At that hour, and under such circ.u.mstances, nothing could have induced her to obey the request. Never before had she disobeyed her father, and it gave her a shock to do it, but all the same she enjoyed the sensation. Make tea for Suneva! For the woman who had supplanted her in her father"s affection, and in all her rights! She felt that she would rather take her child, and walk out with it upon the dark and desolate moor.
But she was slow of speech, and in her anger and amazement she could find no word to interpret her emotion. One long, steady look she gave her father--a look which Peter never forgot--then, haughtily as a discrowned queen, but with a face as white as snow, she left the room.
Suneva laughed, but it was not an ill-natured laugh. "It would have been better had we told her, Peter," she said. "If I had been thy daughter, I should not have liked thee to bring home a wife without a word about it."
"It will be an ill day with Peter Fae when he asks his women what he shall do, or how he shall do it. Yes, indeed!"
Suneva looked queerly at him. She did not speak a word, but her dancing, gleaming eyes said very plainly that such an "ill day" might be coming even for Peter Fae.
Then she set herself to making the tea he had asked for. There were the cakes Margaret had baked, and sweets, and cold meat, and all kinds of spirits at hand; and very soon Margaret heard the pleasant clatter of china, and the hum of subdued but constant conversation, broken at intervals by Suneva"s shrill rippling laugh. Margaret made up her mind that hour, that however short or long her stay might be in Suneva"s house, she would never again lift a finger in its ordering.
In the morning she remained in her own room until her father had gone to the store. When she went down stairs, she found the servants, her servants, eagerly waiting upon Suneva, who was examining her new possessions. As she entered the room, Suneva turned with a piece of the best china in her hand, and said, "Oh, it is thee! Good morning, Margaret." Then in a moment Margaret"s dour, sulky temper dominated her; she looked at Suneva, but answered her not one word.
No two women could have been more unlike each other. Margaret, dressed in a plain black gown, was white and sorrowful. Suneva, in a scarlet merino, carefully turned back over a short quilted petticoat that gave pleasant glimpses of her trim latched shoes and white stockings, had a face and manner bright and busy and thoroughly happy. Margaret"s dumb anger did not seem to affect her. She went on with her work, ordering, cleaning, rearranging, sending one servant here and another there, and took no more notice of the pale, sullen woman on the hearth, than if she had not existed.
However, when Margaret brought the child down stairs, she made an effort at conciliation. "What a beautiful boy!" she exclaimed. "How like poor Jan! What dost thou call him?" And she flipped her fingers, and chirruped to the child, and really longed to take him in her arms and kiss him.
But to Margaret the exclamation gave fresh pain and offense. "What had Suneva to do with Jan? And what right had she to pity him, and to say "poor Jan!"" She did not understand that very often a clumsy good nature says the very thing it ought to avoid. So she regarded the words as a fresh offense, and drew her child closer to her, as if she were afraid even it would be taken from her.
It was snowing lightly, and the air was moist with a raw wind from the north-east. Yet Margaret dressed herself and her child to go out. At the door Suneva spoke again. "If thou wants to go abroad, go; but leave the child with me. I will take care of him, and it is damp and cold, as thou seest."
She might as well have spoken to the wind. Margaret never delayed a moment for the request; and Suneva stood looking after her with a singular gleam of pity and anger in her eyes. There was also a kind of admiration for the tall, handsome woman who in her perfect health and strength bore so easily the burden of her child. She held him firmly on her left arm, and his little hand clasped her neck behind, as with perfect grace she carried him, scarcely conscious of his weight, especially when he nestled his face against her own.
She went directly to her father"s store. It was nearly noon when she arrived there, and it was empty. Only Snorro stood beside the great peat fire. He saw Margaret enter, and he placed a chair for her in the warmest corner. Then he said, "Give me little Jan, and I will hold him for thee." She put the boy in his arms and watched him a moment as he shook the snow from his cap and coat; then she said: "Tell my father I want to speak to him."
Peter came somewhat reluctantly. He knew the conversation had to be gone through, but he felt as if Margaret had him at a disadvantage in the store. Snorro was present, and strangers might at any moment come in, and hurry him into an unwise concession. He was angry at Margaret, also, for her behavior on the previous night, and it was not in any amiable mood he approached her.
"Father, wilt thou have my house put in order for me? I want to go back to it."
"Yes, I will; soon."
"How soon, then?"
"I can not be hurried. There is no gla.s.s left in it, and there are many things to repair besides. It will take time and money, a good deal of money, more than I can well afford at present. I have had many expenses lately."
"Dost thou then mean that I must live with Suneva? No, I will not do that. I will go into the house without windows. Snorro will patch up the best ones, and board up the others."
"Snorro! Snorro, indeed! When was Snorro thy servant? As for Suneva, she is as good as thou art. Am I made of money to keep two houses going?"
"I will not ask thee for a penny."
"Thou wilt make a martyr of thyself, and set the town talking of me and of Suneva. No, thou shalt not do such a thing. Go home and behave thyself, and no one will say wrong to thee."
"I will not live with Suneva. If thou wilt not make a house habitable for me, then I will hire a man to do it."
"Thou wilt not dare. When it seems right to me, I will do it. Wait thou my time."
"I can not wait. So then I will hire John Hay"s empty cottage. It will do, poor as it is."
"If thou dost, I will never speak to thee nor to thine again. I will not give thee nor thy child a shilling, whether I be living or dead."
"What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" And Margaret wrung her hands helplessly, and burst into pa.s.sionate weeping.
""Do"? Go home, and be thankful for thy home. What would thou do in a Shetland hut, alone, at the beginning of winter? And I will not have thee come crying here. Mind that! Take thy child and go home; go at once."
"Thou might have told me! Thou might! It was a cruel thing to take me unawares; at a moment--"
"And if I had told thee, what then? Tears and complaints, and endless wants. I had no mind to be tormented as thou tormented thy husband."
That was a needlessly cruel taunt, and Peter was ashamed of it as soon as uttered. But all the same he turned away in anger, and two men coming in at the moment, he went with them to the other end of the store.
Snorro had held "little Jan" during the interview. The fresh air and the heat had overpowered the child, and he had fallen asleep. He lay in Snorro"s arms, a beautiful, innocent miniature of the man he loved so dearly. Watching the sleeping face, he had seemed unconscious of what pa.s.sed between Peter and his daughter, but in reality he had heard every word. When Peter turned away he watched Margaret put on her baby"s cap and coat, and then as she rose with it folded in her arms, he said, "Let me see him again."
"Kiss him, Snorro, for thou loved his father."
He stooped and kissed the boy, and then glanced into Margaret"s face.
Her tears, her pallor, her air of hopeless suffering went straight to his heart. After all she was Jan"s wife. He felt a great pity for her, and perhaps Margaret divined it, for she said timidly, "Snorro, can thou mend the windows in the old house--the house where I lived with Jan?"
"Yes, I can."
"Wilt thou ask my father if thou may do it?"
"I will do it. Have thou patience, Margaret Vedder. It would be a sin if thou made the child suffer."
"Dost thou think I would? Little does thou know of a mother"s heart."
"Snorro!"
It was Peter calling, and calling angrily; but ere Snorro answered the summons he went with Margaret to the door, and as he opened it, said, "If I can help thee, for Jan"s sake I am on thy side."
Very hard and bitter and cold was the walk homeward. The snow fell thick and fast, and she was tired and faint when she reached the house. Never had its warmth and comfort seemed so good to her. How could she feel kindly to the woman who had robbed her and her child of their right in it? Every one must have noticed that when they are in trouble, the weather is usually their enemy. A very long and severe snow-storm followed Margaret"s useless effort. She had perforce to sit still, and for "little Jan"s" sake be grateful for the warmth and shelter given her.
"_Little Jan_" Snorro had unconsciously named the child. Several attempts had been made to do so, but somehow all had hitherto failed.
At first "Peter" had been thought of; but Peter Fae had not taken kindly to a Peter Vedder, and the name after a few half-hearted utterances had been dropped. Thora had longed to call him "Willie,"
but at her death the scarcely recognized name was given up. But Snorro"s tender, positive "little Jan" had settled the matter in Margaret"s mind. Henceforward the boy was to be called by his father"s name, and she cared not whether it were liked or not.
To Margaret the winter pa.s.sed drearily away. She refused to have any part in Suneva"s hospitalities, though the "Fae House" became during it as famous for its gayety, as it had been in Thora"s time for its quiet and seclusion. Suneva had no idea of being the mistress of a shut up house. She was proud of her large rooms and fine furniture, and anxious to exhibit them. Besides which, she was in her element as hostess of the cozy tea-party or the merry dance.
Fortunately for her peaceful success, Peter discovered that he had the same taste. It had lain dormant and undeveloped during his struggle for wealth, and in the quiet content of Thora"s atmosphere; but every circ.u.mstance now favored its growth, and he became quite as proud of his name as a generous and splendid host, as he was of his character as a keen and successful trader.
He was still a handsome man, fresh and active, carrying his fifty-eight years with all the dignity of conscious independence and a.s.sured position. It was Suneva"s great pride that she had induced him to wear the fine cloth and velvet and linen suitable to his wealth.
She flattered him into many an extravagance; she persuaded him that no one in the Islands could recite as well, or dance with more activity and grace. Under her influence Peter renewed his youth and enjoyed it.
Margaret often heard them planning some entertainment, and laughing over it, with all the zest of twenty years.
To her, their whole life seemed an outrage. She could not imagine how her father could bear to put aside so completely his old habits and memories. It wounded her to see him going off with a joke and a kiss to the store in the morning; and hurrying back at night, as eager as a boy-bridegroom for the company of his handsome wife and her gay friends. It may easily be understood that even if Margaret had countenanced Suneva"s festivities by her presence at them, she would have been only a silent and a reproachful guest.
It is but fair to say that Suneva gave to her absence the best and kindest excuse. "Poor Margaret!" she said pitifully, "she weeps constantly for her husband. Few wives are as faithful."
Suneva had indeed taken Thora"s place with a full determination to be just and kind to Thora"s daughter. She intended, now that fortune had placed her above her old rival, to treat her with respect and consideration. Suneva was capable of great generosities, and if Margaret had had the prudence and forbearance to accept the peace offered, she might have won whatever she desired through the influence of her child, for whom Suneva conceived a very strong attachment.