THE MAN AT DEATH'S DOOR.
"Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act,
Fancies that broke through language and escaped,
All I could never be,
All men ignored in me,
This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped."
It must be remembered, however, that Margaret was bound by ties whose
strength this generation can hardly conceive. The authority of a
father over a child in England and Scotland is still a very decided
one. Fifty years ago in Shetland it was almost absolute. Margaret
believed the fifth commandment to be as binding upon her as the first.
From her childhood it had been pointed out to her as leading all the
six defining our duty to our fellow-creatures. Therefore if she
thought her father's orders regarding Jan unkind, the possibility of
disobeying them never presented itself.
Jan's troubles were pointed out to her as the obvious results of Jan's
sins. How could he expect a blessing on a boat bought as he had bought
The Solan? And what was the use of helping a man who was always so
unfortunate? If Peter did not regard misfortune as a sin, he drew away
from it as if it were something even worse. Sometimes God blesses a
man through poverty, sometimes through riches, but until the rod
blossoms even good Christians call it a chastening rod. Margaret had a
dread of making her child share Jan's evil destiny: perhaps she was
afraid of it for herself. Self is such an omnipresent god, that it is
easy to worship him in the dark, and to obey him almost unconsciously.
When Margaret recovered from her faint, she was inclined to think she
deserved praise for what she called her self-denial. She knew also
that her father would be satisfied with her conduct, and Peter's
satisfaction took tangible forms. He had given her L100 when she broke
up her home and left Jan; she certainly looked for some money
equivalent for her present obedience. And yet she was quite positive
this latter consideration had in no way at all influenced her
decision; she was sure of that; only, there could be no harm in
reflecting that a duty done would have its reward.
As for Jan, he let people say whatever they chose to say about him. To
Tulloch and to Michael Snorro he described the tempest, and the
desperation with which he had fought for his boat and his life; but
defended himself to no one else. Day after day he passed in the
retreat which Snorro had made him, and lying there he could plainly
hear the men in Peter's store talk about him. Often he met the same
men in Torr's at night, and he laughed bitterly to himself at their
double tongues. There are few natures that would have been improved by
such a discipline; to a man who had lost all faith in himself, it was
a moral suicide.
Down, down, down, with the rapidity with which fine men go to
ruin, went Jan. Every little thing seemed to help him to the bottom;
yes, even such a trifle as his shabby clothes. But shabby clothes
were not a trifle to Jan. There are men as well as women who put on
respectability with respectable raiment; Jan was of that class. He
was meanly dressed and he felt mean, and he had no money to buy a
new suit. All Snorro's small savings he had used long before for
one purpose or another, and his wages were barely sufficient to
buy food, and to pay Jan's bill at Torr's; for, alas! Jan would go to
Torr's. Snorro was in a sore strait about it, but if Torr's bill were
not paid, then Jan would go to Inkster's, a resort of the lowest and
most suspicious characters. Between the two evils he chose the
lesser.
And Jan said in the freedom of Torr's many things which he ought not
to have said: many hard and foolish things, which were repeated and
lost nothing by the process. Some of them referred to his wife's
cruelty, and to Peter Fae's interference in his domestic concerns.
That he should talk of Margaret at all in such a place was a great
wrong. Peter took care that she knew it in its full enormity; and it
is needless to say, she felt keenly the insult of being made the
subject of discussion among the sailor husbands who gathered in Ragon
Torr's kitchen. Put a loving, emotional man like Jan Vedder in such
domestic circumstances, add to them almost hopeless poverty and social
disgrace, and any one could predict with apparent certainty his final
ruin.
Of course Jan, in spite of his bravado of indifference, suffered very
much. He had fits of remorse which frightened Snorro. Under their
influence he often wandered off for two or three days, and Snorro
endured during them all the agonies of a woman who has lost her
child.
One night, after a long tramp in the wind and snow, he found himself
near Peter Fae's house, and a great longing came over him to see his
wife and child. He knew that Peter was likely to be at home and that
all the doors were shut. There was a bright light in the sitting-room,
and the curtains were undrawn. He climbed the inclosure and stood
beside the window. He could see the whole room plainly. Peter was
asleep in his chair on the hearth. Thora sitting opposite him, was, in
her slow quiet way, crimping with her fingers the lawn ruffles on the
newly ironed clothes. Margaret, with his son in her arms, walked about
the room, softly singing the child to sleep. He knew the words of the
lullaby--an old Finnish song that he had heard many a mother sing. He
could follow every word of it in Margaret's soft, clear voice; and,
oh, how nobly fair, how calmly good and far apart from him she
seemed!
"Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bird of the meadow!
Take thy rest, little Redbreast.
Sleep stands at the door and says,
The son of sleep stands at the door and says,
Is there not a little child here?
Lying asleep in the cradle?
A little child wrapped up in swaddling clothes,
A child reposing under a coverlet of wool?"
Jan watched the scene until he could endure the heart-torture no
longer. Had he not been so shabby, so ragged, so weather-stained, he
would have forced his way to his wife's presence. But on such
apparently insignificant trifles hang generally the great events of
life. He could not bear the thought of this fair, calm, spotless woman
seeing him in such a plight. He went back to Snorro, and was very
cross and unreasonable with him, as he had been many times before. But
Snorro was one of those rare, noble souls, who can do great and
hopeless things, and continue to love what they have seen fall.
He not only pitied and excused Jan, he would not suffer any one to
wrong, or insult him. All Torr's regular visitors feared the big man
with the white, stern face, who so often called for Jan Vedder, and
who generally took his friend away with him. Any thing that is genuine
commands respect, and Snorro's love for Jan was so true, so tender,
and unselfish, that the rudest soul recognized his purity. Even in
Peter's store, and among the better class who frequented it, his
honest affection was not without its result.
Jan usually avoided the neighborhood when Peter was there, but one
afternoon, being half intoxicated, he went rolling past, singing
snatches of "The Foula Reel." He was ragged and reckless, but through
every disadvantage, still strikingly handsome. Michael Snorro lifted
himself from the barrel which he was packing, and stood watching Jan
with a face full of an inexpressible sorrow. Some one made a remark,
which he did not hear, but he heard the low scornful laugh which
followed it, and he saw Peter Fae, with a smile of contempt, walk to
the door, and glance up the street after Jan.
"One thing I know," said Snorro, looking angrily at the group, "all
of you have laughed in a very great company, for when a good man takes
the road to hell, there also laughs the devil and all his angels. Yes,
indeed."
It was as if a thunderbolt had fallen among them. Peter turned to his
books, and one by one the men left the store, and Jan Vedder's name
was not spoken again before Snorro by any one.
During the fishing season Jan went now and then to sea, but he had no
regular engagement. Some said he was too unreliable; others, more
honest, acknowledged they were superstitious about him. "Sooner or
later ill luck comes with him," said Neil Scarpa. "I would as lief
tread on the tongs, or meet a cat when going fishing as have Jan
Vedder in my boat," said John Halcro. This feeling against him was
worse than shipwreck. It drove Jan to despair. After a night of hard
drinking, the idea of suicide began to present itself, with a
frightful persistence. What was there for him but a life of dislike
and contempt, or a swift unregretted death.
For it must be considered that in those days the ends of the earth had
not been brought together. Emigration is an idea that hardly enters a
Shetlander's mind at the present time; then it was a thing unknown.
There were no societies for information, or for assistance. Every man
relied upon his own resources, and Jan had none. He was in reality, a
soul made for great adventures, condemned to fight life in the very
narrowest lists.
When the warm weather came, he watched for Margaret, and made many
attempts to see her. But she had all the persistence of narrow minds.
She had satisfied herself that her duty to her father and to her son
was before all other duties, and no cruelty is so cruel as that which
attacks its victims from behind the ramparts of Duty and Conscience.
Thora frequently saw Jan, and he pleaded his cause eloquently to her.
She was very sorry for him, and at times also very angry with him. She
could not understand how Margaret's treatment should have taken all
the heart and purpose out of his life. She would not let him say so;
it was like casting the blame of all his idleness and dissipation upon
her daughter. She would make no effort towards a reconciliation; while
Margaret held him in such small estimation, she was sure that there
could be no permanence in one, even if it could be effected.
Yet once or twice she spoke to Margaret in Jan's favor. If Margaret
had desired to disobey her father, and see her husband, Thora's
sympathies would have been with her; but no mother likes to put
herself in a position which will give her child an opportunity of
answering her with a look of reproachful astonishment. Something very
like this had met her suggestion that "Jan must love his child, and
long to see him."
Margaret was almost angry at such a supposition. "Jan love his
child! It was impossible! No man who did so, would behave as Jan
had done, and was still doing. To encourage Jan in any way was to
disobey her father, and throw herself and her child upon Jan's
mercies. She knew what they were. Even if she could see it to be
her duty to sacrifice herself, on no account would she sacrifice the
babe who had only her to think and care for him. She would do
nothing in any way to prejudice its future." This was the tenor of her
constant conversation. It was stated anew every morning, it was
reiterated every hour of the day; and with every day's reiteration,
she became more certain of her own wisdom and justice.
One night, after another useless effort to see his wife, Jan went to
Torr's, and found Hol Skager there. Jan was in a reckless mood, and
the thought of a quarrel was pleasant to him. Skager was inclined to
humor him. They had many old grievances to go over, and neither of
them picked their words. At length Jan struck Skager across the mouth,
and Skager instantly drew his knife.
In a moment Torr and others had separated the men. Skager was
persuaded to leave the house, and Jan, partly by force and partly by
entreaty, detained. Skager was to sail at midnight, and Torr was
determined that Jan should not leave the house until that hour was
passed. Long before it, he appeared to have forgotten the quarrel, to
be indeed too intoxicated to remember any thing. Torr was satisfied,
but his daughter Suneva was not.
About ten o'clock, Snorro, sitting in the back door of the store, saw
Suneva coming swiftly towards him. Ere he could speak she said,
"Skager and Jan have quarreled and knives have been drawn. If thou
knowest where Skager is at anchor, run there, for I tell thee, there
was more of murder than liquor in Jan's eyes this night. My father
thought to detain him, but he hath slipped away, and thou may be sure
he has gone to find Skager."
Snorro only said, "Thou art a good woman, Suneva." He thought he knew
Skager's harbor; but when he got there, neither boat nor man was to be
seen. Skager's other ground was two miles in an opposite direction
under the Troll Rock, and not far from Peter Fae's house. Snorro
hastened there at his utmost speed. He was in time to see Skager's
boat, half a mile out at sea, sailing southward. Snorro's mental
processes were slow. He stood still to consider, and as he mused, the
solemn stillness of the lonely place was broken by a low cry of pain.
It was Jan's voice. Among a thousand voices Snorro would have known
it. In a few moments he had found Jan, prone upon the cliff edge
bleeding from a wound in his side.
He was still sensible and he smiled at Snorro, saying slowly, "Thou
must not be sorry. It is best so."
Most fishermen know something of the treatment of a knife wound;
Snorro staunched the blood-flow, as well as he was able, and then with
gigantic strides went to Peter Fae's. Margaret sat spinning beside her
baby's cradle, Peter had gone to bed, Thora dozed at the fireside.
The impatience of his knock and voice alarmed the women, but when
Margaret heard it was Snorro's voice, she quickly unfastened the
door.
"Is the store burning?" she asked angrily, "that thou comest in such
hot haste?"
"Thy husband has been murdered. Take thou water and brandy, and go as
quick as thou canst run to the Troll's Rock. He lies there. I am going
for the doctor."
"Why did thou come here, Michael Snorro? Ever art thou a messenger of
ill. I will not go."
"Go thou at once, or I will give thee a name thou wilt shudder to
hear. I will give it to thee at kirk, or market, or wherever I meet
thee."
Snorro fled to the town, almost in uttering the words, and Thora, who
had at once risen to get the water and the brandy, put them into her
daughter's hands. "There is no time now for talking. I will tell thy
father and send him after thee. Shall we have blood on our souls? All
of us?"
"Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
"Art thou a woman? I tell thee, haste."
"I dare not--oh, my child! I will wake father."
"I command thee to go--this moment."
Then, almost in a passion, Margaret went. The office of mercy had been
forced upon her. She had not been permitted to consider her own or her
child's interest. No one had thought of her feelings in the matter.
When she reached Jan's side she was still indignant at the peremptory
way in which she had been treated.
He felt her there, rather than saw her--"_Margaret!_" he said feebly,
"_Margaret! At last!_"
"Yes," she answered in bitter anger, "at last. Hast thou called me to
see thy shameful end? A name full of disgrace thou leaves to me and to
thy son."
"Forgive me--I am sorry. Forgive!"
"I will not forgive thee. No woman injured as I have been, can
forgive."
His helplessness did not touch her. Her own wrongs and the wrongs of
her child filled her heart. She was determined that at this hour he
should at least understand their full enormity, and she spoke with all
the rapid bitterness of a slow, cold nature, wrought up to an
unnatural passion. In justifying herself she forgot quite that she had
been sent to succor him until help arrived. She was turning away when
Jan, in a voice full of misery, uttered one word:
"Water!"
Something womanly in her responded to the pitiful, helpless cry. She
went back, and kneeling by his side, put the bottle to his mouth. The
touch of his head upon her arm stirred her strangely; ere she let it
slip from her hold, he had fainted.
"Oh Jan! Jan! Jan! My husband! My husband! Oh Jan, dear, forgive me!
Jan, I am here! It is thy Margaret! I still love thee! Yes, indeed, I
love thee!--"
But it was too late. There was no response. She looked in horror and
terror at the white face at her feet. Then she fled back to the house
for help. Whether her father liked it or not, Jan must now be brought
there. In that last moment she had forgiven him every thing. All the
love of her betrothal had come like a great wave over her heart. "Poor
Jan! Poor Jan!" she sobbed, as she fled like a deer across the moor.
Peter had been roused and had reluctantly dressed himself. In such an
hour of extremity he would have to give the wounded man shelter if he
were brought there. But he tarried as long as possible, hoping that
Snorro would remove Jan and take him into the town. To be roused from
sleep to confront such a problem of duty was a very unpleasant affair,
and Peter was sulkily tying his shoe-strings when Margaret, breathless
and sobbing, returned for him.
Her impetuosity and her emotion quite mastered him. She compelled him
to go with her to Jan. But when they reached the Troll Rock Jan had
disappeared. There was nothing there but the blue sailor's cap which
he had worn. No human being was in sight. Any party of relief brought
by Snorro could be seen for a mile. Margaret picked up the cap, and
gazed at it in a maze of anguish. Only one thing could have happened.
During her absence consciousness had returned to Jan, and he, poor
soul, remembering her cruel words, and seeing that she had left him
there alone to die, had purposely edged himself over the cliff. The
sea was twenty feet deep below it. She put her hands before her eyes,
and shrieked until the welkin rang with her shrill, piercing cries.
Peter could do nothing with her, she would not listen to him, and
finally she became so frantically hysterical that he was alarmed for
her life and reason, and had little opportunity that night to make any
inquiries about his troublesome son-in-law.
Now, when God will help a man, he hath his own messenger. That night,
Doctor Balloch sat in the open door of his house. This door was at the
end of a little jetty to which his skiff was tied; and the whole
expanse of the beautiful bay was before him. It was covered with
boats, idly drifting about under the exquisite sky. Light ripples of
laughter, and sweet echoes of song upon the waters, drifted toward
him. He had read his evening portion, and he sat watching the
flickering lights of the changing aurora. The portion had been the
Nineteenth Psalm, and he was wishing that the Sweet Singer of Israel,
who thought the Judean heavens "declared the glory of God," could
have seen the Shetland skies.
Suddenly, and peremptorily, a voice encompassed him--a soft,
penetrating voice, that came like the wind, he knew not how or whence,
"Take thy boat and go to the Troll Rock." He rose at once and went to
the end of the jetty. The sea, darkly blue, was smooth as glass, the
air clear, the majestic headlands imparting to the scene a solemn
cathedral grandeur. He strove to shake off the strange impression, but
it grew stronger and more imperative, and he said softly, as if
answering some one, "I will go."
He returned to the house and called his servant Hamish. Hamish and he
lived alone, and had done so for more than thirty years, and they
thoroughly trusted each other.
"Untie the boat, Hamish. We are going for a row. We will go as far as
Troll Rock."
This rock projected over the sea, which flowed into a large cave under
it; a cave which had long been a favorite hiding place for smuggled
cargoes. But when the minister reached it, all was silence. Hamish
looked at his master curiously. What could he mean by resting on his
oars and watching so desolate and dangerous a place? Very soon both
were aware of a human voice; the confused, passionate echoes of
Margaret's above them; and these had not long ceased when Jan Vedder
fell from the rock into the water.
"This man is to be saved, Hamish; it is what we have come for." Hamish
quietly slipped into the water, and when Jan, speechless and
insensible, rose to the surface, he caught him with one arm and swam
with him to the boat. In another moment he was in the bottom of it,
and when he came to himself, his wound had been dressed, and he was in
the minister's own bed.
"Now, thou wilt do well enough, Jan, only thou must keep quiet body
and mind."
"Tell no one I am here. Thou wilt do that for me? Yes, thou wilt. Let
them think I am at the bottom of the Troll Rock--for God's sake."
"I will tell no one, Jan. Thou art safe here; be at perfect rest about
that matter."
Of course the minister thought Jan had committed some crime. It was
natural for every one to suspect Jan of doing wrong. But the fact
that he had been sent so obviously to save him was, in the doctor's
mind, an evidence of the divine interest in the youth which he was
glad to share. He had been appointed his preserver, and already he
loved him. He fully trusted Hamish, but he thought it well to say to
him:
"We will speak to no one of our row to the Troll Rock, Hamish."
"Does Hamish ever talk, master?"
"No, thou art a wise man; but here there is more to guide than I yet
understand."
"Look nor word of mine shall hinder it."
For four days the doctor stayed near Jan, and never left his house. "I
will be quiet and let the news find me," he thought. It came into the
manse kitchen in various forms. Hamish received every version of the
story with that grave shake of the head which fits so admirably every
requirement of sympathy. "It was all a great pity," was his most
lengthy comment; but then Hamish never exceeded half a dozen words on
any subject.
On the fourth evening, which was Saturday, Peter Fae sent this message
to the minister: "Wilt thou come down to my store for the good of a
wretched soul?" It was then getting late, and Peter stood in his
shop-door alone. He pointed to Michael Snorro, who sat in a corner on
some seal-skins in a stupor of grief.
"He hath neither eaten nor slept since. It is pitiful. Thou knowest he
never had too much sense--"
"I know very clever men who are fools, besides Michael Snorro. Go thy
ways home. I will do what I can for him--only, it had been kinder, had
thou sent for me ere this."
He went to Snorro and sat down beside him. "Thou wilt let me speak to
thee, Snorro. I come in God's name. Is it Jan?"
"Yes, it is Jan. My Jan, my Jan, my friend! the only one that ever
loved me. Jan! Jan! Jan!" He said the last words in an intense
whisper. It seemed as if his heart would break with each.
"Is Jan's loss all thy grief, Snorro?"
"Nay, there is more. Has thou found it out?"
"I think so. Speak to me."
"I dare not speak it."
"It is as sinful to think it. I am thy true friend. I come to comfort
thee. Speak to me, Snorro."
Then he lifted his face. It was overspread by an expression of the
greatest awe and sorrow:
"It is also my Lord Christ. He hath deceived me. He said to me,
whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do. I asked him
always, every hour to take care of Jan. If I was packing the eggs, or
loading the boats, or eating my dinner, my heart was always praying.
When Jan was at sea, I asked, 'take care of him,' when he was at
Torr's, I prayed then the more, 'dear Lord Christ, take care of him.'
I was praying for him that night, _at the very hour he perished_. I
can pray no more now. What shall I do?"
"Art thou sure thou prayed for the right thing?"
"He said, 'whatsoever.' Well, then, I took him at his word. Oh yes, I
believed every word he said. At the last, I thought, he will surely
save Jan. I will pray till his time comes. He will not deceive a poor
soul like me, for he knows right well that Snorro loves him."
"And so thou thinkest that Christ Jesus who died for thee hath
deceived thee?"
"Well, then, he hath forgotten."
"Nay, nay, Snorro. He never forgets. Behold he has graven thy name
upon his hands. Not on the mountains, for they shall depart; not on
the sun, for it shall grow dark; not on the skies, for they shall melt
with fervent heat; but on _his own hand_, Snorro. Now come with me,
and I will show thee, whether Lord Christ heard thee praying or not,
and I will tell thee how he sent me, his servant always, to answer thy
prayer. I tell thee at the end of all this thou shalt surely say:
'there hath not failed one word of all his good promise, which he
promised.'"
Then he lifted Michael's cap and gave it to him, and they locked the
store door, and in silence they walked together to the manse. For a
few minutes he left Snorro alone in the study. There was a large
picture in it of Christ upon the cross. Michael had never dreamed of
such a picture. When the minister came back he found him standing
before it, with clasped hands and streaming eyes.
"Can thou trust him, Michael?"
"Unto death, sir."
"Come, tread gently. He sleeps."
Wondering and somewhat awestruck Michael followed the doctor into the
room where Jan lay. One swift look from the bed to the smiling face of
Jan's saviour was all Michael needed. He clasped his hands above his
head, and fell upon his knees, and when the doctor saw the rapture in
his face, he understood the transfiguration, and how this mortal might
put on immortality.