come; for I know I must soon be going, and there is this and that to
say--as there always is at the parting."
"I see that you are worse, father. Let me go for the doctor now."
"I will have no man meddle with the hour of my death; no one shall
either hurry or delay it."
"The doctor might give you some ease from your sore pain."
"I will bear His will to the uttermost. But come near to me, David; I
have some last words to say, and there is One at my side hasting me
forward."
"Tell me your wish now, father. I will do all that you desire."
"When you have put me in my grave, go to Shetland for me. I thought
to do my own errand--to get there just in time to do it, and die;
but it is hard counting with Death--he comes sooner than you expect.
David, I have brought you up in the way of life. Think no wrong of
me when I am gone away forever. Indeed, you'll not dare to," he said
with a sudden flash of natural pride in himself; "for though I may
have had a sore downfall, I could not get away from His love and
favor."
"None living shall say wrong of you in my hearing, father."
"But, David, there are those of the unregenerate who would make
much of my little slip. I might die, lad, and say nothing to any
man about it. Put a few peats on the fire; death is cold, and my feet
are in the grave already; so I may tell the truth now, for at this
hour no man can make me afraid. And there is no sin, I hope, in
letting Matilda Sabiston know, if she is still alive, that I owe Bele
Trenby nothing for the wrong he did me. St. Paul left the Almighty
to pay the ill-will he owed Alexander the coppersmith; but I could
not ask that much favor, being only Liot Borson; and no doubt the
Lord suffered me to pay my own debt--time and place being put so
unexpected into my hand."
Then he was awfully silent. The mortal agony was dealing its last
sharp blows, and every instinct impelled him to cry out against the
torment. But Liot Borson had put his mortality beneath his feet;
nothing could have forced a cry from him. His face changed as a
green leaf might change if a hot iron was passed over it; but he sat
grasping the rude arms of his wooden chair, disdaining the torture
while it lasted, and smiling triumphantly as it partly passed away.
"A few more such pangs and the fight will be over, David. So I will
swither and scruple no longer; I will tell the whole truth about
the drowning of Bele Trenby. Bele and I were never friends; but I
hated him when he began to meddle between me and Karen Sabiston. He
had no shadow of right to do so, for I had set my heart on her and
she had given me her promise; and I said then, and I say it now
with death at my elbow, that he had no right to step between me
and Karen. Yet he tried to do that thing, and if it had not been
for the minister I had stabbed him to his false heart. But the
minister bade me do no wrong, because I was of the household of
faith, and a born and baptized child of God, having come--mind
this, David--of generations of his saints. He said if Bele had done
me wrong, wrong would come to Bele, and I would live to see it."
"'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay'," quoted David, in a low voice.
But Liot answered sharply:
"The Lord sends by whom he will send. And it so happened that one
night, as Bele and I were walking together, I knew the hour had come."
"You took not the matter in your own hands surely, father?"
"There was none there but me. I laid no finger on him; he fell into
his own snare. I had said a thousand times--and the Lord had heard me
say it--that if one word of mine would save Bele Trenby from death,
I would not say that one word. Could I break my oath for a child
of the Evil One? Had Bele been of the elect I would have borne
that in mind; but Bele came of bad stock; pirates and smugglers were
his forebears, and the women not to name with the God-fearing--light
and vain women. So I hated Bele, and I had a right to hate him;
and one night, as I walked from Quarf to Lerwick, Bele came to my
side and said, 'Good evening, Liot.' And I said, 'It is dark,' and
spoke no more. And by and by we came to a stream swollen with rain
and snow-water, and Bele said, 'Here is the crossing.' And I answered
him not, for I knew it was _not_ the crossing. So as I delayed a
little--for my shoe-string was loose--Bele said again, 'Here is the
crossing.' And I told him neither yes nor no. And he said to me,
'It seemeth, Liot, thou art in a devil's temper, and I will stay no
longer with thee.' And with the ill words on his lips he strode
into the stream, and then overhead into the moss he went, and so
to his own place."
"Father, I am feared for a thing like that. There would be sin in it."
"I lifted no finger against him; my lips lied not. It was the working
out of his own sin that slew him."
"I would have warned him--yes, I would. Let me go for the minister;
he will not be feared to say, 'Liot, you did wrong,' if so he thinks."
"I have had my plea out with my Maker. If I did sin, I have paid
the price of the sin. Your mother was given to me, and in two years
the Lord took her away. I thought to fill my eyes with a sight
of the whole world, and I was sent to this desolate place for a
life-sentence, to bide its storm and gloom and gust and poverty, and
in this bit cabin to dree a long, fierce wrestle with Death, knowing
all the time he would get the mastery over me in the end." Then,
suddenly pausing, his gray face glowed with passionate rapture,
and lifting up his right hand he cried out: "No, no, David; _I_ am
the conqueror! There are two ways of dying, my lad--victory and
defeat. Thank God, I have the victory through Jesus Christ, my
Lord and Saviour!"
"Who is the propitiation for all sin, father."
"Sin!" cried the dying man, "sin! I have nothing to do with sin. 'Who
shall lay anything to the charge of God's elect?' for, 'Whosoever is
born of God doth not commit sin--he cannot sin, for he is born of
God.' I did indeed make a sore stumble; so also did David, and
natheless he was a man after God's own heart. What has man to do
with my fault? _He_ has entered into judgment with me, and I have
gladly borne the hand of the smiter."
"Gladly, father?"
"Ay, David, gladly. For had I not been _his_ son, he would have 'let
me alone,' as he does those joined to their idols; but because he
loved me he chastised me; and I have found that his rod as well as
his staff can comfort in affliction. Some of his bairns deserve and
get the rod of iron. Be good, David, and he will stretch out to you
only his golden scepter."
"And also you have the Intercessor."
"If I had not I would plead my own cause, as Job did. I would rise
up and answer him like a man, for he is a just God. Mercy may have
times and seasons, but justice is the same yesterday, to-day, and
forever. 'Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?'"
"Would you say that, father, if justice sent you to the place of
torment?"
"Ay, would I! 'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.' But I
am not fearing the place of torment, David. And as for this world,
it is at my feet like a cast-off shoe, and all its gold and gear is
as the wrack of the sea. But you will find a few sovereigns in my
chest, and a letter for your cousin Paul Borson; and the ship and
the house you may do your will with."
"It is your will in all things that I care to do, father. And now,
if you would but let me away for the minister, maybe you could say
a word to him you are not caring to say to me--a word of sorrow or
remorse--"
"Remorse! remorse! No, no, David! Remorse is for feeble souls;
remorse is the virtue of hell; remorse would sin again if it could.
I have repented, David, and repentance ends all. See to your Larger
Catechism, David--Question 76."
Throughout this conversation speech had been becoming more and
more painful to him. The last words were uttered in gasps of
unconquerable agony, and a mortal spasm gave a terrible emphasis
to this spiritual conviction. When it had passed he whispered
faintly, "The pains of hell get hold on me--on my body, David; they
cannot touch my soul. Lay me down now--at His feet--I can sit in
my chair no longer."
So David laid him in his bunk. "Shall I say _the words_ now--the
words you marked, father?" he asked.
"Ay; the hour has come."
Then David knelt down and put his young, fresh face very close to the
face of the dying man, and said solemnly and clearly in his very ear
the chosen words of trust:
"When the waves of death compassed me;
"When the sorrows of hell compassed me about, and the snares
of death prevented me,
"In my distress I called upon the Lord, and cried to my God:
and he did hear my voice out of his temple, and my cry did
enter into his ears."
* * * * *
"The sorrows of death compassed me, and the pains of hell gat
hold upon me: I found trouble and sorrow.
"Then called I upon the name of the Lord; O Lord, I beseech
thee, deliver my soul....
"Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt
bountifully with thee.
"For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from
tears, and my feet from falling....
"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints."
Here David ceased. It was evident that the mighty words were no
longer necessary. A smile, such as is never seen on mortal face until
the light of eternity falls upon it, illumined the gaunt, stern
features, and the outlooking eyes flashed a moment in its radiance. A
solemn calm, a certain pomp of conscious grandeur in his victory
over death and the grave, encompassed the dying man, and gave to
the prone figure a majestic significance. As far as this world was
concerned, Liot Borson was a dead man. For two days he lingered on
life's outermost shoal, but at sunrise the third morning he went
silently away. It was full tide; the waves broke softly on the
shingle, and the sea-birds on the lonely rocks were crying for
their meat from God. Suddenly the sunshine filled the cabin, and
David was aware of something more than the morning breeze coming
through the wide-open door. A sense of lofty _presence_ filled the
place. "It is the flitting," he said with a great awe; and he stood
up with bowed head until a feeling of indescribable loneliness
testified that the soul which had hitherto dwelt with him was gone
away forever.
He went then to the body. Death had given it dignity and grandeur. It
was evident that in Liot's case the great change had meant victory
and not defeat. Almost for the first time in his life David kissed
his father. Then he went into Uig and told the minister, and said
simply to his mates, "My father is dead." And they answered:
"It is a happy change for him, David. Is it to-morrow afternoon you
would like us to come?"
And David said: "Yes; at three o'clock the minister will be there."
He declined all companionship; he could wake alone with the dead.
For the most part he sat on the door-step and watched the rising and
setting of the constellations, or walked to and fro before the open
door, ever awfully aware of that outstretched form, the house of
clay in which his father and companion had dwelt so many years at
his side. Sometimes he slept a little with his head against the post
of the door, and then the sudden waking in the starlight made him
tremble.
He had thought this night would be a session of solemnity never
to be forgotten; but he found himself dozing and his thoughts
drifting, and it was only by an effort that he could compel anything
like the attitude he desired. For we cannot kindle when we will
the sacred fire of the soul. And David was disappointed in his
spiritual experience, and shocked at what he called his coldness and
indifference, which, after all, were not coldness and indifference,
but the apathy of exhausted feeling and physical weariness.
The next afternoon there was a quiet gathering in the cabin that
had been Liot's, and a little prayer and admonition; then, in the
beauteous stillness of the summer day, the fishers made a bier of
their crossed oars, and David laid his father upon it. There was no
coffin; the long, majestic figure of humanity was only folded close
in a winding-sheet and his own blue blanket. So, by the sea-shore,
as the tide murmured and the sun glinted brightly through swirling
banks of gray clouds, they carried him to his long home. No one
spoke as he entered it. The minister dropped his kerchief upon
the upturned face, and David cast the first earth. Then the dead
man's friends, each taking the spade in his turn, filled in the
empty place, and laid over it the sod, and went silently away in
twos and threes, each to his own home.
When all had disappeared, David followed. He had now an irresistible
impulse to escape from his old surroundings. He did not feel as if he
cared to see again any one who had been a part of his past. He
went back to the cabin, ate some bread and fish, and then with a
little reluctance opened his father's chest. There was small wealth
in it--only some letters, and Liot's kirk clothes, and a leather
purse containing sixteen sovereigns. David saw at a glance that the
letters were written by his mother. He wondered a moment if his
father had yet found her again, and then he kissed the bits of
faded script and laid them upon the glowing peats. The money he
put in his pocket, and the chest and clothing he resolved to take
to Shetland with him. As for the cabin, he decided to give it to
Bella Campbell. "She was sore put to it last winter to shelter
her five fatherless bairns; and if my father liked any one more than
others, it was Angus Campbell," he thought.
Then he went out and looked at the boat. "It is small," he said,
"but it will carry me to Shetland. I can keep in the shadows of the
shore. And though it is a far sail round Cape Wrath and Dunnet Head,
it is summer weather, and I'll win my way if it so pleases God."
And thus it happened that on the first day of August this lonely
wayfarer on cheerless seas caught sight of the gray cliffs of the
Shetlands, lying like dusky spots in the sapphire and crimson
splendors of the setting sun.
Book Second
DAVID BORSON
BOOK SECOND
CONTENTS
PAGE
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
V
A NEW LIFE
Between David and the misty Hebrides there was now many a league of
the separating, changeful, dangerous, tragic sea, but the journey
over this great waterway had been a singularly fortunate one.
David, indeed, had frequently likened himself to the young Tobias
on a similar errand; for his father had particularly pointed out
this history, and had read aloud to him with an emphasis not to
be forgotten the old Hebrew father's parting charge: "Go! and
God, which dwelleth in heaven, prosper your journey, and the angel
of God keep you company."
To David this angelic companionship was no impossible hope and
reliance. As the south winds drove him north and the west winds sent
him east just at the proper times, he believed that some wise and
powerful pilot stood at the wheel unseen; and he went about his boat
with the cheerful confidence of a child who is sure his father can
take care of him. Sometimes he kept so close to the shore that he
rippled the shadows of the great cliffs, and sometimes he ran into
little coves and replenished his water-casks, or bought in the
seaward clachans a supply of fresh cakes or fish. He met no very bad
weather. The unutterable desolation of the misty miles of sullen
water did give him times of such weariness as makes the soul sink
back upon itself and retire from all hope and affection. But such
hours were evanescent; they were usually ended by a brisk wind,
bringing peril to the little bark, and then David's first instinct
was heavenward. He knew if the winds and waves rose mightily, as it
was their wont in that locality, there was no human help, and
his trust was instantly in the miraculous. Such hours were, however,
rare. As a general thing the days and the nights followed each
other with a stillness and beauty full of the presence of God. And in
the sweetness of this presence he threw himself unperplexed upon
infinite love and power, and seeking God with all his heart found him.
Also, he was not forgetful of the human interest of his journey. His
father had always felt himself to be a stranger and an exile in
Skye, and in his later years the "homing" instinct for the Shetlands
had been a passionate longing, which had communicated itself to
David. He had been glad to leave Uig, for he had not a single happy
memory of the little hut in which they two had dwelt and suffered
together. As for the bleak kirkyard, over which the great winds blew
the sea-foam, it made his heart ache to remember it. He felt an
unspeakable pity when he thought of one of its solitary graves,
and he promised himself to sail back to Uig some day, and bring
home the dust of his father, and lay it among his kindred.
Indeed, it was thoughts of home and kindred which made this long,
lonely voyage happy and hopeful to David. He believed himself to be
going home. Though his father at the last had not spoken much of
his cousin Paul Borson, and though David had not found the letter
which was to be his introduction to him, yet he had not a doubt
of his welcome. Time might wither friendship and slay love, but
his kindred were always his kindred; they were bound to him by the
ineffaceable and imperishable ties of blood and race.
David approached Lerwick in that divine twilight which in the
Shetland summer links day unto day; and in its glory the ancient
homes of gray and white sandstone appeared splendid habitations.
The town was very quiet; even the houses seemed to be asleep. He
saw no living thing but a solitary sea-gull skimming the surface
of the sea; he heard nothing but a drunken sailor fitfully singing a
stave of "The Skaalds of Foula." The clear air, the serene seas, the
tranquil grandeur of the caverned rocks which guard the lonely
isles, charmed him. And when the sun rose and he saw their mural
fronts of porphyry, carved by storms into ten thousand castles
in the air, and cloud-like palaces still more fantastic, he felt his
heart glow for the land of his birth and the home of his forefathers.
To the tumult of almost impossible hopes, he brought in his little
craft. He had felt certain that his appearance would awaken at
once interest and speculation; that Paul Borson would hear of his
arrival and come running to meet him; that his father's old friends,
catching the news, would stop him on the quay and the street, and ask
him questions and give him welcome. He had also told himself that
it was likely his father's cousin would have sons and daughters,
and if so, that they would certainly be glad to see him; besides
which there was his mother's family--the old Icelandic Sabistons. He
was resolved to seek them all out, rich or poor, far or near; in
his heart there was love enough and to spare, however distant the
kinship might be.
For David's conceptions of the family and racial tie were not
only founded upon the wide Hebraic ideals, but his singularly
lonely youth and affectionate nature had disposed him to make an
exaggerated estimate of the obligations of kindred. And again,
this personal leaning was greatly strengthened by the inherited
tendency of Norse families to "stand by each other in all haps."
Therefore he felt sure of his welcome; for, though Paul was but
his far-off cousin, they were both Borsons, sprung from the same
Norse root, children of the same great ancestor, the wise and brave
Norwegian Bor.
Lying in the Bay of Lerwick, the sense of security and of nearness
to friends gave him what he had long missed--a night of deep,
dreamless sleep. When he awoke it was late in the morning, and he had
his breakfast to prepare and every spar and sail and rope to put in
perfect order; then he dressed himself with care, and sailed
into harbor, managing his boat with a deftness and skill he expected
a town of fishermen and sailors to take notice of. Alas, it is so
difficult to find a fortunate hour! David's necessary delay had
brought the morning nearly to the noon, and he could hardly have
fallen on a more depressing time; for the trade of the early
morning was over, and the men were in their houses taking that
sleep which those who work by night must secure in the daytime.
The fishing-boats, all emptied of their last night's "take" and
cleaned, were idly rocking on the water. The utmost quiet reigned
in the sunny streets, and the little pier was deserted. No one
took any notice of David.
Greatly disappointed, and even wounded, by this very natural
neglect, David made fast his boat and stepped on shore. He put his
feet down firmly, as if he was taking possession of his own, and
stood still and looked around. He saw a man with his hands in his
pockets loitering down the street, and he went toward him; but as
he came within speaking distance the man turned into a house and
shut the door. Pained and curious, he continued his aimless walk.
As he passed Fae's store he heard the confused sound of a number of
men talking, then silence, then the tingling notes of a fiddle very
cleverly played. For a moment he was bewitched by the music; then he
was sure that nothing but the little sinful fiddle of carnal
dance and song could make sounds so full of temptation. And as
Odysseus, passing the dwelling-place of the sirens, "closed his
ears and went swiftly by, singing the praises of the gods," so
David, remembering his father's counsels, closed his ears to the
enchanting strains and hastened beyond their power to charm him.
A little farther on a lovely girl, with her water-pitcher on her
head and her knitting in her hands, met him. She looked with a shy
smile at David, and the glance from her eyes made him thrill with
pleasure; but before he had a word ready she had passed, and he
could only turn and look at her tall form and the heavy braids of
pale-brown hair below the water-pitcher. He felt as if he were in a
dream as he went onward again down the narrow street of gray and
white houses--houses so tall, and so fantastic, and so much larger
than he had ever seen, that they impressed him with a sense of
grandeur in which he had neither right nor place; for, though he
saw women moving about within them and children sitting on the
door-steps, no one spoke to him, no one seemed interested in his
presence; and yet he had come to them with a heart so full of love!
Never for a moment did he reflect that his anticipations had rested
only on his own desires and imaginations.
His disappointment made him sorrowful, but in no degree resentful.
"It was not to be," he decided. Then he resolved to return to a
public house he had noticed by the pier. There he could get his
dinner and make some inquiries about his kindred. As he turned he met
face to face a middle-aged woman with a basket of turf on her back.
"Take care, my lad," she said cheerfully; and her smile inspired
David with confidence.
"Mother," he said, doffing his cap with instinctive politeness,
"mother, I am a stranger, and I want to find my father's people--the
Borsons. Where do they live?"
"My lad, the sea has them. It is Paul Borson you are asking for?"
"Yes, mother."
"He went out in his boat with his four sons one night. The boat came
back empty. It is two years since."
[Illustration: "'I WANT TO FIND MY FATHER'S PEOPLE.'"]
"I am Liot Borson's son."
"You?"
"Yes. Have I any kin left?"
"There is your far-cousin Nanna. She was Paul's one daughter, and he
saw the sun shine through her eyes. She is but sadly off now. Come
into my house, and I will give you a cup of tea and a mouthful of
bread and fish. Thank God, there is enough for you and for me!"
"I will come," said David, simply; and he took the basket from the
woman, and flung it lightly over his own shoulder. Then they went
together to a house in one of the numerous "closes" running from
the main street to the ocean. It was a very small house, but it was
clean, and was built upon a rock, the foundations of which were
deep down in the sea. When the tide was full David could have sailed
his boat under its small seaward window. It contained a few pieces
of handsome furniture, and some old Delft earthenware which had
been brought from Holland by seafaring kindred long ago; all else
savored of narrow means.