MARGARET'S HEART.
"Do not drop in for an after-loss.
Ah, do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow,
Come in the rereward of a conquered woe."
--SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS, XC.
"Man is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate.
Nothing to him falls early, or too late."
--FLETCHER'S "HONEST MAN'S FORTUNE."
Jan, the sole survivor of The Solan, had brought the news of his own
misfortune, but there was no necessity to hasten its publication.
Nothing could be gained by telling it at once, and no one could be
helped, so Snorro advised him to sleep all the following day. Jan
hardly needed the advice. In a few minutes he sank into a dreamless
lethargic sleep, which lasted nearly twenty-four hours. When he awoke
from it, he said, "I will see Tulloch, and then I will sleep again,
Snorro."
"Let me go for thee."
"Nay, then he will think that I am a coward. I must tell my own tale;
he can but be angry."
But Tulloch took his loss with composure. "Thou did the best that
could be done, Jan," he answered, when Jan had told the story of the
shipwreck; "wind and wave are not at thy order."
"Thou wilt say that for me? It is all I ask. I did my best, Tulloch."
"I will say it; and in the spring I will see about another boat. I am
not afraid to trust thee."
Jan looked at him gratefully, but the hope was too far off to give
much present comfort to him. He walked slowly back to the retreat
Snorro had made for him, wondering how he was to get the winter over,
wondering if Margaret would see him, wondering how best to gain her
forgiveness, longing to see her face but not daring to approach her
without some preparation for the meeting. For though she had come back
to life, it had been very slowly. Snorro said that she never left the
house, that she was still wan and weak, and that on the rare
occasions when he had been sent to Peter's house, she had not spoken
to him.
After his interview with Tulloch, he fell into a sound sleep again.
When he awoke the day was well begun, and Peter was at the store.
Looking through the cracks in the rude flooring, he could see him
carefully counting his cash, and comparing his balance. Snorro, for a
wonder, was quite idle, and Peter finally looked at him, and said
fretfully:
"There is this and that to do. What art thou standing still for?"
"A man may stand still sometimes. I feel not like work to-day."
"Art thou sick, then?"
"Who can tell? It may be sickness."
He stood thoughtfully by the big fire and moved not. Peter went on
with his figures in a fidgety way. Presently Tulloch entered. The
banker's visits were rare ones, and Peter was already suspicious of
them. But he laid down his pen, and with scrupulous civility said,
"Good morning to thee, Tulloch--Deacon Tulloch, I should say. Wilt
thou buy or sell aught this morning?"
"Good morning, Fae. I came to thee for news. Where is thy son Jan
staying?"
Peter's face darkened. "I know nothing at all about Jan Vedder. If he
is at sea, he is out of thy world; if he is in harbor, he will be at
Ragon Torr's, or on board The Solan."
"The Solan hath gone to pieces on the Quarr Rocks."
Just for a moment a thrill of sinful triumph made Peter's brown face
turn scarlet, but he checked it instantly. "I heard not that," he said
gravely.
"Only Jan escaped--ship and crew went to the bottom."
Peter shut his mouth tight, he was afraid to trust himself to speak.
"But Jan did his very best, no man could have done more. I saw him
last night. He is ill and broken down by his trouble. Put out thy hand
to him. Thou do that, and it will be a good thing, Fae."
"Thou mind thy own affairs, Deacon Tulloch."
"Well then it is my affair to tell thee, that there is a time for
anger and a time for forgiveness. If Jan is to be saved, his wife can
now do it. At this hour he is sick and sore-hearted, and she can win
him back, she can save him now, Fae."
"Shall I lose my child to save Jan Vedder? What is it to thee? What
can thou know of a father's duty? Thou, who never had child. Deacon
thou may be, but thou art no Dominie, and I will order my household
without thy word, thus or so. Yes, indeed I will!"
"Just that, Fae. I have spoken for a good man. And let me tell thee,
if Margaret Vedder is thy daughter, she is also Jan's wife; and if I
were Jan, I would make her do a wife's duty. If all the women in
Shetland were to run back to their fathers for a little thing that
offended them, there would be an end of marrying."
Peter laughed scornfully. "Every one knows what well-behaved wives old
bachelors have."
"Better to be a bachelor, than have a wife like poor Jan Vedder has."
"Thou art talking of my daughter. Wilt thou mind thy own affairs?"
"I meant well, Fae. I meant well. Both thee and I have much need of
heaven's mercy. It will be a good thing for us to be merciful. I am
willing to help and trust Jan again. Thou do so too. Now I will say
'good morning', for I see thou art angry at me."
Peter was angry, intensely angry. Under the guise of Christian
charity, Tulloch had come into his store and insulted him. Peter would
believe in no other motive. And yet he was scarcely just to Tulloch,
for his intentions had first and mainly been sincerely kind ones; but
the tares are ever among the wheat, and it was true enough that before
the interview was over Tulloch had felt a personal pleasure in his
plain speaking.
Very soon there was a little crowd in Fae's store. It was a cold,
blustering day, and its warmth and company made it a favorite lounging
place. Jan's misfortune was the sole topic of conversation, and Jan's
absence was unfavorably criticised. Why did he not come among his
fellows and tell them how it had happened? Here were good men and a
good ship gone to the bottom, and he had not a word to say of the
matter. They were all curious about the wreck, and would have liked to
pass the long stormy day in talking it over. As it was, they had only
conjectures. No one but Tulloch had seen Jan. They wondered where he
was.
"At Torr's, doubtless," said Peter, harshly.
"It is likely. Jan ever flew to the brandy keg for comfort."
"It is like he had been there before he steered for the Quarr Rocks."
"It did not need brandy. He was ever careless."
"He was foolhardy more than careless."
"I never thought that he knew the currents and the coast, as a man
should know it who has life and goods to carry safe."
"He had best be with his crew; every man of it was a better man than
he is."
Snorro let them talk and wonder. He would not tell them where Jan was.
One group succeeded another, and hour after hour Snorro stood
listening to their conversation, with shut lips and blazing eyes.
Peter looked at him with increasing irritability.
"Art thou still sick, Snorro?" he asked at length.
"Not I."
"Why, then, art thou idle?"
"I am thinking. But the thought is too much for me. I can make nothing
of it."
Few noticed Snorro's remark, but old Jal Sinclair said, "Tell thy
thought, Snorro. There are wise men here to read it for thee; very
wise men, as thou must have noticed."
Snorro caught something in the old man's face, or in the inflection of
his voice, which gave him an assurance of sympathy, so he said: "Well,
then, it is this. Jan Vedder is evidently a very bad man, and a very
bad sailor; yet when Donald Twatt's boat sunk in the Vor Ness, Jan
took his bonnet in his hand, and he put his last sovereign in it, and
he went up and down Lerwick till he had got L40 for Twatt. And he gave
him a suit of his own clothes, and he would hear no word wrong of him,
and he said, moreover, that nothing had happened Twatt but what might
happen the best man and the best sailor that ever lived when it would
be God's own time. I thought that was a good thing in Jan, but no one
has spoke of it to-day."
"People have ever thought thee a fool, Snorro. When thou art eighty
years old, as Jal Sinclair is, perhaps thou wilt know more. Jan Vedder
should have left Twatt to his trouble; he should have said, 'Twatt is
a drunken fellow, or a careless, foolhardy fellow; he is a bad
sailor, a bad man, and he ought to have gone to the bottom.'" Then
there was a minute's uncomfortable silence, and the men gradually
scattered.
Peter was glad of it. He had no particular pleasure in any conversation
having Jan for a topic, and he was burning and smarting at Tulloch's
interference. It annoyed him also to see Snorro so boldly taking Jan's
part. His indignant face and brooding laziness was a new element in
the store, and it worried Peter far beyond its importance. He left
unusually early, and then Snorro closed the doors, and built up the
fire, and made some tea, and broiled mutton and bloaters, and set his
few dishes on the box which served him for a table. Jan had slept
heavily all day, but when Snorro brought the candle near, he opened his
eyes and said, "I am hungry, Snorro."
"I have come to tell thee there is tea and meat waiting. All is
closed, and we can eat and talk, and no one will trouble us."
A Shetlander loves his tea, and it pleased Snorro to see how eagerly
Jan drank cup after cup. And soon his face began to lose its weary,
indifferent look, and he ate with keen relish the simple food before
him. In an hour Jan was nearly like himself once more. Then he
remembered Margaret. In the extremity of his physical weakness and
weariness, he had forgotten every thing in sleep, but now the delay
troubled him. "I ought to have seen my wife to-day, Snorro; why did
thou let me sleep?"
"Sleep was the first thing, and now we will see to thy clothes. They
must be mended, Jan."
Jan looked down at the suit he wore. It was torn and shabby and
weather-stained, and it was all he had. But Snorro was as clever as
any woman with the needle and thread. The poor fellow, indeed, had
never had any woman friend to use a needle for him, and he soon
darned, and patched, and washed clean what the winds and waves had
left of Jan's once handsome suit of blue.
As he worked they talked of the best means of securing an interview
with Margaret, for Jan readily guessed that Peter would forbid it, and
it was finally decided that Snorro should take her a letter, as soon
as Peter was at the store next day. There was a little cave by the
seaside half way between the town and Peter's house, and there Jan
was to wait for Snorro's report.
In the meantime Peter had reached his home. In these days it was a
very quiet, somber place. Thora was in ill health, in much worse
health than any one but herself suspected, and Margaret was very
unhappy. This evening Thora had gone early to bed, and Margaret sat
with her baby in her arms. When her father entered she laid him in the
cradle. Peter did not like to have it in any way forced upon his
notice, and Margaret understood well enough that the child was only
tolerated for her sake. So, without any of those little fond obtrusive
ways so natural to a young mother, she put the child out of the way,
and sat down to serve her father's tea.
His face was dark and angry, his heart felt hard to her at that hour.
She had brought so much sorrow and shame on him. She had been the
occasion of so many words and acts of which he was ashamed. In fact,
his conscience was troubling him, and he was trying to lay the whole
blame of his cruelty and injustice on her. For some time he did not
speak, and she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to ask him
any questions. At length he snapped out, "Jan Vedder came back to
Lerwick yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"I said yesterday. Did thou think he would run here to see thee the
first moment? Not he. He was at Tulloch's last night. He will have
been at Torr's all day, no doubt."
Margaret's eyes filled with tears, and Peter looked angrily at her.
"Art thou crying again? Now listen, thou art not like to see him at
all. He has thrown thy L600 to the bottom of the sea--ship, cargo, and
crew, all gone."
"Jan? Father, is Jan safe?"
"He is safe enough. The devil holds his own from water. Now, if he
does come to see thee, thou shalt not speak with him. That is my
command to thee."
Margaret answered not, but there was a look upon her face, which he
understood to mean rebellion.
"Bring me the Bible here." Then as he turned to the place he wanted,
he said: "Now, Margaret, if thou art thinking to disobey thy father,
I want thee to hear in what kind of company thou wilt do so;" and he
slowly read aloud:
"'Backbiters--haters of God--despiteful--proud--boasters--inventors of
evil things--_disobedient to parents_;' dost thou hear, Margaret?
'_disobedient to parents_--without understanding--covenant
breakers--without natural affection--implacable--unmerciful.'"
"Let me see him once, father? Let me see him for half an hour."
"Not for one moment. Disobey me if thou dares."
"He is my husband."
"I am thy father. Thy obligation to me began with thy birth, twenty
years before thou saw Jan Vedder. Between man and wife there may be a
divorce, between father and daughter there can be no bill of
separation. The tie of thy obedience is for life, unless thou wilt
take the risk of disobeying thy God. Very well, then, I say to thee,
thou shalt not speak to Jan Vedder again, until he has proved himself
worthy to have the care of a good woman. That is all I say, but mind
it! If thou disobey me, I will never speak to thee again. I will send
thee and thy child from my sight, I will leave every penny I have to
my two nephews, Magnus and Thorkel. That is enough. Where is thy
mother?"
"She is in pain, and has gone to bed."
"It is a sick house, I think. First, thou wert like to die, and ever
since thy mother hath been ill; that also is Jan Vedder's doing, since
thou must needs fret thyself into a fever for him." Then he took his
candle and went to his sick wife, for he thought it best not to weaken
his commands by any discussion concerning them.
Margaret did what most mothers would have done, she lifted her child
for consolation. It was a beautiful child, and she loved it with an
idolatrous affection. It had already taught her some lessons strange
enough to Margaret Vedder. For its sake she had become conciliating,
humble, patient; had repressed her feelings of mother-pride, and for
the future good of her boy, kept him in a corner as it were. She had
never suffered him to be troublesome, never intruded him upon the
notice of the grandfather whom some day doubtless he would completely
conquer. Ah, if she had only been half as unselfish with Jan! Only
half as prudent for Jan's welfare!
She lifted the boy and held him to her breast. As she watched him, her
face grew lovely. "My child!" she whispered, "for thee I can thole
every thing. For thy sake, I will be patient. Nothing shall tempt me
to spoil thy life. Thou shalt be rich, little one, and some day thee
and I will be happy together. Thy father robbed thee, but I will not
injure thee; no, indeed, I will not!"
So, after all, Jan's child was to be the barrier between him and his
wife. If Jan had chosen to go back to the class from which she had
taken him, she would at least save her child from the suffering and
contempt of poverty. What she would have done for his father, she
would do for him. Yes, that night she fully determined to stand by her
son. It might be a pleasure for her to see Jan, and even to be
reconciled to him, but she would not sacrifice her child's inheritance
for her own gratification. She really thought she was consummating a
grand act of self-denial, and wept a few pitiful tears over her own
hard lot.
In the morning Peter was unusually kind to her. He noticed the baby,
and even allowed her to lay it in his arms while she brought him his
seal-skin cloak and woolen mufflers. It was a dangerous advance for
Peter; he felt his heart strangely moved by the sleeping child, and he
could not avoid kissing him as he gave him back to his mother.
Margaret smiled at her father in her deep joy, and said softly to him,
"Now thou hast kissed me twice." Nothing that Peter could have done
would have so bound her to him. He had sealed his command with that
kiss, and though no word of promise was given him, he went to his
store comparatively light-hearted; he was certain his daughter would
not disobey him.
While this scene was transpiring, one far more pathetic was taking
place in Snorro's room. Jan's clothes had been washed and mended, and
he was dressing himself with an anxious desire to look well in his
wife's eyes that was almost pitiful. Snorro sat watching him. Two
women could hardly have been more interested in a toilet, or tried
harder to make the most out of poor and small materials. Then Jan left
his letter to Margaret with Snorro, and went to the cave agreed upon,
to await the answer.
Very soon after Peter reached the store, Snorro left it. Peter saw him
go, and he suspected his errand, but he knew the question had to be
met and settled, and he felt almost sure of Margaret that morning. At
any rate, she would have to decide, and the sooner the better.
Margaret saw Snorro coming, but she never associated the visit with
Jan. She thought her father had forgotten something and sent Snorro
for it. So when he knocked, she said instantly, "Come in, Michael
Snorro."
The first thing Snorro saw was the child. He went straight to the
cradle and looked at it. Then he kneeled down, gently lifted the small
hand outside the coverlet, and kissed it. When he rose up, his face
was so full of love and delight that Margaret almost forgave him every
thing. "How beautiful he is," he whispered, looking back at the
sleeping babe.
Margaret smiled; she was well pleased at Snorro's genuine admiration.
"And he is so like Jan--only Jan is still more beautiful."
Margaret did not answer him. She was washing the china cups, and she
stood at the table with a towel over her arm. Snorro thought her more
beautiful than she had been on her wedding day. During her illness,
most of her hair had been cut off, and now a small white cap covered
her head, the short, pale-brown curls just falling beneath it on her
brow and on her neck. A long, dark dress, a white apron, and a white
lawn kerchief pinned over her bosom, completed her attire. But no lady
in silk or lace ever looked half so womanly. Snorro stood gazing at
her, until she said, "Well, then, what hast thou come for?"
With an imploring gesture he offered her Jan's letter.
She took it in her hand and turned it over, and over, and over. Then,
with a troubled face, she handed it back to Snorro.
"No, no, no, read it! Oh, do thou read it! Jan begs thee to read it!
No, no, I will not take it back!"
"I dare not read it, Snorro. It is too late--too late. Tell Jan he
must not come here. It will make more sorrow for me. If he loves me at
all, he will not come. He is not kind to force me to say these words.
Tell him I will not, dare not, see him!"
"It is thou that art unkind. He has been shipwrecked, Margaret
Vedder; bruised and cut, and nearly tossed to death by the waves. He
is broken-hearted about thee. He loves thee, oh, as no woman ever
deserved to be loved. He is thy husband. Thou wilt see him, oh yes,
thou wilt see him!"
"I will not see him, Snorro. My father hath forbid me. If I see Jan,
he will turn me and the child from the house."
"Let him. Go to thy husband and thy own home."
"My husband hath no home for me."
"For thou pulled it to pieces."
"Go away, Snorro, lest worse words come. I will not sacrifice that
little innocent babe for Jan."
"It is Jan's son--thou art ruining Jan--"
"Now, wilt thou go, Michael Snorro, and tell Jan that I say what my
father says: when he is worthy of me I will come to him."
"I will go, but I will tell thee first, that Jan will be worthy of
thee long before thou art worthy of him." Then, ere Margaret could
prevent him, he walked to the cradle, lifted the child, and kissed it
again and again, saying between each kiss, "That is for thy father,
little one."
The child was crying when he laid it down, and Margaret again angrily
ordered him to leave the house. Before she had soothed it to peace,
Snorro was nearly out of sight. Then Thora, who had heard the dispute,
rose from her bed and came into the room. She looked ill and sad, and
asked faintly, "What is this message sent to Jan Vedder? He will not
believe it. Look for him here very soon, and be sure what thou doest
is right."
"My father told me what to do."
"Yet ask thy heart and thy conscience also. It is so easy for a woman
to go wrong, Margaret; it is almost impossible for her to put wrong
right. Many a tear shall she wash it out with."
"I have done no wrong to Jan. Dost thou think so?"
"When one gets near the grave, Margaret, there is a little light from
beyond, and many things are seen not seen before. Oh, be sure thou art
right about Jan! No one can judge for thee. Fear not to do what thy
heart says, for at the end right will come right, and wrong will come
wrong."
There was a solemn stillness after this conversation. Thora sat bent
over beside the fire musing. Margaret, wearied with the feelings which
her interview with Snorro had called forth, rested upon the sofa; she
was suffering, and the silence and melancholy of her mother seemed
almost a wrong to her. It was almost as if she had taken Jan's part.
A knock at the door startled both women. Thora rose and opened it. It
was Jan. "Mother," he said, "I want to see my wife and child."
"Margaret, speak for thyself."
"I dare not see Jan. Tell him so."
Thora repeated the message.
"Ask Margaret if that is her last word to me?"
Mechanically Thora asked the question, and after an agonizing pause
Margaret gasped out, "Yes, yes--until--"
"Ask her to stand a moment at the window with the child. I long to see
them." Then he turned to go to the window, and Thora shut the door.
But it was little use repeating Jan's request, Margaret had fainted,
and lay like one dead, and Thora forgot every thing till life returned
to her daughter. Then as the apparent unkindness was irrevocable and
unexplainable, she said nothing of it. Why should she add to the
sorrow Margaret was suffering?
And as for Jan, the universal opinion was that he ought to suffer. He
had forfeited his wife, and his home, and his good name, and he had
lost his boat. When a man has calamity upon calamity the world
generally concludes that he must be a very wicked man to deserve them.
Perhaps the world is right; but it is also just possible that the
world, even with its six thousand years of gathered wisdom, may be
wrong.