Jan Vedder's Wife Part 8

"Art thou still sick, Snorro?" he asked at length.

"Not I."

"Why, then, art thou idle?"

"I am thinking. But the thought is too much for me. I can make nothing of it."

Few noticed Snorro's remark, but old Jal Sinclair said, "Tell thy thought, Snorro. There are wise men here to read it for thee; very wise men, as thou must have noticed."

Snorro caught something in the old man's face, or in the inflection of his voice, which gave him an a.s.surance of sympathy, so he said: "Well, then, it is this. Jan Vedder is evidently a very bad man, and a very bad sailor; yet when Donald t.w.a.tt's boat sunk in the Vor Ness, Jan took his bonnet in his hand, and he put his last sovereign in it, and he went up and down Lerwick till he had got 40 for t.w.a.tt. And he gave him a suit of his own clothes, and he would hear no word wrong of him, and he said, moreover, that nothing had happened t.w.a.tt but what might happen the best man and the best sailor that ever lived when it would be G.o.d's own time. I thought that was a good thing in Jan, but no one has spoke of it to-day."

"People have ever thought thee a fool, Snorro. When thou art eighty years old, as Jal Sinclair is, perhaps thou wilt know more. Jan Vedder should have left t.w.a.tt to his trouble; he should have said, 't.w.a.tt is a drunken fellow, or a careless, foolhardy fellow; he is a bad sailor, a bad man, and he ought to have gone to the bottom.'" Then there was a minute's uncomfortable silence, and the men gradually scattered.

Peter was glad of it. He had no particular pleasure in any conversation having Jan for a topic, and he was burning and smarting at Tulloch's interference. It annoyed him also to see Snorro so boldly taking Jan's part. His indignant face and brooding laziness was a new element in the store, and it worried Peter far beyond its importance. He left unusually early, and then Snorro closed the doors, and built up the fire, and made some tea, and broiled mutton and bloaters, and set his few dishes on the box which served him for a table. Jan had slept heavily all day, but when Snorro brought the candle near, he opened his eyes and said, "I am hungry, Snorro."

"I have come to tell thee there is tea and meat waiting. All is closed, and we can eat and talk, and no one will trouble us."

A Shetlander loves his tea, and it pleased Snorro to see how eagerly Jan drank cup after cup. And soon his face began to lose its weary, indifferent look, and he ate with keen relish the simple food before him. In an hour Jan was nearly like himself once more. Then he remembered Margaret. In the extremity of his physical weakness and weariness, he had forgotten every thing in sleep, but now the delay troubled him. "I ought to have seen my wife to-day, Snorro; why did thou let me sleep?"

"Sleep was the first thing, and now we will see to thy clothes. They must be mended, Jan."

Jan looked down at the suit he wore. It was torn and shabby and weather-stained, and it was all he had. But Snorro was as clever as any woman with the needle and thread. The poor fellow, indeed, had never had any woman friend to use a needle for him, and he soon darned, and patched, and washed clean what the winds and waves had left of Jan's once handsome suit of blue.

As he worked they talked of the best means of securing an interview with Margaret, for Jan readily guessed that Peter would forbid it, and it was finally decided that Snorro should take her a letter, as soon as Peter was at the store next day. There was a little cave by the seaside half way between the town and Peter's house, and there Jan was to wait for Snorro's report.

In the meantime Peter had reached his home. In these days it was a very quiet, somber place. Thora was in ill health, in much worse health than any one but herself suspected, and Margaret was very unhappy. This evening Thora had gone early to bed, and Margaret sat with her baby in her arms. When her father entered she laid him in the cradle. Peter did not like to have it in any way forced upon his notice, and Margaret understood well enough that the child was only tolerated for her sake. So, without any of those little fond obtrusive ways so natural to a young mother, she put the child out of the way, and sat down to serve her father's tea.

His face was dark and angry, his heart felt hard to her at that hour.

She had brought so much sorrow and shame on him. She had been the occasion of so many words and acts of which he was ashamed. In fact, his conscience was troubling him, and he was trying to lay the whole blame of his cruelty and injustice on her. For some time he did not speak, and she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to ask him any questions. At length he snapped out, "Jan Vedder came back to Lerwick yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"I said yesterday. Did thou think he would run here to see thee the first moment? Not he. He was at Tulloch's last night. He will have been at Torr's all day, no doubt."

Margaret's eyes filled with tears, and Peter looked angrily at her.

"Art thou crying again? Now listen, thou art not like to see him at all. He has thrown thy 600 to the bottom of the sea--s.h.i.+p, cargo, and crew, all gone."

"Jan? Father, is Jan safe?"

"He is safe enough. The devil holds his own from water. Now, if he does come to see thee, thou shalt not speak with him. That is my command to thee."

Margaret answered not, but there was a look upon her face, which he understood to mean rebellion.

"Bring me the Bible here." Then as he turned to the place he wanted, he said: "Now, Margaret, if thou art thinking to disobey thy father, I want thee to hear in what kind of company thou wilt do so;" and he slowly read aloud:

"'Backbiters--haters of G.o.d--despiteful--proud--boasters--inventors of evil things--_disobedient to parents_;' dost thou hear, Margaret?

'_disobedient to parents_--without understanding--covenant breakers--without natural affection--implacable--unmerciful.'"

"Let me see him once, father? Let me see him for half an hour."

"Not for one moment. Disobey me if thou dares."

"He is my husband."

"I am thy father. Thy obligation to me began with thy birth, twenty years before thou saw Jan Vedder. Between man and wife there may be a divorce, between father and daughter there can be no bill of separation. The tie of thy obedience is for life, unless thou wilt take the risk of disobeying thy G.o.d. Very well, then, I say to thee, thou shalt not speak to Jan Vedder again, until he has proved himself worthy to have the care of a good woman. That is all I say, but mind it! If thou disobey me, I will never speak to thee again. I will send thee and thy child from my sight, I will leave every penny I have to my two nephews, Magnus and Thorkel. That is enough. Where is thy mother?"

"She is in pain, and has gone to bed."

"It is a sick house, I think. First, thou wert like to die, and ever since thy mother hath been ill; that also is Jan Vedder's doing, since thou must needs fret thyself into a fever for him." Then he took his candle and went to his sick wife, for he thought it best not to weaken his commands by any discussion concerning them.

Margaret did what most mothers would have done, she lifted her child for consolation. It was a beautiful child, and she loved it with an idolatrous affection. It had already taught her some lessons strange enough to Margaret Vedder. For its sake she had become conciliating, humble, patient; had repressed her feelings of mother-pride, and for the future good of her boy, kept him in a corner as it were. She had never suffered him to be troublesome, never intruded him upon the notice of the grandfather whom some day doubtless he would completely conquer. Ah, if she had only been half as unselfish with Jan! Only half as prudent for Jan's welfare!

She lifted the boy and held him to her breast. As she watched him, her face grew lovely. "My child!" she whispered, "for thee I can thole every thing. For thy sake, I will be patient. Nothing shall tempt me to spoil thy life. Thou shalt be rich, little one, and some day thee and I will be happy together. Thy father robbed thee, but I will not injure thee; no, indeed, I will not!"

So, after all, Jan's child was to be the barrier between him and his wife. If Jan had chosen to go back to the cla.s.s from which she had taken him, she would at least save her child from the suffering and contempt of poverty. What she would have done for his father, she would do for him. Yes, that night she fully determined to stand by her son. It might be a pleasure for her to see Jan, and even to be reconciled to him, but she would not sacrifice her child's inheritance for her own gratification. She really thought she was consummating a grand act of self-denial, and wept a few pitiful tears over her own hard lot.

In the morning Peter was unusually kind to her. He noticed the baby, and even allowed her to lay it in his arms while she brought him his seal-skin cloak and woolen m.u.f.flers. It was a dangerous advance for Peter; he felt his heart strangely moved by the sleeping child, and he could not avoid kissing him as he gave him back to his mother.

Margaret smiled at her father in her deep joy, and said softly to him, "Now thou hast kissed me twice." Nothing that Peter could have done would have so bound her to him. He had sealed his command with that kiss, and though no word of promise was given him, he went to his store comparatively light-hearted; he was certain his daughter would not disobey him.

While this scene was transpiring, one far more pathetic was taking place in Snorro's room. Jan's clothes had been washed and mended, and he was dressing himself with an anxious desire to look well in his wife's eyes that was almost pitiful. Snorro sat watching him. Two women could hardly have been more interested in a toilet, or tried harder to make the most out of poor and small materials. Then Jan left his letter to Margaret with Snorro, and went to the cave agreed upon, to await the answer.

Very soon after Peter reached the store, Snorro left it. Peter saw him go, and he suspected his errand, but he knew the question had to be met and settled, and he felt almost sure of Margaret that morning. At any rate, she would have to decide, and the sooner the better.

Margaret saw Snorro coming, but she never a.s.sociated the visit with Jan. She thought her father had forgotten something and sent Snorro for it. So when he knocked, she said instantly, "Come in, Michael Snorro."

The first thing Snorro saw was the child. He went straight to the cradle and looked at it. Then he kneeled down, gently lifted the small hand outside the coverlet, and kissed it. When he rose up, his face was so full of love and delight that Margaret almost forgave him every thing. "How beautiful he is," he whispered, looking back at the sleeping babe.

Margaret smiled; she was well pleased at Snorro's genuine admiration.

"And he is so like Jan--only Jan is still more beautiful."

Margaret did not answer him. She was was.h.i.+ng the china cups, and she stood at the table with a towel over her arm. Snorro thought her more beautiful than she had been on her wedding day. During her illness, most of her hair had been cut off, and now a small white cap covered her head, the short, pale-brown curls just falling beneath it on her brow and on her neck. A long, dark dress, a white ap.r.o.n, and a white lawn kerchief pinned over her bosom, completed her attire. But no lady in silk or lace ever looked half so womanly. Snorro stood gazing at her, until she said, "Well, then, what hast thou come for?"

With an imploring gesture he offered her Jan's letter.

She took it in her hand and turned it over, and over, and over. Then, with a troubled face, she handed it back to Snorro.

"No, no, no, read it! Oh, do thou read it! Jan begs thee to read it!

No, no, I will not take it back!"

"I dare not read it, Snorro. It is too late--too late. Tell Jan he must not come here. It will make more sorrow for me. If he loves me at all, he will not come. He is not kind to force me to say these words.

Tell him I will not, dare not, see him!"

"It is thou that art unkind. He has been s.h.i.+pwrecked, Margaret Vedder; bruised and cut, and nearly tossed to death by the waves. He is broken-hearted about thee. He loves thee, oh, as no woman ever deserved to be loved. He is thy husband. Thou wilt see him, oh yes, thou wilt see him!"

"I will not see him, Snorro. My father hath forbid me. If I see Jan, he will turn me and the child from the house."

"Let him. Go to thy husband and thy own home."