Jan Vedder's Wife - Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (historical books to read txt) 📗

re-occupation of her own house, she had two visitors, Dr. Balloch and her old servant, Elga.

"Elga's husband is with the Greenland fleet," said the minister; "she is poor and lonely, and wants to come back and serve thee."

"But I can not afford a servant."

"Thou can well afford it, take my word for that; besides, thou art not used to hard work nor fit for it. Also, I have something better for thee to do. When thy house is in order, come to the manse and see me, then we will talk of it."

So Elga quietly resumed her old duties, and ere two weeks were gone the house was almost in its first condition. White paint and soap and water, bees'-wax and turpentine, needle and thread, did wonders. On the evening of the eleventh day, Margaret and Elga went from attic to cellar with complete satisfaction. Every thing was spotless, every thing was in its old place. Jan's big cushioned chair again stood on the hearth, and little Jan took possession of it. Many a night, wearied with play, he cuddled himself up among its cushions, and had there his first sleep. It is easy to imagine what Margaret's thoughts were with such a picture before her--tender, regretful, loving thoughts most surely, for the fine shawl or stocking she was knitting at the time was generally wet with her tears.

The day after all was in its place and settled, she went to see Dr. Balloch. It was in the early morning when every thing was sweet, and cool and fresh. The blue-bells and daisies were at her feet, the sea dimpling and sparkling in the sunshine, the herring-fleet gathering in the bay. Already the quays and streets were full of strangers, and many a merry young fisherman with a pile of nets flung over his shoulders passed her, singing and whistling in the fullness of his life and hope. All of them, in some way or other, reminded her of Jan. One carried his nets in the same graceful, nonchalant way; another wore his cap at the same angle; a third was leaning against his oars, just as she had seen Jan lean a hundred times.

The minister sat at his open door, looking seaward. His serene face was full of the peace and light of holy contemplation. His right hand was lovingly laid on the open Bible, which occupied the small table by his side.

"Come in, Margaret," he said pleasantly. "Come in; is all well with thee now?"

"Every thing is well. The house is in order and Snorro hath promised to plant some berry bushes in my garden; he will plant them to-day with the flower seeds thou gave me. The snowdrops are in bloom already, and the pansies show their buds among the leaves."

"Dost thou know that Snorro hath left thy father?"

"He told me that he had taken John Hay's cottage, the little stone one on the hill above my house, and that in three days he would go to the fishing with Matthew Vale."

"Now, then, what wilt thou do with thy time? Let me tell thee, time is a very precious gift of God; so precious that he only gives it to us moment by moment. He would not have thee waste it."

Margaret took from her pocket a piece of knitting. It was a shawl twelve yards round, yet of such exquisite texture that she drew it easily through a wedding ring. Beautiful it was as the most beautiful lace, and the folds of fine wool fell infinitely softer than any fold of fine flax could do. It was a marvelous piece of handiwork, and Dr. Balloch praised it highly.

"I am going to send it to the Countess of Zetland," she said. "I have no doubt she will send me as many orders as I can fill. Each shawl is worth L7, and I can also do much coarser work, which I shall sell at the Foy."

"Would thou not rather work for me than for the Countess?"

"Thou knowest I would, ten thousand times rather. But how can I work for thee?"

"What is there, Margaret, on the long table under the window?"

"There is a large pile of newspapers and magazines and books."

"That is so. None of these have I been able to read, because my sight has failed me very much lately. Yet I long to know every word that is in them. Wilt thou be eyes to an old man who wishes thee only well, Margaret? Come every day, when the weather and thy health permits, and read to me for two hours, write my letters for me, and do me a message now and then, and I will cheerfully pay thee L50 a year."

"I would gladly do all this without money, and think the duty most honorable."

"Nay, but I will pay thee, for that will be better for thee and for me."

Now all good work is good for far more than appears upon its surface. The duties undertaken by Margaret grew insensibly and steadily in beneficence and importance. In the first place, the effect upon her own character was very great. It was really two hours daily study of the finest kind. It was impossible that the books put into her hand could be read and discussed with a man like Dr. Balloch without mental enlargement. Equally great and good was the moral effect of the companionship. Her pen became the pen of a ready writer, for the old clergyman kept up a constant correspondence with his college companions, and with various learned societies.

About three months after this alliance began, the doctor said one day, "Thou shalt not read to me this morning, for I want thee to carry some wine and jelly to old Neill Brock, and when thou art there, read to him. Here is a list of the Psalms and the Epistles that will be the best for him." And Margaret came back from her errand with a solemnly happy light upon her face. "It was a blessed hour," she said, "surely he is very near the kingdom."

This service once begun grew by a very natural course of events. Margaret delighted in it. The sick loved her calm, gentle ways. She was patient and silent, and yet sympathetic. She had that womanly taste which naturally sets itself to make dainty dishes for those who can not eat coarse food. In a few months the sick all through the parish felt the soothing touch of her soft, cool hands, and became familiar with the tones of her low, even voice, as she read aloud the portions which Dr. Balloch usually selected for every case.

And as there is no service so gratefully remembered as that given in sickness, Margaret Vedder gradually acquired a very sincere popularity. It rather amazed Peter to hear such remarks as the following: "Luke Thorkel is better, thanks to Margaret Vedder." "John Johnson can go to the fishing with an easy mind now, Margaret Vedder is caring for his sick wife." "The Widow Hay died last night. She would have died ere this, but for Margaret Vedder's care."

These outside duties made her home duties sufficient to fill all her time. She had no hours to spare for foolish repining, or morbid sorrow. Little Jan must be taught his letters, and his clothes must be made. Her garden, poultry and knitting kept her hands ever busy, and though her work was much of it of that silent kind which leads to brooding thought, she had now much of interest to fill her mind. Yet still, and always, there was the haunting, underlying memory of Jan's disappearance or death, keeping her life hushed and silent. To no one did she speak of it, and it seemed strange to her that Dr. Balloch visibly discouraged any allusion to it. Sometimes she felt as if she must speak to Snorro about it, but Snorro kept ever a little aloof from her. She was not very sure as to his friendship.

She thought this a little hard, for she had given him every opportunity to understand that her own animosity was dead. She permitted little Jan to spend nearly all his time with him, when he was not engaged in fishing, or busy on the quays. And Snorro now spent much of his time at home. His earnings during the fishing season more than sufficed for his wants. Every fine day in winter he was apt to call for little Jan, and Margaret rarely refused him the child's company.

And little Jan dearly loved Snorro. Snorro put him in the water, and taught him how to swim like a seal. Snorro made him a spear and taught him how to throw it. He made him a boat and taught him how to sail it. He got him a pony and taught him how to ride it. Once they found a baby seal whose mother had been shot, and the child kept it at Snorro's house. There also he had a dozen pet rabbits, and three Skye terriers, and a wild swan with a broken wing, and many other treasures, which would not have been so patiently tolerated in the cleanliness and order of his own home.

So the time went pleasantly and profitably by for two years. Again the spring joy was over the land, and the town busy with the hope of the fishing season. Snorro's plans were all made, and yet he felt singularly restless and unsettled. As he sat one evening wondering at this feeling, he said to himself: "It is the dreams I have had lately, or it is because I think of Jan so much. Why does he not write? Oh, how I long to see him! Well, the day will come, by God's leave."

Just as this thought crossed his mind, Dr. Balloch stepped across his threshold. Snorro rose up with a face of almost painful anxiety. He always associated a visit from the doctor with news from Jan. He could scarcely articulate the inquiry, "Hast thou any news?"

"Great news for thee, Snorro. Jan is coming home from Africa. He is broken down with the fever. He wants thee. Thou must go to him at once, for he hath done grand work, and proved himself a hero, worthy even of thy true great love."

"I am ready--I have been waiting for him to call me. I will go this hour."

"Be patient. Every thing must be done wisely and in order. The first thing is supper. I came away without mine, so now I will eat with thee. Get the tea ready; then I will tell thee all I know."

As Snorro moved about, the doctor looked at his home. Every piece of furniture in it was of Snorro's own manufacture. His bed was a sailor's bunk against the wall, made soft with sheep-fleeces and covered with seal-skins. A chair of woven rushes for little Jan, a couple of stools and a table made from old packing boxes, and a big hearth-rug of sheep-skins, that was all. But over the fireplace hung the pictured Christ, and some rude shelves were filled with the books Jan had brought him. On the walls, also, were harpoons and seal spears, a fowling-piece, queer ribbons and branches of sea weeds, curiosities given him by sailors from all countries, stuffed birds and fish skeletons, and a score of other things, which enabled the doctor to understand what a house of enchantment it must be to a boy like little Jan.

In a few minutes the table was set, and Snorro had poured out the minister's tea, and