She was cautious and suspicious by nature, and she determined to keep her intention close in her own heart. All summer she watched anxiously for the return of “The Lapwing,” but it came not. One day, in the latter part of August, Dr. Balloch asked her to answer for him a letter which he had received from Lord Lynne. She noted the address carefully. It was in Hyde Park, London. Very well, she would go to London. Perhaps she would be nearer to Jan if she did.
She had now nearly £1,000 of her own. If she spent every farthing of it in the search and failed, she yet felt that she would be happier for having made the effort. The scheme took entire possession of her, and the difficulties in the way of its accomplishment only made her more stubbornly determined. The first, was that of reaching the mainland without encountering opposition. She was sure that both her father and Dr. Balloch would endeavor to dissuade her; she feared they would influence her against her heart and judgment. After August, the mail boats would be irregular and infrequent; there was really not a day to be lost.
In the morning she went to see Tulloch. He was eating his breakfast and he was not at all astonished to see her. He thought she had come to talk to him about the investment of her money.
“Good morning, Mistress Vedder! Thou hast been much on my mind, thou and thy money, and no doubt it is a matter of some consequence what thou will do with it.”
“I am come to speak to thee as a friend, in whom I may confide a secret. Wilt thou hear, and keep it, and give me good advice?”
“I do not like to have to do with women’s secrets, but thou art a woman by thyself. Tell me all, then, but do not make more of the matter than it is worth.”
“When Jan Vedder had no other friend, thou stood by him.”
“What then? Jan was a good man. I say that yet, and I say it to thy face, Margaret Vedder. I think, too, that he had many wrongs.”
“I think that too, and I shall be a miserable woman until I have found Jan, and can tell him to his face how sorry I am. So then, I am going away to find him.”
“What art thou talking of? Poor Jan is dead. I am sure that is so.”
“I am sure it is not so. Now let me tell thee all.” Then she went over the circumstances which had fed her convictions, with a clearness and certainty which brought conviction to Tulloch’s mind also.
“I am sure thou are right,” he answered gravely, “and I have nothing at all to say against thy plan. It is a very good plan if it has good management. Now, then, where will thou go first?”
“I have Lord Lynne’s address in London. I will go first of all to him. Jan sent me that money, I am sure. It must have been a person of wealth and power who helped him to make such a sum, or he must have lent Jan the money. I think this person was Lord Lynne.”
“I think that too. Now about thy money?”
“I will take it with me. Money in the pocket is a ready friend.”
“No, it will be a great care to thee. The best plan for thee is this: take fifty pounds in thy pocket, and I will give thee a letter of credit for the balance on a banking firm in London. I will also write to them, and then, if thou wants advice on any matter, or a friend in any case, there they will be to help thee.”
“That is good. I will leave also with thee twenty-five pounds for Elga. Thou art to pay her five shillings every week. She will care for my house until I return.”
“And thy child?”
“I will take him with me. If Jan is hard to me, he may forgive me for the child’s sake.”
“Build not thy hopes too high. Jan had a great heart, but men are men, and not God. Jan may have forgotten thee.”
“I have deserved to be forgotten.”
“He may not desire to live with thee any more.”
“If he will only listen to me while I say, ‘I am sorry with all my heart, Jan;’ if he will only forgive my unkindness to him, I shall count the journey well made, though I go to the ends of the earth to see him.”
“God go with thee, and make all thy plans to prosper. Here is the table of the mail boats. One leaves next Saturday morning at six o’clock. My advice is to take it. I will send on Thursday afternoon for thy trunk, and Friday night I will find some stranger fisher-boy to take it to the boat. Come thou to my house when all is quiet, and I will see thee safely on board. At six in the morning, when she sails, the quay will be crowded.”
“I will do all this. Speak not of the matter, I ask thee.”
“Thou may fully trust me.”
Then Margaret went home with a light heart. Her way had been made very plain to her; it only now remained to bind Elga to her interest. This was not hard to do. Elga promised to remain for two years in charge of the house if Margaret did not return before. She felt rich with an allowance of five shillings a week, and the knowledge that Banker Tulloch had authority to prevent either Peter or Suneva from troubling her during that time. So that it was Elga’s interest, even if it had not been her will, to give no information which might lead to the breaking up of the comfort dependent on Margaret’s absence.
Nothing interfered with Margaret’s plans. During the three intervening days, she went as usual to Dr. Balloch’s. Twice she tried to introduce the subject of Snorro’s singular journey, and each time she contrived to let the minister see that she connected it in her own mind with Jan. She noticed that on one of these occasions, the doctor gave her a long, searching look, and that the expression of his own face was that of extreme indecision. She almost thought that he was going to tell her something, but he suddenly rose and changed the subject of their conversation, in a very decided manner. His reticence pained and silenced her, for she almost longed to open her heart to him. Yet, as he gave her no encouragement, she was too shy, and perhaps too proud to force upon him an evidently undesired confidence. She determined, however, to leave letters for him, and for her father, stating the object of her voyage, but entering into no particulars about it. These letters she would put in Elga’s care, with orders not to deliver them until Saturday night. By that time Margaret Vedder hoped to be more than a hundred miles beyond Lerwick.
In the meantime Snorro had reached Portsmouth, his journey thither having been uneventful. “The Retribution” had arrived two days before, and was lying in dock. At the dock office a letter which Lord Lynne had given him, procured an admission to visit the ship, and her tall tapering masts were politely pointed out to him. Snorro went with rapid strides toward her, for it was near sunset and he knew that after the gun had been fired, there would be difficulty in getting on board. He soon came to the ship of his desire. Her crew were at their evening mess, only two or three sailors were to be seen.
Snorro paused a moment, for he was trembling with emotion, and as he stood he saw three officers come from the cabin. They grouped themselves on the quarter-deck, and one of them, taller, and more splendidly dressed than the others, turned, and seemed to look directly at Snorro. The poor fellow stretched out his arms, but his tongue was heavy, like that of a man in a dream, and though he knew it was Jan, he could not call him. He had received at the office, however, a permit to board “The Retribution” in order to speak with her commander, and he found no difficulty in reaching him.
Jan was still standing near the wheel talking to his officers as Snorro approached. Now that the moment so long watched and waited for, had come, poor Snorro could hardly believe it, and beside, he had seen in the first glance at his friend, that this was a different Jan somehow from the old one. It was not alone his fine uniform, his sash and sword and cocked hat; Jan had acquired an air of command, an indisputable nobility and ease of manner, and for a moment, Snorro doubted if he had done well to come into his presence unannounced.
He stood with his cap in his hand waiting, feeling heart-faint with anxiety. Then an officer said some words to Jan, and he turned and looked at Snorro.
“Snorro! Snorro!”
The cry was clear and glad, and the next moment Jan was clasping both his old friend’s hands. As for Snorro, his look of devotion, of admiration, of supreme happiness was enough. It was touching beyond all words, and Jan felt his eyes fill as he took his arm and led him into his cabin.
“I am come to thee, my captain. I would have come, had thou been at the end of the earth.”
“And we will part no more, Snorro, we two. Give me thy hand on that promise.”
“No more, no more, my captain.”
“To thee, I am always ‘Jan.’”
“My heart shall call thee ‘Jan,’ but my lips shall always say ‘my captain,’ so glad are they to say it! Shall I not sail with thee as long as we two live?”
“We are mates for life, Snorro.”
Jan sent his boy for bread and meat. “Thou art hungry I know,” he said; “when did thou eat?”
“Not since morning. To-day I was not hungry, I thought only of seeing thee again.”
At first neither spoke of the subject nearest to Jan’s heart. There was much to tell of people long known to both men, but gradually the conversation became slower and more earnest, and then Snorro began to talk of Peter Fae and his marriage. “It hath been a good thing for Peter,” he said; “he looks by ten years a younger man.”
“And Suneva, is she happy?”
“Well, then, she dresses gayly, and gives many fine parties, and is what she likes best of all, the great lady of the town. But she hath not a bad heart, and I think it was not altogether her fault if thy wife was – ”
“If my wife was what, Snorro?”
“If thy wife was unhappy in her house. The swan and the kittywake can not dwell in the same nest.”
“What hast thou to tell me of my wife and son?”
“There is not such a boy as thy boy in all Scotland. He is handsomer than thou art. He is tall and strong, and lish and active as a fish. He can dive and swim like a seal, he can climb like a whaler’s boy, he can fling a spear, and ride, and run, and read; and he was beginning to write his letters on a slate when I came away. Also, he was making a boat, for he loves the sea, as thou loves it. Oh, I tell thee, there is not another boy to marrow thy little Jan.”
“Is he called Jan?”
“Yes, he is called Jan after thee.”
“This is great good news, Snorro. What now of my wife?”
Snorro’s voice changed, and all the light left his face. He spoke slowly, but with decision. “She is a very good woman. There is not a better woman to be found anywhere than Margaret Vedder. The minister said I was to tell thee how kind she is to all who are sick and in trouble, and to him she is as his right hand. Yes, I will tell thee truly, that he thinks she is worthy of thy love now.”
“And what dost thou think?”
“I do not think she is worthy.”
“Why dost thou not think so?”
“A woman may be an angel, and love thee not.”
“Then thou thinks she loves me not? Why? Has she other lovers? Tell me truly, Snorro.”
“The man lives not in Lerwick who would dare to speak a word of love to Margaret Vedder. She walks apart from all merry-making, and from all friends. As I have told thee she lives in her own house, and enters no other house but the manse, unless it be to see some one in pain or sorrow. She is a loving mother to thy son, but she loves not thee. I will tell thee why I think.” Then Snorro recounted with accurate truthfulness his last interview with Margaret. He told Jan every thing, for he had noted every thing: – her dress, her attitude, her rising color, her interest in the locket’s chain, her indifference as to his own hurried journey, its object, or its length.
Jan heard all in silence, but the impression made on him by Snorro’s recital, was not what Snorro expected. Jan knew Margaret’s slow, proud nature. He would have been astonished, perhaps even a little suspicious of any exaggeration of feeling, of tears, or of ejaculations. Her interest in the locket chain said a great deal to him. Sitting by his side, with her fair face almost against his own, she had drawn the pattern of the chain she wished. Evidently she had remembered it; he understood that it was her emotion at the recognition which had made her so silent, and so oblivious of Snorro’s affairs. The minister’s opinion had also great weight with him. Dr. Balloch knew the whole story of his wrong, knew just where he had failed, and where Margaret had failed. If he believed a reconciliation was now possible and desirable, then Jan also was sure of it.
Snorro saw the purpose in his face. Perhaps he had a moment’s jealous pang, but it was instantly put down. He hastened to let Jan feel that, even in this matter, he must always be at one with him:
“Trust not to me,” he said; “it is little I know or understand about women, and I may judge Margaret Vedder far wrong.”
“I think thou does, Snorro. She was never one to make a great show of her grief or her regrets. But I will tell thee what she did when thou wert gone away. In her own room, she wept over that chain the whole night long.”
“That may be. When little Jan had the croup she was still and calm until the boy was out of danger, and then she wept until my heart ached for her. Only once besides have I seen her weep; that was when Suneva accused her of thy murder; then she took her baby in her arms and came through the storm to me at the store. Yes, she wept sorely that night.”
Jan sat with tightly-drawn lips.
“If it will make thee happy, send me back to Lerwick, and I will bring thy wife and child safely here. Thou would be proud indeed to see them. The boy is all I have told thee. His mother is ten times handsomer than when thou married her. She is the fairest and most beautiful of women. When she walks down the street at the minister’s side, she is like no other woman. Even Peter Fae is now proud that she is his daughter, and he sends her of the finest that comes to his hand. Shall I then go for thee? Why not go thyself?”
“I will think about it, Snorro. I can not go myself. I received my promotion yesterday, and I asked to be transferred for immediate service. I may get my orders any day. If I send thee, I may have to sail without thee, and yet not see my wife and child. No, I will not part with thee, Snorro; thou art a certain gain, and about the rest, I will think well. Now we will say no more, for I am weary and weak; my head aches also, and I fear I have fever again.”
The next day Jan was very ill, and it was soon evident that typhoid fever of a long and exhausting character had supervened on a condition enfeebled by African malaria. For many weeks he lay below the care of love or life, and indeed it was August when he was able to get on deck again. Then he longed for the open sea, and so urged his desire, that he received an immediate exchange to the ship Hydra, going out to Borneo with assistance for Rajah Brooke, who was waging an exterminating war against the pirates of the Chinese and Indian seas.
The new ship was a very fine one, and Jan was proud of his command. Snorro also had been assigned to duty on her, having special charge of a fine Lancaster gun which she carried, and no words could express his pride and joy in his position. She was to sail on the 15th day of August, one hour after noon, and early in the morning of that day, Jan went off the ship alone. He went direct to the Post Office, and with trembling hands, for he was still very weak, he dropped into it the following letter:
My Dear Wife – My fair dear Margaret:
I have never ceased to love thee. Ask Dr. Balloch to tell thee all. To-day I leave for the Chinese sea. If thou wilt forgive and forget the past, and take me again for thy husband, have then a letter waiting for me at the Admiralty Office, and when I return I will come to Shetland for thee. Snorro is with me. He hath told me all about thy goodness, and about our little Jan. Do what thy heart tells thee to do, and nothing else. Then there will be happiness. Thy loving husband,
Jan Vedder.A few hours after this letter had been posted Jan stood on his quarter deck with his face to the open sea, and Snorro, in his new uniform, elate with joy and pride, was issuing his first orders to the quarter-master, and feeling that even for him, life had really begun at last.
CHAPTER XIII.
LITTLE JAN’S TRIUMPH
“I deemed thy garments, O my hope, were gray,So far I viewed thee. Now the space betweenIs passed at length; and garmented in greenEven as in days of yore thou stand’st to-day.Ah God! and but for lingering dull dismay,On all that road our footsteps erst had beenEven thus commingled, and our shadows seenBlent on the hedgerows and the water way.”Margaret intended leaving Saturday, but on Thursday night something happened, the most unlooked-for thing that could have happened to her – she received Jan’s letter. As she was standing beside her packed trunk, she heard Elga call:
“Here has come Sandy Bane with a letter, Mistress Vedder, and he will give it to none but thee.”
It is not always that we have presentiments. That strange intelligence, that wraith of coming events, does not speak, except a prescient soul listens. Margaret attached no importance to the call. Dr. Balloch often sent letters, she supposed Sandy was waiting for a penny fee. With her usual neatness, she put away some trifles, locked her drawers, and then washed her hands and face. Sandy was in no hurry either; Elga had given him a cup of tea, and a toasted barley-cake, and he was telling her bits of gossip about the boats and fishers.
While they were talking, Margaret entered; she gave Sandy a penny, and then with that vague curiosity which is stirred by the sight of almost any letter, she stretched out her hand for the one he had brought. The moment she saw it, she understood that something wonderful had come to her. Quick as thought she took in the significance of the official blue paper and the scarlet seal. In those days, officers in the Admiralty used imposing stationery, and Jan had felt a certain pride in giving his few earnest words the sanction of his honor and office. Certainly it had a great effect upon Margaret, although only those very familiar with her, could have detected the storm of anxiety and love concealed beneath her calm face and her few common words.
But oh, when she stood alone with Jan’s loving letter in her hand, then all barriers were swept away. The abandon of her slow, strong nature, had in it an intensity impossible to quicker and shallower affection. There was an hour in which she forgot her mortality, when her soul leaned and hearkened after Jan’s soul, till it seemed not only possible, but positive, that he had heard her passionate cry of love and sorrow, and answered it. In that moment of intense silence which succeeds intense feeling, she was sure Jan called her. “Margaret!” She heard the spiritual voice, soft, clear, sweeter than the sweetest music, and many a soul that in extremities has touched the heavenly horizon will understand that she was not mistaken.
In an hour Tulloch sent for her trunk.
“There is no trunk to be sent now; tell Tulloch that Margaret Vedder will tell him the why and the wherefore to-morrow.” Elga was amazed, and somewhat disappointed, but Margaret’s face astonished and subdued her, and she did not dare to ask, “What then is the matter?”
Margaret slept little that night. To the first overwhelming personality of joy and sorrow, there succeeded many other trains of thought. It was evident that Dr. Balloch, perhaps Snorro also, had known always of Jan’s life and doings. She thought she had been deceived by both, and not kindly used. She wondered how they could see her suffer, year after year, the slow torture of uncertainty, and unsatisfied love and repentance. She quite forgot how jealously she had guarded her own feelings, how silent about her husband she had been, how resentful of all allusion to him.
Throughout the night Elga heard her moving about the house. She was restoring every thing to its place again. The relief she felt in this duty first revealed to her the real fear of her soul at the strange world into which she had resolved to go and seek her husband. She had the joy of a child who had been sent a message on some dark and terror-haunted way, and had then been excused from the task. Even as a girl the great outside world had rather terrified than allured her. In her Edinburgh school she had been homesick for the lonely, beautiful islands, and nothing she had heard or read since had made her wish to leave them. She regarded Jan’s letter, coming just at that time, as a special kindness of Providence.
“Yes, and I am sure that is true,” said Tulloch to her next morning. “Every one has something to boast of now and then. Thou canst say, ‘God has kept me out of the danger, though doubtless He could have taken me through it very safely.’ And it will be much to Jan’s mind, when he hears that it was thy will to go and seek him.”
“Thou wert ever kind to Jan.”
“Jan had a good heart. I thought that always.”
“And thou thought right; how glad thou will be to see him! Yes, I know thou wilt.”
“I shall see Jan no more, Margaret, for I am going away soon, and I shall never come back.”
“Art thou sick, then?”
“So I think; very. And I have seen one who knows, and when I told him the truth, he said to me, ‘Set thy house in order, Tulloch, for it is likely this sickness will be thy last.’ So come in and out as often as thou can, Margaret, and thou tell the minister the road I am traveling, for I shall look to him and thee to keep me company on it as far as we may tread it together.”
It did not enter Margaret’s mind to say little commonplaces of negation. Her large, clear eyes, solemn and tender, admitted the fact at once, and she answered the lonely man’s petition by laying her hand upon his, and saying, “At this time thou lean on me like a daughter. I will serve thee until the last hour.”
“When thou hast heard all concerning Jan from the minister, come and tell me too; for it will be a great pleasure to me to know how Jan Vedder turned his trouble into good fortune.”
Probably Dr. Balloch had received a letter from Jan also, for he looked singularly and inquisitively at Margaret as she entered his room. She went directly to his side, and laid Jan’s letter before him. He read it slowly through, then raised his face and said, “Well, Margaret?”
“It is not so well. Thou knew all this time that Jan was alive.”
“Yes, I knew it. It is likely to be so, for I – I mean, I was sent to save his life.”
“Wilt thou tell me how?”
“Yes, I will tell thee now. Little thou thought in those days of Jan Vedder, but I will show thee how God loved him! One of his holy messengers, one of his consecrated servants, one of this world’s nobles, were set to work together for Jan’s salvation.” Then he told her all that had happened, and he read her Jan’s letters, and as he spoke of his great heart, and his kind heart, the old man’s eyes kindled, and he began to walk about the room in his enthusiasm.
Such a tale Margaret had never heard before. Tears of pity and tears of pride washed clean and clear-seeing the eyes that had too often wept only for herself. “Oh, Margaret! Margaret!” he said, “learn this – when it is God’s pleasure to save a man, the devil can not hinder, nor a cruel wife, nor false friends, nor total shipwreck, nor the murderer’s knife – all things must work together for it.”
“If God gives Jan back to me, I will love and honor him with all my heart and soul. I promise thee I will that.”
“See thou do. It will be thy privilege and thy duty.”
“Oh, why did thou not tell me all this before? It would have been good for me.”
“No, it would have been bad for thee. Thou has not suffered one hour longer than was necessary. Week by week, month by month, year by year, thy heart has been growing more humble and tender, more just and unselfish; but it was not until Snorro brought thee those poor despised love-gifts of Jan’s that thou wast humble and tender, and just, and unselfish enough to leave all and go and seek thy lost husband. But I am sure it was this way – the very hour this gracious thought came into thy heart thy captivity was turned. Now, then, from thy own experience thou can understand why God hides even a happy future from us. If we knew surely that fame or prosperity or happiness was coming, how haughty, how selfish, how impatient we should be.”
“I would like thee to go and tell my father all.”
