well--willie or another. it is not easy for my father to change." "no, it is not. but, may, have patience. things often come round in strange ways when we least expect it. if george would only come again! how long is it since the `john seaton' sailed?" "a good while since." jean could have told her sister the days and even the hours that had passed since then, but she did not. when she asked the question, it was her brother she was thinking of; but may, who could not know that, believed that she was thinking of willie calderwood. "he may be captain next voyage," said may. "but i wish he could leave the sea altogether. my father could open the way for that, if he chose." "leave the sea? is it willie you are speaking about? he would never do it. may, you must not ask it of him. it would be putting him in a false position altogether. he is a true sailor." "oh! i shall not ask him. it would do little good. but i wonder at you all the same. you have no ambition. he can never be more than just a sea captain--and always away." "a sea captain!" repeated jean. "a sailor!--and what would you have? would you put him behind the counter in a shop? or set him to casting up figures or counting money in a bank? would you even old mr petrie or james or any of them with the like of him?" may laughed. "oh! well, a sailor let him be. but ye needna flee at me as though i had said something horrible. and we needna vex ourselves. that will do no good." "it must be late," said jean rising. "she takes it quietly enough, and it is well she does. it would wear her out to be ay thinking and fearing and longing for his coming home, as i long for poor george's. she is ay light-hearted, dear child. god bless her," added jean with a sigh. the rest of the summer passed quietly away. the little corbetts went home strong and brown and with a wonderful knowledge of and delight in their father's mother tongue, rejoicing over the invitation for another visit the next summer, if all should be well. they were much missed in saughleas, and so was miss jean, who, though she enjoyed a visit to her brother and her nieces now and then, liked best the quiet of her own house, and the silent secret doing of the work which she had chosen among the sinful and suffering poor creatures of which, especially in winter-time, portie had its share. her stay at saughleas had done her good. she left her crutch behind her there, and she was able now to go with her staff in one hand and "help and comfort" in the other, to those who in the back sheets and lanes of the town needed her help most. at saughleas they missed her greatly, for various reasons, and chiefly for this, that at meal times, and at other times also, mr dawson was ready to fall into his old habit of silence and reserve, when left alone with his daughters. this silence was good neither for them nor for himself. "and i am going to try and have it otherwise," said jean to herself, as she sat behind the urn, waiting for his coming the first morning they were alone. he came in as usual with a bundle of papers in his hand, letters that had been received last night, and that must be answered this morning as soon as he reached the bank, and in the mean time he meant to look them over while he drank his coffee. "i think," said his daughter looking straight into his face as he adjusted his spectacles, so that he might not let her remark fall as though it had been made to her sister, "i think aunt jean is the woman the most to be envied among all the women i know." "ay! think ye that? and what new light ha'e ye gotten about her to-day?" said her father, arrested by her look rather than her words. "no new light. only i have been thinking about her last night and to-day. she is the best woman i know, and the happiest; and i envy her." "ye have but to follow in her steps, and ye'll be as good as she is,--in time," said her father dryly. "as to her happiness--i should say she perhaps makes the most of the means of happiness given to her, but otherwise i see little cause that you have to envy her. she is reasonable, and doesna let her wishes and her fancies get the better of her good sense, and so she is content." "and if i were reasonable, would i be content, i wonder? as to being as good--that must come of higher teaching and peculiar discipline, and i doubt i shall never be good in her way." "and what for no? your aunt would be the first to tell you that you can get the higher teaching for the asking. and as for discipline--the chances are ye'll get your share as well as the rest of us." "but not just in the same way. a long, patient, laborious, self-forgetting life hers has been--has it not? she is strong and she has been successful; yet she is not hard. she is good, but she is not down on wrong-doers in the way that some good folk are. if i had my choice, i think i would choose to have just such a life as she has had-if it would make me like her." mr dawson looked at his daughter in some surprise. jean was not looking at him, but over his head far away to the sea, bright for the moment, under a gleam of sunshine. "would that be your choice? a life of labour, and then the life of a solitary single woman! i think i see you!" said her father with something like indignation in his tones. may laughed. jean's eyes came back from the sea with a vague, wistful look in them that startled her father. "i think, jean, ye hardly ken what ye're speaking about." "yes. about aunt jean. `a solitary single woman?' no. not solitary. that has such a sorrowful sound. oh! she is not solitary in an unhappy sense; even when she is quite alone in her own house by the sea." "what i mean is, that she has neither husband nor child. she is alone in that sense. and if ye think that she hasna whiles felt--weel--as if she had missed something in life--that's no' my thought." "yes--and that is part of the discipline, i suppose. missed something-yes. but then, having had these things she might have missed that which makes her different from, and better than, any one else. i ken no one like my aunt jean." "weel--ye're no' far wrong there. and if ye had kenned her in her youth, you would have said the same. there were none like her then more than now. but she's growing unco frail-like now, poor body?" added mr dawson with a sigh. and then there was more said. mr dawson went on to tell many stories of his sister's youth, all going to prove that there were few like her for sense and goodness even then. most of these his daughters had heard before, but they liked to listen all the same. and mr dawson forgot his letters, and jean forgot that it was only to keep his eyes away from them, that she had begun to speak about her aunt, and she took courage because of her success. chapter nine. an invitation. she was not always so successful; still she was successful to a degree that surprised herself, in withdrawing her father from the silent and sombre musings which of late had become habitual to him. this was the work which she set herself. her time, while he was in the house, or near it, was given to him. she disturbed him doubtless now and then when he would have been better pleased to be left to himself; but upon the whole he responded to her advances, and by and by showed in many ways that he counted upon her interest in whatever he might be doing, and on such help as she could give. in all matters connected with the management of the estate he took especial pains to claim her attention and interest. she tramped with him over the wet autumn fields in all weathers, and listened to his plans for the improvement of the place in the way of dikes and ditches and drains, and to plans that went further than these--plans which it would take years to carry out well and wisely. her interest was real for the moment, and soon it became eager and intelligent as well. she not only listened to him, but she discussed, and suggested, and even differed from him in various matters, and held to her own opinions in a way that certainly did not displease him. she tired of it all sometimes, however, and though she permitted no sign of it to appear to her father, she could not always hide it from her sister. "and what is the good of it all? you cannot surely be vain enough to think that you are doing any good, or that papa cares to have you tramping about in the wet and the wind." "oh, i like it! and i may as well do it as any thing else. as to papa--yes, i think he likes it. i am better than no one to speak to, and--oh yes, i like it!" "it is all nonsense!" said may with a shrug. "as for papa, he might enjoy it, if it were peter stark, or john stott, or any one that could understand him, or give him a sensible answer;--but you!--what is the use of it?--and just look at your shoes and stockings!" jean looked down, as she was bidden, at her feet, and her soiled petticoats. "they _are_ wet," said she, "and dirty." "and tell me if you can, what is the good of it all?" "it has made me hungry, and it will make me sleep, perhaps. and the best reason for it is, that i like it--as well as any thing." she went away to change her wet things, and came back in her pretty house dress with a knot of gay ribbon at her throat, looking wonderfully bright and bonny her father thought as he came in at the hall door, and so he noticed all the more readily, perhaps, how white and changed she looked afterwards. when he also had changed his wet things, and came in to sit down, she was standing in the darkening room, looking out at the window, leaning on the ledge as though she were tired, and she did not turn round as he passed her to take his usual place at the fireside. "the days are drawing in fast," said he, by way of saying something. "yes, it is already growing dark. i cannot see the sea." "ye needna care. it is an angry sea to-night, and the wind is rising." "yes, the moan of it is in among the trees already, and before morning it will be a cry--a terrible sharp cry--that will not be shut out. an ill night for those at sea." "by no means. the folk at sea are safe enough, so that they bide away from the shore. there will be worse nights than this, and many of them, before the winter be over." "the long, long winter! and think what it must be in greenland seas, with the ice and the dark, and the bitter cold." "lassie, draw the curtains and come to the fire. what ails you at the wind and the sea to-night, more than usual? draw the curtains, and shut out the night, and come and make the tea." and then when jean did his bidding and turned from the window, he saw that her face was white and her eyes strained and anxious. she came to the fire and stooped down, warming her hands at the blaze. "one would think you were a sailor's wife, and that his ship was in danger," said her father. "it is the book she has been reading," said her sister. "that american book about the men who sailed in search of sir john franklin and his crew. what pleasure there can be in poring over any thing so dismal, is more than i can tell." "that is because you do not know. it gives one courage to know that there have been men--that there are men--so patient and so brave. their leader was a hero," said jean with shining eyes. "well, we'll have our tea now," said mr dawson in a tone that made may think he was ill-pleased at something, though he said nothing more. he was wondering what could have come to the lassie so to change the brightness of the face that had met him at the door. may knew that jean must be thinking of the "john seaton," but she knew that her father could have no such thought. nothing was said by any of them for a while, but by the time tea was over, they had fallen into their ordinary mood again, and spoke of other things. but afterwards jean was sorry that she had not taken courage that night to tell him how she had heard that her brother had sailed in the "john seaton" so long ago. for her secret knowledge burdened her sorely. that george should have been at home and then have gone away again without a word, it would be like to break his father's heart to know. the hope of seeing him when the "john seaton" came home might be better than the uncertainty of the present. but if his anger still burned against his father, he might not come home, and such a disappointment would be worse to bear than even the present uncertainty. she wearied herself thinking about it, but she did not know what to do. she longed to tell her aunt. she had almost done so, but her aunt had forbidden her, or so she had thought. and months must still pass before the "john seaton" could be in port again. her thoughts were with her brother night and day, and she was pre-occupied and grave, and grew white and anxious-eyed; and by and by it added to her trouble, to know that her father was observing her. so when he was in the house, all her thoughts were given to the effort to be just as usual. she talked cheerfully and had visitors at the house; and when they were alone she worked busily and steadily, falling back, when her white seam failed her, on may's embroidery; and did her best to grow enthusiastic with her sister over silks and wools of brilliant hue. she practised her music also, and took courage to sing even when her father was in the house. it needed some courage, for their mother had been one of the sweetest of singers, and their father had never heard the voices of his daughters since the days when they used to stand at their mother's side, and sing the songs she loved. no harm came of it. though her father made no remarks, she knew that he listened to her voice in the dark, and if it woke the old sense of pain and loss, it stirred neither anger nor rebellion, as the gentleness of his words and ways made her sure. and so the winter wore on with the usual breaks in the way of hospitalities given and received till the days began to lengthen--and then something happened. there came to the girls an invitation from a friend, to pass a month or two with her in london. the friend had been miss browning, their favourite teacher in their london school. now she was mrs seldon, the wife of a young city merchant, "as happy as the day is long," she wrote, and she promised them a taste of many enjoyments, if they would come and see her as mistress of her own pretty house--free now to come and go at her own will and pleasure. much she said to induce them to come, and much was not needed, as far as may was concerned. mr dawson might have hesitated as to accepting an invitation for his daughters into an unknown household, even though he had every confidence in the good sense and discretion of the lady who invited them. but strangely enough, it happened that mr seldon was the son of almost the only man in london with whom he had ever had other than mere business intercourse, and the young man himself was not altogether a stranger to him. as men of business, father and son were worthy of respect, and socially occupied an unexceptionable position, and mr dawson was more than pleased that his daughters should see something of london, in circumstances so favourable as a residence with such people would imply. so his consent was given readily. jean listened and said little through all the preliminary discussion of the matter; but when it was settled that the invitation was to be at once accepted, she quietly declined to leave home. she gave several good reasons why one should pay the visit rather than them both, and several why it should be may that should pay it. she gave several reasons also, why it would be wrong for both of them to leave home at once. their father would be left in the house alone. their aunt was by no means strong. indeed if there were no other reason she would never think of leaving her alone during the spring months, which had during the last few years been so trying to her. then there had been something said about certain changes to be made in the early spring in the grounds and gardens. these might certainly be put off till another year, as her father suggested, but it would be a pity to do so, and if they were to be made, jean must be at home to superintend them. "and indeed, papa, it was may who used to be miss browning's friend, much more than i. mrs seldon would enjoy may's company better than mine, and may would take ten times the pleasure that i should take. how should i have any pleasure knowing that my sister was lonely and disappointed at home. as to both going, it is out of the question. and i can go next time." of course mr dawson could not do otherwise than yield to such an array of good reasons, especially as may was as eager to go as her sister was to stay; but he had an uneasy feeling that jean herself had needed none of these good reasons to induce her to remain. it pleased him, of course, that she should like home best, and he was glad not to be left to the trial of a silent and forsaken house during a gloomy month or two. but it did not please him that jean should care so little for the enjoyment that her sister anticipated with such delight. it was not natural, and he wearied himself trying to imagine what it might be. "i will see what my sister says about it," thought he. but in the mean time he could only let her take her way; and he and may set out together on their journey, for he would not permit his daughter to travel alone. and then for a few days jean had the house to herself, and during these days, she became aware of one thing. she must turn her thoughts away from the constant dwelling on poor lost geordie, and his wanderings on northern seas, or she would lose the power of thinking or caring for any one or any thing in the world besides. it had nearly come to that already. if the wind blew, it was of him she thought, and it was the same if the sun shone, or the rain fell. night and day her heart was heavy with fears for him. it was the shipping news she read first in the papers, about storms and wrecks of whale ships that had come home, and of some that might never come, till she grew morbid and heartsick with her doubts and her fears. when she went to the town, or took her daily walk by the sea, she spoke with the fishermen about the signs of wind and weather, and with certain old sailors--long past sailing because of age and rheumatism--about the voyages they had made, and about the dangers of the deep, and the dreariness of arctic seas when winter nights were long and the days "but a blink." and of late, she had come to be aware that now and then as they talked, there was a look of wondering curiosity in their dim old eyes. they took her sixpences, and her "bits o' backey" with smiles and nods of encouragement, and with assurances "that there was nothing like keeping a stout heart and a cheerful, on the shore as well as on the sea." "and they canna ken about geordie," she said to herself wondering. 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. and there were reasons of another kind, jean well knew, why she should look with little friendliness on any one in the house of saughleas-reasons that must prevent all renewal of the intimacy that had been so warm and pleasant during her mother's lifetime. still she had almost always been friendly in manner with jean when they had chanced to meet, but jean had been but seldom in her house since she had come from school, and she was glad of the excuse which her proposed invitation to marion gave her to go there. for it had come into her mind that she might speak to mrs calderwood about the trouble which she found it not easy to bear alone. chapter ten. mrs calderwood. mrs calderwood's house faced the sea a little nearer the pier head than miss jean's, and miss dawson nodded and smiled to her aunt in the window as she passed, hardly confessing to herself that she felt a little anxious as to how she might be received. "but she'll not be likely to put on her stiff, silent manner in her own house," said she, encouraging herself. mrs calderwood was not alone. mrs cairnie was with her, asking advice and sympathy for "a beeled thoom," and mrs calderwood was in the act of applying a warm poultice to relieve the pain. in the poor old woman's eagerness to tell her troubles to a new listener, the awkwardness of the first moment was got over. nor was mrs cairnie in any hurry to leave when the interesting subject was exhausted. "so ye didna gang up to lunnon with your father, miss dawson? ye're wise to bide and let the great folk come to seek you. it's a thankless job whiles gaen after them." 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. god 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 god 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 muff 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, lassie! 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 passing 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 pass, may and i--never thinking whom she was carrying away." "and had robbie seen him?" "no. i never asked him. i don't think he knew. it was in a note that i got from--your son." "and what did he say?" asked mrs calderwood in a little. "he said i was to come to the pier head before the ship sailed, and that perhaps i might be able to persuade my brother--though he could not. but he came too late. the ship had sailed." "well, we can only wait now till she comes home again." "yes, we can only wait. i am glad he went with--willie, who will be good to him. that is all my comfort." "yes, willie will stand his friend whatever happens." there was no more said, for marion came dancing in. "yes, mavis dear, your mother says you may come home with me. i must go and see aunt jean first, and you will find me there." "and, miss dawson, take a good rest, and we'll go round by the sea shore. it is so long since i had a walk with you. see the sun is coming out after all." "well," said jean nodding and smiling. then she shook hands with mrs calderwood, but they did not linger over their good-byes. marion turned a wistful look to her mother's face when they were alone. but her mother would not meet it, but hastened her away. jean turned towards the pier head, to let the wind from the sea blow her hot cheeks cool, before she came into her aunt's sight, and as she went she was saying to herself,-"it was may she was thinking about i could not speak, because may has never spoken to me. and after all--i dare say she is right. `the sense and courage to keep silence.' no wonder that his mother should say that, who can never forget her poor bonny elsie." it was mid-day--the hour when the usual frequenters of the pier head were home at their dinners, and jean stood alone for some time looking out to the sea, and thinking her own thoughts. they were troubled thoughts enough. "the sense and courage to keep silence." her temptation was not to speech. it was sense and courage to speak that she needed. her aunt too had told her that silence was best--that foolish fancies, that might have vanished otherwise, sometimes took shape and became troubles when put into words. all at once it came into jean's mind, that it could not have been of her brother's loss, but of something quite different that her aunt had been thinking when she said this. could it have been of may and willie calderwood? "she too must think that my father would never yield, and that it would be just the same sad story over again. but still, i am not sure that silence is best." by and by those who worked or loitered on the pier head, came dropping back in twos and threes, and jean knew that unless she would keep her aunt's dinner waiting she must go. miss jean had said to herself that the first word spoken would reveal to the girl her own sad secret. but it had not done so--or she would not acknowledge it--even though the remembrance of mrs calderwood's words and manner brought a sudden hot colour to her face. "it was may she was thinking about," she repeated, as she went down the street. she looked "bonny and bright--a sicht for sair e'en," nannie, her aunt's maid, said, when she came in. she did not stay very long. she had intended to spend the day, but marion calderwood was going home with her, and she would have to come another day, she told her aunt. indeed marion came in before dinner was over, and jean was glad to have a long walk and the young girl's gay companionship, rather than an afternoon of quiet under her aunt's keen, though loving, eyes. chapter eleven. a visitor. mr dawson was longer away than he had intended to be when he left. a visit was made to the corbetts on the way, and from thence came a letter telling jean to prepare to receive another visitor when her father should return. hugh, the corbett who came next after emily, a schoolboy of fourteen, had been so unfortunate as to hurt his knee in some of his holiday wanderings during the previous summer, and had been a prisoner in the house for months, and mr dawson proposed to bring him to portie for a change. jean was promised no pleasure from the visit. the lad was ill, and "ill to do with," irritable and impatient of his long confinement in the house. there was little enough space in the corbett house for those who were well, and it would do the lad good to see something else besides the four walls of the rather dim parlour where he had been a prisoner so long. he must be a prisoner even at saughleas for a time, poor lad; but when the spring came so that he could get out, and get the good of the sea air, he would doubtless be better; and in the mean time, said her father, jean must make the best of him. the next letter was from london, telling of their safe arrival, and kind reception, but neither that nor the next, told the day on which mr dawson might be expected home. indeed it told nothing in a very satisfactory manner; but jean gathered that they found themselves in very favourable circumstances for seeing many of the wonderful sights of london, and the only thing they seemed to regret was, that jean was not there to enjoy it all with them. a good many names of people and places were mentioned, but no very clear idea was conveyed with regard to them all, and jean was advised to wait patiently for her father's return to hear more; and this she was content to do. her father came home the better for his trip, jean saw at the first glimpse she got of his face. of course the first minutes were given to care of the lame boy, who was tired and shy, but when he had got his tea, and was happily disposed of for the night, jean sat down to hear what her father had to tell. not that she expected to hear much at any one time. his news would come out by little and little on unexpected occasions, as was his way with news, but he answered her questions about her sister, and her friends, and gave his opinion of them and their manner of life readily enough. he had evidently enjoyed his stay among them, and acknowledged that he had known nothing of london before this visit. jean listened, pleased and interested; but all the time she was waiting to hear a certain name which had occurred more than once in the brief letters of her sister, and which had also been mentioned once at least by her father. "and you went to the british museum?" said she at last. "yes. i had been there before, but this was different. it is one thing to wander about, looking at things which you don't understand, till eyes and mind and body grow weary,--and never a clear idea of any thing gotten, to keep and carry away to look at afterwards--and it is quite another thing to go about in the company of one who, by two or three words, can put life and spirit into all there is to see. mr manners was with us that day." and it seemed that mr manners had been with them other days, and on one occasion when her father had mentioned his name several times, jean asked,-"and who is mr manners? you have not told me who he is." "he is a man with a clear head o' his ain, who will make his mark yet, or i'm much mistaken. no, he was not staying with the seldons, though he was there often. he has rooms near the university in which he is a professor. i thought much of him." "what is he like? is he old or young?" asked jean. "oh! he is not young. not that he is to call old either. he is tall and thin rather, and stoops a little, and he wears glasses whiles, but not when he is reading." jean laughed. "stoops and wears glasses!" she was laughing at herself. she had been conscious of a little discomfort, at the frequent mention of this man's name. a new interest and influence had come into her sister's life in which she had no part, and it saddened her though she acknowledged that her sadness was unreasonable. but she was a little anxious as well as sad, because, having so long watched over her sister, she feared that in the new circumstances in which she found herself, her care might be needed and missed--which was also unreasonable, since she might have gone with her had she cared to do so, and since her sister had both sense and judgment to care for herself. and for the special danger which was in jean's thoughts--though she would not allow that she feared it--surely may was safe from that. the child liked attention and admiration, and got them wherever she went; but her heart was not in her own keeping, as jean believed, and so she was safe, and would come back to them as she went; and jean acknowledged her own folly in being either anxious or sad. but all the same she laughed and was, pleased, that the new friend she had found should be "not young, though not just to call old," as her father had said, and that he should stoop a little and wear glasses. so she determined to put all unpleasant possibilities out of her thoughts, and the fact that the professor's name no longer found frequent place in her sister's letters, made it all the easier for her to do so. besides, she had more to occupy herself as the winter passed away, and less time to brood and vex herself; and as it was not in her nature when she was well to vex herself without sufficient occasion, her occupations helped her to a better kind of cheerfulness than that which of late she had sometimes assumed for her father's sake. young corbett was her best help toward a more reasonable frame of mind with regard to all things. the journey had been too much for him, or he had in some way injured his knee again, for he suffered much pain in it for a time, and his young hostess was kept constantly busy, ministering to both mind and body. dr maitland, the chief portie practitioner, took a different view of the lad's case from that which the doctor at home had taken, and he was subjected to different treatment which told to his benefit after a time. but just at first he suffered a good deal, and jean "had her ain adoes wi' him," as phemie, her maid, declared. he was not an ill-tempered boy, though mr dawson had received that impression from what he had seen and heard in his own home. he suffered, and he was irritable, and impatient of necessary restraint. but he made an effort towards patience and submission to circumstances in the presence of strangers which he possibly would not have made at home, and the change and the quiet of the house helped his patience on to cheerfulness before very long. "how my father and mother should have ventured to inflict such a nuisance upon you amazes me; and how you should consent to it amazes me more still," said he to jean when he had been two days in the house, and when he was beginning to feel himself not so strange and forlorn as he had felt at first. "but i did not consent i was not consulted," said jean laughing. "no," said the boy gravely. "and you could hardly refuse to have me when i was laid down at your door. but that only makes it all the more surprising that you should--take so much trouble with me." "but then it was to my father's door you came, and he brought you himself. don't be foolish. if i were lame and ill and needed your help, would not you be willing to give it to me?" "but that would be quite different. and i could not help you, besides." "well, never mind. i am glad papa brought you here. i am going, by and by, to send you home strong and well, and fit to do a man's work in the world. and in the mean time--though i acknowledge that you are whiles a wee fractious and ill to do with--i like you. i'm glad my father brought you here, and we'll be friends always," and jean held out her hand. the tears started in the lad's eyes. "it is very good of you," said he with a gasp. after that, life went better with him. when after a little he could be taken every day and laid on the sofa in the parlour, he began to feel the good of the change. he had plenty to amuse him. he liked reading, well enough, as boys like it, but he was not a book worm; and jean might have found him heavy on her hands during the first weeks after he came down-stairs, if he had had only books to fall back upon. but to her surprise and his own, an unfailing source of interest and pleasure presented itself to him. scarcely a vessel for the least ten years had come into the harbour of portie without bringing some curious or beautiful thing to one member or another of the dawson family, until the house was filled with them. a wonderful collection they made,--corals, shells, minerals, stuffed birds, beetles, and butterflies; and a scarcely less wonderful collection of objects of art and skill. a great trouble this accumulation became to housemaids, and even to the young mistress of the house, who could not always trust the dusting and keeping them in order to unaccustomed hands. there were many valuable and beautiful things among them, and almost all of them had some pleasant association with the giver, which made it not easy to part with them even to persons who would have valued them, or to put them out of sight. so there were a great many of them scattered up and down in the house. in these the boy found constant interest and delight, and when he had gone over all that were within his reach, he was quite ready to begin again. and then jean bethought herself of the quantities of things which in past years had been bestowed in out-of-the-way corners of the house, to make room for new treasures, and with some trouble to herself, but with some pleasure also, these were sought out, and brought to the lad, as he could not go to them. of course the result was an untidy room, and after a while, confusion so utter as not to be endured patiently. this lasted for a few days, and then a chance word from the lad, suggested the idea of proper cases being made in which all these things might be bestowed, and so arranged as that they might be more carefully preserved, and made useful as well as pleasant to look at. "there are few things in our town museum at home so rare or so beautiful as several of these. i have been through ours scores of times. i like it." rather to jean's surprise and much to her delight, her father took up the idea as a good one, and entered into the discussion of the different kinds of cases required, with interest. the cabinet-maker was sent for, and by the help of hugh's description of the arrangements made for such things in the museum of his native town, they succeeded in settling all things in a satisfactory manner. the long hall extending from one side of the house to the other was the place to receive them. therefore the cases must be handsome as furniture as well as convenient for the reception of the articles to be arranged in them; and in a shorter time than would have at first seemed possible, john helvie finished the work in a way which pleased himself and his employers. in the mean time may was written to for books about shells and minerals, and all such things; and hugh, and even jean, grew enthusiastic over them. and so the last months of winter passed more quickly than the first had done. may's visit was prolonged beyond the six weeks which had been at first stipulated for, and the third month was nearly at an end before any thing was said about her return. she was well and happy, and her friend was happy in her company. she was not especially needed at home, and neither her father nor her sister cared to shorten her holiday, as she called it. but if jean had known what was to be the end of it all, the chances are that she would have been speedily recalled. as hugh grew better and the weather became milder, a new means of pleasure and health was presented to him by mr dawson in the shape of a small shetland pony. he was one trained to gentleness and past his youth, so that there was no risk in riding, when the doctor's permission had been obtained. it could hardly be called riding for some time. it was slowly creeping along, with some one at his side, to make sure that no stumble should harm the still painful knee; but it was a source of much enjoyment to the lad who had been a prisoner so long. jean was most frequently his companion, and at such times their favourite course was along the sands when the tide was out, or by the path which led over the rocks. they lingered often on their way, to talk to the old sailors who remembered the lad's father and grandfather, and who had much to tell about his grandfather's goodness, and his father's wild exploits as a lad. they talked with the fishwives also in the town, and made friends with the bairns, who, as the days grew milder, came in flocks to their favourite playground, the sands above the town. all this was good for the lad, who caught a little healthy colour from the fresh sea breezes, and day by day, mr dawson thought, grew more like his companion and chief friend in the days when they were both young. but it was not so good for jean. for their talk with the old sailors, and the fishwives, and indeed their talk together, was mostly of the sea and its dangers, the treasures which it hid, and the far lands that lay beyond it. she told him tales of the sea, and repeated songs and ballads made about sea kings and naval heroes of all times, and sang them in the gloaming, with their wild refrains, which look like nonsense written down, but which sung, as jean could sing them, deepened the pathos of the sad and sometimes terrible tales which were told; and the lad was never weary of listening. and all this was not good for jean. it stirred up again the old fears and doubts and questionings as to whether she had done right to keep silence about her brother, and whether she ought even now to speak. the wistful, far-away look which her father could not bear to see, came back to her eyes, now and then; and on stormy nights, when the moan of the wind was in the trees, and the sound of the sea came up like a sigh, the old restlessness, which in her father's presence she could only quiet by constant and determined devotion to work of some kind, came upon her. she could not read at such times or even listen. her "white seam," on which her father used to remark, was her best resource. he remarked on it still, and not always pleasantly, and jean began to be aware that his eyes now followed her movements as they had done in the first part of the winter, and that even when he occupied himself with a book, or with his papers, he listened to the talk into which she and hugh sometimes fell. she did her best to be cheerful, and with the lad's help it was easier than it had once been; and she comforted and strengthened herself with the thought that the year was nearly over, and that it could not now be long before the "john seaton" came home. chapter twelve. northern seas. "do ye ken what ye are doing, jean? ye're doing your best to mak' a sailor o' the lad; and ye'll do him an ill turn and get him into trouble if that happens. his father has other plans for him." her father had come in to find jean singing songs in the gloaming. it could hardly be said that she was singing to hugh. she would very likely have been singing at that hour, if she had been quite alone; but she would not have been singing,- "the queen has built a navy of ships, and she has sent them to the sea," in a voice that rang clear and full in the darkness, and she would not have followed it with the ballad of "sir patrick spens," which mr dawson was just in time to hear. he was not sure about all this singing of sea songs; but he said nothing at the time, and sat down to listen. he had heard the ballad scores of times, and sung it too; but he felt himself "creep" and "thrill," as jean--her voice now rising strong and clear, now falling into mournful tones like a wail--went through the whole seven and twenty verses. she said it rather than sung it, giving the refrain, not at every verse, but only now and then; the pathos deepening in her tones as she went on towards the end, when- "the lift was black, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea." and there were "tears in her voice" as she ended- "and lang, lang may the ladies sit wi' their fans into their hands, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! "and lang, lang may the maidens sit wi' the gowd (gold) kames in their hair, awaiting for their ain true loves, for them they'll see nae mair--" and then the refrain--which cannot be written down--repeated once and again, each time more softly, till it seemed to die away and be lost in the moan of the wind among the trees. no one spoke for a minute or two. "i think you might give us something mair cheerfu' than that, jean, my lassie," said her father, inclined to resent his own emotion and the cause of it. "and in the gloaming too!" "the gloaming is just the time for such ballads, papa. but i didna ken ye were come in. shall i ring for lights now?" said jean rising. "there's nae haste. it's hardly dark yet." jean crossed the room to the window that looked out to the sea, and leaning on it, as she had a fashion of doing, softly sang the refrain of her song again. her father could not see her face, but he knew well the look that was on it at the moment,--a look which always pained him, and which sometimes made him angry; and the chances are he would have spoken sharply to her, if hugh had not said after a little while, "but sailors don't go to sea now to bring home king's daughters, or even to fight battles with their foes. they go for wages, as the navvies do on railways, and the factory people in the towns. it is just the common work of the world with them as it is with others--buying and selling--fetching and carrying. there is nothing heroic in that." "of course--just the common work of the world. but i would not think less, but more, of the courage and endurance needed to do it, because of that," said jean gravely, turning round to look at him. "it is just like the navvies, as you say, that they may live and bring up their families; and i think it is grand to leave their homes, and face danger, just because it is their duty, and with no thought beyond." "they get used to the danger, and it is nothing to them, i suppose. and it must be fine to be going here and there, and seeing strange countries, and all sorts of people. i should like that i would like to have gone with sir humphrey gilbert, or sir walter raleigh in the old times. that must have been grand." "yes," repeated jean, as she came forward and sat down by the fire. "that must have been grand--the sailing away over unknown seas to unknown lands. they had hope, but they could have had no knowledge of what was before them." "what did they care for danger or hardship, or even death! they were opening the way to a new world." "yes. if they could only have had a glimpse of all that was to follow! i dare say they did too--some of them." "yes; walter raleigh looked forward to great things. it was worth a man's while to live as those men lived. it was not just for wages that they sailed the sea." mr dawson laughed. "that is the way you look at it, is it? and how many--even among their leaders--thought about much except the gold they were to find, and the wealth and glory they were to win! it was as much work for wages then as now. it is a larger world than it was in those days, but the folk in it ha'e changed less than ye think; in that respect at least." there was a good deal more talk of the same sort, jean putting in a word now and then, and what she said, for the most part, went to show, that in doing just the common work of the world, the buying and selling, the fetching and carrying, of which she thought hugh had spoken a little scornfully, there were as many chances for the doing of deeds of courage and patience, as there could have been in the old times which he regretted. there were such deeds done daily, and many of them, and the men who did them were heroes, though their names and their deeds might never be known beyond the town in which they had been born. she told of some things done by portie men, and her father told of more, having caught the spirit of the theme from jean's thrilling tones and shining eyes, and from one thing they went on to another, till at last jean said,-"i was reading a book not long since--" and when she had got thus far hugh surprised mr dawson by suddenly rising from the sofa on which he had been lying all this time, and still more by hopping on one foot, without the help of crutch or cane, to the fireside and then laying himself down on the hearth-rug. "my lad, i doubt the wisdom of that proceeding," said he gravely. "oh! there is no harm done. miss dawson is going to tell us about the book she has been reading lately, and i like to see her face when she is telling a story." mr dawson laughed. he liked that himself. in her desire to withdraw her father from the silent indulgence of his own thoughts, into which he was inclined to fall, when left alone with her sister and herself, jean, when other subjects of conversation failed them, had sometimes fallen back on the books she had been reading, and talked about them. she could give clearly and cleverly enough the outlines of a theory, or the chief points in an argument. she could tell a story graphically, using now and then effectively the gift of mimicry of which her aunt had been afraid. mr dawson's constant occupation had left him little time for general reading during the past, and had made the habit not easy to adopt now that he might have found leisure for it. but he enjoyed much having the "cream" of a book presented in this pleasant way by his daughter. so he also drew forward his chair, prepared to listen to what she might have to say, understanding quite well how the boy might like to see her face as she talked. "well," said jean, "we need not have the lights, for i can knit quite as well in the dark. it is a sad book, rather. but i like no book that i have read for a long time, so well as this. it is about men who were willing, glad even, to take their lives in their hands, and sail away to northern seas, in hope of finding some trace of sir john franklin and his men. "it was not for wages that they went, hugh, my lad; at least it was not with most of them. it was with the hope--and it was only a hope, and not a certainty--of saving the lives of men who were strangers to them, who were not even their own countrymen. and they went, knowing that years might pass before they could see their homes again, and that some among them never might come home. "it is a sad story, because they did not find the men, nor any trace of them. but it was worth all they suffered, and all that was sacrificed, just to show to the world that was looking on, so noble an example of courage and strength and patience as theirs. but i am beginning at the wrong end of the story." jean had read with intense interest the history so clearly and modestly written by the leader of the band, and she told it now with a power and pathos that made her father wonder. of course there was much in the book on which she could not touch. she kept to the personal narrative, telling of the hope that had taken them from their homes, and that sustained them through the night of the arctic winter, as they lay ice bound in the shelter of a mountain of ice on a desolate shore, when sickness came to most of their number, and death to more than one. she told of long journeys made in the dimness of returning day, of the glad recognition of known landmarks, of the long, vain search for the lost men--of how hope fell back to patience, and patience to doubt and dread, as they waited for the sun and the summer winds to break the chains that bound their good ship in that world of ice, and set them free. and then, when their doubt and dread became certainty, as the long arctic day began to decline, and the choice lay between another winter in the ice-bound ship, and an endeavour to find their way over the frozen wastes that lay between them and the open sea, beyond which lay their homes, some of their number chose to go; but their leader would not forsake the ship, and a few of his men would not forsake him. and beside those brave souls who held their duty dearer than their thoughts of home, there were some who were sick, and some who were helpless through the bitter cold and the hardships they had borne, who had no choice but to stay and take what poor chance there might be of getting home with the ship, should the sun and the warm winds of a summer yet far before them set them free at last. "and now," said jean her voice falling low, "the time to test their courage had come." she had told the story hitherto--in many more words than are written here--with eager gestures, and with eyes that challenged admiration for her heroes. but now her work fell on her lap, and her face was shaded from the firelight, and though she spoke rapidly still and eagerly, she spoke very softly, as she went on to tell how with a higher courage than had been needed yet, their leader looked the future in the face--seeing in it for himself, and for those for whom, as their commander, he was in a sense responsible, suffering from cold and hunger, from solitude and darkness, and from the wearing sickness of mind and body that these are sure to bring. "`with god's help we may win through,' said this brave and patient spirit. "and there were none who could turn cowardly under such a leadership as his," said jean, with a sound that was like a sob, her father thought. "and so they all fell to doing with a will what might be done to protect themselves from the bitter cold, and to provide against some evils that were possible, and against others that were certain to come upon them. and surely they had god's help, as their leader had said; and those pain-worn men, in the darkness of that long night, saw in him what is not often seen--a glad and full obedience to our lord's command, for the chief to become the servant of all. there was no duty of servant or nurse too mean for him to do. not once or twice, but daily and hourly, as there was need, during all that time of waiting, when he only called himself well, because he was not utterly broken down and helpless, as almost all the others were. "patience, courage, cheerfulness, they saw in him, and they saw nothing else. for the souls and spirits of these men were in his hands, as well as their bodies, and if his courage and cheerfulness had failed in their sight, alas! for them. "but they did not fail. and even in his solitary hours--in the night when he watched that they might sleep--and in his long, and toilsome, and often vain wanderings over the frozen land and sea in search of the food that began to fail before the end came--surely he was not left to even a momentary sense of desertion and discouragement, to a brave man an experience more terrible than death! "that was known only to god and him, for strength came equal to his day, as far as they could see who leaned on him and trusted him through all. he did not fail them. "and when, after months had gone by, the band who had left them, and turned as they believed their laces homeward, came back to the ship broken and discouraged with all they had passed through, he gave them a brother's welcome, and gladly shared with them the little that was left of food and fire and comfort, and doubled his cares and labours for their sakes. "as time went on, death came to some, and the rest waited, hardly hoping to escape his call. but the greater number won through at last. they had to leave their good ship ice bound still, and then they took their way, through many toilsome days, over that wide desolation of ice and snow, going slowly and painfully because of the sick and the maimed among them, till at last they came to the open sea. then trusting themselves to their boats, broken and patched, and scarcely seaworthy by this time, they sailed on for many days, making southward as the great fields of floating ice opened to let them through,--and still oh, after the sea was clear, till they came to land where christian people received them kindly, and here they rested for a while. "and one day they sailed out on the sea to meet a great ship that came sailing up from the south, and over this ship the flag of their country was flying; and as they drew near, one looked down on their little boat and said, `is this doctor kane?' and then, of course, their troubles were over, and soon they were safe at home." no one spoke for a little while. phemie brought in the lights, and then jean laid down her knitting, and came to the table to make the tea. after that mr dawson went to his own room, and hugh lay musing or dreaming on the rug till it was time for him to go to bed. it was when jean went to say good-night to her father before she went to bed that he spoke to her. "you will be making a sailor of the lad--with all that foolish singing and talk about heroes and sea kings. what on earth has set you off on that tack? the sea! the sea! and nothing but the sea! his father would be ill-pleased, i can tell you; for hugh is a clever lad, and he has other views for him." jean had nothing to say for herself, and took her father's rebuke humbly and in silence. she had not thought for a moment of influencing the lad towards the life of a sailor; and when she had taken a minute to consider the matter, she was quite sure that no harm had been done, and so she assured her father. "i would send the lad home, rather than run the risk," said he with some vexation. "yes, it would be better," said jean. "but there is no risk. hugh is older than his years, and he has taken his bent already, or i am much mistaken. whether it will be according to his father's will, i cannot say; but there is no danger of his turning his thoughts to the sea. he might like to visit strange countries, if the way were open to him; and with opportunity he might become a great naturalist, for his knowledge of all natural objects and his delight in them is wonderful." to this mr dawson had nothing to say. and indeed it was not about hugh that he was at that moment troubling himself; but his trouble was not to be spoken about to jean, and with rather a gruff good-night he let her go. but he could not put his trouble out of his thoughts. it had been there before, though he had almost forgotten it for a while. "the sea! the sea! and ay the sea!" repeated he discontentedly. "what can have come to the lassie? she has no one on the sea to vex her heart about, unless indeed--she may fancy--that her brother is there," and the shadow that always came with thoughts of his son, fell darkly on his face. "or--unless--but that can hardly be. there is no one, and she has sense. and yet--her brother--" he rose, sick with the intolerable pain that a vivid remembrance of his loss always awakened, and there came to him suddenly a thought of elsie calderwood and her brother, the handsome mate of the "john seaton," now almost a year at sea. he sank into his chair again, as if some one had struck him a blow. "that would be terrible!" said he, putting the thought from him with an angry pang. the remembrance of captain harefield's admiration, and the indifference with which his daughter had received it came back to him. could there have been any thing besides the good sense for which her aunt gave her credit to account for her indifference? could it be possible that young calderwood could be in her thoughts? he wearied himself thinking about it, long after the fire had gone out on the hearth, and he believed that he had convinced himself that his sudden fear was unreasonable and foolish. it could not be true. "but true or not, i must keep my patience. it might have ended differently with--the other,--if i had taken a different way with him. i see that now. i might have led him, though i could not drive him; and i fancy that would be true of his sister as well." he went to his room with a heavy heart, but it grew lighter in the morning. he had been letting his fancy and his fears run away with his judgment, he thought, when he came into the breakfast-room, to find jean and the lame boy interested and merry over a last year's birds' nest which jean in her early walk had found in the wood. it was birds and birds' nests that made the subject of conversation this morning, and mr dawson might well express his wonder that a lad, born and brought up in a great town, should have so much to say about them. jean suggested the idea of his having played truant whiles, to advance his knowledge in this direction, and the lad only answered with a shrug which was half a confession. his holidays, at least, had all been spent in the fields and woods even in the winter-time. "and if i could have my own way, all my days should be spent--in the woods and fields," said he gravely, as if it were rather a sore subject with him. mr dawson left the two considering the matter as though nothing of greater interest than birds and birds' nests existed for either of them. "a far safer subject than the dangers of the sea," said he as he went his way. chapter thirteen. a discovery. in the beginning of april may came home--"bonnier than ever," as jean told her father, as she met him at the door. he laughed when he heard her say it, but he agreed with her, and told her so when a day or two had passed. he could hardly make it clear to himself, nor could jean, in what she was different from her former self. it was because she was growing to be more like her mother as she grew older, he said. and jean by and by came to the conclusion that something had happened to her sister while she was away--something to make her hopeful and happy, and at the same time graver and more thoughtful; yet she was very merry and sweet, and it was oh! so pleasant to have her home again. they made holidays of these first days of her home coming, and jean was able to forget, or put aside, her sad and anxious thoughts for a while. but there came a day when she well knew they would not be forgotten or put aside. "may," said she one morning, "let us go down to the tangle stanes to-day. this is the tenth, ye ken." "well, let us go. it is a bonny day. but what about the tenth. i don't know what you mean." "have you forgotten? the `john seaton' sailed on the tenth," said jean gravely. may's colour changed a little. so did jean's. but while may reddened, jean grew pale. "have they heard bad news? surely it is time that they were coming home again," said may. "they might have been home before this time. but the voyage is often longer. i don't think there is any anxiety as yet." "well--we can go down to the tangle stanes. and will hugh come too? i see the pony is brought round." but they could not go at once, for jean heard her father's voice calling her, and went to his room. as she did not return immediately, may and the lad set off together. "jean will come to the tangle stanes. i will wait for her there. and you can go on by yourself, hugh, and meet us there afterwards." and a message to this effect was left for miss dawson. jean found her father sitting with an open letter in his hand. he made a movement as though he meant to give it to her, but withdrew it again saying,-"i fancy it was only meant for my eye. i have a surprise for you, jean. mr manners, the university professor i told you about, writes, offering a visit. he does not say when, but soon--as soon as may be." "mr manners! i did not know that you had asked him, papa." "oh, yes! i asked him in a general way, as i did others--if he should ever be in this part of the country. but he is coming for a particular reason, it seems." "papa! not for may?" said jean sitting down suddenly. "well--it looks like it, though how you should have guessed it is queer enough. it never came into my mind, often as i saw them together. is it from any thing your sister has said?" "may has said nothing to me--nothing." "i acknowledge that i am surprised. i should not have supposed that he was at all the man to be taken with a girl like may. if it had been you now--" "are you pleased, papa? will you let him come? and would you give him may?" "may must decide that for herself. all that he asks now is my leave to come and speak for himself. he does not wish any thing to be said to her till he says it himself." "and will you let him come?" asked jean gravely. "well, i think he has a right to be heard. yes, i think we must let him come." "is mr manners a rich man, papa?" "a rich man? i should say not. indeed he tells me as much as that. he has a professional income, enough to live comfortably upon. he is a scholar and a gentleman, and money is a secondary consideration." "yes--if every thing else is right," said jean a little surprised. she had not supposed that in any case, money would be a secondary consideration with her father. "but he is a stranger, and--an englishman." mr dawson laughed. "an englishman! that can hardly be put as an objection, i should think. he is a stranger--in a sense--but he is a man well-known in his own circle, and beyond it--a man much respected, they tell me." jean knew by her father's manner that he was as much pleased as he was surprised. "she is very young," said she in a little. "she is old enough to know her own mind, i suppose, and there need be no haste, if it is to be. i think i must let him come." "and i am not to speak to her?" "oh! as to that, i suppose he only meant that he wished to tell his own story. still as there is no time set for his coming, it may be as well to say nothing for a day or two." "very well," and jean rose and went away. "she doesna seem to be over weel pleased at this, but she'll come round. i'm glad that it should be her sister rather than her that i maun part with. i could ill spare my jean," said mr dawson to himself, as his eye followed her as she moved slowly down the walk. "though i dare say her turn will come," he added with a sigh. it was not that jean was ill-pleased, but she was disturbed at the thought of trouble that might be before them. "my father will never listen to a word about willie calderwood. and unless may is very firm--" and she could not but have serious doubts of may's firmness in withstanding the will of her father. "but at least he will not force her to many any one else. i could help her to stand out against such a thing as that. and i will too," said jean. but a greater surprise than her father had given her at home, awaited her at the tangle stanes. may sat on the lower ridge of rock where she had sheltered herself that day, while jean watched for the "john seaton." this was a very different day from that. there was no wind to-day and the sun shone and the air was soft and warm. the sea was calm and blue as the sky--with only here and there a touch of white where the tiny wavelets broke on the half hidden rocks beyond the tangle stanes. jean stood still, and looked out upon it, pondering many things, then her eye fell on her sister. she was singing softly to herself, as she plucked at the dried stalks of last summer's weeds that still clung to the sheltered side of the rock, or gathered the broken bits of stone, and threw them down into the sea. she was looking neither sad nor anxious, she was smiling, at her own thoughts, jean fancied, as she stood still a minute or two looking down upon her. then may turned and saw. "such a bonny day?" said she. "yes--a bonny day indeed. where is hugh?" "he's not far away. i told him that we would wait for him here. will you come down, or shall i come up to you?" "i'll come to you. some one might join us if we were to stay up in sight, and i have something to say to you. or rather i have a question to ask you about some one." "well, come then. is it about anyone in--london?" asked may smiling, while a little colour rose to her cheek. "no," said jean gravely. "i am going to ask you about willie calderwood. and indeed i think you might have spoken more plainly to me long ago." may laughed. "i have often wondered that you have never spoken plainly to me." "have you? well, being your elder sister, perhaps i ought to have done so. i did not like to speak, since you did not." "just so. and i did not like to speak to you for the same reason." "well, we will speak now. may," said she softly, laying her hand on her sister's shoulder, "tell me just how it is between willie and you." "i don't understand you, jean. there is nothing in the world between willie and me." "may, have you--changed your mind? don't you care for him any longer?" "i don't know what you mean. as to caring for him--of course i care for him--in a way. but, jean, it is not me that willie calderwood cares for. he has said nothing to me that he might not have said to--almost any one in portie." "may, have you forgotten a year ago?--how you came here a year ago, because he asked you? of course he could not speak, because of my father. do you mean that he doesna care for you--more than for any one else." "he has kept it to himself, if he does. oh! yes, i know--my father. but if he had had any thing to say, he would have said it, or i would have guessed it. i don't know why you should have taken the like of that into your head." "i saw him seeking you out wherever we met. he said more to you at such times than to all the rest of us put together. he followed you always. every one saw it as well as i. and then the day he went away--" "oh, jean, what nonsense! i came that day to please you. you made me come. you must mind that well enough. as for his asking me, it was more than half in jest. i am sure he did not expect me to come. and he never could have seen us, on such a day." "and do you mean that if he were to come home to portie and not find you here, it would be all the same to him?" "oh! he'll find me here when he comes, and i shall be glad to see him safe and well. but he has no right to expect a warmer welcome from me than from--any other friend, and he doesna expect it." jean looked at her in amazement. "have i been dreaming all the year?" said she. "it would seem so. i have just as much right to ask you about willie calderwood, as you have to ask me." jean shook her head. "he has very seldom spoken to me since--the old days." "but that might be because of my father, ye ken," said may laughing. and then she added gravely, "we may be glad that there is nothing between him and either of us, jean. it would only have been another heartbreak. i have fancied whiles, that _you_ were thinking about him-but i am very, _very_ glad for your sake that--" "of course i have been thinking about him--about him and you. i ought to be glad that i have been only dreaming, as you say, because of my father. but--poor willie!--i doubt he has been dreaming too." "no, jean, not about me. and even if it had been as you thought, i would never have listened to him, and indeed he never would have spoken after all that's come and gone." "it would not have been the same to my father, as george and elsie." "but coming after--it would have been all that over again, and worse. and willie calderwood is as proud and hard about some things, as my father." "and that might have kept him from speaking," said jean. "and so it ought, even if he had had any thing to say, which he had not. you need not shake your head as though you didna believe me." "i must believe you--since you say so--for yourself. but you may be mistaken about him, though he never spoke." "never spoke!" repeated may, mimicking her sister's voice and her grave manner. "and do you think i would have needed words to let me know if he had cared for me--in that way? you are wise about some things, jean, but you are not just so wise as you might be about others. wait a while." may laughed and reddened, and then turned and climbed to the top of the rock to see if hugh were in sight. jean followed her slowly. "i ought to be glad. i am glad. there is a great weight lifted from my heart. may is safe from the trouble that threatened, and so is my father. as for willie calderwood--well it is better for him too, that may doesna care, even if--and he'll get over it." when hugh came back they all took their way to miss jean's house by the sea. but as hugh was not yet equal to the feat of dismounting without more help than he was willing to accept from the young ladies, may and he soon turned their faces homeward again, and jean, who had something to do in the town, was left behind. she sat a while with her aunt, but she was quite silent, and her face was turned toward the sea. miss jean was silent also, giving her a glance now and then, feeling sure that she had something more than usual on her mind which perhaps she might need a little help to tell. "well," said she after a little, "have you any news? i think i see something in your e'en. come awa' frae the window and say what ye ha'e to say." jean rose and came forward to the fire. "has my father been in? he will tell you himself, when there is really any thing to tell. he is sure to be in some time to-day." "and it is nothing to vex you, dear? are you glad about it?" "it ought not to vex me. it is only what was sure to happen. and though i am not glad yet--i dare say i shall be glad in time." "is it about your sister?" "yes--and i think papa is glad. but he will tell you himself." "and there is nothing else?" jean sat looking at her aunt for a minute or two. "yes, there is something else that ought to lighten my heart. it has lightened it, i think. i'm not just sure." "and that is about may too?" "yes--about may." she said no more and her aunt did not question her. by and by miss jean said,-"it's a bonny day--and fine for the season. it was a different day last year when the `john seaton' sailed." "yes, i mind it well." jean did not look like herself, but absent and dazed like, as though her mind were full of other things. miss jean said nothing for a while, and jean rose as if she were going away; but stood for a while looking out of the window. "my dear," said her aunt, "i have thought that you have been troubled like about various matters, this while back, and about your sister among the rest. but i think ye ha'e nae occasion." "yes, i have been anxious." "because of willie calderwood? but, my dear, i canna think that there's any occasion." "i seem to have been mistaken as far as she is concerned. she says so." "and as for him--i never asked him and he never told me--but i'm no feared that he'll be the worse in the end for any such trouble. and, jean, my lassie, we ha'e great reason for thankfulness that so it is. it would only have been anither heartbreak." "yes. that is what may said." "not but what they both would have outlived it--and had many a happy day after it. but i am glad we havena to go through all that, for all our sakes, and more especially for the sake of your father. for he is growing an old man now, and another blow like that would have been ill on him, whichever way it had ended." "but, aunt,--ye mustna be angry at me for saying it,--but i canna think that my father was altogether wise or right in the way he took with george and elsie." "my dear, who is ever altogether wise and right in all they do, even to those they love best? and, my dear, ye are nae your father's judge. and do ye think that he sees now that all he did was wisest and best? and yet he might do the very same again. and even if he shouldna, it would be a misery and a lifelong pain to him all the same. my dear, i'm mair than thankful and we'll say nae mair about it." and no more was said. but as jean went slowly homeward, she had many thoughts of all she had heard that day. glad! of course she could not but be glad that all which must have brought disappointment and pain upon so many, had only been a dream of hers. how could she have been so mistaken! how much better it would have been if she had spoken plainly to her sister a year ago! would may have answered as decidedly then? yes. jean did not doubt that she would have done so. she did not doubt her sister's sincerity when she declared that she had never cared for willie calderwood "in that way." "wise about some things, but not so wise about others," said jean with a smile, recalling her sister's words. and might she not have been mistaken about willie calderwood as well as about may? may declared it, her aunt seemed to imply it. but surely mrs calderwood had been thinking about may that day! jean's cheeks grew hot as she recalled her words and looks. "oh! i am thankful that i never named my sister's name to her. and if it was may she was thinking about, she will soon see that she was mistaken too, and that she needna have feared. and if it wasna may she was thinking about, she needna be feared?" jean walked more rapidly, and held her head higher as the thought passed through her mind. she believed herself to be very angry as all the scene came vividly back to her--angry with mrs calderwood. but for all that she went home with a lightened heart and with a face at once brighter and more peaceful than her father had seen for a while. chapter fourteen. mr manners. it would not have been easy for jean to set about any very elaborate preparations for the reception of the expected guest, without attracting the notice of her sister, who was to know nothing of his coming beforehand. happily no special preparation was needed in her well-regulated household, for within a shorter time than seemed possible after her father's letter of invitation had been sent, he made his appearance at saughleas. he had reached the town at night, and presented himself at the bank in the morning before mr dawson had reached it. they missed each other as he took his way to saughleas, and jean was the only one there to receive him. the day was mild and dry, and may and young corbett had set off immediately after breakfast, on an expedition to the castle. jean was in the garden, intent on hastening the completion of certain changes that had been commenced in the arrangement of flower beds and shrubbery, indeed putting her own hands to the work of clipping and transplanting under proper direction and authority. she saw the stranger the moment he opened the gate, and stood still in her place behind a sheltering fir-tree, regarding him as he came slowly round the drive. she saw a pleasant face, with something of the pallor of the student upon it--not handsome, but a good, true face, she thought as he came nearer. he was tall, as her father had said, and he stooped a little; but it was not a round-shouldered stoop, rather a slight inclining forward as he walked, such as short-sighted people are apt to fall into unawares. certainly he was "not to call old." a scholar and a gentleman, her father had said. he was all that, or his looks belied him, jean told herself as he came slowly forward. he stood for a moment looking up into the sky through the lovely mingling of faint colours made by the swelling buds and opening leaves in the tops of the great beeches, and jean's impulse was to come forward at once and give him welcome. but she looked at her gloves, and at her thick shoes soiled with the garden mould, and at her linsey gown too short to hide them, and she thought of her sister, and "these fastidious english folk," and the "credit of the family," and so went swiftly round the house, and in at the back door, and up to her own room. she did not linger over her toilette, however. by the time phemie came to announce the stranger's arrival, the stately young mistress of the house was ready in her pretty house dress of some dim purple stuff to go down and receive him. she went with more shyness than stateliness, however, being conscious of the object of his coming, and entered so quietly, that he did not move from the window out of which he was gazing, till she had come near him. he turned quickly at the sound of her voice. "is it--mr manners?" said she, offering her hand. "you expected me then?" "yes. papa told _me_ you were coming." "and you are jean? and you will be my friend?" jean's eyes met his frankly and very gravely for a moment, and then she said softly,-"yes. i think i may promise to be your friend." if she could put any trust in the face as an index of character, she might surely promise that, she thought. she waited a moment, expecting that he would ask for her sister. he did not, but stood looking at her in a silence that must have become embarrassing if it had continued long. so she offered breakfast, which he declined. then she expressed her regret that he should have missed her father, but she would send at once to tell him of his arrival. this was not necessary, however. mr dawson having heard of mr manners' arrival at the bank, returned home immediately; but they were already in the dining-room, before may and young corbett appeared. they went in the back way and passed through beckie's kitchen. "eh! miss may! what can ha'e keepit you? miss dawson has been muckle putten aboot. your papa's come hame and a strange gentleman wi' him. na, it's naebody ye need to heed. was't peters they ca'ed him, phemie? it's luncheon and nae dinner--so you can just go ben as ye are. ye couldna look better or bonnier though ye were to change your gown and tak' an hour to do it. and miss dawson was sair putten aboot." so with no warning as to whom she was to see, flushed and laughing, and submitting to be made a crutch by the recovering and adventurous hugh, may entered the dining-room. "it was hardly fair upon her," her father thought, and jean turned pale with vexation that it so should have happened. but she need not have been afraid. after the first startled glance, and rush of colour, may met her friend with a gentle dignity which left nothing to be desired in her sister's opinion. mr manners was to all appearance less self-possessed than she was, and his greetings were brief and grave. all were for some time in a state of restrained excitement that made conversation not easy, till hugh came to the rescue by referring to mr dawson the decision of some point which had fallen under discussion during the morning's ride, on which miss may and he had disagreed. it had reference to a circle of stones in the neighbourhood, said to be of druidical origin, and hugh stated the difference of opinion clearly and fairly enough. mr dawson could give no light on the subject, however, and smiled at the idea of attaching any importance to the question. "and besides," said may gently, but with an air of wishing to put an end to the matter, "i told you i did not hold any opinion with regard to them." but hugh, in his persistent way, refused to let it so end; and jean, glad of any thing rather than silence, added her word, hoping that they might some time during the summer go to see the "stanes." "but, miss may," continued hugh, "though you said you did not know yourself, you gave authority for your opinion--at least as far as similar circles elsewhere are concerned. and was it not?--yes, it was mr manners that you said had told you--" jean laughed. she could not help it. may grew red as a rose. then mr manners took up the word, and there was no more uncomfortable silence after that; and hugh heard more concerning this new subject of interest than he would be likely to hear again for many a day. before they rose from the table, mr dawson was called away by some one who wished to see him on business, and hugh, with jean for his crutch this time, betook herself to his room to rest and be out of the way. may went to the parlour with mr manners, intending only to show him the way and then go to her own room to change her habit for her house dress; but when jean came back again, may was in the room still, and the door was shut. jean stood looking at it for a moment, with the strangest mingling of emotions--joy for her sister, sorrow for herself--a feeling as if the old familiar life were come to an end, and a new life beginning; nay, as if the very foundations of things were being removed. "we can never be the same again--never," she said, with a sharp touch of pain at her heart. "i have lost my bonny may." it was foolish to be grieved, it was worse than foolish to be angry, at the thought of change; but she knew that if she were to look closely into her heart, she would find both grief and anger there. "i canna help it, but i needna yield to it," she said; and then she turned resolutely toward the kitchen, where beckie was awaiting necessary directions with regard to dinner. she lingered over her arrangements, and by and by put her own hands to some of them, for she found it impossible to settle quietly to any thing, though she told herself that her restlessness was foolish and not to be excused. it took her out of the house at last, and down the walk past the well and through the wood, where she had many times gone during the last few months to the most sweet and peaceful spot in all the world, she thought--where her mother and her little brother and sisters lay; and here, after a while, her father found her. he was not free from restlessness either, it seemed. jean rose as he drew near. "where is your sister? should you have left her?" asked he doubtfully. jean shook her head and laughed. "they shut the door upon me." "ay! he's in earnest, yon lad. you like him, jean? though it's soon to ask." "not too soon. i liked him the first glance i got of him. he has a good, true face. yes; i like him." "it doesna take you long to make up your mind," said her father laughing. but he was evidently pleased. "you dinna like his errand? well that was hardly to be expected. but if it hadna been him, it would have been another, and we should have lost her all the same. and it might have been worse." "yes, it might have been worse." jean was thinking what her father's feelings would have been had may's troth been plighted to willie calderwood. but her father was thinking that it would have been worse for him to-day had it been for jean that the stranger had asked. "it will be your turn next," said he with a sad attempt at jesting. but jean answered gravely,-"no. i think not i'm content as i am." her father laughed, a short, uncertain laugh. "ay! that will do till the right man comes, and then--we'll see." "but he may never come. he never came to auntie jean." "did he no'? weel, it came to that in the end." mr dawson looked up and met the question in jean's eyes, but he did not answer it, and her lips were silent. she did not need an answer. though she had heard nothing, she seemed to know how it had been with her aunt. disappointment had come to her in her youth. whether death had brought it, or change, or misunderstanding, or something harder to bear than these, she knew not; but however it had come, it had doubtless been a part of the discipline that had wrought toward the mingled strength and sweetness of her aunt's character, so beautiful in jean's eyes. she forgot her father in thinking about it. and for the same reason her father forget her. there were none like his sister in his esteem. none, of all the women he had seen grow old, had lived a life so useful, or were so beloved and respected in their old age as she. her life--except for a year or two--had never been solitary in a painful sense, he thought. it had been, and was still, full of interest--bound up with the lives and enjoyment of others, as much as the life of any married woman of them all. "and if she were to die to-night, there are more in portie that would miss and mourn her than for many mothers of families, and that is not more than all would acknowledge who ken what she is and what she has done in the town." but for his daughter? no, it was not a life like her aunt's that he desired for her. his eye came back to her as the thought passed through his mind. she was gazing straight before her, in among the trees, but it was not the brown buds nor the opening leaves that she saw, he knew well. what could it be that brought that far-away look to her eyes. was she looking backwards or forwards? where were her thoughts wandering? her look need not have vexed him. it was a little sad, but she smiled as though her thoughts were not altogether painful. he could not but be uneasy as he watched her. he loved her so dearly, she counted for so much in his life, that he longed for her confidence in all things, and he knew that there was something behind that smile which he could not see. "weel?" said he as she turned and met his look. "i should go back to the house, you are thinking? yes, i am going. but, papa--it will not be very soon? may's going away, i mean." "that is all before us. i can say nothing now. i doubt all that will be taken out of our hands, my lassie. he is in earnest, yon lad." "but, papa--it is surely our right to say when it is to be? and may is so young--not nineteen yet." "just her mother's age, when--" he rose as if to go, but sat down again and said quietly, "a few months sooner or later will make little difference, and we could hardly expect that he would hear of making it a matter of years. nor would i wish it." "but it will not be--just at once?" said jean. she had almost said "not till the `john seaton' comes home." "well, not just at once. there is time enough to decide that." mr dawson looked doubtfully at his daughter. the look he had wondered at had left her face. she had grown pale and her eyes had the strained and anxious look that had more than once pained him during the winter. the question over which she had wearied herself then was up again. "shall i speak to him about geordie? shall i tell him how he went away?" but he did not know her thoughts, and fancied she was grieving about her sister. "my dear, it is hard on you for the moment. but it is not like losing your sister altogether." "papa! it is not may i am thinking about. it is--geordie. oh, papa, papa!" "my dear," said her father after a pause, "it will do no good to think of one who thinks so little of us. think of him! we maun ay do that, whether we will or no'. but i whiles think he maun be dead. he could not surely have forgotten us so utterly." his last words were almost a cry, and he turned his face away. "papa!" said jean with a gasp, and in another moment she would have told him all. but before she could add a word he was gone--not back by the path to the house, but through the wood the other way, slowly and heavily with his head bowed down. jean looked after him with a sick heart. "it is my mother he is thinking of, as well as his son. oh! i wish i hadna spoken?" she sat down in a misery of doubt and longing, not sure whether she were glad or sorry that he had given her no chance to say more. how little and light her own anxieties looked in the presence of her father's sorrow! the silence and self-restraint, which day after day kept all token of suffering out of sight, made it all the more painful and pitiful to see when it would have its way! miss jean, his sister, had seen him more than once moved from his silent acceptance of pain and loss, but his daughter had never seen this, and she was greatly startled, and sat sick at heart with the thought that there was no help for his trouble. for even if she were to tell him now that her brother had gone to sea in the "john seaton," there would hardly be comfort in that; for it was more than time that the ship were in port, and though no one openly acknowledged that there was cause for anxiety, in secret many feared that all might not be well with her. no, she must not tell him. the new suspense would be more than he could bear, jean thought; and she must wait, and bear her burden a little longer alone. the tears that she could not keep back, did not lighten her heart as a girl's tears are supposed to do, and though she checked them, with the thought that she must not let their traces be seen in the house, they came in a flood when she found her sister's arms clasped about her neck and her face hidden on her breast. but she struggled against her emotion for her sister's sake, and kissed and congratulated her, and then comforted her as their mother might have done. and may smiled again in a little while--indeed what cause had she to cry at all, she asked herself, for surely there never was a happier girl than she. and they both looked bright enough when they came down to dinner, and so did their father. jean wondered and asked herself whether the sight of his moved face and the sound of his breaking voice, had not come to her in a dream. he only came in at the last moment, and if he guessed from may's shy looks that something had happened to her, he took no notice, and every thing went on as usual, though a little effort was needed against the silence which fell on them now and then. of course after dinner, the girls went to the parlour and young corbett went with them; and when, by and by, their father and mr manners came in to get some tea, jean knew that may's fate was decided, as far as her father's consent to her marriage could decide it. pretty may blushed and dimpled and cried a little when her father came and kissed her and "clappet" her softly on her shoulder, and in rather an uncertain voice bade "god bless her." then mr manners brought her to jean. "will you give me your sister?" said he gravely. "since she seems to have given herself to you, i may as well," said jean kissing her sister and keeping back the tears that were wonderfully ready to-night. "and remember your first word was a promise to stand my friend." "only i don't think you seem to stand in need of a friend just now," said jean laughing. "ah! but i may need one before all is done. and you have promised." chapter fifteen. mr dawson's will. it would doubtless have been agreeable to mr dawson had mr manners been a richer man than he seemed to be, but he did not allow even to miss jean, that this want of money was a serious drawback to the satisfaction he felt in consenting to his daughter's marriage. "he is a man whom i like much, and money is a secondary consideration," said he. "that's true," said miss jean. "not that he is without means, and he has a good professional income. they will do very well. it is true i havena kenned him long, as ye say; and i dare say ye think i have been in haste with my consent. but just wait a wee. he'll ha'e your good word. for ye ken a man when ye see him." "if they truly love one another--that is the chief thing." mr dawson laughed. "they do that." "and what does jean say?" "she'll tell you herself. there has been little time to say any thing. he is to be brought over to see you to-day. i wished to send for you, but jean said it was more becoming that he should come to you. jean has her ain notions about most things." "ay, she has that." "and ye'll come hame with them to saughleas? there are two or three things that i would like to have a word with you about. and ye'll be sure to come." but miss jean did not promise. she liked best to be at saughleas when there were no strangers there, she said. mr dawson was ready to resent her calling mr manners a stranger, so she said nothing. the matter could be decided afterwards. probably jean was only thinking of what was due to her aunt, when she insisted on taking their new friend to make her acquaintance in her own house. but it was a wise thing to do for other reasons than miss jean's "dignity," which her niece might very well have left to take care of itself. the house was like herself,--quiet, simple, unpretending, but with a marked character of its own; and no one could fail to be impressed with his first glimpse of miss jean, sitting in her quaint parlour, with its shelves of brown old books, its great work-basket, and its window looking to the sea. she was an old woman now, and not very strong; but the inward calm which earthly trouble had no power to disturb, had kept disfiguring wrinkles from her face, and the soft wavy hair that showed under her full-bordered cap was still more brown than grey. some who had known miss jean all her life declared that she was far more beautiful at sixty than she had ever been in her youth. and naturally enough. for a life of glad service to a loving master, a helpful, hopeful, self-forgetful doing of good as opportunity is given, for his sake, tell on the countenance as on the character; and the grave cheerfulness, the trustful peace that rested on the old woman's face were beautiful to those who had eyes to see. it was not may, but miss dawson, who came with the visitor that morning. "auntie jean, i have brought mr manners to see you," said she coming in unannounced. miss jean received them kindly, but with a certain gravity. "yes, your father has been here. he told me who was coming," said she, and her eyes sought jean's gravely and earnestly. jean nodded and smiled, carrying her aunt's look to the face of mr manners. "yes, auntie, that is the way of it." then miss jean gave him her hand again. "the lord keep and guide you both. and the lord deal with you as ye shall deal with the bairn that is willing to leave her father's house to go with you." "amen!" said mr manners, and he stooped and touched with his lips the soft wrinkled hand that had been offered him. they had not very much to say to one another for a while. it was jean who kept up the talk for a little, remarking upon the "bonny day," and the flowers that were coming out earlier than usual, and on the sea, which was seen at its best to-day, she said, a sparkling blue that faded to pale green and grey in the distance. "you have a wide view of it here," said mr manners who was leaning against the ledge looking out. there was nothing to be seen from miss jean's usual seat, but the sea and one rocky cape in the northern distance. "it is company to me," said she. "it is ay changing." "but it is dreary whiles, aunt, very dreary, when the wind blows loud, and the winter is here." miss jean smiled. "i think winter makes less difference to my outlook than it does to yours, jean, my dear. it's ay the sea, and ay the same, yet ay changing ilka day o' the year, be it summer or winter. it is like a friend's face to me now after all that's come and gone." it was not easy getting below the surface of things, because their thoughts were of the kind not easily spoken. miss jean said least, but she looked and listened and was moved by the soft flowing english speech of their new friend, in a way that filled her with amazement, "after all these years," she said to herself. by and by may came in, leaving hugh corbett in the pony carriage at the door. she hesitated a moment, shy, but smiling, on the threshold, and then mr manners led her forward to be kissed and congratulated and made much of by her aunt. "ye'll try and be a good wife--as your mother was," said miss jean softly, and she gave a tearful, appealing glance toward him who had won the child's heart. "i love her dearly," said he gently. "and i will care for her first always." "i believe ye," said miss jean. what with his good, true face, his kindly ways and winning-speech, he had won her good word, as easily as he had won jean's "who liked him at the first glance," as she had told her father. mr manners' visit was necessarily brief, but when he went away, he carried with him the good-will, and more than the good-will, of them all. even young corbett, who had at first resented the break made in the pleasant life they had been living of late by his monopolising miss may's time and attention, agreed with the rest at last. they became mutually interested over shells and seaweeds, beetles and birds' nests, and they were very friendly before mr manners went away. before his departure mr manners put jean's friendship to the test. "if you are on my side, i shall be able to bring about that on which i have set my heart, and i must remind you of your promise." jean laughed. "it seems that you are like to get that on which you have set your heart without the help of any one." "ah! but how would it have been if you had set yourself against me? or if you were to do so even now?" "it is too late for that now, and i don't think you are much afraid." "jean," said he gravely, "i want my may for my very own on the first day of august." jean was not so startled as she might have been. "i did not think you would be willing to wait very long. but the first of august! that is not much more than three months. it will look like haste." there were, it seemed, many good reasons for that which looked like haste. the chief one was this: mr manners looked forward to two full months of leisure after that time, which could not happen again for another year. he had set his heart on carrying his bonny may to switzerland for the whole two months. "think what that would be in comparison to a winter marriage, and then straight to a dull house in a london street!" "will she find it dull, do you think?" asked jean smiling. "ah! that may be very possible, even though i know she will go willingly. miss dawson, i feel as if i were guilty of wrong-doing in thinking to take my darling from a home like this, to such a one as i can give her, even though i believe she loves me." but jean smiled still. "you need not fear." "thanks. i will not. but in those two months, think how we should learn to know each other, as we could not in my busy days in london! and she would learn to trust me. and it might be if you were to be on my side. as to preparations--dresses and things--" "it is not that. all that is quite secondary. i mean i could see to all that after," said jean to his surprise. "it is something quite different that i was thinking about." it was the return of the "john seaton" with her brother george on board of which she was thinking, and she was wondering whether it would be right to let her sister go, if he should not be home before that time. but she could not speak to mr manners of this. indeed she could speak of nothing for the moment. for may came into the room, and her lover intimated triumphantly that her sister agreed with him as to the important matter of the time. "and you know you were to leave the decision to her." "i agree with you that preparations need not stand in the way. as to other things, i cannot decide. it was something quite different that i was thinking of." but she did not say what it was, even to her sister, and from that time it was understood that the marriage was to take place on the first of august, and that, if possible, mr manners was to pay one more visit before that time. in the quiet that followed his departure, the anxiety which in her interest in her sister's happiness she had for the time put aside, came back again to jean. she strove to hide it from her father, and devoted herself to may and her preparations, with an earnestness which left her little time for painful thought. there was less to do in the way of actual preparation than might have been supposed--at least less than could be done by their own hands. the "white seam" that had employed jean's fingers through so many summer afternoons and winter evenings, came into use now. "i meant them for you, quite as much as for myself, and i shall have plenty of time to make a new supply before i need them," said she when may hesitated to appropriate so much of her exquisite work. there was plenty to do, and jean left herself no time for brooding over her fears. she kept away from the shore and the old sailors now, and from the garrulous fishwives of the town. she would not listen even to the eager reasoning of the hopeful folk who strove to prove that as yet there was no cause to fear for the ship; and she did keep all tokens of anxiety out of her face as far as her father saw; which perhaps was because he was occupied more than usual at this time with anxieties of his own. but when mr manners had been gone a month and more, and they were beginning to look for his return, something happened which would have made it impossible for her to hide her trouble much longer. mr dawson had never yet taken any important step in business matters, or in any matter, without first talking it over with his sister. he did not always take her advice, and she never urged her advice upon him beyond a certain point; but whether her advice was accepted or rejected, there was no difference in their relations to each other because of that. he claimed her sympathy when the next call for it came, none the less readily because he had refused to be guided by her judgment, nor was she the less ready to hear and sympathise. "the breaks, which humour interposed, too often makes," never came between these two, and her judgment guided him, and her conscience restrained him, oftener than either of them knew. long ago he had spoken to her about some change that he wished to make in his will, and some words of hers spoken at the time, hindered him from obeying his own impulse in the matter. he knew that it was not wise to delay the right settlement of his affairs, and now the arrangements necessary in regard to his daughter's marriage portion brought the matter up again, and made some decision inevitable. that his son was dead, or worse than dead, he could not but believe, now that another year had gone bringing no word from him. in his silent broodings, he had in a sense got accustomed to the misery of the thought. he was dead, or, if he lived, he was lost to him forever. even if he were living, his long silence proved to his father that he never meant to come home while his father lived. he might come afterwards; and then his coming might bring trouble upon his sisters, unless all things were settled beyond the power of change. and so it must be settled. but, oh! the misery of it! to think that his only son might come when he was dead, and stand where they had stood together at his mother's grave, and have only hard thoughts of his father! how could it ever have come to such a pass between them! the memory of those first days of their estrangement, seemed to him now like a strange and terrible dream. had he been hard on his son? he was but a lad,--he repeated many a time,--he was but a lad, and he had loved him so dearly. nothing could be changed now. in the silence of the night, often amid the business of the day, his heart grew soft towards his son, and he repented of his anger and his hardness toward him. but nothing could be changed now, and the future of his daughters must be made safe against possible trouble when he should be no more. he had nothing that was new to say to his sister, except that the year that had gone by bringing no word of him, made it less likely that they would ever hear from him again; and she could only listen sadly and acknowledge that it was even so. but though there was not much that was new to be said, they were rarely left alone together that their talk did not turn on this matter. mr dawson's mind was so full of all that must be gone into and arranged in view of what he had to do, that he was sure to speak of it, and to dwell upon it, more sometimes than was wise. and so it happened that jean, coming in from a solitary walk in the gloaming to the parlour, where there was no light, was startled by hearing her father say,-"i think that will be a just division. i will make it up to her aster, but it is jean who must have the land. i will not divide, and i will not burden the land." jean heard the words without fully taking in their meaning, till her aunt said in her grave, firm voice,-"and if he ever should come home, you may trust to my jean to deal kindly and justly with her brother." "papa," said jean coming forward, "i heard what you were saying." mr dawson did not answer for a moment, then he said, "it might have been as well if ye hadna heard. but a while sooner or later can make less difference than it would if ye werna a woman o' sense." "papa! have you forgotten--geordie?" her father answered nothing. her aunt put out her hand and touched hers, and jean knew that the touch meant that silence was best. but she could not keep silence. "papa, you think that he is dead, but he is not. he will come home again. and how could we look him in the face if we were to wrong him when he is away! as for me, i will never take what is his by right-never. you must give the land to whom you will, but not to me." still her father did not utter a word. "whisht, lassie," said her aunt; "ye dinna ken what ye are saying. dinna grieve your father, jean." but jean was "beside herself," her aunt thought. "papa, was it not for george that you bought the land? have you had much pleasure in it since he went away? but, papa, he will come again. he is sure to come home--soon." jean's voice faltered a little. that night her father had come home anxious and burdened with fears for the safety of the "john seaton." there had been some of the sailors' wives inquiring for news, and there was no news to give them though it was more than time; and though mr dawson had spoken cheerfully to the women, the few words he spoke, and the grave face he wore at his own tea-table, had made it plain to jean that his fears were stronger than his hopes. he looked up at jean when she said so eagerly that her brother was sure to come home, as though he expected her to say more. but how could jean say more, knowing what she knew? it was too late now to tell that her brother had sailed in the "john seaton." she could only look at him with pitiful, wet eyes, and repeat over and over again,-"papa, he will come home. he is sure to come. we must always hope. and when he comes, he must not know that you ever thought of putting-another in his place. it must not be me. even if i could give it all back to him, it would not be the same. he could never believe you had forgiven him if you were to do as you said. and, oh! auntie jean, he is sure to come home. we can only wait and hope?" "only wait and hope and pray. he will come if it is god's will. and if he shouldna, god's will is best." there was nothing more to be said. but did the old man sitting there with his face hidden in his hands assent to his sister's words? had god's will been best? if he could have had his will, all should have been very differently ordered, as far as the past of his son was concerned. as for the future--did he wish for his return? could the misery of their long estrangement ever be forgotten or outlived? the bright-faced, happy, loving lad never could return--never. what was his son like now? what could he hope from him, or for him, after what he knew of him? oh, yes! he loved him, pitied him, longed for him; but if it were god's will that he should come home again, would god's will be best? god himself could not blot out the past, and make them to each other all that they had been before this trouble came between them. he groaned aloud in his misery, and then he remembered that he was not alone. he rose up as if to go, but sat down again, putting great constraint upon himself. "we'll say nae mair about it now, lassie," said he hoarsely. "no, papa, only this, wait a little while. george will surely come home--or--we shall hear that he is dead. i think he will come home-soon." "will our geordie, our frank, true-hearted, noble lad ever come home to us again, think you? could god himself give him back to us as he was?" "whisht! george, man," said his sister gravely. "think what ye're saying! all things are possible with god." "ay! to him that believes, but that is beyond belief--to me," said the old man with a sob. "papa," said jean touching his bowed head with her hand, "he will come home--soon." "and whether he come or no', we have just to live our lives and make the best of them," said mr dawson rising; and he went away with no word of good-night. jean lent her young strength to the weakness and weariness of her aunt as they went up the stairs together, but there were no more words spoken between them. they kissed one another in silence, and each knew that the other could not lighten the burden of care and pain that had fallen on both. though they had waited so long and so anxiously for the return of the "john seaton," it took the dawsons by surprise at last. but from the moment that the white sails broke the line of the far horizon, the ship was watched by an ever-increasing crowd gathering on the pier, and on the high rocks above the town. glasses were passed from hand to hand, while some looked doubtful and grave, and others joyfully declared that it was the long-expected vessel. in an anguish of hope and fear fathers and mothers, wives and sisters, waited. some wept and prayed, and wandered up and down, others sat in still excitement counting the moments till the suspense should end. it was sunday afternoon and so none of the dawsons were in the town. even miss jean was at saughleas. in the excitement of the moment none thought of sending word to the owner of the ship. not one of all the anxious mothers and wives who were waiting but had more at stake than he. "but when we are sure, and when i've seen our tam, i'll be off to saughleas to tell the twa miss jeans," said robbie saugster to his sister maggie, who was waiting and hoping like the rest. "ay. they'll be glad--or sorry," said maggie with a sob. "the twa miss jeans, said he!" repeated mrs cairnie, who was wandering up and down, anxious and intent as all the rest, though there was no one belonging to her on the ship, or on any ship that sailed. "the twa miss jeans! and what is it to them? ay, i ken fine the auld man is chief owner, and weel he likes his siller. but the twa miss jeans! what is it to them? except that they may ha'e had their ain thochts for a' the puir bodies that ha'e grown feared this while," added the old woman relenting. "they ha'e had many an anxious thought, and many a kind word and deed for them--i ken weel," said another woman whose eyes were on the ship. "an' sae do i," said another who was sitting on a stone with her baby in her arms, because her trembling limbs would not support her. "what would i ha'e done but for auld miss jean since my man sailed." "ay; and they say auld miss jean has been through it all." "and whether or no', she kens how to weep wi' those who weep." "but she'll `rejoice with them that do rejoice' this time, for as sure as i ha'e e'en to see, yon's the `john seaton'!" "and i'se awa' to the pier head," said robbie. "are you coming, maggie?" maggie took two steps after him, then she turned. "come, mrs barnet. it'll soon be over now. i'll carry wee jamie." and the crowd moved with them. it was the "john seaton." all saw that by this time. there was but a thin kirk that night, for none could force themselves away from the shore, and some who set out for the kirk, turned aside with the rest to meet and welcome those who were coming home. but the kirk was empty and the crowd increased before the "john seaton" touched the pier. the first who reached the deck was robbie saugster, and the first man he saw was willie calderwood, tall and brown and strong, a hero in the boy's eyes. "our tam?" said he with a gasp. "tam's a' richt. tell your mother i'll be round to see her." there was no time for more. the folk pressed forward, and all noticed that the mate's face was graver that it ought to have been. there was something wrong. "is mrs horne here? or my mother?" asked the mate. "is that you, robbie saugster? run to my mother's house and say i bade her go to mrs horne's, and bide till i come there." robbie was off like a shot. "is it ill news?" "if it's ill news, the laddie should speak in and tell auld miss jean." "miss jean is unco frail." "miss jean is ower at saughleas." "and is it captain horne? and when did it happen?" "puir woman! her turn has come at last!" many voices took up the "ill news," telling it gravely till it went through the throng. even those who had got their own safe home again, spoke their welcome gravely, thinking of her who had to hear heavy tidings. chapter sixteen. the "john seaton." mrs calderwood stood waiting outside mrs horne's door, when her son came there. "is it you, mother?" "is it you, willie? thank god?" "amen. mother, i bring heavy news to this house." "ah! poor soul! i dared not go in till i knew the worst. is it long since it happened?" "three months and more. he was long ill, and glad to go." "and must i tell her? oh, if miss jean were here!" "i will tell her, but i wanted you here. does she ken that the ship is in?" "she must ken, i think. but it is no' like her to go out among the throng. she's just waiting. god help her, poor woman!" "ay, mother, _ye_ ken." "but, willie--i must say one word. george dawson? he sailed with you?" "yes, mother, but--" a voice from within bade them enter, and there was time for no more. we shall not enter with them. the first tears of a childless widow suddenly bereaved, must not be looked upon by eyes indifferent. there was much to be told--much that must have made her thankful even in her bitter sorrow. but it was a painful hour to the returned sailor, and there were tears on his cheeks when at last he came out to clasp his joyful only sister at the door. but he could not linger long. he had more to do before he returned to the ship. "i must go to saughleas," said he, as they paused at the corner where his sister must turn towards home. "to saughleas? oh! willie let me go with you," she cried clinging to him. "mother will maybe bide with mrs horne a' nicht. oh, willie, let me go! i'll keep out o' sicht, and naebody will ken. if ye maun go, let me go with you." "i maun go. i promised geordie." "geordie? have ye seen him? did he sail in the `john seaton'? and has he come home?" "ye dinna mean that ye never heard that he sailed with us?" "i never heard. did miss dawson ken? it must have been that that made her e'en grow like my mother's when she looked out over the sea." they were on their way to saughleas by this time. they had much to say to one another. or rather marion had much to say, and her brother had much to hear. a few words were enough to tell all that he needed to tell until his mother should hear him also. but marion had to give him the news of a year and more,--the ups and downs, the comings and goings of all their friends and acquaintance; the sickness of one, the health of another; the births and deaths; the marriages past and in prospect. with the last the name of may dawson was mentioned, and being herself intensely interested in the matter, marion went into particulars. "he is an englishman; but they all like him. i like his lace. yes, i saw him once, and jean made me sing a song to him--`the bonny house o' airlie.' and auld miss jean likes him, she told my mother. he is no' a rich man, and folk wonder at mr dawson being so well pleased. but what seems strange to me is, that may should be married before her sister. and i whiles think, that maybe if he had seen jean first--but love goes where it is sent, they say," added marion gravely. "and her sister's turn will come next," said willie. "oh! as to that--" said marion, and then she was silent, adding after a little, "and _he_ was an englishman too. may is nice, ye ken, but there's no' another in all scotland like jean." they were approaching saughleas by this time. they went slowly round the drive to the open hall door. the summer gloaming was not at its darkest yet, and there were no lights visible. as they stood for a moment at the door, they heard enough to make them aware that a messenger had preceded them. "it's robbie saugster, miss dawson. he says he has news for you--or for mr dawson, i canna say which. will you come but the house and see him? or will i send him ben to you?" but jean did not need to answer. robbie had followed his message. "miss dawson, it's the `john seaton.' she's won safe hame. but there's ill news. it's the captain. but i saw willie calderwood, and he said--" it was hard on robbie that after all his trouble, the telling of the news should fall to another. a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice said,-"that'll do, robbie, lad. i'll say my ain say." and then jean stood face to face with willie calderwood. for one wonderful moment they clasped hands and gazed into each other's eyes. not a word, not even the name, of george was spoken. and then came a joyful cry from may,-"it is willie calderwood. oh, willie! willie! papa, the `john seaton' has come." then there was a minute or two of confusion in the hall, hand shaking and congratulations, and then mr dawson ordered lights, and they went into the parlour where auld miss jean was sitting, for she had not moved with the rest. she drew down the young man's handsome head and kissed him. "oh, your happy mother!" said she softly. but the mate of the "john seaton" did not sit down. he stood erect beside miss jean's chair, with his eyes cast down upon the floor. he must go back to the ship at once. he would report himself at mr dawson's office to-morrow; he had come to-night because of a promise-"did i hear something about ill news?" said mr dawson. "jean, what was it the laddie said about captain horne." "yes," said the sailor, "it is bad news. it is three months and more since we lost him; a heavy loss. a better sailor never sailed--nor a better man." there was silence for a minute. "his wife! puir body!" said miss jean. "my mother is with her," said the sailor. "they were wishing for you, miss jean, to tell her. i almost think she kenned what was coming." the young man seemed to forget where he was for the moment. there were more questions asked, and more particulars given, and all the while the mate stood beside miss jean's chair, making his answers clear and brief, and suffering no sympathetic friendliness to soften voice or manner, except when he spoke to miss jean. "and are there any more sorrowful hearts in portie the nicht?" asked she gravely. "did a' the lave win hame?" "saugster, the second mate, did not, nor two others. but nobody need grieve for saugster. there was never less occasion. he'll be home all right, i hope soon." and then he told how they had met in with an american fishing vessel partially disabled from encountering a heavy storm, and far out of her course. she had lost four of her men, one of them the mate, from the capsizing of a boat. the captain was down with fever, and the ship was at the mercy of the winds and waves as there was no one on board who had the knowledge or skill to sail her. "we might have taken the rest of the men on board, but it would not have been right to abandon their ship, and as tam saugster and--two others were willing to go, there was nothing to be said. i dare say they are safe in portland harbour by this time." mr dawson asked some questions as to the cargo and value of the vessel taken in charge, and the mate answered them briefly, and then he said, "and now i must go. i came to-night, because of a promise i made--" jean had been sitting all this time in the shadow of her lather's high-backed chair, a little out of sight. she rose now and stood gazing at the mate with dilated eyes and a face on which not a trace of colour lingered. he did not look at her, but at her father, who had risen also, ready to give his hand at parting. "it is a letter," said the sailor. "i must give it into your own hand, as i promised george." "george!" repeated mr dawson suddenly falling back into his chair again, with a face as white as jean's. "yes. he sailed with us. you surely must have heard of that." "i heard nothing of it." "well, that is queer?" he hesitated and remained silent, as he might not have done if he had seen the agony of the father's face. jean had stretched out her hand and touched him. she was trying to say something, but her lips uttered no sound. "my son! my son! oh, dinna tell me that he didna come home?" it was an exceeding bitter cry. "he didna come home--" "oh, willie, tell him?" cried an eager voice, and his sister sprang forward and a hand was laid on the old man's arm. "he hasna come home, but he's safe and well and he is coming home. and he is--good now. he was ay good, but now he is sorry, and he's coming home. and--oh, sir, i beg your pardon--" added marion, coming to herself, and she would have darted away again, but jean held her fast. willie's heart softened as he met the old man's look. "george was one of the two that went with saugster. there is no better sailor than tam, as ye ken; but he's open to the temptation o' strong drink. if there is any one that can keep tam straight, it's george. i dare say they are in port by this time." "willie," said miss jean, "tell us how it happened that he sailed with you. surely you should have told us before you let him go?" "i did my best, miss jean. he came on board that last morning with some of the men who had been making a night of it on shore, but i did not know it till we were nearly ready to set sail. i did my best to persuade him to stay at home. i sent three different messages to his father, but he couldna be found; and i wrote a line to--" mr dawson groaned. "i had heard that he had been seen in the town, in company with niel cochrane of the how. i went there to seek him, and the ship had sailed before i came back again." "it was to be," said the sailor. "and though i was sorry at the time, i was glad afterwards, and ye'll be glad too, sir. it has done him no ill, but good. he has gathered himself up again. he is a man now--a man among a thousand. and ye havena read your letter." a curious change had come over the young man's manner, though there was no one calm enough to notice it but mr manners. he had for the greater part of the time not been looking at mr dawson, but over his head, or at any one else rather than the master of the house when he spoke. but now he sat down near him, his voice softening wonderfully, and his face looking like the one that was leaning on miss dawson's shoulder on the other side of the old man's chair. it was a very handsome face, but for that mr manners would have cared little. it was a noble face, strong and true; a face to trust, "a face to love," said he to himself. he had heard of willie calderwood before, as he had by this time heard of the most of may's friends, and he had gathered more from the story than may had meant to tell. and now he noticed that the handsome face had hardly turned towards jean, and that jean had not spoken since he came into the room. mr dawson opened his letter with fingers that trembled. there was only a line or two, and when he had read it, he laid it on the table, and laid his face down upon it without a word; and when he lifted it again there were tears upon it. "oh, willie, man! if ye had brought him home! there is nothing of mine but ye might have had for the asking, if ye had but brought him home!" the young man rose and walked up and down the room once or twice, and then sat down again, saying gently,-"i had no right to prevent his going. he was in his lather's ship of his own will, and though he submitted to command through all the voyage, that was of his own will too. and i am no' sure that i would have kept him, even if i could have done it. it was to save life that he went. danger? well, it turned out that there was really less danger than was supposed when he offered to go. i went on board with him and we overhauled the ship and did what was needed to make all safe. as to its being his duty--he had no doubts o' that. it was to save life." "dinna go yet, willie, man," said mr dawson, putting out his hand as the mate rose. "we are a' friends here. this is hugh corbett, his father was your father's friend. and this is mr manners who has come seeking our may. it is no secret now, my lassie." the two shook hands heartily--each "kenning a man when he saw him." and then the sailor offered his hand to may. and if jean had had any doubts remaining as to the nature of the mutual interest of these two they were set at rest now. may blushed, but met his look frankly, and for the first time since he came willie smiled brightly--a smile that "minded" jean of the days before trouble of any kind had fallen upon them. the rest of the story might have kept till another day, as willie said, but he yielded to entreaty and sat down again. he had nothing to tell of george's story before he found him on board ship. he had come home meaning to see his father, but had fallen into bad hands, and, discouraged and ashamed, had changed his mind, not caring whether he lived or died. if he had not been allowed to go in the "john seaton," there were other vessels leaving portie in which he could have sailed. "i could only have kept him at home by using force, or by betraying him, as he called it. i thought he was better at sea with a friend than on shore with those who did him no good--for home he would not go. so i risked the captain's anger and said nothing. but i never supposed but you would hear about his sailing, as there must have been more than one who knew it." no one made any reply to this. captain horne, a good and just, but stern man, was sorely displeased when he found that his owner's son had sailed secretly with them; and he showed his displeasure by ignoring his presence on board after the very first, and leaving him to suffer all the hardships of the lot he had chosen. george accepted the situation, asked no favours, and shirked no duty, but lived in the forecastle, and fared as the rest fared there. after a time he grew strong and cheerful and did his part for the general entertainment, chatting and chaffing--singing songs and spinning yarns, and winning the good-will of every man and boy on board. nor did he lose his time altogether, as far as self-improvement was concerned. he read every book on board, and at leisure times gave himself to the reading of mathematics and the study of navigation with his friend, and had done it to some purpose, his friend declared. they reached the arctic seas in good time, and had there met with more than the usual success, so that they had good hope of getting home to portie before the year was over. but after that heavy storms had overtaken them, and they had driven before the wind many days and nights without a glimpse of sun or star, and so had drifted far out of their course. they had taken shelter at last in an unknown bay and had lain ice bound for many months. here sore sickness fell on captain horne, against which--being a man strong and brave and patient--he struggled long, only to yield at last, and take to his berth helpless, and for a time, hopeless. a good man, a true christian--("ane o' your kind, miss jean," said the sailor),--he had yet fallen into utter despondency, out of which, strangely enough, the foolish lad who had wandered so far from home, and from the right way, had helped him. when he came to this part of the story, the mate rose and took two or three turns up and down the room again; then he came and stood beside miss jean's chair, saying softly,-"sometime, miss jean, when geordie comes home, ye must ask him about it. i could never tell you all he was to the sick man in those days. no son ever served a father more faithfully. no mother ever nursed, cared for, and comforted a sick child with more entire forgetfulness of self. whiles he read to him out of the bible, and out of other books, and whiles he talked to him and told him things that he had heard--from his mother, i dare say, and from you, miss jean, and whiles--once at least in my hearing--he prayed with him, because in the darkness that had fallen on him the old man couldna pray for himself i mind that night well." there was a long pause after this, and then he went on; "geordie will tell you all about it better than i could do. a good while before the end, light came back to the captain--and, oh! the brightness of it! and the peace that fell on him! the good book says `it is more blessed to give than to receive,' and that was the way with geordie. for as much good as came to our captain through him, there came more to himself; and it came to him first. "you are one of those, miss jean, who believe in a change of nature,-coming from darkness to light--from `the power of satan onto god.' well, i would have said that geordie needed that change less than most folk, but it was like that with him. even i, who saw few faults in him before, could see the difference afterward. but it canna be spoken about, and it is more than time that i were away." however he sat down again for a moment on the other side of the table where he had been sitting before, and went on to tell, how after a few bright days, the captain died, and they buried him in the sea. at last they got away from the ice, and were beginning to count the days, before they might hope to see the harbour of portie, when they fell in with the ship in distress, and this ended in tam saugster being sent to take her to her port, and in george going also, to help tam to withstand his foe. for the "john seaton" was a temperance ship, and tam had tasted nothing stronger than tea or coffee since he lost sight of portie harbour. "he had sailed with us, just to give himself another chance, he said, and, poor lad, he had gone far the wrong gait--and he was another man; a fine fellow truly, when he was out of the way of temptation. and whiles i have thought it was for tam's sake, more even than for the sake of the yankee ship and its crew, that george was so fain to go. it cost him much no' to come home with us, for he had come to a clearer sight of-two or three things,--he told me. but i think he made a sort of thank-offering of himself for the time, and even if i could have hindered him, i could hardly have found it in my heart to do it. and he is sure to come soon." "he is in safe keeping," said miss jean. "yes, he is that, and we may hear from him any day." there was not much more said. mr manners had some questions, and so had miss jean, and may asked if her brother had changed much as to looks; and mr dawson looked from one to the other as each spoke, but he did not say another word, nor did jean till willie rose to go. "now, marion, it is late and we must make haste." then jean said softly--it was the first word she had uttered since he came into the house-"no, marion. it is too late to go. willie will tell your mother that you are going to bide with me to-night." of course that was the wisest thing for the girl to do, as mrs calderwood might remain all night with poor mrs horne, and it was necessary that her brother should go back to the ship. and so the mate went away alone. chapter seventeen. home coming. that night mr dawson and miss jean sat long together, when the others had gone away, and for the most part they sat in silence. mr dawson had some thoughts which he would not have liked to tell his sister,-thoughts which he knew she would call wrong and thankless--which he would gladly have put away. the good things of this life, the glad surprises, the unhoped for reprieves from sorrow, rarely come without some drawback of regret or pain. that he should have got tidings of his son; that he should be coming home, and glad to come; that he should be well and worthy, a man to honour and to trust,--how utterly beyond his hopes had this been yesterday! his son was coming home; but, alas! he could never have his light-hearted, bonny laddie back again. george was a man now, "knowing good and evil." it could never be again between them as it had been before their trouble came. "ane o' your kind, miss jean," the mate had said; "a changed man." mr dawson's thoughts went back to the time of his sister's trouble, when she had become "a changed woman." all the anger and vexation, that had then seemed natural and right, because of her new ways, had passed out of his heart, a score of years and more. it was as though it had never been. he glanced up at her placid face, and said to himself, as he had said before many times, "a woman among a thousand." but he remembered the old pain, though it was gone, and he shrank from the thought that he might have to suffer again through his son. "he is a man now, and must go his ain way," he said to himself, moving uneasily on his chair and sighing. "we canna begin again where we left off. ungrateful? yes, i dare say it would be so called; but, oh! geordie, my lad! i doubt your way and mine must lie asunder now." miss jean too had some thoughts which she would not have cared to tell, but they were not about george; for him she was altogether joyful. if willie calderwood's words about him were true, and he were indeed "a changed man," nothing else mattered much in miss jean's esteem. the "good," for which he had god's promise as security would be wrought out in him whether by health or sickness, by joy or sorrow, by possession or loss, and through him might be brought help and healing, higher hopes, and better lives to many. the master who had chosen him would use him for his own work, and that implied all that was to be desired for any one to miss jean. but in the midst of her joy for him, she could not forget jean's silence, and willie calderwood's averted eyes. and though she told herself that possible pain and disappointment could work good to her niece as well as to her nephew, she could not but shrink beforehand from the suffering that might be before her. but it was not a trouble to be spoken about. neither had spoken for a long time, when the door opened and jean came in. she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, over which her long hair hung, and her face looked pale and troubled. "are you here still, auntie jean? no, don't go, papa," said she as he rose. "i have something to tell you." "it maun be late. i thought you had been in your bed this hour and more," said her father. "yes, papa, i was in bed, but i couldna sleep." "for joy, i suppose?" said he smiling. "yes, for joy and--because--papa, i knew that my brother had sailed in the john seaton." "you knew! and never spoke?" "would it have been better if i had spoken? would you have suffered less? but i did not know it till after the ship had sailed, and i thought it would break your heart to know that he could have been here and gone away again, without a word. i tried to tell you afterwards, and you, auntie jean, as well. i longed to tell you. i could hardly bear the doubt and fear of the last few weeks. but i thought if it was so terrible to me, what would it be to you!" mr dawson did not answer for a moment. he was thinking of the stormy nights of last winter, and the dread in her eyes as they looked out over the angry sea. "no wonder that you were anxious often, and afraid." "ought i to have told you? but you are not angry now, papa?" "there is no good being angry--and you did it for the best." and then jean told them about the note that robbie saugster had brought too late to let her see her brother before the ship sailed. miss jean said it had doubtless been wisely and kindly ordered, that the lad would come home and be a better son, and a better man for the discipline of the time. and then when they went upstairs together, she added a few joyful words to jean, about the change that had come to her brother, and about the peace that would henceforth be between his father and him. but she would not let her linger beside her for any more talk. "ye need your rest, my dear, and we'll baith ha'e quieter hearts, and be better able to measure the greatness of the mercy that has come to us. and other things will take a mair natural look as well." though mr manners had only one more day at saughleas at this time, he accepted mr dawson's invitation to walk with him to portie in the morning. mr dawson wished to show him the "john seaton," and mr manners wished to see again the fine young fellow, who might, if he chose, henceforth have the command of the ship. mr dawson had something to say to him on the way. "you will get a scanter portion with your wife than you would have gotten if--we had heard no news." "oh! my wife! my bonny may," said mr manners with smiling eyes. "but then i shall have a brother--i who never had one--and i shall have a right to my share of the family joy." mr dawson did not speak for a moment. "there will be something at once," and he named a sum, "and there will be something more at my death." then he went on to mention certain arrangements that were to be made, and mr manners, of course, seemed to listen with interest; but when he ceased speaking, he said gravely,-"i have only one fear, lest the joyful expectation of having her brother home again, may make may wish to delay her marriage." "as to that--if he come at once he will be here long before the first. and if he should delay--no, i do not think that that ought to be allowed to interfere with your plans." "thank you," said mr manners. "oh, he will be sure to be here in time." "wha kens?" said mr dawson. "it seems beyond belief that i should ever have my son back again. i never can in one sense. he is a man now, and changed. i wouldna seem unthankful; but, oh, man! if ye had ever seen my george, ye would ken what i mean." he was greatly moved. if he had tried to say more, daylight as it was, and on the open road, his voice must have failed him. they walked on in silence for a while--for what could mr manners say?--and before they reached the high-street, he was himself again. there were many eyes upon him as they went down the street, for by this time it was known through all the town that george had sailed in the "john seaton." but "the old man took it quietly enough," some said, and others, who saw him in the way of business through the day, said the same. the sailors in the "john seaton," when later he and mr manners went down to the pier, saw nothing unusual in his rough, but kindly, greetings. there was not one of them but would have liked to say a kindly and admiring word of "geordie"; for "geordie" he had been to them all, through the long year; and doubtless it would have pleased the father to hear it. but he heard nothing of it there. it did not surprise these men to see that he took it quietly. their own fathers and mothers took quietly the comings and goings of their sons. but it would have surprised them to know that the old man kept silence because he was not sure whether his voice would serve him if he should try to speak. he turned back again for a minute when mr manners and the mate came on deck, when all had been said that was necessary on that occasion, and it would have surprised them to know that it was to shut himself into the little cabin where george had so long served and comforted the dying captain, and that he there knelt down and thanked god for his goodness to his son. he seemed to take it quietly as far as people generally saw during the next ten days; but jean put away all remorseful thoughts as to the silence she had kept during the last long year. "he never could have borne the long suspense," she said to herself, as she watched him through the days and heard his restless movements through nights of sleepless waiting. he never spoke of his son, or his anxiety with regard to him; but jean took pains to speak of her brother to others in his hearing; and sometimes she spoke to himself, and he listened, but he never made reply. "he will grow morbid and ill if this continues long," she said one day to her aunt. "it will not continue long," said miss jean. "no, he will come soon, if he is coming." "oh, he is coming! ye needna doubt that. he is no seeking his ain way now. he'll come back to his father's house." and so he did, and he found his father watching for him. he did not go all the way to portie, but stopped, as his father knew he would, at a little station two or three miles on the other side of saughleas, and walked home. it was late and all was quiet in the house. summer rain was softly falling, but mr dawson stood at the gate as he had stood for many nights; and george heard his voice before he saw him. it might have been said--if there had been any one there to see--that mr dawson "took it quietly" even then. there were not many words spoken between them, and they were simple words, spoken quietly enough. how it happened neither of them could have told,--whether the father followed the son, or the son the father,--but instead of turning to the terrace, where the drawing-room window stood open to let them in, they turned down the walk, past the well into the wood; and whatever was said of confession or forgiveness was said by the grave of the lad's mother, in the stillness of the summer midnight, in the hearing of god alone. no one but jean knew that night that george had come home, and jean did not go to her brother till she had heard her father shut himself into his room. mr dawson himself brought food to his son, and wine, and watched him as he partook of it. but when he would have poured out the wine, he staid his hand. "i promised tam saugster--we promised one another--not to touch or taste before he comes home to portie." "it is for his sake then?" "and for my own," said george gravely. his father was silent. strangely mingled feelings moved him. "is he so weak that he cannot refrain? is he so strong that he can resist?" even in the midst of his joy in having his son back again, "clothed and in his right mind," he was more inclined to resent the implied weakness, than to rejoice in the assured strength. but he uttered no word of his thoughts then or ever, though george did not release himself from his vow even when tam saugster came home to portie "a changed man" also. when the house was quiet again, and the lights were out, jean stole softly to her brother's room, for one embrace, one kiss, a single word of welcome. but she would not linger. "we couldna stop, if we were once to begin, geordie; and you are tired, and my father would be ill-pleased. i only wanted to be sure that you were really home again. and i'm no' sure yet," she added laughing and touching with caressing fingers the soft brown beard, that she could just see, for a faint gleam of dawn was breaking over the sea. they looked at each other with shy pleasure, these two. jean blushed and smiled under her brother's admiring eyes, but she would not linger. "my father will hear us, and he will not be pleased," said she going softly away. but was it not a joyful morning? "may, are you ready? come down quickly. i have something that i want you to see." "may, i think it is i who have something to see," said george, as his younger sister came in. one might search the countryside and find no other such brother and sisters as these three. the father looked at them with proud but sorrowful eyes, for their mother was not there to see them. george was changed, even more than his sisters. he had gone away a lad, and he had come back a man. there was more than the soft brown beard to show that. he had grown taller even, his father thought, he had certainly grown broader and stronger. the colour that used to be as clear red and white as his sisters' was gone. his face was brown and his eye was bright and steady, and his smile--when it came--was the same sunny smile that his father had so longed for during the sorrowful days of his absence. but it did not come so often as it used to come, and at other times, his face was touched with a gravity new to them all. but there was no gloom on it, and no trace of any thing that those who loved him would have grieved to see. it was a stronger face now than it had been in the old days, but it was none less a pleasant face, and in a little while they forgot that it had changed. it was george's face. that was enough. "it is a _man's_ face. and he'll show himself a man yet, and do a man's share in the work of the world," said the proud and happy father. and in his heart he acknowledged his son's right to take his own way and live his own life, even though the way might lie apart from his, and though the life he chose might not be just the life that his father would have chosen for him. "your aunt should have been here, jean. you should have sent for her," said mr dawson in a little. "i will go and see her," said george. "i will walk in with you to the town, by and by." "but we must have her here, all the same, for a day or two. ye'll send for her afterward, jean." but they did not go in the morning as they meant to do. they lingered long over the breakfast-table, and then in the garden and in the wood, and the father and son went down the burn and through the green parks beyond, never thinking how the time was passing, till jean came to tell them that dinner was waiting. after dinner they went to the town. but they did not go down the high-street. they were both shy at the thought of all the eyes that would be upon them there. "and it should be your aunt first," said mr dawson. so they went down a lane that led straight to the sea and then turned to miss jean's house. "you'll go in by yourself and i'll step on and come back in a while," said his father. he had not stepped far before a hand touched his arm, and a pair of shining eyes met his. "oh, mr dawson! is it george come home? and isna your heart like to break for joy?" there were tears as well as smiles on the beautiful face that looked up into his with joyful sympathy and with entire confidence that sympathy would be welcome. for an instant mr dawson met her look with strangely contending emotions. then a strange thing happened. he took the bonny moved face between his two hands, and stooping down, kissed it "cheek and chin" without a word. he would not have believed the thing possible a minute before, he could hardly believe if a minute afterwards, as he turned back again towards his sister's house. mrs cairnie coming slowly down the street saw it-and then she doubted, telling herself, that "her e'en were surely nae marrows," or that the last "drappie" she had taken at "the kail stock" had been ower muckle for her, and the first person to whom she told the story thought the same. bonny marion's mother and brother saw it from the window of their own house: he with amazement, she with dismay. "it maun be that geordie has come home, and that the joy of it has softened his heart," said willie. "ay. he has gotten his son back again?" said mrs calderwood. and willie knew that his mother was thinking of her child who would never return. marion came dancing in with the glad news. she told it soberly after a glance at her mother's face. and then they all sat waiting, knowing that george and his father would pass that way. but george did not pass. both men stood still before their door, and george's hand was laid for an instant on his father's shoulder. they knew what he was saying though they did not hear him speak, and then mr dawson went on "looking grave, but no' angry," marion whispered, and george came into the house. mrs calderwood received him as she had received her son, kissing him and thanking god for his safe home coming at last. their meeting could not be all gladness, remembering how they had parted. george was very white and silent. even marion's bright face and joyful welcome could not win a smile. willie and he had much to say to each other, but all that must wait till another time. george could stay but a moment, for his father was waiting for him at the pier. that night mrs calderwood and her son sat together in the gathering gloaming, and after a long silence willie said, "would it break your heart altogether, mother, to think of leaving portie?" "hearts are no' so easily broken as i used to think. i could leave it, if it were the wisest thing to do. i could leave even scotland itself, for that matter." "yes, it would end in leaving scotland--if any change were to be made. but as far as you are concerned, you needna be in haste for a time." "a while sooner or later would make little difference," said his mother. nothing more was said; but from that night, mrs calderwood knew that it might come to leaving portie with them, and she set herself calmly to look the possibility in the face. george came home about the middle of july, and the preparations for may's marriage were nearly completed by that time. jean had determined that it was to be a very pretty wedding, and so it was; and having said this, little more need be said about it. it was like all other pretty weddings--that is to say like pretty weddings in the north. the guests were many, and merrier than wedding guests usually are in other regions. mr and mrs seldon came from london to be there, and other friends came from other places. george was "best man," and there were many bridesmaids. marion calderwood was one of them, and willie was an invited guest. but at the last moment willie failed them, and the only reason given, was the unsatisfactory one of "business before pleasure." on the very morning of the marriage he left home "for london, or liverpool, or somewhere,--before i was up," said marion, who came early to put on her pretty bridesmaid's dress in jean's room; and george, when may questioned him, said with absolute truth, that not a word had passed between him and willie as to the reason of his going away. mr manners might have cast some light on the matter, though he also could have said that no word had been spoken with regard to it. intent on making the acquaintance of george, they had set out the night before the wedding for a long walk along the shore, and meeting young calderwood, he turned at their invitation and went with them. probably mr manners learned more about both of them in listening to their conversation with each other than he would have had he had one of them to himself. as it was he enjoyed it much. they went far and before they returned the gloaming had fallen. standing for a moment at the point where the high-street of portie turns off from the road which leads in one direction along the shore, and in the other out towards saughleas, they heard a voice, familiar enough to george and willie, coming through an open cottage window. "weel, weel! i maun be gaen. ilka ane kens her ain trouble. and them that ha'e nane, whiles think they ha'e, and that's as ill to thole till real trouble comes, and then they ken the difference. but i maun awa' hame." mrs cairnie lingered, however, at the open door. "eh, woman! wha's yon comin' up the high-street? wha would ha'e thought it? the dawsons are on the top o' the wave enow! do ye no' see, woman? yon's young miss jean's englishman." mr manners had not followed all the speech, but he understood the last part of it, and never doubted that it referred to himself, "though she has mistaken the lady's name," said he, turning laughing eyes on young calderwood. but willie did not meet his look. he was looking down the high-street, and george was looking at willie whose face had grown white through all its healthy brown. mr dawson was coming slowly up the street, and by his side there walked a young man large, and fair, and handsome; a gentleman evidently whom neither of them had ever seen before. a groom driving a dog-cart followed slowly after. "it must be captain harefield. may has spoken of him," said mr manners. it was captain harefield. mr dawson introduced him as they came up, and from his father's manner george knew that he was pleased at the meeting. "i have been trying to persuade captain harefield to come to the marriage to-morrow," said he. "it is short notice, i know, but not too short, if you will come out to saughleas to-night and see the bride." captain harefield murmured something about an engagement, but he looked as though he would willingly be persuaded to break it. mr manners first, and then george added a word, and he yielded, and he and mr dawson drove off in the dog-cart at once. "ye'll come with us, willie?" said george laying his hand on his shoulder, in boyish fashion. the friends looked at one another, and both changed colour a little. "no' the nicht, i think, geordie." then they shook hands and the mate went rapidly down the street, and the others were more than half way to saughleas before george uttered a word. that night willie calderwood startled his mother by saying suddenly after a long time of silence,-"i am off to-morrow morning for liverpool, mother. i have a letter that i meant to show to george, but i couldna, and you must tell him. i have a chance to be second officer on one of the great ocean steamships. what do you think of that, mother? i think i'll take it." "then you've given up all thoughts of the `john seaton'?" "yes. this is a far better post--as you must see, mother, with a chance of promotion. i mean to command one of these fine ships yet." "but must you go so soon? you are expected to go to the marriage to-morrow." "yes. and i would have liked to see the last o' may dawson. but `business before pleasure,' ye ken, mother; and nobody will miss me, i dare say. and marion will say all that is needful to the bride." willie spoke cheerily--too cheerily, his mother thought, to be quite natural. "no thought of jean dawson shall ever come between my mother and me," willie was thinking. "even if she cared for me, it could never be; and i must get away from the sight of her, or i shall do something foolish, and give my mother all the old pain over again." then after a long time of silence, he said, "if you were to live in liverpool, or near it, mother, i could see you oftener than if i had to come to portie." "yes, i have been thinking of that." "marion wouldna like it?" "no, i dare say not. but it might be well for her to have a change." "well, then, that is settled. but there need be no haste, mother." "a month or two sooner or later would make little difference." and then they were silent again. mrs calderwood was thinking, "i am sorrier for her than i am for him. he is a man, with a man's work to do, and he will forget her. but as for jean--she's no' the kind of woman to forget." so willie kissed his sister in her morning sleep, and was away long before she opened her eyes on may's marriage day. if any one but his sister missed him amid the gay doings of the day, no one said so. the eyes and thoughts of all were on the bride and her attendant maidens, and it was a sight worth seeing. may behaved as a bride should, who of her own free will is leaving her father's house to go to the house of her husband. jean stood by her and her quietness kept the bride quiet also. but even jean's colour changed many times as they stood with all the kindly admiring eyes upon them. and when the ceremony was over, and the breakfast, and the speech-making, and the few painful moments of lingering that followed, and the happy bridegroom had at last gone away with his bonny bride, then nobody saw jean till a long hour and more was over. chapter eighteen. another proposal. captain harefield was at the wedding an honoured guest, as all could see, and for a very good reason, it was said. through the blackford groom, it had come to be known in portie that a change had fallen on the fortunes of captain harefield. through the sad and sudden death of a distant cousin, he had become heir to a large estate in one of the southern english counties, and though he might have a while to wait for the full enjoyment of his inheritance, and for the tide that was to come with it, there was in the mean time a happy change in his circumstances as far as money was concerned. he had not come to blackford house this time, to escape duns. and his sister had not come to take care of him. the chances were that he had an object in view in coming, and on the wedding day more than one of those who saw the looks he cast at the bride and her maidens, had felt satisfied as to what that object might be. mr dawson was one of these. there were several guests still in the house, when a week had passed. mr dawson and his sister were sitting one afternoon on the terrace, when captain harefield rode up, and in a little he had joined miss dawson in the garden. the father watched them as they came and went among the trees. "jean has the ba' at her foot this time, i'm thinking," said he. "weel, weel! it it pleases her, it will please me." "she'll never please ye in that way. dinna think it." "i'm no' so sure that it would please me--no' so sure as i was this time last year. but i think she might be satisfied." "she'll need a stronger hand to guide her." "she has strength and sense to guide _him_, and that might do as well." "it wouldna be for her happiness were she to be persuaded to such a marriage," said miss jean gravely. "persuaded! no, that is not likely. but, jean, i like the lad, though he is no' a solomon, i confess, and he has a high place in the world--or he will ha'e ane--and jean would do him credit." "high place or no', he is no' her equal in any important sense. if she cared for him, she might guide him and put up with him, as many another woman has to do. as to persuading her--no one could do that; but if she thought your heart was set on it, she might persuade herself to her ain unhappiness." "i'se never persuade her. and i would ha'e ill sparin' her. but it would be a fine position, and she would keep it we'll." "ay, if she could take it with a good conscience. but that she canna do," said miss jean. when the bustle attending the wedding was over and all the guests were gone, a new life began at saughleas. as far as george was concerned, it was not just the life his father would have chosen for him. but george was a man now, and every day that passed proved to his father that he was a man that might safely be trusted to guide himself. it would have pleased his father that he should at once have taken his place as the young laird of saughleas. there were many signs among the other proprietors of the neighbourhood, that he would have been welcomed to the houses of people who had held hitherto only business intercourse with his father. there was no need for george to return to the counting-house again. mr dawson acknowledged himself to be a richer man than was generally supposed, and george, as the heir of saughleas, might "take a long tether," as far as the spending of money was concerned. and he need not lead an idle life. all the congenial occupations of a country gentleman were open to him, to say nothing of the amusements which only men of comparative leisure could enjoy. or he might farm his own land. whether he could make such farming profitable to himself might be doubtful, but he might do good in the countryside, and he would thus have an opportunity of bringing himself into contact with people whose acquaintance was to be desired,--the lairds and gentlemen farmers of the north. it was to his sister oftener than to his son that all this was said; and listening to him, miss jean could not but wonder what had become of the sense and judgment that had guided him through all his life till now. "when you are dead and gone, and george has a son of his ain, he'll get willingly in the countryside what you are so anxious for him to take now. it would bring neither the honour nor the pleasure that you are dreaming about for him, if he were to turn his back upon--the shop--for that was the foundation o' your fortune, though you are a banker and a ship-owner now. let george win his ain way, as his father did before him; it will be mair to his credit, and mair to his happiness, than any such change as ye would fain see in his way of life. and he'll be far safer." "a body would think to hear ye, jean, that i was like to be ashamed o' the shop, and the makin' o' my ain way in the world; i'm so far from that, that i seek no other credit or honour in the countryside than what i have won as a man of business. but it might be different with my son." "weel, honour and consideration seldom come the sooner for the seeking. they'll come to george in good time, if he shall deserve them. it's little honour he would be like to get from men o' sense if he were content to sit down with what you ha'e won for him, putting himself in the place that ye ha'e honestly and honourably won for yourself. that would be for the honour o' neither you nor him, though ye may think it." "it was for him i won it. there would be neither pleasure nor profit for me, at my time o' life, in seekin' any change. but i acknowledge it would be a pleasure to me to see my son taking his right place in the countryside. it is no' as if he werena fit for it. just look at him! who is there to compare with him? and he has as good blood in his veins as the most o' them, when a' is said." "he'll get his right place in time, never fear. and he'll get it all the readier that he's no' in haste about it." in the mean time george was in his father's office, setting himself to the mastering of all details and succeeding therein, in a way that astonished his father. it was that part of the business that had to do with shipping interests which he liked best, and which chiefly claimed his attention at this time. his father acknowledged that he had a clear head, and a power of application that would stand him in stead either as merchant or landed proprietor. and the pleasure he had in his son's companionship, and in his sympathy with his work, went far to keep him silent as to any change in his present course. as for george, he was for the most part silent also, because he was unwilling by opposition to his father's wishes to put in jeopardy the new and pleasant relations existing between them. but to his sister and his aunt he spoke plainly enough. if any of them were to have special consideration from their neighbours, it must be because of his father's life, and what he had accomplished in it. as for his assuming the position of the young laird of saughleas while his father continued the laborious life of a man of business, that would be only contemptible. if he were to take his own way in life, he must win the right to do so, and he made no secret of the possibility that, as the years went on, his way of life might in some respects be different from his father's. he pleased his father in one way. he took great interest in all that concerned the management of the estate. he was fond of the place as his home. they agreed in most things which concerned its prosperity and prospects, and if george was less eager than his father in his desire to add to its extent, he did not vex him by showing this too plainly. they differed in opinion about this, and about other things often. but mr dawson put great restraint upon himself at such times, striving to remember that george had a right as a man to hold his own opinions and to act upon them though they differed from his. george, on his part, felt no temptation to fail in the perfect respect he owed to his father, in his words and in his ways. and so, in course of time, things bade fair to adjust themselves to the satisfaction of both. as was to be supposed, jean and her aunt looked on with deep interest, while the father and son were thus happily though warily renewing their acquaintance, but they said little about it, even to each other. during the first month after may went away there was much going on at saughleas. emily corbett, who had come for the wedding, stayed a while, and hugh stayed also, though he was strong and well and able for any thing now. there were young people coming to the house for their sakes,--marion calderwood, who was emily's chief friend, and the young petries, and others; and there were expeditions here and there, and garden parties at various houses; and jean's time and thoughts were much occupied. captain harefield made one of such parties now and then, but not so frequently as had been the case last summer. he was a person of more importance at blackford house now than he had been then, and though his sister was not there to take care of him, there were others there ready and willing to do the work in which it must be confessed she had failed. he was so good-natured, and so unaccustomed to exert his own will against any one who assumed the right to guide him, that he was easily taken possession of. it was agreeable also to be made much of, to be consulted and included in all arrangements for business or pleasure, so that he did not find his stay at blackford house "a bore," as he had done last summer, and he was less inclined to stray away into other parts to look for pleasure. the less frequently that he came to saughleas, the more kindly and frankly he was received by jean, who liked him very well since he seemed to have put foolish thoughts out of his head. but he came often enough to put foolish thoughts into the heads of other people. the young people who came to the house, watched with interest the captain's shy devotion, and jean's friendly indifference, not quite sure the last was altogether real. mrs seldon, during the weeks of her stay, never doubted as to his object in coming, and sensible of the importance attached to having a place in county society and a title in prospect, she doubted as little as to the result of his devotion, and mr dawson, with a mingling of feelings which he could not easily have analysed, repeated to himself that "jean had the ball at her foot, whatever way it might end." but miss jean held fast to her first opinion, that jean was safe from any temptation to yield to him, and so was another who had not had miss jean's experience. "oh! miss jean, i am the most unfortunate little creature in all portie, i think. i'm ay doing or saying something that i shouldna." "my dear, ye are worse than unfortunate if that be true. what have ye been at now?" "it was quite true, what i said, only i wish mr dawson hadna heard us. we were speaking about--about miss dawson--" marion hesitated. she was not quite sure how miss jean herself would like to hear that the young folk had been discussing her niece and her affairs so freely. "it was only that he heard us. i'm ay vexing mr dawson, i think." "are you?" said miss jean, smiling. "ay, am i. don't you mind the apple-tree that was broken, and don't you mind?" several other circumstances that it vexed the girl to remember. but jean herself coming in, the vexation of the moment could not be discussed and marion was not sorry. it had happened thus. she had come early to saughleas with the young petries intending to set out at once on an expedition that had been planned to the castle, but something had delayed several of their party, and the younger folk were whiling away the time of waiting, chatting and laughing as they sat on the grass. by and by the well-known dog-cart passed. "haloo! there is your englishman, marion," said hugh corbett. "i wonder he didn't come in. he'll be back again to go with us, unless we make haste to get away." "well, and why should not he come with us? the more the merrier," said his sister. "and he's no' _my_ englishman," said marion with dignity; "and for that matter ye are only an englishman yoursel'." "only an englishman! just hear her!" said hugh. "and ye're not even an englishman. you are neither one thing nor the other," said grace petrie laughing. "if ye were to bide a while in portie, ye might maybe pass for a scotchman, however." "oh, indeed! might i? that's encouraging." this was a favourite subject of discussion between these young people, and much banter passed with regard to the nationality of the corbetts. "but he is no' marion's englishman anyway," said jack petrie in a little. "he only falls back on marion when miss dawson's company is no' to be had." "and it's only because marion saves him the trouble of saying a word. she is such a chatterbox," said hugh. "and he'll have to fall back on her altogether soon, i'm thinking." "i'm sure that's no' what our milly thinks," said jack. "she says that miss dawson--" "your milly! she judges other folk by hersel'! miss dawson wouldna look at him," said marion calderwood. "but she does look at him, whiles," said grace. "but that's because she's no' ay thinkin' about--about the like o' that him indeed! he might as well go and ask for one of the young princesses at once." they all laughed and exclaimed. "well, she would be no more above him in one way than miss dawson is in another. a baronet? what o' that? any body might be a baronet, i suppose," said marion. "but nothing short of a lord will do for jean dawson, ye think. i doubt she'll bide a whilie," said jack scornfully. "and she can afford to bide a whilie. miss dawson is sufficient for herself," said marion loftily. "but i don't expect you to understand me, jack; and i don't think it is nice for us to be speaking that way about miss dawson." "i agree with you," said emily. "so do i," said hugh. "but i have one question to ask, and only one. who of all the gentlemen you have ever seen would you think good enough or great enough for miss dawson." "oh! as to good enough, that is not what marion means," said grace. "no. nor great enough," said emily. "well--just suitable--worthy of her, in every way? in mind, body, and estate. come, let us hear." "yes, come, let us hear." "in mind, body, and estate," repeated emily laughing. "i think enough has been said already," and marion rose to go away. "but if ye will have it--i never saw any body in every respect worthy of miss dawson-except, perhaps--but yet--" marion hesitated, and then added,-"i dinna believe there is another in all scotland like miss dawson." "i agree--nor in england either," said hugh. "but i rise to ask a question--" he had risen, but it was evidently with the design of intercepting marion, who was moving over the grass intent on getting away. "i leave it to the company if we have not a right to hear what is to be said; and, what is more, you are not going away till you tell us." he did not touch her, but he looked quite ready to do it. "nonsense, hugh! you are not to vex marion," said his sister; but she drew near with the rest to listen. "`not one in all scotland,' she said," repeated grace laughing. "let us stick to the point," said hugh. marion reddened and fidgeted, and measured the distance with her eye with the evident intention of running away, and all this hugh noted-nodding and smiling. "ye canna gar marion speak, if she's no willin'. i've seen her tried," said another petrie. "why shouldna i speak?" said marion, realising the impossibility of getting away. "except that--it's no' a thing to speak about--here. what i mean is this. but yet if she were to give her whole heart to any one--he would be the right one--even if--but she would never care for one who was not worthy. now let me go." "yes--certainly. well?" marion had made up her mind to say no more. but when grace petrie, tossing her head and laughing, said that she could guess who the exception might be, she changed her mind again. "well!" said hugh, drawing still near as she receded. "`except, perhaps,' whom?" "i except no one that ever i saw, for there is no one that ever i saw who, in all things--in mind, body, and estate, as you say--i would think fit for miss dawson. but what i was going to say was--except, perhaps-george--only he is her brother, ye ken." "george!" echoed, many voices. "and what's george more than another?" asked jack scornfully. "she'll be saying next, that there's naebody like _him_ in all scotland." and then marion, glancing up at the window beneath which they had been sitting, met the wondering look of mr dawson. "he must have heard every word," said grace in a whisper. marion turned and fled to seek comfort with miss jean. they went away to the castle, and miss dawson went with them; captain harefield came to the house soon after they set out, but he did not follow them, though mr dawson suggested that he might easily overtake them before they reached the place. it was mr dawson himself he had come to see; and when they all came back, and the young folk had had their tea and were gone home together in the moonlight, her father had something to say to jean. "it's a comfort that you can just leave it to jean herself," said his sister, when he told his news to her. of what her own opinion might be she said nothing, nor was she curious to hear what mr dawson might think now about the chance that his daughter had of becoming the wife of captain harefield. "it is a thing that she must decide for herself; and indeed she will let no one else decide it." there was a measure of comfort in that view of the matter. for though mr dawson was ambitious for his daughter, captain harefield as a man with expectations was by no means so interesting to him personally as he had been last year when he had none. he knew by jean's face at the first word spoken, that her aunt was right. "i gave him his answer last year," said she. "but it's no' an unheard of thing that a woman should change her mind," said her father dryly. "i have had no reason to change my mind, but many reasons against it. fancy my leaving you and george and the happy life we are just beginning, to go away with a stranger to folk that would look down on me, and think he had thrown himself away?" "i could make it worth their while to think otherwise." but jean shook her head. "last year you might, when he had nothing." "as for his friends--ye need ha'e little to do with them. i dare say none o' them can ha'e a higher sense o' their ain importance than his sister, mrs eastwood, and i think ye could hold your own with her." "if it were worth my while. but, papa--he is nothing in the world to me." "he is not a clever man, i ken that. but i like him. he is sweet tempered, and he is a gentleman, and he cares for you. and i think, with you to stand by him, he might be a good man and a useful." "but, papa--the weariness of it, even if i cared for him." "but that might come in time." "no, papa. i am not--going with him. he will find some one who will care for him, and who will fill the high position that he can give her better than i could do." in his heart the father did not believe that, but he only said,-"very likely. you must please yourself i only wish you to ken your ain mind, and understand what you are refusing. he will be sir percy harefield, and there may come a time when you will regret your refusal." "i don't think it, papa." "as for not wishing to leave your brother and me--george will marry sometime, and then you will be but second with him, though he may be first with you." "of course he will marry, papa. and i will be `auntie jean' to his bairns. and i'll ay have you, papa." "but, jean, i want you to understand. when george marries it is my intention to give up saughleas to him. his wife will be mistress here then." he watched her face as he said this. she was not looking at him, but out at the window, standing in the full light. she turned to him with a smile like sunshine on her face. "then i could live with auntie jean when you didna need me any more. `the twa miss jean dawsons!' wouldna ye like that, auntie jean? but, papa," she added gravely, "it wouldna please george to hear you speak of giving up saughleas to him." "he need not hear it till the right time comes. there need be no haste. his choice will be the wiser the longer he waits, let us hope." "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. "it is not so bad as a year's voyage to the north," she told herself. "portie is his home while his mother is here and marion." but he had spoken no word to her before he went, as he might have done, if he had been going away to the dangers of the arctic seas. that was the pain to her. but she comforted herself. though she knew his pride was strong, she thought that his love would prove stronger still, and he would speak when the right time came. but when willie had crossed the sea twice, and twice again, still he did not come to portie. he went instead to london, and there he fell in with an aunt of his father's who, in years long past, had been the wife of a london merchant, but who was a childless widow now. she had been left with a large house and a small income more than thirty years ago, when she was young and courageous, and she had put aside all the traditions of the class into which marriage had brought her, and had fallen back on the belief in which she had been brought up in her home in the north, that honest work honourably followed was a blessing to be thankful for, rather than a burden to be borne. so her head and her hands and her house were all put to use, and she had lived a busy and a happy life since then. but she was growing old now, and her heart longed for her own land and kindred, so when she saw willie, and heard of his mother who was a widow, and his young sister marion, she begged them to come to her for a while. it is doubtful whether mrs calderwood would have had the courage to accept the invitation, if the thought of leaving portie had not been already familiar to her; and it is equally doubtful whether she would have had the courage to go away, if this invitation had not come. it was for a visit that they were going, she said, but her house was given up, the few things which she valued and could not take with her, were safely put away in an empty room in miss jean's house. and no one knew when she might be expected in portie again. jean had not often seen mrs calderwood since the day she had gone to ask marion to visit her at the time her sister may was in london, but she saw her now in her aunt's house, where the last few days of the mother and daughter were passed, and though they both strove against it, there was a shadow of embarrassment between them. "we'll maybe see may in london, and we'll be sure to see you when you come to visit her there," marion said, including both george and jean in her words. "london is a large place, and mrs manners has her own friends," said mrs calderwood. "we shall find you out, never fear, and we winna forget you even if you should live in london all your life." marion laughed and then looked grave. "but that can never happen," said she. if jean was grave and silent for a while at this time, no one noticed it but her aunt, and she did not remark upon it. indeed she was grave and a little sad herself for she greatly missed both mother and daughter, who had been her dear friends and daily visitors for many a year, and she confessed to a strange feeling of loneliness in her house by the sea. jean came often to see her and so did george, but she seldom spoke about the calderwoods to either of them. now and then a letter came from marion to jean or to her aunt, but after the very first these letters said nothing about coming home to portie again. and jean waited. not unhappily. far from that, for her life was a busy one. she had much to do and much to enjoy in her father's house and beyond it. she strove to forget herself, and to remember others, and made no one anxious or curious because of her grave looks and her sadness. she just waited, telling herself that if so it must be, she would do as her aunt had done, and wait on till the end. chapter nineteen. george. they had three years and more without a break of the happy life to which jean had looked forward when her brother came home. the days seemed all alike in the quiet routine into which they fell; but no one wished for a change. if mr dawson had misgivings as to how his son, after his long wanderings round the world, would settle down into the man of business, intent chiefly on the work which the day brought to his hand, they were all put aside after a time. george fell into his place with an ease which indicated a natural aptitude for the kind of work expected from him; and during a slight but tedious illness, which kept his father a few weeks at home, george filled his place in the counting-house with a success which proved that in all but experience, he was fitted, and might be trusted to hold it to as good purpose as ever his father had done. he had the same clear head, and the same directness of purpose in his dealings with other men; and he had, what his father even in his youngest days had never had, the natural kindliness of heart and temper that won good-will without an effort. mr dawson had always been respected as an honest man,--a man of his word; but when their fellow townsmen discussed the father and son in their new relations, as they were not slow to do, it was said of george, that he was "a true gentleman"; and by this it was meant, that the temptations which his father, as a man of business had all his life successfully resisted, the son would never see as temptations at all. while those who came into business relations with him saw that he would probably be as successful in the making of money as his father had been; they also saw that he cared far less for it; and with better opportunities for knowing, they would also have seen that he spent a good deal of it in a manner, which, according to his father's judgment, would bring but poor returns. the poor folk of portie, the sailors' widows and orphans, and the "puir auld wivies" of the town, knew about it, though even they oftener saw miss jean's hand in the help that came from him, than his own. "ane o' miss jean's folk," they called him, and so he was, in that he served the same master, and loved the service. but he did not offend nor grieve his father by openly casting in his lot with these people as his aunt had done. there was not the same need. miss jean had found in communion with the despised little flock in stott's lane, the help and comfort which she had failed to find in the kirk of her fathers. but times had changed since then. in the kirk of their fathers in portie as well as elsewhere there was found in george's day the personal consecration, the fervour of love, the earnestness of service, which in the old days had made the folk of stott's lane "a peculiar people." george was content to remain with them, and his aunt had no desire that he should do otherwise. and then he went quietly on his way, unconscious that the eyes of all portie were upon him; not just watching for his halting, yet with a certain movement of expectation to see him fall into his old light-hearted, careless ways again. he did not begin his new life among them with any definite plan of work. he had no such faith in his own strength or wisdom as to make him hopeful as to what he might do for any one. but this work came to him, as in one way or another work will come to all who wish to serve. it came to him out of the every-day work of his life, which brought him into contact with ships and sailors, either setting sail, or coming home after a voyage. he sent away those who were going with a friendly "god speed," and met those who returned with a kindly greeting, and was frank and sympathetic with all, because it was his nature to be so; and the men liked him as every body who came near him had liked him all his life. and his sympathy and their liking opened the way for the help which he could give, and which some of these poor fellows needed badly enough. by and by he found himself in the midst of work which had come to his hands he scarcely could have told how;--certainly not from any impelling sense of the duty which he owed to this class of his townsmen, and not consciously from any thought of the service that he owed them for his master's sake. one needed his help, and another, and he gave it gladly, taking pleasure in it, and before he knew it, his hands and his heart were full. it was in one way humble work enough that he did--speaking a word of caution to one, laying a restraining hand on another, guiding another past an evident danger, helping another firmly to withstand the temptation of strong drink, too often the sailor's strongest and wiliest foe. all this led him at times into dark places, and queer companionships, where was needed a strong arm as well as a cool head and a persuasive tongue. for "poor jack," just off a long voyage with money in his pockets, was considered fair game in portie as in other places; and even in portie, where dark deeds could not be easily hidden, dark deeds were sometimes done. though the influence of the respectable part of the community could be brought to bear more readily and directly on the doers of such deeds, than could be the case in larger places, yet direct interference, either to prevent or to punish, was not always effectual. "poor jack" himself was often as eager as his enemy to resent and resist such interference, and those who ventured upon it, sometimes fared ill between them. to these poor fellows george gave both time and interest, and not in vain. in all his dealings with them they were made to feel that it was not a sense of duty merely, that brought him near them. he understood them, and liked them and their ways, and was their friend. they believed in him, and did, to please him, what they would hardly have been brought to do from higher motives. after a time they trusted him entirely, as well they might. he loved them. there was nothing that he would not do to help them--few things that he did not do for some of them. in the many ways which genuine personal interest can devise, he befriended them and theirs. in sickness he helped them by helping those to whom they belonged--which was well, and he put his own hands on them, which was better,--putting his strength to gentle uses: soothing, restraining, comforting them, as he never could have done if he had not loved them, and if they had not had confidence in his love. and because he loved them, they were not unwilling to listen to him when he told them of a "greater love," the love of one who grudged not to give his life for their sakes. he never told it in many words, and he did not for a good while try to tell it to any but the sick and the suffering, as he got a chance for a word with them one by one. but later, when there were occasions, now and then, for sharp though kindly words of rebuke where numbers had gathered, words of gentleness were sure to follow about the love that could keep them in all straits from yielding unworthily to wrong-doing. and if such occasions grew more frequent as time went on, it was because of no plan or intention of his. little of all this was known in portie, except among the men themselves and their families, and among the ill-doing folk who would fain have made gain of their folly; but the result was visible enough in the better lives of some and added comfort of many a home in the place. but to no one did george's work do more good than to himself. it gave him an interest in life which business, engaged in conscientiously for the sake of pleasing his father and making up to him for the disappointment which the last few years of his life had caused, could never have supplied. it did more to establish him permanently in portie, and to make him content there, than did the partnership into which during the second year he entered with his father. he grew more like his old self, his father said to miss jean, giving the new partnership, and the increased interest and responsibility which it implied the credit for it. in miss jean's eyes, he was as little like the wilful lad who had given cause for many anxious thoughts in the old days, as could well be, except that he had the same sunny temper and the same winning ways, and was well-beloved as he had been in his most foolish days. now he was a man to be trusted as well as loved. he was a graver man than he might ever have become without the discipline of sorrow through which he had passed, and the remorseful memory of the worse than wasted years that followed; but his "trouble," as the suffering and sinning of those years were vaguely called, had not harmed him. at least good had come out of it all. he was grave, but he was not gloomy; and though he availed himself less than pleased his father of the opportunities given for mingling in such society as portie and its neighbourhood afforded, he made home a different place to them all. these were happy days to jean. between her and her brother, as to all that filled his life and made the future hopeful, there was perfect confidence and sympathy. she helped him in his work among the sailors and their wives and families, and among the fishers of the neighbourhood, by doing many things that only a woman's tact and skill and will could do, and she helped him even more by the eager sympathy with which she listened and advised when she could not put her own hand to the work. they were true friends as well as loving brother and sister, and as time went on, their father began to fear that they might grow too well content with each other and the life they were living, and so fail of the higher happiness which he coveted for them, and which was the right of such as they. "there is time enough," said miss jean comforting him. "yes. he is young, and he will surely forget," said his father. "and as for jean, she is fancy-free." to this miss jean made no reply. she was not sure of either the one thing or the other. but she saw that the brother and sister seemed content, and that they were doing willingly and effectively the work that fell to their hands, and in her esteem life had nothing better to give than this. "all that you wish for them may come in the natural course of things, but ye must have patience and no' try to force it," said miss jean. "and in the mean time, ye ha'e ay one o' may's bonny boys to fall back upon for saughleas, if that is what is in your mind." for they had lately heard of the birth of mrs manners' second son, and much rejoicing had it caused. "i wonder ye're no' thinkin' o' going south to see your new grandson. the change would do you good, and it would be a great pleasure to may." "there is nothing to hinder, if jean will go with me." but there was much to hinder jean it seemed. may had better nursing than she could give her, and she would much rather make her visit when her sister should be well and strong and able to go about with her. and then george had been promising to take her to paris and perhaps farther, later in the summer, and they could visit may at the same time. besides--she told her father privately she would not go away and leave her aunt so long alone just at present, for she was never strong in the spring; and her father could urge her no longer. jean had another reason, of which she could speak to no one, why she did not wish to leave portie at this time. she had heard from one of the young petries of the hope they had of a visit from marion calderwood and her brother, and jean would not leave home and lose the chance of seeing them. willie calderwood had never been in portie again, and jean had never seen him, since he left it on the morning of her sister's marriage day, and that was a long time now. she had waited patiently, but she longed for the time of waiting to be over. she knew now how well she loved him, and in her heart she believed that he loved her as well. he had never spoken, he might never speak; but whether he spoke or not, she had a longing unspeakable, just to see his face and touch his hand again. she had been quite happy during these two years, she told herself; but her heart sprang gladly up at the thought that her time of waiting might be nearly over. she had never spoken his name even to her brother, and he had been as silent to her, but she sometimes thought that george knew how they cared for one another, and that he kept silence because he knew it would not be well to speak. but all the same, jean would not lose the chance of seeing willie again. so, after some consideration, mr dawson set off alone. he reached london late at night and did not go to his daughter's house until the morning. she lived in a pleasant part of a pleasant suburb, in a little house which stood in the midst of a tiny garden, which was enclosed within high walls. they had removed to it recently, and mr dawson had never seen it before. it was a very pretty place, he thought as he entered--a little confined perhaps, for the high walls were not very far apart--a little like a prison, he could not but fancy, as the gate was locked behind him. mr manners had already gone out for the day, the neat little maid told him, and mrs manners was not down yet, but she would be down presently. she was well and so was baby. but he was not left alone long, and then he had another greeting. he thought for a moment that it was may who came toward him with outstretched hand. it was not may. it was a tall, slender, dark-eyed girl with a blooming face in which there was something familiar. he knew who it was as soon as he heard her voice. "didna jean come with you?" a shadow fell on the bright face at his answer. but it passed in a minute. "it is good to see a `kenned face' again. mrs manners is very well, and so is baby--such a darling! mrs manners is coming down-stairs to-day for the first time. she will be down soon," added the girl more sedately, as if she had got a little check. she was thinking of the time when she stood before mr dawson with the broken branch of the apple-tree in her hand, and oddly enough, so was he. but the sight of marion calderwood stirred no angry feelings now. that was all past. the ill that had come to his son through elsie calderwood had been changed to good. the sudden glad remembrance of the son he had left at home--a man strong, earnest, good--softened his heart and his voice as he looked on the girl's wistful face, and he smiled kindly as he said,-"england seems to agree with you, my lassie." marion shook her head. "but it is no' home," said she. "i like portie best." then she took courage to ask him about the place, and about the folk in it, and the changes that had taken place since she left. trifling questions some of them were, but they were asked so eagerly, and the answers were listened to with such interest, that he could not but take pleasure in it. nobody was forgotten. from miss jean herself to poor old mrs cairnie, every body in portie seemed to be a friend of hers, and all that concerned them of the deepest interest to her. mr dawson had difficulty in recalling some of the folk she asked about. "ye should come back and renew acquaintance with them all." "oh! wouldna i like it! and maybe i may--some day. we thought miss dawson was coming with you," said marion with a little change of face and voice! "jean? yes, i thought that too; but she had some good reasons of her own for staying at home. her aunt is not just so strong as she might be, and she didna like to leave her. she'll come soon, however. she is a friend of yours, it seems." "she was ay good to me," said marion softly, and there was nothing more said for a while. "but what have i been thinking about all this time?" said marion suddenly. she left the room and returned almost immediately with a child in her arms--may's eldest, a beautiful but rather delicate looking boy of a little more than a year old. "this is george dawson--the precious darling. he is just a little shy at first, but he is not going to be shy with his own grandpapa, is he, my pet, my darling, my bonny boy?" and she fell into a soft babble of fond words, which would have had no meaning to an indifferent listener, but the grandfather listened, well pleased. the "bonny boy" showed his shyness by clinging to his nurse, but he looked at his grandfather bravely enough, and did not resent the cautious advances made to him. he was persuaded to show all his pretty tricks of action and speech, and smiled, and cooed, and murmured his baby words; and it would not have been easy to say whether his nurse or his grandfather was most delighted at the success of the introduction. "and now," said marion, "i think we may tell grandpapa our secret. and it will not be long a secret now, will it, my bonny boy? for mamma is coming down to-day, and all the world must know." then setting the child safely in a corner, she moved a step or two away, and held out her arms. then there were more sweet foolish words, and then the venture was made, and two or three uncertain steps taken, and the little hero was safe again in her arms. again and again, with a skill and courage that increased as the distance was lengthened, the journey was made in triumph. then marion knelt down, and steadying the child before her, said softly and firmly,-"now go to grandpapa." and forgetting his shyness in the glory of success, away he went with eager, faltering steps, and sprang joyfully into the old man's arms. the door had opened softly and the young mother, pale but smiling, stood on the threshold seeing it all. as the child turned she stooped and held out her arms, and again he crossed the space between them with quick, uncertain steps; and may kissed her father with her child in her arms. then, after a whispered word, marion went out and returned in a little carrying a tiny bundle with trailing white robes, and presented to mr dawson another grandson. if she had been at all afraid of him at first, her fear had not outlasted the play with the child, and mrs manners saw with mingled surprise and amusement the good understanding between them, and the interest her father allowed to appear in the pretty ways and pleasant words of the girl whom in the old days they had found it best to keep a little out of his sight. he listened to their lamentations about jean's not coming patiently, and answered with a good grace, more questions in ten minutes than ever she had ventured to put to him in as many days. "she has wonderfully improved since she left portie," said he, when marion had carried away the baby again. "she was ay a bonny lassie," said may. she was not going to put him on his guard against the fascinations of her friend by praising her too earnestly. "i like her to be here with me when i cannot go out. she is very nice with georgie." that was all she said to him, but she told her husband that night, that marion, with the help of the "bonny boy," had made a conquest of her father. chapter twenty. marion. that was but the beginning. mr dawson might have had a dull time for the next few days, since mr manners was more than usually engaged, and mrs manners was not permitted to come down-stairs very early. but he did not. there was the boy, and there was marion, ready to show one another off to the best advantage for his admiration and amusement. and when the boy was carried away by his nurse, marion still considered herself responsible for the entertainment of the old gentleman of whom, since he had showed himself inclined to unbend, she had ceased to be afraid. she read to him, she sang to him, she talked to him about many things-about the leaders in the _times_, the fishing interests, the prospects of a good harvest. and when other subjects failed there was always portie to fall back upon. her interest in all that pertained to her old home and its inhabitants was inexhaustible. "oh! we are never at a loss," she told mrs manners, when she asked her how they had got through the day. it might have come to that, however, if mrs manners had not judiciously suggested a change. when one morning mr dawson said he must go into the city, his daughter suggested that business and pleasure might be united for once, and he might take marion. his business took him to the bank of england, and there marion found her pleasure. for he took her through all that wonderful place and showed her what was to be seen, to her great delight. then they threaded their way through the crowds of cheapside, and came to the great cathedral which hitherto marion had only seen in the distance. it was almost too much in one day, she thought, the bank of england and saint paul's. but did she not enjoy it? they only meant to go in to rest for a minute, but hours passed before they came out again. then mr dawson took her to lunch at a curious little place near ludgate hill, and then they moved through crowds again along fleet street till they came to temple bar and turned into the temple. oh! the peace and quiet of the place, after the jostling and noise and confusion of the great thoroughfare! marion fancied herself walking in a dream, as they wandered through the silent courts, and listened to the soft "plash, plash" of the fountain, and then sat down to rest under the trees of the garden. a score of names famous in history and fiction rose to her lips. they had not said much to one another all the morning. marion had said only a word now and then in her delight at the wonderful things she saw, but as they sat a while to rest and catch the cool air blowing from the river before they set out for home, her lips were opened, and she talked a good deal more than she would have been likely to do to mr dawson, or any one else, in other circumstances. foolish talk some of it was, about unreal folk who will still live forever because of the genius that called them into being. unknown names most of them were to her listener; and in another mood and place, he might have called it all folly or worse. but he listened now with the pleased interest that one gives to the fancies of a child. and all she said was not foolish, he acknowledged as she went on. there were little words now and then, clear and keen and wise, which pleased him well. but nothing that was seen or said that day pleased him so much as this. "you have made a day of it together," said mrs manners laughing, as she met them at the door. "you must be tired enough by this time." "yes, i am tired. and no wonder. i think i never had so much pleasure in one day in all my life before." she did not say it to him. he only heard it by chance as she passed up the stairs. but he said to himself that there should be more such days for one so easily pleased before he left london. and so there were. they saw together pictures and people, parks and gardens. they went to richmond and kew and hampton court, and to more places besides. mrs manners went with them sometimes, but their energy and interest were too much for her, and usually she let them go without her. and mr dawson was fain to acknowledge to himself that he had a share in the pleasure which he meant to give "the blithe and bonny lassie" at such times. she was "blithe and bonny" at all times, but when he saw her, as often happened, moving about among the guests that sometimes filled his daughter's pretty rooms, none more admired and none more worthy of admiration than she, he owned that she was more than that. they were not just well-dressed, well-mannered nobodies that mrs manners entertained. many of them were men and women who had been heard of in the world for their worth or their wisdom, or for good work of one kind or another done by them. and this blithe and bonny lassie, who enjoyed her play with the child and her sight-seeing with the old man, was not out of place among them. she was young and a little shy of folk that seemed great folk to her, and she was very quiet and silent among them. but many eyes followed her with delight as she moved up and down among them in her pretty evening dress; and she had words of wisdom spoken to her now and then as well as the rest, and she could answer them too, on occasion, as he did not fail to see. she sang too, not only the old songs that delighted him, but grand, grave music, to which they listened who were far wiser about such things than he. she was a wonder to him at such times, but in the morning she was just as usual, "bonny and blithe" and easily pleased. "ye mind me whiles of our jean," said he to her one day, and he could not but wonder at the sudden brightness that flashed over her face at the words. mrs manners laughed. "that is the very utmost that can be said, papa. you cannot go beyond that. there is no one like. jean in. marion's eyes." "am i like her? maybe i may grow like her, sometime," said the girl softly. all this time may had been keeping a wise silence with regard to her friend. she believed that he would see all that was good and pleasant in her all the more readily that they were not pointed out to him; and so it proved. the days passed quickly and happily and came to an end too soon. all this time mrs calderwood had been at the seaside with her old friend, who had needed the change, and when they returned marion was called home. she was glad to go home, but at the same time she acknowledged herself sorry to leave. "for i think i never had so much pleasure all my life before. only i am afraid my mother will think i cannot have been much comfort to you." "she will be quite mistaken then," said mrs manners laughing and kissing her. "you have been a great comfort to me." a great surprise awaited marion when she reached home. she found her mother pondering gravely over a letter which she held in her hand, and the shadow of care did not--as it ought to have done--pass from her face as her daughter came in. it deepened rather; and in her pre-occupation she almost forgot to return the girl's greeting. "is any thing wrong, mother? is it willie?" "no, no. it is a letter i have gotten from miss jean." she spoke with hesitation. marion looked wistfully at the familiar handwriting of her old friend. "miss jean asks you to visit her in portie. it seems her nephew and niece are thinking of a journey, but miss dawson doubts about leaving her aunt, who is not strong. miss jean thinks she would go if you would promise to go and stay with her a while." "oh! mother! i should so like it." marion held out her hand for the letter, but her mother did not offer it to her; she read bits of it here and there instead. "`i have said nothing about it to jean, and shall not till i hear from you. they would likely set off at once if you would promise to let marion come to me, and that would please you, though--' "`if you decide to let her come, she might travel here with young mr petrie, who, i hear, is soon to be in london. though i think myself it might be better for her to come at once, in the company of my brother, who will not likely stay much longer.'" "oh, mother! i should so like to go. and is that all that miss jean says?" "all she says about your visit." "you don't wish me to go. why, mother? it is nae surely that you canna trust me so far away? i am not more foolish than other girls, am i?" mrs calderwood looked at her a moment as though she did not understand what she was saying. then she laughed and kissed her. "nonsense! dear. you are a sensible lassie and discreet. i would be sorry to disappoint miss jean, though she has friends enough in portie one would think. but it is the first favour she has ever asked of me, and many a one she has done me." "but, mother, i think this is a favour to us--to me at least. oh! it seems too good to be true." "well, we will think about it." "and, mother, if i should go, i would like--wouldn't you? rather to go with mr dawson than with james petrie." her mother's face clouded again. "what ails you at young mr petrie?" marion shrugged her shoulders. "oh! nothing. only i like mr dawson better--better than i could have believed possible. he has been very good to me. i haven't told you yet. mother, i think he must have grown a better man since george came home." her mother said nothing. she did not think well of mr dawson. she did not wish to think well of him. when she had heard from marion that he had come to his daughter's house, her first impulse was to recall her at once. the impossibility of leaving her old friend, or of permitting marion to travel alone, prevented her from acting on her first impulse, and when she had time to consider the matter, she saw that it would be better for her to remain. it was not likely that mr dawson would see much of her, and whatever he might feel, he would not do otherwise than treat politely his daughter's guest. that he should "begood to her," that he should put himself about, as she knew he must have done, to give her pleasure surprised her, but it did not please her. she had forgiven him, she told herself. at least she bore him no ill-will for the share he and his had had in the trouble of her life, but she wished to have nothing at all to do with him, either as friend or foe. but miss jean's friendship was quite apart from all this. it had been a refuge to her in times of trouble long before she lost her elsie, and this invitation was but another proof of her friendship, and she would let her daughter go. as for her escort--mrs calderwood was as averse to accepting james petrie as such, as her daughter was, though from a different reason. but she was equally averse to any appearance of presuming on the kindness of mr dawson. fortunately the matter was taken out of her hands. mrs manners came the next day empowered to plead that miss jean's invitation should be accepted, and when she found that this was not necessary, she found courage to propose that instead of waiting for any one, marion should hasten her preparations and go on at once with her father. trouble! what possible trouble could it be for her father to sit in the same railway carriage with the child? as for jamie petrie--it was easy seen what he was after. but it would be quite too great a grace to grant him at this early stage of--of his plans and projects. oh! yes. of course it was all nonsense, but then-but the nonsense helped to bring mrs calderwood to consent that marion should go at once. and so it was arranged. it would have pleased mr dawson to take marion with him to saughleas, but this she modestly but firmly declined, because her mother expected her to go at once to miss jean's house by the sea, and there she was kindly welcomed. it was like getting home again, she said. the sound of the sea soothed her to sleep, and it woke her in the morning with a voice as familiar as if she had never been away. she was out, and away over the sands to the tangle stanes, and had renewed acquaintance with half the bairns in portie, before miss jean was ready for her breakfast. the bairns had all grown big, and the streets and lanes, the houses and shops, had all grown narrow and small, she thought. but the sea had not changed, nor the sands, nor the far-away hills, nor the sky--which was, oh! so different from the sky in london. marion had not changed much, her friends thought. some of them said she was bigger and bonnier, but she was blithe and friendly and "a'e fauld" still--and london hadna spoiled her as it might very easily have done. at any rate she meant to enjoy every hour of her stay, and that was the way she began. she did not miss jean either, for george had been called away on business for a few days and when he returned they were to set out on their travels. during these few days marion saw much of her friend. jean was graver than she used to be, marion thought; but she was kind and friendly, and could be merry too, on occasion. they had much to say to one another, and they spent hours together in the old familiar places, in the wood and on the rocks by the sea, and heard one another's "secrets," which were only secrets in the sense that neither of them would have been likely to tell them to any one else. marion told her friend all that she had been seeing and doing and reading, and some things that she had been hoping, since she went away, and jean did little more. she told what her brother was doing and the help she tried to give him, and she told of the life that seemed to be opening before them. not such a life as they used to plan and dream about for themselves, when they were young; a quiet, uneventful, busy-life, just like the lives of other people. judging from the look on jean's face it did not seem a very joyful life to look forward to. marion regarded her friend with wistful eyes. "no. it will never be that, i am sure--just like the lives of other people, i mean." "and why not? well, perhaps not altogether. it will be an easier life than the lives of most people, i suppose. it will not just be a struggle for bread, as it is for so many. and we can do something for others who need help, and we need not be tied to one place every day of the year, as most folk are. and by and by we will be `looked up to,' and our advice will be asked, and folk will say of us, as they say of my father, that `they are much respeckit in the countryside.' and by that time i shall be `auld miss jean,' and near done with it all. but it is a long look till then." "but it may be all quite different from that. many a thing may happen to change it all." "oh! many things will happen, as you say. may and her bairns will be coming and going, and the bairns will fit into the places that the years will leave empty, and george will need a staff like my father, and i will grow `frail' like auntie jean, and sit waiting and looking at the sea. and ye needna sit lookin' at me with such pitiful e'en, for who is waiting so happily as she? and yet who will be so glad to go when her time shall come?" marion said nothing, but turned her eyes seaward with a grave face. jean went on. "yes, many things will happen, but it will be just the same thing over again. the ships will sail away, and there will be long waiting, and some of them will come home, and some will never come, and the pain will be as hard to bear as if it had never come to many a sore heart before. and some folk will be glad, and some will be at least content, and some will make mistakes and spoil their lives and then just wait on to the end. marion, what are you thinking about?" "i'm wondering if it is really you who are saying all that. and i am thinking that is not the way miss jean would speak." "oh! miss jean! no, she has won safely past all that. but once, long ago, before she had learned the secret of peaceful and patient waiting, she might have been afraid of the days. come, it is growing cold. let us go on." they rose from the tangle stanes where they had been sitting and moved away, and jean said,-"and as for you--are you sure it is to be the grand school after all? well, you will come back when the heat and burden of the day is over to take your rest in portie. and you will be a stately old lady, a little worn and sharp perhaps, as is the fate of schoolmistresses; but with fine manners, and wisdom enough for us all. and the new generation of petries will admire you and make much of you--not quite as the petries of the present day would like to do," said jean laughing. "and behold! there is master jamie coming on at a great pace. shall we let him overtake us? or shall we go in and see poor old tibbie and let him pass by?" they were on their way to saughleas, where marion was to pay her first visit. miss jean had gone on already in the pony carriage, but the girls were walking round by the shore. there was no reason why marion should wish to avoid mr james petrie, except that she wished no one's company when she had jean's, but she was quite willing to go into mrs cairnie's house where she had been several times already. it was a different looking place from the house to which miss jean had taken mrs eastwood long ago. mrs cairnie's daughter annie had returned and was going to remain, and the place was "weel redd up," and indeed as pleasant a dwelling, of its kind, as one would wish to see. poor old tibbie had lately met with a sad mishap, which threatened to put an end to her wanderings, and keep her a prisoner at home for some time to come. annie had come home to care for her, with the design of earning the bread of both, by making gowns and bonnets for such of the sailors' wives and fisher folk, as were not equal to the making their sunday best for themselves. but a different lot awaited her. she had gone away with the english lady "to better herself," it was said; but that was only half the reason of her going. she went because she feared to be beguiled into marrying a man whom she loved, but whom she could not respect, because of his enslavement to one besetting sin. the love of strong drink had brought misery to her home, since ever she could remember. it had driven her brothers away from it and had caused her father's death and her mother's widowhood, and she shrank with terror from the thought of living such a life as her mother had lived. when her lover entreated her, saying, that being his wife she might save him from his sin, she did not believe it; but she knew that in her love and her weakness she might yield her will to his, and lose herself without saving him. so she went away with a sore heart, and when her mother's accident had made it necessary for her to come home again, she hardly could tell whether she was glad or sorry to come. and the first "kenned face" she saw as she drew near home was the face of her lover. he did not see her. he had stepped from another carriage of the train, into the little station a few miles from portie. young george dawson's hand rested on his shoulder, for the single minute that he stood there, a very different looking person from the wild lad she had left years ago. "yon's young saughleas," she heard one fellow-traveller say to another. "and yon's tam saugster. he's hame again, it seems." "i ha'e heard that he has gathered himsel' up wonderfu' this while back. he is a fine sailor-like lad." "ay. he's his ain man now. and he'll be skipper o' the `john seaton' before she sails again if young george dawson gets his way, and they say he gets it in most things with his father." then annie saw the sailor spring back into the carriage again as the signal was given, and she got a glimpse of george dawson's kindly face as they passed, and then she saw nothing for a while for the rush of tears which she had much ado to hide. "the skipper o' the `john seaton'! ah! weel, he has forgotten me lang syne, but that is little matter since he has found himsel'." but tam had not forgotten her, and whatever he might have done at the time, he did not now resent her refusal to take as her master one who could not master himself. that very night as she sat in the gloaming listening to her mother's fretful complaints, and taking counsel with herself as to how they were to live in the coming days, a familiar step came to the door, and tam lifted the latch and came in without waiting to be bidden. all the rest was natural enough and easy. the next time tam sailed he was to sail as master of the "john seaton," and he was to sail a married man, he said firmly, and what could annie do but yield and begin her preparations forthwith. the cottage in which mrs cairnie had hitherto had but a room, was taken, and tam set himself to making it worthy to be the home of the woman he loved. and a neat and pleasant place it looked when jean and marion went in that day. into the pretty parlour the bride that was to be looked shyly, scarcely venturing to follow them. it was marion who displayed to jean the various pretty and useful things already gathered. on the mantel-piece was a handsome clock, and over it the picture of a ship with all her canvas spread, sailing over smooth seas, in the full light of the sun of an arctic summer day. there was a low rocky shore in sight, and the gleam of icy peaks in the distance; but the ship with the sunshine on the spreading sails was the point of interest in the picture--and a pleasant picture it was for the eyes of a sailor's wife to rest upon. they were both mr george dawson's gift to the bride, marion told jean. jean nodded and smiled. "yes, i know," said she. "miss dawson," said annie taking one step over the threshold where she had been standing all the time. "it is all your brother's work, and you must let me say to you what i canna say to him. though he had done no more good in the world, it was worth his while to live, to help in the saving such a lad as tam saugster." "they helped one another," said jean softly. "ay. that i can easily believe. there are few men like tam when ance ye ken him." "and jean thinks there are few like george," said marion smiling, as they came away. "and isna that what you think of your brother?" said jean. "oh! yes; and with good reason," marion said; and the rest of their talk was of their brothers, till they came to the gate of saughleas. chapter twenty one. a meeting. mr dawson and miss jean were sitting on the terrace by the parlour window as they went in. jean knew by many signs that her father and marion had come to be very good friends, and she was prepared to see him give her a warm and kindly welcome. but she was a little surprised at the ease and pleasure with which marion met him. she did not turn away after a shy brief greeting, as the young people who came there were rather apt to do, but smiled brightly and answered merrily when he asked her whether she had enjoyed all that she had expected to enjoy when she came to portie. and then she sat down on the grass at miss jean's feet, and looked round with a sigh of satisfaction at "the bonny place." "what kept you on the way?" asked miss jean. "oh! we came round by the shore," said her niece, "and we sat a while at the tangle stanes, and then we went in to see mrs cairnie--and by the by--we didna see her after all." "she was sleeping," said marion. "and we were admiring the fine things that captain saugster has been gathering for his bride," said jean. "that would hardly have kept you long," said mr dawson. "a few chairs and a table, and a bed and blankets, and some dishes." "but we saw more than that; didna we, marion?" "yes. even annie herself wasna thinking of chairs and tables and dishes. it was of the new home that is to be there, we were thinking, and it never might have been, if--jean, tell them what annie said." "tell it yourself," said jean. "i canna just mind all," said marion with hesitation. "but it was to mr george dawson that they owed it all--their happiness, i mean--and that it was a grand thing to have a hand in saving such a lad as tam." "she thinks muckle o' tam, it seems," said mr dawson laughing. "and he is a good sailor, if he can only keep hold o' himsel' where the drink is concerned." "his master will keep hold of him, i trust," said miss jean. "and is he to sail the `john seaton,' papa?" asked jean. "that is what george says. there is a risk, but we'll take it, and tam will be none the less safe for the responsibility, let us hope." "annie is proud and glad, and so are all the saugsters," said marion. "but the proudest and gladdest of all must be--george." "ay, even the angels are glad over a sinner repenting," said miss jean. mr dawson looked from one to the other. "saved, is he! and george did it? but tam has hardly been tried yet." "oh! yes. he is surely to be trusted now. three whole years since he has touched a glass. yes, nearly three years annie told me once--and i think she wouldna be vexed at my telling you, because--george belongs to you," said marion, turning a soft bright glance on mr dawson. she rose in her eagerness, and stood before them, and with softened voice and changing colour told the story of one dark night on board the "john seaton," when some kind word of george's had touched a sore spot in poor tam saugster's remorseful heart, and had opened his lips to utter all his shame and sorrow over a life worse than wasted. the very first thought of hope that had come to tam since annie forsook him, came when george laughed at him for saying that his life was nearly over. he was but a lad yet, and his life was before him, and the way was to let the past be past, and begin again with better help than he had asked for yet. and tam was not ashamed to say that his tears had fallen fast into the sea as he listened, and if he had been his own brother, george could not have been more patient with him, or have done more for him than he had done. "and i think," added marion, turning her shining eyes on the old man, "that george must be even happier than his friend." she paused suddenly, turning a startled look to miss jean, who had gently touched her hand. jean was looking at her father with a smile upon her lips, but he was looking away to the sea. "shouldna i have said it? was it wrong? tell me what you are thinking about, miss jean," said marion in dismay. "i'm thinking the wind has been making free with your hair, my lassie, and it is near tea-time." jean kissed her laughing. "come with me and put your hair in order, as auntie says. no, never mind. there is nothing to look grave about. it was only that my aunt was surprised to hear any body say so many words to my father, and about george too. oh! yes, he liked it, you may be sure. i'm glad that he heard it anyway." "but i'm afraid that miss jean must have thought me--forward," said marion, hesitating over the hateful word. "nonsense, you are not a child any longer. and she was as well pleased as i am that my father should hear it all." it was mr dawson who broke the silence that fell on them when the girls went away. "she is an outspoken lassie yon." "ye canna judge her as ye might any o' the common sort," said miss jean shortly. "i'm no' seeking to judge her. she seems a nice lassie enough. i like her frank, free way." "she's but a bairn--though she is the height of our jean, and coming on to womanhood," said miss jean with a sigh. "ay. she is a weel grown lassie," said mr dawson, rising, and then he went away and moved up and down the walks, pausing at shrub or tree, or flower bed, as his manner was when he was at leisure, and he only returned in time to give miss jean his arm when they were called into the house. that evening they were so fortunate as to have the company of james petrie and his sisters, and several other young people, among whom was mr charles scott, to whom the eldest miss petrie was engaged. the young people enjoyed themselves, but marion was not able to forget the touch of miss jean's fingers upon her arm, and she was rather grave and silent, the others thought. they had music, in which she took her part, singing a song or two, and then miss petrie played her masterpiece, a very grand piece indeed, in the midst of which mr dawson went out to the little gate to wait for his son. he had gone there many times since that first night of his son's coming home. he did not always wait till he came in sight. he moved away sometimes, as his footsteps drew near, slow to acknowledge to himself, or to let his son see how much his home coming meant to him. but to-night he waited. "there are young folk at the house to-night," said he, as though giving a reason for being in the garden at that hour. "the petries are there, and young scott, who seems to be one of them. and your aunt is over and her visitor. will you go and see them?" "oh! yes, surely; only i would need to go upstairs first. jamie petrie! what brings him here? i thought that was over," said george with a laugh. "is it jean you mean?" said mr dawson gravely. "but it's no' jean the nicht." very evidently it was not jean, mr dawson thought when he went in again. young mr petrie had eyes for only one, and that was marion, who, sitting at miss jean's side, seemed busy with a piece of worsted work. mr petrie was talking eagerly and confidentially, as though he had a right as well as a pleasure in doing so. "he has put jean out of his head soon enough," said mr dawson to himself, by way of accounting for the uncomfortable feeling of which he was conscious at the sight. "are we to have no more music? will you not give us another song, miss petrie?" said he. certainly miss petrie would give him more than one, but marion calderwood must come with her--not to sing, but to turn her music for her, a task to which mr scott was not quite equal. and so it happened that marion was standing gravely at her side, in the full light of the lamp, when george came to the door of the room. he stood for a moment, with his eyes, full of wonder and pain, on the fair thoughtful face of the girl, and his father saw him grow white as he gazed. "he hasna forgotten," thought he with a sudden, sharp pang of regret and anger. would the memory of the dead girl ever stand between him and his son? he had not thought marion like her sister; but as he saw her now, standing so still with a face of unwonted gravity, there came a vivid remembrance of the young girl who in his hearing had said so quietly and firmly to her mother,-"he will never forget me, and i will never give him up." "she should never have been brought here. what could jean have been thinking about? what could i have been thinking about myself?" when he looked again george was gone. when, however, he came into the dining-room, where they were all assembled later, he appeared just as usual, and greeted the young people merrily enough. but mr dawson forgot to notice him particularly, so startled was he by the sudden brightness of marion's face at the sight of him. george did not see her at first--at least he did not seem to see her, and she stood beside miss jean's chair, her smile growing a little wistful as she waited for his coming. miss jean looked grave as she watched her. "george," said his sister, laying her hand on marion's and drawing her forward, "george, who is this? have you forgotten our wee maysie?" no, that was not likely, he said; but he could scarcely have been more ceremoniously polite in his greeting had she been a strange young lady from london, and not the marion whom he had petted and played with as a child. he lingered a moment beside her, asking about her mother, and if there had been any news from her brother, and then he went to his place at the table, and made himself busy with his duty there. something was said about the anticipated trip to the continent, and the time of setting out george had intended to leave at once if his sister were ready, but he found he must stay in portie a few days longer. "but next week, jean, we must go, or give it up altogether." "the sooner you go now, the better, or the best season will be over," said mr petrie. "oh! as to that, any season is good for what we mean to do." "still, the sooner the better. could not i do what would be necessary to let you go at once?" said his father. george laughed and shook his head. "i am afraid not. it seems i stand pledged to be best man at captain saugster's marriage, and he has no idea of putting off the happy day for a month or more--since his time may be short. so he is to hasten it on instead, and i must wait and see him through it." "that will hardly be fair on annie," said miss jean. "oh! she is ready, i dare say; and she can finish her preparations afterwards," said miss petrie. "and it is to be very quiet. indeed, hardly a wedding at all in the usual sense," said george. "but that is rather mean of tam, i think," said mr petrie. "he ought to give a dance on board the `john seaton,' if he is to have the command of her." his sisters were charmed with the idea. and would not mr george put the thought into tam's head? "the `john seaton' is not in yet. he would hardly consent to wait for that," said mr scott. "don't you call it a risk, giving a man like tam saugster the command of a vessel like the `john seaton'?" mr petrie asked the question not at george, but at his father. "there is ay a risk of one kind or another about all seafaring matters," said mr dawson quietly. "but there ought to be a fine wedding. tam is quite a credit to the town now. we could all go to the dance," said miss annie petrie. "but i am afraid tam would not long be a credit to the town if the whiskey were to flow as freely as it usually does at sailors' weddings. that could hardly be dispensed with, the whiskey, i mean. it would test tam's principles at any rate, in which i cannot say i have very great faith," said james with a little sneer. "i think keeping out of the way of temptation might be a better proof of his wisdom," said mr dawson coldly. "i doubt, jean, your aunt is getting wearied. she should be allowed to go." but jean had long ago sent word to nannie that her mistress was to stay at saughleas for the night. the young people did not linger much longer. george went out with them to the gate, and did not return till the rest had gone upstairs. nor did they see him in the morning. he had taken an early breakfast and gone away long before any one was down. on each of the three days that passed before jean and her brother went away, george went to his aunt's house as was his daily custom; but he scarcely saw marion. the first day she had gone out, the next his father was with him, and the third time there were several of marion's young companions with her, so that no word passed between them till the day of tam saugster's marriage. "if marriage it could be called," said some of tam's indignant friends, "going off on the sly as gin he were ashamed o' himsel'." they were by no means ashamed of themselves. tam and annie went quietly to the manse with tam's father and mother, where miss dawson and her brother and marion calderwood and maggie and robbie saugster were waiting for them, and they "got it putten ower quaietly," as tam's father rather discontentedly said. his judgment doubtless approved of "a teetotal" marriage in tam's case, but neither his taste nor his sense of the fitness of things was satisfied. who had a better right to feast their friends and "fill them fou" on such an occasion than the saugsters? and to go back to tam's house just to tea and jelly and fushionless sweet cakes!--it might be prudent, but it wasna pleasant, and any thing but creditable, in his father's opinion. and while he grumbled secretly the bride's mother, poor mrs cairnie, openly resented and railed at the manner of the marriage as mean, and as a confession of most shameful weakness on tam's part. even shrewd and sensible mrs saugster, though joyful over her returned prodigal and thankful to escape the risks attending a marriage as usually ordered in their rank of life, even she did not think it wrong to connive at the brewing of a steaming bowl of "toddy" for the comforting of the old folks when tam and his wife had set out on their week of pleasure, and all the rest of the young folk were gone away. it was a "bonny nicht," jean said, as they lingered in their walk down the street. over the soft glow of sunset fading in the west hung the pale new moon, and a star showed here and there among the grey wreaths and flakes of cloud that floated far beneath the blue. the tide was out, and over the sands came the soft "lap, lap" of tiny waves, with a sound more restful than silence. they stood still a minute at the point where they were to turn into the high-street. "we may as well go home the long way. it is not late yet," said jean. "going home the long way," meant turning back, and going over the sands, the mile that lay between the town and the tangle stanes, and they turned with one accord. "it is our last night for a while," said jean, and scarcely another word was spoken till they found themselves climbing the broken path that led to the high rocks. the night air blew cool from the sea, and jean led the way to the sheltered seat a little further down. the two girls sat down together, and george stood above them with folded arms, looking out upon the sea. they spoke about "the happy couple," who had gone away to begin their new life together, about tam's long voyage and annie's hopeful waiting, and the chances they had of happiness, because they loved one another. and then they went on to other things, some of them glad, and some of them sad, and "do you mind that time?" and "have you forgotten this?" they said, and sometimes they sighed, and sometimes they smiled, and at last they fell into silence. by and by jean rose and moving upward, paced up and down the narrow ledge, as she had done so many a time before in so many a mood. the two who remained were silent still, busy with their own thoughts, till george, stooping down and speaking softly, said. "marion, do you mind one day coming here with--elsie and me?" "ay, george, i mind it well." marion turned, and took in both hers the hand that he held out to her. "poor george!" said she, drooping her head till her cheek just touched it. then she rose and stood beside him still holding his hand. george stood with his face turned away, and neither spoke or moved for a good while. "george, do i mind you of her? does it grieve you to see me?" george turned and met the look in her sweet wistful eyes. "you mind me of her, but it does not grieve me to see you--my dear little sister." and then george did an unwise thing. he clasped and kissed her, and held her to him, "as i might have clasped and kissed my own sister," he said to himself afterward, trying to still the voice that said it was not wise. and marion went home smiling in the darkness, and saying to herself,-"now i have two brothers, and which of them i love best; i'm sure i canna say." so george and jean set out on their travels next day, and miss jean and her visitor were left to entertain one another, and they did not find it a difficult thing to do. miss jean had lived too much alone, to care even for pleasant company continually, and marion had friends and engagements enough to call her away, so as to leave her to her solitude for a while each day. and whether she was out with her friends, or at home with miss jean, she was happy as the day was long. they had many quiet hours together, when the wisdom which had come to the elder woman out of her sore troubles and solitary days which god had blessed, and out of willing service given to the needy and the suffering for his sake, was spoken for the good of the girl who had all her troubles and her solitary days before her. these were the hours that afterwards marion liked best to remember. it seemed a very happy world to her in those days. nothing evil or sad seemed possible to her in her young strength and hopefulness. and even trouble itself, sickness or pain or disappointment, if it brought to her what had come through all these to miss jean--a heart at peace, a heavenly hope, surely even of these things she need not be afraid. when she said something like this to miss jean, her old friend smiled and answered,-"surely not. even when you feel the pain you needna fear the evil. and when the pain hurts most--is worst to bear, i mean--it doesna really harm. why should i fear for you?" "and do you fear for me more than for the rest?" said marion gravely. "i ought to fear less for you than for some, because i hope ye're one who winna lose the good which is meant to come out of all trouble. but ye're young and bonny and winsome, and whiles troubles come to such that pass others by; and a heart both strong and tender, such troubles hurt sore. but the sorer the pain the deeper and sweeter the peace, if it sends you to the feet of the master," added miss jean cheerfully. there was silence for a little while, and miss jean looked up with surprise at marion's first words. "am i bonny, miss jean? as bonny as our elsie was?" miss jean looked at her a moment without speaking. elsie calderwood had indeed been a bonny lassie, but looking at her sister, miss jean could not but acknowledge that she was far more than that. she was like her sister. she had the same sweet eyes and lovely colour, the same wealth of shining hair. but in the face before her miss jean's discerning eye saw a beauty beyond that of mere form and colouring. it might have come to elsie too, with cultivation, and a higher intelligence, and the wisdom that experience brings. but miss jean, remembering well the girl who was dead, saw in her living sister's face a beauty that had never been in elsie's. "does your mother think ye're like your sister?" said she, evading the question. "my mother hardly ever speaks about my sister. but once--some one said--that i minded him of her." as she spoke, a feint, sweet colour overspread her face. her eyes did not fall before the grave eyes of her old friend, but there came into them a soft, bright gleam, "like a glint o' sunshine on the sea," miss jean told herself as she gazed. "ay, ye're like her. i think them that mind her weel would say that ye're like her." marion's head drooped and rested on her hand. "whiles i wonder how it would have seemed if elsie hadna died." "it was a mysterious providence indeed, her early death. the living should lay it to heart," said miss jean; and then she took up the book that lay at her hand--a sign that no more was to be said at that time. chapter twenty two. young mr petrie. that night mr dawson came to invite them to pass a few days at saughleas. he "wearied" there alone in the mornings and the long evenings, and there was no good reason why he should be alone, when they could come to visit him without leaving any one but nannie to miss them. nannie putting in her word, said she would not object to being left since the change would be good for them both. "and as mrs petrie asked you for a few days, marion, my dear, if you like you can go there instead." "oh! miss jean! if you please?" marion's face fell so decidedly that mr dawson laughed and insisted that marion must come also, and miss jean had nothing to urge against it since both were pleased. "mrs petrie is very kind, but she canna really care very much; and i see some of them every day," said marion, fearing to appear ungrateful. "miss jean will be all the better o' her company when ye're in the toon," said nannie privately to mr dawson. "and as to thae petrie's-we ha'e eneuch o' some o' them at a' conscience;" which was marion's opinion also. the days passed happily at saughleas. marion enjoyed the garden and the woods and fields, and every growing thing in them, as only they who have been long shut up in a dull house in a dull city street can do, and her delight in all that saughleas had to offer was pleasant to see. mr dawson went to the town every day, but some days he did not stay there long, and marion and he grew as friendly among the flowers and fields, as they had been among the wonderful sights of london during the first days of their acquaintance. the shyness which old associations had brought back since she came to portie, passed quite away, and the frankness which had been her chief charm to the old man returned, and they took pleasure in each other's company. "i'm going over to the brae to see a fine new plough that mr maclean has got. have ye a mind for a walk, my lassie?" said mr dawson as they met one afternoon in the kitchen garden behind the house. marion had been longing for a walk and was delighted to go. there was a cold wind blowing from the sea, and she went to the house for a shawl, but came back in a minute with a clouded face. "the petrie's--at least young mr petrie is at the gate," said she. "and ye would rather bide at home? weel--" "oh! no! but if i go in for the shawl he will see me; and it is not so very cold." "i doubt ye may find it some cold on the hill, but run ye away through the wood, and i'll ask phemie for a wrap of some kind." "and it winna be rude?--to miss jean, i mean--i'm no' caring for jamie petrie." mr dawson laughed. "he'll think the mair o' your company when ye come back," said he. it was a successful afternoon on the whole. they walked quickly at first through the fields, but when they got over the hill, they took it leisurely. then mr dawson said a word about young mr petrie's disappointment, and marion looked grave. "he is very kind--they are all very kind, and i am afraid you will think me ungrateful. oh! yes, i like him well enough, but it was only the other night that he was at miss jean's--" "and i dare say he will come back again." "oh! yes, i dare say he will. oh! i like him well enough, but i get tired of him whiles." "well, never think about it." "i'm no' caring for _him_. but i hope miss jean winna be ill-pleased." "she needna ken that ye saw him," said mr dawson much amused. marion shook her head. "i doubt i'll need to tell her." "nonsense! it was my fault. ye would ha'e stayed if i had bidden you." "yes, that is true. and miss jean must see that i would far rather please you than jamie petrie." "that's as may be, but for once in a way you may be excused." though they were away for a long time, they found mr petrie sitting with miss jean when they returned. "come awa'," said miss jean. "where have ye been? and what can have keepit ye sae lang? mr james and i have been wearyin' for our tea." "oh! well, ye'll enjoy it all the mair for that, and so will we," said mr dawson. marion went away to arrange her hair which the wind had blown about, and when she returned mr dawson was asking mr james what news the afternoon's post had brought. but mr james had left before the post came in. "then you must have been here a good while. it is a pity that ye hadna been in time to go with us. we went over to the brae to see the new plough that the farmer has gotten. miss marion explained the philosophy of the thing to us." "miss marion is in some danger of becoming a learned woman, i hear," said mr james, with an uncomfortable smile on his lips. "in danger? oh! weel, i dare say ye're right. i'm no' sure but there is danger in it. i canna say that i think very learned women are best fitted for the kind o' work that most commonly falls to a woman's hand." "but for the work of a schoolmistress," said marion eagerly. "i am going to be a schoolmistress,--not a governess, not a teacher in a school merely, but the mistress of a school." "you mean if you cannot do better," said mr petrie. "better? but that is what i have been thinking about all my life. my plans are all laid-only--" "but then you could just let them all drop, if any thing _better_ should present itself, as james says. but what are your plans? if it be fair to ask," said mr dawson. marion did not laugh, but answered gravely, "first i must make `a learned woman' of myself, and that will take a good while. i used to think i would have a young ladies' school, but i have changed my mind. young ladies are troublesome, and i think i would prefer to teach boys." mr james whistled. mr dawson said, "well, and what would you teach them?" "whatever they needed to learn. i can hardly tell yet about it. but mrs manners has promised me her boys." "she is to lose no time it seems," said miss jean smiling. "oh! but you forget, i have to educate myself first. i am afraid i should have to be a great deal older before people would trust their boys to me. but that is what i mean to do." marion spoke gravely. "and ye'll do it too, if you set yourself to do it," said mr dawson. "and she could hardly set herself to a better work," said miss jean. but mr petrie by no means agreed with them, and expressed himself to that effect with sufficient decision. he ridiculed the idea, and being very much in earnest, he was not so guarded as he might have been, and allowed a tone of contempt to mingle with the banter which he meant to be playful, and at the same time severe. marion answered lightly enough, and was in no danger of being angry as miss jean feared, and as, after a time, mr james hoped she might be. the necessity of making his peace with her would have pleased the young man better, than her laughing indifference to his opinions, or to his manner of expressing them. but she was so friendly in her manner, and so willing to oblige him by singing his favourite songs when miss jean sent her to the piano, that he had no excuse for returning to the subject again. his errand, he told them when he rose to go, was to ask miss marion to join his sisters and some of their friends in walking to the castle the next day, and after an inquiring glance at miss jean the invitation was accepted with sufficient readiness. "and if the day should not be fine, it is understood that you will spend it with my sisters, and the castle can wait till fair weather." to this also marion assented with a good grace, and the young man went away assuring himself that he ought to be content. he might have been less so, had he seen the shrug of her pretty shoulders, and heard her voice as she said to miss jean,-"what should the like of james petrie ken?" when she was gone for the night, mr dawson, laughing, told miss jean of the manner of their departure for the brae that afternoon. miss jean looked grave. "ye dinna mean to say that ye think the lassie did any thing out of the way?" said mr dawson. "she said she doubted she would need to tell you, though i'm sure i canna see why." "i wasna thinking about that i was wondering whether after all, i had done a wise thing in bringing her down here." "i have wondered at that myself, whiles, though i acknowledge i had a part in bringing her. but it depends on what ye brought her for." miss jean said nothing. "if it were to do young petrie a pleasure, i think ye ha'e nothing to regret." but miss jean shook her head. "i'm no' so sure o' that," said she. "as to how his father may be pleased, that is another matter." to this miss jean made no answer. "and if i mind right, ye once thought jamie petrie would ha'e little temptation to look that way, and little chance of success if he did." "that is just what i thought, but i was wrong it seems as to the temptation. as to the success--i canna say, but--" "but why should you be downcast about it?" "it is for the lad i am sorry, because i doubt he has disappointment before him. he should have been content to bide awhile. she is but a lassie, with no such thoughts in her mind." "she looks like a woman." "ay, she does that. but she is but a bairn in some things. she is no' thinkin' o' him. she doesna even amuse herself with him. he is just jamie petrie to her, and that is all. i'm wae for the lad." "his father and mother will be all the better pleased." "that may be, but i dinna think it." then miss jean told in few words a story to which mr dawson listened with varying feelings,--the story of james petrie's love and what was like to come of it. he had seen her in london about six months since, miss jean said, and had made his admiration very evident to the mother whose surprise was great; for like the rest of the world she had given him credit for a degree of worldly wisdom greater than a serious attachment to a penniless girl would seem to imply. he made no formal declaration of his suit, to which indeed mrs calderwood would not have listened, as marion was in her eyes little more than a child. in her heart she believed and hoped that his fancy would pass away, or be put by prudent thoughts out of his head, without a word spoken. for she did not want him for her daughter. he was a rich man's son, and would be a rich man himself one day. by years of steady attention to business, and by exemplary conduct generally, he had proved himself worthy of a certain confidence and respect. but whatever other people might think of him, he was not in the opinion of mrs calderwood worthy to have as his wife her beautiful and intelligent marion, and she determined that he should not speak if she could prevent him. marion was pleased when he came, and liked him as she liked all the rest of the folk of portie, who had been kind to her all her life, liking them all the more that she had left them, and saw little of them. her mother feared that, flattered by his admiration, she might fancy it was more than liking that she felt for him, and that should he ask her to become his wife, she might accept him, and repent it all her life as many another woman has done. she must hear nothing of this till she was old enough to know her own mind about it, and wise enough to make no such terrible mistake. but by and by, when there came friendly advances from the father and mother, showing that they were aware of their son's feelings and intentions, and at least did not disapprove of them, mrs calderwood was much moved. marion might at feast hope for a kindly welcome among the petries. she was not sure that she was right in wishing that nothing might come of it. there was another view to be taken of the matter. her own health was by no means firm, and she had no expectation of living many years. her son in his profession could hardly hope to give a home to his sister for years to come, nor could he give her personal care and guardianship should she be left alone. it was well enough for marion to talk about making herself independent by keeping a school. her mother had given her every chance to prepare herself for it, if such was to be the work of her life. but the girl was too young and too pretty to be fit for any such position for years to come, and the mother's heart shrank from the thought of the struggle and the weariness that even in the most favourable circumstances such a life must bring to her child. was it right for her to hesitate when a home among her own people was opened to her? might she not live a quiet and happy life, beloved and safe from the manifold difficulties and dangers that beset even the most successful women, making their own way in the world? a word of encouragement from her would make the young man speak, but whether to give it or withhold it she could not decide. in the discomfort of her indecision she sought counsel of miss jean. but what could miss jean say but just what she had said to herself, that it must depend on marion's own feeling whether such a word should be spoken. out of this had come miss jean's desire to bring marion to portie for a little while. the girl would learn to know the young man with so many pleasant chances of intercourse, as she never could do in his brief and infrequent visits to london, and she would also come to a better understanding of her own feelings with regard to him. it is likely that mrs calderwood understood her motive and intention, though no word passed between them with regard to it. all this miss jean told in as few words as might be to her brother. "i doubt it hasna answered," added she. "such plans seldom answer. but why should you take it to heart. they maun please themselves," said mr dawson impatiently. "i acknowledge i am surprised that old petrie should pitch on a penniless lass for his son. it is nae what i should ha'e expected of him, and i ken him weel." "he didna pitch on her, i doubt it is but making the best of a bad matter, with him. mrs petrie was ay fond o' marion, and she is a peacemaker. and james is as determined as his father and not altogether dependent on him. and the old man has the sense to see that his son must judge for himself. and any thing is better than dispeace in a family. and now that he has seen her again, the father likes marion." "and are ye satisfied that such a marriage would be the wisest thing for her? james petrie is a good business man, capable and honest. but when ye ha'e said that, it's a' there is to say. as for her--ye ken best about her." "there are few like her, and there are plenty like him. but if they loved one another, that would make them equal in a sense, and they might live happily enough. but she's no' thinkin' about him." "but why should you vex yoursel' about it." "i doubt i was wrong to bring her. and i'm sorry for the young man." "oh! as to that, he'll win over it, as he has done before. there is no fear." but miss jean still looked grave and troubled. "that was different. our jean was the most beautiful woman and the best match in the town, and no doubt he believed that he was in love with her, but this is different; and it will do him harm, i fear." "well, i canna see that you are needing to make yourself responsible for jamie petrie's well-being, if that is all." but that was not all. miss jean had anxious thoughts about others besides james petrie. her anxiety she could not share with her brother however, and she said no more. nor was mr dawson more inclined to carry on the conversation. the pain of past years was sharply stirring within him, though even his sister did not guess it from his words or his manner. indeed he hardly knew it himself, till they fell into silence; but that night his head pressed a wakeful pillow, and the ghosts of old troubles came back upon him. how vividly it came back to him, all that he had suffered in those nights long ago when he could not sleep for the pain and the anger and the utter disappointment in his hopes for his son! in those nights he had sometimes had a doubt whether he had wrought wisely toward the desired end, but he had never doubted as to the wisdom of that end--till to-night. was john petrie, whose judgment when exercised beyond the even routine of business, he had never highly valued--was john petrie showing himself wiser in yielding to the wishes of his son, than he had been in resisting the wishes of his? what an influence for good in a man's life must be the love of such a girl as marion calderwood. had bonny elsie been one like her? remembering the sweet, calm eyes of the girl so long dead and gone, the gentle strength, the patient firmness by which she withstood not him alone, but her own mother whom she loved, rather than break her promise to the lad who loved her, he could not but doubt whether he had judged wisely then, and whether he had afterward dealt wisely with his son. ah, well! that was all past now, and good had come out of it to george. but would he ever forget? would there ever come to his son's home in future years one who would be to him all that mary keith had been to him. "he has not forgotten her," he said to himself, remembering his pale looks when first his eyes fell on elsie's sister. but he was young yet, scarce five and twenty, and his life was before him, and all might be well. at any rate nothing could be changed now. he had a troubled, restless night, and the first sight he saw when he looked out in the early morning was marion walking up and down among the flowers. she was walking slowly, with a graver and more thoughtful face than she was used to wear in his presence. she saw the beautiful things around her, for she stooped now and then over a flower as she passed, and touched tenderly the shining leaves as she bent her head beneath the overhanging branches. but she was evidently thinking of other things, and paused now and then looking out upon the sea. "a strong, fair woman," he said. "she will make a man of james petrie, if there's stuff enough in him to work on--which i doubt. if they love one another--that is the chief thing, as jean says, and the folk that ken them both will mostly think that she has done well." miss jean went in to portie that day, having her own special work to attend to there, and it was understood that for this time the visit at saughleas was over. marion went to the castle with the rest, but she did not go with them to mr petrie's house to pass the evening. she came straight to miss jean's, having mr james petrie as her escort, and it so happened that mr dawson met them both on their way thither. "something has come to her since morning," he thought as he watched her approaching. she was walking rapidly and steadily, carrying her head high and looking straight before her, with the air of being occupied with her own thoughts, rather than with mr petrie's eager, smiling talk. "i'll hear about it from jean," said mr dawson to himself, with a feeling of discomfort which he did not care to analyse. but he heard nothing from miss jean. if she had any thing to tell, it could not be that which he had at first expected to hear. for young mr petrie, whom he saw as he saw him every day, did not carry himself like a triumphant lover, neither did he look downcast, as though he had met with a rebuff. he was just as usual, seemingly content with himself and with the world generally. "i dare say it was but my own imagination," said the old man, wondering a little that he thought about it at all. he did not see marion the next day when he called at miss jean's house, nor the next, nor for several days, and friendly though they had become, he still felt a certain disinclination to ask miss jean about her. he caught a glimpse of her on the third morning as he was coming down the high-street, but she turned toward the shore before he came near. she had not seen him, he thought. when he did see her at last, sitting sedately, her eyes and her hands occupied with her work in miss jean's parlour, the same thought came into his mind. "something has happened to her. some one has been saying something to vex her, whatever it may be. but young lasses are whiles easily vexed." the next time that miss jean was asked to spend a day at saughleas, it rained heavily, and she could not go, and when she was asked again, marion was engaged to go somewhere else, and miss jean went alone. "oh! ay, she is quite right to please hersel'," said mr dawson coldly, when miss jean explained that it was necessary that she should go and visit miss spence that day, because the visit had been put off more than once before. "miss spence was a friend of her mother lang syne," said miss jean. mr dawson did not ask, as he had meant to do, what had happened to vex the girl, though he guessed from miss jean's manner, that whatever happened, it was known to her. chapter twenty three. danger and reconciliation. it had been arranged that mrs manners and her children should return with george and jean for a visit, but when the time came it was decided that it was too late in the season for the northern journey, and in order to make amends to the sisters for their disappointment, it was proposed that george should go home alone, and that the sisters should spend a few weeks together at the seaside. jean hesitated long, before yielding to her sister's entreaties, though she acknowledged she had no reason for refusing the pleasure, since it had been proposed by her father, and since her aunt was well, and nothing had happened to make it necessary to go home. she yielded at last, however, and george went home without her. he did not go alone. he had spent many words in trying to persuade willie calderwood, who had just come to london for a day or two, to go with him; and at the last moment willie decided that it was possible for him to go for a single day, to bring his sister home. it might be long before he would see her again, for his next voyage was to be a long one. in a week he was to sail for australia, not as commander of the vessel this time, but if all went well, he had the hope of making his second voyage as commander of a fine new ship that was to be ready for him by the time his present engagement came to an end. he had been fortunate, during one of his atlantic voyages, in coming under the notice of a great merchant and ship-owner, who was capable of appreciating his high qualities as a sailor and as a man. the offer of a ship was made by him and accepted by willie, and now he could with certainty look forward to a successful career in the profession he had chosen. they reached portie only just in time, they were told, for the "john seaton" was to sail that very day, and it would have been hard indeed if captain saugster should have missed the sight of his friends. they were hardly in time for speech. the ship was to sail at noon, and the new skipper was busy with a thousand things, and had only time for a word, and a grip of the hand when they went on board. they walked about, and lingered here and there, and had something to say to most of the ship's company as well as to the skipper, and mr dawson grew soft-hearted as he watched the friendly looks that met his son wherever he turned. george had a word for most of them, a promise to one, a caution to another, a joke with a third, a kind word to all. "ye're no' to vex yourself about your mother and the bairns, sandy. miss dawson will see that they are cared for if the sickness should come again. donald, man, be thankful that ye're leaving your temptation behind ye, and that ye're to sail under the temperance flag this time. gather strength to withstand your foe, by the time ye come home again. i suppose we must call ye a man now, jack. dinna forget the mother and grannie. they winna forget you." mr dawson kept near his son when he could do so without too evidently appearing to be listening to him, and he heard all with mingled feelings. george's way had never been his, and it was only a qualified approval that he had been brought to give to his son's method of dealing with the men, but he could not but be pleased and proud at the many tokens of respect and affection with which he was regarded by them all. even the strangers among them turned pleased looks to the young man, as he moved up and down among them. "it is a pity but you had come sooner, that you might have had a longer time on board," said mr dawson, as he took his way to miss jean's house in company with the two young men. "ye might almost take an hour or two's sail with them and land at f--or c--and be home to-night, or early in the morning." before twenty-four hours were over he would have given much that he had not uttered the words. but george and his friend caught at the idea, and before they went into the house all arrangements for going with captain saugster for a few hours' sail were made. miss jean looked grave when the plan was spoken of, but she said nothing in the hearing of her brother. "ye winna bide awa' long, and make us anxious," said she. they must not stay long, for willie had but a single day, or at most two to see all the folk he wanted to see in portie, and they would be certainly home early in the morning. there was no time to discuss or even to consider the matter. willie had only a word or two with his sister, but he followed every movement of hers with glad, proud eyes; and when she went for a moment out of the room, he said softly to miss jean, "she has grown a woman now, our wee maysie." and miss jean said as softly and a little sadly, "ay, has she!" did george's eyes follow her too? his father could not but think so. "for the sake of the girl who is dead," he said to himself with a pang. marion's eyes were only for her brother, but she had few words even for him. they had little time for words. they bade miss jean and marion "good-bye" in the house. by and by, mr dawson saw marion standing a little apart from the group of women gathered on the pier, but when he looked again she was no longer to be seen. he was a little disappointed. he thought if they had walked up to his sister's house together, he might have said a word to dispel the cloud of shyness or vexation that had somehow come between them since the day she had gone with the petries to the castle. he would not make much of it, by speaking about it openly, nor could he bring himself to ask his sister about it. miss jean was not easy to approach on the subject of the calderwoods. she had never said one word to anger him at the time when she had thought him hard and unreasonable with regard to them, and neither had she noticed by word or look the interest with which he had come to regard her young visitor; and her silence made it all the more difficult for him to speak. but when he went in on his way home, as it drew towards gloaming, and found her sitting alone in her darkening parlour, he asked her why she did not have lights brought in, and where was her visitor. "marion went over to the tangle stanes with the skipper's wife and maggie, and i dare say she has gone hame with her. her troubles are begun, puir body--annie saugster's--i mean." "what should ail her? she has just the troubles that ay maun fa' on sailors' wives." "ay, just that," said miss jean. "and she kenned them a' beforehand. and what gude could a lassie like that do her? she has had small experience o' trouble anyway." "she has a tender heart--and she shows her sympathy without many words. and folk like her," said miss jean. there was a moment's silence, and then mr dawson said hesitating,-"what ails her this while? is it only as her brother says, that she is growing a woman, that she is so quiet? or has any thing happened to vex her? i have hardly got a word from her since she left saughleas. is it james petrie that's to blame?" added he with a laugh. miss jean regarded him gravely for a minute. "yes, i think it was something he said. i ken it was, for she told me." "and did she give him his answer?" miss jean shook her head. "it's no' what ye're thinkin'. that question hasna been asked yet," said she. "and i doubt he'll need to put it off, for a while. he didna help his ain cause by what he said, though he meant it for that. he was telling her about--about george and her sister elsie." mr dawson said nothing in the pause which followed. "of course she had heard something,--that they cared for one another,-and that george's heart was nearly broken when elsie died. but she had never heard of your displeasure, nor of some other things. though how he thought it would help him to tell all this to her, i canna tell-unless he may be afraid that--but she is to go hame with her brother, it seems, and i hope that no ill may come o' my bringing her here." "nonsense, jean! what ill should come of it? and why should you take the blame of it? it was her mother's doing, sending her here. and if it should end in her agreeing with james petrie, ye may be sure she will be well pleased." "i'm no' sure. though, puir body! she maybe was thinking o' that too." "it is to be supposed that she kens her ain mind about it. james petrie will be a rich man some day. doubtless she thinks of that." "less than ye would suppose. but she is not a strong woman, and if any thing were to happen to her, the lassie would be left alone almost. she would be safe here among douce, well-doing folk, like the petries, and in time she might be content enough." "but how should he think to help his cause by--by telling that tale? and what kens he about it?" "he kens just what other folk ken, and guesses something, i dare say. he thought to help his wishes by letting her ken, that when george looked kindly at her it was for her sister's sake." "george!" repeated mr dawson in dismay. miss jean had not been betrayed into saying this, though that was her brother's first thought. "yes. she is like her sister--and he hasna forgotten _her_. but i think it was chiefly your anger and vexation that he held up to her--as against his own father's kindness." "but george?" repeated mr dawson. "yes. but it is not george i am thinking about, but marion. and her mother too. do ye ken that though he has ay gone to see mrs calderwood whenever he has been in london, george had never seen her daughter after the time of may's marriage till he saw her the ither night at saughleas? that was her mother's will. what with one thing and another,--his love for her sister, and his friendship for her brother, and his being lost from hame so long--the lassie was ay inclined to make a hero of george. and minding on elsie, and all she had suffered, the mother grew to have a fear that was unreasonable, lest marion should come to care for him beyond what should be wise. so she kept her out of his sight, and she would never have let her come north but that she knew george was going away. she may have had her ain thoughts of young mr petrie--as i had myself, since he showed that he had the sense to see her value." it was some time before another word was spoken, then mr dawson said,-"i did but what i thought my duty. i did but what her mother was as keen to do as i was. i tried to prevent my son from doing a foolish thing. and i dare say she thinks that i killed her sister." "no, it is not that. but ye ha'e ay been kind to her, and she thinks the sight of her must give you pain, and she is not at her ease. and so she is unhappy, for she has a grateful nature. well, she will soon be away now, and whether she'll come back again with young mr petrie--i canna say. he'll hardly have the courage to ask her this time." "i wouldna promise. there are few things that seem to him to be beyond his deserts--though i canna say i'm of his opinion." miss jean knew that her brother was angry and that he was trying to restrain himself as he rose to go. "a thoughtless word does great ill whiles, but i doubt this has done most ill to his ain cause, if he but kenned it. and it is a pity--" added miss jean. "he'll get through it. it winna be the first time," said mr dawson angrily. "are ye awa'? i think we need hardly expect those lads till morning. they'll be enjoying the sail this bonny nicht," said miss jean. "it depends on several things--the light and the tide and the wind. it was rather a foolish thing to undertake, though it was myself who first spoke of it. but we needna expect them till we see them." and then he went away. he paused a little when he was outside the door, looking up into the sky, and over the sea, thinking whether he might not as well wait a while, rather than go home alone. it was not so fine a night as miss jean had supposed, nor as it had promised to be earlier. there were heavy banks of clouds on the horizon in two directions, and the moon which showed faintly through a dull haze, had a heavy ring around her and not very far away--sure token that a storm was near. "they ken the signs better than i do. they'll lose no time." he lingered still, going as far as the pier head which was not yet quite deserted; but he turned his face homeward at last. "it will be a long night, i doubt!" and so it was. many a look he cast to the sky, which before midnight grew like lead, showing neither moon nor star. a long and heavy night it was. sleeping or waking, it was the same; dark with fears, vague and unreasonable, which he could not put away--with painful dreams, and startled wakenings, and longings for the day which came at last--a dismal day, with a dull grey mist lying low on land and sea, darkening all things. it brightened a little as the morning advanced, but he did not hasten early to the town. there was no real cause for anxiety he assured himself, the fog would account for their delay. they would be home soon. he was not anxious, but he shrank from the thought of the pier head and all the folk looking out for them and wondering where they were and when they would be home. and so it was noon before he called at his sister's door to assure her that there was really no cause for alarm. the fog would account for the long delay. there might have been danger to folk not so well acquainted with every nook and headland and current along the shore, but there could hardly be danger to these two. what a long day it was! and when the gloaming began to fall, there was still no word of them. he went on to miss jean's house, and at the door marion met him. he got a good look of her face this time. whatever had grieved or angered her, was not in her thoughts now. her eyes asked eagerly for tidings. "no word o' them yet, but they canna be long now," said mr dawson cheerfully. "i have come to ask you for a cup of tea, though i dare say ye have had yours lang syne. ye maunna be anxious, my dear. there is really no cause to fear for them as yet." he had been saying this to himself all day, but his heart was growing sick with anxiety all the same, and though he could hide it from marion, he knew that he could not hide it from his sister. "we maun just ha'e patience," was all that miss jean said. marion prepared the tea herself, and went out and in and did what was to be done. she made his tea and served him as though she liked to do it, and his eyes followed her with an interest which for the moment half beguiled him from the remembrance of his fears. but there was not much said between them, and by and by he said he would step down to the pier head and take a look at the weather before it was quite dark. marion looked as if she would like to go too, and all the old anxiety was in her eyes, as she turned them to miss jean. "my dear lassie," said her old friend, "they are safe in god's hands." "yes, they would be safe there, even if we were never to see them again. but o, miss jean!--" "ay, lassie! 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 god 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 god 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 god 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 god 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 god for his goodness then. was there any thing which he possessed that he would have grudged as a thank-offering that night! god 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 god." 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 passed 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 compass, to which they were to trust should the night be foggy and the stars invisible, had been left in the ship 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 assented 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." mr dawson had to wait a good while for the return of his son that night, and he watched him rather anxiously from the window when at last he came in sight george moved slowly, with a graver face than usual, and though his eyes were wandering over the pleasant green of the lawn and gardens, his father knew that his thoughts were not with his eyes. "how little i am in his life besides what he is in mine!" thought the old man with a sigh. "but so it ay maun be between father and son, and he is a good son to me--a good son. and it's no' for what i have to give him," added he with a sudden movement of both pleasure and pain at his heart. "though bonny saughleas were in other hands, and all my gold and gear were swept into the sea, he would be sorry doubtless, but he would be a good son still. and he would not be unhappy, for his portion--that which he has chosen for himself in life would still remain to him." the old man's heart grew soft and a little sad, but he spoke just as usual when george came in. "ye're late the nicht." "yes. i went round by the station to see the calderwoods off. and i think i have taken longer time than usual for the walk home. i must be tired, i suppose." "and no wonder. and so they are gone. and was nothing said about their coming back to portie again?" "no. there was time for few words, and there were other people there to see them off--the petries, and maggie saugster, and some others." "was james petrie there? then his answer has been to his mind, or maybe he hasna asked the question. i dare say he was as wise." to this george made no reply whether he understood or not, and in a little he left the room. but his father's first words went back to the same subject. "it is no' so unwise a thing in james petrie as it looks, because--" "his wisdom has to be proved," said george gravely. and then he held out a letter to his father. "i don't believe in bringing business to saughleas, as a rule, but i thought it as well to let you see this to-night." his father took it and read it. it was a business letter--important, but still it might have waited till morning. "it is because he doesna wish to hear about james petrie and his hopes. it is of her sister dead and gone that he is thinking," said his father with a sigh. "his is a true and tender heart, and oh! i wish that i could do him a pleasure." suddenly there returned to him the thought that had been with him during his long wanderings over the wet sands that weary time of waiting. "there is nothing which i possessed, that i would not have given for a thank-offering that night. and there is nothing that i would not give now." and when george came into the room after a long hour or two, his father was pondering the same matter still. in a few days mr dawson declared that it was quite time that jean were coming home, and to the surprise of his sister and his son he announced his intention of going to fetch her. for in the opinion of both, and certainly in her own opinion, jean was quite able to take care of herself, whether in the house or by the way, and there was no need of his going for her sake. but he went, and stayed a few days, and they came home together. jean had no light to throw on his motive for the journey, for he had never intimated that he thought she needed his escort home. but in a few days there came a letter from mrs manners to her aunt which said,-"the strangest thing happened when my father was in london. he went to see mrs calderwood, with whom he had not exchanged words for years. marion was with me, so it was not she that he went to see. and her mother never told her what he had to say. he only left a small parcel which her mother was to give her when she came home. it turned out to be an exquisite little gold watch. mrs calderwood would have refused so valuable a gift for her daughter, if she had known it, which would have been very absurd, as i told marion. for what is a few pounds more or less to my father. but i would give my own watch and chain too, to know just what was said between them. "i have written all this to you, auntie, because my father whiles reads jean's letters, and he might not be pleased that i have told it. but if you think it wise, you may tell george; i am sure he will be glad to hear it. and as for marion--i do not wonder that she has stolen my father's heart in spite of him." mrs manners would have paid dear for a knowledge of all that passed. in one way it was very little. mr dawson sent in his name and waited in the drawing-room, and mrs calderwood came in a little with a smile on her lips, expecting to see george. "i have come to say, `let by-ganes be by-ganes' between us. if you can forgive all that is past, give me your hand." he spoke almost harshly as his manner was when moved, but he spoke sincerely and even eagerly, and mrs calderwood could hardly have refused her hand, even if she had not long ago forgiven him, as she herself hoped to be forgiven. "i have never borne ill-will, mr dawson," said she. "no. and now i see it might have been different if i had been wiser. but--i was hardly myself in those days. he was my only son--and--i had lost his mother--" he suddenly turned his back upon her and strode to the window, and stood long looking out into the darkening street. his face was quiet enough when he turned toward her again. "the least said the soonest mended," said he; "if you will let by-ganes be by-ganes, as i said before. i have had many thoughts since i--well this while--and the other night when they were in danger together--your son and mine--i got a glimpse of what should be. they are true friends, these two; and surely there is no reason why we should be other than friends also." mrs calderwood was a woman not easily moved. if he had given her time to think about it, if he had written to her, as he at first thought of doing, she would not have refused to meet his advances, but she might have met them less cordially. but when this man, whom she had long thought of as a hard man, turned a moved face towards her, and speaking with a softened voice held out his hand again, what could she do but put hers within it with some gently spoken word of kindness. and that was all. mr dawson did not even sit down. he did not name marion till he put the little packet in her mother's hand, and he did not return to see her again, though when he went away he meant to do so; and no one ever knew from him that he had been there. but even before their sister's letter came, both george and jean knew that in some way, not easy to name, a change had come over their father. when one day they were together in their aunt's house and she gave them their sister's letter to read, they understood that something which had burdened his conscience and embittered his temper had been cast off forever; but they never spoke of it to each other after they left their aunt's presence, and she never spoke of it to them. but she saw, as other folk did, that in their father's company a new gentleness of word and manner made itself visible in them both, and she also saw what others could not see, that with this new gentleness george's face grew brighter, but on the face of jean a shade of sadness fell. chapter twenty four. another home. "weel! weel! if the marriage is wi' auld mr dawson's free consent, then the ethiopian can change his skin, and that would be makin' the bible out nae true. it's little ye ken! he's nae a man to change like that." it was mrs cairnie who spoke, sitting at her daughter's door, with her crutch at her side. young mrs saugster was sitting inside with her baby on her lap, and her mother-in-law and maggie, busy with her seam, were with her. "but mr dawson went to the marriage himself, and he wouldna ha'e gone but o' his ain free will," said maggie as no one else answered. "there's nae sayin'. young george has the tow in his ain hand. it's as he says now, i doubt, about maist things." "but he could hardly have wished the auld man to go against his will. and indeed mr dawson gets the credit o' makin' the marriage himsel', though that's likely going beyond the truth," said old mrs saugster. "but what i wonder at is mrs calderwood. she is a quait woman, but she is as stiff in her way, and as proud as ever mr dawson was; and though she said little at the time, she carried a sair heart and angry, for many a day after she lost her elsie." "folk change," said her daughter-in-law. "ay. and it's wonderfu' what folk can outlive." "mrs calderwood!" repeated mrs cairnie. "what about her! it's a grand marriage for the like o' her dochter, no' to say that she has gotten her triumph ower auld george at last. it's weel to be her." "it is all like a tale in a book. somebody should make a ballad about it," said maggie. "it's no' often that we see a thing comin' to the right end, as this ha'e done." "the end hasna come yet," said mrs cairnie. "and it's no' that richt for some folk. look at young miss jean. she has her ain thoughts, and they are no' o' the pleasantest, or her lace doesna tell the truth. and why didna she go to the marriage wi' the lave?" "oh! it wasna as if it had been a fine wedding. it was to be very quiet. and miss dawson has mrs manners' boys at saughleas. she couldna weel leave them, nor her aunt." "weel, maybe no'. but it canna please her to think o' leaving saughleas, and letting marion calderwood reign in her stead. it'll come to that, though it seems the young folk are goin' to the high-street in the mean time." "weel, miss dawson may be in a home o' her ain by that time," said old mrs saugster. "and whether or no', she's no' the first sister in the countryside who has had to give way before a brother's wife." "mother! mrs cairnie! to say such like things about miss dawson! ye ken little about her, if ye think she would grudge to do what is right." maggie, red and angry, looked from one to the other as if she would have liked to say more. her mother laughed. she knew maggie's admiration for young miss jean of old, but mrs cairnie said sourly,-"it's weel seen that ye belong to the rising generation. in my day lassies werena in the way o' takin' the words out o' their mother's mouth, to say naething o' folk four times their age. as for young miss jean, she's liker ither folk than ye think." "whisht, mother. see yonder is miss dawson coming down the street." "ay, she'll be on her way to the house in the high-street, though why i should be bidden whisht at the sight o' her, i dinna ken. and there's one thing sure. naebody has seen auld george on his way to the house yet. that doesna look as gin he were weel pleased." "eh, woman! ha'e ye forgotten? it was there he took mary keith a bride. let him be ever so weel pleased, it will give him a sair heart to go there again." there was a slight pause in preparation for miss dawson's greeting, but before she came near them, she was joined by her father and both passed on with only a word. "he's hame again. and i canna say i think he looks ower weel pleased," said mrs cairnie. "it is of mary keith he is thinking," said her friend. "he has a feelin' heart for a' sae down as he looks. i doubt he has an ill half hour before him." in the mean time jean and her father had reached the gate which opened into the garden of the high-street house. it was a large and well-built house, higher and with wider windows than most of the houses in portie, and on the whole it was a suitable place of abode for a young man of george's means and station. there was only a strip of green between it and the street, but behind it was a large walled garden into which mr dawson had never been since he left it for saughleas long ago. indeed he had hardly seen the house since the death of his wife. he never came to the town over the fields as the young people were in the way of doing, and he always turned into the high-street from the turnpike road at a lower point than this. "papa," said jean, arresting her hand which held the old-fashioned knocker of the door, "well go home to-night and come over in the morning. you are tired." "no, no. we'll get it ower to-night," said her father in a voice which he made gruff in trying to make it steady. jean followed the servant into the kitchen and lingered there a while, and mr dawson went alone into the once familiar rooms, and not a word of sorrow or sympathy was spoken between them, though the daughter's heart ached for the pain which she knew was throbbing at the heart of her father. he was looking from the window over the garden to the sea, and he did not turn as jean came in, so she did not speak, but went here and there giving a touch to the things over the arrangement of which she had spent time and taken pleasure during the last few weeks. "you must have made yourself busy this while, jean," said her father coming forward at last. "and i must say you have done well. it is all that can be desired, i would think. there are some things coming from london, however." "does it not look nice? george had his say about it all. i only helped. i think marion will be pleased." "but they should have been guided by me, and come straight to saughleas. that would have been the best way." "i'm no' so sure. i think it was natural and right that george should wish to be the head of his own house. no, papa. you are master at saughleas and ought to be, and i am mistress. oh! yes, we would both have given up willingly enough, but then neither george nor marion would have willingly taken our places. but never mind, papa. it will all come in time, and sooner than you think. and i like to think of george bringing his bride to the very house where you brought mamma." it was a rare thing for jean to speak her mother's name to her father. it came now with a smile, but with a rush of tears also, which surprised herself quite as much as they surprised her father, and she turned away to hide them. it was her father's loss she was thinking of rather than her own. "ay, my lassie! may they be as blessed here as we were," said her father. and so the first look of his once happy home was gotten over with no more tender words between them, and they went slowly home together, through the fields this time. many things had wrought toward the change which mrs cairnie and other folk as well saw in mr dawson about this time. the new life which george was making honourable among his fellow townsmen, the firm stand he took on the side of right in all matters where his influence could be brought to bear, the light hold that wealth, or the winning of it for its own sake, had ever had upon him, had all by slow degrees told on the old man's opinions and feelings. but as to his wish for his son's marriage with marion calderwood, it was marion herself who had brought that about. he had noticed her, and had liked her frank, fearless ways before she left portie, and the sight-seeing together in london, and more still, the few quiet days which she had spent with miss jean at saughleas, won him quite. it was going beyond the truth, as mrs saugster had said, to declare that the old man had made the marriage, though it is doubtful whether it would have come about so soon, or whether it would have come about at all, if it had not been for a question or two that he had put to his sister as he sat once in the gloaming in her house. then there was a softly spoken word or two between miss jean and her nephew, and then george went straight to his father. "father, i am going to ask marion calderwood to be my wife, if you will give your consent." it would not have been like mr dawson if he had shown at the first word the pleasure with which he heard it. "you are of age now, george, and your ain man. i have no right to hinder you." "father," said george, after a moment's silence, "i shall think you have not forgiven the past, if you say the like of that." the old man's hand was raised to shade his eyes; he could not quite trust his face to hide his feelings now, but he said in a voice which he tried to make indifferent,-"i suppose it is to be her or nobody. is that what you would say to me?" george made no answer to this. "i shall never ask her without your full and free consent." mr dawson's hand fell and he turned sharply upon him. "and what about her feelings, if that is to be the way?" "i have never given her a word or a look that a brother might not give to a sister. but i cannot but hope--" added george with a sudden light in his eye, and a rush of boyish colour to his face. "and i thought you liked marion, father?" "like her?" said his father rising. "george, man, go in god's name and bring her home. she shall be to me like my own daughter. and the sooner the better." so george went to london and won his bride--"too easily," her mother said. indeed george had more trouble to win the mother than the daughter. it was to the mother he went first. as for her, unless she could blot out altogether the remembrance of the sorrow and the hard thoughts of all the past, how could she consent to give her child to him? "and would it not be well to blot them out?" said george. "ay, if it could be done. but as for me--i canna forget my elsie--" "and do i forget elsie? when marion looks at me with elsie's eyes and speaks to me with her voice, and--" "and will that content my marion, think ye? george, marion is not just what her sister was. she is of a deeper nature, and is a stronger woman in every way. she is worthy of being loved for her own sake, and nothing less would content her, though she might think it for a while. and oh! george, i cannot bear the thought of having her free heart and her happy life disturbed. to think that she must go through all that!" said the widow with a sigh. "dear mother," said george--it was not the first time he had called her so--and he took her unwilling hand between his own as he spoke, "she shall not be disturbed, unless you give me leave to speak; i will go away again without a word. i will not even see her for a while. i cannot promise to give up the thought of her altogether, but i will go away now." but mrs calderwood said,-"no, george. you must see her since you are here, though you must not speak to her of this. she is no longer a child, and i fear i did an unwise thing in trying to keep you out of her sight so long. it kept you in her mind all the more--not you, but a lad of her own fancy with your name. miss jean ay said it would be far better to let things take their course, and so it might have been." "and do you mean that you kept us from meeting of your own will?" "dinna look at me in that way, george. what could i do? you were both young, and she ay made a hero of you. and there was your father. and i wouldna have my bairn's heart troubled. not that i mean that she cares for you, as she ought not--" "dear mother, let me ask her." mrs calderwood made a sudden impatient movement. she loved the young man dearly. and her own son, who to her proud thought was "a man among men," was scarcely dearer. he was a son in all but the name. she loved him, and she believed in him; and even to herself, as she looked at his face, it seemed a foolish and a wrong thing to send him away. but then it had always been in her thought that these two must never come together in this way, because of her dead elsie, and because of the hard old man's angry scorn, which, though she had forgiven him, she could not forget. she could not change easily. it was not her nature. and she could not bear that her marion's heart should be disturbed from its maiden peace. she moved about the room uncertain what she ought to say or do, and utterly impatient of her own hesitation. when she sat down again george came and stood before her. "mrs calderwood, my father gave me god speed, and bade me bring her home." "oh! your father," cried mrs calderwood with sudden anger. "your father has ay gotten his ain will for good or for ill, all his life long. and now to think--" "his last words were--`she shall be to me as my own daughter.'" mrs calderwood turned her face away. "he loves her dearly," said george softly. still she did not speak. "and, mother,--turn your face to me,--i love her dearly." she turned then, and at the sight of his moved face her eyes overflowed with tears. "oh! george! you are very dear to me, but my marion is all i have--" what more she might have said, he never knew, for the door opened, and marion came softly in with a letter in her hand. her mother rose, but she did not move away from george, as was her first impulse, nor did she try to hide her tears. it would have been no use, for they were falling like rain over her face. marion stood still at the door, looking at them with wonder and a little fear. george went to her, and taking her hand led her to her mother. he was very pale and his lips trembled as he said,-"mother, will you let me speak to her now?" what she might have answered she could not tell. she dropped into her seat with a little cry, and in a moment marion was kneeling before her, and then so was george; and, of course, there was only one way in which it could end. mrs calderwood said afterwards that marion had let herself be too easily won. marion laughed when she said this. "i think, mother, i was won long before that day," said she. but at the moment the mother could only give her consent. in a little, when george had taken his wife, that was to be, to the other end of the room, mrs calderwood picked up the letter which marion had let fall, and opened it mechanically, letting her eye fall on the written words while her thoughts were elsewhere. but before she had read many words she uttered an exclamation and hastily went out of the room. _her_ pride was to be spared at any rate. nobody had supposed that _she_ would be too easily won. the letter was from mr dawson; and by rights she ought to have had it before george came, for it was to bespeak her good word for him that he had written. it was just, "let by-ganes be by-ganes. give your daughter to my son, and she shall be welcomed among us with all the love and honour of which she is worthy--and more cannot be said than that." mrs calderwood read it and read it again, and her wonder grew. changed! surely if ever a man was changed, george dawson must be to write to her such a letter as that. but when she showed it to her daughter, marion was only surprised at her amazement. all these kind words did not seem strange to her. she had never heard any but kind words from him. "i began to think he liked me when i was staying with mrs manners, and i was sure of it at saughleas--only afterwards--and even then--" said marion not very coherently. but she did not explain her meaning more clearly. "the sooner the better," mr dawson had said, and george said the same, and so did jean in a few sweet words that came in a day or two, and so did her aunt. mrs manners reminded her husband that she had told him of marion's conquest of her father on that first day of her visit to them last year, and also that she had foreseen this happy ending. so with all belonging to george so ready to welcome her child among them, and george himself so dear, what could mrs calderwood do but be glad also, and give her up with a good grace? it was not so difficult a matter after all, she found when she had thus determined. and by and by she forgave her daughter for having been too easily won. and the visionary jealousy which had risen within her at the memory of her lost child vanished, though in her heart she doubted whether her poor dead elsie had ever won such love as george had now to give her sister. so the marriage day was set. it was not very soon, george thought, but the time was not unreasonably long, and it was hastened a little at the last. captain calderwood came home from his second voyage in his own ship sooner than was expected, and his stay was to be