THORA'S PROBLEM
There is a tear for all who die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And triumph weeps above the brave.
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh,
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent
In vain their bones unburied lie,
All earth becomes their monument.
Born to the War of 1854 on October 21, 1854,
a Daughter, called Red Cross.
The next night Vedder went away. His purposes were necessarily rather
vague, but it was certain he would go to the front if he thought he
could do any good there. He talked earnestly and long with Ragnor but
when it came to parting, both men were strangely silent. They clasped
hands and looked long and steadily into each other's eyes. No words
could interpret that look. It was a conversation for eternity.
In the meantime, the whole town was eager to do something but what
could they do that would give the immediate relief that was needed?
There were no sewing machines then, women's fingers and needles could
not cope with the difficulty, even regarding the Orkney men who were
suffering. To gather from every one the very necessary old linen
seemed to be the very extent of their usefulness.
In these first days of the trouble, Rahal and Thora were serious and
quiet. A dull, inexplicable melancholy shrouded the girl like a
garment. The pretty home preparing for Ian and herself lost its
interest. She refused to look forward and lived only in the unhappy
present. The few words Ian has said about some wrong or trouble in the
past years of his life overshadowed her. She was naturally very
prescient and her higher self dwelt much in
... that finer atmosphere,
Where footfalls of appointed things,
Reverberent of days to be,
Are heard in forecast echoings,
Like wave beats from a viewless sea.
However, if trouble lasts through the night, joy, or at least hope and
expectation, comes in the morning; and certainly the first shock of
grief settled down into patient hoping and waiting. Vedder and Ian
were both good correspondents and the silence and loneliness were
constantly broken by their interesting letters. And joyful or
sorrowful, Time goes by.
Sunna wrote occasionally but she said she found Edinburgh dull, and
that she would gladly return to Kirkwall if it was not for the
Pentland Firth and its winter tempers and tantrums.
The war [she added] has stopped all balls and even house parties.
There is no dancing and no sports of any kind, and I believe
skating and golf have been forbidden. Love-making is the only
recreation allowed and I am not tempted to sin in this direction.
The churches are always open and their bells clatter all day long.
I have no lovers. Every man will talk of the war, and then they
get offended if you ask them why they are not gone. I have had the
pleasure of saying a few painful truths to these feather-bed
patriots, and they tell each other, no doubt, that I am impossible
and impertinent. One of them said to me, myself: "Wait a wee, Miss
Vedder, I wouldna wonder but some crippled war lad will fa' to
your lot, when the puir fellows come marching home again." The
Edinburgh men are just city flunkeys, they would do fine to wait
on our Norse men. I would like well to see a little dandy advocate
I know here, trotting after Boris.
So days came and went, and the passion of shame and sorrow died down
and people did not talk of the war. But the doors of St. Magnus stood
open all day long and there were always women praying there. They had
begun to carry their anxieties and griefs to God; and that was well
for God did not weary of their complaining. Women have the very heart
of sympathy for a man's griefs. God is the only refuge for a sorrowful
woman.
Steadily the preparations for Thora's marriage went on, but the spirit
that animated their first beginnings had cooled down into that calm
necessity, which always has to attend to all "finishings off." Early
in December, Thora's future home was quite finished, and this last
word expresses its beauty and completeness. Then Ragnor kissed his
daughter, and put into her hand the key of the house and the deed of
gift which made it her own forever. And in this same hour they decided
that the first day of the New Year should be the wedding day; for
Bishop Hedley would then be in Kirkwall and who else could marry the
little Thora whom he had baptised and confirmed and welcomed into the
fold of the church.
Nothing is more remarkable than the variety of moods in which women
take the solemn initiatory rite ushering them into their real life
and their great and honourable duties. Thora was joyful as a bird in
spring and never weary of examining the lovely home, the perfect
wardrobe, and the great variety of beautiful presents that had been
given her.
Very soon it was the twentieth of December, and Ian was expected on
the twenty-third. Christmas preparations had now taken the place of
marriage preparations for every item was ready for the latter event.
There had been a little anxiety about the dress and veil, but they
arrived on the morning of the twentieth and were beautiful and fitting
in every respect. The dress was of the orthodox white satin and the
veil fell from a wreath of orange flowers and myrtle leaves. And oh,
how proud and happy Thora was in their possession. Several times that
wonderful day she had run secretly to her room to examine and admire
them.
On the morning of the twenty-first she reminded herself that in two
days Ian would be with her and that in nine days she would be his
wife. She was genuine and happy about the event. She made no pretences
or reluctances. She loved Ian with all her heart, she was glad she was
going to be always with him. Life would then be full and she would be
the happiest woman in the world. She asked her father at the breakfast
table to send her, at once, any letters that might come for her in his
mail. "I am sure there will be one from Ian," she said, "and, dear
Father, it hurts me to keep it waiting."
About ten o'clock, Mrs. Beaton called and brought Thora a very
handsome ring from Maximus Grant and a bracelet from herself. She
stayed to lunch with the Ragnors and after the meal was over, they
went upstairs to look at the wedding dress. "I want to see it on you,
Thora," said Mrs. Beaton, "I shall have a wedding dress to buy for my
niece soon and I would like to know what kind of a fit Mrs. Scott
achieves." So Thora put on the dress, and Mrs. Beaton admitted that it
"fit like a glove" and that she should insist on her niece Helen going
to Mrs. Scott.
With many scattering, delaying remarks and good wishes, the lady
finally bid Thora good-bye and Mrs. Ragnor went downstairs with her.
Then Thora eagerly lifted two letters that had come in her father's
mail and been sent home to her. One was from Ian. "The last he will
write to Thora Ragnor," she said with a smile. "I will put it with
his first letter and keep them all my life long. So loving is he, so
good, so handsome! There is no one like my Ian." Twice over she read
his loving letter and then laid it down and lifted the one which had
come with it.
"Jean Hay," she repeated, "who is Jean Hay?" Then she remembered the
writer--an orphan girl living with a married brother who did not
always treat her as kindly as he should have done. Hearing and
believing this story, Rahal Ragnor hired the girl, taught her how to
sew, how to mend and darn and in many ways use her needle. Then
discovering that she had a genius for dressmaking, she placed her with
a first-class modiste in Edinburgh to be properly instructed and
liberally attended to all financial requisites; for Rahal Ragnor could
not do anything unless it was wholly and perfectly done. Then Thora
had dressed Jean from her own wardrobe and asked her father to send
their protegee to Edinburgh on one of the vessels he controlled. And
Jean had been heartily grateful, had done well, and risen to a place
of trust in her employer's business; and a few times every year she
wrote to Mrs. Ragnor or Thora. All these circumstances were remembered
by Thora in a moment. "Jean Hay!" she exclaimed. "Well, Jean, you
must wait a few minutes, until I have taken off my wedding dress. I am
sorry I had to put it on--it was not very kind or thoughtful of Mrs.
Beaton to ask me--I don't believe mother liked her doing so--mother
has a superstition or fret about everything. Well, then, it is no way
spoiled----" and she lifted it and the white silk petticoat belonging
to the dress and carefully put them in the place Rahal had selected as
the safest for their keeping. It was a large closet in the spare room
and she went there with them. As she returned to her own room she
heard her mother welcoming a favourite visitor and it pleased her.
"Now I need not hurry," she thought. "Mistress Vorn will stay an hour
at least, and I can take my own time."
"Taking her own time" evidently meant to Thora the reading of Ian's
letter over again. And also a little musing on what Ian had said.
There was, however, no hurry about Jean Hay's letter and it was so
pleasant to drift among the happy thoughts that crowded into her
consideration. So for half an hour Jean's letter lay at her side
untouched--Jean was so far outside her dreams and hopes that
afternoon--but at length she lifted it and these were the words she
read:
DEAR MISS THORA:
I was hearing since last spring that thou wert going to be married
on the son of the Rev. Dr. Macrae--on the young man called John
Calvin Macrae. Very often I was hearing this, and always I was
answering, "There will be no word of truth in that story. Miss
Ragnor will not be noticing such a young man as that. No,
indeed!"
Here Thora threw down the letter and sat looking at it upon the floor
as if she would any moment tear it to pieces. But she did not, she
finally lifted it and forced herself to continue reading:
I was hating to tell thee some things I knew, and I was often
writing and then tearing up my letter, for it made me sick to be
thy true friend in such a cruel way. But often I have heard the
wise tell "when the knife is needed, the salve pot will be of no
use." Now then, this day, I tell myself with a sad heart, "Jean,
thou must take the knife. The full time has come."
"Why won't the woman tell what she has got to tell," said Thora in a
voice of impatient anguish, and in a few minutes she whispered, "I am
cold." Then she threw a knitted cape over her shoulders and lifted the
letter again, oh, so reluctantly, and read:
The young man will have told your father, that he is McLeod's
agent and a sort of steward of his large properties. This does
not sound like anything wrong, but often I have been told
different. Old McLeod left to his son many houses. Three of them
are not good houses, they are really fashionable gambling houses.
Macrae has the management of them as well as of many others in
various parts of the city. Of these others I have heard no wrong.
I suppose they may be quite respectable.
This story has more to it. Whenever there is a great horse race
there Macrae will be, and I saw myself in the daily newspapers
that his name was among the winners on the horse Sergius. It was
only a small sum he won, but sin is not counted in pounds and
shillings. No, indeed! So there is no wonder his good father is
feeling the shame of it.
Moreover, though he calls himself Ian, that is not his name. His
name is John Calvin and his denial of his baptismal name, given to
him at the Sabbath service, in the house of God, at the very altar
of the same, is thought by some to be a denial of God's grace and
mercy. And he has been reasoned with on this matter by the ruling
elder in his father's kirk, but no reason would he listen to, and
saying many things about Calvin I do not care to write.
Many stories go about young men and young women, and there is this
and that said about Macrae. I have myself met him on Prince's
Street in the afternoon very often, parading there with various
gayly dressed women. I do not blame him much for that. The
Edinburgh girls are very forward, not like the Norse girls, who
are modest and retiring in their ways. I am forced to say that
Macrae is a very gay young man, and of course you know all that
means without more words about it. He dresses in the highest
fashion, goes constantly to theatres with some lady or other, and
I do not wonder that people ask, "Where does he get the money?
Does he gamble for it?" For he does not go to any kirk on the
Sabbath unless he is paid to go there and sing, which he does very
well, people say. In his own rooms he is often heard playing the
piano and singing music that is not sacred or fit for the holy
day. And his father is the most religious man in Edinburgh. It is
just awful! I fear you will never forgive me, Miss Thora, but I
have still more and worse to tell you, because it is, as I may
say, personally heard and not this or that body's clash-ma-claver.
Nor did I seek the same, it came to me through my daily work and
in a way special and unlooked-for, so that after hearing it, my
conscience would no longer be satisfied and I was forced, as it
were, to the writing of this letter to you.
I dare say Macrae may have spoken to you anent his friendship with
Agnes and Willie Henderson, indeed Willie Henderson and John
Macrae have been finger and thumb ever since they played together.
Now Willie's father is an elder in Dr. Macrae's kirk and if all
you hear anent him be true--which I cannot vouch for--he is a man
well regarded both in kirk and market place--that is, he was so
regarded until he married again about two years ago. For who,
think you, should he marry but a proud upsetting Englishwoman, who
was bound to be master and mistress both o'er the hale household?
Then Miss Henderson showed fight and her brother Willie stood by
her. And Miss Henderson is a spunky girl and thought bonnie by
some people, and has a tongue so well furnished with words to
defend what she thinks her rights, that it leaves nobody uncertain
as to what thae rights may be. Weel, there has been nothing but
quarreling in the elder's house ever since the unlucky wedding;
and in the first year of the trial Willie Henderson borrowed
money--I suppose of John Macrae--and took himself off to America,
and some said the elder was glad of it and others said he was sair
down-hearted and disappointed.
After that, Miss Agnes was never friends with her stepmother. It
seems the woman wanted her to marry a nephew of her ain kith and
kin, and in this matter her father was of the same mind. The old
man doubtless wanted a sough of peace in his own home. That was
how things stood a couple of weeks syne, but yestreen I heard what
may make the change wanted. This is how it happened.
Yesterday afternoon Mrs. Baird came to Madame David's to have a
black velvet gown fitted. Madame called on Jean Hay to attend her
in the fitting and to hang the long skirt properly--for it is a
difficult job to hang a velvet skirt, and Jean Hay is thought to
be very expert anent the set and swing of silk velvet, which has a
certain contrariness of its own. Let that pass. I was kneeling on
the floor, setting the train, when Mrs. Baird said: "I suppose you
have heard, Madame, the last escapade of that wild son of the
great Dr. Macrae?" Then I was all ears, the more so when I heard
Madam say: "I heard a whisper of something, but I was not heeding
it. Folks never seem to weary of finding fault with the handsome
lad."
"Well, Madame," said Mrs. Baird, "I happen to know about this
story. Seeing with your own eyes is believing, surely!"
"What did you see?" Madame asked.
"I saw enough to satisfy me. You know my house is opposite to the
West End Hotel, and last Friday I saw Macrae go there and he was
dressed up to the nines. He went in and I felt sure he had gone to
call on some lady staying there. So I watched, and better watched,
for he did not come out for two hours, and I concluded they had
lunched together! For when Macrae came out of the hotel, he spoke
to a cabman, and then waited until a young lady and her maid
appeared. He put the young lady into the cab, had a few minutes'
earnest conversation with her, then the maid joined her mistress
and they two drove away."
"Well, now, Mrs. Baird," said Madame, "there was nothing in that
but just a courteous luncheon together."
"Wait, Madame! I felt there was more, so I took a book and sat
down by my window. And just on the edge of the dark I saw the two
women return, and a little later a waiter put lights in an upper
parlour and he spread a table for dinner there and Macrae and the
young lady ate it together. Afterwards they went away in a cab
together." Then Madame asked if the maid was with them, and Mrs.
Baird said she thought she was but had not paid particular
attention.
Madame said something to me about the length of the train and then
Mrs. Baird seemed annoyed at her inattention, and she added:
"Macrae was advertised to sing in the City Hall the next night at
a mass meeting of citizens about abrogating slavery in the United
States, and he was not there--broke his engagement! What do you
think of that? The next night, Sabbath, he did the same to Dr.
Fraser's kirk, where he had promised to sing a pro-Christmas
canticle. And this morning I heard that he is going to the Orkneys
to marry a rich and beautiful girl who lives there. Now what do
you think of your handsome Macrae? I can tell you he is on every
one's tongue." And Madame said, "I have no doubt of it and I'll
warrant nobody knows what they are talking about."
After this the fitting on was not pleasant and I finished my part
of it as quickly as possible. Indeed, Miss Thora, I was miserable
about you and so pressed in spirit to tell you these things that I
could hardly finish my day's work. For my conscience kept urging
me to do my duty to you, for it is many favours you have done me
in the past. Kindly pardon me now, and believe me,
Your humble but sincere friend,
JEAN HAY.
This letter Thora read to the last word but she was nearly blind when
she reached it. All her senses rang inward. "I am dying!" she thought,
and she tried to reach the bed but only succeeded in stumbling against
a small table full of books, knocking it down and falling with it.
Mistress Ragnor and her visitor heard the fall and they were suddenly
silent. Immediately, however, they went to the foot of the stairway
and called, "Thora." There was no answer, and the mother's heart sank
like lead, as she hastened to her daughter's room and threw open the
door. Then she saw her stricken child, lying as if dead upon the
floor. Cries and calls and hurrying feet followed, and the unconscious
girl was quickly freed from all physical restraints and laid at the
open window. But all the ordinary household methods of restoring
consciousness were tried without avail and the case began to assume a
dangerous aspect.
At this moment Ragnor arrived. He knelt at his child's side and drew
her closer and closer, whispering her name with the name of the Divine
One; and surely it was in response to his heart-breaking entreaties
the passing soul listened and returned. "Father," was the first
whisper she uttered; and with a glowing, grateful heart, the father
lifted her in his arms and laid her on her bed.
Then Rahal gave him the two letters and sent him away. Thora was still
"far off," or she would have remembered her letters but it was near
the noon of the next day when she asked her mother where they were.
"Thy father has them."
"I am sorry, so sorry!"
That was all she said but the subject appeared to distress her for she
closed her eyes, and Rahal kissed away the tears that slowly found
their way down the white, stricken face. However, from this hour she
rallied and towards night fell into a deep sleep which lasted for
fourteen hours; and it was during this anxious period of waiting that
Ragnor talked to his wife about the letters which were, presumably,
the cause of the trouble.
"Those letters I gave thee, Coll, did thou read both of them?"
"Both of them I read. Ian's was the happy letter of an expectant
bridegroom. Only joy and hope was in it. It was the other one that was
a death blow. Yes, indeed, it was a bad, cruel letter!"
"And the name? Who wrote it?"
"Jean Hay."
"Jean Hay! What could Jean have to do with Thora's affairs?"
"Well, then, her conscience made her interfere. She had heard some
evil reports about Ian's life and she thought it her duty, after yours
and Thora's kindness to her, to report these stories."
"A miserable return for our kindness! This is what I notice--when
people want to say cruel things, they always blame their conscience or
their duty for making them do it."
"Here is Jean's letter. Thou, thyself, must read it."
Rahal read it with constantly increasing anger and finally threw it on
the table with passionate scorn. "Not one word of this stuff do I
believe, Coll! Envy and jealousy sent that news, not gratitude and
good will! No, indeed! But I will tell thee, Coll, one thing I have
always found sure, it is this; that often, much evil comes to the good
from taking people out of their poverty and misfortunes. They are
paying a debt they owe from the past and if we assume that debt we
have it to pay in some wise. That is the wisdom of the old, the wisdom
learned by sad experience. I wish, then, that I had let the girl pay
her own debt and carry her own burden. She is envious of Thora. Yet
was Thora very good to her. Do I believe in her gratitude? Not I! Had
she done this cruel thing out of a kind heart, she would have sent
this letter to me and left the telling or the not telling to my love
and best judgment. I will not believe anything against Ian Macrae!
Nothing at all!"
"Much truth is in thy words, Rahal, and it is not on Jean Hay's letter
I will do anything. I will take only Ian's 'yes,' or 'no' on any
accusation."
"You may do that safely, Coll, I know it."
"And I will go back to Edinburgh with him and see his father. Perhaps
we have all taken the youth too far on his handsome person and his
sweet amiability."
"Thou wrote to his father when Thora was engaged to him, with thy
permission."
"Well, then, I did."
"What said his father?"
"Too little! He was cursed short about all I named. I told him Thora
was good and fair and well educated; and that she would have her full
share in my estate. I told him all that I intended to do for them
about their home and the place which I intended for Ian in my
business, and referred him to Bishop Hedley as to my religious,
financial, social and domestic standing."
"Why did thou name Bishop Hedley to him? They are as far apart as
Leviticus and St. John. And what did he say to thee in reply?"
"That my kindness was more than his son deserved, etc. In response to
our invitation to be present at the marriage ceremony, he said it was
quite impossible, the journey was too long and doubtful, especially in
the winter; that he was subject to sea-sickness and did not like to
leave his congregation over Sunday. Rahal, I felt the paper on which
his letter was written crinkling and crackling in my hand, it was that
stiff with ecclesiastic pomp and spiritual pride. I would not show
thee the letter, I put it in the fire."
"Poor Ian! I think then, that he has had many things to suffer."
"Rahal, this is what I will do. I will meet the packet on Saturday and
we will go first to my office and talk the Hay letter over together.
If I bring Ian home with me, then something is possible, but if I come
home alone, then Thora must understand that all is over--that the
young man is not to be thought of."
"That would kill her."
"So it might be. But better is death than a living misery. If Ian is
what Jean Hay says he is, could we think of our child living with him?
Impossible! Rahal, dear wife, whatever can be done I will do, and that
with wisdom and loving kindness. Thy part is harder, it must be with
our dear Thora."
"That is so. And if there has to be parting, it will be almost
impossible to spread the plaster as far as the sore."
"There is the Great Physician----"
"I know."
"Tell her what I have said."
"I will do that; but just yet, she is not minding much what any one
says."
However, on Saturday afternoon Thora left her bed and dressed herself
in the gown she had prepared for her bridegroom's arrival. The nervous
shock had been severe and she looked woefully like, and yet unlike,
herself. Her eyes were full of tears, she trembled, she could hardly
support herself. If one should take a fresh green leaf and pass over
it a hot iron, the change it made might represent the change in Thora.
Jean Hay's letter had been the hot iron passed over her. She had been
told of her father's decision, but she clung passionately to her faith
in Ian and her claim on her father's love and mercy.
"Father will do right," she said, "and if he does, Ian will come home
with him."
The position was a cruel one to Conall Ragnor and he went to meet the
packet with a heavy heart. Then Ian's joyful face and his impatience
to land made it more so, and Ragnor found it impossible to connect
wrong-doing with the open, handsome countenance of the youth. On the
contrary, he found himself without intention declaring:
"Well, then, I never found anything the least zig-zaggery about what
he said or did. His words and ways were all straight. That is the
truth."
Yet Ian's happy mood was instantly dashed by Ragnor's manner. He did
not take his offered hand and he said in a formal tone: "Ian, we will
go to my office before we go to the house. I must ask thee some
questions."
"Very well, sir. Thora, I hope, is all right?"
"No. She has been very ill."
"Then let me go to her, sir, at once."
"Later, I will see about that."
"Later is too late, let us go at once. If Thora is sick----"
"Be patient. It is not well to talk of women on the street. No wise
man, who loves his womenkin, does that."
Then Ian was silent; and the walk through the busy streets was like a
walk in a bad dream. The place and circumstances felt unreal and he
was conscious of the sure presence of a force closing about him, even
to his finger tips. Vainly he tried to think. He felt the trouble
coming nearer and nearer, but what was it? What had he done? What had
he failed to do? What was he to be questioned about?
Young as he was his experiences had taught him to expect only injury
and wrong. The Ragnor home and its love and truth had been the miracle
that had for nine months turned his brackish water of life into wine.
Was it going to fail him, as everything else had done? He laughed
inwardly at the cruel thought and whispered to himself: "This, too,
can be borne, but oh, Thora, Thora!" and the two words shattered his
pride and made him ready to weep when he sat down in Ragnor's office
and saw the kind, pitiful face of the elder man looking at him. It
gave him the power he needed and he asked bluntly what questions he
was required to answer.
Ragnor gave him the unhappy letter and he read it with a look of anger
and astonishment. "Father," he said, "all this woman writes is true
and not true; and of all accusations, these are the worst to defend. I
must go back to my very earliest remembrances in order to fairly state
my case, and if you will permit me to do this, in the presence of
your wife and Thora, I will then accept whatever decision you make."
For at least three minutes Ragnor made no answer. He sat with closed
eyes and his face held in the clasp of his left hand. Ian was bending
forward, eagerly watching him. There was not a movement, not a sound;
it seemed as if both men hardly breathed. But when Ragnor moved, he
stood up. "Let us be going," he said, "they are anxious. They are
watching. You shall do as you say, Ian."
Rahal saw them first. Thora was lying back in her mother's chair with
closed eyes. She could not bear to look into the empty road watching
for one who might be gone forever. Then in a blessed moment, Rahal
whispered, "They are coming!"
"Both? Both, Mother?"
"Both!"
"Thank God!" And she would have cried out her thanks and bathed them
in joyful tears if she had been alone. But Ian must not see her
weeping. Now, especially, he must be met with smiles. And then, when
she felt herself in Ian's embrace, they were both weeping. But oh, how
great, how blessed, how sacramental are those joys that we baptise
with tears!
During the serving of dinner there was no conversation but such
as referred to the war and other public events. Many great ones
had transpired since they parted, and there was plenty to talk
about: the battles of Balaklava and Inkerman had been fought; the
never-to-be-forgotten splendour of Scarlett's Charge with the
Heavy Brigade, and the still more tragically splendid one of the
Light Brigade, had both passed into history.
More splendid and permanent than these had been the trumpet "call" of
Russell in the _Times_, asking the women of England who among them
were ready to go to Scutari Hospital and comfort and help the men
dying for England? "Now," he cried,
"The Son of God goes forth to war!
Who follows in His train?"
Florence Nightingale and her band of trained nurses, mainly from the
Roman Catholic Sisters of Mercy, and St. John's Protestant House, was
the instant answer. In six days they were ready and without any
flourish of trumpets, at the dark, quiet midnight, they left England
for Scutari and in that hour the Red Cross Society was born.
"How long is it since they sailed?" asked Rahal.
"A month," answered Ian, "but the controversy about it is still raging
in the English papers."
"What has anyone to say against it?" asked Rahal. "The need was
desperate, the answer quick. What, then, do they say?"
"The prudery of the English middle class was shocked at the idea of
young women nursing in military hospitals. They considered it 'highly
improper.' Others were sure women would be more trouble than help.
Many expect their health to fail, and think they will be sent back to
English hospitals in a month."
"I thought," said Ragnor, "that the objections were chiefly
religious."
"You are right," replied Ian. "The Calvinists are afraid Miss
Nightingale's intention is to make the men Catholics in their dying
hour. Others feel sure Miss Nightingale is an Universalist, or an
Unitarian, or a Wesleyan Methodist. The fact is, Florence Nightingale
is a devout Episcopalian."
A pleasant little smile parted Ragnor's lips, and he said with an
Episcopalian suavity: "The Wesleyans and the Episcopalians, in
doctrine, are much alike. We regard them as brethren;" and just while
he spoke, Ragnor looked like some ecclesiastical prelate.
"There is little to wonder at in the churches disagreeing about Miss
Nightingale," said Rahal, "it is not to be expected that they would
believe in her, when they do not believe in each other." As she spoke
she stepped to the fireside and touched the bell rope, and a servant
entered and began to clear the table and put more wood on the fire,
and to turn out one of the lamps at Rahal's order. Ragnor had gone out
to have a quiet smoke in the fresh air while Rahal was sending off all
the servants to a dance at the Fisherman's Hall. Ian and Thora were
not interested in these things; they sat close together, talking
softly of their own affairs.
Without special request, they drew closer to the hearth and to each
other. Then Ragnor took out a letter and handed it to Ian. He was
sitting at Thora's side and her hand was in his hand. He let it fall
and took the letter offered him.
"I cannot explain this letter," he said, "unless I preface it with
some facts regarding my unhappy childhood and youth. I am, as you
know, the son of Dr. Macrae, but I have been a disinherited son ever
since I can remember. I suppose that in my earliest years I was loved
and kindly treated, but I have no remembrance of that time. I know
only that before I was five years old, my father had accepted the
solemn conviction that I was without election to God's grace.
Personally I was a beautiful child, but I was received and considered,
body and soul, as unredeemable. Father then regarded me as a Divine
decree which it was his duty to receive with a pious acquiescence. My
mother pitied and, in her way, loved me, and suffered much with me. I
have a little sister also, who would like to love me, but there is in
all her efforts just that touch of Phariseeism which destroys love."
"But, Ian, there must have been some reason for your father's
remarkable conviction?"
"That is most likely. If so, he never explained the fact to me or even
to my mother. She told me once that he did not suspect that I had
missed God's election until I was between five and six years old. I
suppose that about that age I began to strengthen his cruel fear by my
antipathy to the kirk services and my real and unfortunate inability
to learn the Shorter Catechism. This was a natural short-coming. I
could neither spell or pronounce the words I was told to learn and to
memorise them was an impossible thing."
"Could not your mother help you?"
"She tried. She wept over me as she tried, and I made an almost
superhuman effort to comprehend and remember. I could not. I was
flogged, I was denied food and even water. I was put in dark rooms. I
was forbid all play and recreation. I went through this martyrdom year
after year and I finally became stubborn and would try no longer. In
the years that followed, until I was sixteen, my daily sufferings were
great, but I remember them mainly for my mother's sake, who suffered
with me in all I suffered. Nor am I without pity for my father. He
honestly believed that in punishing me he was doing all he could to
save me from everlasting punishment. Yes, sir! Do not shake your head!
I have heard him praying, pleading with God, for some token of my
election to His mercy. You see it was John Calvin."
"John Calvin!" ejaculated Ragnor, "how is that?"
"It was his awful tenets I had to learn; and when I was young I could
not learn them, and when I grew older I would not learn them. My
father had called me John Calvin and I detested the name. On my
eighteenth birthday I asked him to have it changed. He was very angry
at my request. I begged him passionately to do so. I said it ruined my
life, that I could do nothing under that name. 'Give me your own name,
Father,' I entreated, 'and I will try and be a good man!'
"He said something to me, I never knew exactly what, but the last word
was more than I could bear and my reply was an oath. Then he lifted
the whip at his side and struck me."
Rahal and Thora were sobbing. Ragnor looked in the youth's face with
shining eyes and asked, almost in a whisper, "What did thou do?"
"I had been struck often enough before to have made me indifferent,
but at this moment some new strength and feeling sprang up in my
heart. I seized his arms and the whip fell to the floor. I lifted it
and said, 'Sir, if you ever again use a whip in place of decent words
to me, I will see you no more until we meet for the judgment of God.
Then I will pity you for the life-long mistake you have made.' My
father looked at me with eyes I shall never forget, no, not in all
eternity! He burst into agonizing prayer and weeping and I went and
told mother to go to him. I left the house there and then. I had not
a halfpenny, and I was hungry and cold and sick with an intolerable
sense of wrong."
"Father!" said Thora, in a voice broken with weeping. "Is not this
enough?" And Ragnor leaned forward and took Thora's hand but he did
not speak. Neither did he answer Rahal's look of entreaty. On the
contrary he asked:
"Then, Ian? Then, what did thou do?"
"I felt so ill I went to see Dr. Finlay, our family physician. He knew
the family trouble, because he had often attended mother when she was
ill in consequence of it. I did not need to make a complaint. He saw
my condition and took me to his wife and told her to feed and comfort
me. I remained in her care four days, and then he offered to take me
into his office and set me to reading medical text books, while I did
the office work."
"What was this work?"
"I was taught how to prepare ordinary medicines, to see callers when
the doctor was out, and make notes of, and on, their cases. I helped
the doctor in operations, I took the prescriptions to patients and
explained their use, etc. In three years I became very useful and
helpful and I was quite happy. Then Dr. Finlay was appointed to some
exceptionally fine post in India, private physician to some great
Rajah, and the Finlay family hastily prepared for their journey to
Delhi. I longed to go with them but I had not the money requisite.
With Dr. Finlay I had had a home but only money enough to clothe me
decently. I had not a pound left and mother could not help me, and
Uncle Ian was in the Madeira Isles with his sick wife. So the Finlays
went without me; and I can feel yet the sense of loneliness and
poverty that assailed me, when I shut their door behind me and walked
into the cold street and knew not what to do or where to go."
"How old were you then, Ian?" asked Ragnor.
"I was twenty years old within a few days, and I had one pound,
sixteen shillings in my pocket. Five pounds from an Episcopal church
would be due in two weeks for my solo and part singing in their
services; but they were never very prompt in their payment and that
was nothing to rely on in my present need. I took to answering
advertisements, and did some of the weariest tramping looking for work
that poor humanity can do. When I met Kenneth McLeod, I had broken my
last shilling. I was like a hungry, lost child, and the thought of my
mother came to me and I felt as if my heart would break.
"The next moment I saw Kenneth McLeod coming up Prince's Street. It
was nearly four years since we had seen each other, but he knew me at
once and called me in his old kind way. Then he looked keenly at me,
and asked: 'What is the matter, Ian? The old trouble?'
"I was so heartless and hungry I could hardly keep back tears as I
answered: 'It is that and everything else! Ken, help me, if you can.'
'Come with me!' he answered, and I went with him into the Queen's
Hotel and he ordered dinner, and while we were eating I told him my
situation. Then he said, 'I can help you, Ian, if you will help me.
You know that all my happiness is on the sea and father kept me on one
or another of his trading boats as much as possible from my boyhood,
so that I am now a clever enough navigator. Two years ago my father
died and I am in a lot of trouble about managing the property he left
me. Now, if you will take the oversight of my Edinburgh property, I
can take my favourite boat and look after the coast trade of the
Northern Islands.'
"What could I say? I was dumb with surprise and gratitude. I never
thought there was anything wrong in our contract. I believed the work
had come in answer to my prayer for help and I thanked God and Kenneth
McLeod for it."
Here Mrs. Ragnor rose, saying, "Coll, my dear one, Thora and I will
now leave thee. I am sure Ian has done as well as he could do and we
hope thou wilt judge him kindly." Then the women went upstairs and
Ragnor remained silent until Ian said:
"I am very anxious, sir."
Then Ragnor stood up and slowly answered, "Ian, now is the time to
take council of my pillow. What I have to say I will say later. This
is not a thing to be settled by a yes or no. I must think over what
thou hast told me. I must have some words with my wife and daughter.
Sleep one night at least over thy trouble, there are many things to
consider; especially this question of the young lady who is made
the last count of Jean Hay's letter. What hast thou to say about her?
She seems to have had some strong claim upon thy--shall we say
friendship?"
"You might say much more than friendship, sir, and yet wrong neither
man nor woman by it. Why, the young lady was Agnes Henderson, the
sister of Willie Henderson, who is my soul's brother and my second
self. Thora must have heard all about Agnes!"
"Is she Deacon Scot Henderson's daughter?"
"Of course she is! Who else would I have left two engagements to
serve? But Agnes is dear to me, perhaps dearer than my own sister.
Since she was nine years old, we have studied and played together.
Willie and Agnes were the only loves and only friends of my desolate
boyhood. You have doubtless heard how unhappy the deacon's second
marriage has been. Both Willie and Agnes refused the stepmother he
gave them, and last year Willie went to New York, where he is doing
very well. But Agnes has been more and more wretched, and a recent
proposal of marriage between herself and the stepmother's nephew has
made her life intolerable. Two weeks ago I had a letter from Willie,
telling me he had just written her, advising an immediate 'give-up' of
the whole situation. He told her to take the first good steamer and
come to him. He also urged her to send for me and take my help and
advice about the voyage. Two weeks ago last Friday she did so and I
went at once to the West End Hotel to see her. She had disguised
herself so cleverly that it was difficult to recognise her. I went
with her to her sitting room and there I found the woman who had
waited on her all her life long. I knew her well for she had often
scolded me for leading Agnes into danger.
"I ate lunch with Agnes and during it I told her to transfer all her
money not required for travelling expenses to the Bank of New York;
and I promised to go at once and secure a passage for herself and
maid--for seeing that the _Atlantic_ would leave her dock for New York
about the noon hour of the next day, haste was necessary. I did not
wish to go to Liverpool because of my two engagements, but Agnes was
so insistent on my presence I could not refuse her. Well, perhaps I
was wrong to yield to her entreaties."
"No, hardly," said Ragnor. "Going on board a big steamer at Liverpool
must be a muddling business--not fit for two simple women like Agnes
Henderson and her maid."
"I don't remember thinking of that but I could hear my friend Willie
telling me, 'See her safe on board, Ian. Don't leave her till she is
in the captain's care. Do this for me, Ian!' And I did it for both
Agnes' and Willie's sake but mainly for Willie's, for I love him. He
is my right-hand friend, always. Perhaps I did wrong."
"It is a pity there was any mystification about it. Was it necessary
for Agnes Henderson to disguise herself?"
"Perhaps not, but it prevented trouble and disappointment. Her father
supposed her to be at her uncle's home. On Saturday afternoon he went
to see her and found she had not been there at all. He returned to
Edinburgh and could get no trace of her, nor was she located until I
returned and informed him that she was on the _Atlantic_."
There was a few moments of silence and then Ian said, "Have I done
anything unpardonable? Surely you will not let that jealous, envious
letter stand between Thora and myself?"
Then Ragnor answered, "Tonight I will say neither this nor that on the
matter. I will sleep over the subject and take counsel of One wiser
than myself. Thou had better do likewise. Many things are to
consider."
And Ian went away without a word. There was anger in his heart, and as
he sat gloomily in his dimly lit room and felt the damp chill of the
midnight, he told himself that he had been hardly judged. "I have done
nothing wrong," he whispered passionately. "Old McLeod collected his
own rents and looked after his own property and no one thought he did
wrong. He was an elder in one of the largest Edinburgh kirks and the
favourite chairman in missionary meetings, but because I did not go to
kirk, what was business in him was sin in me.
"As to the gambling houses, I had nothing to do with them but to
collect lawful money, due the McLeod estate; and as far as I can see,
men who gamble for money are quite respectable if they get what they
gamble for. There was that old reprobate Lord Sinclair. He redeemed
the Sinclair estates by gambling and he married the beautiful daughter
of the noble Seaforths. Nobody blamed him. Pshaw! It is all a matter
of money--or it is my ill luck." And to such irritating reflections he
finally fell asleep.