Jan Vedder's Wife Part 21

"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. G.o.d 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 s.h.i.+pwrecked, 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 s.h.i.+pwrecked."

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 pa.s.sing 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sage 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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?"