Jan Vedder's Wife Part 26

The order was given without consideration, and without any conscious intention. He was amazed himself when he had uttered it. The man was an old servant, and said hesitatingly, "Yes, but they are no kin of thine."

"All the apples on the same tree have come from the same root, Bele; and it is like enough that all the Tullochs will have had one forbear. I would be a poor Tulloch to see one of the name wanting a bite and sup. Yes, indeed."

He was very thoughtful after seeing the children, and when Dr. Balloch came, he said to him at once: "Now, then, I will do what thou hast told me to do--settle up my affairs with this world forever. Wilt thou help me?"

"If I think thou does the right thing, I will help thee, but I do not think it is right to give thy money to Margaret Vedder. She has enough and to spare. 'Cursed be he that giveth unto the rich.' It was Mahomet and Anti-Christ that said the words, but for all that they are good words."

"I have no kin but a fifth cousin in Leith; he is full of gold and honor. All that I have would be a bawbee to him. But this is what I think, my money is Shetland money, made of Shetland fishers, and it ought to stay in Shetland."

"I think that too."

"Well, then, we are of one mind so far. Now my wish is to be bread-giver even when I am dead, to be bread-giver to the children whose fathers G.o.d has taken. Here are Magnus Tulloch's four, and Hugh Petrie's little lad, and James Traill's five children, and many more of whom I know not. My houses, big and little, shall be homes for them. My money shall buy them meal and meat and wadmall to clothe them. There are poor lonely women who will be glad to care for them, eight or ten to each, and Suneva Fae and Margaret Vedder will see that the women do their duty. What thinkest thou?"

"Now, then, I think this, that G.o.d has made thy will for thee.

Moreover, thou hast put a good thought into my heart also. Thou knows I brought in my hand a little money when I came to Shetland, and it has grown, I know not how. I will put mine with thine, and though we are two childless old men, many children shall grow up and bless us."

Into this scheme Tulloch threw all his strength and foresight and prudence. The matter was urgent, and there were no delays, and no waste of money. Three comfortable fishermen's cottages that happened to be vacant, were fitted with little bunks, and plenty of fleeces for bedding. Peat was stacked for firing, and meal and salted fish sent in; so that in three days twenty-three fatherless, motherless children were in warm, comfortable homes.

Suneva entered into the work with perfect delight. She selected the mothers for each cottage, and she took good care that they kept them clean and warm, that the little ones' food was properly cooked, and their clothes washed and mended. If there were a sorrow or a complaint it was brought to her, and Suneva was not one to blame readily a child.

Never man went down to the grave with his hands so full of beneficent work as Tulloch. Through it he took the sacrament of pain almost joyfully, and often in the long, lonely hours of nightly suffering, he remembered with a smile of pleasure, the little children sweetly sleeping in the homes he had provided for them. The work grew and prospered wonderfully; never had there been a busier, happier winter in Lerwick. As was customary, there were tea-parties at Suneva's and elsewhere nearly every night, and at them the women sewed for the children, while the men played the violin, or recited from the Sagas, or sung the plaintive songs of the Islands.

Margaret brought the dying man constant intelligence of his bounty: the children, one or two at a time, were allowed to come and see him; twice, leaning on Dr. Balloch, and his servant Bele, he visited the homes, and saw the orphans at their noonday meals. He felt the clasp of grateful hands, and the kiss of baby lips that could not speak their thanks. His last was the flower of his life-work and he saw the budding of it, and was satisfied with its beauty.

One morning in the following April, Margaret received the letter which Suneva had prophesied would arrive by the twentieth, if the weather were favorable. Nowhere in the world has the term, "weather permitting," such significance as in these stormy seas. It is only necessary to look at the mail steamers, so strongly built, so bluff at the bows, and nearly as broad as they are long, to understand that they expect to have to take plenty of hard blows and buffetings. It was the first steamer that had arrived for months, and though it made the harbor in a blinding snow-storm, little Jan would not be prevented from going into the town to see if it brought a letter. For the boy's dream of every thing grand and n.o.ble centered in his father. He talked of him incessantly; he longed to see him with all his heart.

Margaret also was restless and faint with anxiety; she could not even knit. Never were two hours of such interminable length. At last she saw him coming, his head bent to the storm, his fleet feet skimming the white ground, his hands deep in his pockets. Far off, he discovered his mother watching for him; then he stopped a moment, waved the letter above his head, and hurried onward. It was a good letter, a tender, generous, n.o.ble letter, full of love and longing, and yet alive with the stirring story of right trampling wrong under foot. The child listened to it with a glowing face:

"I would I were with my father and Snorro," he said, regretfully.

"Would thou then leave me, Jan?"

"Ay, I would leave thee, mother. I would leave thee, and love thee, as my father does. I could stand by my father's side, I could fire a gun, or reef a sail, as well as Snorro. I would not be afraid of any thing; no, I would not. It is such a long, long time till a boy grows up to be a man! When I am a man, thou shall see that I will have a ship of my own."

It is only in sorrow bad weather masters us; in joy we face the storm and defy it. Margaret never thought of the snow as any impediment.

She went first to Suneva, and then to Dr. Balloch with her letter; and she was so full of happiness that she did not notice the minister was very silent and preoccupied. After a little, he said, "Margaret, I must go now to Tulloch; it has come to the last."

"Well, then, I think he will be glad. He has suffered long and sorely."

"Yet a little while ago he was full of life, eager for money, impatient of all who opposed him. Thou knowest how hard it often was to keep peace between him and thy father. Now he has forgotten the things that once so pleased him; his gold, his houses, his boats, his business, have dropped from his heart, as the toys drop from the hand of a sleepy child."

"Father went to see him a week ago."

"There is perfect peace between them now. Thy father kissed him when they said 'good-by.' When they meet again, they will have forgotten all the bitterness, they will remember only that they lived in the same town, and worshiped in the same church, and were companions in the same life. This morning we are going to eat together the holy bread; come thou with me."

As they walked through the town the minister spoke to a group of fishers, and four from among them silently followed him. Tulloch was still in his chair, and his three servants stood beside him. The table was spread, the bread was broken, and, with prayers and tears, the little company ate it together. Then they bade each other farewell, a farewell tranquil and a little sad--said simply, and without much speaking. Soon afterward Tulloch closed his eyes and the minister and Margaret watched silently beside him. Only once again the dying man spoke. He appeared to be sleeping heavily, but his lips suddenly moved and he said: "We shall see Nanna to-morrow!"

"We!" whispered Margaret. "Whom does he mean?"

"One whom we can not see; one who knows the constellations, and has come to take him to his G.o.d."

Just at sunset a flash of strange light transfigured for a moment the pallor of his face; he opened wide his blue eyes, and standing erect, bowed his head in an untranslatable wonder and joy. It was the moment of release, and the weary body fell backward, deserted and dead, into the minister's arms.

During the few months previous to his death, Tulloch had been much in every one's heart and on every one's tongue. There had not been a gathering of any kind in which his name had not been the prominent one; in some way or other, he had come into many lives. His death made a general mourning, especially among the fishers, to whom he had ever been a wise and trustworthy friend. He had chosen his grave in a small islet half a mile distant from Lerwick--a lonely spot where the living never went, save to bury the dead.

The day of burial was a clear one, with a salt, fresh wind from the south-west. Six fishermen made a bier of their oars, and laid the coffin upon it. Then the mult.i.tude followed, singing as they went, until the pier was reached. Boat after boat was filled, and the strange procession kept a little behind the one bearing the coffin and the minister. The snow lay white and unbroken on the island, and, as it was only a few acres in extent, the sea murmured unceasingly around all its sh.o.r.es.

The spot was under a great rock carved by storms into cloud-like castles and bastions. Eagles watched them with icy gray eyes from its summit, and the slow cormorant, and the sad sea-gulls. Overhead a great flock of wild swans were taking their majestic flight to the solitary lakes of Iceland, uttering all the time an inspiring cry, the very essence of eager expectation and of joyful encouragement. Dr.

Balloch stood, with bared head and uplifted eyes, watching them, while they laid the mortal part of his old friend in "that narrow house, whose mark is one gray stone." Then looking around on the white earth, and the black sea, and the roughly-clad, sad-faced fishers, he said, almost triumphantly--

"The message came forth from him in whom we live, and move, and have our being:

"Who is nearer to us than breathing, and closer than hands or feet.

"Come up hither and dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

"The days of thy sorrow have been sufficient; henceforward there is laid up for thee the reward of exceeding joy.

"Thou shalt no more fear the evil to come; the bands of suffering are loosed. Thy Redeemer hath brought thee a release from sorrow.

"So he went forth unto his Maker; he attained unto the beginning of peace.

"He departed to the habitations of just men made perfect, to the communion of saints, to the life everlasting."

Then he threw a few spadefuls of earth into the grave, and every man in turn did the same, till the sepulture was fully over. Silently then the boats filled, and all went to their homes. They were solemn, but not sorrowful. The simple, pathetic service left behind it a feeling as of triumph. It had shown them they were mortal, but a.s.sured them also of immortality.

During the following summer Margaret received many letters from Jan; and she wrote many to him. Nothing is so conducive to a strong affection as a long sweet course of love-letters, and both of them impressed their souls on the white paper which bore to each other their messages of affection. It was really their wooing time, and never lover was half so impatient to claim his bride, as Jan was to see again his fair, sweet Margaret. But it was not likely that he could return for another year, and Margaret set herself to pa.s.s the time as wisely and happily as possible.

Nor did she feel life to be a dreary or monotonous affair. She was far too busy for morbid regrets or longings, for ennui, or impatience.

Between Dr. Balloch, little Jan, the "Tulloch Homes," and her own house, the days were far too short. They slipped quickly into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the months grew to a year, and then every morning she awoke with the same thought--"Even to-day Jan might come." Little Jan shared her joyous expectations. He was always watching the horizon for any strange-looking craft. The last thing at night, the first in the morning, sometimes during the night, he scanned the bay, which was now filling fast with fishing boats from all quarters.

One Sunday morning very, very early, he came to his mother's bedside.

"Wake, my mother! There is a strange ship in the bay. She is coming straight to harbor. Oh! I feel surely in my heart, that it is my father's ship! Let me go. Let me go now, I ask thee."

Margaret was at the window ere the child ceased speaking. "Thou may go," she said, "for I certainly think it is 'The Lapwing.'"

He had fled at the first words, and Margaret awoke Elga, and the fires were kindled, and the breakfast prepared, and the happy wife dressed herself in the pale blue color that Jan loved; and she smiled gladly to see how beautifully it contrasted with the golden-brown of her hair, and the delicate pink in her cheeks.

As for the child, his clear, sharp eyes soon saw very plainly that the vessel had come to anchor in the bay. "Well," he said, "that will be because the tide does not serve yet." John Semple, an old Scot from Ayrshire, was on the pier, the only soul in sight. "John, thou loose the boat, and row me out to 'The Lapwing.' It is 'The Lapwing.' I know it is. Come, thou must be in a hurry."

"'Hurry' is the deil's ain word, and I'll hurry for naebody; forbye, I wadna lift an oar for man nor bairn on the Sawbath day."

"Dost thou think it is 'The Lapwing?'"

"It may be: I'll no say it isn't."

The child had unfastened the boat while he was talking; he leaped into it, and lifted an oar. "Then I must scull, John. Thou might go with me!"