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JAN VEDDER'S WIFE
by
AMELIA E. BARR
New York: Dodd, Mead & Company Publishers.
Copyright, 1885 by Dodd, Mead & Company
CONTENTS.
Chapter I.--Jan's Wedding. 1
Chapter II.--A Little Cloud in the Sky. 17
Chapter III.--Jan's Opportunity. 36
Chapter IV.--The Desolated Home. 54
Chapter V.--Shipwreck. 74
Chapter VI.--Margaret's Heart. 94
Chapter VII.--The Man at Death's Door. 116
Chapter VIII.--Death and Change. 140
Chapter IX.--Jan at His Post. 167
Chapter X.--Sweet Home. 193
Chapter XI.--Snorro Is Wanted. 228
Chapter XII.--Snorro and Jan. 252
Chapter XIII.--Little Jan's Triumph. 275
Chapter XIV.--Jan's Return. 297
Chapter XV.--Labor and Rest. 317
CHAPTER I.
JAN'S WEDDING.
"Eastward, afar, the coasts of men were seen
Dim, shadowy, and spectral; like a still
Broad land of spirits lay the vacant sea
Beneath the silent heavens--here and there,
Perchance, a vessel skimmed the watery waste,
Like a white-winged sea-bird, but it moved
Too pale and small beneath the vail of space.
There, too, went forth the sun
Like a white angel, going down to visit
The silent, ice-washed cloisters of the Pole."
--RICHTER'S "TITAN."
More than fifty years ago this thing happened: Jan Vedder was
betrothed to Margaret Fae. It was at the beginning of the Shetland
summer, that short interval of inexpressible beauty, when the amber
sunshine lingers low in the violet skies from week to week; and the
throstle and the lark sing at midnight, and the whole land has an air
of enchantment, mystic, wonderful, and far off.
In the town of Lerwick all was still, though it was but nine o'clock;
for the men were at the ling-fishing, and the narrow flagged street
and small quays were quite deserted. Only at the public fountain there
was a little crowd of women and girls, and they sat around its broad
margin, with their water pitchers and their knitting, laughing and
chatting in the dreamlike light.
"Well, and so Margaret Fae marries at last; she, too, marries, like
the rest of the world."
"Yes, and why not?"
"As every one knows, it is easier to begin that coil than to end it;
and no one has ever thought that Margaret would marry Jan--he that is
so often at the dance, and so seldom at the kirk."
"Yes, and it is said that he is not much of a man. Magnus Yool can wag
him here; and Nicol Sinclair send him there, and if Suneva Torr but
cast her nixie-eyes on him, he leaves all to walk by her side. It is
little mind of his own he hath; besides that, he is hard to deal with,
and obstinate."
"That is what we all think, Gisla; thou alone hast uttered it. But we
will say no more of Jan, for oft ill comes of women's talk."
The speakers were middle-aged women who had husbands and sons in the
fishing fleet, and they cast an anxious glance toward it, as they
lifted their water pitchers to their heads, and walked slowly home
together, knitting as they went. Lerwick had then only one street of
importance, but it was of considerable length, extending in the form
of an amphitheater along the shore, and having numberless little lanes
or closes, intersected by stairs, running backward to an eminence
above the town. The houses were generally large and comfortable, but
they were built without the least regard to order. Some faced the sea,
and some the land, and the gable ends projected on every side, and at
every conceivable angle. Many of their foundations were drilled out of
the rock upon the shore, and the smooth waters of the bay were six
feet deep at the open doors or windows.
The utmost quiet reigned there. Shetland possessed no carts or
carriages, and only the clattering of a shelty's gallop, or the song
of a drunken sailor disturbed the echoes. The whole place had a
singular, old-world look, and the names over the doors carried one
back to Norseland and the Vikings. For in these houses their children
dwelt, still as amphibious as their forefathers, spending most of
their lives upon the sea, rarely sleeping under a roof, or warming
themselves at a cottage fire; a rugged, pious, silent race, yet
subject, as all Norsemen are, to fits of passionate and uncontrollable
emotion.
Prominently among the Thorkels and Halcros, the Yools and Traills,
stood out the name of Peter Fae. Peter had the largest store in
Lerwick, he had the largest fish-curing shed, he was the largest boat
owner. His house of white stone outside the town was two stories high,
and handsomely furnished; and it was said that he would be able to
leave his daughter Margaret L10,000; a very large fortune for a
Shetland girl. Peter was a Norseman of pronounced type, and had the
massive face and loose-limbed strength of his race, its faculty for
money-getting, and its deep religious sentiment. Perhaps it would be
truer to say, its deep Protestant sentiment, for Norsemen have always
been Protestants; they hated the Romish church as soon as they heard
of it.
If the Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-American wishes to see whence came the
distinguishing traits of his race, let him spend a few weeks among the
Shetland Norsemen, for they have pre-eminently those qualities we are
accustomed to pride ourselves upon possessing--the open air freshness
of look, the flesh and blood warmth of grip, the love of the sea, the
resolute earnestness of being and doing, the large, clear sincerity of
men accustomed to look stern realities in the face.
Peter's wife, Thora, was also of pure Norse lineage, and in many an
unrecognized way her ancestors influenced her daily life. She had
borne four sons, but, in the expressive form of Shetland speech, "the
sea had got them;" and her daughter Margaret was the sole inheritor of
their gathered gold. Thora was a proud, silent woman, whose strongest
affections were with her children in their lonely sea graves. In her
heart, deeper down than her faith could reach, lay a conviction that
the Faes and Thorkels who had sailed those seas for centuries had
"called" her boys to them. And she was always nursing an accusation
against herself for a rite which she had observed for their welfare,
but which she was now sure had been punished by their death. For
often, when they had been tossing on the black North Sea, she had gone
to the top of the hill, and looking seaward she had raised from the
past the brown-sailed ships, and the big yellow-haired men tugging at
their oars; and in her heart there had been a supplication to their
memory, which Peter, had he known it, would have denounced, with the
sternest wrath, as neither more nor less than a service to Satan.
But what do we know of the heart nearest to our own? What do we know
of our own heart? Some ancestor who sailed with Offa, or who fought
with the Ironsides, or protested with the Covenanters, or legislated
with the Puritans, may, at this very hour, be influencing us, in a way
of which we never speak, and in which no other soul intermeddles.
Thora had one comfort. Her daughter was of a spirit akin to her own.
Peter had sent her to Edinburgh, hoping that she would bring back to
his northern home some of those lowland refinements of which he had a
shadowy and perhaps exaggerated idea. But Margaret Fae's character
was not of that semi-fluid nature which can easily be run into new
molds. She had looked with distrust and dislike upon a life which
seemed to her artificial and extravagant, and had come back to
Shetland with every Norse element in her character strengthened and
confirmed.
What then made her betroth herself to Jan Vedder? A weak, wasteful
man, who had little but his good-natured, pleasant ways and his great
beauty to recommend him. And yet the wise and careful Margaret Fae
loved him; loved him spontaneously, as the brook loves to run, and the
bird loves to sing.
"But bear in mind, husband," said Thora, on the night of the
betrothal, "that this thing is of thy own doing. Thou hired Jan
Vedder, when thou couldst well have hired a better man. Thou brought
him to thy house. Well, then, was there any wonder that ill-luck
should follow the foolish deed?"
"Wife, the lad is a pleasant lad. If he had money to even Margaret's
tocher, and if he were more punctual at the ordinances, there would be
no fault to him."
"So I think, too. But when a man has not religion, and has beside
empty pockets, then he is poor for both worlds. It seems, then, that
our Margaret must marry with a poor man. And let me tell thee, it was
a little thing moved thee, for because Jan had a handsome face, and a
bright smile, thou liked him."
"Many a sore heart folks get who set liking before judgment. But if
there is good in the lad, then to get married will bring it out."
"That is as it may be. Often I have seen it bring out ill. Can any one
tell if a man be good or ill, unless they dwell under the same roof
with him? Abroad, who is so pleasant as Ragon Torr? But at home, every
body there has to look to his wishes."
At this point in the conversation, Margaret entered. She was a tall,
straight girl, with a finely-featured, tranquil face, admirably framed
in heavy coils of hair that were yellow as dawn. Her complexion was
exquisite, and her eyes blue, and cool, and calm. She was still and
passionless in manner, but far from being cold at heart; nevertheless,
her soul, with the purity of crystal, had something also of its sharp
angles; something which might perhaps become hard and cutting. She
carried herself loftily, and walked with an air of decision. Peter
looked at her steadily and said:
"Now, thou hast done ill, Margaret. When a young girl marries, she
must face life for herself; and many are the shoulders that ask for
burdens they can not bear."
"Yes, indeed! And it is all little to my mind," added the mother. "I
had spoken to thee for thy cousin Magnus Hay; and then here comes this
Jan Vedder!"
"Yes, he comes!" and Margaret stood listening, the pink color on her
cheeks spreading to the tips of her ears, and down her white throat.
"Yes, he comes!" and with the words, Jan stood in the open door. A
bright, handsome fellow he was! There was no one in all the Islands
that was half so beautiful.
"Peter," he cried joyfully, "here has happened great news! The
'Sure-Giver' is in the harbor with all her cargo safe. She came in
with the tide. All her planks and nails are lucky."
"That is great news, surely, Jan. But it is ill luck to talk of good
luck. Supper is ready sit down with us."
But Thora spoke no word, and Jan looked at Margaret with the question
in his eyes.
"It means this, and no more, Jan. I have told my father and mother
that thou would make me thy wife."
"That is what I desire, most of all things."
"Then there is little need of long talk. I betroth myself to thee here
for life or death, Jan Vedder; and my father and my mother they are
the witnesses;" and as she spoke, she went to Jan, and put her hands
in his, and Jan drew her proudly to his breast and kissed her.
Thora left the room without a glance at the lovers. Peter stood up,
and said angrily: "Enough, and more than enough has been said this
night. No, Jan; I will not put my palm against thine till we have
spoken together. There is more to a marriage than a girl's 'Yes', and
a wedding ring."
That was the manner of Jan's betrothal; and as he walked rapidly back
into the town, there came a feeling into his heart of not being quite
pleased with it. In spite of Margaret's affection and straightforward
decision, he felt humiliated.
"It is what a man gets who wooes a rich wife," he muttered; "but I
will go and tell Michael Snorro about it." And he smiled at the
prospect, and hurried onward to Peter's store.
For Michael Snorro lived there. The opening to the street was closed;
but the one facing the sea was wide open; and just within it, among
the bags of feathers and swans' down, the piles of seal skins, the
barrels of whale oil, and of sea-birds' eggs, and the casks of smoked
geese, Michael was sitting. The sea washed the warehouse walls, and
gurgled under the little pier, that extended from the door, but it was
the only sound there was. Michael, with his head in his hands, sat
gazing into the offing where many ships lay at anchor. At the sound of
Jan's voice his soul sprang into his face for a moment, and he rose,
trembling with pleasure, to meet him.
In all his desolate life, no one had loved Michael Snorro. A suspicion
that "he was not all there," and therefore "one of God's bairns," had
insured him, during his long orphanage, the food, and clothes, and
shelter, necessary for life; but no one had given him love. And
Michael humbly acknowledged that he could not expect it, for nature
had been cruelly unkind to him. He was, indeed, of almost gigantic
size, but awkward and ill-proportioned. His face, large and flat, had
the whiteness of clay, except at those rare intervals when his soul
shone through it; and no mortal, but Jan Vedder, had ever seen that
illumination.
It would be as hard to tell why Michael loved Jan as to say why
Jonathan's soul clave to David as soon as he saw him. Perhaps it was
an unreasonable affection, but it was one passing the love of woman,
and, after all, can we guess how the two men may have been spiritually
related? There was some tie of which flesh and blood knew not between
them.
"Michael, I am going to be married."
"Well, Jan--and what then?"
"It will be with me as others; I shall have children, and grow rich,
and old, and die."
"Who is it, Jan?"
"Margaret Fae."
"I thought that. Well, thou art sunshine, Jan, and she is like a pool
of clear water. If the sun shines not, then the water will freeze, and
grow cold and hard."
"Thou dost not like women, Michael."
"Nay, but I trust them not. Where the devil can not go, he sends a
woman. Well, then, he will find no such messenger for me. He must come
himself. That is well; the fight will be easier."
"When I am married I shall sail my own boat, and thou shalt be always
with me, Michael. We will feel the fresh wind blowing in the canvas,
and the salt spindrift in our faces, and the boat going as if she were
a solan flying for the rock."
"Is that thy thought, then? Let me tell thee that thou art counting
thy fish while they are swimming. Until Peter Fae's hands are full of
earth, he will not part with one gold piece. Make up thy mind to
that."
"Margaret will have her tocher."
"That will be seen; but if thou wants money, Jan, there it is in my
chest, and what greater joy can I have than to see it in thy hand--all
of it? It would be thy grace to me."
Then Jan rose up and laid his arm across Michael's shoulder; and
Michael's lifted face caught the glow of Jan's bending one and the
men's souls spoke to each other, though their lips never parted.
The next day proved Michael right. Peter did not name Margaret's
tocher. He said he would give Margaret a house with all needful
plenishing; and he promised also to pay all the wedding expenses. But
there was no word of any sum of ready money; and Jan was too proud in
his poverty to ask for his right. He did, indeed, suggest that when he
was a house-holder he should have more wages. But Peter would not see
the justice of any such addition. "I give thee all thou art worth, and
I will not give thee a Scotch merk more," he answered roughly. "When
it comes to a question of wage, Jan, the son and the stranger are the
same to me." And when Jan told his friend what had been promised,
Michael said only: "Well, then, thou wilt have the woman also."
The twelfth of August is "the fisherman's foy" in Shetland, and the
great feast of the Islands. It was agreed, therefore, that the
marriage should take place at that time. For there would be at least
two hundred fishing vessels in Brassy Sound at that time, and with
most of the fishermen Peter either had had business, or might have in
the future.
"For three days we will keep the feast for all who choose to come," he
said; and so, when the procession formed for the church, nearly six
hundred men and women were waiting to follow Jan and his bride. Then
Jan led her to the front of it, and there was a murmur of wonder and
delight. Her dress was of the richest white satin, and her heavy
golden ornaments--the heirlooms of centuries--gave a kind of barbaric
splendor to it. The bright sunlight fell all over her, and added to
the effect; and Jan, with a bridegroom's pardonable pride, thought she
looked more than mortal.
Going to the church, the procession preserved the gravity of a
religious rite; but on the return, some one touched lightly the
strings of a violin, and, in a moment, hundreds of voices were
chanting:
"It is often that I have said it: In the night thou art my dream, and
my waking thought in the morning.
"I loved thee always; not for three months, not for a year, but I
loved thee from the first, and my love shall not wither, until death
part us.
"Oh, my beloved! My wife! Dearer to me than the light of the day!
Closer to me than my hands and feet! Nothing but death shall part thee
and me, forever!"
The singing opened their hearts; then came the feast and the dance,
that endless active dance which is the kind of riot in which grave
races give vent to the suppressed excitement of their lives. It did
not please Margaret; she was soon weary of the noise and commotion,
and heartily glad when, on the eve of the third day, she was called
upon to give the parting toast:
"Here's to the men who cast the net, and the long line," she cried,
lifting the silver cup above her head. "And may He hold His hand about
them all, and open the mouth of the gray fish!"
"And here's to the bride," answered the oldest fisher present, "and
may God give her a blessing in both hands!"
Then they separated, and some went to their homes in Lerwick and
Scalloway, and others sailed to Ireland and Scotland, and even
Holland; but Peter knew that however much the feast had cost him, it
was money put out at good interest, and that he would be very likely
to find it again at the next fishing season.