With lighter spirits, and a firm determination in her heart, she walked swiftly back to her child. When she entered the door she heard his merry laugh in Suneva’s parlor. He was standing on her knee, singing after her some lines of a fisherman’s “Casting Song,” swaying backwards and forwards, first on one foot and then on the other, to the melody. Suneva was so interested in the boy, that, for a moment, she did not notice the pale, angry woman approaching her. When she did, her first thought was conciliation. “I heard him crying, Margaret; and as I knew thou wert out, I went for him. He is a merry little fellow, he hath kept me laughing.”
“Come here, Jan!” In her anger, she grasped the child’s arm roughly, and he cried out, and clung to Suneva.
Then Margaret’s temper mastered her as it had never done before in her life. She struck the child over and over again, and, amid its cries of pain and fright, she said some words to Suneva full of bitterness and contempt.
“Thee love thy child!” cried Suneva in a passion, “not thou, indeed! Thou loves no earthly thing but thyself. Every day the poor baby suffers for thy bad temper – even as his father did.”
“Speak thou not of his father – thou, who first tempted him away from his home and his wife.”
“When thou says such a thing as that, then thou lies; I tempted him not. I was sorry for him, as was every man and woman in Lerwick. Poor Jan Vedder!”
“I told thee not to speak of my husband.”
“Thy husband!” cried Suneva scornfully. “Where is he? Thou may well turn pale. Good for thee is it that the Troll Rock hasn’t a tongue! Thou cruel woman! I wonder at myself that I have borne with thee so long. Thou ought to be made to tell what thou did with Jan Vedder!”
“What art thou saying? What dost thou mean? I will not listen to thee” – and she lifted the weeping child in her arms, and turned to go.
“But at last thou shalt listen. I have spared thee long enough. Where is Jan Vedder? Thou knows and thou only; and that is what every one says of thee. Is he at the bottom of the Troll Rock? And who pushed him over? Answer that, Margaret Vedder!”
Suneva, in her passion, almost shrieked out these inquiries. Her anger was so violent, that it silenced her opponent. But no words could have interpreted the horror and anguish in Margaret’s face, when she realized the meaning of Suneva’s questions. The sudden storm ended in the lull which follows recrimination. Suneva sat fuming and muttering to herself; Margaret, in her room, paced up and down, the very image of despairing shame and sorrow. When her father returned she knew Suneva would tell him all that had transpired. To face them both was a trial beyond her strength. She looked at her child softly sobbing on the bed beside her, and her heart melted at the injustice she had done him. But she felt that she must take him away from Suneva, or he would be stolen from her; worse than stolen, he would be made to regard her as a terror and a tyrant.
She heard the clatter of the tea-cups and the hum of conversation, and knew that her father was at home. As soon as he had finished his tea, she would probably be summoned to his presence. It had grown dark and a rain-storm was coming; nevertheless she dressed herself and little Jan, and quietly went out of the house. Peter and Suneva were discussing the quarrel over their tea; the servants sat spinning by the kitchen fire, doing the same. She only glanced at them, and then she hastened toward the town as fast as she could.
Snorro was sitting at the store-fire, a little pot of tea, a barley cake, and a broiled herring by his side. He was thinking of Jan, and lo! a knock at the door – just such a knock as Jan always gave. His heart bounded with hope; before he thought of possibilities he had opened it. Not Jan, but Jan’s wife and child, and both of them weeping. He said not a word, but he took Margaret’s hand and led her to the fire. Her cloak and hood were dripping with the rain, and he removed and shook them. Then he lifted the child in his arms and gave him some tea, and soon soothed his trouble and dried his tears.
Margaret sobbed and wept with a passion that alarmed him. He had thought at first that he would not interfere, but his tender heart could not long endure such evident distress without an effort to give comfort.
“What is the matter with thee, Margaret Vedder? and why art thou and thy child here?”
“We have nowhere else to go to-night, Snorro.” Then Margaret told him every thing.
He listened in silence, making no comments, asking no questions, until she finished in another burst of anguish, as she told him of Suneva’s accusation. Then he said gravely: “It is a shame. Drink this cup of tea, and then we will go to the minister. He only can guide the boat in this storm.”
“I can not go there, Snorro. I have been almost rude and indifferent to him. Three times he has written to me concerning my duty; many times he has talked to me about it. Now he will say, ‘Thou hast reaped the harvest thou sowed, Margaret Vedder.’”
“He will say no unkind word to thee. I tell thee thou must go. There is none else that can help thee. Go for little Jan’s sake. Wrap the boy up warm. Come.”
She was weeping and weary, but Snorro took her to the manse, carrying little Jan under his own coat. Margaret shrank from an interview with Dr. Balloch, but she had no need. He was not a man to bruise the broken reed; no sooner did he cast his eyes upon the forlorn woman than he understood something of the crisis that had brought her to him for advice and protection.
He took them into his cheerful parlor, and sent their wet clothing to the kitchen to be dried. Then he said: “Snorro, now thou go and help Hamish to make us a good supper. It is ill facing trouble on an empty stomach. And light a fire, Snorro, in the room up stairs; thou knowest which room; for Margaret and her son will have to sleep there. And after that, thou stop with Hamish, for it will be better so.”
There were no reproofs now on the good doctor’s lips. He never reminded Margaret how often he had striven to win her confidence and to lead her to the only source of comfort for the desolate and broken-hearted. First of all, he made her eat, and dry and warm herself; then he drew from her the story of her grief and wrongs.
“Thou must have thy own home, Margaret, that is evident,” he said; “and as for Suneva, I will see to her in the morning. Thou art innocent of thy husband’s death, I will make her to know that. Alas! how many are there, who if they can not wound upon proof, will upon likelihood! Now there is a room ready for thee, and thou must stay here, until this matter is settled for thee.”
It seemed a very haven of rest to Margaret. She went to it gratefully, and very soon fell into that deep slumber which in youth follows great emotions. When she awoke the fire had been re-built, and little Jan’s bread and milk stood beside it. It was a dark, dripping morning; the rain smote the windows in sudden, gusts, and the wind wailed drearily around the house. But in spite of the depressing outside influences, her heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. She felt as those feel “who have escaped;” and she dressed and fed her child with a grateful heart.
When she went down stairs she found that, early as it was, the doctor had gone to her father’s house; and she understood that this visit was made in order to see him where conversation would not be interrupted by the entrance of buyers and sellers.
Dr. Balloch found Peter sitting at breakfast with Suneva, in his usual cheerful, self-complacent mood. In fact, he knew nothing of Margaret’s flight from his house. She rarely left her boy to join the tea-table; she never appeared at the early breakfast. Her absence was satisfactory to both parties, and had long ceased to call forth either protest or remark. So neither of them were aware of the step she had taken, and the minister’s early visit did not connect itself with her, until he said gravely to Peter, “Dost thou know where thy daughter is?”
“She hath not left her room yet,” answered Suneva; “she sleeps late for the child’s sake.”
“She hath left thy house, Peter. Last night I gave her and the child shelter from the storm.”
Peter rose in a great passion: “Then she can stay away from my house. Here she comes back no more.”
“I think that, too. It is better she should not come back. But now thou must see that her own home is got ready for her, and that quickly.”
“What home?”
“The house thou gave her at her marriage.”
“I gave her no house. She had the use of it. The title deeds never left my hands.”
“Then more shame to thee. Did thou not boast to every one, that thou had given the house and the plenishing? No title deeds, no lawyer’s paper, can make the house more Margaret Vedder’s than thy own words have done. Thou wilt not dare to break thy promise, thou, who ate the Bread of Remembrance only last Sabbath Day. Begin this very hour to put the house in order, and then put the written right to it in her hands. Any hour thou may be called to give an account; leave the matter beyond disputing.”
“It will take a week to glaze and clean it.”
“It is glazed and cleaned. Michael Snorro brought the sashes one by one to the store, and glazed them, when he had done his work at night. He hath also mended the plaster, and kept a fire in the house to dry it; and he hath cleaned the yard and re-hung the gate. Begin thou at once to move back again the furniture. It never ought to have been removed, and I told thee that at the time. Thou knowest also what promises thou made me, and I will see that thou keep them every one, Peter Fae. Yes, indeed, I will!”
“It is too wet to move furniture.”
“The rain will be over at the noon. Until then thy men can carry peats and groceries, and such store of dried meats as will be necessary.”
“Peter,” said Suneva indignantly, “I counsel thee to do nothing in a hurry.”
Dr. Balloch answered her, “I counsel thee, Mistress Fae, to keep well the door of thy mouth. It is no light thing to make the charges thou hast made against an innocent woman.”
“I asked her how Jan Vedder got his death? Let her tell that.”
“I might ask thee how Paul Glumm got his death! Listen now, and I will show thee what a great thing may come from one foul suspicion. Thou married Paul Glumm, and it is well known he and thee were not always in the same mind, for thou loved company and he loved quiet. Then Glumm took thee to the Skoolfiord, where there were none at the station but thee and he. Thou knowest how thou rebelled at that, and how often thou could be found in thy father’s house. Suddenly Glumm takes a sickness, and when a doctor sees him there is little hope, and after three days he dies. Then thou art back at Lerwick again, quick enough, and in a few weeks thou hast plenty of lovers. Now, then, how easy to say, ‘Glumm’s death was a very strange affair!’ ‘Such a strong young man!’ ‘Did his wife know any thing about it?’ ‘Did she send for a doctor as soon as might be?’ ‘Did she give him the medicine the doctor left?’ ‘Was she not very glad when she was free again?’ Mistress Fae, I say not these things were so, or were even said, I am only trying to show thee how easy it is out of nothing at all to make up a very suspicious case. But come, Peter, there is duty to be done, and I know that thou wilt do it. And I am in haste about it, for it is not easy for Hamish to have a woman and child at the manse. Hamish has failed much lately.”
“Send the woman with her child here.”
“No, for it is easier to avoid quarrels than to mend them. Margaret shall stay at the manse till her own house is ready.”
So they went away together, leaving Suneva crying with anger; partly because of the minister’s lecture; partly because she thought Peter had not “stood up for her” as he ought to have done. As for Peter, though he did not think of disobeying the order given him, yet he resented the interference; and he was intensely angry at Margaret for having caused it. When he arrived at the store, he was made more so by Snorro’s attitude. He sat upon a sailor’s chest with his hands folded before him, though the nets were to be examined and a score of things to get for the fishers.
“Can thou find nothing for thy lazy hands to do?” he asked scornfully, “or are they weary of the work thou hast been doing at night?”
“My mind is not to lift a finger for thee again, Peter Fae; and as for what I do at night, that is my own affair. I robbed thee not, neither of time nor gear.”
“From whence came the glass, and the nails, and the wood, and the hinges?”
“I bought them with my own money. If thou pays me the outlay it will be only just. The work I gave freely to the wife of Jan Vedder.”
“Then since thou hast mended the house, thou may carry back the furniture into it.”
“I will do that freely also. Thou never ought to have counseled its removal; for that reason, I blame thee for all that followed it.” Snorro then hailed a passing fisherman, and they lifted his chest in order to go away.
“What art thou taking?”
“My own clothes, and my own books, and whatever is my own. Nothing of thine.”
“But why?”
“For that I will come no more here.”
“Yes, thou wilt.”
“I will come no more.”
Peter was much troubled. Angry as he was, grief at Snorro’s defection was deeper than any other feeling. For nearly twenty years he had relied on him. Besides the inconvenience to the business, the loss of faith was bitter. But he said no more at that time. When Margaret was in her home, Snorro would be easier to manage. More as a conciliatory measure with him, than as kindness to his offending daughter, he said, “First of all, however, take a load of tea, and sugar and flour, and such things as will be needed; thou knowest them. Take what thou wishes, and all thou wishes; then, thou canst not say evil of me.”
“When did I say evil of thee, only to thy face? Michael Snorro hath but one tongue. It knows not how to slander or to lie. Pay me my wages, and I will go, and speak to thee no more.”
“Do what I said and come back to me in three days; then we will settle this trouble between us;” saying which, Peter went into his counting house, and Snorro went to work with all his will and strength to get Margaret’s house ready for her.
But though he hired three men to help him, it was the evening of the second day before she could remove to it. It was a different homecoming from her previous one in that dwelling. Then all had been in exquisitely spotless order, and Jan had turned and kissed her at the open door. This night every thing was in confusion. Snorro had carried all her belongings into the house, but they were unpacked and unarranged. Still he had done a great deal. A large fire was burning, the kettle boiling on the hearth, and on the little round table before it he had put bread and milk and such things as would be necessary for a first meal. Then, with an innate delicacy he had gone away, fully understanding that at the first Margaret would wish to be quite alone.
She stood a minute and looked around. Then she opened the box in which her china and silver were packed. In half an hour the tea-table was spread. She even made a kind of festival of the occasion by giving little Jan the preserved fruit he loved with his bread. It seemed to her as if food had never tasted so good before. She was again at her own table; at her own fireside! Her own roof covered her! There was no one to gloom at her or make her feel uncomfortable. Work, poverty, all things, now seemed possible and bearable.
When Jan had chattered himself weary she laid him in his cot, and sat hour after hour in the dim light of the glowing peats, thinking, planning, praying, whispering Jan’s name to her heart, feeling almost as if she were in his presence. When at length she rose and turned the key in her own house again, she was as proud and as happy as a queen who has just come into her kingdom, and who lifts for the first time the scepter of her authority.
CHAPTER XI.
SNORRO IS WANTED
“Now the great heartLeaps to new action and appointed toilWith steady hope, sure faith, and sober joy.”During the next two years, Margaret’s life appeared to be monotonously without incident. In reality it deepened and broadened in a manner but slightly indicated by the stillness of its surface. Early in the morning following her re-occupation of her own house, she had two visitors, Dr. Balloch and her old servant, Elga.
“Elga’s husband is with the Greenland fleet,” said the minister; “she is poor and lonely, and wants to come back and serve thee.”
“But I can not afford a servant.”
“Thou can well afford it, take my word for that; besides, thou art not used to hard work nor fit for it. Also, I have something better for thee to do. When thy house is in order, come to the manse and see me, then we will talk of it.”
So Elga quietly resumed her old duties, and ere two weeks were gone the house was almost in its first condition. White paint and soap and water, bees’-wax and turpentine, needle and thread, did wonders. On the evening of the eleventh day, Margaret and Elga went from attic to cellar with complete satisfaction. Every thing was spotless, every thing was in its old place. Jan’s big cushioned chair again stood on the hearth, and little Jan took possession of it. Many a night, wearied with play, he cuddled himself up among its cushions, and had there his first sleep. It is easy to imagine what Margaret’s thoughts were with such a picture before her – tender, regretful, loving thoughts most surely, for the fine shawl or stocking she was knitting at the time was generally wet with her tears.
The day after all was in its place and settled, she went to see Dr. Balloch. It was in the early morning when every thing was sweet, and cool and fresh. The blue-bells and daisies were at her feet, the sea dimpling and sparkling in the sunshine, the herring-fleet gathering in the bay. Already the quays and streets were full of strangers, and many a merry young fisherman with a pile of nets flung over his shoulders passed her, singing and whistling in the fullness of his life and hope. All of them, in some way or other, reminded her of Jan. One carried his nets in the same graceful, nonchalant way; another wore his cap at the same angle; a third was leaning against his oars, just as she had seen Jan lean a hundred times.
The minister sat at his open door, looking seaward. His serene face was full of the peace and light of holy contemplation. His right hand was lovingly laid on the open Bible, which occupied the small table by his side.
“Come in, Margaret,” he said pleasantly. “Come in; is all well with thee now?”
“Every thing is well. The house is in order and Snorro hath promised to plant some berry bushes in my garden; he will plant them to-day with the flower seeds thou gave me. The snowdrops are in bloom already, and the pansies show their buds among the leaves.”
“Dost thou know that Snorro hath left thy father?”
“He told me that he had taken John Hay’s cottage, the little stone one on the hill above my house, and that in three days he would go to the fishing with Matthew Vale.”
“Now, then, what wilt thou do with thy time? Let me tell thee, time is a very precious gift of God; so precious that he only gives it to us moment by moment. He would not have thee waste it.”
Margaret took from her pocket a piece of knitting. It was a shawl twelve yards round, yet of such exquisite texture that she drew it easily through a wedding ring. Beautiful it was as the most beautiful lace, and the folds of fine wool fell infinitely softer than any fold of fine flax could do. It was a marvelous piece of handiwork, and Dr. Balloch praised it highly.
“I am going to send it to the Countess of Zetland,” she said. “I have no doubt she will send me as many orders as I can fill. Each shawl is worth £7, and I can also do much coarser work, which I shall sell at the Foy.”
“Would thou not rather work for me than for the Countess?”
“Thou knowest I would, ten thousand times rather. But how can I work for thee?”
“What is there, Margaret, on the long table under the window?”
“There is a large pile of newspapers and magazines and books.”
“That is so. None of these have I been able to read, because my sight has failed me very much lately. Yet I long to know every word that is in them. Wilt thou be eyes to an old man who wishes thee only well, Margaret? Come every day, when the weather and thy health permits, and read to me for two hours, write my letters for me, and do me a message now and then, and I will cheerfully pay thee £50 a year.”
“I would gladly do all this without money, and think the duty most honorable.”
“Nay, but I will pay thee, for that will be better for thee and for me.”
Now all good work is good for far more than appears upon its surface. The duties undertaken by Margaret grew insensibly and steadily in beneficence and importance. In the first place, the effect upon her own character was very great. It was really two hours daily study of the finest kind. It was impossible that the books put into her hand could be read and discussed with a man like Dr. Balloch without mental enlargement. Equally great and good was the moral effect of the companionship. Her pen became the pen of a ready writer, for the old clergyman kept up a constant correspondence with his college companions, and with various learned societies.
About three months after this alliance began, the doctor said one day, “Thou shalt not read to me this morning, for I want thee to carry some wine and jelly to old Neill Brock, and when thou art there, read to him. Here is a list of the Psalms and the Epistles that will be the best for him.” And Margaret came back from her errand with a solemnly happy light upon her face. “It was a blessed hour,” she said, “surely he is very near the kingdom.”
This service once begun grew by a very natural course of events. Margaret delighted in it. The sick loved her calm, gentle ways. She was patient and silent, and yet sympathetic. She had that womanly taste which naturally sets itself to make dainty dishes for those who can not eat coarse food. In a few months the sick all through the parish felt the soothing touch of her soft, cool hands, and became familiar with the tones of her low, even voice, as she read aloud the portions which Dr. Balloch usually selected for every case.
And as there is no service so gratefully remembered as that given in sickness, Margaret Vedder gradually acquired a very sincere popularity. It rather amazed Peter to hear such remarks as the following: “Luke Thorkel is better, thanks to Margaret Vedder.” “John Johnson can go to the fishing with an easy mind now, Margaret Vedder is caring for his sick wife.” “The Widow Hay died last night. She would have died ere this, but for Margaret Vedder’s care.”
These outside duties made her home duties sufficient to fill all her time. She had no hours to spare for foolish repining, or morbid sorrow. Little Jan must be taught his letters, and his clothes must be made. Her garden, poultry and knitting kept her hands ever busy, and though her work was much of it of that silent kind which leads to brooding thought, she had now much of interest to fill her mind. Yet still, and always, there was the haunting, underlying memory of Jan’s disappearance or death, keeping her life hushed and silent. To no one did she speak of it, and it seemed strange to her that Dr. Balloch visibly discouraged any allusion to it. Sometimes she felt as if she must speak to Snorro about it, but Snorro kept ever a little aloof from her. She was not very sure as to his friendship.
She thought this a little hard, for she had given him every opportunity to understand that her own animosity was dead. She permitted little Jan to spend nearly all his time with him, when he was not engaged in fishing, or busy on the quays. And Snorro now spent much of his time at home. His earnings during the fishing season more than sufficed for his wants. Every fine day in winter he was apt to call for little Jan, and Margaret rarely refused him the child’s company.
And little Jan dearly loved Snorro. Snorro put him in the water, and taught him how to swim like a seal. Snorro made him a spear and taught him how to throw it. He made him a boat and taught him how to sail it. He got him a pony and taught him how to ride it. Once they found a baby seal whose mother had been shot, and the child kept it at Snorro’s house. There also he had a dozen pet rabbits, and three Skye terriers, and a wild swan with a broken wing, and many other treasures, which would not have been so patiently tolerated in the cleanliness and order of his own home.
