CHAPTER XIII.

LITTLE JAN'S TRIUMPH.

"I deemed thy garments, O my hope, were gray, So far I viewed thee. Now the s.p.a.ce between Is pa.s.sed at length; and garmented in green Even as in days of yore thou stand'st to-day.

Ah G.o.d! and but for lingering dull dismay, On all that road our footsteps erst had been Even thus commingled, and our shadows seen Blent on the hedgerows and the water way."

Margaret intended leaving Sat.u.r.day, but on Thursday night something happened, the most unlooked-for thing that could have happened to her--she received Jan's letter. As she was standing beside her packed trunk, she heard Elga call:

"Here has come Sandy Bane with a letter, Mistress Vedder, and he will give it to none but thee."

It is not always that we have presentiments. That strange intelligence, that wraith of coming events, does not speak, except a prescient soul listens. Margaret attached no importance to the call. Dr. Balloch often sent letters, she supposed Sandy was waiting for a penny fee.

With her usual neatness, she put away some trifles, locked her drawers, and then washed her hands and face. Sandy was in no hurry either; Elga had given him a cup of tea, and a toasted barley-cake, and he was telling her bits of gossip about the boats and fishers.

While they were talking, Margaret entered; she gave Sandy a penny, and then with that vague curiosity which is stirred by the sight of almost any letter, she stretched out her hand for the one he had brought. The moment she saw it, she understood that something wonderful had come to her. Quick as thought she took in the significance of the official blue paper and the scarlet seal. In those days, officers in the Admiralty used imposing stationery, and Jan had felt a certain pride in giving his few earnest words the sanction of his honor and office.

Certainly it had a great effect upon Margaret, although only those very familiar with her, could have detected the storm of anxiety and love concealed beneath her calm face and her few common words.

But oh, when she stood alone with Jan's loving letter in her hand, then all barriers were swept away. The abandon of her slow, strong nature, had in it an intensity impossible to quicker and shallower affection. There was an hour in which she forgot her mortality, when her soul leaned and hearkened after Jan's soul, till it seemed not only possible, but positive, that he had heard her pa.s.sionate cry of love and sorrow, and answered it. In that moment of intense silence which succeeds intense feeling, she was sure Jan called her.

"_Margaret!_" She heard the spiritual voice, soft, clear, sweeter than the sweetest music, and many a soul that in extremities has touched the heavenly horizon will understand that she was not mistaken.

In an hour Tulloch sent for her trunk.

"There is no trunk to be sent now; tell Tulloch that Margaret Vedder will tell him the why and the wherefore to-morrow." Elga was amazed, and somewhat disappointed, but Margaret's face astonished and subdued her, and she did not dare to ask, "What then is the matter?"

Margaret slept little that night. To the first overwhelming personality of joy and sorrow, there succeeded many other trains of thought. It was evident that Dr. Balloch, perhaps Snorro also, had known always of Jan's life and doings. She thought she had been deceived by both, and not kindly used. She wondered how they could see her suffer, year after year, the slow torture of uncertainty, and unsatisfied love and repentance. She quite forgot how jealously she had guarded her own feelings, how silent about her husband she had been, how resentful of all allusion to him.

Throughout the night Elga heard her moving about the house. She was restoring every thing to its place again. The relief she felt in this duty first revealed to her the real fear of her soul at the strange world into which she had resolved to go and seek her husband. She had the joy of a child who had been sent a message on some dark and terror-haunted way, and had then been excused from the task. Even as a girl the great outside world had rather terrified than allured her. In her Edinburgh school she had been homesick for the lonely, beautiful islands, and nothing she had heard or read since had made her wish to leave them. She regarded Jan's letter, coming just at that time, as a special kindness of Providence.

"Yes, and I am sure that is true," said Tulloch to her next morning.

"Every one has something to boast of now and then. Thou canst say, 'G.o.d has kept me out of the danger, though doubtless He could have taken me through it very safely.' And it will be much to Jan's mind, when he hears that it was thy will to go and seek him."

"Thou wert ever kind to Jan."

"Jan had a good heart. I thought that always."

"And thou thought right; how glad thou will be to see him! Yes, I know thou wilt."

"I shall see Jan no more, Margaret, for I am going away soon, and I shall never come back."

"Art thou sick, then?"

"So I think; very. And I have seen one who knows, and when I told him the truth, he said to me, 'Set thy house in order, Tulloch, for it is likely this sickness will be thy last.' So come in and out as often as thou can, Margaret, and thou tell the minister the road I am traveling, for I shall look to him and thee to keep me company on it as far as we may tread it together."

It did not enter Margaret's mind to say little commonplaces of negation. Her large, clear eyes, solemn and tender, admitted the fact at once, and she answered the lonely man's pet.i.tion by laying her hand upon his, and saying, "At this time thou lean on me like a daughter. I will serve thee until the last hour."

"When thou hast heard all concerning Jan from the minister, come and tell me too; for it will be a great pleasure to me to know how Jan Vedder turned his trouble into good fortune."

Probably Dr. Balloch had received a letter from Jan also, for he looked singularly and inquisitively at Margaret as she entered his room. She went directly to his side, and laid Jan's letter before him.

He read it slowly through, then raised his face and said, "Well, Margaret?"

"It is not so well. Thou knew all this time that Jan was alive."

"Yes, I knew it. It is likely to be so, for I--I mean, I was sent to save his life."

"Wilt thou tell me how?"

"Yes, I will tell thee now. Little thou thought in those days of Jan Vedder, but I will show thee how G.o.d loved him! One of his holy messengers, one of his consecrated servants, one of this world's n.o.bles, were set to work together for Jan's salvation." Then he told her all that had happened, and he read her Jan's letters, and as he spoke of his great heart, and his kind heart, the old man's eyes kindled, and he began to walk about the room in his enthusiasm.

Such a tale Margaret had never heard before. Tears of pity and tears of pride washed clean and clear-seeing the eyes that had too often wept only for herself. "Oh, Margaret! Margaret!" he said, "learn this--when it is G.o.d's pleasure to save a man, the devil can not hinder, nor a cruel wife, nor false friends, nor total shipwreck, nor the murderer's knife--all things must work together for it."

"If G.o.d gives Jan back to me, I will love and honor him with all my heart and soul. I promise thee I will that."

"See thou do. It will be thy privilege and thy duty."

"Oh, why did thou not tell me all this before? It would have been good for me."

"No, it would have been bad for thee. Thou has not suffered one hour longer than was necessary. Week by week, month by month, year by year, thy heart has been growing more humble and tender, more just and unselfish; but it was not until Snorro brought thee those poor despised love-gifts of Jan's that thou wast humble and tender, and just, and unselfish enough to leave all and go and seek thy lost husband. But I am sure it was this way--the very hour this gracious thought came into thy heart thy captivity was turned. Now, then, from thy own experience thou can understand why G.o.d hides even a happy future from us. If we knew surely that fame or prosperity or happiness was coming, how haughty, how selfish, how impatient we should be."

"I would like thee to go and tell my father all."

"I will tell thee what thou must do--go home and tell the great news thyself."

"I can not go into Suneva's house. Thou should not ask that of me."

"In the day of thy good fortune, be generous. Suneva Fae has a kind heart, and I blame thee much that there was trouble. Because G.o.d has forgiven thee, go without a grudging thought, and say--'Suneva, I was wrong, and I am sorry for the wrong; and I have good news, and want my father and thee to share it.'"

"No; I can not do that."

"There is no 'can' in it. It is my will, Margaret, that thou go. Go at once, and take thy son with thee. The kind deed delayed is worth very little. To-day that is thy work, and we will not read or write. As for me, I will loose my boat, and I will sail about the bay, and round by the Troll Rock, and I will think of these things only."

For a few minutes Margaret stood watching him drift with the tide, his boat rocking gently, and the fresh wind blowing his long white hair, and carrying far out to sea the solemnly joyful notes to which he was singing his morning psalm.

"Bless, O my soul, the Lord thy G.o.d and not forgetful be Of all his gracious benefits he hath bestowed on thee.

Such pity as a father hath unto his children dear, Like pity shows the Lord to such as worship him in fear."

Ps. 103. v. 2. 13.[*]

[*] Version allowed by the authority of the General a.s.sembly of the Kirk of Scotland.

"Thou art a good man," said Margaret to herself, as she waved her hand in farewell, and turned slowly homeward. Most women would have been impatient to tell the great news that had come to them, but Margaret could always wait. Besides, she had been ordered to go to Suneva with it, and the task was not a pleasant one to her. She had never been in her father's house, since she left it with her son in her arms; and it was not an easy thing for a woman so proud to go and say to the woman who had supplanted her--"I have done wrong, and I am sorry for it."

Yet it did not enter her mind to disobey the instructions given her; she only wanted time to consider how to perform them in the quietest, and least painful manner. She took the road by the sea sh.o.r.e, and sat down on a huge barricade of rocks. Generally such lonely communion with sea and sky strengthened and calmed her; but this morning she could not bring her mind into accord with it. Accidentally she dislodged a piece of rock, and it fell among the millions of birds sitting on the shelving precipices below her. They flickered with piercing cries in circles above her head, and then dropped like a shower into the ocean, with a noise like the hurrahing of an army.

Impatient and annoyed, she turned away from the sh.o.r.e, across the undulating heathy plateau. She longed to reach her own room; perhaps in its seclusion she would find the composure she needed.

As she approached her house, she saw a crowd of boys and little Jan walking proudly in front of them. One was playing "Miss Flora McDonald's reel" on a violin, and the gay strains were accompanied by finger snappings, whistling, and occasional shouts. "There is no quiet to be found anywhere, this morning," thought Margaret, but her curiosity was aroused, and she went toward the children. They saw her coming, and with an accession of clamor hastened to meet her. Little Jan carried a faded, battered wreath of unrecognizable materials, and he walked as proudly as Pompey may have walked in a Roman triumph.

When Margaret saw it, she knew well what had happened, and she opened her arms, and held the boy to her heart, and kissed him over and over, and cried out, "Oh, my brave little Jan, brave little Jan! How did it happen then? Thou tell me quick."