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PRISONERS OF CONSCIENCE
[Illustration: "HE REPEATED ALL THE BLESSED WORDS." (_See p.
230._)]
PRISONERS OF CONSCIENCE
By
Amelia E. Barr
New York
The Century Co.
1897
Copyright, 1896, 1897, by
The Century Co.
The De Vinne Press.
CONTENTS
BOOK FIRST--LIOT BORSON
PAGE
I. The Weaving of Doom 3
II. Jealousy Cruel as the Grave 23
III. A Sentence for Life 44
IV. The Door Wide Open 62
BOOK SECOND--DAVID BORSON
V. A New Life 85
VI. Kindred--the Quick and the Dead 107
VII. So Far and No Farther 127
VIII. The Justification of Death 144
IX. A Sacrifice Accepted 169
X. In the Fourth Watch 192
XI. The Lowest Hell 210
XII. "At Last it is Peace" 220
ILLUSTRATIONS
"He Repeated all the Blessed Words" _Frontispiece_
A Lerwick Man 33
"The Waters of the Great Deep" 55
"'I Want to Find my Father's People'" 91
Nanna and Vala 103
"But she Held her Peace" 133
At the Kirk 137
Peat-gatherers 161
Groat 193
On the Way to Nanna's Cottage 223
"Went in and out among his Mates" 237
PRISONERS OF CONSCIENCE
Book First
LIOT BORSON
BOOK FIRST
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. The Weaving of Doom 3
II. Jealousy Cruel as the Grave 23
III. A Sentence for Life 44
IV. The Door Wide Open 62
PRISONERS OF CONSCIENCE
I
THE WEAVING OF DOOM
In the early part of this century there lived at Lerwick, in the
Shetland Islands, a man called Liot Borson. He was no ignoble man;
through sea-fishers and sea-fighters he counted his forefathers
in an unbroken line back to the great Norwegian Bor, while his
own life was full of perilous labor and he was off to sea every day
that a boat could swim. Liot was the outcome of the most vivid and
masterful form of paganism and the most vital and uncompromising
form of Christianity. For nearly eight hundred years the Borsons had
been christened, but who can deliver a man from his ancestors? Bor
still spoke to his son through the stirring stories of the sagas, and
Liot knew the lives of Thord and Odd, of Gisli and the banded men,
and the tremendous drama of Nial and his sons, just as well as he
knew the histories of the prophets and heroes of his Old Testament.
It is true that he held the former with a kind of reservation, and
that he gave to the latter a devout and passionate faith, but this
faith was not always potential. There were hours in Liot's life when
he was still a pagan, when he approved the swift, personal vengeance
which Odin enjoined and Christ forbade--hours in which he felt
himself to be the son of the man who had carried his gods and his
home to uninhabited Iceland rather than take cross-marking for
the meek and lowly Jesus.
In his youth--before his great sorrow came to him--he had but little
trouble from this subcharacter. Of all the men in Lerwick, he knew
best the king stories and the tellings-up of the ancients; and when
the boats with bare spars rocked idly on the summer seas waiting
for the shoal, or the men and women were gathered together to pass
the long winter nights, Liot was eagerly sought after. Then, as the
women knit and the men sat with their hands clasped upon their
heads, Liot stood in their midst and told of the wayfarings and
doings of the Borsons, who had been in the Varangian Guard, and
sometimes of the sad doom of his fore-elder Gisli, who had been
cursed even before he was born.
He did not often speak of Gisli; for the man ruled him across the
gulf of centuries, and he was always unhappy when he gave way to
the temptation to do so; for he could not get rid of the sense of
kinship with him, nor of the memory of that withering spaedom with
which the first Gisli had been cursed by the wronged thrall who slew
him--"_This is but the beginning of the ill luck which I will bring
on thy kith and kin after thee._"
Never had he felt the brooding gloom of this wretched heirship so
vividly as on the night when he first met Karen Sabiston. Karen lived
with her aunt Matilda Sabiston, the richest woman in Lerwick and
the chief pillar of the kirk and its societies. On that night the
best knitters in Lerwick were gathered at her house, knitting the
fine, lace-like shawls which were to be sold at the next foy for some
good cause which the minister should approve. They were weary of
their own talk, and longing for Liot to come and tell them a story.
And some of the young girls whispered to Karen, "When Liot Borson
opens the door, then you will see the handsomest man in the islands."
"I have seen fine men in Yell and Unst," answered Karen; "I think
I shall see no handsomer ones in Lerwick. Is he fair or dark?"
"He is a straight-faced, bright-faced man, tall and strong, who
can tell a story so that you will be carried off your feet and away
wherever he chooses to take you."
"I have done always as Karen Sabiston was minded to do; and now I
will not be moved this way or that way as some one else minds."
"As to that we shall see." And as Thora Glumm spoke Liot came into
the room.
"The wind is blowing dead on shore, and the sea is like a man gone
out of his wits," he said.
And Matilda answered, "Well, then, Liot, come to the fire." And as
they went toward the fire she stopped before a lovely girl and said,
"Look, now, this is my niece Karen; she has just come from Yell, and
she can tell a story also; so it will be, which can better the other."
Then Liot looked at Karen, and the girl looked up at him; in that
instant their souls remembered each other. They put their hands
together like old lovers, and if Liot had drawn her to his heart
and kissed her Karen would not have been much astonished. This sweet
reciprocity was, however, so personal that onlookers did not see it,
and so swift that Liot appeared to answer promptly enough:
"It would be a good thing for us all if we should hear a new story.
As for me, the game is up. I can think of nothing to-night but my
poor kinsman Gisli, and he was not a lucky man, nor is it lucky to
speak of him."
"Is it Gisli you are talking about?" asked Wolf Skegg. "Let us bring
the man among us; I like him best of all."
"He had much sorrow," said Andrew Grimm.
"He had a good wife," answered Gust Havard; "and not many men are
so lucky."
"'Twas his fate," stammered a very old man, crouching over the fire,
"and in everything fate rules."
"Well, then, Snorro, fate is justice," said Matilda; "and as well
begin, Liot, for it will be the tale of Gisli and no other--I see
that."
Then Liot stood up, and Karen, busy with her knitting, watched
him. She saw that he had brown hair and gray eyes and the fearless
carriage of one who is at home on the North Sea. His voice at first
was frank and full of brave inflections, as he told of the noble,
faithful, helpful Gisli, pursued by evil fortune even in his dreams.
Gradually its tones became sad as the complaining of the sea, and a
brooding melancholy touched every heart as Gisli, doing all he
might do to ward off misfortune, found it of no avail. "For what
must be must be; there is no help for it," sighed Liot. "So, then,
love of wife and friends, and all that good-will dared, could not
help Gisli, for the man was doomed even before his birth."
Then he paused, and there was a dead silence and an unmistakable
sense of expectation; and Liot's face changed, and he looked as Gisli
might have looked when he knew that he had come to his last fight
for life. Also for a moment his eyes rested on old Snorro, who was
no longer crouching over the hearth, but straight up and full of
fire and interest; and Snorro answered the look with a nod, that
meant something which all approved and understood; after which Liot
continued in a voice full of a somber passion:
"It was the very last night of the summer, and neither Gisli nor his
true wife, Auda, could sleep. Gisli had bad dreams full of fate if
he shut his eyes, and he knew that his life-days were nearly over.
So they left their house and went to a hiding-place among the crags,
and no sooner were they there than they heard the voice of their
enemy Eyjolf, and there were fourteen men with him. 'Come on like
men,' shouted Gisli, 'for I am not going to fare farther away.'"
Then old Snorro raised himself and answered Liot in the very words
of Eyjolf:
"'Lay down the good arms thou bearest, and give up also Auda, thy
wife.'"
"'Come and take them like a man, for neither the arms I bear nor the
wife I love are fit for any one else!'" cried Liot, in reply. And
this challenge and valiant answer, though fully expected, charged the
crowded room with enthusiasm. The women let their knitting fall and
sat with parted lips and shining eyes, and the men looked at Liot
as men look whose hands are on their weapons.
"So," continued Liot, "the men made for the crags; but Gisli fought
like a hero, and in that bout four men were slain. And when they
were least aware Gisli leaped on a crag, that stands alone there
and is called Oneman's Crag, and there he turned at bay and called
out to Eyjolf, 'I wish to make those three hundred in silver, which
thou hast taken as the price of my head, as dear bought as I can;
and before we part thou wouldst give other three hundred in silver
that we had never met; for thou wilt only take disgrace for loss of
life.' Then their onslaught was harder and hotter, and they gave
Gisli many spear-thrusts; but he fought on wondrously, and there was
not one of them without a wound who came nigh him. At last, full of
great hurts, Gisli bade them wait awhile and they should have the
end they wanted; for he would have time to sing this last song to his
faithful Auda:
'Wife, so fair, so never-failing,
So truly loved, so sorely cross'd,
Thou wilt often miss me, wailing;
Thou wilt weep thy hero lost.
But my heart is stout as ever;
Swords may bite, I feel no smart;
Father! better heirloom never
Owned thy son than fearless heart.'
And with these words he rushed down from the crag and clove
Thord--who was Eyjolf's kinsman--to the very belt. There Gisli lost
his life with many great and sore wounds. He never turned his heel,
and none of them saw that his strokes were lighter, the last than
the first. They buried him by the sea, and at his grave the sixth
man breathed his last; and on the same night the seventh man
breathed his last; and an eighth lay bedridden for twelve months
and died. And though the rest were healed, they got nothing but
shame for their pains. Thus Gisli came to his grave; and it has
always been said, by one and all, that there never was a more famous
defense made by one man in any time, of which the truth is known;
but he was not lucky in anything."
"I will doubt that," said Gust Havard. "He had Auda to wife, and
never was there a woman more beautiful and loving and faithful. He
had love-luck, if he had no other luck. God give us all such wives
as Auda!"
"Well, then," answered Matilda, "a man's fate is his wife, and she
is of his own choosing; and, what is more, a good husband makes a
good wife." Then, suddenly stopping, she listened a moment and added:
"The minister is come, and we shall hear from him still better words.
But sit down, Liot; you have passed the hour well, as you always do."
The minister came in with a smile, and he was placed in the best
chair and made many times welcome. It was evident in a moment that
he had brought a different spirit with him; the old world vanished
away, and the men and women that a few minutes before had been so
close to it suffered a transformation. As the minister entered
the room they became in a moment members of the straitest Christian
kirk--quiet, hard-working fishers, and douce, home-keeping women. He
said the night was bad and black, and spoke of the boats and the
fishers in them. And the men talked solemnly about the "takes" and
the kirk meetings, while some of the women knitted and listened,
and others helped Matilda and Karen to set the table with goose and
fish, and barley and oaten cakes, and the hot, sweet tea which
is the Shetlander's favorite drink.
Many meals in a lifetime people eat, and few are remembered; but
when they are "eventful," how sweet or bitter is that bread-breaking!
This night Liot's cake and fish and cup of tea were as angels'
food. Karen broke her cake with him, and she sweetened his cup,
and smiled at him and talked to him as he ate and drank with her.
And when at last they stood up for the song and thanksgiving he held
her hand in his, and their voices blended in the noble sea psalm, so
dear to every seafarer's heart:
"The floods, O Lord, have lifted up,
They lifted up their voice!
The floods have lifted up their waves
And made a mighty noise.
"But yet the Lord, that is on high,
Is more of might by far
Than noise of many waters is,
Or great sea-billows are."
Soft and loud the singing swelled, and the short thanksgiving
followed it. To bend his head and hold Karen's hand while the
blessing fell on his ears was heaven on earth to Liot; such happiness
he had never known before--never even dreamed of. He walked home
through the buffeting wind and the drenching rain, and felt neither;
for he was saying over and over to himself, "I have found my wife!
I have found my wife!"
Karen had the same prepossession. As she unbound her long, fair
hair she thought of Liot. Slowly unplaiting strand from strand, she
murmured to her heart as she did so:
"Such a man as Liot Borson I have never met before. It was easy to
see that he loved me as soon as he looked at me; well, then, Liot
Borson shall be my husband--Liot, and only Liot, will I marry."
It was at the beginning of winter that this took place, and it was
a kind of new birth to Liot. Hitherto he had been a silent man about
his work; he now began to talk and to sing, and even to whistle;
and, as every one knows, whistling is the most cheerful sound that
comes from human lips. People wondered a little and said, "It is
Karen Sabiston, and it is a good thing." Also, the doubts and fears
that usually trouble the beginnings of love were absent in this
case. Wherever Liot and Karen had learned each other, the lesson had
been perfected. At their third meeting he asked her to be his wife,
and she answered with simple honesty, "That is my desire."
This betrothal was, however, far from satisfactory to Karen's aunt;
she could bring up nothing against Liot, but she was ill pleased with
Karen. "You have some beauty," she said, "and you have one hundred
pounds of your own; and it was to be expected that you would look
to better yourself a little."
"Have I not done so? Liot is the best of men."
"And the best of men are but men at best. It is not of Liot I think,
but of Liot's money; he is but poor, and you know little of him.
Those before us have said wisely, 'Ere you run in double harness,
look well to the other horse.'"
"My heart tells me that I have done right, aunt."
"Your heart cannot foretell, but you might have sense enough to
forethink; and it is sure that I little dreamed of this when I
brought you here from the naked gloom of Yell."
"It is true your word brought me here, but I think it was Liot who
called me by you."
"It was not. When my tongue speaks for any Borson, I wish that
it may speak no more! I like none of them. Liot is good at need on
a winter's night; but even so, all his stories are of dool and
wrong-doing and bloody vengeance. From his own words it is seen that
the Borsons have ever been well-hated men. Now, I have forty years
more of this life than you have, and I tell you plainly I think
little of your choice; whatever sorrow comes of it, mind this: I
didn't give you leave to make it."
"Nor did I ask your leave, aunt; each heart knows its own; but you
have a way to throw cold water upon every hope."
"There are hopes I wish at the bottom of the sea. To be sure, when
ill is fated some one must speak the words that bring it about;
but I wish it had been any other but myself who wrote, 'Come to
Lerwick'; for I little thought I was writing, 'Come to Liot Borson.'
As every one knows, he is the son of unlucky folk; from father to
son nothing goes well with them."
"I will put my luck to his, and you will learn to think better of
Liot for my sake, aunt."
"Not while my life-days last! That is a naked say, and there's no
more to it."
Matilda's dislike, however, did not seriously interfere with Liot's
and Karen's happiness. It was more passive than active; it was more
virulent when he was absent than when he was present; and all winter
she suffered him to visit at her house. These visits had various
fortunes, but, good or bad, the season wore away with them; and as
soon as April came Liot began to build his house. Matilda scoffed
at his hurry. "Does he think," she cried, "that he can marry Karen
Sabiston when he lists to? Till you are twenty-one you are in my
charge, and I will take care to prevent such folly as long as I can."
"Well, then, aunt, I shall be of age and my own mistress next
Christmas, and on Uphellya night[1] I will be married to Liot."
"After that we shall have nothing to say to each other."
"It will not be my fault."
"It will be my will. However, if you are in love with ill luck and
fated for Liot Borson, you must dree your destiny; and Liot does well
to build his home, for he shall not wive himself out of my walls."
"It will be more shame to you than to me, aunt, if I am not married
from your house; also, people will speak evil of you."
"That is to be expected; but I will not be so ill to myself as to
make a feast for a man I hate. However, there are eight months before
Uphellya, and many chances and changes may come in eight months."
The words were a prophecy. As Matilda uttered them Thora Fay entered
the room, all aglow with excitement. "There is a new ship in the
harbor!" she cried. "She is called the _Frigate Bird_, and she has
silk and linen and gold ornaments for sale, besides tea and coffee
and the finest of spirits. As for the captain, he is as handsome as
can be, and my brother thinks him a man of some account."
"You bring good news, Thora," said Matilda. "I would gladly see the
best of whatever is for sale, and I wish your brother to let so much
come to the man's ears."
"I will look to that," answered Thora. "Every one knows there is
to be a wedding in your house very soon." And with these words she
nodded at Karen, and went smiling away with her message.
A few hours afterward Captain Bele Trenby of the _Frigate Bird_
stepped across Matilda Sabiston's threshold. It was the first step
toward his death-place, though he knew it not; he took it with a
laugh and a saucy compliment to the pretty servant who opened the
door for him, and with the air of one accustomed to being welcome
went into Matilda Sabiston's presence. He delighted the proud,
wilful old woman as soon as she saw him; his black eyes and curling
black hair, the dare-devil look on his face, and the fearless dash
of his manner reminded her of Paul Sabiston, the husband of her
youth. She opened her heart and her purse to the bold free-trader;
she made him eat and drink, and with a singular imprudence told him
of secret ways in and out of the voes, and of hiding-places in
the coast caverns that had been known to her husband. And as she
talked she grew handsome; so much so that Karen let her knitting
fall to watch her aunt's face as she described Paul Sabiston's
swift cutter--"a mass of snowy canvas, stealing in and out of the
harbor like a cloud."
The coming of this man was the beginning of sorrow. In a few days
he understood the situation, and he resolved to marry Karen Sabiston.
Her fair, stately beauty charmed him, and he had no doubt she
would inherit her aunt's wealth; that she was cold and shy only
stimulated his love, and as for Liot, he held his pretensions in
contempt. All summer he sailed between Holland and Shetland, and
the Lerwick people gave him good trade and good welcome. With
Matilda Sabiston he had his own way; she did whatever he wished
her to do. Only at Karen her power stopped short; neither promises
nor threats would induce the girl to accept Bele as her lover; and
Matilda, accustomed to drive her will through the teeth of every
one, was angry morning, noon, and night with her disobedient niece.
As the months wore on Liot's position became more and more painful
and humiliating, and he had hard work to keep his hands off Bele
when they met on the pier or in the narrow streets of the town. His
smile, his voice, his face, his showy dress and hectoring manner,
all fed in Liot's heart that bitter hatred which springs from a
sense of being personally held in contempt; he felt, also, that
even among his fellow-townsmen he was belittled and injured by
this plausible, handsome stranger. For Bele said very much what it
pleased him to say, covering his insolences with a laugh and with
a jovial, jocular air, that made resentment seem ridiculous. Bele
was also a gift-giver, and for every woman, old or young, he had a
compliment or a ribbon.
If Liot had been less human, if he had come from a more mixed race,
if his feelings had been educated down and toned to the level of
modern culture, he could possibly have looked forward to Uphellya
night, and found in the joy and triumph that Karen would then give
him a sufficient set-off to all Bele's injuries and impertinences.
But he was not made thus; his very blood came to him through the
hearts of vikings and berserkers, and as long as one drop of this
fierce stream remained in his veins, moments were sure to come in
the which it would render all the tide of life insurgent.
It is true Liot was a Christian and a good man; but it must be noted,
in order to do him full justice, that the form of Christianity
which was finally and passionately accepted by his race was that
of ultra-Calvinism; it spoke to their inherited tendencies as no
other creed could have done. This uncompromising theology, with its
God of vengeance and inflexible justice, was understood by men
who considered a blood-feud of centuries a duty never to be
neglected; and as for the doctrine of a special election, with
all its tremendous possibilities of damnation, they were not
disposed to object to it. Indeed, they were such good haters that
Tophet and everlasting enmity were the bane and doom they would have
unhesitatingly chosen for their enemies. This grim theology Liot
sucked in with his mother's milk, and both by inheritance and by a
strong personal faith he was a child of God after the order of John
Calvin.
Therefore he constantly brought his enemy to the ultimate and
immutable tribunal of his faith, and just as constantly condemned
him there. Nothing was surer in Liot's mind than that Bele Trenby
was the child of the Evil One and an inheritor of the kingdom of
wrath; for Bele did the works of his father every day, and every
hour of the day, and Liot told himself that it was impossible
there should be any fellowship between them. To Bele he said nothing
of this spiritual superiority, and yet it was obvious in his constant
air of disapproval and dissent, in his lofty silence, his way of
not being conscious of Bele's presence or of totally ignoring his
remarks.
"Liot Borson mocks the very heart of me," said Bele to Matilda one
day, as he gloomily flung himself into the big chair she pushed
toward him.
"What said he, Bele?"
"Not a word with his tongue, or I had struck him in the face; but
as I was telling about my last cargo and the run for it, his eyes
called me '_Liar! liar! liar!_' like blow on blow. And when he turned
and walked off the pier some were quiet, and some followed him; and
I could have slain every man's son of them, one on the heels of the
other."
"That is vain babble, Bele; and I would leave Liot alone. He has more
shapes than one, and he is ill to anger in any of them."
Bele was not averse to be so counseled. In spite of his bravado
and risky ventures, he was no more a brave man than a dishonorable
or dishonest man ever is. He knew that if it came to fighting he
would be like a child in Liot's big hands, and he had already seen
Liot's scornful silence strip his boasting naked. So he contented
himself with the revenge of the coward--the shrug and the innuendo,
the straight up-and-down lie, when Liot was absent; the sulky nod
or bantering remark, according to his humor, when Liot was present.
However, as the weeks went on Liot became accustomed to the
struggle, and more able to take possession of such aids to mastery
of himself as were his own. First, there was Karen; her loyalty
never wavered. If Liot knew anything surely, it was that at
Christmas she would become his wife. She met him whenever she could,
she sent him constantly tokens of her love, and she begged him at
every opportunity for her sake to let Bele Trenby alone. Every
day, also, his cousin Paul Borson spoke to him and praised him
for his forbearance; and every Sabbath the minister asked, "How goes
it, Liot? Is His grace yet sufficient?" And at these questions
Liot's countenance would glow as he answered gladly, "So far He
has helped me."
From this catechism, and the clasp and look that gave it living
sympathy, Liot always turned homeward full of such strength that
he longed to meet his enemy on the road, just that he might show
him that "noble not caring," which was gall and wormwood to Bele's
touchy self-conceit. It was a great spiritual weakness, and one
which Liot was not likely to combat; for prayer was so vital a thing
to him that it became imbued with all his personal characteristics.
He made petition that God would keep him from hurting Bele Trenby,
and yet in his heart he was afraid that God would hear and grant his
prayer. The pagan in Liot was not dead; and the same fight between
the old man and the new man that made Paul's life a constant warfare
found a fresh battle-ground in Liot's soul.
He began his devotions in the spirit of Christ, but they ended
always in a passionate arraignment of Bele Trenby through the psalms
of David. These wondrously human measures got Liot's heart in their
grip; he wept them and prayed them and lived them until their words
blended with all his thoughts and speech; through them he grew
"familiar" with God, as Job and David and Jonah were familiar--a
reverent familiarity. Liot ventured to tell Him all that he had to
suffer from Bele--the lies that he could not refute, the insolences
he could not return, his restricted intercourse with Karen, and the
loss of that frank fellowship with such of his townsmen as had
business reasons for not quarreling with Bele.
So matters went on, and the feeling grew no better, but worse,
between the men. When the devil could not find a man to irritate
Bele and Liot, then he found Matilda Sabiston always ready to speak
for him. She twitted Bele with his prudences, and if she met Liot on
the street she complimented him on his patience, and prophesied
for Karen a "lowly mannered husband, whom she could put under her
feet."
One day in October affairs all round were at their utmost strain.
The summer was over, and Bele was not likely to make the Shetland
coast often till after March. His talk was of the French and Dutch
ports and their many attractions. And Matilda was cross at the
prospect of losing her favorite's society, and unjustly inclined to
blame Bele for his want of success with her niece.
"Talk if you want to, Bele," she said snappishly, "of the pretty
women in France and Holland. You are, after all, a great dreamer, and
you don't dream true; the fisherman Liot can win where you lose."
Then Bele said some words about Liot, and Matilda laughed. Bele
thought the laugh full of scorn; so he got up and left the house
in a passion, and Matilda immediately turned on Karen.
"Ill luck came with you, girl," she cried, "and I wish that Christmas
was here and that you were out of my house."
"No need to wait till Christmas, aunt; I will go away now and never
come back."
"I shall be glad of that."
"Paul Borson will give me shelter until I move into my own house."
"Then we shall be far apart. I shall not be sorry, for our chimneys
may smoke the better for it."
"That is an unkind thing to say."
"It is as you take it."
"I wonder what people will think of you, aunt?"
"I wonder that, too--but I care nothing."
"I see that talk will come to little, and that we had better part."
"If you will marry Bele we need not part; then I will be good to you."
"I will not marry Bele--no, not for the round world."
"Then, what I have to say is this, and I say it out: go to the
Borsons as soon as you can; there is doubtless soul-kin between you
and them, and I want no Borson near me, in the body or out of the
body."
So that afternoon Karen went to live with Paul Borson, and there was
great talk about it. No sooner had Liot put his foot ashore than
he heard the story, and at once he set it bitterly down against Bele;
for his sake Karen had been driven from her home. There were those
that said it was Bele's plan, since she would not marry him, to
separate her from her aunt; he was at least determined not to
lose what money and property Matilda Sabiston had to leave. These
accusations were not without effect. Liot believed his rival capable
of any meanness. But it was not the question of money that at
this hour angered him; it was Karen's tears; it was Karen's sense of
shame in being sent from the home of her only relative, and the
certain knowledge that the story would be in every one's mouth.
These things roused in Liot's soul hatred implacable and unmerciful
and thirsty for the stream of life.
Yet he kept himself well in hand, saying little to Karen but those
things usually whispered to beloved women who are weeping, and at the
end of them this entreaty:
"Listen, dear heart of mine! I will see the minister, and he will
call our names in the kirk next Sunday, and the next day we shall be
married, and then there will be an end to this trouble. I say nothing
of Matilda Sabiston, but Bele Trenby stirs up bickerings all day
long; he is a low, quarrelsome fellow, a very son of Satan, walking
about the world tempting good men to sin."
And Karen answered: "Life is full of waesomeness. I have always
heard that when the heart learns to love it learns to sorrow; yet for
all this, and more too, I will be your wife, Liot, on the day you
wish, for then if sorrow comes we two together can well bear it."
------
[Footnote 1: The last day of Christmas-tide.]
II
JEALOUSY CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
After this event all Lerwick knew that Karen Sabiston was to be
married to Liot Borson in less than three weeks. For the minister
was unwilling to shorten the usual time for the kirk calling, and
Karen, on reflection, had also come to the conclusion that it was
best not to hurry too much. "Everything ought to bide its time,
Liot," she said, "and the minister wishes the three askings to be
honored; also, as the days go by, my aunt may think better and do
better than she is now minded to."
"If I had my way, Karen--"
"But just now, Liot, it is my way."
"Yours and the minister's."
"Then it is like to be good."
"Well, let it stand at three weeks; but I wish that the time had not
been put off; ill luck comes to a changed wedding-day."
"Why do you forespeak misfortune, Liot? It is a bad thing to do. Far
better if you went to the house-builder and told him to hire more
help and get the roof-tree on; then we need not ask shelter either
from kin or kind."
It was a prudent thought, and Liot acknowledged its wisdom and said
he would "there and then go about it." The day was nearly spent, but
the moon was at its full, and the way across the moor was as well
known to him as the space of his own boat. He kissed Karen fondly,
and promised to return in two or three hours at the most; and she
watched his tall form swing into the shadows and become part and
parcel of the gray indistinctness which shut in the horizon.
There was really no road to the little hamlet where the builder
lived. The people used the sea road, and thought it good enough; but
the rising moon showed a foot-path, like a pale, narrow ribbon,
winding through the peat-cuttings and skirting the still, black moss
waters. But in this locality Liot had cut many a load of peat, and
he knew the bottomless streams of the heath as well as he knew the
"races" of the coast; so he strode rapidly forward on his pleasant
errand.
The builder, who was also a fisherman, had just come from the sea;
and as he ate his evening meal he talked with Liot about the new
house, and promised him to get help enough to finish it within a
month. This business occupied about an hour, and as soon as it was
over Liot lit his pipe and took the way homeward. He had scarcely
left the sea-shore when he saw a man before him, walking very slowly
and irresolutely; and Liot said to himself, "He steps like one who
is not sure of his way." With the thought he called out, "_Take
care!_" and hastened forward; and the man stood still and waited for
him.
In a few minutes Liot also wished to stand still; for the moon came
from behind a cloud and showed him plainly that the wayfarer was Bele
Trenby. The recognition was mutual, but for once Bele was disposed
to be conciliating. He was afraid to turn back and equally afraid to
go forward; twice already the moonlight had deceived him, and he
had nearly stepped into the water; so he thought it worth his while
to say:
"Good evening, Liot; I am glad you came this road; it is a bad one--a
devilish bad one! I wish I had taken a boat. I shall miss the tide,
and I was looking to sail with it. It is an hour since I passed
Skegg's Point--a full hour, for it has been a step at a time. Now
you will let me step after you; I see you know the way."
He spoke with a nervous rapidity, and Liot only answered:
"Step as you wish to."
Bele fell a couple of feet behind, but continued to talk. "I have
been round Skegg's Point," he said with a chuckling laugh. "I wanted
to see Auda Brent before I went away for the winter. Lovely woman!
Brent is a lucky fellow--"
"Brent is my friend," answered Liot, angrily. But Bele did not notice
the tone, and he continued:
"I would rather have Auda for a friend." And then, in his usual
insinuating, boastful way, he praised the woman's beauty and
graciousness in words which had an indefinable offense, and yet
one quite capable of that laughing denial which commonly shielded
Bele's impertinence. "Brent gave me a piece of Saxony cloth and a
gold brooch for her--Brent is in Amsterdam. I have taken the
cloth four times; there were also other gifts--but I will say
nothing of them."
"You are inventing lies, Bele Trenby. Touch your tongue, and your
fingers will come out of your lips black as the pit. Say to Brent
what you have said to me. You dare not, you infernal coward!"
"You have a pretty list of bad words, Liot, and I won't try to change
mine with them."
Liot did not answer. He turned and looked at the man behind him,
and the devil entered into his heart and whispered, "_There is the
venn before you._" The words were audible to him; they set his
heart on fire and made his blood rush into his face, and beat on his
ear-drums like thunder. He could scarcely stand. A fierce joy ran
through his veins, and the fiery radiations of his life colored
the air around him; he saw everything red. The venn, a narrow morass
with only one safe crossing, was before them; in a few moments they
were on its margin. Liot suddenly stopped; the leather strings of
his _rivlins_[2] had come unfastened, and he dropped the stick he
carried in order to retie them. At this point there was a slight
elevation on the morass, and Bele looked at Liot as he put his
foot upon it, asking sharply:
"Is this the crossing?"
Liot fumbled at his shoe-strings and said not a word; for he knew it
was _not_ the crossing.
"Is this the crossing, Liot?" Bele again asked. And again Liot
answered neither yes nor no. Then Bele flew into a passion and cried
out with an oath:
"You are a cursed fellow, Liot Borson, and in the devil's own temper;
I will stay no longer with you."
He stepped forward as he spoke, and instantly a cry, shrill with
mortal terror, rang across the moor from sea to sea. Liot quickly
raised himself, but he had barely time to distinguish the white
horror of his enemy's face and the despair of his upthrown arms. The
next moment the moss had swallowed the man, and the thick, peaty
water hardly stirred over his engulfing.
For a little while Liot fixed his eyes on the spot; then he
lifted his stick and went forward, telling his soul in triumphant
undertones: "He has gone down quick into hell; the Lord has brought
him down into the pit of destruction; the bloody and deceitful man
shall not live out half his days; he has gone to his own place."
Over and over he reiterated these assurances, stepping securely
himself to the ring of their doom. It was not until he saw the light
in Paul Borson's house that the chill of doubt and the sickness of
fear assailed him. How could he smile into Karen's face or clasp her
to his breast again? A candle was glimmering in the window of a
fisherman's cottage; he stepped into its light and looked at his
hands. There was no stain of blood on them, but he was angry at the
involuntary act; he felt it to be an accusation.
Just yet he could not meet Karen. He walked to the pier, and talked
to his conscience as he did so. "I never touched the man," he urged.
"I said nothing to lead him wrong. He was full of evil; his last
words were such as slay a woman's honor. I did right not to answer
him. A hundred times I have vowed I would not turn a finger to
save his life, and God heard and knew my vow. He delivered him
into my hand; he let me see the end of the wicked. I am not to
blame! I am not to blame!" Then said an interior voice, that he
had not silenced, "Go and tell the sheriff what has happened."
Liot turned home at this advice. Why should he speak now? Bele was
dead and buried; let his memory perish with him. He summoned from
every nook of his being all the strength of the past, the present,
and the future, and with a resolute hand lifted the latch of the
door. Karen threw down her knitting and ran to meet him; and when
he had kissed her once he felt that the worst was over. Paul asked
him about the house, and talked over his plans and probabilities,
and after an interval he said:
"I saw Bele Trenby's ship was ready for sea at the noon hour; she
will be miles away by this time. It is a good thing, for Mistress
Sabiston may now come to reason."
"It will make no odds to us; we shall not be the better for Bele's
absence."
"I think differently. He is one of the worst of men, and he makes
everything grow in Matilda's eyes as he wishes to. Lerwick can well
spare him; a bad man, as every one knows."
"A man that joys the devil. Let us not speak of him."
"But he speaks of you."
"His words will not slay me. Kinsman, let us go to sleep now; I am
promised to the fishing with the early tide."
But Liot could not sleep. In vain he closed his eyes; they saw more
than he could tell. There were invisible feet in his room; the air
was heavy with presence, and full of vague, miserable visions; for
"Wickedness, condemned by her own witness, is very timorous, and,
being pressed with Conscience, always forecasteth grievous things."
When Bele stepped into his grave there had been a bright moonlight
blending with the green, opalish light of the aurora charging to the
zenith; and in this mysterious mingled glow Liot had seen for a
moment the white, upturned face that the next moment went down with
open eyes into the bottomless water. Now, though the night had
become dark and stormy, he could not dismiss the sight, and anon
the Awful One who dwelleth in the thick darkness drew near, and for
the first time in his life Liot Borson was afraid. Then it was that
his deep and real religious life came to his help. He rose, and
stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room, and began to
plead his cause, even as Job did in the night of his terror. In
his strong, simple speech he told everything to God--told him the
wrongs that had been done him, the provocations he had endured.
His solemnly low implorations were drenched with agonizing tears,
and they only ceased when the dayspring came and drove the somber
terrors of the night before it.
Then he took his boat and went off to sea, though the waves were
black and the wind whistling loud and shrill. He wanted the
loneliness that only the sea could give him. He felt that he
must "cry aloud" for deliverance from the great strait into which he
had fallen. No man could help him, no human sympathy come between
him and his God. Into such communions not even the angels enter.
At sundown he came home, his boat loaded with fish, and his soul
quiet as the sea was quiet after the storm had spent itself. Karen
said he "looked as if he had seen Death"; and Paul answered: "No
wonder at that; a man in an open boat in such weather came near to
him." Others spoke of his pallor and his weariness; but no one saw
on his face that mystical self-signature of submission which comes
only through the pang of soul-travail.
He had scarcely changed his clothing and sat down to his tea before
Paul said: "A strange thing has happened. Trenby's ship is still
in harbor. He cannot be found; no one has seen him since he left the
ship yesterday. He bade Matilda Sabiston good-by in the morning, and
in the afternoon he told his men to be ready to lift anchor when the
tide turned. The tide turned, but he came not; and they wondered
at it, but were not anxious; now, however, there is a great fear
about him."
"What fear is there?" asked Liot.
"Men know not; but it is uppermost in all minds that in some way his
life-days are ended."
"Well, then, long or short, it is God who numbers our days."
"What do you think of the matter?" asked Paul.
"As you know, kinsman," answered Liot, "I have ever hated Bele, and
that with reason. Often I have said it were well if he were hurt,
and better if he were dead; but at this time I will say no word, good
or bad. If the man lives, I have nothing good to say of him; if he
is dead, I have nothing bad to say."
"That is wise. Our fathers believed in and feared the fetches of
dead men; they thought them to be not far away from the living, and
able to be either good friends or bitter enemies to them."
"I have heard that often. No saying is older than 'Bare is a man's
back without the kin behind him.'"
"Then you are well clad, Liot, for behind you are generations of
brave and good men."
"The Lord is at my right hand; I shall not be moved," said Liot,
solemnly. "He is sufficient. I am as one of the covenanted, for the
promise is 'to you and your children.'"
Paul nodded gravely. He was a Calvinistic pagan, learned in the
Scriptures, inflexible in faith, yet by no means forgetful of the
potent influences of his heroic dead. Truly he trusted in the Lord,
but he was never unwilling to remember that Bor and Bor's mighty
sons stood at his back. Even though they were in the "valley of
shadows," they were near enough in a strait to divine his trouble
and be ready to help him.
The tenor of this conversation suited both men. They pursued it in
a fitful manner and with long, thoughtful pauses until the night
was far spent; then they said, "Good sleep," with a look into each
other's eyes which held not only promise of present good-will, but a
positive "looking forward" neither cared to speak more definitely of.
The next day there was an organized search for Bele Trenby through
the island hamlets and along the coast; but the man was not found
far or near; he had disappeared as absolutely as a stone dropped
into mid-ocean. Not until the fourth day was there any probable
clue found; then a fishing-smack came in, bringing a little rowboat
usually tied to Howard Hallgrim's rock. Hallgrim was a very old man
and had not been out of his house for a week, so that it was only
when the boat was found at sea that it was missed from its place.
It was then plain to every one that Bele had taken the boat for
some visit and met with an accident.
So far the inference was correct. Bele's own boat being shipped ready
for the voyage, he took Hallgrim's boat when he went to see Auda
Brent; but he either tied it carelessly or he did not know the power
of the tide at that point, for when he wished to return the boat
was not there. For a few minutes he hesitated; he was well aware
that the foot-path across the moor was a dangerous one, but he was
anxious to leave Lerwick with that tide, and he risked it.
These facts flashed across Liot's mind with the force of truth, and
he never doubted them. All, then, hung upon Auda Brent's reticence;
if she admitted that Bele had called on her that afternoon, some
one would divine the loss of the boat and the subsequent tragedy.
For several wretched days he waited to hear the words that would
point suspicion to him. They were not spoken. Auda came to Lerwick,
as usual, with her basket of eggs for sale; she talked with Paul
Borson about Bele's disappearance; and though Liot watched her
closely, he noticed neither tremor nor hesitation in her face or
voice. He thought, indeed, that she showed very little feeling of any
kind in the matter. It took him some time to reach the conclusion
that Auda was playing a part--one she thought best for her honor
and peace.
[Illustration: A LERWICK MAN.]
In the mean time the preparations for his marriage with Karen
Sabiston went rapidly forward. He strove to keep his mind and heart
in tune with them, but it was often hard work. Sometimes Karen
questioned him concerning his obvious depression; sometimes she
herself caught the infection of his sadness; and there were little
shadows upon their love that she could not understand. On the day
before her marriage she went to visit her aunt Matilda Sabiston.
Matilda did not deny herself, but afterward Karen wished she had
done so. Almost her first words were of Bele Trenby, for whom she
was mourning with the love of a mother for an only son.
"What brings you into my sight?" she asked the girl. "Bele is dead
and gone, and you are living! and Liot Borson knows all about it!"
"How dare you say such a thing, aunt?"
"I can dare the truth, though the devil listened to it. As for
'aunt,' I am no aunt of yours."
"I am content to be denied by you; and I will see that Liot makes
you pay dearly for the words that you have said."
"No fear! he will not dare to challenge them! I know that."
"You have called him a murderer!"
"He did the deed, or he has knowledge of it. _One_ who never yet
deceived me tells me so much. Oh, if I could only bring that _one_
into the court I would hang Liot higher than his masthead! I wish to
die only that I may follow Liot, and give him misery on misery every
one of his life-days. I would also poison his sleep and make his
dreams torture him. If there is yet one kinsman behind my back, I
will force him to dog Liot into the grave."
"Liot is in the shelter of God's hand; he need not fear what you can
do to him. He can prove you liar far easier than you can prove him
murderer. On the last day of Bele's life Liot was at sea all day, and
there were three men with him. He spent the evening with John Twatt
and myself, and then sat until the midnight with Paul Borson."
"For all that, he was with Bele Trenby! I know it! My heart tells
me so."
"Your heart has often lied to you before this. I see, however, that
our talk had better come to an end once for all. I will never come
here again."
"I shall be the happier for that. Why did you come at this time?"
"I thought that you were in trouble about Bele. I was sorry for you.
I wished to be friends with every one before I married."
"I want no pity; I want vengeance; and from here or _there_ I will
compass it. While my head is above the mold there is no friendship
possible between us--no, nor after it. Do you think that Bele is
out of your way because he is out of the body? He is now nearer to
you than your hands or feet. And let Liot Borson look to himself.
The old thrall's curse was evil enough, but Bele Trenby will make
it measureless."
"Such words are like the rest of your lying; I will not fear them,
since God is himself, and he shall rule the life Liot and I will
lead together. When a girl is near her bridal every one but you will
give her a blessing. I think you have no heart; surely you never
loved any one."
"I have loved--_yes_!" Then she stood up and cried passionately:
"Begone! I will speak no more to you--only this: ask Liot Borson
what was the ending of Bele Trenby."
She was the incarnation of rage and accusation, and Karen almost
fled from her presence. Her first impulse was to go to Liot with the
story of the interview, but her second was a positive withdrawal of
it. It was the eve of her bridal day, and the house was already
full of strangers. Paul Borson was spending his money freely for
the wedding-feast. In the morning she was to become Liot's wife.
How could she bring contention where there should be only peace
and good-will?