“Good-by, Margaret Vedder!”
She had lifted the locket in the interval, and was mechanically passing her fingers along the chain. “It is the very pattern I wished for,” she whispered to her heart, “I remember drawing it for him.” She did not hear Snorro’s “good-by,” and he stood watching her curiously a moment.
“I said ‘good-by,’ Margaret Vedder.”
“Good-by,” she answered mechanically. Her whole soul was moved. She was in a maze of tender, troubled thoughts, but Snorro perceived nothing but her apparent interest in the jewels. He could not forget his last sight of her standing, so apparently calm, with her eyes fixed upon the locket and chain that dangled from her white hand. “She was wondering how much they cost Jan,” he thought bitterly; “what a cold, cruel woman she is!”
That she had not asked him about his own affairs, why he left so hurriedly, how he was going, for what purpose, how long he was to be away, was a part of her supreme selfishness, Snorro thought. He could no longer come into her life, and so she cared nothing about him. He wished Dr. Balloch could have seen her as he did, with poor Jan’s love-gifts in her hands. With his heart all aflame on Jan’s noble deeds, and his imagination almost deifying the man, the man he loved so entirely, Margaret’s behavior was not only very much misunderstood by Snorro, it was severely and unjustly condemned.
“What did God make women for?” he asked angrily, as he strode back over the moor. “I hope Jan has forgotten her, for it is little she thinks of him.”
On reaching his home again he dressed himself in his best clothes, for he could not sleep. He walked up and down the old town, and over the quays, and stood a five minutes before Peter Fae’s store, and so beguiled the hours until he could go on board “The Lapwing.”
At five o’clock he saw Lord Lynne come aboard, and the anchor was raised. Snorro lifted his cap, and said, “Good morning, Lord Lynne;” and my lord answered cheerily, “Good morning, Snorro. With this wind we shall make a quick passage to Wick.”
CHAPTER XII.
SNORRO AND JAN
“And yet when all is thought and said,
The heart still overrules the head;
Still what we hope, we must believe,
And what is given us receive.”
Snorro had indeed very much misjudged Margaret. During her interview with him she had been absorbed in one effort, that of preserving her self-control while he was present. As soon as he had gone, she fled to her own room, and locking the door, she fell upon her knees. Jan’s last love-gifts lay on the bed before her, and she bent her head over them, covering them with tears and kisses.
“Oh, Jan! Oh, my darling!” she whispered to the deaf and dumb emblems of his affection. “Oh, if thou could come back to me again! Never more would I grieve thee, or frown on thee! Never should thy wishes be unattended to, or thy pleasure neglected! No one on earth, no one should speak evil of thee to me! I would stand by thee as I promised until death! Oh, miserable, unworthy wife that I have been! What shall I do? If now thou knew at last how dearly Margaret loves thee, and how bitterly she repents her blindness and her cruelty!”
So she mourned in half-articulate sobbing words, until little Jan awoke and called her. Then she laid him in her own bed and sat down beside him; quiet, but full of vague, drifting thoughts that she could hardly catch, but which she resolutely bent her mind to examine. Why had Snorro kept these things so long, and then that night suddenly brought them to her at such a late hour? What was he going away for? What was that strange light upon his face? She had never seen such a look upon Snorro’s face before. She let these questions importune her all night, but she never dared put into form the suspicion which lay dormant below them, that Jan had something to do with it; that Snorro had heard from Jan.
In the morning she took the trinkets with her to Dr. Balloch’s. She laid them before him one by one, telling when, and how, they had been offered and refused. “All but this,” she said, bursting into childlike weeping, and showing the battered, tarnished baby coral. “He brought this for his child, and I would not let him see the baby. Oh, can there be any mercy for one so unmerciful as I was?”
“Daughter, weep; thy tears are gracious tears. Would to God poor Jan could see thee at this hour. Whatever happiness may now be his lot, thy contrition would add to it, I know. Go home to-day. No one is in any greater trouble than thou art. Give to thyself tears and prayers; it may be that ere long God will comfort thee. And as thou goes, call at Snorro’s house. See that the fire is out, lock the door, and bring me the key when thou comes to-morrow. I promised Snorro to care for his property.”
“Where hath Snorro gone?”
“What did he say to thee?”
“That he was going to Wick. But how then did he go? There was no steamer due.”
“Lord Lynne took him in his yacht.”
“That is strange!” and Margaret looked steadily at Dr. Balloch. “It seems to me, that Lord Lynne’s yacht was at Lerwick, on that night; thou knowest.”
“When Skager and Jan quarreled?”
She bowed her head, and continued to gaze inquisitively at him.
“No, thou art mistaken. On that night he was far off on the Norway coast. It must have been two weeks afterward, when he was in Lerwick.”
“When will Lord Lynne be here again?”
“I know not; perhaps in a few weeks, perhaps not until the end of summer. He may not come again this year. He is more uncertain than the weather.”
Margaret sighed, and gathering her treasures together she went away. As she had been desired, she called at Snorro’s house. The key was on the outside of the door, she turned it, and went in. The fire had been carefully extinguished, and the books and simple treasures he valued locked up in his wooden chest. It had evidently been quite filled with these, for his clothes hung against the wall of an inner apartment. Before these clothes Margaret stood in a kind of amazement. She was very slow of thought, but gradually certain facts in relation to them fixed themselves in her mind with a conviction which no reasoning could change.
Snorro had gone away in his best clothes; his fishing suit and his working suit he had left behind. It was clear, then, that he had not gone to the Wick fisheries; equally clear that he had not gone away with any purpose of following his occupation in loading and unloading vessels. Why had he gone then? Margaret was sure that he had no friends beyond the Shetlands. Who was there in all the world that could tempt Snorro from the little home he had made and loved; and who, or what could induce him to leave little Jan?
Only Jan’s father!
She came to this conclusion at last with a clearness and rapidity that almost frightened her. Her cheeks burned, her heart beat wildly, and then a kind of anger took possession of her. If Snorro knew any thing, Dr. Balloch did also. Why was she kept in anxiety and uncertainty? “I will be very quiet and watch,” she thought, “and when Lord Lynne comes again, I will follow him into the manse, and ask him where my husband is.”
As she took a final look at Snorro’s belongings, she thought pitifully, “How little he has! And yet who was so good and helpful to every one? I might have taken more interest in his housekeeping! How many little things I could easily have added to his comforts! What a selfish woman I must be! Little wonder that he despised me!” And she determined that hour to make Jan’s friend her friend when he came back, and to look better after his household pleasures and needs.
She had plenty now to think about, and she was on the alert morning, noon, and night; but nothing further transpired to feed her hope for nearly a month. The fishing season was then in full business, and Peter Fae, as usual, full of its cares. There had been no formal reconciliation between Margaret and her father and stepmother, and there was no social intercourse between the houses, but still they were on apparent terms of friendship with each other. The anger and ill-will had gradually worn away, and both Peter and Suneva looked with respect upon a woman so much in the minister’s favor and company. Peter sent her frequent presents from the store, and really looked upon his handsome little grandson with longing and pride. When he was a few years older he intended to propose to pay for his education. “We’ll send him to Edinburgh, Suneva,” he frequently said, “and we will grudge nothing that is for his welfare.”
And Suneva, who had carefully fostered this scheme, would reply, “That is what I have always said, Peter. It is a poor family that has not one gentleman in it, and, please God and thy pocket-book, we will make a gentleman and a minister of our little Jan;” and the thought of his grandson filling a pulpit satisfied Peter’s highest ambition.
So, though there had been no visiting between the two houses, there were frequent tokens of courtesy and good-will, and Margaret, passing through the town, and seeing her father at his shop-door, stopped to speak to him.
“Where hast thou been, and where is thy boy?” he asked.
“He is at home with Elga. I have been to read with Mary Venn; she is failing fast, and not long for this life.”
As they spoke Tulloch approached, and, with a cold bow to Peter, turned to Margaret and said, “I will walk with thee, Mistress Vedder, as I have some business matter to speak of.” Then, after they had turned to Margaret’s home: “It was about the interest of the seven hundred pounds placed to thy credit a few days since. I will count the interest from the first of the month.”
Margaret was completely amazed. “Seven hundred pounds!” she said, in a low trembling voice. “I know nothing about it. Surely thou art dreaming. Who brought it to thee?”
“Dr. Balloch. He said it was conscience money and not to be talked about. I suppose thy father sent it, for it is well known that he made his will a few days ago.”
Margaret, however, did not believe that it was her father. She was sure Jan had sent the money. It was her £600, with £100 for interest. And oh, how it pained her! Somewhere on earth Jan was alive, and he would neither come to her, nor write to her. He sent her gold instead of love, as if gold were all she wanted. He could scarcely have contrived a more cruel revenge, she thought. For once she absolutely hated money; but it put into her mind a purpose which would not leave it. If Snorro could find Jan, she could. The money Jan had sent she would use for that purpose.
She was cautious and suspicious by nature, and she determined to keep her intention close in her own heart. All summer she watched anxiously for the return of “The Lapwing,” but it came not. One day, in the latter part of August, Dr. Balloch asked her to answer for him a letter which he had received from Lord Lynne. She noted the address carefully. It was in Hyde Park, London. Very well, she would go to London. Perhaps she would be nearer to Jan if she did.
She had now nearly £1,000 of her own. If she spent every farthing of it in the search and failed, she yet felt that she would be happier for having made the effort. The scheme took entire possession of her, and the difficulties in the way of its accomplishment only made her more stubbornly determined. The first, was that of reaching the mainland without encountering opposition. She was sure that both her father and Dr. Balloch would endeavor to dissuade her; she feared they would influence her against her heart and judgment. After August, the mail boats would be irregular and infrequent; there was really not a day to be lost.
In the morning she went to see Tulloch. He was eating his breakfast and he was not at all astonished to see her. He thought she had come to talk to him about the investment of her money.
“Good morning, Mistress Vedder! Thou hast been much on my mind, thou and thy money, and no doubt it is a matter of some consequence what thou will do with it.”
“I am come to speak to thee as a friend, in whom I may confide a secret. Wilt thou hear, and keep it, and give me good advice?”
“I do not like to have to do with women’s secrets, but thou art a woman by thyself. Tell me all, then, but do not make more of the matter than it is worth.”
“When Jan Vedder had no other friend, thou stood by him.”
“What then? Jan was a good man. I say that yet, and I say it to thy face, Margaret Vedder. I think, too, that he had many wrongs.”
“I think that too, and I shall be a miserable woman until I have found Jan, and can tell him to his face how sorry I am. So then, I am going away to find him.”
“What art thou talking of? Poor Jan is dead. I am sure that is so.”
“I am sure it is not so. Now let me tell thee all.” Then she went over the circumstances which had fed her convictions, with a clearness and certainty which brought conviction to Tulloch’s mind also.
“I am sure thou are right,” he answered gravely, “and I have nothing at all to say against thy plan. It is a very good plan if it has good management. Now, then, where will thou go first?”
“I have Lord Lynne’s address in London. I will go first of all to him. Jan sent me that money, I am sure. It must have been a person of wealth and power who helped him to make such a sum, or he must have lent Jan the money. I think this person was Lord Lynne.”
“I think that too. Now about thy money?”
“I will take it with me. Money in the pocket is a ready friend.”
“No, it will be a great care to thee. The best plan for thee is this: take fifty pounds in thy pocket, and I will give thee a letter of credit for the balance on a banking firm in London. I will also write to them, and then, if thou wants advice on any matter, or a friend in any case, there they will be to help thee.”
“That is good. I will leave also with thee twenty-five pounds for Elga. Thou art to pay her five shillings every week. She will care for my house until I return.”
“And thy child?”
“I will take him with me. If Jan is hard to me, he may forgive me for the child’s sake.”
“Build not thy hopes too high. Jan had a great heart, but men are men, and not God. Jan may have forgotten thee.”
“I have deserved to be forgotten.”
“He may not desire to live with thee any more.”
“If he will only listen to me while I say, ‘I am sorry with all my heart, Jan;’ if he will only forgive my unkindness to him, I shall count the journey well made, though I go to the ends of the earth to see him.”
“God go with thee, and make all thy plans to prosper. Here is the table of the mail boats. One leaves next Saturday morning at six o’clock. My advice is to take it. I will send on Thursday afternoon for thy trunk, and Friday night I will find some stranger fisher-boy to take it to the boat. Come thou to my house when all is quiet, and I will see thee safely on board. At six in the morning, when she sails, the quay will be crowded.”
“I will do all this. Speak not of the matter, I ask thee.”
“Thou may fully trust me.”
Then Margaret went home with a light heart. Her way had been made very plain to her; it only now remained to bind Elga to her interest. This was not hard to do. Elga promised to remain for two years in charge of the house if Margaret did not return before. She felt rich with an allowance of five shillings a week, and the knowledge that Banker Tulloch had authority to prevent either Peter or Suneva from troubling her during that time. So that it was Elga’s interest, even if it had not been her will, to give no information which might lead to the breaking up of the comfort dependent on Margaret’s absence.
Nothing interfered with Margaret’s plans. During the three intervening days, she went as usual to Dr. Balloch’s. Twice she tried to introduce the subject of Snorro’s singular journey, and each time she contrived to let the minister see that she connected it in her own mind with Jan. She noticed that on one of these occasions, the doctor gave her a long, searching look, and that the expression of his own face was that of extreme indecision. She almost thought that he was going to tell her something, but he suddenly rose and changed the subject of their conversation, in a very decided manner. His reticence pained and silenced her, for she almost longed to open her heart to him. Yet, as he gave her no encouragement, she was too shy, and perhaps too proud to force upon him an evidently undesired confidence. She determined, however, to leave letters for him, and for her father, stating the object of her voyage, but entering into no particulars about it. These letters she would put in Elga’s care, with orders not to deliver them until Saturday night. By that time Margaret Vedder hoped to be more than a hundred miles beyond Lerwick.
In the meantime Snorro had reached Portsmouth, his journey thither having been uneventful. “The Retribution” had arrived two days before, and was lying in dock. At the dock office a letter which Lord Lynne had given him, procured an admission to visit the ship, and her tall tapering masts were politely pointed out to him. Snorro went with rapid strides toward her, for it was near sunset and he knew that after the gun had been fired, there would be difficulty in getting on board. He soon came to the ship of his desire. Her crew were at their evening mess, only two or three sailors were to be seen.
Snorro paused a moment, for he was trembling with emotion, and as he stood he saw three officers come from the cabin. They grouped themselves on the quarter-deck, and one of them, taller, and more splendidly dressed than the others, turned, and seemed to look directly at Snorro. The poor fellow stretched out his arms, but his tongue was heavy, like that of a man in a dream, and though he knew it was Jan, he could not call him. He had received at the office, however, a permit to board “The Retribution” in order to speak with her commander, and he found no difficulty in reaching him.
Jan was still standing near the wheel talking to his officers as Snorro approached. Now that the moment so long watched and waited for, had come, poor Snorro could hardly believe it, and beside, he had seen in the first glance at his friend, that this was a different Jan somehow from the old one. It was not alone his fine uniform, his sash and sword and cocked hat; Jan had acquired an air of command, an indisputable nobility and ease of manner, and for a moment, Snorro doubted if he had done well to come into his presence unannounced.
He stood with his cap in his hand waiting, feeling heart-faint with anxiety. Then an officer said some words to Jan, and he turned and looked at Snorro.
“Snorro! Snorro!”
The cry was clear and glad, and the next moment Jan was clasping both his old friend’s hands. As for Snorro, his look of devotion, of admiration, of supreme happiness was enough. It was touching beyond all words, and Jan felt his eyes fill as he took his arm and led him into his cabin.
“I am come to thee, my captain. I would have come, had thou been at the end of the earth.”
“And we will part no more, Snorro, we two. Give me thy hand on that promise.”
“No more, no more, my captain.”
“To thee, I am always ‘Jan.’”
“My heart shall call thee ‘Jan,’ but my lips shall always say ‘my captain,’ so glad are they to say it! Shall I not sail with thee as long as we two live?”
“We are mates for life, Snorro.”
Jan sent his boy for bread and meat. “Thou art hungry I know,” he said; “when did thou eat?”
“Not since morning. To-day I was not hungry, I thought only of seeing thee again.”
At first neither spoke of the subject nearest to Jan’s heart. There was much to tell of people long known to both men, but gradually the conversation became slower and more earnest, and then Snorro began to talk of Peter Fae and his marriage. “It hath been a good thing for Peter,” he said; “he looks by ten years a younger man.”
“And Suneva, is she happy?”
“Well, then, she dresses gayly, and gives many fine parties, and is what she likes best of all, the great lady of the town. But she hath not a bad heart, and I think it was not altogether her fault if thy wife was – ”
“If my wife was what, Snorro?”
“If thy wife was unhappy in her house. The swan and the kittywake can not dwell in the same nest.”
“What hast thou to tell me of my wife and son?”
“There is not such a boy as thy boy in all Scotland. He is handsomer than thou art. He is tall and strong, and lish and active as a fish. He can dive and swim like a seal, he can climb like a whaler’s boy, he can fling a spear, and ride, and run, and read; and he was beginning to write his letters on a slate when I came away. Also, he was making a boat, for he loves the sea, as thou loves it. Oh, I tell thee, there is not another boy to marrow thy little Jan.”
“Is he called Jan?”
“Yes, he is called Jan after thee.”
“This is great good news, Snorro. What now of my wife?”
Snorro’s voice changed, and all the light left his face. He spoke slowly, but with decision. “She is a very good woman. There is not a better woman to be found anywhere than Margaret Vedder. The minister said I was to tell thee how kind she is to all who are sick and in trouble, and to him she is as his right hand. Yes, I will tell thee truly, that he thinks she is worthy of thy love now.”
“And what dost thou think?”
“I do not think she is worthy.”
“Why dost thou not think so?”
“A woman may be an angel, and love thee not.”
“Then thou thinks she loves me not? Why? Has she other lovers? Tell me truly, Snorro.”
“The man lives not in Lerwick who would dare to speak a word of love to Margaret Vedder. She walks apart from all merry-making, and from all friends. As I have told thee she lives in her own house, and enters no other house but the manse, unless it be to see some one in pain or sorrow. She is a loving mother to thy son, but she loves not thee. I will tell thee why I think.” Then Snorro recounted with accurate truthfulness his last interview with Margaret. He told Jan every thing, for he had noted every thing: – her dress, her attitude, her rising color, her interest in the locket’s chain, her indifference as to his own hurried journey, its object, or its length.
Jan heard all in silence, but the impression made on him by Snorro’s recital, was not what Snorro expected. Jan knew Margaret’s slow, proud nature. He would have been astonished, perhaps even a little suspicious of any exaggeration of feeling, of tears, or of ejaculations. Her interest in the locket chain said a great deal to him. Sitting by his side, with her fair face almost against his own, she had drawn the pattern of the chain she wished. Evidently she had remembered it; he understood that it was her emotion at the recognition which had made her so silent, and so oblivious of Snorro’s affairs. The minister’s opinion had also great weight with him. Dr. Balloch knew the whole story of his wrong, knew just where he had failed, and where Margaret had failed. If he believed a reconciliation was now possible and desirable, then Jan also was sure of it.
Snorro saw the purpose in his face. Perhaps he had a moment’s jealous pang, but it was instantly put down. He hastened to let Jan feel that, even in this matter, he must always be at one with him:
“Trust not to me,” he said; “it is little I know or understand about women, and I may judge Margaret Vedder far wrong.”
“I think thou does, Snorro. She was never one to make a great show of her grief or her regrets. But I will tell thee what she did when thou wert gone away. In her own room, she wept over that chain the whole night long.”
“That may be. When little Jan had the croup she was still and calm until the boy was out of danger, and then she wept until my heart ached for her. Only once besides have I seen her weep; that was when Suneva accused her of thy murder; then she took her baby in her arms and came through the storm to me at the store. Yes, she wept sorely that night.”
Jan sat with tightly-drawn lips.
“If it will make thee happy, send me back to Lerwick, and I will bring thy wife and child safely here. Thou would be proud indeed to see them. The boy is all I have told thee. His mother is ten times handsomer than when thou married her. She is the fairest and most beautiful of women. When she walks down the street at the minister’s side, she is like no other woman. Even Peter Fae is now proud that she is his daughter, and he sends her of the finest that comes to his hand. Shall I then go for thee? Why not go thyself?”
“I will think about it, Snorro. I can not go myself. I received my promotion yesterday, and I asked to be transferred for immediate service. I may get my orders any day. If I send thee, I may have to sail without thee, and yet not see my wife and child. No, I will not part with thee, Snorro; thou art a certain gain, and about the rest, I will think well. Now we will say no more, for I am weary and weak; my head aches also, and I fear I have fever again.”
The next day Jan was very ill, and it was soon evident that typhoid fever of a long and exhausting character had supervened on a condition enfeebled by African malaria. For many weeks he lay below the care of love or life, and indeed it was August when he was able to get on deck again. Then he longed for the open sea, and so urged his desire, that he received an immediate exchange to the ship Hydra, going out to Borneo with assistance for Rajah Brooke, who was waging an exterminating war against the pirates of the Chinese and Indian seas.
The new ship was a very fine one, and Jan was proud of his command. Snorro also had been assigned to duty on her, having special charge of a fine Lancaster gun which she carried, and no words could express his pride and joy in his position. She was to sail on the 15th day of August, one hour after noon, and early in the morning of that day, Jan went off the ship alone. He went direct to the Post Office, and with trembling hands, for he was still very weak, he dropped into it the following letter:
My Dear Wife – My fair dear Margaret:
I have never ceased to love thee. Ask Dr. Balloch to tell thee all. To-day I leave for the Chinese sea. If thou wilt forgive and forget the past, and take me again for thy husband, have then a letter waiting for me at the Admiralty Office, and when I return I will come to Shetland for thee. Snorro is with me. He hath told me all about thy goodness, and about our little Jan. Do what thy heart tells thee to do, and nothing else. Then there will be happiness. Thy loving husband,
Jan Vedder.
A few hours after this letter had been posted Jan stood on his quarter deck with his face to the open sea, and Snorro, in his new uniform, elate with joy and pride, was issuing his first orders to the quarter-master, and feeling that even for him, life had really begun at last.