THE DESOLATED HOME.
"For we two, face to face,
God knows are further parted
Than were a whole world's space
Between."
* * * * *
"Lost utterly from home and me,
Lonely, regretful and remote."
Jan now began to hang all day about Ragon Torr's, and to make friends
with men as purposeless as himself. He drank more and more, and was
the leader in all the dances and merry-makings with which Shetlanders
beguile their long winter. He was very soon deep in Torr's debt, and
this circumstance carried him the next step forward on an evil road.
One night Torr introduced him to Hol Skager, a Dutch skipper, whose
real cargo was a contraband one of tea, brandy, tobacco and French
goods. Jan was in the very mood to join him, and Skager was glad
enough of Jan. Very soon he began to be away from home for three and
four weeks at a time. Peter and Margaret knew well the objects of
these absences, but they would have made themselves very unpopular if
they had spoken of them. Smuggling was a thing every one had a hand
in; rich and poor alike had their venture, and a wise ignorance, and
deaf and dumb ignoring of the fact, was a social tenet universally
observed. If Jan came home and brought his wife a piece of rich silk
or lace, or a gold trinket, she took it without any unpleasant
curiosity. If Peter were offered a cask of French brandy at a nominal
price, he never asked any embarrassing questions. Consciences tender
enough toward the claims of God, evaded without a scruple the
rendering of Caesar's dues.
So when Jan disappeared for a few weeks, and then returned with money
in his pocket, and presents for his friends, he was welcomed without
question. And he liked the life; liked it so well that when the next
fishing season came round he refused every offer made him. He gained
more with Hol Skager, and the excitement of eluding the coast guard or
of giving them a good chase, suited Jan exactly. The spirit of his
forefathers ruled him absolutely, and he would have fought for his
cargo or gone down with the ship.
Snorro was very proud of him. The morality of Jan's employment he
never questioned, and Jan's happy face and fine clothing gave him the
greatest pleasure. He was glad that he had escaped Peter's control;
and when Jan, now and then, went to the store after it was shut, and
sat an hour with him, no man in Shetland was as proud and happy as
Michael Snorro. Very often Jan brought him a book, and on one occasion
it was the wondrous old "Pilgrim's Progress," full of wood-cuts. That
book was a lifelong joy to Snorro, and he gave to Jan all the thanks
and the credit of it. "Jan brought him every thing pleasant he had. He
was so handsome, and so clever, and so good, and yet he loved him--the
poor, ignorant Snorro!" So Snorro reasoned, and accordingly he loved
his friend with all his soul.
At Jan's house many changes were taking place. In the main, Margaret
had her house very much to herself. No one soiled its exquisite
cleanliness. The expense of keeping it was small. She was saving
money on every hand. When Jan came home with a rich present in his
hand, it was easy to love so handsome and generous a man, and if Jan
permitted her to love him in her own way, she was very glad to do so.
The tie between man and wife is one hard to break. What tugs it will
bear for years, we have all seen and wondered at; and during this
interval if there were days when they were wretched, there were many
others when they were very happy together. The conditions rested
mainly with Margaret. When she could forget all her small ambitions
and disappointments, and give to her husband the smile and kiss he
still valued above every thing, then Jan was proud and happy and
anxious to please her. But Margaret was moody as the skies above her,
and sometimes Jan's sunniest tempers were in themselves an offense. It
is ill indeed with the man who is bound to misery by the cords of a
woman's peevish and unreasonable temper.
For a year and a half Jan remained with Hol Skager, but during this
time his whole nature deteriorated. Among the Shetland fishermen
mutual forbearance and mutual reliance was the rule. In position the
men were nearly equal, and there was no opportunity for an overbearing
spirit to exercise itself. But it was very different with Skager's
men. They were of various nationalities, and of reckless and unruly
tempers. The strictest discipline was necessary, and Jan easily
learned to be tyrannical and unjust, to use passionate and profane
language, to drink deep, and to forget the Sabbath, a day which had
been so sacred to him.
In his own home the change was equally apparent. Margaret began to
tremble before the passions she evoked; and Jan to mock at the
niceties that had hitherto snubbed and irritated him. Once he had been
so easy to please; now all her small conciliations sometimes failed.
The day had gone by for them. The more she humbled herself, the less
Jan seemed to care for her complaisance. To be kind too late, to be
kind when the time for kindness is passed by, that is often the
greatest injury of all.
At the end of eighteen months Jan and Skager quarreled. Skager had
become intimate with Peter Fae, and Peter was doubtless to blame. At
any rate, Jan was sure he was, and he spent his days in morose
complaining, and futile threats of vengeance--futile, because the poor
man's wrath always falls upon himself. When Peter heard them he could
afford to say contemptuously--"It is well known that Jan Vedder has a
long tongue and short hands;" or, "Between saying and doing the thing
is a great way."
In a few weeks even Ragon Torr got weary of Jan's ill-temper and
heroics. Besides, he was in his debt, and there seemed no prospect of
speedy work for him. Upon the whole, it was a miserable winter for the
Vedders. Jan made very little. Sometimes he killed a seal, or brought
in a bag of birds, but his earnings were precarious, and Margaret took
care that his table should be in accordance. She had money, of course,
but it was her own money, and a thing with which Jan had no right. She
ate her meager fare of salt fish and barley bread with a face of
perfect resignation; she gave up her servant and made no complaints,
and she did think it a most shameful injustice that, after all, Jan
should be cross with her. It did not strike her, that good meal, even
though she had procured it from her own private hoard, might have
been a better thing than the most saintly patience. There is much said
about the wickedness of doing evil that good may come. Alas! there is
such a thing as doing good that evil may come.
One afternoon in early spring Jan saw a flock of wild swans soaring
majestically on their strong wings toward a lake which was a favorite
resting place with them. He took his gun and followed after. They were
gathered in the very middle of the lake; his dog could not swim so
far, neither could his shot reach them. It seemed as if every promise
mocked him. Sulky and disappointed, he was returning home when he met
the Udaller Tulloch. He was jogging along on his little rough pony,
his feet raking the ground, and his prehistoric hat tied firmly on the
back of his head.
But in spite of his primitive appearance he was a man of wealth and
influence, the banker of the island, liked and trusted of all
men--except Peter Fae. With Peter he had come often in conflict; he
had superseded him in a civil office, he had spoken slightingly of
some of Peter's speculations, and, above all offenses, in a recent
kirk election he had been chosen Deacon instead of Peter. They were
the two rich men of Lerwick, and they were jealous and distrustful of
each other.
"Jan Vedder," said Tulloch, cheerily, "I would speak with thee; come
to my house within an hour."
It was not so fine a house as Peter's, but Jan liked its atmosphere.
Small glass barrels of brandy stood on the sideboard; there was a case
of Hollands in the chimney corner; fine tobacco, bloaters, and
sturgeons' roes were in comfortable proximity. A bright fire of peats
glowed on the ample hearth, and the Udaller sat eating and drinking
before it. He made Jan join him, and without delay entered upon his
business.
"I want to sell 'The Solan,' Jan. She is worth a thousand pounds for a
coaster; or, if thou wishes, thou could spoil Skager's trips with her.
She is half as broad as she is long, with high bilge, and a sharp
bottom; the very boat for these seas--wilt thou buy her?"
"If I had the money, nothing would be so much to my liking."
"Well, then, thy wife brought me L50 yesterday; that makes thy
account a little over L600. I will give thee a clear bill of sale and
trust thee for the balance. 'Tis a great pity to see a good lad like
thee going to waste. It is that."
"If I was in thy debt, then thou would own a part of me. I like well
to be my own master."
"A skipper at sea doth what he will; and every one knows that Jan
Vedder is not one that serves. Remember, thou wilt be skipper of
thy--own--boat!"
Jan's eyes flashed joyfully, but he said, "My wife may not like I
should use the money for this purpose."
"It is a new thing for a man to ask his wife if he can spend this or
that, thus or so. And to what good? Margaret Vedder would speak to her
father, and thou knows if Peter Fae love thee--or not."
These words roused the worst part of Jan's nature. He remembered, in a
moment, all the envy and wonder he would cause by sailing out of
harbor skipper of his own boat. It was the very temptation that was
irresistible to him. He entered into Tulloch's plan with all his
heart, and before he left him he was in a mood to justify any action
which would further his desire.
"Only give not thy thoughts speech, Jan," said Tulloch at parting;
"and above all things, trust not thy plans to a woman. When will thou
tell me 'yes' or 'no'?"
"To-morrow."
But Jan was not the man to hold counsel with his own soul. He wanted
human advice and sympathy, and he felt sure of Snorro. He went
straight to him, but the store was still open, and Peter Fae was
standing in the door, three of his neighbors with him. He looked at
Jan scornfully and asked--"Well, how many swans did thou get?"
"I have been after a purchase, Peter Fae."
"Good. How wilt thou pay for it, then?"
"I will take my own to pay for it."
Peter laughed, and turning away, answered, "Why, then, do I speak to
thee? Only God understands fools."
This conversation irritated Jan far more than many an actual wrong had
done. "I have indeed been a fool," he said to Snorro, "but now I will
look well to what concerns my own interest."
Then he told Michael of Tulloch's offer, and added, "At last, then, I
have the sum of my wife's savings, and I will show her she has been
saving for a good end. What dost thou think, Snorro?"
"I think the money is thine. All thine has been hers, or she had not
saved so much; all hers ought then to be thine. But it is well and
right to tell her of Tulloch's offer to thee. She may like to give
thee as a gift what else thou must take without any pleasure."
Jan laughed; it was an unpleasant laugh, and did not at all brighten
his face, but he resolved to a certain extent on taking Snorro's
advice. It was quite midnight when he reached his home, but Margaret
was sitting by a few red peats knitting. She was weeping, also, and
her tears annoyed him.
"Thou art ever crying like a cross child," he said. "Now what art thou
crying for?"
"For thy love, my husband. If thou would care a little for me!"
"That is also what I say. If thou would care a little for me and for
my well-doing! Listen, now! I have heard where I can buy a good boat
for L600. Wilt thou ask thy father for so much of thy tocher? To have
this boat, Margaret, would make me the happiest man in Shetland. I
know that thou can manage it if thou wilt. Dear wife, do this thing
for me. I ask thee with all my heart." And he bent toward her, took
the knitting away, and held her hands in his own.
Margaret dropped her eyes, and Jan watched her with a painful
interest. Did she love him or her L600 better? Her face paled and
flushed. She looked up quickly, and her lips parted. Jan believed that
she was going to say--"I have L600, and I will gladly give it to
thee." He was ready to fold her to his breast, to love her, as he had
loved her that day when he had first called her "wife." Alas! after a
slight hesitation, she dropped her pale face and answered slowly--"I
will not ask my father. I might as well ask the sea for fresh water."
Jan let her hands fall, and stood up. "I see now that all talk with
thee will come to little. What thou wants, is that men should give
thee all, and thou give nothing. When thou sayest, 'thy love,
husband,' thou means 'thy money, husband;' and if there is no money,
then there is ever sighs and tears. Many things thou hast yet to
learn of a wife's duty, and very soon I will give thee a lesson I had
done well to teach thee long since."
"I have borne much from thee, Jan, but at the next wrong thou does me,
I will go back to my father. That is what I shall do."
"We will see to that."
"Yes, we will see!" And she rose proudly, and with flashing eyes
gathered up her knitting and her wool and left the room.
The next morning Jan and Tulloch concluded their bargain. "The Solan"
was put in thorough order, and loaded with a coasting cargo. It was
supposed that Tulloch's nephew would sail her, and Jan judged it
wisest to show no interest in the matter. But an hour after all was
ready, he drew the L600 out of Tulloch's bank, paid it down for the
boat, and sailed her out of Lerwick harbor at the noon-tide. In ten
minutes afterward a score of men had called in Peter Fae's store and
told him.
He was both puzzled and annoyed. Why had Tulloch interfered with Jan
unless it was for his, Peter's, injury? From the secrecy maintained,
he suspected some scheme against his interests. Snorro, on being
questioned, could truthfully say that Jan had not told him he was to
leave Lerwick that morning; in fact, Jan had purposely left Snorro
ignorant of his movements. But the good fellow could not hide the joy
he felt, and Peter looked at him wrathfully.
It was seldom Peter went to see his daughter, but that evening he made
her a call. Whatever she knew she would tell him, and he did not feel
as if he could rest until he got the clue to Jan's connection with
Tulloch. But when he named it to Margaret, he found she was totally
ignorant of Jan's departure. The news shocked her. Her work dropped
from her hand; she was faint with fear and amazement. Jan had never
before left her in anger, without a parting word or kiss. Her father's
complaints and fears about Tulloch she scarcely heeded. Jan's behavior
toward herself was the only thought in her mind. Peter learned nothing
from her; but his irritation was much increased by what he considered
Margaret's unreasonable sorrow over a bad husband. He could not bear a
crying woman, and his daughter's sobs angered him.
"Come thou home to thy mother," he said, "when thy eyes are dry; but
bring no tears to my house for Jan Vedder."
Then Margaret remembered that she had threatened Jan with this very
thing. Evidently he had dared her to do it by this new neglect and
unkindness. She wandered up and down the house, full of wretched fears
and memories; love, anger, pride, each striving for the mastery.
Perhaps the bitterest of all her thoughts toward her husband arose
from the humiliating thought of "what people would say." For Margaret
was a slave to a wretched thraldom full of every possible tragedy--she
would see much of her happiness or misery through the eyes of others.
She felt bitterly that night that her married life had been a failure;
but failures are generally brought about by want of patience and want
of faith. Margaret had never had much patience with Jan; she had lost
all faith in him. "Why should she not go home as her father told her?"
This question she kept asking herself. Jan had disappointed all her
hopes. As for Jan's hopes, she did not ask herself any questions about
them. She looked around the handsome home she had given him; she
considered the profitable business which might have been his on her
father's retirement or death; and she thought a man must be wicked who
could regard lightly such blessings. As she passed a glass she gazed
upon her own beauty with a mournful smile and thought anew, how
unworthy of all Jan had been.
At daybreak she began to put carefully away such trifles of
household decoration as she valued most. Little ornaments bought in
Edinburgh, pieces of fancy work done in her school days, fine china,
or glass, or napery. She had determined to lock up the house and go to
her father's until Jan returned. Then he would be obliged to come for
her, and in any dispute she would at least have the benefit of a
strong position. Even with this thought, full as it was of the most
solemn probabilities, there came into her niggardly calculations the
consideration of its economy. She would not only save all the expenses
of housekeeping, but all her time could be spent in making fine
knitted goods, and a great many garments might thus be prepared
before the annual fair.
This train of ideas suggested her bank book. That must certainly go
with her, and a faint smile crossed her face as she imagined the
surprise of her father and mother at the amount it vouched for--that
was, if she concluded to tell them. She went for it; of course it was
gone. At first she did not realize the fact; then, as the possibility
of its loss smote her, she trembled with terror, and hurriedly turned
over and over the contents of the drawer. "_Gone!_" She said it with a
quick, sharp cry, like that of a woman mortally wounded. She could
find it nowhere, and after five minutes' search, she sat down upon her
bedside, and abandoned herself to agonizing grief.
Yes, it was pitiable. She had begun the book with pennies saved from
sweeties and story-books, from sixpences, made by knitting through
hours when she would have liked to play. The ribbons and trinkets of
her girlhood and maidenhood were in it, besides many a little comfort
that Jan and herself had been defrauded of. Her hens had laid for it,
her geese been plucked for it, her hands had constantly toiled for it.
It had been the idol upon the hearthstone to which had been offered up
the happiness of her youth, and before which love lay slain.
At first its loss was all she could take in, but very quickly she
began to connect the loss with Jan, and with the L600 he had asked her
to get for him at their last conversation. With this conviction her
tears ceased, her face grew hard and white as ice. If Jan had used her
money she was sure that she would never speak to him, never see him
again. At that hour she almost hated him. He was only the man who had
taken her L600. She forgot that he had been her lover and her husband.
As soon as she could control herself she fled to her father's house,
and kneeling down by Peter's side sobbed out the trouble that had
filled her cup to overflowing.
This was a sorrow Peter could heartily sympathize with. He shed tears
of anger and mortification, as he wiped away those of his daughter. It
was a great grief to him that he could not prosecute Jan for theft.
But he was quite aware that the law recognized Jan's entire right to
whatever was his wife's. Neither the father nor daughter remembered
how many years Jan had respected his wife's selfishness, and forgiven
her want of confidence in him; the thing he had done was an
unpardonable wrong.
Thora said very little. She might have reminded Peter that he had
invested all her fortune in his business, that he always pocketed her
private earnings. But to what purpose? She did not much blame Jan for
taking at last, what many husbands would have taken at first, but she
was angry enough at his general unkindness to Margaret. Yet it was not
without many forebodings of evil she saw Peter store away in an empty
barn all the pretty furniture of Margaret's house, and put the key of
the deserted house in his pocket.
"And I am so miserable!" wailed the wretched wife, morning, noon, and
night. Her money and her husband supplied her with perpetual
lamentations, varied only by pitiful defenses of her own conduct: "My
house was ever clean and comfortable! No man's table was better
served! I was never idle! I wasted nothing! I never was angry! And yet
I am robbed, and betrayed, and deserted! There never was so miserable
a woman--so unjustly miserable!" etc.
"Alas! my child," said Thora, one day, "did you then expect to drink
of the well of happiness before death? This is the great saying which
we all forget: _There_--not here--_there_ the wicked cease from
troubling; _there_ the weary are at rest. _There_ God has promised to
wipe away all tears, but not here, Margaret, _not here_."