be raised up; and that shall die that is corrupt.
"And the earth shall restore those that are asleep in her; and
the dust, those that dwell in silence; and the secret places
shall deliver those souls that were committed unto them.
"And the Most High shall appear upon the seat of judgment, and
misery shall pass away, and the long suffering shall have an
end.
"But judgment shall remain; truth shall stand; and faith shall
wax strong."
"I know nothing of these things, David; I cannot think of them.
What I want is some word of comfort about Vala--a little word from
beyond would make all the difference. _Why_ is it not given? _Why_
is there no answering voice from the other side? There is none on
this. _Why_ does God pursue a poor, broken-hearted woman so hardly?
Even now, when I have wept my heart cold and dumb, I do not please
him. One thing only is sure--my misery. Oh, _why, why_, David?"
And David could only drop his eyes before the sad, inquiring gaze of
Nanna's. He murmured something about Adam and the cross, and told her
sorrowfully that He who hung upon it, forsaken, in the dark, also
asked, "Why?" The austerity and profound mystery of his creed gave
him no more comforting answer to the pathetic inquiry.
He spent the day in the little hamlet, and, the weather being dry and
not very cold, he persuaded Nanna to take a walk upon the cliff-top
with him. She agreed because she had not the strength to oppose
his desire; but if David had had any experience with suffering
women, he would have seen at once how ineffectual his effort would
be. The gray, icy, indifferent sea had nothing hopeful to say to
her. The gray gulls, with their stern, cold eyes, watchful and
hungry, filled her ears with nothing but painful clamoring. There
was no voice in nature to cry, "Comfort," to a bruised soul.
She said the wind hurt her, that she was tired, that she would rather
sit still in the house and shut her eyes and think of Vala. She
leaned so heavily on him that David was suddenly afraid, and he
looked with more scrutiny into her face. If his eyes had been opened
he would have seen over its youth and beauty signs of a hand that
writes but once; for when despair assumes the dignity of patience
it carries with it the warrant of death.
They went slowly and silently back to the house, and as they
approached it David said, "Some one has called, for the door is
open." And they walked a little faster, so that Nanna's cheeks
flushed with the movement and the wind.
Matilda Sabiston sat on the hearthstone grumbling at the cold,
while the man-servant who had brought her so far was piling the peats
upon the fire to warm her feet and hands. When David and Nanna
entered she did not move, but she turned her eyes upon them with a
malignant anger that roused in both a temper very different from
that in which their hopeless walk had been taken. It was immediately
noticeable in Nanna. She dropped David's hand and walked forward
to her visitor, and they looked steadily at each other for a few
moments. Then Matilda said:
"Think shame of yourself, to be so soon at the courting again, and,
above all, with him!"
Nanna took no notice of the remark, but asked, "Why are you here? I
wish to have no dealings with you, for no good can come of them."
"Would I come here for good? There is no good in any of your kind. I
came here to tell you that I was glad that there is one Borson less."
"There has been death among your own kin, mistress," said David, "and
such death as should make the living fear to bring it to remembrance."
"I know it. You ought to fear. Did you slay Nicol, as your father
slew Bele Trenby, by water? or did you poison him with drugs? or is
your hand red with his life-blood? And now, before the fish have had
time to pick his bones, you are wooing his wife."
"Will you let Nanna alone? She is ill."
"Ill? Babble! Look at her rosy cheeks! She has been listening to your
love-words. Who sent you to the _Sea Rover_? What were you doing
there? A great plot! A wicked plot against poor Nicol!"
"I went to the _Sea Rover_ because--"
"Very ready you were to go to Nicol's ship and to do your will there!
Oh, it was a great opportunity! None to see! none to tell tales!
But I know you! I know you! The black drop of murder is in every
Borson's veins."
"Mistress, you are an old woman, and you may say your say. If you
were a man it would be different. I would cut out your lying tongue,
or make it eat its own words."
With railing and insolence she defied him to the act, and David stood
looking at her with his hands in his pockets. As for Nanna, she
had thrown off her cloak and seated herself on Vala's couch. She
was trying to control her temper; but the little room was already
impregnated with Matilda's personality, and Nanna could not escape
from those indirect but powerful influences that distil from an
actively evil life.
"I wish, Matilda Sabiston, that you would leave my house," she said.
"I think that you have brought the devil in with you."
Then Matilda turned in her chair and looked at Nanna. Her face,
handsomely prominent in youth, had become with sin and age like
that of a bird of prey; it was all nose and two fierce, gleaming eyes.
"Do you talk of the devil?" she screamed. "You, who drove your
husband to sin, and sent your baby to hell!"
Then Nanna, with a pitiful cry, buried her face in Vala's pillow;
and David, full of anger, said:
"I will take you from this house, mistress. You were not asked to
come here, and you cannot stay here."
"I will stay until I have said what you shall listen to. The child
of this woman has been taken for your father's sin. The mother will
go next. Then _you_ will bite the last morsel of Kol's curse. I am
living only to see this."
"I fear not the curse of any man," said David, in a passion. "There
is no power in any mortal's curse that prayer cannot wither. Keep it
to yourself--you, who believe in it. As for me--"
"As for you, I will give you some advice. When the new minister is
placed, go and tell him what Liot Borson told you at his death-hour.
For I know well he did not die without boasting of his revenge on
Bele Trenby. Death couldn't shut Liot's mouth till the words were
out of it. Make the confession your father ought to have made, and
let me hear it. I have said it, and fools have laughed at me, and
wise men have hid the words in their hearts; and I will not die
till my words are made true. And if you will not make them true,
then the dead will have their satisfaction, and love will go to
the grave and not to the bridal. Now, then, do what is before you.
I have set you your task."
She spoke with a rapid passion that would not be interrupted, and
then, still muttering threats and accusations, tottered out of the
cot on her servant's arm. David was speechless. The truth bound him.
What powers of divination this evil woman had, he knew not, but she
at least had driven home the unacknowledged fear in his heart. He sat
down by Nanna and tried to comfort her, but she could not listen to
him. "Leave me alone to-day," she pleaded. "I have had all I can
bear."
So he went back to Lerwick, feeling with every step he took that
the task Matilda had set him would have to be accomplished. The
humiliation would indeed be great, but if by confession he could ward
off punishment from Nanna he must accept the alternative. Himself he
took not into consideration. No threat and no fear of personal
suffering could have forced him to speak; but if, peradventure,
silence was sin, and sin brought sorrow, then his duty to others
demanded from him the long-delayed acknowledgment. However, he was
not yet certain of the right, and the new minister had not yet
come, and there is always some satisfaction in putting off what
is dubious and questionable.
The new minister was not finally settled until Christmas. He proved
to be a young man with the air of theological schools still around
him. David was afraid of him. He thought of the tender, mellowed
temper of the old man whose place he was to fill, and wished that
his acknowledgment had been made while he was alive. He feared to
bring his father's spiritual case before one who had never known
him, who had grown up "southward" under very different influences,
who would likely be quite unable to go a step beyond the letter of
the law.
He talked to Nanna frequently about the matter, and she was more
than inclined to silence. "Let well alone, David," she said. "What
good can come of calling back old sins and sorrows? Who has set you
this task? One who has always hated you. If God had sent, would he
have sent by _her_? No; but when the devil wants a cruel, wicked
messenger, he can get none so fit for his purpose as a bad old woman."
However, while David hesitated Matilda went to the new minister.
She prefaced her story by a gift of ten pounds for the replenishing
of the manse, and then told it according to her own wishes and
imagination.
"The minister dead and gone would not listen to me," she said. "He
was a poor creature, and Liot Borson was one of his pets. The man
could do no wrong in his eyes. So I have been sin-bearer for more
than twenty years. Now, then, I look to you to clear this matter to
the bottom, and let the talk about it come to an end once for all."
"It is a grave matter," said Minister Campbell, "and I am astonished
that my predecessor let it rest so long--though doubtless he did
it for the best, for there will be two sides to this, as to all
other disputes."
"There is not," answered Matilda, angrily. "All is as I have told
you."
"But, according to your testimony, Liot Borson's guilt rests on your
dreams. That is a poor foundation."
"I have always been a foresighted woman--a great dreamer--and I dream
true."
"But I know not how to call a kirk meeting on a dream."
"Was the Bible written for yesterday or for to-day?"
"It was written for every day, unto the end of time."
"Then look to it. Ask it how many of its great events hang upon
dreams. Take the dream life out of the Bible, minister, and where
are you?"
"Mistress Sabiston, I am not used to arguing with women, but I will
remind you that the dream life of the Bible does not rest on female
authority. It was the men of the Bible that saw visions and dreamed
dreams. As I remember, only one woman--a pagan, Pilate's wife--is
recorded as being in this way instructed. I should not be inclined to
discipline the memory of Liot Borson on the strength of your dream."
"There is, or there was, other evidence; for much of it has now
gone away through the door of death. What I want is Liot's own
confession. He made it to his son before he gave up the ghost. Now,
then, let David speak for his father."
"That is a different thing. If David has a message to deliver, he
must deliver it, or he is recreant to his trust."
"See to it, then. It is all I ask, but I have a right to ask it."
"What right?"
"Bele was my adopted son. I loved him. He was my heir. I was a
lone-living woman, and he was all I had. As I have told you, Liot
wished to marry my niece Karen, that he might heir my property. He
had every reason to get Bele out of his way, and he did it. Ask
his son."
"I will."
With these words he became silent, and Matilda saw that there was an
end of the conversation for that time. But she was now more eager
and passionate for the impeachment of Liot's good name than she had
ever been, and she vowed to herself that if Minister Campbell did
not give her satisfaction he should have all the petty misery and
trouble her money and influence could give him.
The young minister, however, did not hesitate. It was a most
unpleasant legacy to his charge, and he was straitened until he
had done his duty concerning it. He went to see David at once,
and heard from his lips the whole truth. And he was greatly impressed
with the story, for the young man told it with such truth and
tenderness that every word went heartwise. He could think of
nothing better than to call a meeting in the kirk, and summon David
to tell the congregation just what he had told him. And as it had
been Liot's intention to do this very thing himself, the minister
could not see that David would be guilty of any unkindness to his
father's memory. Quite the contrary. He would be fulfilling his
desire and doing for him the duty he had been unable personally to
perform.
David had nothing to say against the proposal. It turned him faint,
and he wondered if it would be possible for him to stand up in the
presence of his fellows, and in the sight of all the women who
admired and respected him, and do what was required. A cold sweat
covered his face; his large hands felt powerless; he looked at the
minister appealingly, but could not utter a word.
"You must speak for your father, David. Perhaps you ought to have
spoken before this. We can do so little for the dead that any wish of
theirs that is positive ought to be sacredly granted. What do you
say?"
"It is hard, minister. But what you say is right, that I will do."
"We will not touch the Sabbath day, David. I will ask the people to
come to the kirk next Wednesday afternoon. The men will not be at
sea, and the women will be at leisure then. What do you think?"
[Illustration: PEAT-GATHERERS.]
"As you think, minister."
"Tell them just what you have told me. I believe every word you have
said, and I will stand by you--I and all good men and women, I am
sure."
"Thank you, minister."
But he could scarcely utter the words. He had often thought of this
ordeal; now that it was really to face, his heart utterly failed
him. He went straight to Nanna, and she forgot her own sorrow in his,
and so comforted and strengthened him that he went away feeling
that all things would be possible if she was always as kind and
sympathetic.
It was then Friday, and Wednesday came inexorably and swiftly. David
tried in every way to prepare himself, but no strength came from his
efforts. Prayer, nor meditation, nor long memories of the past,
nor hopes for the future, had any potency. He was stupefied by
the thing demanded of him, and the simple, vivid cry which always
brings help had not yet been forced from his lips. But at the
last moment it came. Then the coldness and dumbness and wretched
inertness that had bound him, body and soul, were gone. When he saw
Matilda Sabiston enter the kirk, her eyes gleaming and her face eager
with evil expectations, he felt the wondrous words of David[3]
burning in his heart and on his lips, and he was no longer afraid.
Psalm after psalm went singing through his soul, and he said joyfully
to himself, "Sometimes God is long in coming, but he is _never too
late_."
The minister did not ascend the pulpit. He stood at the table, and
after a prayer and a hymn he said:
"We have come together this afternoon to hear what David Borson has
to say in regard to the charge which Matilda Sabiston has made for
twenty-six years against his father Liot Borson."
"That question was decided long ago," said an old man, rising slowly.
"I heard Minister Ridlon give verdict concerning it at the funeral
of Liot's wife."
"It was _not_ decided," cried Matilda, standing up, and turning her
face to the congregation. "Liot Borson found it easy to lie at his
wife's coffin-side, but when it came to his own death-hour he did
not dare to die without telling the truth. Ask his son David."
"David Borson," said the minister, "at your father's death-hour did
he indeed confess to the slaying of Bele Trenby?"
Then David stood up. All fear had gone, he knew not where. He
looked even taller than his wont. And the light of God's presence
was so close to him that his large, fair face really had a kind
of luminosity.
"Minister," he answered with a solemn confidence, "minister and
friends, my father at his death-hour expressly said that _he did
not slay Bele Trenby_. He said that he laid no finger on him, that
he fell into his own snare. This is what happened: He met my father
on the moss, and said, 'Good evening, Liot.' And my father said,
'It is dark,' and spoke no more. You know--all of you know--they
were ill friends and rivals; so, then, silence was the best. And
if Bele had been content to be silent and tread slowly in my
father's steps he had reached his ship in safety. But he must talk
and he must hurry; and the first was not wanted, and the second was
dangerous. And after a little my father's shoe-strings came undone,
and he stooped to tie them--who wouldn't, where a false step or a
fall might be death? And Bele went on, and called back to him, 'Is
this the crossing?' And father had not finished fastening his
shoes, and did not answer. So then Bele called again, and it is
likely father would not be hurried by him, and he did not answer
that time, either. And Bele said he was in the devil's temper, and
went on at his own risk. And the next moment there was a cry, and
my father lifted his head hastily, and the man had walked into the
moss, and then who _could_ help him? But well I know, if help had
been possible, my father would have given his own life to save
life, even though the man was ten times his enemy. Over and over I
have seen Liot Borson bring from the sea men who hated him, and whom
no one else would venture life for. Never mortal man walked closer
with God than Liot Borson. I, who have lived alone with him for
twenty years, I know this; and I will dare to say that in the
matter of Bele Trenby he did no worse, and perhaps a great deal
better, than any other man would have done. Why was Bele on the moss?
He was a sailor and a stranger. A man must have life-knowledge of
the moss to walk it in the night-time. When my father was willing to
guide him across it, was it too much that he should be silent, and
that he should let his guide do a thing so necessary as to secure
tightly his shoes on the soft, unstable ground? Was his guide to
let go this safe precaution because Bele was in a hurry to reach
his ship? Was Liot Borson to blame if the man's foolhardiness and
insolent presumption led him into danger and death? As for me, I say
this: I wish to be a man after my father's heart. For he was a
righteous man in all his ways, and kind-hearted to every creature
in trouble; and he was a life-saver, and not a murderer. And this
I, his loving son, will maintain to my last breath. And if, after
these words, any man says, 'Liot Borson was a murderer,' I will
call him a cowardly liar and slanderer at Lerwick Market Cross, and
follow the words to the end they deserve. And God knows I speak the
truth, and the whole truth."
Then David sat down, and there was an audible stir and movement of
sympathy and approbation. And the minister said: "I believe every
word you have spoken, David. If any present has a word to say, now
is the time to speak."
Then Elder Hay rose and said: "Of what use is talk? Liot Borson is
dead and judged. How shall we, sinful men ourselves, dare to meddle
with the verdict of the Lord God Almighty? If we in our ignorance or
spite reverse it, what a presumption it will be! And if we confirm
it, is God's decree made stronger by our 'yea, yeas'? What at all
does Mistress Sabiston want?"
"I want Liot Borson's name taken off the roll," she answered
vehemently. "It has no right in the kirk's books. Cross it out!
Blot it out! It is a shame to the white pages."
"Is there here any man or woman who will do Mistress Sabiston's will,
and cross out Liot Borson's name for her?" asked the minister.
There was a deep, emphatic "No!" And the minister continued: "I would
myself rather cut off my right hand than cross out the name of one
who has passed far beyond our jurisdiction. Suppose--and we have a
right to suppose--that the name of Liot Borson is written in the
shining letters of the book of life, and we have crossed it off our
kirk book! What then? I think this question is settled. I never want
to hear it named again. I will enter into no conversations about
it. It has been taken out of our hands by God himself. We will not
dare to discuss in any way what he has already decided. We will now
sing together the Forty-third Psalm."
And, amid the rustle of the opening leaves, the minister himself
started the psalmody. There was a little air of hurry in his
movements, as if he hasted to drown all contention in singing;
but he had reached his usual grave composure before the end of
the verses, and the benediction fell like the final satisfying
chords of the melody.
Matilda was dumfounded by such a cutting short of the case, but even
she dared not interrupt functions so holy as praise and prayer. In
the kirk she was compelled to restrain her indignation, but when
she found that the resolution of Minister Campbell not to discuss
the matter or enter into any conversation about it was universally
adopted by the townspeople, her anger found words such as are not
to be met with in books; and she did not spare them.
David was singularly happy and satisfied. He had been grandly
supported both by God and man, and he was grateful for the pronounced
kindness of his friends, for their hand-shakings and greetings and
loving words and wishes. But when both the enthusiasm and the pang
of conflict were over, oh, how good it was to clasp Nanna's hand,
and in this perfect but silent companionship to walk home with
her! Then Nanna made a cup of tea, and they drank it together, and
talked over what had been said and done, finally drifting, as
they always did, to that invincible necessity that whatever is
could not but so have been. And though their words were, as all human
words about God must be, terribly inadequate, yet their longing,
their love, and their fears were all understood. And He who is so
vast and strange when
With intellect we gaze,
Close to their hearts stole in,
In a thousand tender ways.
-----
[Footnote 3: 1 Ps. xxvii.]
IX
A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED
After this the winter came on rapidly and severely. The seas were
dangerous, and the fishing precarious and poor, and the fever
still lingered, many cases being found as far north as Yell. Thus
suffering and hard poverty and death filled the short days and made
twice as long the stretched-out nights of the dark season. The old
cloud gathered round David, and when the minister preached of
"the will and purposes of God," it seemed to David that they were
altogether penal. The unfathomable inner side of his life was all
gloom and doubt; how, then, could the material side be cheerful and
confident?
The new minister, however, had conceived a strong liking for the
young man; they were nearly of the same age; and he saw that David
was troubled about spiritual matters, and took every opportunity
to discuss them with him. But he had too much of the schools, he
was too untried, and had been, in the main, too happily situated to
comprehend David's views. The very piety of the two men was
different. David's was lively, personal, and tender; it sat in the
center. The minister's was official, intellectually accepted,
conscientiously practised. It was not strange, then, that any
dissent David ventured to make was not conceived of as a soul-query,
but rather as a challenge against impregnable truths. He was
always ready to defend Calvinism, though David did not consciously
attack it. To be sure, he said strange and daring things--things
which came from his heart, and which often staggered his opponent;
but all the more Minister Campbell put on his armor to defend his
creed.
"It is a hard religion for men and for women," said David, as they
talked a stormy afternoon away on Barbara's hearthstone; "and why
God gave it, I can't tell; for, after all, minister, the blessedness
of heaven is an eternity older than the damnation of hell."
"Men called it unto themselves, and it is not hard, David. It is a
grand creed; it is a strong anchor for a weak soul; it won't let a
man drift into the deep waters of infidelity or the miserable shoals
of 'perhaps' and 'suppose.' Neither will it let him float on waves
of feeling like Arminianism, and be content with 'ahs' and 'ohs,'
and shrink from 'therefores.' Calvinism makes strong men before the
Lord, David, and strong men are not laid on rose-leaves and fed on
pap and cream."
"That is true, minister; for it seems to me that whenever men are
to be fishers, and fight the winds and waves, or to make a living
out of bare moor or rocks, or to do any other of the hard work of
life, they are born Calvinists."