Jan Vedder's Wife by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (pdf to ebook reader .TXT) 📕

happy. Snorro is one of those men who can wait patiently."

So Jan wrote to Snorro. He took the largest official paper he could find, and he sealed the letter with the ship's seal, sparing not the sealing-wax in its office. For he knew well what an effect the imposing missive would have. In the hurry of his own affairs he could think of such small things, for the sake of the satisfaction which they would give to his simple-minded friend.

But mails were long at that time of the year in reaching Shetland. Jan was far down the African coast when his letter came to Lerwick. It was under cover to Dr. Balloch, and though the day was rough and snowy the good minister found his way to Peter's store. He was always welcome there. Peter never forgot how faithfully he stood by him when the darkest suspicions kept other men away, and Snorro associated his visits with news from Jan. When, therefore, the minister in leaving said, "Snorro thou art strong, and Hamish is weak, come to-night and carry him some peats into the house," Snorro's face lighted up with expectation.

Undoubtedly it was a great night for Snorro. When Dr. Balloch explained to him, as Lord Lynne had explained to Jan, the noble necessity of the African squadron, his heart burned like fire. He could almost have shouted aloud in his pity and indignation. It seemed to him a glorious thing that Jan had gone. Somehow his limited capacity failed to take in more than the work to be done, and that Jan was to do it. Minor details made no impression on him. Jan to his mind was the only hero. The British Government, Wilberforce, public opinion, all the persons and events that had led up to England's advocacy of the rights of humanity, all were merged in Jan.

When he left Dr. Balloch he felt as if he were walking upon air. On the moor, where no one could hear him, he laughed aloud, a mighty laugh, that said for Jan far more than he could find words to say. He heeded not the wind and the softly falling snow; had not Jan, his Jan, sailed away in her Majesty's service, a deliverer and a conqueror? Suddenly he felt a desire to see something relating to him. If he went round by Peter's house, perhaps he might see Margaret and the baby. In the state of exaltation he was in, all things seemed easy and natural to him. In fact the slight resistance of the elements was an unconscious and natural relief.

Peter's house shone brightly afar off. As he approached it he saw that the sitting-room was in a glow of fire and candle-light. Before he reached the gate he heard the murmur of voices. He had only to stand still and the whole scene was before him. Peter sat in his old place on the hearthstone. Around it were two of Suneva's cousins, soncy, jolly wives, with their knitting in their hands and their husbands by their sides. They were in eager and animated conversation, noisy laughs and ejaculations could be distinctly heard, and Suneva herself was moving busily about, setting the table for a hot supper. Her blue silk dress and gold chain, and her lace cap fluttering with white ribbons, made her a pleasant woman to look at. It was a happy household picture, but Margaret Vedder was not in it.

Snorro waited long in hopes of seeing her; waited until the smoking goose and hot potatoes, and boiling water, lemons and brandy, drew every one to the white, glittering table. He felt sure then that Margaret would join the party, but she did not. Was it a slight to her? That Margaret Vedder personally should be slighted affected him not, but that Jan's wife was neglected, that made him angry. He turned away, and in turning glanced upward. There was a dim light in a corner room up stairs. He felt sure that there Margaret was sitting, watching Jan's boy. He loitered round until he heard the moving of chairs and the bustle incident to the leave-taking of guests. No access of light and no movement in Margaret's room had taken place. She had made no sign, and no one remembered her. But never had Snorro felt so able to forgive her as at that hour.


CHAPTER X.


SWEET HOME.

"On so nice a pivot turns
True wisdom; here an inch, or there, we swerve
From the just balance; by too much we sin,
And half our errors are but truths unpruned."

If Margaret were neglected, it was in the main her own fault; or, at least, the fault of circumstances which she would not even try to control. Between her and Suneva there had never been peace, and she did not even wish that there should be. When they were scarcely six years old, there was rivalry between them as to which was the better and quicker knitter. During their school days, this rivalry had found many other sources from which to draw strength. When Margaret consented to go to Edinburgh to finish her education, she had felt that in doing so she would gain a distinct triumph over Suneva Torr. When she came back with metropolitan dresses, and sundry trophies in the way of Poonah painting and Berlin wool work, she held herself above and aloof from all her old companions, and especially Suneva.

Her conquest of Jan Vedder, the admiration and hope of all the young girls on the Island, was really a victory over Suneva, to whom Jan had paid particular attention before he met Margaret. Suneva had been the bitterest drop in all her humiliation concerning her marriage troubles. In her secret heart she believed Suneva had done her best to draw her old lover from his quiet home to the stir and excitement of her father's drinking-room. If Peter had searched Shetland through, he could not have found a second wife so thoroughly offensive to his daughter.

And apart from these personal grievances, there were pecuniary ones which touched Margaret's keenest sensibilities. Peter Fae's house had long been to her a source of pride; and, considering all things, it was admirably arranged and handsomely furnished. In the course of events, she naturally expected that it would become her house--hers and her boy's. To not only lose it herself, but to have it given to Suneva without reservation, seemed to Margaret not only a wrong but an insult. And the L100 a year which had been given with it, was also to her mind a piece of cruel injustice. She could not help reflecting that some such kindness to her at her own wedding would have satisfied Jan, and perhaps altered their whole life. It must be admitted that her mortification in being only a dependent in the house which she had ruled, and regarded as her own, was a natural and a bitter one.

At the last, too, the change had come upon her with the suddenness of a blow from behind. It is true that Peter made no secret of his courtship, and equally true that the gossips of the town brought very regular news of its progress to Margaret. But she did not believe her father would take a step involving so much to them both, without speaking to her about it. As soon as he did so, she had resolved to ask him to prepare her own home for her without delay. She had taken every care of her furniture. It was in perfect order, and as soon as the house had been again put into cleanly shape, she could remove to it. The thought of its perfect isolation, and of its independence, began to appear desirable to her. Day by day she was getting little articles ready which she would need for her own housekeeping.

In the meantime the summer with all its busy interests kept Peter constantly at the store. When he was at home, his mind was so full of "fish takes" and of "curing," that Margaret knew that it would be both imprudent and useless to name her private affairs. Perhaps his extreme preoccupation was partly affected in order to avoid the discussion of unpleasant matters; but if so, Margaret never suspected it. She had many faults, but she was honest and truthful in all her ways, and she believed her father would be equally so with her. When the fishing was over, Peter was always a few weeks employed in counting up his expenses and his gains. October and part of November had been from her girlhood regarded as a critical time; a time when on no account he was to be troubled about household matters. But when November was nearly over, then Margaret determined to open the subject of the reported marriage to him, if he did not take the initiative.

As it was getting near this time, she walked over one afternoon to her old home, in order to ascertain its condition. Never, since she so foolishly abandoned it, had she been near the place. Its mournful, desolate aspect shocked her. Peter had never been able to rent it. There was an idea that it belonged to Margaret and was "unlucky." The gate had fallen from the rusted hinges. Passing boys had maliciously broken the windows, and the storms of two winters had drifted through the empty rooms. Timber is scarce and dear in Shetland, and all the conveniences for her animals and fowls had been gradually plundered and carried off. Margaret looked with dismay at the place, and, as she went through the silent rooms, could not help a low cry of real heart pain. In them it was impossible to forget Jan, the gay, kind-hearted husband, who had once made all their echoes ring to his voice and tread.

Never had the sense of her real widowhood seemed so strong and so pitiful. But in spite of its dreariness, the house attracted her. There, better than in any other place, she could rear her son, and devote her life to memories at once so bitter and so sweet. She determined to speak that very night, unless her father were unusually cross or thoughtful. Christmas was a favorite date for weddings, and it was very probable that Suneva would choose that time for her own. If so, there would be barely time to prepare the old home.

She set Peter's tea-table with unusual care; she made him the cream-cakes that he liked so well, and saw that every thing was bright and comfortable, and in accord with his peculiar fancies. But Peter did not come home to tea, and after waiting an hour, she put the service away. It had become a very common disappointment.

Peter said something in a general way about business, but Margaret was well aware, that when he did not come home until ten o'clock, he had taken tea with the Torrs, and spent the evening with Suneva.

This night she had a very heavy heart. Three times within the past week Peter had been late. Things were evidently coming to a crisis, and she felt the necessity of prompt movement in her own interests. She put the child to sleep, and sat down to wait for her father's arrival. About eight o'clock she heard his voice and step, and before she could rise and go with a candle to the door, Peter and Suneva entered together.

There was something in their manner that surprised her; the more so, that Suneva immediately began to take off her bonnet and cloak, and