As they walked through the town the minister spoke to a group of fishers, and four from among them silently followed him. Tulloch was still in his chair, and his three servants stood beside him. The table was spread, the bread was broken, and, with prayers and tears, the little company ate it together. Then they bade each other farewell, a farewell tranquil and a little sad – said simply, and without much speaking. Soon afterward Tulloch closed his eyes and the minister and Margaret watched silently beside him. Only once again the dying man spoke. He appeared to be sleeping heavily, but his lips suddenly moved and he said: “We shall see Nanna to-morrow!”
“We!” whispered Margaret. “Whom does he mean?”
“One whom we can not see; one who knows the constellations, and has come to take him to his God.”
Just at sunset a flash of strange light transfigured for a moment the pallor of his face; he opened wide his blue eyes, and standing erect, bowed his head in an untranslatable wonder and joy. It was the moment of release, and the weary body fell backward, deserted and dead, into the minister’s arms.
During the few months previous to his death, Tulloch had been much in every one’s heart and on every one’s tongue. There had not been a gathering of any kind in which his name had not been the prominent one; in some way or other, he had come into many lives. His death made a general mourning, especially among the fishers, to whom he had ever been a wise and trustworthy friend. He had chosen his grave in a small islet half a mile distant from Lerwick – a lonely spot where the living never went, save to bury the dead.
The day of burial was a clear one, with a salt, fresh wind from the south-west. Six fishermen made a bier of their oars, and laid the coffin upon it. Then the multitude followed, singing as they went, until the pier was reached. Boat after boat was filled, and the strange procession kept a little behind the one bearing the coffin and the minister. The snow lay white and unbroken on the island, and, as it was only a few acres in extent, the sea murmured unceasingly around all its shores.
The spot was under a great rock carved by storms into cloud-like castles and bastions. Eagles watched them with icy gray eyes from its summit, and the slow cormorant, and the sad sea-gulls. Overhead a great flock of wild swans were taking their majestic flight to the solitary lakes of Iceland, uttering all the time an inspiring cry, the very essence of eager expectation and of joyful encouragement. Dr. Balloch stood, with bared head and uplifted eyes, watching them, while they laid the mortal part of his old friend in “that narrow house, whose mark is one gray stone.” Then looking around on the white earth, and the black sea, and the roughly-clad, sad-faced fishers, he said, almost triumphantly —
“The message came forth from him in whom we live, and move, and have our being:
“Who is nearer to us than breathing, and closer than hands or feet.
“Come up hither and dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
“The days of thy sorrow have been sufficient; henceforward there is laid up for thee the reward of exceeding joy.
“Thou shalt no more fear the evil to come; the bands of suffering are loosed. Thy Redeemer hath brought thee a release from sorrow.
“So he went forth unto his Maker; he attained unto the beginning of peace.
“He departed to the habitations of just men made perfect, to the communion of saints, to the life everlasting.”
Then he threw a few spadefuls of earth into the grave, and every man in turn did the same, till the sepulture was fully over. Silently then the boats filled, and all went to their homes. They were solemn, but not sorrowful. The simple, pathetic service left behind it a feeling as of triumph. It had shown them they were mortal, but assured them also of immortality.
During the following summer Margaret received many letters from Jan; and she wrote many to him. Nothing is so conducive to a strong affection as a long sweet course of love-letters, and both of them impressed their souls on the white paper which bore to each other their messages of affection. It was really their wooing time, and never lover was half so impatient to claim his bride, as Jan was to see again his fair, sweet Margaret. But it was not likely that he could return for another year, and Margaret set herself to pass the time as wisely and happily as possible.
Nor did she feel life to be a dreary or monotonous affair. She was far too busy for morbid regrets or longings, for ennui, or impatience. Between Dr. Balloch, little Jan, the “Tulloch Homes,” and her own house, the days were far too short. They slipped quickly into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the months grew to a year, and then every morning she awoke with the same thought – “Even to-day Jan might come.” Little Jan shared her joyous expectations. He was always watching the horizon for any strange-looking craft. The last thing at night, the first in the morning, sometimes during the night, he scanned the bay, which was now filling fast with fishing boats from all quarters.
One Sunday morning very, very early, he came to his mother’s bedside. “Wake, my mother! There is a strange ship in the bay. She is coming straight to harbor. Oh! I feel surely in my heart, that it is my father’s ship! Let me go. Let me go now, I ask thee.”
Margaret was at the window ere the child ceased speaking. “Thou may go,” she said, “for I certainly think it is ‘The Lapwing.’”
He had fled at the first words, and Margaret awoke Elga, and the fires were kindled, and the breakfast prepared, and the happy wife dressed herself in the pale blue color that Jan loved; and she smiled gladly to see how beautifully it contrasted with the golden-brown of her hair, and the delicate pink in her cheeks.
As for the child, his clear, sharp eyes soon saw very plainly that the vessel had come to anchor in the bay. “Well,” he said, “that will be because the tide does not serve yet.” John Semple, an old Scot from Ayrshire, was on the pier, the only soul in sight. “John, thou loose the boat, and row me out to ‘The Lapwing.’ It is ‘The Lapwing.’ I know it is. Come, thou must be in a hurry.”
“‘Hurry’ is the deil’s ain word, and I’ll hurry for naebody; forbye, I wadna lift an oar for man nor bairn on the Sawbath day.”
“Dost thou think it is ‘The Lapwing?’”
“It may be: I’ll no say it isn’t.”
The child had unfastened the boat while he was talking; he leaped into it, and lifted an oar. “Then I must scull, John. Thou might go with me!”
“I’m no gaun to break the Sawbath, an’ a water way is waur than a land way, for then you’ll be atween the deil an’ the deep sea. Bide at hame, Jan, an’ ye’ll be a wise lad.”
Jan shook his head, and went away by himself. The bay was smooth as glass, and he paddled with marvelous ease and speed. Very soon he came alongside the yacht: the sailors were holystoning the deck, but there was not a face looked over the side that little Jan knew.
“Well, then, is this ‘The Lapwing?’” he asked.
“That’s her name; what’s your name, you little monkey?”
“Jan Vedder. Throw me a rope.”
The men laughed as if at some excellent joke, and taunted and teased the child until he was in a passion. In the middle of the quarrel Jan himself came on deck.
“A lad as wants to come on board, Captain.”
Jan looked down at the lad who wanted to come on board, and the bright, eager face gave him a sudden suspicion. “What is thy name?” he asked.
“Jan Vedder. Wilt thou throw me a rope?”
Then the captain turned and gave some orders, and in a few minutes little Jan stood on the deck of “The Lapwing.” His first glance, his first movement was toward the handsomely dressed officer who was watching him with such a smiling, loving face.
“Thou art my father! I know thou art!” and with the words he lifted up his face and arms as if to be kissed and embraced.
Then they went into the cabin and Snorro was called, and perhaps Jan had a little pang of jealousy when he witnessed the joy of the child, and saw him folded to Snorro’s big heart. Jan and Snorro were already dressed in their finest uniforms. They had only been waiting for the daybreak to row into harbor. But now there was no need of delay. “My mother is waiting for thee,” said little Jan, anxiously. “Come, let us go to her.”
It was still very early. John Semple had disappeared, and not a soul else was stirring. But this time when Jan approached his old home, the welcome was evident from afar. The chimneys were smoking, the blinds raised, the door wide open, and Margaret, beautiful and loving, stood in it, with beaming face and open arms to welcome him.
Then there was a wonderful breakfast, and they sat over it until the bells were ringing for church. “There will be time to talk afterward,” said Snorro, “but now, what better thing can be done than to go to church? It will be the best place of all, and it is well said, ‘for a happy hour a holy roof.’ What dost thou think, Jan?”
“I think as thou dost, and I see the same answer in my Margaret’s face. Well, then, we will take that road.”
So Jan, with his wife upon his arm, went first, and Snorro, holding little Jan by the hand, followed. The congregation were singing a psalm, a joyful one, it seemed to Jan, and they quietly walked to the minister’s pew, which was always reserved for strangers.
Ere they reached it there was a profound sensation, and Dr. Balloch slightly raised himself and looked at the party. Jan was in his full uniform, and so was Snorro, but there was no mistaking either of the men. And no mistaking the tone of the service which followed! It seemed as if the minister had flung off fifty years, and was again talking to his flock with the fire and enthusiasm of his youth. His prayer was like a song of triumph; his sermon, the old joyful invitation of the heart that had found its lost treasure, and called upon its neighbors to come and rejoice with it. The service ended in a song that was a benediction, and a benediction that was a song.
Then Dr. Balloch hastened to come down, and Jan, seeing how he trembled with joy, went to meet and support him; and so there, even on the pulpit stairs, the good minister kissed and blessed him, and called him, “my dear son.” Peter put out both hands to Jan, and Margaret embraced Suneva, and in the church-yard the whole congregation waited, and there was scarcely a dry eye among either men or women.
“Thou come home to my house to-night, Jan,” said Peter, “thou, and thy wife and child; come, and be gladly welcome, for this is a great day to me.”
“Come, all of you,” said Suneva, “and Snorro, he must come too.”
So they spent the night at Peter’s house, and the next morning Peter walked to his store between his son-in-law and his grandson, the proudest and happiest man in Shetland. All, and far more than all of his old love for Jan had come back to his heart. Jan could have asked him now for the half of his fortune, and it would have been given cheerfully.
CHAPTER XV.
LABOR AND REST
“Turning to the celestial city, to infinite serenities, to love without limit, to perfect joy.”
The next evening Peter and Suneva and Dr. Balloch sat around Jan’s hearth, and talked of all that he had seen and done during his absence. “But where is Michael Snorro?” asked the doctor. “I thought to have heard him talk to-night.”
“Snorro stays by the yacht. His quarters are on her, and she is in his charge. No one finds Snorro far from the post of duty,” answered Jan proudly. “He is the best sailor in her Majesty’s service, and the best fighter.”
“That is likely,” said Peter. “Since the days of Harold Halfager, the Snorros have been called good fighters.”
“And why not?” asked Suneva, with a proud toss of her handsome head. “He is pure Norse. Will a Norseman turn from any fight in a good cause? That he will not Peter, there is none can tell us better what the Norseman is than thou can. Speak out now, for Jan and the minister will be glad to hear thee.”
Every Shetlander can recite. Suneva had taught Peter to believe that no one could recite as well as he could; so he laid down his pipe, and, with great spirit and enthusiasm, spoke thus:
“A swarthy strength with face of light,As dark sword-iron is beaten bright;A brave, frank look, with health aglow,Bonny blue eyes and open brow;A man who’ll face to his last breathThe sternest facts of life and death;His friend he welcomes heart-in-hand,But foot to foot his foe must stand;This is the daring Norseman.The wild wave motion, weird and strange,Rocks in him: seaward he must range.He hides at heart of his rough lifeA world of sweetness for his wife;From his rude breast a babe can pressSoft milk of human tenderness,Make his eyes water, his heart dance,And sunrise in his countenance;The mild, great-hearted Norseman.Valiant and true, as Sagas tell,The Norseman hateth lies like hell;Hardy from cradle to the grave,’Tis his religion to be brave;Great, silent, fighting men, whose wordsWere few, soon said, and out with swords!One saw his heart cut from his sideLiving – and smiled, and smiling, died,The unconquerable Norseman!Still in our race the Norse king reigns,His best blood beats along our veins;With his old glory we can glow,And surely sail where he could row.Is danger stirring? Up from sleepOur war-dog wakes the watch to keep,Stands with our banner over him,True as of old, and stern and grim;The brave, true-hearted Norseman.When swords are gleaming you shall seeThe Norseman’s face flash gloriously;With look that makes the foeman reel:His mirror from of old was steel.And still he wields, in battle’s hour,That old Thor’s hammer of Norse power;Strikes with a desperate arm of might,And at the last tug turns the fight:For never yields the Norseman.”“That is true,” said Jan; “and Snorro knows not the way to yield. Once, on the river Songibusar, when we were attacking Sherif Osman, there was danger that a battery would be taken in reverse. ‘The Ajax’ had come up to assist the ‘Hydra,’ and her commander sent a sergeant to tell Snorro that he had better spike his gun and retreat.”
Suneva laughed scornfully, and asked, “Well, then, what did Snorro answer?”
“‘Thou tell him that sent thee, that Michael Snorro takes his orders only from Captain Jan Vedder, and Captain Vedder has not said “retreat.” No, indeed!’ Then he got his gun round to bear on the enemy, and he poured such a fire down on them that they fled, fled quick enough. As for Snorro, he did things almost impossible.”
“Well, Jan, Osman was a very bad man. It is not well to pity the downfall of tyrants. He had made Borneo, it seems, a hell upon earth.”
“My minister, he was a devil and no man. But five hundred free blue jackets were more than he could bear. We utterly destroyed all his forts, and took all his cannon, and made the coast habitable.”
“To-day,” said Margaret, “I heard thee say to Snorro, ‘when thou comes next on shore, bring with thee that idol of Chappo’s for the minister.’ Who then is Chappo?”
“A wretch worth fighting. A Chinese pirate who came out against us with forty junks, each junk carrying ten guns and a crew of fifty men. He had been blockading the island of Potoo, where many English ladies had taken refuge. It is not fit to name the deeds of these devils. We took from them sixty wretched captives, destroyed one hundred of their crafts and two hundred of their guns, and thus enabled a large number of merchant vessels which had been shut up in different rivers for ransom, to escape. There was even a worse state of affairs on the Sarabas. There we were assisted by an American ship called ‘The Manhattan,’ and with her aid destroyed a piratical expedition numbering one hundred and twenty proas carrying more than twelve hundred men. These wretches before starting beheaded and mutilated all their women captives, and left their bodies with that of a child about six years old upon the beach. Snorro’s wrath that day was terrible. He shut his ears to every cry for mercy. I do not blame him; indeed, no.”
Thus they talked, until the minister said, “Now I must go to my own house, for Hamish is full of fears for me if I am late.” So Jan walked with him. It was midnight, but the moon was high in the zenith, and the larks singing rapturously in mid-air. A tender, mystical glow was over earth and sea, and both were as still as if they were a picture. Many good words were said on that walk, and the man who was saved and the man who saved him both lay down upon their beds that night with full and thankful hearts.
For two months, full of quiet joy, Jan and Margaret occupied their old home. They were almost as much alone as in their honeymoon; for little Jan spent most of his time with his friend Snorro, on board “The Lapwing.” Snorro had been much pleased to join his old mates in the fishing boats, but he could not bear to put off, even for a day, his uniform. However, Jan and he and little Jan often sailed in advance of the fleet, and found the herring, and brought word back what course to steer. For this knowledge was a kind of instinct with Jan; he could stand and look east and west, north and south, and then by some occult premonition, strike the belt of fish.
Never had Jan dreamed of such happiness as came at last to him in that humble home of his early married life. It was a late harvest of joy, but it was a sure one. Margaret had wept tears of fond regret in all its rooms; its hearth had been an altar of perpetual repentance to her. But the sorrow had been followed by the joy of forgiveness, and the bliss of re-union. Its walls now echoed the fond words of mutual trust and affection, and the hearty communings of friendship. There was no stint in its hospitality; no worry over trivial matters. Margaret had learned that in true marriage the wife must give as well as take – give love and forbearance, and help and comfort.
Jan’s and Snorro’s visit was a kind of festival for Lerwick. Though it was the busy season, Peter and Suneva kept open house. Never had Peter been so generous both in friendship and in business; never had Suneva dressed so gayly, or set such plenteous feasts. She was very proud of Margaret’s position, and paid her unconsciously a vast respect; but she opened all her warm heart to little Jan, and every thing that was hers she determined to give him.
Dr. Balloch, in his quiet way, enjoyed the visit equally. He went very often to sea in the yacht with Jan and Snorro, and, in the happy intercourse with them, the long days were short ones to him. He saw the full fruition of his faith and charity, and was satisfied.
Fortunately, after this event Jan was never very long away at one time. Until the Russian war he made short cruises in the African seas, and Snorro had many opportunities of realizing the joy of liberating the slave, and punishing the oppressor. In the toil and suffering of the Crimea, Jan and Snorro bore their part bravely. Jan had charge of a naval brigade formed of contingents from the ships of the allied fleets. No men did a greater variety of duties or behaved more gallantly than these blue jackets on shore. They dragged the heavy guns from their ships, and they fought in the batteries. They carried the scaling ladders in assaults. They landed the stores. They cheerfully worked as common laborers on that famous road between Balaclava and Sebastopol, for they knew that on its completion depended the lives of the brave men famishing and dying on the heights.
But after many happy, busy years, Jan came home one day and found only Margaret to welcome him. His son Jan was commanding his own vessel in Australian waters; his son Peter was in the East Indies. His daughters’ homes were far apart, Margaret, with fast silvering hair, and the heavy step of advancing years, longed greatly for the solace and strength of his constant presence; and Jan confessed that he was a little weary of the toil, and even of the glory of his life.
The fact once admitted, the desire for retirement grew with its discussion. In a little while Jan and Snorro returned to Shetland for the evening of their lives. They had been twenty years away, but Lerwick was very little changed. The old world had not been invaded by the new one. Here and there the busy spirit of the age had left a finger-mark; no more. The changes were mostly those which under any circumstances would have come. Doctor Balloch had finished his work, and gone to his reward. Peter’s store was in another name, but Peter, though a very old man, was bright and hale, and quite able to take an almost childlike interest in all Jan’s plans and amusements.
At first Jan thought of occupying himself with building a fine new house; but after he had been a week in Shetland, his ambitious project seemed almost ridiculous. He noticed also that Margaret’s heart clung to her old home, the plain little house in which she had suffered, and enjoyed, and learned so much. So he sat down contentedly on the hearth from which he began a life whose troubled dawning had been succeeded by a day so brilliant, and an evening so calm.
Snorro, never far away, and never long away, from his “dear captain,” his “dear Jan,” bought the little cottage in which he had once lived. There he hung again the pictured Christ, and there he arranged, in his own way, all the treasures he had gathered during his roving life. Snorro’s house was a wonderful place to the boys of Lerwick. They entered it with an almost awful delight. They sat hour after hour, listening to the kind, brave, good man, in whom every child found a friend and comforter. His old mates also dearly loved to spend their evenings with Snorro, and hear him tell about the dangers he had passed through, and the deeds he had done.
How fair! how calm and happy was this evening of a busy day! Yet in its sweet repose many a voice from the outside world reached the tired wayfarers. There were frequent letters from Jan’s children, and they came from all countries, and brought all kinds of strange news. There were rare visits from old friends, messages and tokens of remembrance, and numerous books and papers that kept for them the echoes of the places they had left.
Neither did they feel the days long, or grow weary with inaction. Jan and Snorro, like the majority of men, whose life-work is finished, conceived a late but ardent affection for their mother earth. They each had gardens and small hot-houses, and they were always making experiments with vegetables and flowers. It was wonderful how much pleasure they got out of the patches of ground they tried to beautify. Then the fishing season always renewed their youth. The boats in which Jan or Snorro took a place were the lucky boats, and often both men sat together during the watch, as they had done long years before, and talked softly in the exquisite Shetland night of all the good that had come to them.
For the companionship between these two souls grew closer and fonder as they drew nearer to the heavenly horizon. They were more and more together, they walked the long watches again, and fought over their battles, and recalled the hours which had been link after link in that chain of truest love which had bound their hearts and lives together.
And Margaret, still beautiful, with hair as white as snow, and a face as fair and pink as a pale rose-leaf, sat smiling, and listening, and knitting beside them; no fears in any of their hearts to beat away, no strife to heal, the past unsighed for, the future sure, they made a picture of old age, well won,
“Serene and brightAnd lovely as a Shetland night.”1
Version allowed by the authority of the General Assembly of the Kirk of Scotland.
