Scottish sketches Part 26

Alas! the good man's peacemaking was of short duration. As soon as Peter told the young Norse sailor of John's offer for Margaret's hand, Ragon's pa.s.sive good-will turned to active dislike and bitter jealousy. For, though he had taken little trouble to please Margaret, he had come to look upon her as his future wife. He knew that Peter wished it so, and he now imagined that it was also the only thing on earth he cared for.

Thus, though John was getting good wages, he was not happy. It was rarely he got a word with Margaret, and Peter and Ragon were only too ready to speak. It became daily more and more difficult to avoid an open quarrel with them, and, indeed, on several occasions sharp, cruel words, that hurt like wounds, had pa.s.sed between them on the public streets and quays.

Thus Stromness, that used to be so pleasant to him, was changing fast.

He knew not how it was that people so readily believed him in the wrong. In Wick, too, he had been troubled with Sandy Beg, and a kind of nameless dread possessed him about the man; he could not get rid of it, even after he had heard that Sandy had sailed in a whaling ship for the Arctic seas.

Thus things went on until the end of July. John was engaged now until the steamer stopped running in September, and the little sum of ready money necessary for the winter's comfort was a.s.sured. Christine sat singing and knitting, or singing and braiding straw, and Dame Alison went up and down her cottage with a glad heart. They knew little of John's anxieties. Christine had listened sympathizingly to his trouble about Margaret, and said, "Thou wait an' trust; John dear, an' at the end a' things will be well." Even Ragon's ill-will and Peter's ill words had not greatly frightened them--"The wrath o' man shall praise Him," read old Alison, with just a touch of spiritual satisfaction, "an' the rest o' the wrath he will restrain."

CHAPTER III.

It was a Sat.u.r.day night in the beginning of August, and John was at home until the following Monday. He dressed himself and went out towards Brogar, and Christine watched him far over the western moor, and blessed him as he went. He had not seen Margaret for many days, but he had a feeling to-night that she would be able to keep her tryst. And there, standing amid the rushes on the lakeside, he found her. They had so much to say to each other that Margaret forgot her father's return, and delayed so long that she thought it best to go straight home, instead of walking down the beach to meet him.

He generally left Stromness about half-past eight, and his supper was laid for nine o'clock. But this night nine pa.s.sed, and he did not come; and though the delay could be accounted for in various ways, she had a dim but anxious forecasting of calamity in her heart. The atmosphere of the little parlor grew sorrowful and heavy, the lamp did not seem to light it, her father's chair had a deserted, lonely aspect, the house was strangely silent; in fifteen minutes she had forgotten how happy she had been, and wandered to and from the door like some soul in an uneasy dream.

All at once she heard the far-away shouting of angry and alarmed voices, and to her sensitive ears her lover's and her father's names were mingled. It was her nature to act slowly; for a few moments she could not decide what was to be done. The first thought was the servants. There were only two, Hacon Flett and Gerda Vedder. Gerda had gone to bed, Hacon was not on the place. As she gathered her energies together she began to walk rapidly over the springy heath towards the white sands of the beach. Her father, if he was coming, would come that way. She was angry with herself for the _if_. Of course he was coming. What was there to prevent it? She told herself, Nothing, and the next moment looked up and saw two men coming towards her, and in their arms a figure which she knew instinctively was her father's.

She slowly retraced her steps, set open the gate and the door, and waited for the grief that was coming to her. But however slow her reasoning faculties, her soul knew in a moment what it needed. It was but a little prayer said with trembling lips and fainting heart; but no prayer loses its way. Straight to the heart of Christ it went. And the answer was there and the strength waiting when Ragon and Hacon brought in the bleeding, dying old man, and laid him down upon his parlor floor.

Ragon said but one word, "Stabbed!" and then, turning to Hacon, bid him ride for life and death into Stromness for a doctor. Most sailors of these islands know a little rude surgery, and Ragon stayed beside his friend, doing what he could to relieve the worst symptoms.

Margaret, white and still, went hither and thither, bringing whatever Ragon wanted, and fearing, she knew not why, to ask any questions.

With the doctor came the dominie and two of the town bailies. There was little need of the doctor; Peter Fae's life was ebbing rapidly away with every moment of time. There was but little time now for whatever had yet to be done. The dominie stooped first to his ear, and in a few solemn words bid him lay himself at the foot of the cross.

"Thou'lt never perish there, Peter," he said; and the dying man seemed to catch something of the comfort of such an a.s.surance.

Then Bailie Inkster said, "Peter Fae, before G.o.d an' his minister--before twa o' the town bailies an' thy ain daughter Margaret, an' thy friend Ragon Torr, an' thy servants Hacon Flett an'

Gerda Vedder, thou art now to say what man stabbed thee."

Peter made one desperate effort, a wild, pa.s.sionate gleam shot from the suddenly-opened eyes, and he cried out in a voice terrible in its despairing anger, "_John Sabay! John Sabay--stabb-ed--me!

Indeed--he--did_!"

"Oh, forgive him, man! forgive him! Dinna think o' that now, Peter!

Cling to the cross--cling to the cross, man! Nane ever perished that only won to the foot o' it." Then the pleading words were whispered down into fast-sealing ears, and the doctor quietly led away a poor heart-stricken girl, who was too shocked to weep and too humbled and wretched to tell her sorrow to any one but G.o.d.

CHAPTER IV.

The bailies, after hearing the deposition, immediately repaired to John Sabay's cottage. It was Sat.u.r.day night, and no warrant could now be got, but the murderer must be secured. No two men bent on such an errand ever found it more difficult to execute. The little family had sat later than usual. John had always news they were eager to hear--of tourists and strangers he had seen in Wick, or of the people the steamer had brought to Kirkwall.

He was particularly cheerful this evening; his interview with Margaret had been hopeful and pleasant, and Christine had given the houseplace and the humble supper-table quite a festival look. They had sat so long over the meal that when the bailies entered John was only then reading the regular portion for the evening exercise. All were a little amazed at the visit, but no one thought for a moment of interrupting the Scripture; and the two men sat down and listened attentively while John finished the chapter.

Bailie Tulloch then rose and went towards the dame. He was a far-off cousin of the Sabays, and, though not on the best of terms with them, his relationship was considered to impose the duty particularly on him.

"Gude-e'en, if thou comes on a gude errand," said old Dame Alison, suspiciously; "but that's no thy custom, bailie."

"I came, dame, to ask John anent Peter Fae."

The dame laughed pleasantly. "If thou had asked him anent Margaret Fae, he could tell thee more about it."

"This is nae laughing matter, dame. Peter Fae has been murdered--yes, murdered! An' he said, ere he died, that John Sabay did the deed."

"Then Peter Fae died wi' a lie on his lips--tell them that, John," and the old woman's face was almost majestic in its defiance and anger.

"I hae not seen Peter Fae for a week," said John. "G.o.d knows that, bailie. I wad be the vera last man to hurt a hair o' his gray head; why he is Margaret's father!"

"Still, John, though we hae nae warrant to hold thee, we are beholden to do sae; an' thou maun come wi' us," said Bailie Inkster.

"Wrang has nae warrant at ony time, an' ye will no touch my lad," said Alison, rising and standing before her son.

"Come, dame, keep a still tongue."

"My tongue's no under thy belt, Tulloch; but it's weel kenned that since thou wranged us thou ne'er liked us."

"Mother, mother, dinna fash theesel'. It's naught at a' but a mistake; an' I'll gae wi' Bailie Inkster, if he's feared to tak my word."

"I could tak thy word fain enough, John--"

"But the thing isna possible, Inkster. Besides, if he were missing Monday morn, I, being i' some sort a relation, wad be under suspicion o' helping him awa."

"Naebody wad e'er suspect thee o' a helping or mercifu' deed, Tulloch.

Indeed na!"

"Tak care, dame; thou art admitting it wad be a mercifu' deed. I heard Peter Fae say that John Sabay stabbed him, an' Ragon Torr and Hacon Flett saw John, as I understan' the matter."

"Mother," said John, "do thou talk to nane but G.o.d. Thou wilt hae to lead the prayer theesel' to-night; dinna forget me. I'm as innocent o'

this matter as Christine is; mak up thy mind on that."

"G.o.d go wi' thee, John. A' the men i' Orkney can do nae mair than they may against thee."

"It's an unco grief an' shame to me," said Tulloch, "but the Sabays hae aye been a thorn i' the flesh to me, an' John's the last o' them, the last o' them!"

"Thou art makin' thy count without Providence, Tulloch. There's mair Sabays than Tullochs; for there's Ane for them that counts far beyont an' above a' that can be against them. Now, thou step aff my honest hearthstane--there is mair room for thee without than within."

Then John held his mother's and sister's hands a moment, and there was such _virtue_ in the clasp, and such light and trust in their faces, that it was impossible for him not to catch hope from them. Suddenly Bailie Tulloch noticed that John was in his Sabbath-day clothes. In itself this was not remarkable on a Sat.u.r.day night. Most of the people kept this evening as a kind of preparation for the Holy Day, and the best clothing and the festival meal were very general. But just then it struck the bailies as worth inquiring about.

"Where are thy warking-claes, John--the uniform, I mean, o' that steamship company thou sails for--and why hast na them on thee?"

"I had a visit to mak, an' I put on my best to mak it in. The ithers are i' my room."

"Get them, Christine."

Christine returned in a few minutes pale-faced and empty-handed. "They are not there, John, nor yet i' thy kist."

"I thought sae."