Jan Vedder's Wife, Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr [ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt] 📗

my house."

"Then I say this to thee. Thou shalt not break bread at thy Lord's supper in His house. No, thou shalt not, for thou would be doing it unworthily, and eating damnation to thyself. What saith thy Lord Christ? If thine enemy hunger, feed him. Now, then, order the bread and tea for Jan Vedder."

Peter called a woman servant and gave the order. Then, almost in a passion, he faced the minister, and said, "Oh, sir, if thou knew the evil this man hath done me and mine!"

"In such a case Christ's instructions are very plain--'Overcome evil with good.' Now, thou knowest thy duty. If thou sin, I have warned thee--the sin is on thy own head."

Jan heard nothing of this conversation. The voices of the two men were only like spent waves breaking on the shores of his consciousness. But very soon a woman brought him a basin of hot tea, and he drank it and ate a few mouthfuls. It gave him a little strength, he gathered himself together, opened the door, and without speaking went out into the night. The minister followed, watching him carefully, until he saw Michael Snorro take him in his big arms, and carry him to a pile of seal-skins. Then he knew that he was in good hands.

Poor Jan! He was utterly spent and miserable. The few minutes he had passed at Margaret's side, had brought him no comfort. He heard her constantly muttering his name, but it was in the awful, far-distant voice of a soul speaking through a dream. She was unconscious of his presence; he trembled in hers. Just for a moment Thora had allowed him to lift his son, and to press the tiny face against his own. Then all was darkness, and a numb, aching sorrow, until he found himself in Snorro's arms.

Many days Margaret Vedder lay between life and death, but at length there was hope, and Jan sailed again. He went away very miserable, though he had fully determined it should be his last voyage if Margaret wished it so. He would see her on his return, he would tell her how sorry he was, he would sell The Solan and give back the L600; he would even humble himself to Peter, and go back to the store, if there were no other way to make peace with Margaret. He felt that no personal sacrifice would be too great, if by it he could win back his home, and wife, and son. The babe had softened his heart. He told himself--oh, so often--"Thou art a father;" and no man could have had a sweeter, stronger sense of the obligations the new relation imposed. He was so sure of himself that he could not help feeling equally sure of Margaret, and also of Peter. "For the child's sake, they will forgive me, Snorro, and I'll do well, yes, I will do well for the future."

Snorro had many fears, but he could not bear to throw cold water on Jan's hopes and plans for reformation. He did not believe that his unconditional surrender would be a good foundation for future happiness. He did not like Jan's taking the whole blame. He did not like his giving up The Solan at Margaret's word. Neither Peter Fae, nor his daughter, were likely to exalt any one who humbled himself.

"It is money in the hand that wins," said Snorro, gloomily, "and my counsel is, that thou bear thyself bravely, and show her how well The Solan hath done already, and how likely she is to clear herself and pay back that weariful L600 before two years have gone away. If she will have it, let her have it. Jan, how could she give thee up for L600! Did she love thee?"

"I do believe she did--and does yet, Snorro."

"Only God, then, understands women. But while thou art away, think well of this and that, and of the things likely to follow, for still I see that forethought spares afterthought and after-sorrow."

With words like these ringing in his ears, Jan again sailed The Solan out of Lerwick. He intended to make a coasting voyage only, but he expected delay, for with November had come storm and cold, fierce winds and roaring seas. Edging along from port to port, taking advantage of every tide and favorable breeze, and lying to, when sailing was impossible, six weeks were gone before he reached Kirkwall in the Orkneys. Here he intended to take in his last cargo before steering for home. A boat leaving Kirkwall as he entered, carried the news of The Solan's arrival to Lerwick, and then Snorro watched anxiously every tide for Jan's arrival.

But day after day passed and The Solan came not. No one but Snorro was uneasy. In the winter, in that tempestuous latitude, boats were often delayed for weeks. They ran from shelter to shelter in constant peril of shipwreck, and with a full cargo a good skipper was bound to be prudent. But Snorro had a presentiment of danger and trouble. He watched night after night for Jan, until even his strength gave way, and he fell into a deep sleep. He was awakened by Jan's voice. In a moment he opened the door and let him in.

Alas! Alas, poor Jan! It was sorrow upon sorrow for him. The Solan had been driven upon the Quarr rocks, and she was a total wreck. Nothing had been saved but Jan's life, even that barely. He had been so bruised and injured that he had been compelled to rest in the solitary hut of a coast-guardsman many days. He gave the facts to Snorro in an apathy. The man was shipwrecked as well as the boat. It was not only that he had lost every thing, that he had not a penny left in the world, he had lost hope, lost all faith in himself, lost even the will to fight his ill fortune any longer.


CHAPTER VI.


MARGARET'S HEART.

"Do not drop in for an after-loss.
Ah, do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow,
Come in the rereward of a conquered woe."

--SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS, XC.

"Man is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate.
Nothing to him falls early, or too late."

--FLETCHER'S "HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE."

Jan, the sole survivor of The Solan, had brought the news of his own misfortune, but there was no necessity to hasten its publication. Nothing could be gained by telling it at once, and no one could be helped, so Snorro advised him to sleep all the following day. Jan hardly needed the advice. In a few minutes he sank into a dreamless lethargic sleep, which lasted nearly twenty-four hours. When he awoke from it, he said, "I will see Tulloch, and then I will sleep again, Snorro."

"Let me go for thee."

"Nay, then he will think that I am a coward. I must tell my own tale; he can but be angry."

But Tulloch took his loss with composure. "Thou did the best that could be done, Jan," he answered, when Jan had told the story of the shipwreck; "wind and wave are not at thy order."

"Thou wilt say that for me? It is all I ask. I did my best, Tulloch."

"I will say it; and in the spring I will see about another boat. I am not afraid to trust thee."

Jan looked at him gratefully, but the hope was too far off to give much present comfort to him. He walked slowly back to the retreat Snorro had made for him, wondering how he was to get the winter over, wondering if Margaret would see him, wondering how best to gain her forgiveness, longing to see her face but not daring to approach her without some preparation for the meeting. For though she had come back to life, it had been very slowly. Snorro said that she never left the house, that she was still wan and weak, and that on the rare occasions when he had been sent to Peter's house, she had not spoken to him.

After his interview with Tulloch, he fell into a sound sleep again. When he awoke the day was well begun, and Peter was at the store. Looking through the cracks in the rude flooring, he could see him carefully counting his cash, and comparing his balance. Snorro, for a wonder, was quite idle, and Peter finally looked at him, and said fretfully:

"There is this and that to do. What art thou standing still for?"

"A man may stand still sometimes. I feel not like work to-day."

"Art thou sick, then?"

"Who can tell? It may be sickness."

He stood thoughtfully by the big fire and moved not. Peter went on with his figures in a fidgety way. Presently Tulloch entered. The banker's visits were rare ones, and Peter was already suspicious of them. But he laid down his pen, and with scrupulous civility said, "Good morning to thee, Tulloch--Deacon Tulloch, I should say. Wilt thou buy or sell aught this morning?"

"Good morning, Fae. I came to thee for news. Where is thy son Jan staying?"

Peter's face darkened. "I know nothing at all about Jan Vedder. If he is at sea, he is out of thy world; if he is in harbor, he will be at Ragon Torr's, or on board The Solan."

"The Solan hath gone to pieces on the Quarr Rocks."

Just for a moment a thrill of sinful triumph made Peter's brown face turn scarlet, but he checked it instantly. "I heard not that," he said gravely.

"Only Jan escaped--ship and crew went to the bottom."

Peter shut his mouth tight, he was afraid to trust himself to speak.

"But Jan did his very best, no man could have done more. I saw him last night. He is ill and broken down by his trouble. Put out thy hand to him. Thou do that, and it will be a good thing, Fae."

"Thou mind thy own affairs, Deacon Tulloch."

"Well then it is my affair to tell thee, that there is a time for anger and a time for forgiveness. If Jan is to be saved, his wife can now do it. At this hour he is sick and sore-hearted, and she can win him back, she can save him now, Fae."

"Shall I lose my child to save Jan Vedder? What is it to thee? What can thou know of a father's duty? Thou, who never had child. Deacon thou may be, but thou art no Dominie, and I will order my household without thy word, thus or so. Yes, indeed I will!"

"Just that, Fae. I have spoken for a good man. And let me tell thee, if Margaret Vedder is thy daughter, she is also Jan's wife; and if I were Jan, I would make her do a wife's duty. If all the women in Shetland were to run back to their fathers for a little thing that offended them, there would be an end of marrying."

Peter laughed scornfully. "Every one knows what well-behaved wives old bachelors have."

"Better to be a bachelor, than have a wife like poor Jan Vedder has."

"Thou art talking of my daughter. Wilt thou mind thy own affairs?"

"I meant well, Fae. I meant well. Both thee and I have