So the time went pleasantly and profitably by for two years. Again the spring joy was over the land, and the town busy with the hope of the fishing season. Snorro’s plans were all made, and yet he felt singularly restless and unsettled. As he sat one evening wondering at this feeling, he said to himself: “It is the dreams I have had lately, or it is because I think of Jan so much. Why does he not write? Oh, how I long to see him! Well, the day will come, by God’s leave.”
Just as this thought crossed his mind, Dr. Balloch stepped across his threshold. Snorro rose up with a face of almost painful anxiety. He always associated a visit from the doctor with news from Jan. He could scarcely articulate the inquiry, “Hast thou any news?”
“Great news for thee, Snorro. Jan is coming home from Africa. He is broken down with the fever. He wants thee. Thou must go to him at once, for he hath done grand work, and proved himself a hero, worthy even of thy true great love.”
“I am ready – I have been waiting for him to call me. I will go this hour.”
“Be patient. Every thing must be done wisely and in order. The first thing is supper. I came away without mine, so now I will eat with thee. Get the tea ready; then I will tell thee all I know.”
As Snorro moved about, the doctor looked at his home. Every piece of furniture in it was of Snorro’s own manufacture. His bed was a sailor’s bunk against the wall, made soft with sheep-fleeces and covered with seal-skins. A chair of woven rushes for little Jan, a couple of stools and a table made from old packing boxes, and a big hearth-rug of sheep-skins, that was all. But over the fireplace hung the pictured Christ, and some rude shelves were filled with the books Jan had brought him. On the walls, also, were harpoons and seal spears, a fowling-piece, queer ribbons and branches of sea weeds, curiosities given him by sailors from all countries, stuffed birds and fish skeletons, and a score of other things, which enabled the doctor to understand what a house of enchantment it must be to a boy like little Jan.
In a few minutes the table was set, and Snorro had poured out the minister’s tea, and put before him a piece of bread and a slice of broiled mutton. As for himself he could not eat, he only looked at the doctor with eyes of pathetic anxiety.
“Snorro, dost thou understand that to go to Jan now is to leave, forever perhaps, thy native land?”
“Wherever Jan is, that land is best of all.”
“He will be in Portsmouth ere thou arrive there. First, thou must sail to Wick; there, thou wilt get a boat to Leith, and at Leith take one for London. What wilt thou do in London?”
“Well, then, I have a tongue in my head; I will ask my way to Portsmouth. When I am there it will be easy to find Jan’s ship, and then Jan. What help can thou give me in the matter?”
“That I will look to. Jan hath sent thee £100.”
Snorro’s face brightened like sunrise. “I am glad that he thought of me; but I will not touch the money. I have already more than £20. Thou shalt keep the £100 for little Jan.”
“Snorro, he hath also sent the £600 he took from his wife, that and the interest.”
“But how? How could he do that already?”
“He has won it from the men who coin life into gold; it is mostly prize money.”
“Good luck to Jan’s hands! That is much to my mind.”
“I will tell thee one instance, and that will make thee understand it better. Thou must know that it is not a very easy matter to blockade over three thousand miles of African coast, especially as the slave ships are very swift, and buoyant. Indeed the Spanish and Portuguese make theirs of very small timbers and beams which they screw together. When chased the screws are loosened, and this process gives the vessel amazing play. Their sails are low, and bent broad. Jan tells me that the fore-yard of a brig of one hundred and forty tons, taken by ‘The Retribution’ was seventy-six feet long, and her ropes so beautifully racked aloft, that after a cannonade of sixty shot, in which upward of fifty took effect, not one sail was lowered. Now thou must perceive that a chase in the open sea would mostly be in favor of vessels built so carefully for escape.”
“Why, then, do not the Government build the same kind of vessels?”
“That is another matter. I will go into no guesses about it. But they do not build them, and therefore captures are mostly made by the boats which are sent up the rivers to lie in wait for the slavers putting out to sea. Sometimes these boats are away for days, sometimes even for weeks; and an African river is a dreadful place for British sailors, Snorro: the night air is loaded with fever, the days are terrible with a scorching sun.”
“I can believe that; but what of Jan?”
“One morning Jan, with a four-oared gig, chased a slave brig. They had been at the river mouth all night watching for her. Thou knows, Snorro, what a fine shot our Jan is. When she came in sight he picked off five of her crew, and compelled her to run on shore to avoid being boarded. Then her crew abandoned her, in order to save their own lives, and ‘The Retribution’ hove her off. She proved to be a vessel of two hundred tons, and she carried one thousand slaves. She was taken as a prize into Sierra Leone, and sold, and then Jan got his share of her.”
“But why did not the slavers fight?”
“Bad men are not always brave men; and sometimes they fly when no man pursues them. Portuguese slavers are proverbial cowards, yet sometimes Jan did have a hard fight with the villains.”
“I am right glad of that.”
“About a year ago, he heard of a brigantine of great size and speed lying in the old Calabar river with a cargo of slaves destined for Cuba. She carried five eighteen-pounder guns, and a crew of eighty men; and her captain had vowed vengeance upon ‘The Retribution’ and upon Jan, for the slavers he had already taken. Jan went down to the old Calabar, but he could not enter it, so he kept out of sight, waiting for the slaver to put to sea.
“At length she was seen coming down the river under all sail. Then ‘The Retribution’ lowered her canvas in order to keep out of sight as long as possible. When she hoisted it again, the slaver in spite of her boasts endeavored to escape, and then Jan, setting all the canvas his schooner could carry, stood after her in chase. The slaver was the faster of the two, and Jan feared he would lose her; but fortunately a calm came on and both vessels got out their sweeps. Jan’s vessel, being the smaller, had now the advantage, and his men sent her flying through the water.
“All night they kept up the chase, and the next morning Jan got within range.”
“Oh,” cried Snorro, “if I had only been there! Why did no one tell me there was such work for strong men to do?”
“Now I will tell thee a grand thing that our Jan did. Though the slaver was cutting his rigging to pieces with her shot, Jan would not fire till he was close enough to aim only at her decks. Why, Snorro? Because below her decks there was packed in helpless misery five hundred black men, besides many women and little children.”
“That was like Jan. He has a good heart.”
“But when he was close enough, he loaded his guns with grape, and ordered two men to be ready to lash the slaver to ‘The Retribution,’ the moment they touched. Under cover of the smoke, Jan and ten men boarded the slaver, but unfortunately, the force of the collision drove ‘The Retribution’ off, and Jan and his little party found themselves opposed to the eighty villains who formed the slaver’s crew.
“For a moment it seemed as if they must be overpowered, but a gallant little midshipman, only fourteen years old, Snorro, think of that, gave an instant order to get out the sweeps, and almost immediately ‘The Retribution,’ was alongside, and securely lashed to her enemy. Then calling on the sailors to follow him the brave little lad boarded her, and a desperate hand to hand fight followed. After fifteen Spaniards had been killed and near forty wounded, the rest leaped below and cried for quarter.”
“Snorro would have given them just ten minutes to say a prayer, no more. It is a sin to be merciful to the wicked, it is that; and the kindness done to them is unblessed, and brings forth sin and trouble. I have seen it.”
“What thinkest thou? When Jan flung open the hatches under which the poor slaves were fastened, sixty were dead, one hundred and twenty dying. During the twenty-eight hours’ chase and fight in that terrible climate they had not been given a drop of water, and the air was putrid and hot as an oven. Most of them had to be carried out in the arms of Jan’s sailors. There were seven babies in this hell, and thirty-three children between the ages of two years and seven. Many more died before Jan could reach Sierra Leone with them. This is the work Jan has been doing, Snorro; almost I wish I was a young man again, and had been with him.”
The doctor’s eyes were full; Snorro’s head was in his hands upon the table. When the doctor ceased, he stood up quivering with anger, and said, “If God would please Michael Snorro, he would send him to chase and fight such devils. He would give them the measure they gave to others, little air and less water, and a rope’s end to finish them. That would be good enough for them; it would that.”
“Well, then, thou wilt go to Jan?”
“I must go to-morrow. How can I wait longer? Is there a mail boat in the harbor?”
“It was Lord Lynne brought me the news and the money. He will carry thee as far as Wick. The tide serves at five o’clock to-morrow morning, can thou be ready?”
“Ay, surely. Great joy hath come to me, but I can be ready to meet it.”
“Lean on me in this matter as much as thou likest; what is there I can do for thee?”
“Wilt thou care for what I have in my house, especially the picture?”
“I will do that.”
“Then I have but to see Margaret Vedder and little Jan. I will be on ‘The Lapwing,’ ere she lift her anchor. God bless thee for all the good words thou hast said to me!”
“Snorro!”
“What then?”
“When thou sees Jan, say what will make peace between him and Margaret.”
Snorro’s brow clouded. “I like not to meddle in the matter. What must be is sure to happen, whether I speak or speak not.”
“But mind this – it will be thy duty to speak well of Margaret Vedder. The whole town do that now.”
“She was ever a good woman some way. There is not now a name too good for her. It hath become the fashion to praise Jan Vedder’s wife, and also to pity her. If thou heard the talk, thou would think that Jan was wholly to blame. For all that, I do not think she is worthy of Jan. Why does she not talk to her son of his father? Who ever saw her weep at Jan’s name? I had liked her better if she had wept more.”
“It is little men know of women; their smiles and their tears alike are seldom what they seem. I think Margaret loves her husband and mourns his loss sincerely; but she is not a woman to go into the market-place to weep. Do what is right and just to her, I counsel thee to do that. Now I will say ‘Farewell, brave Snorro.’ We may not meet again, for I am growing old.”
“We shall anchor in the same harbor at last. If thou go first, whatever sea I am on, speak me on thy way, if thou can do so.”
“Perhaps so. Who can tell? Farewell, mate.”
“Farewell.”
Snorro watched him across the moor, and then going to a locked box, he took out of it a bundle in a spotted blue handkerchief. He untied it, and for a moment looked over the contents. They were a bracelet set with sapphires, a ring to match it, a gold brooch, an amber comb and necklace, a gold locket on a chain of singular beauty, a few ribbons and lace collars, and a baby coral set with silver bells; the latter had been in Jan’s pocket when he was shipwrecked, and it was bruised and tarnished. The sight of it made Snorro’s eyes fill, and he hastily knotted the whole of the trinkets together and went down to Margaret’s home.
It was near nine o’clock and Margaret was tired and not very glad to see him coming, for she feared his voice would awake little Jan who was sleeping in his father’s chair. Rather wearily she said, “What is the matter, Snorro? Is any one sick? Speak low, for little Jan is asleep, and he has been very tiresome to-night.”
“Nothing much is the matter, to thee. As for me, I am going away in the morning to the mainland. I may not be back very soon, and I want to kiss Jan, and to give thee some things which belong to thee, if thou cares for them.”
“What hast thou of mine?”
“Wilt thou look then? They are in the handkerchief.”
He watched her keenly, perhaps a little hardly, as she untied the knot. He watched the faint rose-color deepen to scarlet on her face; he saw how her hands trembled, as she laid one by one the jewels on the table, and thoughtfully fingered the lace yellow with neglect. But there were no tears in her dropped eyes, and she could scarcely have been more deliberate in her examination, if she had been appraising their value. And yet, her heart was burning and beating until she found it impossible to speak.
Snorro’s anger gathered fast. His own feelings were in such a state of excitement, that they made him unjust to a type of emotion unfamiliar to him.
“Well then,” he asked, sharply, “dost thou want them or not?”
“Jan bought them for me?”
“Yes, he bought them, and thou sent them back to him. If thou had sent me one back, I had never bought thee another. But Jan Vedder was not like other men.”
“We will not talk of Jan, thee and me. What did thou bring these to-night for?”
“I told thee I was going to Wick, and it would not be safe to leave them, nor yet to take them with me. I was so foolish, also, as to think that thou would now prize them for Jan’s sake, but I see thou art the same woman yet. Give them to me, I will take them to the minister.”
“Leave them here. I will keep them safely.”
“The rattle was bought for little Jan. It was in his father’s pocket when he was shipwrecked.”
She stood with it in her hand, gazing down upon the tarnished bells, and answered not a word. Snorro looked at her angrily, and then stooped down, and softly kissed the sleeping child.
“Good-by, Margaret Vedder!”
She had lifted the locket in the interval, and was mechanically passing her fingers along the chain. “It is the very pattern I wished for,” she whispered to her heart, “I remember drawing it for him.” She did not hear Snorro’s “good-by,” and he stood watching her curiously a moment.
“I said ‘good-by,’ Margaret Vedder.”
“Good-by,” she answered mechanically. Her whole soul was moved. She was in a maze of tender, troubled thoughts, but Snorro perceived nothing but her apparent interest in the jewels. He could not forget his last sight of her standing, so apparently calm, with her eyes fixed upon the locket and chain that dangled from her white hand. “She was wondering how much they cost Jan,” he thought bitterly; “what a cold, cruel woman she is!”
That she had not asked him about his own affairs, why he left so hurriedly, how he was going, for what purpose, how long he was to be away, was a part of her supreme selfishness, Snorro thought. He could no longer come into her life, and so she cared nothing about him. He wished Dr. Balloch could have seen her as he did, with poor Jan’s love-gifts in her hands. With his heart all aflame on Jan’s noble deeds, and his imagination almost deifying the man, the man he loved so entirely, Margaret’s behavior was not only very much misunderstood by Snorro, it was severely and unjustly condemned.
“What did God make women for?” he asked angrily, as he strode back over the moor. “I hope Jan has forgotten her, for it is little she thinks of him.”
On reaching his home again he dressed himself in his best clothes, for he could not sleep. He walked up and down the old town, and over the quays, and stood a five minutes before Peter Fae’s store, and so beguiled the hours until he could go on board “The Lapwing.”
At five o’clock he saw Lord Lynne come aboard, and the anchor was raised. Snorro lifted his cap, and said, “Good morning, Lord Lynne;” and my lord answered cheerily, “Good morning, Snorro. With this wind we shall make a quick passage to Wick.”
CHAPTER XII.
SNORRO AND JAN
“And yet when all is thought and said,The heart still overrules the head;Still what we hope, we must believe,And what is given us receive.”Snorro had indeed very much misjudged Margaret. During her interview with him she had been absorbed in one effort, that of preserving her self-control while he was present. As soon as he had gone, she fled to her own room, and locking the door, she fell upon her knees. Jan’s last love-gifts lay on the bed before her, and she bent her head over them, covering them with tears and kisses.
“Oh, Jan! Oh, my darling!” she whispered to the deaf and dumb emblems of his affection. “Oh, if thou could come back to me again! Never more would I grieve thee, or frown on thee! Never should thy wishes be unattended to, or thy pleasure neglected! No one on earth, no one should speak evil of thee to me! I would stand by thee as I promised until death! Oh, miserable, unworthy wife that I have been! What shall I do? If now thou knew at last how dearly Margaret loves thee, and how bitterly she repents her blindness and her cruelty!”
So she mourned in half-articulate sobbing words, until little Jan awoke and called her. Then she laid him in her own bed and sat down beside him; quiet, but full of vague, drifting thoughts that she could hardly catch, but which she resolutely bent her mind to examine. Why had Snorro kept these things so long, and then that night suddenly brought them to her at such a late hour? What was he going away for? What was that strange light upon his face? She had never seen such a look upon Snorro’s face before. She let these questions importune her all night, but she never dared put into form the suspicion which lay dormant below them, that Jan had something to do with it; that Snorro had heard from Jan.
In the morning she took the trinkets with her to Dr. Balloch’s. She laid them before him one by one, telling when, and how, they had been offered and refused. “All but this,” she said, bursting into childlike weeping, and showing the battered, tarnished baby coral. “He brought this for his child, and I would not let him see the baby. Oh, can there be any mercy for one so unmerciful as I was?”
“Daughter, weep; thy tears are gracious tears. Would to God poor Jan could see thee at this hour. Whatever happiness may now be his lot, thy contrition would add to it, I know. Go home to-day. No one is in any greater trouble than thou art. Give to thyself tears and prayers; it may be that ere long God will comfort thee. And as thou goes, call at Snorro’s house. See that the fire is out, lock the door, and bring me the key when thou comes to-morrow. I promised Snorro to care for his property.”
“Where hath Snorro gone?”
“What did he say to thee?”
“That he was going to Wick. But how then did he go? There was no steamer due.”
“Lord Lynne took him in his yacht.”
“That is strange!” and Margaret looked steadily at Dr. Balloch. “It seems to me, that Lord Lynne’s yacht was at Lerwick, on that night; thou knowest.”
“When Skager and Jan quarreled?”
She bowed her head, and continued to gaze inquisitively at him.
“No, thou art mistaken. On that night he was far off on the Norway coast. It must have been two weeks afterward, when he was in Lerwick.”
“When will Lord Lynne be here again?”
“I know not; perhaps in a few weeks, perhaps not until the end of summer. He may not come again this year. He is more uncertain than the weather.”
Margaret sighed, and gathering her treasures together she went away. As she had been desired, she called at Snorro’s house. The key was on the outside of the door, she turned it, and went in. The fire had been carefully extinguished, and the books and simple treasures he valued locked up in his wooden chest. It had evidently been quite filled with these, for his clothes hung against the wall of an inner apartment. Before these clothes Margaret stood in a kind of amazement. She was very slow of thought, but gradually certain facts in relation to them fixed themselves in her mind with a conviction which no reasoning could change.
Snorro had gone away in his best clothes; his fishing suit and his working suit he had left behind. It was clear, then, that he had not gone to the Wick fisheries; equally clear that he had not gone away with any purpose of following his occupation in loading and unloading vessels. Why had he gone then? Margaret was sure that he had no friends beyond the Shetlands. Who was there in all the world that could tempt Snorro from the little home he had made and loved; and who, or what could induce him to leave little Jan?
Only Jan’s father!
She came to this conclusion at last with a clearness and rapidity that almost frightened her. Her cheeks burned, her heart beat wildly, and then a kind of anger took possession of her. If Snorro knew any thing, Dr. Balloch did also. Why was she kept in anxiety and uncertainty? “I will be very quiet and watch,” she thought, “and when Lord Lynne comes again, I will follow him into the manse, and ask him where my husband is.”
As she took a final look at Snorro’s belongings, she thought pitifully, “How little he has! And yet who was so good and helpful to every one? I might have taken more interest in his housekeeping! How many little things I could easily have added to his comforts! What a selfish woman I must be! Little wonder that he despised me!” And she determined that hour to make Jan’s friend her friend when he came back, and to look better after his household pleasures and needs.
She had plenty now to think about, and she was on the alert morning, noon, and night; but nothing further transpired to feed her hope for nearly a month. The fishing season was then in full business, and Peter Fae, as usual, full of its cares. There had been no formal reconciliation between Margaret and her father and stepmother, and there was no social intercourse between the houses, but still they were on apparent terms of friendship with each other. The anger and ill-will had gradually worn away, and both Peter and Suneva looked with respect upon a woman so much in the minister’s favor and company. Peter sent her frequent presents from the store, and really looked upon his handsome little grandson with longing and pride. When he was a few years older he intended to propose to pay for his education. “We’ll send him to Edinburgh, Suneva,” he frequently said, “and we will grudge nothing that is for his welfare.”
And Suneva, who had carefully fostered this scheme, would reply, “That is what I have always said, Peter. It is a poor family that has not one gentleman in it, and, please God and thy pocket-book, we will make a gentleman and a minister of our little Jan;” and the thought of his grandson filling a pulpit satisfied Peter’s highest ambition.
So, though there had been no visiting between the two houses, there were frequent tokens of courtesy and good-will, and Margaret, passing through the town, and seeing her father at his shop-door, stopped to speak to him.
“Where hast thou been, and where is thy boy?” he asked.
“He is at home with Elga. I have been to read with Mary Venn; she is failing fast, and not long for this life.”
As they spoke Tulloch approached, and, with a cold bow to Peter, turned to Margaret and said, “I will walk with thee, Mistress Vedder, as I have some business matter to speak of.” Then, after they had turned to Margaret’s home: “It was about the interest of the seven hundred pounds placed to thy credit a few days since. I will count the interest from the first of the month.”
Margaret was completely amazed. “Seven hundred pounds!” she said, in a low trembling voice. “I know nothing about it. Surely thou art dreaming. Who brought it to thee?”
“Dr. Balloch. He said it was conscience money and not to be talked about. I suppose thy father sent it, for it is well known that he made his will a few days ago.”
Margaret, however, did not believe that it was her father. She was sure Jan had sent the money. It was her £600, with £100 for interest. And oh, how it pained her! Somewhere on earth Jan was alive, and he would neither come to her, nor write to her. He sent her gold instead of love, as if gold were all she wanted. He could scarcely have contrived a more cruel revenge, she thought. For once she absolutely hated money; but it put into her mind a purpose which would not leave it. If Snorro could find Jan, she could. The money Jan had sent she would use for that purpose.
