VISIT TO PLYMOUTH--BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT--MISS RUNDLE'S ACCOUNT OF
CHARLEY--VOYAGE TO SHETLAND--WRECKED AGAIN--FALL AMONG FRIENDS--NEAR
DEATH'S DOOR--HAPPY ENCOUNTER--DESCRIPTION OF SHETLAND--MY RESIDENCE
THERE--MARRIED--SUMMONED SOUTHWARD.
I did not think that I should ever have got tired of living at Southsea
with my kind aunt and fine hearty old uncle, but I had been so
accustomed to a roving life and active employment, that in a little time
I began to consider that I ought to be looking out for something to do.
What to do was the question. I had a fancy for staying on shore after
having been knocked about at sea for so many years, and setting up in
some business.
"What, have you forgotten Margaret Troall?" said my aunt to me one day.
The chord was struck. "No, indeed, I have not," said I; "I'll go and
find her, and bring her back to you as my wife if she will have me."
I had given all my money to my uncle to have put safe in a bank for me.
The next day I drew thirty pounds of it, and shipped myself aboard a
smack bound for Plymouth.
Strange as it may seem, all the time I had been on shore I had never
once thought of my oath and its consequence, but scarcely had I got to
sea than the recollection of it came back, and I fully expected that
some accident would happen to me before I reached my destination. It
did not, however. I landed in safety, and walked immediately up to the
house where I hoped to find the old lady and her niece. How strange it
seemed! I never felt in such a way before in my life. A child might
have knocked me down. I got to the house. How well I knew it! I
looked in, as I had done before, at the parlour window. I fully
expected to see the old lady sitting in her arm-chair and knitting, as I
had when I was last there. My heart jumped up right into my throat, and
then down it went I don't know where. There was no old lady there; but
there were three little children, fat, chubby, merry things, tumbling
about head over heels on the floor, and shouting and shrieking with
laughter, while a young woman sat on a low chair knitting and
encouraging them in their gambols, while she rocked a cradle with her
foot. "All sorts of strange thoughts came into my head. Who can she
be, I wonder? Can it be?" I said. I looked at her very hard, but the
glass was thick and dirty, and I could not make out her features. With
a trembling hand I knocked at the door. A servant girl, after a little
delay, opened it.
"Does Mrs Sandon live here?" I asked.
"No, she doesn't," was the short answer.
"Can you tell me where she lives?" I said.
"No; she does not live anywhere, she's dead," said the girl, who seemed
determined not to throw a word away.
"Dead!" said I. "Dead! just like Granny," I muttered, scarcely knowing
what I was saying. The girl was going to slam the door in my face.
"Can you tell me, my good girl, who that lady is in the parlour?" said
I, stopping her.
"Yes, that's Mrs Jones," was the answer.
I was no wiser than before. "Can you tell me what her maiden name was?"
said I, in a low, trembling voice.
"Missus never was a maid-servant; she was always a lady, as she is now,"
answered the girl, with a toss of her head, again attempting to slam to
the door.
"Stop, stop!" I exclaimed, in an agitated manner. "Can you tell me
whether she was Mrs Sandon's niece?"
"She'd nothing to do with Mrs Sandon that I knows on," said the girl;
"you're asking a lot of questions. You wouldn't, if master was at
home."
I was fairly beaten. Just then I heard a footstep behind me, and on
looking round, who should I see but Miss Rundle, tripping along the
pavement up to her own door, looking as brisk and young as ever.
"Oh, Miss Rundle, I'm so glad to see you!" I exclaimed, forgetting all
the proprieties, and running after her. "Can you tell me anything about
my kind friends who lived in our old house, and where I met you last at
tea?" I thought she would have shrieked out when she saw me--she looked
so astonished.
"Why, who are you? where did you come from? What do you want? Why, I
thought you were dead. You are not alive, are you?"
"I hope so, Miss Rundle. I fancy I am. I've done nothing to kill me
lately, and I know that I was alive a short time ago," I answered,
laughing in spite of my agitation.
"Well, if you are sure that you are alive, come in here and sit down and
tell me all about it," said the little old lady, opening the door of her
house with a latch-key which she drew from her pocket, and pointing to
the parlour, which she signed to me to enter.
I took off my hat and sat down, wondering what strange news I was to
hear. She presently made her appearance, having laid aside her walking
dress. I felt myself completely at home in a moment, she looked so
exactly as she had done when I last saw her on that delightful evening I
spent at Plymouth, and I so well remembered her in the days of my
boyhood.
"Well, Willand, I am glad to see you," said she in a kinder tone than
usual. "A young man whom you know, and whose name I would rather not
repeat,--indeed I do not like thinking about him,--told us that you were
dead--drowned or killed somehow or other at sea. Perhaps he had his own
selfish ends to serve, or perhaps he believed it; we will hope for the
best."
"Who do you mean! What do you speak of, Miss Rundle?" I exclaimed, in
a voice full of agitation.
"I speak of that false deceiver, that bad, heartless fellow, Charles
Iffley," she answered, in a tone which showed her strong dislike to my
former friend. "Do you know, some time after you were here he returned
from sea, and came up here to visit me, and talked of old times and old
friendships, and how I had known his poor mother and his friends, till I
was quite taken with him; and then he presented me with a stuffed parrot
and two little pets of Java sparrows he called them (which certainly
were very merry and hopped about gaily in their cage), and a dried
snake, which he told me was a great curiosity; and he used to drop in to
tea nearly every evening, and certainly he used to talk very pleasantly.
However, it is not always the talkers that are the best doers or the
best people. Then he began to inquire about the ladies next door, and I
invited them in to meet him, and he made himself still more agreeable
than ever. This went on for some time, till I saw that he admired Miss
Margaret, old Mrs Sandon's niece; however, as he had plenty of money,
that was no business of mine. I must say that by this time I did not
think so well of him as at first. Many things he said were very
incorrect, and the snake he gave me began to be so disagreeable that I
was obliged to throw it away, and my maid told me that she was certain
the sparrows were no great things, so we examined them carefully, and
there could be no doubt about it, they were merely common English
sparrows painted. When he came in and was waiting for me sometimes (for
he used to watch when I was out on purpose), he used to give them a
touch up, and tell me that he had been washing them and restoring their
plumage, and in that way he kept up the deception so long. An old
gentleman, a friend of mine, who used to be fond of poking about and
looking into old curiosity shops, happened to call, and I showed him the
parrot which Charles Iffley told me had come from some part of Africa or
South America round Cape Horn, only that it had died before he could
give it to me. When my friend saw the stuffed parrot, he turned it
about and examined it, and then showing me a ticket fastened to its
claw, told me that he knew the old Jew's shop where that bad fellow had
bought it, and to a certainty that he had not given more than a shilling
for it. All this was very provoking, and made me begin to think very
differently of him to what I had done at first. I did fancy that he
might have had some regard for an old friend." And the old lady drew
herself up and uttered a gentle sigh. "Such a dream was soon blown to
the winds," she continued. "I found that he was constantly going and
calling at Mrs Sandon's, and very often he did not look in on me at
all. It did not seem to me, however, that Margaret liked him, though I
think her aunt thought well of him, and encouraged him to come to the
house. He had never spoken of you, I found, till one day I mentioned
your name, when he said, `Ah, poor fellow! he was a great friend of
mine. I first got him a ship, and helped to make a sailor of him. I
was very sorry to lose him.'
"`How lose him?' asked Miss Margaret gently. Then he told them how you
had been sent away in a boat expedition in Teneriffe, to cut out some
prizes, and that the boat you were in had been knocked to pieces, and
that you had been either killed by the shot of the enemy or drowned, and
that nothing since had been heard of you."
"I cannot blame Charley, then," said I to Miss Rundle. "I have no doubt
that he fully believed the statement he made. Had I not succeeded in
getting on board another vessel, I should have been drowned, and we have
never met since. But what occurred after this?--go on."
"You shall hear. When he saw that Miss Margaret took some interest in
you, he began to talk of you in a disparaging way, as a poor sort of a
fellow, easily led, and that you had all sorts of strange fancies, which
he said he supposed had come to you with the northern blood which flowed
in your veins, and then he spoke in no complimentary way of Scotland and
the Orkney and Shetland people. He said he forgot to which you
belonged. I saw the colour come into Miss Margaret's cheeks. `I belong
to Shetland myself,' said she. `It is a country I love dearly.' On
this, the young man began to apologise, and said that he was speaking
without consideration; that he had known one bad Orkney man, and that
was all, whereas he had known hundreds of bad Englishmen, and he hoped
Miss Margaret would pardon him. She bowed, but said nothing. He did
his best to make amends for what he had said, and certainly if attention
would have won a woman, he would have won her. I could not help seeing
that was his aim. However, his behaviour to me had not made me wish to
give him any help. And, do you know, I found that he had been speaking
in a very disrespectful way of me. I cannot repeat the names he called
me. It showed me clearly what he was, and, though I did not like to
interfere, still I only hoped he would not succeed in winning that sweet
girl."
"Did he succeed, though?" I exclaimed, in a voice choking with
agitation. "Oh! tell me, Miss Rundle."
"You shall hear," answered the old lady, who was not to be hurried with
her narrative. "Of course, having won the good opinion of the aunt was
a great point in his favour. So he used to continue to go to the house
as often as ever. He took the aunt all sorts of pretty presents, though
he did not venture to offer them to Margaret. At last, however, he
seemed to think that the time was come when he must try his chance. So
he walked in and found Margaret in the room alone, and he told her, in
an off-hand sort of way, that he loved her, and that, if she would marry
him, he would give up the sea and live on shore, and make her
comfortable and happy for the rest of her days."
"Did she accept him? did she marry him?" I exclaimed, interrupting the
old lady.
"You shall hear, Mr Wetherholm," she answered quietly. "What woman
does not feel flattered by receiving a proposal of marriage from a
fine-looking, free-spoken young man. I'm sure I should." And she put
her hand mechanically before her face to hide the gentle blush which the
thought conjured up on her cheek. "She thanked him, but entreated him
not to persist in his offers. Then she frankly told him that one she
had loved had died at sea; that her heart was buried with him in his
ocean grave; and that she could not marry a man she did not love. She
was very firm, and Charles Iffley could not help seeing that he had very
little chance of success. She told me this shortly afterwards. He, it
seems, did not give up his attempt to win her. Somehow or other, he had
taken it into his head that she was speaking of you, though he was
puzzled to know how you had won her heart. He returned several times to
the house, but his chief occupation seems to have been in abusing you.
This made poor Miss Margaret fancy that you all the time were alive, and
that he knew it; and this, of course, made her still less inclined
towards him. The less way he made in her affections, the more bitter he
became against you, till at last she had to tell him that his
conversation was disagreeable, and that he must never come to the house
again. He still did come to the door several times, but the maid told
him that he must not come in, and that she would scream out murder if he
attempted it. Soon after this, poor old Mrs Sandon fell ill and died,
and poor Miss Margaret was left alone without any one to assist her or
protect her. I asked her to come and live with me till she could make
arrangements what to do. She had friends in Shetland, though that is a
long way off, and I could not think what help they could afford her.
They wrote back begging that she would come to them, and that she should
be like their daughter, and they would be parents to her. Well, against
my advice, she resolved to set off, and away she went. She kindly wrote
to me once, to tell me of her safe arrival, and she thoughtfully paid
the postage, which was just like her, and very right. You shall see her
letter, for I do not think she would object to my showing it to you."
I thanked Miss Rundle very much for the account she had given me, but I
could with difficulty reply to her for thinking what I would do. All
sorts of ideas crowded into my mind. I scarcely, however, recollected
Charley Iffley and his behaviour. My thoughts flew off to Shetland, and
to Margaret Troall. Miss Rundle gave me her letter. I read it over and
over again. I made a note of the place from which she dated it. Miss
Rundle saw me, and asked me if I was going to write to her.
"No; I intend to go to Shetland," I answered promptly. "I have made up
my mind to that. After all you have told me, I shall not rest happy
till I have seen her. Perhaps I shall take up my abode there
altogether. My father's family come from Shetland, and if I could get
Aunt Bretta to come up there also, we might all be very happy."
I was much pleased by the kind way in which Miss Rundle seemed to
sympathise with me, and entered into all my views and plans, though she
herself had no personal interest in them. She told me, in course of
conversation, that she had not since seen Charles Iffley, but that she
believed he belonged to some man-of-war or other, at the time of which
she had been speaking, and that she understood he was still in the
service.
My plan once formed, I lost no time in putting it into execution. That
very evening I found a smack sailing for Portsmouth, and took my passage
by her. On reaching Southsea, and telling my aunt all that had
occurred, she very much approved of my plans, and encouraged me to set
off at once for Shetland. She sent all sorts of messages to old
friends, and to the children of old friends; for, as she remarked with a
sigh, it was too probable that many of the parents would have been
called away from the world.
Drawing a further supply of money from the bank, I went up to London by
the coach next morning. I won't stop to describe how I was bothered and
confused in London, and how heartily I wished myself out of it. I found
my way to London Bridge, and, after making many inquiries, I reached a
place where there were several Leith smacks moored together. One was
going to sail the next tide. I joyfully stepped aboard of her, and
still more happy was I to find myself clear of the Thames and out at
sea. We were just a week making the passage, which was very well,
considering that we had a foul wind for some hours and had to bring up
in Yarmouth Roads. From Leith I got on by another vessel to Aberdeen.
In that port I found a regular trader which sailed once a month to
Lerwick, in Shetland. She was a smack, but not equal in size to the
craft in which I had come down from London to Leith.
We had been out about three days when very heavy thick weather came on,
and a south-westerly gale sprung up, which came sweeping through the
passage between Orkney and Shetland, kicking up a terrific sea. The
smack behaved very well, but at last all that could be done was to set a
try-sail and to heave her to, and away we drifted we knew not where. I
had never before been in the North Seas, so I was not accustomed to such
dark gloomy weather--not but what it is bad enough in the English
Channel now and then--still it does not often last so long as it does up
in the north.
Day after day the clouds hung down over our heads, and the wind howled,
and the dark green seas kept leaping up around, as if eager to draw us
down under their angry foaming bosoms. We had a hard matter to cook our
provisions, and no very easy one to eat them raw or cooked. Suddenly
the wind shifted and blew as strongly as ever from the eastward, and
then from the northward, and then got back again into the old quarter,
and the master confessed that, for the life of him he could not tell
where he had drifted to.
"On which side of Shetland are we, do you think?" said I.
"I only hope that we are still to the eastward, but at all events I
believe we are well away to the northward of the islands."
"I hope so," I answered. "But look, captain, what huge and unbroken
seas come rolling in from the west; if we are not to the northward, it
is my opinion that we have got the islands under our lee, and if this
gale is to continue, I would rather have them anywhere else than there."
"So would I, young man; but I have made this trip pretty often, and I
don't think that I can be so far out in my calculation," was the answer.
All I could say was that I hoped that I was wrong and he was right, as,
whichever was the case, there was nothing we could do till the weather
moderated. On we drove. I did not like the look of things. When night
came on I did not turn in, but sat down below out of the cold, ready to
spring on deck in a moment. I had fastened my money in a belt round my
waist, and kept my shoes ready to kick off, and my jacket loose to throw
easily aside. I was certain that the vessel would be wrecked. I felt
no fear for my own life, though I remembered my rash oath and what had
occurred so often before, and the gloomy weather had indeed increased
the conviction that I was under a sort of curse, and that I should have
no rest till it was fulfilled. I am just saying what I then thought. I
cannot even now be surprised at the idea gaining such powerful
possession of my mind, while everything that had happened to me had
tended to strengthen it.
Night came on. Pitchy darkness surrounded the storm-driven little
smack. The cry of "Breakers! breakers!" and piercing shrieks made me
spring on deck. At that moment the vessel struck. The foaming seas
came hissing and roaring up after her. We were among a dark mass of
rocks; no fabric formed by human hands could have withstood the violence
of those terrific waves. I held on to the last moment, while the huge
foaming seas washed over my head, almost drowning me, as I clung to the
wreck. Then I felt the deck quiver and shake, and the stout beams and
timbers were wrenched and torn asunder under my feet, and I was hurled
onward among the broken fragments by a roaring sea, which must have
well-nigh completed the destruction of the craft. I lost all
consciousness.
My last thought had been that at length the angry sea was about to claim
me as a victim. There was a hissing, roaring sound in my ears; I felt
myself tossed to and fro, knocked and battered, but I made no attempt,
that I am aware of, to save myself. At length I opened my eyes. It was
daylight. Some men were bending over me.
I heard a voice say, "Here is one who seems to have still some life in
him." And another person came and took my hand, and after waiting a
minute, said, "Yes, carry him up to the house." And I was put on a
litter and borne up a steep path among some cliffs; and then across a
high, wild down till I reached a substantial, strongly-built stone
house. The movement of the litter had a very good effect on me, so that
by the time I reached the house, my chest was relieved from the salt
water I had swallowed, and my senses had completely returned. I was
therefore saved the ceremony, very common in those days, by which a good
many people were killed, of hanging nearly drowned men up by the heels,
under the idea that the water would more quickly run out of their
mouths. I was carried into a large boarded room, out of which several
others opened. In one of those there was a bed. After my wet clothes
had been taken off me I was placed in bed, carefully wrapped up in
blankets, and directly after some warm drink was brought me.
I remember struggling somewhat when I found my money-belt being removed,
and trying to possess myself of it.
"Never fear, young man; it will be all safe," said a voice. "We are not
wreckers, and we no longer fancy that you will work us harm because we
help to save your life."
This satisfied me. I knew that there were honest people as well as
rogues in the world, but I had often met with honest ones, so I hoped
that I had now fallen among such. One thing, at all events, was very
evident, they seemed anxious to save my life. After this I fell into a
sound sleep.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when I awoke; but the summer days are
very long in those regions, and even then the evening sun was shining
into the window. A stout, white-haired, kindly-looking old gentleman
came in to see me with a younger man, whom I took to be his son, and a
servant girl brought in a tray with some tea, and some barley scones,
hot and buttered. I thought that I had never tasted anything nicer in
my life.
"I hope you are better now after your sleep, young man," said the old
gentleman. "If fever can be kept off, I think you will do well; but we
have sent for the doctor to look at your hurts. There are two or three
other people who want his aid."
"What, only two or three escaped out of all those on board the smack?"
said I.
"It is a mercy that any one came on shore alive; and you will say so
when you see the place in day-time," said the younger man.
"We won't speak about it at present," said the old gentleman. "The less
he talks or hears others talk, the better just now. We bid you
good-night. Sleep again, if you can; some one will look in on you to
see how you are going on, now and then."
With these words my hospitable friends left me once more to myself.
I suspected, indeed, that I should be better for a doctor's care, for I
felt that I had been bruised and battered dreadfully; my head had been
bandaged, and when I tried to stir I found all my limbs sore and
stiff,--indeed, it was not without great pain that I could move either
an arm or a leg. I slept through most of the night. When I did awake,
I began to wonder where I had got to, for the old gentleman had remained
in the room so short a time, that I had not been able to ask any
questions.
I had little doubt that I had been cast away on the coast of Shetland,
but whether on the northern or southern end I could not tell, any more
than I could who was my kind host.
The next day the doctor arrived. He had ridden over from Lerwick, with
only the rest of half-an-hour for his steed, he said; so I knew that I
must be at some distance from that town, and yet on the big island
called the mainland. He dressed my wounds and bruises, and told me that
one or two of my ribs were broken, but that I might consider myself
fortunate that matters were no worse; and remarked that he had no doubt
I had lived a prudent, careful life, as I was perfectly free from all
signs of fever, which would not otherwise have been the case; and then
giving me some bottles of medicine to take, he left me to look after his
other patients. He spent two or three days in the house, for the
islands are generally so healthy that there was not much demand for his
services elsewhere.
One of my poor shipmates died, I was told, from his hurts. I rapidly
got better. Besides the old gentleman and his son and the doctor, an
old lady looked in now and then to see me. She was a very neat, pretty
old woman, so cheerful and cheery, always having something pleasant to
say, so that she contributed much to raise my spirits. I will say that
I was most thankful for all the mercies which had been shown me, and for
my preservation from so great a danger.
At last I was pronounced well enough and strong enough to get up and
appear in public. A barber, who was going his rounds, came in, and
shaved me and cut my hair, and my head and face were all to rights, so
that I looked as well as ever, only my ribs hurt me a little, and my
limbs felt somewhat stiff.
The old gentleman came to my room when I was ready. "Take my arm," said
he kindly; "you will find it rather strange walking at first, and your
knees will shake a little."
I could not refuse his kind offer, though I thought that I could have
walked very well by myself. He led me into the large hall, and there,
seated by a window at the further end, looking out on the sea, I
observed two young women. One was dressed in black, the other in some
sober colour or other. They were both at the moment bending down over
their knitting, and talking in a low voice to each other, so that they
did not observe our entrance.
We had got three-quarters of the way across the room, and the old
gentleman was giving me a chair to sit down on, when the noise it made
over the floor caused them to look up. There sat one I had so long
thought of, whom I had come to search for, Margaret Troall.
She looked at me in a strange, bewildered way, still she knew me, and
yet she could not believe her senses. She tried to rise from her chair
to come towards me, but something seemed to keep her back. She drew her
breath quickly, as if she would have wished to have spoken, but could
not. I felt that I ought to speak first.
"They told you I was dead, Miss Margaret," said I, and I know my voice
trembled very much, and I know that had I not leant on the chair I
should have fallen. "They were mistaken; I went to Plymouth only
lately, and found you were no longer there; and when I discovered that
you had gone north, I came here to seek you."
She recovered herself while I was speaking, and rising from her seat,
came up and gave me her hand. I do not say that there was anything very
extraordinary in the action, but I know that it made me very happy. Her
friends at first looked very much astonished; but a few words served to
explain matters, and then they were doubly glad that they had had the
opportunity of being of so much service to an old friend of their young
relative.
I found that the name of my host, the uncle of Miss Troall, was David
Angus, and that the place where the smack had been wrecked was in Saint
Magnus Bay, in the parish of North Morven. My friends were the holders
of one of the largest farms in the district, and lived in a very
comfortable, though what people in the south would call a rough way. I
am not going to talk of all that passed between Margaret and me. I
should not have believed that she had thought so much of me as she had
done, it seemed; but our first meeting had been under peculiar
circumstances. She had seen me mourning deeply for a lost relative, and
she had discovered thus that I had a tender heart, so I may venture to
say, and now my coming all the way north to look for her showed her that
she had made no little impression on it.
Well, all that has passed and gone. I got every day better and better,
and was soon able to walk out with her along the tops of the high
cliffs, and to visit the wild scenes to be found especially in that part
of the island. I especially remember one place we visited, called the
Navis Grind. It is a gap in the cliffs formed by the whole force of the
western ocean rolling against them during a succession of heavy gales,
age after age, till vast fragments of the rock have been forced in for
hundreds of yards over the downs, and now lie like the fragments of some
ruined city scattered over the plain. We delighted in returning to
those scenes of wild grandeur, because they contrasted so strongly with
our own quiet happiness.
This was only the second time in my life that I had enjoyed what might
be properly called idleness. The first was during my short stay with
Aunt Bretta, and then I confess that I often did at times feel weary
from not knowing what to do with myself. Now I never felt anything like
weariness, I was too happy to spend the greater part of the day in the
society of Margaret. Sometimes I used to walk by myself over the downs
by the edge of the cliffs, and at others visit the different parts of
his farm with my host, and assist him to look after his cattle and
horses and sheep, which were scattered far and wide over the peninsula.
I have scarcely mentioned his daughter Minna. She was a fair-haired,
smiling, good-natured lassie, who was contented with her lot, because
she had sense enough to discover that it was a very happy one.
There was one person, however, who would, I soon with some pain
discovered, have been better pleased had I not come to the islands.
That was John Angus, my host's son. He did not treat me uncivilly or
unkindly, but I saw that it cost him an effort to be as cordial as the
rest of his family. He was a good-natured, frank, kind-hearted man,
whom under other circumstances I should have hoped to have made my
friend. I cannot but think, too, that in time he would have won
Margaret's regard, and he was certainly a man to have made any woman
happy.
In two weeks or so I was Margaret's acknowledged suitor, or rather, I
may say, her affianced husband. I was so happy that I thought sorrow
could never again come near me. Now Margaret herself reminded me that I
was a Shetlander,--indeed, as I was born at sea, no other people would
claim me,--and that I ought to try and find out some of my family. I
talked the subject over with Mr Angus. He remembered many of them, but
when he came to consider, every one of my near relations were gone.
Some cousins of my father's were the nearest remaining, and then there
were several of Aunt Bretta's old friends, the companions of her youth
whom she wished me to see. John Angus volunteered to accompany me, and
he provided two strong, shaggy little ponies for our journey.
We started away one morning soon after daybreak over the wild tracks,
the only substitute for roads through the islands in those days, and
crossed into the chief part of the mainland by a causeway so narrow that
I could have thrown a biscuit across it. On one side of us was Rowe
Sound, and on the other Hagraseter Voe, a long, narrow voe running out
of Yell Sound. It would be difficult to describe the wild, and often
beautiful scenery through which we passed. Long, deep voes, full of
inlets and indentations, with high heathery hills on either side, was
the most characteristic feature, and quiet, little inland lochs, with
wildfowl resting on their bosoms, was another, and then high rocky
cliffs, the habitation of innumerable sea-birds, and hundreds of green
islands and rocks scattered about on every side on the surface of the
blue ocean.
John Angus did his best to point out to me the various points of
interest we passed. Among the most curious were the Pictie towers,
little round edifices built with rough stone, beautifully put together,
with passages inside winding up to the top without steps. They were
built by a race who inhabited those islands long before the time of
which history gives any account. Whence they came, or how they
departed, no one knows. Every hamlet throughout Shetland is called a
toun. The cottages composing them are very far from attractive-looking
edifices, generally built of mud, of one storey, and thatched; with a
midden on one side of the door, and a pool of a very doubtful colour and
contents on the other. The insides were often large and clean, and tidy
enough, and in such I found many of my aunt's friends residing.
Wherever I went, I was hospitably received, and I delivered my messages,
and rode on. I cannot say that my cousins appeared very highly
delighted at seeing me, which was natural enough, considering that till
I made my appearance, and announced myself, they had never heard there
was such a person in existence. However, Aunt Bretta was remembered by
all her contemporaries with affection. I should have enjoyed my visits
more had I not been anxious to return to Hillswick.
We were altogether five days away, and in that period, sometimes by
means of boats, and sometimes on the backs of ponies, and at others on
our own feet, we visited the greater portion of the islands. I often
felt that had I been born among them, I should never have desired to
leave their quiet shores, and more than once contemplated the
probability of spending the remainder of my days there. I spoke my mind
on the subject to John Angus.
"Do, Weatherhelm, do," he answered; "we shall be glad to have you among
us: but you've heard the old notion we islanders have, that he who is
saved from drowning by any one of us is certain to work us ill?"
"I've heard of the idea not only as held by the people of Shetland, but
by those of many other countries," I answered. "Like many other ideas,
to my mind, it is not only false, but wrong and wicked. Depend upon it,
the idea was invented by those who wanted an excuse for killing the
unfortunate people wrecked on their coast in order to obtain their
property."
"That may be," said Angus; "still, for my part, I cannot help believing
that it is in some respects true. However, sometimes a man may work
another harm without intending it. But come along, put your nag into a
trot, we have a good many miles of this heavy peat land to get over
before we reach home."
It was not till some time afterwards that I knew what John Angus meant
by his remarks. He volunteered to take the ponies round to the stable,
while I went into the house. It was worth going away for a few days for
the pleasure of being received as I was by Margaret. I thought her
looking more sweet and lovely than ever. As I said before, I am not
going to repeat all that occurred between us. The day was fixed for our
marriage, and friends from far and near were invited to it. They came,
some by water and others on ponies; the women on pack-saddles, with
their head-gear in baskets hung over their arms. Mr Angus had told me
that he hoped, since I was to become his nephew, that I would live on
with him and help him in his croft, as there was work enough both for me
and his son. John, indeed, had a mind to go and see something of the
world, and was proposing a trip to Aberdeen, if not to Edinburgh, before
the winter. He would be away, at all events, during the winter, so that
my services would be of great value.
This proposal exactly suited my wishes. I was certain that Margaret
would be happy with her friends, and I should find plenty of the sort of
employment which suited me. I should be out of doors during all the
hours of daylight, and I knew that I should be handy in the various
occupations in which the family passed their time during the long
evenings of winter. Well, then, Margaret and I were married, and the
guests who had welcomed me back as a countryman to Shetland, took their
departure, and we all settled down into a very regular, happy state of
existence. John Angus went away to Scotland, and I took his place as
his father's assistant. The winter came round pretty quickly, and
though we had fogs and damp sometimes, I did not find the weather nearly
so cold as I expected. Even in mid-winter, with a south-westerly wind,
it was always quite warm; but when the wind shifted round and came out
of the north-east or east, it was cold enough. Still there was very
little ice, and not often much snow. As I have often remarked when
wandering over the globe, every country has its advantages, and those
far northern islands have theirs. They have their long days in summer,
and bright skies, and fragrant wild-flowers, and fine wild scenery, and,
thanks to the hot waters of the Gulf Stream which wash their shores, a
tolerably temperate climate all the year round. The winter passed
rapidly away. I could often scarcely believe in my happiness, after all
the hardships and dangers I had undergone, and I am afraid that I was
not sufficiently grateful for it. One thing I felt, that Margaret did
not repent the choice she had made. Though I had had rather more
education than generally falls to the lot of those of my class, I knew
that I was but a rough, untutored seaman, and so I did my utmost to be
tender and gentle to my wife, and to study how I best could please her
in everything. I did not forget my old friend Miss Rundle,--my wife and
I wrote her a long letter between us, fall of all sorts of fun; we also
took good care to pay the postage. Of course, also, we wrote to Aunt
Bretta. She sent back a letter in return, hoping that we would soon
come south to see her. We expected John Angus in the spring, but he did
not return. He wrote instead, to say that he had got some employment in
the south, which suited him for the present, and that he was very happy.
A whole year passed away. During the second winter, I thought that my
wife, who had been so long accustomed to the soft air of Devonshire, was
suffering from the long continuance of damp fogs. While I was balancing
in my mind whether I ought not to take her south, I received another
letter from Aunt Bretta. She told me that she was quite sickening to
see me and my wife, and that my uncle hoped to be able to find some
employment on shore which would suit my taste. When I laid the proposal
before my wife, she at once acceded to it. "I am afraid," said she,
"that as long as we remain here, we keep poor John away from his family.
If we go south, he will return home." David Angus, and the old lady,
and our kind-hearted cousin, were most unwilling to part with us, but we
had written to Aunt Bretta to say that we were coming, and we could not
again change our plans. About the middle of June we sailed in a smack
bound direct for Leith, and once more I found myself on salt water.