An Orkney Maid by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📕

the love and mercy of the "God of battles." She had hoped that some word or thought of Boris would come back to her in such a personal manner that she would feel that he was thinking of her and of the many sweet spiritual confidences they had had together.

But nothing came, no sign, no word, no sudden, flashing memory of some special promise. All was void and still until she heard the voices of Thora and Ian. Then she went down to them and found that the evil news had met them on their way home. She asked Ian if he had any knowledge of the whereabouts of Boris. Ian thought he might be at sea, as his ship was at Spithead among the carrying ships of the navy. "If he had been in Alma's fight, you might have heard from him," he added. "It would be his first battle and he would want to write to you about it. That would be only natural."

"Well, then, I will look for good news. If bad news is coming, I will not pay it the compliment of going to meet it. Have you had a pleasant day? Where first did you go?"

"To the land-locked Bay of Stromness which was full of ships of all sizes, of schooners, and of little skiffs painted a light green colour like the pleasure skiffs of Kirkwall."

"And the town?"

"Was very busy while we were there. It has but one long street, with steep branches running directly up the big granite hill which shelters it from the Atlantic. What I noticed particularly was, that the houses on the main street all had their gables seaward; and are so built that the people can step from their doors into their boats. I liked that arrangement. Stromness is really an Orcadean Venice. The town is a queer old place, with a non-English and non-Scotch look. The houses have an old-world appearance and the names over the doorways carry you back to Norseland. Only one street is flagged and little bays run up into the street through its whole length. But the place appeared to be very busy and happy. I noticed few Scotch there, the people seemed to be purely Norse. All were busy--men, women and children."

"It used to be the last port for the Hudson Bay Company," said Rahal, "and the big whaling fleets, and in days of war and convoys there were hundreds of big ships in its wonderful harbour. I suppose that you had no time to visit any of the ancient monuments there?" Rahal asked.

"No; Thora told me her grandmother Ragnor was buried in its cemetery and that her grave was near the church door and had a white pillar at the head of it. So we walked there."

"Well, then?"

"I cannot describe to you the savage, lonely grandeur of its situation. It frightened me."

"The men and women who chose it were not afraid of it."

"Thora says its memory frightened her for years."

"Thora was only eight years old when her father placed the pillar at the head of his mother's grave. It was then she saw it--but at eight years many people are often more sensitive than at eighty. Yes, indeed! They may see, then, what eyes dimmed by earthly vision cannot see, and feel what hearts hardened by earth's experiences cannot feel. Thora's spiritual sight was very keen in childhood and is not dimmed yet."

At these words Thora entered the room, wearing the little frock of white barege she had saved for this last day of Ian's visit. Her face had been bathed, her hair brushed and loosened but yet dressed with the easiest simplicity. She was in trouble but she knew when to speak of trouble, and when to be silent. Her mother was talking of Stromness; when her father came, he would know all, and say all. So she went softly about the room, putting on the dinner table those last final accessories that it was her duty to supply.

Yet the conversation was careless and indifferent. Rahal talked of Stromness but her heart was far away from Stromness, and Thora would have liked to tell her mother how beautifully their future home had been papered, and all three were eager to discuss the news that had come. But all knew well that it would be better not to open the discussion till Ragnor was present to inform and direct their ignorance of events.

On the stroke of six, Ragnor entered. He had slept and washed and was apparently calm, but in some way his face had altered, for his heart had mastered his brain and its usual expression of intellectual strength was exchanged for one of intense feeling. His eyes shone and he had the look of a man who had just come from the presence of God.

"We are waiting for you, dear Coll," said Rahal; and he answered softly: "Well, then, I am here." For a moment his eyes rested on the table which Rahal had set with extra care and with the delicacies Ian liked best. Was it not the last dinner he would eat with them for three months? She thought it only kind to give it a little distinction. But this elaboration of the usual home blessings did not produce the expected results. Every one was anxious, the atmosphere of the room was tense and was not relieved until Ragnor had said a grace full of meaning and had sat down and asked Ian if he "had heard the news brought by that day's packet?"

"Very brokenly, Father," was the answer. "Two men, whom we met on the Stromness road, told us that it was 'bad with the army,' but they were excited and in a great hurry and would not stand to answer our questions."

"No wonder! No wonder!"

"Whatever is the matter, Father?"

"I cannot tell you. The words stumble in my throat, and my heart burns and bleeds. Here is the _London Times_! Read aloud from it what William Howard Russell has witnessed--I cannot read the words--I would be using my own words--listen, Rahal! Listen, Thora! and oh, may God enter into judgment at once with the men responsible for the misery that Russell tells us of."

At this point, Adam Vedder entered the room. He was in a passion that was relieving itself by a torrent of low voiced curses--curses only just audible but intensely thrilling in their half-whispered tones of passion. In the hall he had taken off his hat but on entering the room he found it too warm for his top-coat, and he began to remove it, muttering to himself while so doing. There was an effort to hear what he was saying but very quickly Ragnor stopped the monologue by calling:

"Adam! Thee! Thou art the one wanted. Ian is just going to read what the _London Times_ says of this dreadful mismanagement."

"'Mismanagement!' Is that what thou calls the crime? Go on, Ian! More light on this subject is wanted here."

So Ian stood up and read from the _Times'_ correspondent's letter the following sentences:

"The skies are black as ink, the wind is howling over the
staggering tents, the water is sometimes a foot deep, our men have
neither warm nor waterproof clothing and we are twelve hours at a
time in the trenches--and not a soul seems to care for their
comfort or even their lives; the most wretched beggar who wanders
about the streets of London in the rain leads the life of a prince
compared with the British soldiers now fighting out here for their
country.

... "The commonest accessories of a hospital are wanting; there
is not the least attention paid to decency or cleanliness, the
stench is appalling, the fetid air can barely struggle out through
chinks in the walls and roofs, and for all I can observe the men
die without the least effort being made to save them. They lie
just as they were let down on the ground by the poor fellows,
their comrades, who brought them on their backs from the camp with
the greatest tenderness but who are not allowed to remain with
them. The sick appear to be tended by the sick, and the dying by
the dying. There are no nurses--and men are literally dying
hourly, because the medical staff of the British army has
forgotten that old rags of linen are necessary for the dressing of
wounds."

"My God!" cried Ian, as he let the paper fall from the hands he clasped passionately together, "My God! How can Thou permit this?"

"Well, then, young man," said Adam, "thou must remember that God permits what He does not will. And Conall," he continued, "millions have been voted and spent for war and hospital materials, where are the goods?"

"The captain of the packet told me no one could get their hands on them. Some are in the holds of vessels and other things so piled on the top of them that they cannot be got at till the hold is regularly emptied. Some are stored in warehouses which no one has authority to open--some are actually rotting on the open wharves, because the precise order to remove them to the hospital cannot be found. The surgeons have no bandages, the doctors no medicine, and as I said there are no nurses but a few rough military orderlies. The situation paralyses those who see it!"

"Paralyses! Pure nonsense!" cried Vedder, whose face was wet with passionate tears, though he did not know it. "Paralyses! No, no! It must make them work miracles. I am going to Edinburgh tomorrow. I am going to buy all the luxuries and medicines I can afford for the lads fighting and suffering. Sunna is going to spend a week in gathering old linen in Kirkwall and then Mistress Brodie and she will bring it with them. Rahal, Thora, you must do your best. And thou, Conall?"

"Adam, thou can open my purse and take all thou thinks is right. My Boris may be among those dear lads; his mother will have something to send him. Wilt thou see it is set on a fair way to reach his hand?"

"I will take it to him. If he be in London with his vessel, I will find him; if he be at the front, I will find him. If he be in Scutari hospital, I will find him!"

"Oh, Adam, Adam!" cried Rahal, "thou art the good man that God loves, the man after His own heart." Her face was set and stern and white as snow, and Thora's was a duplicate of it; but Ragnor, during his short interval of rest, had arrived at that heighth and depth of confidence in God's wisdom which made him sure that in the end the folly and wickedness of men would "praise Him"; so he was ready to help, and calm and strong in his sorrow.

At this point, Rahal rose and a servant came in and began to clear the table and carry away the remains of the meal. Then Rahal rose and took Thora's hand and Ian went with them to the parlour. She spoke kindly to Ian who at her first words burst into bitter weeping, into an almost womanly burst of uncontrollable distress. So she kissed and left him with the only woman who had the power to soothe,