During the next two years, Margaret’s life appeared to be monotonously without incident. In reality it deepened and broadened in a manner but slightly indicated by the stillness of its surface. Early in the morning following her re-occupation of her own house, she had two visitors, Dr. Balloch and her old servant, Elga.

“Elga’s husband is with the Greenland fleet,” said the minister; “she is poor and lonely, and wants to come back and serve thee.”

“But I can not afford a servant.”

“Thou can well afford it, take my word for that; besides, thou art not used to hard work nor fit for it. Also, I have something better for thee to do. When thy house is in order, 229 come to the manse and see me, then we will talk of it.”

So Elga quietly resumed her old duties, and ere two weeks were gone the house was almost in its first condition. White paint and soap and water, bees’-wax and turpentine, needle and thread, did wonders. On the evening of the eleventh day, Margaret and Elga went from attic to cellar with complete satisfaction. Every thing was spotless, every thing was in its old place. Jan’s big cushioned chair again stood on the hearth, and little Jan took possession of it. Many a night, wearied with play, he cuddled himself up among its cushions, and had there his first sleep. It is easy to imagine what Margaret’s thoughts were with such a picture before her—tender, regretful, loving thoughts most surely, for the fine shawl or stocking she was knitting at the time was generally wet with her tears.

The day after all was in its place and settled, she went to see Dr. Balloch. It was in the early morning when every thing was sweet, and cool and fresh. The blue-bells and daisies were at her feet, the sea dimpling and sparkling in the sunshine, the herring-fleet gathering 230 in the bay. Already the quays and streets were full of strangers, and many a merry young fisherman with a pile of nets flung over his shoulders passed her, singing and whistling in the fullness of his life and hope. All of them, in some way or other, reminded her of Jan. One carried his nets in the same graceful, nonchalant way; another wore his cap at the same angle; a third was leaning against his oars, just as she had seen Jan lean a hundred times.

The minister sat at his open door, looking seaward. His serene face was full of the peace and light of holy contemplation. His right hand was lovingly laid on the open Bible, which occupied the small table by his side.

“Come in, Margaret,” he said pleasantly. “Come in; is all well with thee now?”

“Every thing is well. The house is in order and Snorro hath promised to plant some berry bushes in my garden; he will plant them to-day with the flower seeds thou gave me. The snowdrops are in bloom already, and the pansies show their buds among the leaves.”

“Dost thou know that Snorro hath left thy father?”

“He told me that he had taken John Hay’s cottage, the little stone one on the hill above my house, and that in three days he would go to the fishing with Matthew Vale.”

“Now, then, what wilt thou do with thy time? Let me tell thee, time is a very precious gift of God; so precious that he only gives it to us moment by moment. He would not have thee waste it.”

Margaret took from her pocket a piece of knitting. It was a shawl twelve yards round, yet of such exquisite texture that she drew it easily through a wedding ring. Beautiful it was as the most beautiful lace, and the folds of fine wool fell infinitely softer than any fold of fine flax could do. It was a marvelous piece of handiwork, and Dr. Balloch praised it highly.

“I am going to send it to the Countess of Zetland,” she said. “I have no doubt she will send me as many orders as I can fill. Each shawl is worth £7, and I can also do much coarser work, which I shall sell at the Foy.”

“Would thou not rather work for me than for the Countess?”

“Thou knowest I would, ten thousand times rather. But how can I work for thee?”

“What is there, Margaret, on the long table under the window?”

“There is a large pile of newspapers and magazines and books.”

“That is so. None of these have I been able to read, because my sight has failed me very much lately. Yet I long to know every word that is in them. Wilt thou be eyes to an old man who wishes thee only well, Margaret? Come every day, when the weather and thy health permits, and read to me for two hours, write my letters for me, and do me a message now and then, and I will cheerfully pay thee £50 a year.”

“I would gladly do all this without money, and think the duty most honorable.”

“Nay, but I will pay thee, for that will be better for thee and for me.”

Now all good work is good for far more than appears upon its surface. The duties undertaken by Margaret grew insensibly and steadily in beneficence and importance. In the first place, the effect upon her own character was very great. It was really two hours daily study of the finest kind. It was impossible that the books put into her hand could be read 233 and discussed with a man like Dr. Balloch without mental enlargement. Equally great and good was the moral effect of the companionship. Her pen became the pen of a ready writer, for the old clergyman kept up a constant correspondence with his college companions, and with various learned societies.

About three months after this alliance began, the doctor said one day, “Thou shalt not read to me this morning, for I want thee to carry some wine and jelly to old Neill Brock, and when thou art there, read to him. Here is a list of the Psalms and the Epistles that will be the best for him.” And Margaret came back from her errand with a solemnly happy light upon her face. “It was a blessed hour,” she said, “surely he is very near the kingdom.”

This service once begun grew by a very natural course of events. Margaret delighted in it. The sick loved her calm, gentle ways. She was patient and silent, and yet sympathetic. She had that womanly taste which naturally sets itself to make dainty dishes for those who can not eat coarse food. In a few months the sick all through the parish felt the soothing touch of her soft, cool hands, and became 234 familiar with the tones of her low, even voice, as she read aloud the portions which Dr. Balloch usually selected for every case.

And as there is no service so gratefully remembered as that given in sickness, Margaret Vedder gradually acquired a very sincere popularity. It rather amazed Peter to hear such remarks as the following: “Luke Thorkel is better, thanks to Margaret Vedder.” “John Johnson can go to the fishing with an easy mind now, Margaret Vedder is caring for his sick wife.” “The Widow Hay died last night. She would have died ere this, but for Margaret Vedder’s care.”

These outside duties made her home duties sufficient to fill all her time. She had no hours to spare for foolish repining, or morbid sorrow. Little Jan must be taught his letters, and his clothes must be made. Her garden, poultry and knitting kept her hands ever busy, and though her work was much of it of that silent kind which leads to brooding thought, she had now much of interest to fill her mind. Yet still, and always, there was the haunting, underlying memory of Jan’s disappearance or death, keeping her life hushed and silent. To no one 235 did she speak of it, and it seemed strange to her that Dr. Balloch visibly discouraged any allusion to it. Sometimes she felt as if she must speak to Snorro about it, but Snorro kept ever a little aloof from her. She was not very sure as to his friendship.

She thought this a little hard, for she had given him every opportunity to understand that her own animosity was dead. She permitted little Jan to spend nearly all his time with him, when he was not engaged in fishing, or busy on the quays. And Snorro now spent much of his time at home. His earnings during the fishing season more than sufficed for his wants. Every fine day in winter he was apt to call for little Jan, and Margaret rarely refused him the child’s company.

And little Jan dearly loved Snorro. Snorro put him in the water, and taught him how to swim like a seal. Snorro made him a spear and taught him how to throw it. He made him a boat and taught him how to sail it. He got him a pony and taught him how to ride it. Once they found a baby seal whose mother had been shot, and the child kept it at Snorro’s house. There also he had a dozen pet rabbits, 236 and three Skye terriers, and a wild swan with a broken wing, and many other treasures, which would not have been so patiently tolerated in the cleanliness and order of his own home.

So the time went pleasantly and profitably by for two years. Again the spring joy was over the land, and the town busy with the hope of the fishing season. Snorro’s plans were all made, and yet he felt singularly restless and unsettled. As he sat one evening wondering at this feeling, he said to himself: “It is the dreams I have had lately, or it is because I think of Jan so much. Why does he not write? Oh, how I long to see him! Well, the day will come, by God’s leave.”

Just as this thought crossed his mind, Dr. Balloch stepped across his threshold. Snorro rose up with a face of almost painful anxiety. He always associated a visit from the doctor with news from Jan. He could scarcely articulate the inquiry, “Hast thou any news?”

“Great news for thee, Snorro. Jan is coming home from Africa. He is broken down with the fever. He wants thee. Thou must go to him at once, for he hath done grand work, and proved himself a hero, worthy even of thy true great love.”

“I am ready—I have been waiting for him to call me. I will go this hour.”

“Be patient. Every thing must be done wisely and in order. The first thing is supper. I came away without mine, so now I will eat with thee. Get the tea ready; then I will tell thee all I know.”

As Snorro moved about, the doctor looked at his home. Every piece of furniture in it was of Snorro’s own manufacture. His bed was a sailor’s bunk against the wall, made soft with sheep-fleeces and covered with seal-skins. A chair of woven rushes for little Jan, a couple of stools and a table made from old packing boxes, and a big hearth-rug of sheep-skins, that was all. But over the fireplace hung the pictured Christ, and some rude shelves were filled with the books Jan had brought him. On the walls, also, were harpoons and seal spears, a fowling-piece, queer ribbons and branches of sea weeds, curiosities given him by sailors from all countries, stuffed birds and fish skeletons, and a score of other things, which enabled the doctor to understand what a house of enchantment it must be to a boy like little Jan.

In a few minutes the table was set, and Snorro had poured out the minister’s tea, and put before him a piece of bread and a slice of broiled mutton. As for himself he could not eat, he only looked at the doctor with eyes of pathetic anxiety.

“Snorro, dost thou understand that to go to Jan now is to leave, forever perhaps, thy native land?”

“Wherever Jan is, that land is best of all.”

“He will be in Portsmouth ere thou arrive there. First, thou must sail to Wick; there, thou wilt get a boat to Leith, and at Leith take one for London. What wilt thou do in London?”

“Well, then, I have a tongue in my head; I will ask my way to Portsmouth. When I am there it will be easy to find Jan’s ship, and then Jan. What help can thou give me in the matter?”

“That I will look to. Jan hath sent thee £100.”

Snorro’s face brightened like sunrise. “I am glad that he thought of me; but I will not touch the money. I have already more than £20. Thou shalt keep the £100 for little Jan.”

“Snorro, he hath also sent the £600 he took from his wife, that and the interest.”

“But how? How could he do that already?”

“He has won it from the men who coin life into gold; it is mostly prize money.”

“Good luck to Jan’s hands! That is much to my mind.”

“I will tell thee one instance, and that will make thee understand it better. Thou must know that it is not a very easy matter to blockade over three thousand miles of African coast, especially as the slave ships are very swift, and buoyant. Indeed the Spanish and Portuguese make theirs of very small timbers and beams which they screw together. When chased the screws are loosened, and this process gives the vessel amazing play. Their sails are low, and bent broad. Jan tells me that the fore-yard of a brig of one hundred and forty tons, taken by ‘The Retribution’ was seventy-six feet long, and her ropes so beautifully racked aloft, that after a cannonade of sixty shot, in which upward of fifty took effect, not one sail was lowered. Now thou must perceive that a chase in the open sea would mostly be in favor of vessels built so carefully for escape.”

“Why, then, do not the Government build the same kind of vessels?”

“That is another matter. I will go into no guesses about it. But they do not build them, and therefore captures are mostly made by the boats which are sent up the rivers to lie in wait for the slavers putting out to sea. Sometimes these boats are away for days, sometimes even for weeks; and an African river is a dreadful place for British sailors, Snorro: the night air is loaded with fever, the days are terrible with a scorching sun.”

“I can believe that; but what of Jan?”

“One morning Jan, with a four-oared gig, chased a slave brig. They had been at the river mouth all night watching for her. Thou knows, Snorro, what a fine shot our Jan is. When she came in sight he picked off five of her crew, and compelled her to run on shore to avoid being boarded. Then her crew abandoned her, in order to save their own lives, and ‘The Retribution’ hove her off. She proved to be a vessel of two hundred tons, and she carried one thousand slaves. She was taken as a prize into Sierra Leone, and sold, and then Jan got his share of her.”

“But why did not the slavers fight?”

“Bad men are not always brave men; and sometimes they fly when no man pursues them. Portuguese slavers are proverbial cowards, yet sometimes Jan did have a hard fight with the villains.”

“I am right glad of that.”

“About a year ago, he heard of a brigantine of great size and speed lying in the old Calabar river with a cargo of slaves destined for Cuba. She carried five eighteen-pounder guns, and a crew of eighty men; and her captain had vowed vengeance upon ‘The Retribution’ and upon Jan, for the slavers he had already taken. Jan went down to the old Calabar, but he could not enter it, so he kept out of sight, waiting for the slaver to put to sea.

“At length she was seen coming down the river under all sail. Then ‘The Retribution’ lowered her canvas in order to keep out of sight as long as possible. When she hoisted it again, the slaver in spite of her boasts endeavored to escape, and then Jan, setting all the canvas his schooner could carry, stood after her in chase. The slaver was the faster of the two, and Jan feared he would lose her; but fortunately a calm 242 came on and both vessels got out their sweeps. Jan’s vessel, being the smaller, had now the advantage, and his men sent her flying through the water.

“All night they kept up the chase, and the next morning Jan got within range.”

“Oh,” cried Snorro, “if I had only been there! Why did no one tell me there was such work for strong men to do?”

“Now I will tell thee a grand thing that our Jan did. Though the slaver was cutting his rigging to pieces with her shot, Jan would not fire till he was close enough to aim only at her decks. Why, Snorro? Because below her decks there was packed in helpless misery five hundred black men, besides many women and little children.”

“That was like Jan. He has a good heart.”

“But when he was close enough, he loaded his guns with grape, and ordered two men to be ready to lash the slaver to ‘The Retribution,’ the moment they touched. Under cover of the smoke, Jan and ten men boarded the slaver, but unfortunately, the force of the collision drove ‘The Retribution’ off, and Jan and his little 243 party found themselves opposed to the eighty villains who formed the slaver’s crew.

“For a moment it seemed as if they must be overpowered, but a gallant little midshipman, only fourteen years old, Snorro, think of that, gave an instant order to get out the sweeps, and almost immediately ‘The Retribution,’ was alongside, and securely lashed to her enemy. Then calling on the sailors to follow him the brave little lad boarded her, and a desperate hand to hand fight followed. After fifteen Spaniards had been killed and near forty wounded, the rest leaped below and cried for quarter.”

“Snorro would have given them just ten minutes to say a prayer, no more. It is a sin to be merciful to the wicked, it is that; and the kindness done to them is unblessed, and brings forth sin and trouble. I have seen it.”

“What thinkest thou? When Jan flung open the hatches under which the poor slaves were fastened, sixty were dead, one hundred and twenty dying. During the twenty-eight hours’ chase and fight in that terrible climate they had not been given a drop of water, and the air was putrid and hot as an oven. Most of them had 244 to be carried out in the arms of Jan’s sailors. There were seven babies in this hell, and thirty-three children between the ages of two years and seven. Many more died before Jan could reach Sierra Leone with them. This is the work Jan has been doing, Snorro; almost I wish I was a young man again, and had been with him.”

The doctor’s eyes were full; Snorro’s head was in his hands upon the table. When the doctor ceased, he stood up quivering with anger, and said, “If God would please Michael Snorro, he would send him to chase and fight such devils. He would give them the measure they gave to others, little air and less water, and a rope’s end to finish them. That would be good enough for them; it would that.”

“Well, then, thou wilt go to Jan?”

“I must go to-morrow. How can I wait longer? Is there a mail boat in the harbor?”

“It was Lord Lynne brought me the news and the money. He will carry thee as far as Wick. The tide serves at five o’clock to-morrow morning, can thou be ready?”

“Ay, surely. Great joy hath come to me, but I can be ready to meet it.”

“Lean on me in this matter as much as thou likest; what is there I can do for thee?”

“Wilt thou care for what I have in my house, especially the picture?”

“I will do that.”

“Then I have but to see Margaret Vedder and little Jan. I will be on ‘The Lapwing,’ ere she lift her anchor. God bless thee for all the good words thou hast said to me!”

“Snorro!”

“What then?”

“When thou sees Jan, say what will make peace between him and Margaret.”

Snorro’s brow clouded. “I like not to meddle in the matter. What must be is sure to happen, whether I speak or speak not.”

“But mind this—it will be thy duty to speak well of Margaret Vedder. The whole town do that now.”

“She was ever a good woman some way. There is not now a name too good for her. It hath become the fashion to praise Jan Vedder’s wife, and also to pity her. If thou heard the talk, thou would think that Jan was wholly to blame. For all that, I do not think she is worthy of Jan. Why does she not talk to her 246 son of his father? Who ever saw her weep at Jan’s name? I had liked her better if she had wept more.”

“It is little men know of women; their smiles and their tears alike are seldom what they seem. I think Margaret loves her husband and mourns his loss sincerely; but she is not a woman to go into the market-place to weep. Do what is right and just to her, I counsel thee to do that. Now I will say ‘Farewell, brave Snorro.’ We may not meet again, for I am growing old.”

“We shall anchor in the same harbor at last. If thou go first, whatever sea I am on, speak me on thy way, if thou can do so.”

“Perhaps so. Who can tell? Farewell, mate.”

“Farewell.”

Snorro watched him across the moor, and then going to a locked box, he took out of it a bundle in a spotted blue handkerchief. He untied it, and for a moment looked over the contents. They were a bracelet set with sapphires, a ring to match it, a gold brooch, an amber comb and necklace, a gold locket on a chain of singular beauty, a few ribbons and lace 247 collars, and a baby coral set with silver bells; the latter had been in Jan’s pocket when he was shipwrecked, and it was bruised and tarnished. The sight of it made Snorro’s eyes fill, and he hastily knotted the whole of the trinkets together and went down to Margaret’s home.

It was near nine o’clock and Margaret was tired and not very glad to see him coming, for she feared his voice would awake little Jan who was sleeping in his father’s chair. Rather wearily she said, “What is the matter, Snorro? Is any one sick? Speak low, for little Jan is asleep, and he has been very tiresome to-night.”

“Nothing much is the matter, to thee. As for me, I am going away in the morning to the mainland. I may not be back very soon, and I want to kiss Jan, and to give thee some things which belong to thee, if thou cares for them.”

“What hast thou of mine?”

“Wilt thou look then? They are in the handkerchief.”

He watched her keenly, perhaps a little hardly, as she untied the knot. He watched the faint rose-color deepen to scarlet on her face; he saw how her hands trembled, as she 248 laid one by one the jewels on the table, and thoughtfully fingered the lace yellow with neglect. But there were no tears in her dropped eyes, and she could scarcely have been more deliberate in her examination, if she had been appraising their value. And yet, her heart was burning and beating until she found it impossible to speak.

Snorro’s anger gathered fast. His own feelings were in such a state of excitement, that they made him unjust to a type of emotion unfamiliar to him.

“Well then,” he asked, sharply, “dost thou want them or not?”

“Jan bought them for me?”

“Yes, he bought them, and thou sent them back to him. If thou had sent me one back, I had never bought thee another. But Jan Vedder was not like other men.”

“We will not talk of Jan, thee and me. What did thou bring these to-night for?”

“I told thee I was going to Wick, and it would not be safe to leave them, nor yet to take them with me. I was so foolish, also, as to think that thou would now prize them for Jan’s sake, but I see thou art the same woman 249 yet. Give them to me, I will take them to the minister.”

“Leave them here. I will keep them safely.”

“The rattle was bought for little Jan. It was in his father’s pocket when he was shipwrecked.”

She stood with it in her hand, gazing down upon the tarnished bells, and answered not a word. Snorro looked at her angrily, and then stooped down, and softly kissed the sleeping child.

“Good-by, Margaret Vedder!”

She had lifted the locket in the interval, and was mechanically passing her fingers along the chain. “It is the very pattern I wished for,” she whispered to her heart, “I remember drawing it for him.” She did not hear Snorro’s “good-by,” and he stood watching her curiously a moment.

“I said ‘good-by,’ Margaret Vedder.”

“Good-by,” she answered mechanically. Her whole soul was moved. She was in a maze of tender, troubled thoughts, but Snorro perceived nothing but her apparent interest in the jewels. He could not forget his last sight of her standing, so apparently calm, with her eyes fixed 250 upon the locket and chain that dangled from her white hand. “She was wondering how much they cost Jan,” he thought bitterly; “what a cold, cruel woman she is!”

That she had not asked him about his own affairs, why he left so hurriedly, how he was going, for what purpose, how long he was to be away, was a part of her supreme selfishness, Snorro thought. He could no longer come into her life, and so she cared nothing about him. He wished Dr. Balloch could have seen her as he did, with poor Jan’s love-gifts in her hands. With his heart all aflame on Jan’s noble deeds, and his imagination almost deifying the man, the man he loved so entirely, Margaret’s behavior was not only very much misunderstood by Snorro, it was severely and unjustly condemned.

“What did God make women for?” he asked angrily, as he strode back over the moor. “I hope Jan has forgotten her, for it is little she thinks of him.”

On reaching his home again he dressed himself in his best clothes, for he could not sleep. He walked up and down the old town, and over the quays, and stood a five minutes before 251 Peter Fae’s store, and so beguiled the hours until he could go on board “The Lapwing.”

At five o’clock he saw Lord Lynne come aboard, and the anchor was raised. Snorro lifted his cap, and said, “Good morning, Lord Lynne;” and my lord answered cheerily, “Good morning, Snorro. With this wind we shall make a quick passage to Wick.”