SWEET HOME.
"On so nice a pivot turns
True wisdom; here an inch, or there, we swerve
From the just balance; by too much we sin,
And half our errors are but truths unpruned."
If Margaret were neglected, it was in the main her own fault; or, at
least, the fault of circumstances which she would not even try to
control. Between her and Suneva there had never been peace, and she
did not even wish that there should be. When they were scarcely six
years old, there was rivalry between them as to which was the better
and quicker knitter. During their school days, this rivalry had found
many other sources from which to draw strength. When Margaret
consented to go to Edinburgh to finish her education, she had felt
that in doing so she would gain a distinct triumph over Suneva Torr.
When she came back with metropolitan dresses, and sundry trophies in
the way of Poonah painting and Berlin wool work, she held herself
above and aloof from all her old companions, and especially Suneva.
Her conquest of Jan Vedder, the admiration and hope of all the young
girls on the Island, was really a victory over Suneva, to whom Jan had
paid particular attention before he met Margaret. Suneva had been the
bitterest drop in all her humiliation concerning her marriage
troubles. In her secret heart she believed Suneva had done her best to
draw her old lover from his quiet home to the stir and excitement of
her father's drinking-room. If Peter had searched Shetland through, he
could not have found a second wife so thoroughly offensive to his
daughter.
And apart from these personal grievances, there were pecuniary ones
which touched Margaret's keenest sensibilities. Peter Fae's house had
long been to her a source of pride; and, considering all things, it
was admirably arranged and handsomely furnished. In the course of
events, she naturally expected that it would become her house--hers
and her boy's. To not only lose it herself, but to have it given to
Suneva without reservation, seemed to Margaret not only a wrong but an
insult. And the L100 a year which had been given with it, was also to
her mind a piece of cruel injustice. She could not help reflecting
that some such kindness to her at her own wedding would have satisfied
Jan, and perhaps altered their whole life. It must be admitted that
her mortification in being only a dependent in the house which she had
ruled, and regarded as her own, was a natural and a bitter one.
At the last, too, the change had come upon her with the suddenness of
a blow from behind. It is true that Peter made no secret of his
courtship, and equally true that the gossips of the town brought very
regular news of its progress to Margaret. But she did not believe her
father would take a step involving so much to them both, without
speaking to her about it. As soon as he did so, she had resolved to
ask him to prepare her own home for her without delay. She had taken
every care of her furniture. It was in perfect order, and as soon as
the house had been again put into cleanly shape, she could remove to
it. The thought of its perfect isolation, and of its independence,
began to appear desirable to her. Day by day she was getting little
articles ready which she would need for her own housekeeping.
In the meantime the summer with all its busy interests kept Peter
constantly at the store. When he was at home, his mind was so full of
"fish takes" and of "curing," that Margaret knew that it would be both
imprudent and useless to name her private affairs. Perhaps his extreme
preoccupation was partly affected in order to avoid the discussion of
unpleasant matters; but if so, Margaret never suspected it. She had
many faults, but she was honest and truthful in all her ways, and she
believed her father would be equally so with her. When the fishing was
over, Peter was always a few weeks employed in counting up his
expenses and his gains. October and part of November had been from her
girlhood regarded as a critical time; a time when on no account he was
to be troubled about household matters. But when November was nearly
over, then Margaret determined to open the subject of the reported
marriage to him, if he did not take the initiative.
As it was getting near this time, she walked over one afternoon to
her old home, in order to ascertain its condition. Never, since she so
foolishly abandoned it, had she been near the place. Its mournful,
desolate aspect shocked her. Peter had never been able to rent it.
There was an idea that it belonged to Margaret and was "unlucky." The
gate had fallen from the rusted hinges. Passing boys had maliciously
broken the windows, and the storms of two winters had drifted through
the empty rooms. Timber is scarce and dear in Shetland, and all the
conveniences for her animals and fowls had been gradually plundered
and carried off. Margaret looked with dismay at the place, and, as she
went through the silent rooms, could not help a low cry of real heart
pain. In them it was impossible to forget Jan, the gay, kind-hearted
husband, who had once made all their echoes ring to his voice and
tread.
Never had the sense of her real widowhood seemed so strong and so
pitiful. But in spite of its dreariness, the house attracted her.
There, better than in any other place, she could rear her son, and
devote her life to memories at once so bitter and so sweet. She
determined to speak that very night, unless her father were unusually
cross or thoughtful. Christmas was a favorite date for weddings, and
it was very probable that Suneva would choose that time for her own.
If so, there would be barely time to prepare the old home.
She set Peter's tea-table with unusual care; she made him the
cream-cakes that he liked so well, and saw that every thing was bright
and comfortable, and in accord with his peculiar fancies. But Peter
did not come home to tea, and after waiting an hour, she put the
service away. It had become a very common disappointment.
Peter said something in a general way about business, but Margaret was
well aware, that when he did not come home until ten o'clock, he had
taken tea with the Torrs, and spent the evening with Suneva.
This night she had a very heavy heart. Three times within the past
week Peter had been late. Things were evidently coming to a crisis,
and she felt the necessity of prompt movement in her own interests.
She put the child to sleep, and sat down to wait for her father's
arrival. About eight o'clock she heard his voice and step, and before
she could rise and go with a candle to the door, Peter and Suneva
entered together.
There was something in their manner that surprised her; the more so,
that Suneva immediately began to take off her bonnet and cloak, and
make herself quite at home. Margaret saw then that she wore a rich
silk dress and many gold ornaments, and that her father also wore his
Sunday suit. The truth flashed upon her in a moment. There was no need
for Peter to say--
"Suneva and I have just been married, Margaret. Suppose thou make us a
cup of tea."
At that hour, and under such circumstances, nothing could have induced
her to obey the request. Never before had she disobeyed her father,
and it gave her a shock to do it, but all the same she enjoyed the
sensation. Make tea for Suneva! For the woman who had supplanted her
in her father's affection, and in all her rights! She felt that she
would rather take her child, and walk out with it upon the dark and
desolate moor.
But she was slow of speech, and in her anger and amazement she could
find no word to interpret her emotion. One long, steady look she gave
her father--a look which Peter never forgot--then, haughtily as a
discrowned queen, but with a face as white as snow, she left the room.
Suneva laughed, but it was not an ill-natured laugh. "It would have
been better had we told her, Peter," she said. "If I had been thy
daughter, I should not have liked thee to bring home a wife without a
word about it."
"It will be an ill day with Peter Fae when he asks his women what he
shall do, or how he shall do it. Yes, indeed!"
Suneva looked queerly at him. She did not speak a word, but her
dancing, gleaming eyes said very plainly that such an "ill day" might
be coming even for Peter Fae.
Then she set herself to making the tea he had asked for. There were
the cakes Margaret had baked, and sweets, and cold meat, and all kinds
of spirits at hand; and very soon Margaret heard the pleasant clatter
of china, and the hum of subdued but constant conversation, broken at
intervals by Suneva's shrill rippling laugh. Margaret made up her mind
that hour, that however short or long her stay might be in Suneva's
house, she would never again lift a finger in its ordering.
In the morning she remained in her own room until her father had gone
to the store. When she went down stairs, she found the servants, her
servants, eagerly waiting upon Suneva, who was examining her new
possessions. As she entered the room, Suneva turned with a piece of
the best china in her hand, and said, "Oh, it is thee! Good morning,
Margaret." Then in a moment Margaret's dour, sulky temper dominated
her; she looked at Suneva, but answered her not one word.
No two women could have been more unlike each other. Margaret, dressed
in a plain black gown, was white and sorrowful. Suneva, in a scarlet
merino, carefully turned back over a short quilted petticoat that gave
pleasant glimpses of her trim latched shoes and white stockings, had a
face and manner bright and busy and thoroughly happy. Margaret's dumb
anger did not seem to affect her. She went on with her work, ordering,
cleaning, rearranging, sending one servant here and another there, and
took no more notice of the pale, sullen woman on the hearth, than if
she had not existed.
However, when Margaret brought the child down stairs, she made an
effort at conciliation. "What a beautiful boy!" she exclaimed. "How
like poor Jan! What dost thou call him?" And she flipped her fingers,
and chirruped to the child, and really longed to take him in her arms
and kiss him.
But to Margaret the exclamation gave fresh pain and offense. "What had
Suneva to do with Jan? And what right had she to pity him, and to say
'poor Jan!'" She did not understand that very often a clumsy good
nature says the very thing it ought to avoid. So she regarded the
words as a fresh offense, and drew her child closer to her, as if she
were afraid even it would be taken from her.
It was snowing lightly, and the air was moist with a raw wind from the
north-east. Yet Margaret dressed herself and her child to go out. At
the door Suneva spoke again. "If thou wants to go abroad, go; but
leave the child with me. I will take care of him, and it is damp and
cold, as thou seest."
She might as well have spoken to the wind. Margaret never delayed a
moment for the request; and Suneva stood looking after her with a
singular gleam of pity and anger in her eyes. There was also a kind of
admiration for the tall, handsome woman who in her perfect health and
strength bore so easily the burden of her child. She held him firmly
on her left arm, and his little hand clasped her neck behind, as with
perfect grace she carried him, scarcely conscious of his weight,
especially when he nestled his face against her own.
She went directly to her father's store. It was nearly noon when she
arrived there, and it was empty. Only Snorro stood beside the great
peat fire. He saw Margaret enter, and he placed a chair for her in the
warmest corner. Then he said, "Give me little Jan, and I will hold him
for thee." She put the boy in his arms and watched him a moment as he
shook the snow from his cap and coat; then she said: "Tell my father I
want to speak to him."
Peter came somewhat reluctantly. He knew the conversation had to be
gone through, but he felt as if Margaret had him at a disadvantage in
the store. Snorro was present, and strangers might at any moment come
in, and hurry him into an unwise concession. He was angry at Margaret,
also, for her behavior on the previous night, and it was not in any
amiable mood he approached her.
"Father, wilt thou have my house put in order for me? I want to go
back to it."
"Yes, I will; soon."
"How soon, then?"
"I can not be hurried. There is no glass left in it, and there are
many things to repair besides. It will take time and money, a good
deal of money, more than I can well afford at present. I have had many
expenses lately."
"Dost thou then mean that I must live with Suneva? No, I will not do
that. I will go into the house without windows. Snorro will patch up
the best ones, and board up the others."
"Snorro! Snorro, indeed! When was Snorro thy servant? As for Suneva,
she is as good as thou art. Am I made of money to keep two houses
going?"
"I will not ask thee for a penny."
"Thou wilt make a martyr of thyself, and set the town talking of me
and of Suneva. No, thou shalt not do such a thing. Go home and behave
thyself, and no one will say wrong to thee."
"I will not live with Suneva. If thou wilt not make a house habitable
for me, then I will hire a man to do it."
"Thou wilt not dare. When it seems right to me, I will do it. Wait
thou my time."
"I can not wait. So then I will hire John Hay's empty cottage. It will
do, poor as it is."
"If thou dost, I will never speak to thee nor to thine again. I will
not give thee nor thy child a shilling, whether I be living or dead."
"What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" And Margaret wrung her hands
helplessly, and burst into passionate weeping.
"'Do'? Go home, and be thankful for thy home. What would thou do in a
Shetland hut, alone, at the beginning of winter? And I will not have
thee come crying here. Mind that! Take thy child and go home; go at
once."
"Thou might have told me! Thou might! It was a cruel thing to take me
unawares; at a moment--"
"And if I had told thee, what then? Tears and complaints, and endless
wants. I had no mind to be tormented as thou tormented thy husband."
That was a needlessly cruel taunt, and Peter was ashamed of it as soon
as uttered. But all the same he turned away in anger, and two men
coming in at the moment, he went with them to the other end of the
store.
Snorro had held "little Jan" during the interview. The fresh air and
the heat had overpowered the child, and he had fallen asleep. He lay
in Snorro's arms, a beautiful, innocent miniature of the man he loved
so dearly. Watching the sleeping face, he had seemed unconscious of
what passed between Peter and his daughter, but in reality he had
heard every word. When Peter turned away he watched Margaret put on
her baby's cap and coat, and then as she rose with it folded in her
arms, he said, "Let me see him again."
"Kiss him, Snorro, for thou loved his father."
He stooped and kissed the boy, and then glanced into Margaret's face.
Her tears, her pallor, her air of hopeless suffering went straight to
his heart. After all she was Jan's wife. He felt a great pity for her,
and perhaps Margaret divined it, for she said timidly, "Snorro, can
thou mend the windows in the old house--the house where I lived with
Jan?"
"Yes, I can."
"Wilt thou ask my father if thou may do it?"
"I will do it. Have thou patience, Margaret Vedder. It would be a sin
if thou made the child suffer."
"Dost thou think I would? Little does thou know of a mother's heart."
"Snorro!"
It was Peter calling, and calling angrily; but ere Snorro answered the
summons he went with Margaret to the door, and as he opened it, said,
"If I can help thee, for Jan's sake I am on thy side."
Very hard and bitter and cold was the walk homeward. The snow fell
thick and fast, and she was tired and faint when she reached the
house. Never had its warmth and comfort seemed so good to her. How
could she feel kindly to the woman who had robbed her and her child of
their right in it? Every one must have noticed that when they are in
trouble, the weather is usually their enemy. A very long and severe
snow-storm followed Margaret's useless effort. She had perforce to sit
still, and for "little Jan's" sake be grateful for the warmth and
shelter given her.
"_Little Jan_" Snorro had unconsciously named the child. Several
attempts had been made to do so, but somehow all had hitherto failed.
At first "Peter" had been thought of; but Peter Fae had not taken
kindly to a Peter Vedder, and the name after a few half-hearted
utterances had been dropped. Thora had longed to call him "Willie,"
but at her death the scarcely recognized name was given up. But
Snorro's tender, positive "little Jan" had settled the matter in
Margaret's mind. Henceforward the boy was to be called by his father's
name, and she cared not whether it were liked or not.
To Margaret the winter passed drearily away. She refused to have any
part in Suneva's hospitalities, though the "Fae House" became during
it as famous for its gayety, as it had been in Thora's time for its
quiet and seclusion. Suneva had no idea of being the mistress of a
shut up house. She was proud of her large rooms and fine furniture,
and anxious to exhibit them. Besides which, she was in her element as
hostess of the cozy tea-party or the merry dance.
Fortunately for her peaceful success, Peter discovered that he had the
same taste. It had lain dormant and undeveloped during his struggle
for wealth, and in the quiet content of Thora's atmosphere; but every
circumstance now favored its growth, and he became quite as proud of
his name as a generous and splendid host, as he was of his character
as a keen and successful trader.
He was still a handsome man, fresh and active, carrying his
fifty-eight years with all the dignity of conscious independence and
assured position. It was Suneva's great pride that she had induced him
to wear the fine cloth and velvet and linen suitable to his wealth.
She flattered him into many an extravagance; she persuaded him that no
one in the Islands could recite as well, or dance with more activity
and grace. Under her influence Peter renewed his youth and enjoyed it.
Margaret often heard them planning some entertainment, and laughing
over it, with all the zest of twenty years.
To her, their whole life seemed an outrage. She could not imagine how
her father could bear to put aside so completely his old habits and
memories. It wounded her to see him going off with a joke and a kiss
to the store in the morning; and hurrying back at night, as eager as
a boy-bridegroom for the company of his handsome wife and her gay
friends. It may easily be understood that even if Margaret had
countenanced Suneva's festivities by her presence at them, she would
have been only a silent and a reproachful guest.
It is but fair to say that Suneva gave to her absence the best and
kindest excuse. "Poor Margaret!" she said pitifully, "she weeps
constantly for her husband. Few wives are as faithful."
Suneva had indeed taken Thora's place with a full determination to be
just and kind to Thora's daughter. She intended, now that fortune had
placed her above her old rival, to treat her with respect and
consideration. Suneva was capable of great generosities, and if
Margaret had had the prudence and forbearance to accept the peace
offered, she might have won whatever she desired through the influence
of her child, for whom Suneva conceived a very strong attachment.
But this was just the point which Margaret defended with an almost
insane jealousy. She saw that little Jan clung to Suneva, that he
liked to be with her, that he often cried in the solitude of her room
to go down stairs, where he knew he would have sweetmeats, and
petting, and company, and his own way. If ever she was cross to the
boy, it was on this subject. She would not even be bribed by Suneva's
most diplomatic services in his behalf. "Let Jan come where his
grandfather is, Margaret," she pleaded. "It will be for his good; I
tell thee it will. I have already persuaded him that the boy has his
eyes, and his figure, and when he was in a passion the other night,
and thy father was like to be cross with him, I said, 'It is a nice
thing to see Satan correcting sin, for the child has thy own quick
temper, Peter,' and thy father laughed and pulled little Jan to his
side, and gave him the lump of sugar he wanted."
"The boy is all thou hast left me. Would thou take him also?" Margaret
answered with angry eyes. "His mother's company is good enough for
him."
So all winter the hardly-admitted strife went on. Suneva pitied the
child. She waylaid him and gave him sweetmeats and kisses. She
imagined that he daily grew more pale and quiet. And Margaret,
suspicious and watchful, discovered much, and imagined more. She was
determined to go away from Suneva as soon as the spring opened, but
she had come to the conclusion that she must look after her house
herself, for though Snorro had promised to make it habitable,
evidently he had been unable to do so, or he would have contrived to
let her know.
One day in the latter part of April, all nature suddenly seemed to
awake. The winter was nearly over. Margaret heard the larks singing in
the clear sunshine. Little Jan had fallen asleep and might remain so
for a couple of hours. She put on her cloak and bonnet, and went to
see how far Snorro had been able to keep his word. Things were much
better than she had hoped for. Nearly all of the windows had been
reglazed, the gate was hung, and the accumulated drift of two years in
the yard cleared away.
With lighter spirits, and a firm determination in her heart, she
walked swiftly back to her child. When she entered the door she heard
his merry laugh in Suneva's parlor. He was standing on her knee,
singing after her some lines of a fisherman's "Casting Song," swaying
backwards and forwards, first on one foot and then on the other, to
the melody. Suneva was so interested in the boy, that, for a moment,
she did not notice the pale, angry woman approaching her. When she
did, her first thought was conciliation. "I heard him crying,
Margaret; and as I knew thou wert out, I went for him. He is a merry
little fellow, he hath kept me laughing."
"Come here, Jan!" In her anger, she grasped the child's arm roughly,
and he cried out, and clung to Suneva.
Then Margaret's temper mastered her as it had never done before in her
life. She struck the child over and over again, and, amid its cries of
pain and fright, she said some words to Suneva full of bitterness and
contempt.
"Thee love thy child!" cried Suneva in a passion, "not thou, indeed!
Thou loves no earthly thing but thyself. Every day the poor baby
suffers for thy bad temper--even as his father did."
"Speak thou not of his father--thou, who first tempted him away from
his home and his wife."
"When thou says such a thing as that, then thou lies; I tempted him
not. I was sorry for him, as was every man and woman in Lerwick. Poor
Jan Vedder!"
"I told thee not to speak of my husband."
"Thy husband!" cried Suneva scornfully. "Where is he? Thou may well
turn pale. Good for thee is it that the Troll Rock hasn't a tongue!
Thou cruel woman! I wonder at myself that I have borne with thee so
long. Thou ought to be made to tell what thou did with Jan Vedder!"
"What art thou saying? What dost thou mean? I will not listen to
thee"--and she lifted the weeping child in her arms, and turned to
go.
"But at last thou shalt listen. I have spared thee long enough. Where
is Jan Vedder? Thou knows and thou only; and that is what every one
says of thee. Is he at the bottom of the Troll Rock? And who pushed
him over? Answer that, Margaret Vedder!"
Suneva, in her passion, almost shrieked out these inquiries. Her anger
was so violent, that it silenced her opponent. But no words could have
interpreted the horror and anguish in Margaret's face, when she
realized the meaning of Suneva's questions. The sudden storm ended in
the lull which follows recrimination. Suneva sat fuming and muttering
to herself; Margaret, in her room, paced up and down, the very image
of despairing shame and sorrow. When her father returned she knew
Suneva would tell him all that had transpired. To face them both was a
trial beyond her strength. She looked at her child softly sobbing on
the bed beside her, and her heart melted at the injustice she had done
him. But she felt that she must take him away from Suneva, or he would
be stolen from her; worse than stolen, he would be made to regard her
as a terror and a tyrant.
She heard the clatter of the tea-cups and the hum of conversation, and
knew that her father was at home. As soon as he had finished his tea,
she would probably be summoned to his presence. It had grown dark and
a rain-storm was coming; nevertheless she dressed herself and little
Jan, and quietly went out of the house. Peter and Suneva were
discussing the quarrel over their tea; the servants sat spinning by
the kitchen fire, doing the same. She only glanced at them, and then
she hastened toward the town as fast as she could.
Snorro was sitting at the store-fire, a little pot of tea, a barley
cake, and a broiled herring by his side. He was thinking of Jan, and
lo! a knock at the door--just such a knock as Jan always gave. His
heart bounded with hope; before he thought of possibilities he had
opened it. Not Jan, but Jan's wife and child, and both of them
weeping. He said not a word, but he took Margaret's hand and led her
to the fire. Her cloak and hood were dripping with the rain, and he
removed and shook them. Then he lifted the child in his arms and gave
him some tea, and soon soothed his trouble and dried his tears.
Margaret sobbed and wept with a passion that alarmed him. He had
thought at first that he would not interfere, but his tender heart
could not long endure such evident distress without an effort to give
comfort.
"What is the matter with thee, Margaret Vedder? and why art thou and
thy child here?"
"We have nowhere else to go to-night, Snorro." Then Margaret told him
every thing.
He listened in silence, making no comments, asking no questions, until
she finished in another burst of anguish, as she told him of Suneva's
accusation. Then he said gravely: "It is a shame. Drink this cup of
tea, and then we will go to the minister. He only can guide the boat
in this storm."
"I can not go there, Snorro. I have been almost rude and indifferent
to him. Three times he has written to me concerning my duty; many
times he has talked to me about it. Now he will say, 'Thou hast reaped
the harvest thou sowed, Margaret Vedder.'"
"He will say no unkind word to thee. I tell thee thou must go. There
is none else that can help thee. Go for little Jan's sake. Wrap the
boy up warm. Come."
She was weeping and weary, but Snorro took her to the manse, carrying
little Jan under his own coat. Margaret shrank from an interview with
Dr. Balloch, but she had no need. He was not a man to bruise the
broken reed; no sooner did he cast his eyes upon the forlorn woman
than he understood something of the crisis that had brought her to him
for advice and protection.
He took them into his cheerful parlor, and sent their wet clothing to
the kitchen to be dried. Then he said: "Snorro, now thou go and help
Hamish to make us a good supper. It is ill facing trouble on an empty
stomach. And light a fire, Snorro, in the room up stairs; thou knowest
which room; for Margaret and her son will have to sleep there. And
after that, thou stop with Hamish, for it will be better so."
There were no reproofs now on the good doctor's lips. He never
reminded Margaret how often he had striven to win her confidence and
to lead her to the only source of comfort for the desolate and
broken-hearted. First of all, he made her eat, and dry and warm
herself; then he drew from her the story of her grief and wrongs.
"Thou must have thy own home, Margaret, that is evident," he said;
"and as for Suneva, I will see to her in the morning. Thou art
innocent of thy husband's death, I will make her to know that. Alas!
how many are there, who if they can not wound upon proof, will upon
likelihood! Now there is a room ready for thee, and thou must stay
here, until this matter is settled for thee."
It seemed a very haven of rest to Margaret. She went to it gratefully,
and very soon fell into that deep slumber which in youth follows
great emotions. When she awoke the fire had been re-built, and little
Jan's bread and milk stood beside it. It was a dark, dripping morning;
the rain smote the windows in sudden, gusts, and the wind wailed
drearily around the house. But in spite of the depressing outside
influences, her heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. She
felt as those feel "who have escaped;" and she dressed and fed her
child with a grateful heart.
When she went down stairs she found that, early as it was, the doctor
had gone to her father's house; and she understood that this visit was
made in order to see him where conversation would not be interrupted
by the entrance of buyers and sellers.
Dr. Balloch found Peter sitting at breakfast with Suneva, in his
usual cheerful, self-complacent mood. In fact, he knew nothing of
Margaret's flight from his house. She rarely left her boy to join
the tea-table; she never appeared at the early breakfast. Her
absence was satisfactory to both parties, and had long ceased to
call forth either protest or remark. So neither of them were aware
of the step she had taken, and the minister's early visit did not
connect itself with her, until he said gravely to Peter, "Dost thou
know where thy daughter is?"
"She hath not left her room yet," answered Suneva; "she sleeps late
for the child's sake."
"She hath left thy house, Peter. Last night I gave her and the child
shelter from the storm."
Peter rose in a great passion: "Then she can stay away from my house.
Here she comes back no more."
"I think that, too. It is better she should not come back. But now
thou must see that her own home is got ready for her, and that
quickly."
"What home?"
"The house thou gave her at her marriage."
"I gave her no house. She had the use of it. The title deeds never
left my hands."
"Then more shame to thee. Did thou not boast to every one, that thou
had given the house and the plenishing? No title deeds, no lawyer's
paper, can make the house more Margaret Vedder's than thy own words
have done. Thou wilt not dare to break thy promise, thou, who ate the
Bread of Remembrance only last Sabbath Day. Begin this very hour to
put the house in order, and then put the written right to it in her
hands. Any hour thou may be called to give an account; leave the
matter beyond disputing."
"It will take a week to glaze and clean it."
"It is glazed and cleaned. Michael Snorro brought the sashes one by
one to the store, and glazed them, when he had done his work at night.
He hath also mended the plaster, and kept a fire in the house to dry
it; and he hath cleaned the yard and re-hung the gate. Begin thou at
once to move back again the furniture. It never ought to have been
removed, and I told thee that at the time. Thou knowest also what
promises thou made me, and I will see that thou keep them every one,
Peter Fae. Yes, indeed, I will!"
"It is too wet to move furniture."
"The rain will be over at the noon. Until then thy men can carry peats
and groceries, and such store of dried meats as will be necessary."
"Peter," said Suneva indignantly, "I counsel thee to do nothing in a
hurry."
Dr. Balloch answered her, "I counsel thee, Mistress Fae, to keep well
the door of thy mouth. It is no light thing to make the charges thou
hast made against an innocent woman."
"I asked her how Jan Vedder got his death? Let her tell that."
"I might ask thee how Paul Glumm got his death! Listen now, and I will
show thee what a great thing may come from one foul suspicion. Thou
married Paul Glumm, and it is well known he and thee were not always
in the same mind, for thou loved company and he loved quiet. Then
Glumm took thee to the Skoolfiord, where there were none at the
station but thee and he. Thou knowest how thou rebelled at that, and
how often thou could be found in thy father's house. Suddenly Glumm
takes a sickness, and when a doctor sees him there is little hope, and
after three days he dies. Then thou art back at Lerwick again, quick
enough, and in a few weeks thou hast plenty of lovers. Now, then, how
easy to say, 'Glumm's death was a very strange affair!' 'Such a strong
young man!' 'Did his wife know any thing about it?' 'Did she send for
a doctor as soon as might be?' 'Did she give him the medicine the
doctor left?' 'Was she not very glad when she was free again?'
Mistress Fae, I say not these things were so, or were even said, I am
only trying to show thee how easy it is out of nothing at all to make
up a very suspicious case. But come, Peter, there is duty to be done,
and I know that thou wilt do it. And I am in haste about it, for it is
not easy for Hamish to have a woman and child at the manse. Hamish has
failed much lately."
"Send the woman with her child here."
"No, for it is easier to avoid quarrels than to mend them. Margaret
shall stay at the manse till her own house is ready."
So they went away together, leaving Suneva crying with anger; partly
because of the minister's lecture; partly because she thought Peter
had not "stood up for her" as he ought to have done. As for Peter,
though he did not think of disobeying the order given him, yet he
resented the interference; and he was intensely angry at Margaret for
having caused it. When he arrived at the store, he was made more so by
Snorro's attitude. He sat upon a sailor's chest with his hands folded
before him, though the nets were to be examined and a score of things
to get for the fishers.
"Can thou find nothing for thy lazy hands to do?" he asked scornfully,
"or are they weary of the work thou hast been doing at night?"
"My mind is not to lift a finger for thee again, Peter Fae; and as for
what I do at night, that is my own affair. I robbed thee not, neither
of time nor gear."
"From whence came the glass, and the nails, and the wood, and the
hinges?"
"I bought them with my own money. If thou pays me the outlay it will
be only just. The work I gave freely to the wife of Jan Vedder."
"Then since thou hast mended the house, thou may carry back the
furniture into it."
"I will do that freely also. Thou never ought to have counseled its
removal; for that reason, I blame thee for all that followed it."
Snorro then hailed a passing fisherman, and they lifted his chest in
order to go away.
"What art thou taking?"
"My own clothes, and my own books, and whatever is my own. Nothing of
thine."
"But why?"
"For that I will come no more here."
"Yes, thou wilt."
"I will come no more."
Peter was much troubled. Angry as he was, grief at Snorro's defection
was deeper than any other feeling. For nearly twenty years he had
relied on him. Besides the inconvenience to the business, the loss of
faith was bitter. But he said no more at that time. When Margaret was
in her home, Snorro would be easier to manage. More as a conciliatory
measure with him, than as kindness to his offending daughter, he said,
"First of all, however, take a load of tea, and sugar and flour, and
such things as will be needed; thou knowest them. Take what thou
wishes, and all thou wishes; then, thou canst not say evil of me."
"When did I say evil of thee, only to thy face? Michael Snorro hath
but one tongue. It knows not how to slander or to lie. Pay me my
wages, and I will go, and speak to thee no more."
"Do what I said and come back to me in three days; then we will settle
this trouble between us;" saying which, Peter went into his counting
house, and Snorro went to work with all his will and strength to get
Margaret's house ready for her.
But though he hired three men to help him, it was the evening of the
second day before she could remove to it. It was a different
homecoming from her previous one in that dwelling. Then all had been
in exquisitely spotless order, and Jan had turned and kissed her at
the open door. This night every thing was in confusion. Snorro had
carried all her belongings into the house, but they were unpacked and
unarranged. Still he had done a great deal. A large fire was burning,
the kettle boiling on the hearth, and on the little round table before
it he had put bread and milk and such things as would be necessary for
a first meal. Then, with an innate delicacy he had gone away, fully
understanding that at the first Margaret would wish to be quite
alone.
She stood a minute and looked around. Then she opened the box in which
her china and silver were packed. In half an hour the tea-table was
spread. She even made a kind of festival of the occasion by giving
little Jan the preserved fruit he loved with his bread. It seemed to
her as if food had never tasted so good before. She was again at her
own table; at her own fireside! Her own roof covered her! There was
no one to gloom at her or make her feel uncomfortable. Work, poverty,
all things, now seemed possible and bearable.
When Jan had chattered himself weary she laid him in his cot, and sat
hour after hour in the dim light of the glowing peats, thinking,
planning, praying, whispering Jan's name to her heart, feeling almost
as if she were in his presence. When at length she rose and turned the
key in her own house again, she was as proud and as happy as a queen
who has just come into her kingdom, and who lifts for the first time
the scepter of her authority.