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

then, he is just like thee!" said the politic Suneva; and Peter's face showed that he considered the resemblance as very complimentary.


CHAPTER XIV.


JAN'S RETURN.

"For them the rod of chastisement flowered."

A stranger suddenly dropped in these Shetland islands, especially in winter, would not unnaturally say, "how monotonously dreary life must be here! In such isolation the heart must lose its keen sense of sympathy, and be irresponsive and dumb." That is the great mistake about the affections. It is not the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of kings, or the marching of armies that move them most. When they answer from their depths, it is to the domestic joys and tragedies of life. Ever since Eve wept over her slain son, and Rebecca took the love-gifts of Isaac, this has been the case; and until that mighty angel, who stands on the sea and land, cries, "Time shall be no more," the home loves, and the home trials, will be the center of humanity's deepest and sweetest emotions. So, then, the little Shetland town had in it all the elements necessary for a life full of interest--birth and death, love and sorrow, the cruel hand and the generous hand, the house of mourning and the house of joy.

Just before Christmas-tide, Tulloch was sitting alone at midnight. His malady was too distressing to allow him to sleep, but a Norseman scorns to complain of physical suffering, and prefers, so long as it is possible, to carry on the regular routine of his life. He was unable to go much out, and his wasted body showed that it was under a constant torture, but he said nothing, only he welcomed Margaret and the doctor warmly, and seemed to be glad of their unspoken sympathy. It had been stormy all day, but the wind had gone down, and a pale moon glimmered above the dim, tumbling sea. All was quiet, not a footfall, not a sound except the dull roar of the waves breaking upon the beach.

Suddenly a woman's sharp cry cut the silence like a knife. It was followed by sobs and shrieks and passing footsteps and the clamor of many voices. Every one must have noticed how much more terrible noises are at night than in the daytime; the silly laughter of drunkards and fools, the maniac's shout, the piercing shriek of a woman in distress, seem to desecrate its peaceful gloom, and mock the slow, mystic panorama of the heavens. Tulloch felt unusually impressed by this night-tumult, and early in the morning sent his servant out to discover its meaning.

"It was Maggie Barefoot, sir; her man was drowned last night; she has six bairns and not a bread-winner among them. But what then? Magnus Tulloch went too, and he had four little lads--their mother died at Lammas-tide. They'll be God's bairns now, for they have neither kith nor kin. It is a sad business, I say that."

"Go and bring them here."

The order was given without consideration, and without any conscious intention. He was amazed himself when he had uttered it. The man was an old servant, and said hesitatingly, "Yes, but they are no kin of thine."

"All the apples on the same tree have come from the same root, Bele; and it is like enough that all the Tullochs will have had one forbear. I would be a poor Tulloch to see one of the name wanting a bite and sup. Yes, indeed."

He was very thoughtful after seeing the children, and when Dr. Balloch came, he said to him at once: "Now, then, I will do what thou hast told me to do--settle up my affairs with this world forever. Wilt thou help me?"

"If I think thou does the right thing, I will help thee, but I do not think it is right to give thy money to Margaret Vedder. She has enough and to spare. 'Cursed be he that giveth unto the rich.' It was Mahomet and Anti-Christ that said the words, but for all that they are good words."

"I have no kin but a fifth cousin in Leith; he is full of gold and honor. All that I have would be a bawbee to him. But this is what I think, my money is Shetland money, made of Shetland fishers, and it ought to stay in Shetland."

"I think that too."

"Well, then, we are of one mind so far. Now my wish is to be bread-giver even when I am dead, to be bread-giver to the children whose fathers God has taken. Here are Magnus Tulloch's four, and Hugh Petrie's little lad, and James Traill's five children, and many more of whom I know not. My houses, big and little, shall be homes for them. My money shall buy them meal and meat and wadmall to clothe them. There are poor lonely women who will be glad to care for them, eight or ten to each, and Suneva Fae and Margaret Vedder will see that the women do their duty. What thinkest thou?"

"Now, then, I think this, that God has made thy will for thee. Moreover, thou hast put a good thought into my heart also. Thou knows I brought in my hand a little money when I came to Shetland, and it has grown, I know not how. I will put mine with thine, and though we are two childless old men, many children shall grow up and bless us."

Into this scheme Tulloch threw all his strength and foresight and prudence. The matter was urgent, and there were no delays, and no waste of money. Three comfortable fishermen's cottages that happened to be vacant, were fitted with little bunks, and plenty of fleeces for bedding. Peat was stacked for firing, and meal and salted fish sent in; so that in three days twenty-three fatherless, motherless children were in warm, comfortable homes.

Suneva entered into the work with perfect delight. She selected the mothers for each cottage, and she took good care that they kept them clean and warm, that the little ones' food was properly cooked, and their clothes washed and mended. If there were a sorrow or a complaint it was brought to her, and Suneva was not one to blame readily a child.

Never man went down to the grave with his hands so full of beneficent work as Tulloch. Through it he took the sacrament of pain almost joyfully, and often in the long, lonely hours of nightly suffering, he remembered with a smile of pleasure, the little children sweetly sleeping in the homes he had provided for them. The work grew and prospered wonderfully; never had there been a busier, happier winter in Lerwick. As was customary, there were tea-parties at Suneva's and elsewhere nearly every night, and at them the women sewed for the children, while the men played the violin, or recited from the Sagas, or sung the plaintive songs of the Islands.

Margaret brought the dying man constant intelligence of his bounty: the children, one or two at a time, were allowed to come and see him; twice, leaning on Dr. Balloch, and his servant Bele, he visited the homes, and saw the orphans at their noonday meals. He felt the clasp of grateful hands, and the kiss of baby lips that could not speak their thanks. His last was the flower of his life-work and he saw the budding of it, and was satisfied with its beauty.

One morning in the following April, Margaret received the letter which Suneva had prophesied would arrive by the twentieth, if the weather were favorable. Nowhere in the world has the term, "weather permitting," such significance as in these stormy seas. It is only necessary to look at the mail steamers, so strongly built, so bluff at the bows, and nearly as broad as they are long, to understand that they expect to have to take plenty of hard blows and buffetings. It was the first steamer that had arrived for months, and though it made the harbor in a blinding snow-storm, little Jan would not be prevented from going into the town to see if it brought a letter. For the boy's dream of every thing grand and noble centered in his father. He talked of him incessantly; he longed to see him with all his heart.

Margaret also was restless and faint with anxiety; she could not even knit. Never were two hours of such interminable length. At last she saw him coming, his head bent to the storm, his fleet feet skimming the white ground, his hands deep in his pockets. Far off, he discovered his mother watching for him; then he stopped a moment, waved the letter above his head, and hurried onward. It was a good letter, a tender, generous, noble letter, full of love and longing, and yet alive with the stirring story of right trampling wrong under foot. The child listened to it with a glowing face:

"I would I were with my father and Snorro," he said, regretfully.

"Would thou then leave me, Jan?"

"Ay, I would leave thee, mother. I would leave thee, and love thee, as my father does. I could stand by my father's side, I could fire a gun, or reef a sail, as well as Snorro. I would not be afraid of any thing; no, I would not. It is such a long, long time till a boy grows up to be a man! When I am a man, thou shall see that I will have a ship of my own."

It is only in sorrow bad weather masters us; in joy we face the storm and defy it. Margaret never thought of the snow as any impediment. She went first to Suneva, and then to Dr. Balloch with her letter; and she was so full of happiness that she did not notice the minister was very silent and preoccupied. After a little, he said, "Margaret, I must go now to Tulloch; it has come to the last."

"Well, then, I think he will be glad. He has suffered long and sorely."

"Yet a little while ago he was full of life, eager for money, impatient of all who opposed him. Thou knowest how hard it often was to keep peace between him and thy father. Now he has forgotten the things that once so pleased him; his gold, his houses, his boats, his business, have dropped from his heart, as the toys drop from the hand of a sleepy child."

"Father went to see him a week ago."

"There is perfect peace between them now. Thy father kissed him when they said 'good-by.' When they meet again, they will have forgotten all the bitterness, they will remember only that they lived in the same town, and worshiped in the same church, and were companions in the same life. This morning we are going to eat together the holy bread; come thou with me."

As they walked through the town the minister spoke to a group of fishers, and four from among them silently followed him. Tulloch was still in his chair, and his three servants stood beside him. The table was spread, the bread was broken, and, with prayers and tears, the little company ate it together. Then they bade each other farewell, a farewell tranquil and a little sad--said simply, and without much speaking. Soon afterward Tulloch closed his eyes and the minister and Margaret watched silently beside him. Only once again the dying man spoke. He appeared to be sleeping heavily, but his lips suddenly moved and he said: "We shall see Nanna to-morrow!"

"We!" whispered Margaret. "Whom