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

to exhibit them. Besides which, she was in her element as hostess of the cozy tea-party or the merry dance.

Fortunately for her peaceful success, Peter discovered that he had the same taste. It had lain dormant and undeveloped during his struggle for wealth, and in the quiet content of Thora's atmosphere; but every circumstance now favored its growth, and he became quite as proud of his name as a generous and splendid host, as he was of his character as a keen and successful trader.

He was still a handsome man, fresh and active, carrying his fifty-eight years with all the dignity of conscious independence and assured position. It was Suneva's great pride that she had induced him to wear the fine cloth and velvet and linen suitable to his wealth. She flattered him into many an extravagance; she persuaded him that no one in the Islands could recite as well, or dance with more activity and grace. Under her influence Peter renewed his youth and enjoyed it. Margaret often heard them planning some entertainment, and laughing over it, with all the zest of twenty years.

To her, their whole life seemed an outrage. She could not imagine how her father could bear to put aside so completely his old habits and memories. It wounded her to see him going off with a joke and a kiss to the store in the morning; and hurrying back at night, as eager as a boy-bridegroom for the company of his handsome wife and her gay friends. It may easily be understood that even if Margaret had countenanced Suneva's festivities by her presence at them, she would have been only a silent and a reproachful guest.

It is but fair to say that Suneva gave to her absence the best and kindest excuse. "Poor Margaret!" she said pitifully, "she weeps constantly for her husband. Few wives are as faithful."

Suneva had indeed taken Thora's place with a full determination to be just and kind to Thora's daughter. She intended, now that fortune had placed her above her old rival, to treat her with respect and consideration. Suneva was capable of great generosities, and if Margaret had had the prudence and forbearance to accept the peace offered, she might have won whatever she desired through the influence of her child, for whom Suneva conceived a very strong attachment.

But this was just the point which Margaret defended with an almost insane jealousy. She saw that little Jan clung to Suneva, that he liked to be with her, that he often cried in the solitude of her room to go down stairs, where he knew he would have sweetmeats, and petting, and company, and his own way. If ever she was cross to the boy, it was on this subject. She would not even be bribed by Suneva's most diplomatic services in his behalf. "Let Jan come where his grandfather is, Margaret," she pleaded. "It will be for his good; I tell thee it will. I have already persuaded him that the boy has his eyes, and his figure, and when he was in a passion the other night, and thy father was like to be cross with him, I said, 'It is a nice thing to see Satan correcting sin, for the child has thy own quick temper, Peter,' and thy father laughed and pulled little Jan to his side, and gave him the lump of sugar he wanted."

"The boy is all thou hast left me. Would thou take him also?" Margaret answered with angry eyes. "His mother's company is good enough for him."

So all winter the hardly-admitted strife went on. Suneva pitied the child. She waylaid him and gave him sweetmeats and kisses. She imagined that he daily grew more pale and quiet. And Margaret, suspicious and watchful, discovered much, and imagined more. She was determined to go away from Suneva as soon as the spring opened, but she had come to the conclusion that she must look after her house herself, for though Snorro had promised to make it habitable, evidently he had been unable to do so, or he would have contrived to let her know.

One day in the latter part of April, all nature suddenly seemed to awake. The winter was nearly over. Margaret heard the larks singing in the clear sunshine. Little Jan had fallen asleep and might remain so for a couple of hours. She put on her cloak and bonnet, and went to see how far Snorro had been able to keep his word. Things were much better than she had hoped for. Nearly all of the windows had been reglazed, the gate was hung, and the accumulated drift of two years in the yard cleared away.

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