Jan, the sole survivor of The Solan, had brought the news of his own misfortune, but there was no necessity to hasten its publication. Nothing could be gained by telling it at once, and no one could be helped, so Snorro advised him to sleep all the following day. Jan hardly needed the advice. In a few minutes he sank into a dreamless lethargic sleep, which lasted nearly twenty-four hours. When he awoke from it, he said, “I will see Tulloch, and then I will sleep again, Snorro.”

“Let me go for thee.”

“Nay, then he will think that I am a coward. I must tell my own tale; he can but be angry.”

But Tulloch took his loss with composure. “Thou did the best that could be done, Jan,” he answered, when Jan had told the story of the shipwreck; “wind and wave are not at thy order.”

“Thou wilt say that for me? It is all I ask. I did my best, Tulloch.”

“I will say it; and in the spring I will see about another boat. I am not afraid to trust thee.”

Jan looked at him gratefully, but the hope was too far off to give much present comfort to him. He walked slowly back to the retreat Snorro had made for him, wondering how he was to get the winter over, wondering if Margaret would see him, wondering how best to gain her forgiveness, longing to see her face but not daring to approach her without some preparation for the meeting. For though she had come back to life, it had been very slowly. Snorro said that she never left the house, that she was still wan and weak, and that on the 96 rare occasions when he had been sent to Peter’s house, she had not spoken to him.

After his interview with Tulloch, he fell into a sound sleep again. When he awoke the day was well begun, and Peter was at the store. Looking through the cracks in the rude flooring, he could see him carefully counting his cash, and comparing his balance. Snorro, for a wonder, was quite idle, and Peter finally looked at him, and said fretfully:

“There is this and that to do. What art thou standing still for?”

“A man may stand still sometimes. I feel not like work to-day.”

“Art thou sick, then?”

“Who can tell? It may be sickness.”

He stood thoughtfully by the big fire and moved not. Peter went on with his figures in a fidgety way. Presently Tulloch entered. The banker’s visits were rare ones, and Peter was already suspicious of them. But he laid down his pen, and with scrupulous civility said, “Good morning to thee, Tulloch—Deacon Tulloch, I should say. Wilt thou buy or sell aught this morning?”

“Good morning, Fae. I came to thee for news. Where is thy son Jan staying?”

Peter’s face darkened. “I know nothing at all about Jan Vedder. If he is at sea, he is out of thy world; if he is in harbor, he will be at Ragon Torr’s, or on board The Solan.”

“The Solan hath gone to pieces on the Quarr Rocks.”

Just for a moment a thrill of sinful triumph made Peter’s brown face turn scarlet, but he checked it instantly. “I heard not that,” he said gravely.

“Only Jan escaped—ship and crew went to the bottom.”

Peter shut his mouth tight, he was afraid to trust himself to speak.

“But Jan did his very best, no man could have done more. I saw him last night. He is ill and broken down by his trouble. Put out thy hand to him. Thou do that, and it will be a good thing, Fae.”

“Thou mind thy own affairs, Deacon Tulloch.”

“Well then it is my affair to tell thee, that there is a time for anger and a time for forgiveness. If Jan is to be saved, his wife can now do it. At this hour he is sick and sore-hearted, and she can win him back, she can save him now, Fae.”

“Shall I lose my child to save Jan Vedder? What is it to thee? What can thou know of a father’s duty? Thou, who never had child. Deacon thou may be, but thou art no Dominie, and I will order my household without thy word, thus or so. Yes, indeed I will!”

“Just that, Fae. I have spoken for a good man. And let me tell thee, if Margaret Vedder is thy daughter, she is also Jan’s wife; and if I were Jan, I would make her do a wife’s duty. If all the women in Shetland were to run back to their fathers for a little thing that offended them, there would be an end of marrying.”

Peter laughed scornfully. “Every one knows what well-behaved wives old bachelors have.”

“Better to be a bachelor, than have a wife like poor Jan Vedder has.”

“Thou art talking of my daughter. Wilt thou mind thy own affairs?”

“I meant well, Fae. I meant well. Both thee and I have much need of heaven’s mercy. It will be a good thing for us to be merciful. I am willing to help and trust Jan again. Thou 99 do so too. Now I will say ‘good morning’, for I see thou art angry at me.”

Peter was angry, intensely angry. Under the guise of Christian charity, Tulloch had come into his store and insulted him. Peter would believe in no other motive. And yet he was scarcely just to Tulloch, for his intentions had first and mainly been sincerely kind ones; but the tares are ever among the wheat, and it was true enough that before the interview was over Tulloch had felt a personal pleasure in his plain speaking.

Very soon there was a little crowd in Fae’s store. It was a cold, blustering day, and its warmth and company made it a favorite lounging place. Jan’s misfortune was the sole topic of conversation, and Jan’s absence was unfavorably criticised. Why did he not come among his fellows and tell them how it had happened? Here were good men and a good ship gone to the bottom, and he had not a word to say of the matter. They were all curious about the wreck, and would have liked to pass the long stormy day in talking it over. As it was, they had only conjectures. No one but Tulloch had seen Jan. They wondered where he was.

“At Torr’s, doubtless,” said Peter, harshly.

“It is likely. Jan ever flew to the brandy keg for comfort.”

“It is like he had been there before he steered for the Quarr Rocks.”

“It did not need brandy. He was ever careless.”

“He was foolhardy more than careless.”

“I never thought that he knew the currents and the coast, as a man should know it who has life and goods to carry safe.”

“He had best be with his crew; every man of it was a better man than he is.”

Snorro let them talk and wonder. He would not tell them where Jan was. One group succeeded another, and hour after hour Snorro stood listening to their conversation, with shut lips and blazing eyes. Peter looked at him with increasing irritability.

“Art thou still sick, Snorro?” he asked at length.

“Not I.”

“Why, then, art thou idle?”

“I am thinking. But the thought is too much for me. I can make nothing of it.”

Few noticed Snorro’s remark, but old Jal 101 Sinclair said, “Tell thy thought, Snorro. There are wise men here to read it for thee; very wise men, as thou must have noticed.”

Snorro caught something in the old man’s face, or in the inflection of his voice, which gave him an assurance of sympathy, so he said: “Well, then, it is this. Jan Vedder is evidently a very bad man, and a very bad sailor; yet when Donald Twatt’s boat sunk in the Vor Ness, Jan took his bonnet in his hand, and he put his last sovereign in it, and he went up and down Lerwick till he had got £40 for Twatt. And he gave him a suit of his own clothes, and he would hear no word wrong of him, and he said, moreover, that nothing had happened Twatt but what might happen the best man and the best sailor that ever lived when it would be God’s own time. I thought that was a good thing in Jan, but no one has spoke of it to-day.”

“People have ever thought thee a fool, Snorro. When thou art eighty years old, as Jal Sinclair is, perhaps thou wilt know more. Jan Vedder should have left Twatt to his trouble; he should have said, ‘Twatt is a drunken fellow, or a careless, foolhardy fellow; he is a bad 102 sailor, a bad man, and he ought to have gone to the bottom.‘” Then there was a minute’s uncomfortable silence, and the men gradually scattered.

Peter was glad of it. He had no particular pleasure in any conversation having Jan for a topic, and he was burning and smarting at Tulloch’s interference. It annoyed him also to see Snorro so boldly taking Jan’s part. His indignant face and brooding laziness was a new element in the store, and it worried Peter far beyond its importance. He left unusually early, and then Snorro closed the doors, and built up the fire, and made some tea, and broiled mutton and bloaters, and set his few dishes on the box which served him for a table. Jan had slept heavily all day, but when Snorro brought the candle near, he opened his eyes and said, “I am hungry, Snorro.”

“I have come to tell thee there is tea and meat waiting. All is closed, and we can eat and talk, and no one will trouble us.”

A Shetlander loves his tea, and it pleased Snorro to see how eagerly Jan drank cup after cup. And soon his face began to lose its weary, indifferent look, and he ate with keen relish the 103 simple food before him. In an hour Jan was nearly like himself once more. Then he remembered Margaret. In the extremity of his physical weakness and weariness, he had forgotten every thing in sleep, but now the delay troubled him. “I ought to have seen my wife to-day, Snorro; why did thou let me sleep?”

“Sleep was the first thing, and now we will see to thy clothes. They must be mended, Jan.”

Jan looked down at the suit he wore. It was torn and shabby and weather-stained, and it was all he had. But Snorro was as clever as any woman with the needle and thread. The poor fellow, indeed, had never had any woman friend to use a needle for him, and he soon darned, and patched, and washed clean what the winds and waves had left of Jan’s once handsome suit of blue.

As he worked they talked of the best means of securing an interview with Margaret, for Jan readily guessed that Peter would forbid it, and it was finally decided that Snorro should take her a letter, as soon as Peter was at the store next day. There was a little cave by the seaside 104 half way between the town and Peter’s house, and there Jan was to wait for Snorro’s report.

In the meantime Peter had reached his home. In these days it was a very quiet, somber place. Thora was in ill health, in much worse health than any one but herself suspected, and Margaret was very unhappy. This evening Thora had gone early to bed, and Margaret sat with her baby in her arms. When her father entered she laid him in the cradle. Peter did not like to have it in any way forced upon his notice, and Margaret understood well enough that the child was only tolerated for her sake. So, without any of those little fond obtrusive ways so natural to a young mother, she put the child out of the way, and sat down to serve her father’s tea.

His face was dark and angry, his heart felt hard to her at that hour. She had brought so much sorrow and shame on him. She had been the occasion of so many words and acts of which he was ashamed. In fact, his conscience was troubling him, and he was trying to lay the whole blame of his cruelty and injustice on her. For some time he did not speak, and she 105 was too much occupied with her own thoughts to ask him any questions. At length he snapped out, “Jan Vedder came back to Lerwick yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“I said yesterday. Did thou think he would run here to see thee the first moment? Not he. He was at Tulloch’s last night. He will have been at Torr’s all day, no doubt.”

Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, and Peter looked angrily at her.

“Art thou crying again? Now listen, thou art not like to see him at all. He has thrown thy £600 to the bottom of the sea—ship, cargo, and crew, all gone.”

“Jan? Father, is Jan safe?”

“He is safe enough. The devil holds his own from water. Now, if he does come to see thee, thou shalt not speak with him. That is my command to thee.”

Margaret answered not, but there was a look upon her face, which he understood to mean rebellion.

“Bring me the Bible here.” Then as he turned to the place he wanted, he said: “Now, Margaret, if thou art thinking to disobey thy 106 father, I want thee to hear in what kind of company thou wilt do so;” and he slowly read aloud:

“‘Backbiters—haters of God—despiteful—proud—boasters—inventors of evil things—disobedient to parents;’ dost thou hear, Margaret? ‘disobedient to parents—without understanding—covenant breakers—without natural affection—implacable—unmerciful.’”

“Let me see him once, father? Let me see him for half an hour.”

“Not for one moment. Disobey me if thou dares.”

“He is my husband.”

“I am thy father. Thy obligation to me began with thy birth, twenty years before thou saw Jan Vedder. Between man and wife there may be a divorce, between father and daughter there can be no bill of separation. The tie of thy obedience is for life, unless thou wilt take the risk of disobeying thy God. Very well, then, I say to thee, thou shalt not speak to Jan Vedder again, until he has proved himself worthy to have the care of a good woman. That is all I say, but mind it! If thou disobey me, I will never speak to thee again. I will 107 send thee and thy child from my sight, I will leave every penny I have to my two nephews, Magnus and Thorkel. That is enough. Where is thy mother?”

“She is in pain, and has gone to bed.”

“It is a sick house, I think. First, thou wert like to die, and ever since thy mother hath been ill; that also is Jan Vedder’s doing, since thou must needs fret thyself into a fever for him.” Then he took his candle and went to his sick wife, for he thought it best not to weaken his commands by any discussion concerning them.

Margaret did what most mothers would have done, she lifted her child for consolation. It was a beautiful child, and she loved it with an idolatrous affection. It had already taught her some lessons strange enough to Margaret Vedder. For its sake she had become conciliating, humble, patient; had repressed her feelings of mother-pride, and for the future good of her boy, kept him in a corner as it were. She had never suffered him to be troublesome, never intruded him upon the notice of the grandfather whom some day doubtless he would completely conquer. Ah, if she had only been 108 half as unselfish with Jan! Only half as prudent for Jan’s welfare!

She lifted the boy and held him to her breast. As she watched him, her face grew lovely. “My child!” she whispered, “for thee I can thole every thing. For thy sake, I will be patient. Nothing shall tempt me to spoil thy life. Thou shalt be rich, little one, and some day thee and I will be happy together. Thy father robbed thee, but I will not injure thee; no, indeed, I will not!”

So, after all, Jan’s child was to be the barrier between him and his wife. If Jan had chosen to go back to the class from which she had taken him, she would at least save her child from the suffering and contempt of poverty. What she would have done for his father, she would do for him. Yes, that night she fully determined to stand by her son. It might be a pleasure for her to see Jan, and even to be reconciled to him, but she would not sacrifice her child’s inheritance for her own gratification. She really thought she was consummating a grand act of self-denial, and wept a few pitiful tears over her own hard lot.

In the morning Peter was unusually kind to 109 her. He noticed the baby, and even allowed her to lay it in his arms while she brought him his seal-skin cloak and woolen mufflers. It was a dangerous advance for Peter; he felt his heart strangely moved by the sleeping child, and he could not avoid kissing him as he gave him back to his mother. Margaret smiled at her father in her deep joy, and said softly to him, “Now thou hast kissed me twice.” Nothing that Peter could have done would have so bound her to him. He had sealed his command with that kiss, and though no word of promise was given him, he went to his store comparatively light-hearted; he was certain his daughter would not disobey him.

While this scene was transpiring, one far more pathetic was taking place in Snorro’s room. Jan’s clothes had been washed and mended, and he was dressing himself with an anxious desire to look well in his wife’s eyes that was almost pitiful. Snorro sat watching him. Two women could hardly have been more interested in a toilet, or tried harder to make the most out of poor and small materials. Then Jan left his letter to Margaret with Snorro, and went to the cave agreed upon, to await the answer.

Very soon after Peter reached the store, Snorro left it. Peter saw him go, and he suspected his errand, but he knew the question had to be met and settled, and he felt almost sure of Margaret that morning. At any rate, she would have to decide, and the sooner the better. Margaret saw Snorro coming, but she never associated the visit with Jan. She thought her father had forgotten something and sent Snorro for it. So when he knocked, she said instantly, “Come in, Michael Snorro.”

The first thing Snorro saw was the child. He went straight to the cradle and looked at it. Then he kneeled down, gently lifted the small hand outside the coverlet, and kissed it. When he rose up, his face was so full of love and delight that Margaret almost forgave him every thing. “How beautiful he is,” he whispered, looking back at the sleeping babe.

Margaret smiled; she was well pleased at Snorro’s genuine admiration.

“And he is so like Jan—only Jan is still more beautiful.”

Margaret did not answer him. She was washing the china cups, and she stood at the table with a towel over her arm. Snorro 111 thought her more beautiful than she had been on her wedding day. During her illness, most of her hair had been cut off, and now a small white cap covered her head, the short, pale-brown curls just falling beneath it on her brow and on her neck. A long, dark dress, a white apron, and a white lawn kerchief pinned over her bosom, completed her attire. But no lady in silk or lace ever looked half so womanly. Snorro stood gazing at her, until she said, “Well, then, what hast thou come for?”

With an imploring gesture he offered her Jan’s letter.

She took it in her hand and turned it over, and over, and over. Then, with a troubled face, she handed it back to Snorro.

“No, no, no, read it! Oh, do thou read it! Jan begs thee to read it! No, no, I will not take it back!”

“I dare not read it, Snorro. It is too late—too late. Tell Jan he must not come here. It will make more sorrow for me. If he loves me at all, he will not come. He is not kind to force me to say these words. Tell him I will not, dare not, see him!”

“It is thou that art unkind. He has been 112 shipwrecked, Margaret Vedder; bruised and cut, and nearly tossed to death by the waves. He is broken-hearted about thee. He loves thee, oh, as no woman ever deserved to be loved. He is thy husband. Thou wilt see him, oh yes, thou wilt see him!”

“I will not see him, Snorro. My father hath forbid me. If I see Jan, he will turn me and the child from the house.”

“Let him. Go to thy husband and thy own home.”

“My husband hath no home for me.”

“For thou pulled it to pieces.”

“Go away, Snorro, lest worse words come. I will not sacrifice that little innocent babe for Jan.”

“It is Jan’s son—thou art ruining Jan—”

“Now, wilt thou go, Michael Snorro, and tell Jan that I say what my father says: when he is worthy of me I will come to him.”

“I will go, but I will tell thee first, that Jan will be worthy of thee long before thou art worthy of him.” Then, ere Margaret could prevent him, he walked to the cradle, lifted the child, and kissed it again and again, saying between each kiss, “That is for thy father, little one.”

The child was crying when he laid it down, and Margaret again angrily ordered him to leave the house. Before she had soothed it to peace, Snorro was nearly out of sight. Then Thora, who had heard the dispute, rose from her bed and came into the room. She looked ill and sad, and asked faintly, “What is this message sent to Jan Vedder? He will not believe it. Look for him here very soon, and be sure what thou doest is right.”

“My father told me what to do.”

“Yet ask thy heart and thy conscience also. It is so easy for a woman to go wrong, Margaret; it is almost impossible for her to put wrong right. Many a tear shall she wash it out with.”

“I have done no wrong to Jan. Dost thou think so?”

“When one gets near the grave, Margaret, there is a little light from beyond, and many things are seen not seen before. Oh, be sure thou art right about Jan! No one can judge for thee. Fear not to do what thy heart says, for at the end right will come right, and wrong will come wrong.”

There was a solemn stillness after this conversation. 114 Thora sat bent over beside the fire musing. Margaret, wearied with the feelings which her interview with Snorro had called forth, rested upon the sofa; she was suffering, and the silence and melancholy of her mother seemed almost a wrong to her. It was almost as if she had taken Jan’s part.

A knock at the door startled both women. Thora rose and opened it. It was Jan. “Mother,” he said, “I want to see my wife and child.”

“Margaret, speak for thyself.”

“I dare not see Jan. Tell him so.”

Thora repeated the message.

“Ask Margaret if that is her last word to me?”

Mechanically Thora asked the question, and after an agonizing pause Margaret gasped out, “Yes, yes—until—”

“Ask her to stand a moment at the window with the child. I long to see them.” Then he turned to go to the window, and Thora shut the door. But it was little use repeating Jan’s request, Margaret had fainted, and lay like one dead, and Thora forgot every thing till life returned to her daughter. Then as the apparent 115 unkindness was irrevocable and unexplainable, she said nothing of it. Why should she add to the sorrow Margaret was suffering?

And as for Jan, the universal opinion was that he ought to suffer. He had forfeited his wife, and his home, and his good name, and he had lost his boat. When a man has calamity upon calamity the world generally concludes that he must be a very wicked man to deserve them. Perhaps the world is right; but it is also just possible that the world, even with its six thousand years of gathered wisdom, may be wrong.