But this was just the point which Margaret defended with an almost insane jealousy. She saw that little Jan clung to Suneva, that he liked to be with her, that he often cried in the solitude of her room to go down stairs, where he knew he would have sweetmeats, and petting, and company, and his own way. If ever she was cross to the boy, it was on this subject. She would not even be bribed by Suneva"s most diplomatic services in his behalf. "Let Jan come where his grandfather is, Margaret," she pleaded. "It will be for his good; I tell thee it will. I have already persuaded him that the boy has his eyes, and his figure, and when he was in a pa.s.sion the other night, and thy father was like to be cross with him, I said, "It is a nice thing to see Satan correcting sin, for the child has thy own quick temper, Peter," and thy father laughed and pulled little Jan to his side, and gave him the lump of sugar he wanted."
"The boy is all thou hast left me. Would thou take him also?" Margaret answered with angry eyes. "His mother"s company is good enough for him."
So all winter the hardly-admitted strife went on. Suneva pitied the child. She waylaid him and gave him sweetmeats and kisses. She imagined that he daily grew more pale and quiet. And Margaret, suspicious and watchful, discovered much, and imagined more. She was determined to go away from Suneva as soon as the spring opened, but she had come to the conclusion that she must look after her house herself, for though Snorro had promised to make it habitable, evidently he had been unable to do so, or he would have contrived to let her know.
One day in the latter part of April, all nature suddenly seemed to awake. The winter was nearly over. Margaret heard the larks singing in the clear sunshine. Little Jan had fallen asleep and might remain so for a couple of hours. She put on her cloak and bonnet, and went to see how far Snorro had been able to keep his word. Things were much better than she had hoped for. Nearly all of the windows had been reglazed, the gate was hung, and the acc.u.mulated drift of two years in the yard cleared away.
With lighter spirits, and a firm determination in her heart, she walked swiftly back to her child. When she entered the door she heard his merry laugh in Suneva"s parlor. He was standing on her knee, singing after her some lines of a fisherman"s "Casting Song," swaying backwards and forwards, first on one foot and then on the other, to the melody. Suneva was so interested in the boy, that, for a moment, she did not notice the pale, angry woman approaching her. When she did, her first thought was conciliation. "I heard him crying, Margaret; and as I knew thou wert out, I went for him. He is a merry little fellow, he hath kept me laughing."
"Come here, Jan!" In her anger, she grasped the child"s arm roughly, and he cried out, and clung to Suneva.
Then Margaret"s temper mastered her as it had never done before in her life. She struck the child over and over again, and, amid its cries of pain and fright, she said some words to Suneva full of bitterness and contempt.
"Thee love thy child!" cried Suneva in a pa.s.sion, "not thou, indeed!
Thou loves no earthly thing but thyself. Every day the poor baby suffers for thy bad temper--even as his father did."
"Speak thou not of his father--thou, who first tempted him away from his home and his wife."
"When thou says such a thing as that, then thou lies; I tempted him not. I was sorry for him, as was every man and woman in Lerwick. Poor Jan Vedder!"
"I told thee not to speak of my husband."
"Thy husband!" cried Suneva scornfully. "Where is he? Thou may well turn pale. Good for thee is it that the Troll Rock hasn"t a tongue!
Thou cruel woman! I wonder at myself that I have borne with thee so long. Thou ought to be made to tell what thou did with Jan Vedder!"
"What art thou saying? What dost thou mean? I will not listen to thee"--and she lifted the weeping child in her arms, and turned to go.
"But at last thou shalt listen. I have spared thee long enough. Where is Jan Vedder? Thou knows and thou only; and that is what every one says of thee. Is he at the bottom of the Troll Rock? And who pushed him over? Answer that, Margaret Vedder!"
Suneva, in her pa.s.sion, almost shrieked out these inquiries. Her anger was so violent, that it silenced her opponent. But no words could have interpreted the horror and anguish in Margaret"s face, when she realized the meaning of Suneva"s questions. The sudden storm ended in the lull which follows recrimination. Suneva sat fuming and muttering to herself; Margaret, in her room, paced up and down, the very image of despairing shame and sorrow. When her father returned she knew Suneva would tell him all that had transpired. To face them both was a trial beyond her strength. She looked at her child softly sobbing on the bed beside her, and her heart melted at the injustice she had done him. But she felt that she must take him away from Suneva, or he would be stolen from her; worse than stolen, he would be made to regard her as a terror and a tyrant.
She heard the clatter of the tea-cups and the hum of conversation, and knew that her father was at home. As soon as he had finished his tea, she would probably be summoned to his presence. It had grown dark and a rain-storm was coming; nevertheless she dressed herself and little Jan, and quietly went out of the house. Peter and Suneva were discussing the quarrel over their tea; the servants sat spinning by the kitchen fire, doing the same. She only glanced at them, and then she hastened toward the town as fast as she could.
Snorro was sitting at the store-fire, a little pot of tea, a barley cake, and a broiled herring by his side. He was thinking of Jan, and lo! a knock at the door--just such a knock as Jan always gave. His heart bounded with hope; before he thought of possibilities he had opened it. Not Jan, but Jan"s wife and child, and both of them weeping. He said not a word, but he took Margaret"s hand and led her to the fire. Her cloak and hood were dripping with the rain, and he removed and shook them. Then he lifted the child in his arms and gave him some tea, and soon soothed his trouble and dried his tears.
Margaret sobbed and wept with a pa.s.sion that alarmed him. He had thought at first that he would not interfere, but his tender heart could not long endure such evident distress without an effort to give comfort.
"What is the matter with thee, Margaret Vedder? and why art thou and thy child here?"
"We have nowhere else to go to-night, Snorro." Then Margaret told him every thing.
He listened in silence, making no comments, asking no questions, until she finished in another burst of anguish, as she told him of Suneva"s accusation. Then he said gravely: "It is a shame. Drink this cup of tea, and then we will go to the minister. He only can guide the boat in this storm."
"I can not go there, Snorro. I have been almost rude and indifferent to him. Three times he has written to me concerning my duty; many times he has talked to me about it. Now he will say, "Thou hast reaped the harvest thou sowed, Margaret Vedder.""
"He will say no unkind word to thee. I tell thee thou must go. There is none else that can help thee. Go for little Jan"s sake. Wrap the boy up warm. Come."
She was weeping and weary, but Snorro took her to the manse, carrying little Jan under his own coat. Margaret shrank from an interview with Dr. Balloch, but she had no need. He was not a man to bruise the broken reed; no sooner did he cast his eyes upon the forlorn woman than he understood something of the crisis that had brought her to him for advice and protection.
He took them into his cheerful parlor, and sent their wet clothing to the kitchen to be dried. Then he said: "Snorro, now thou go and help Hamish to make us a good supper. It is ill facing trouble on an empty stomach. And light a fire, Snorro, in the room up stairs; thou knowest which room; for Margaret and her son will have to sleep there. And after that, thou stop with Hamish, for it will be better so."
There were no reproofs now on the good doctor"s lips. He never reminded Margaret how often he had striven to win her confidence and to lead her to the only source of comfort for the desolate and broken-hearted. First of all, he made her eat, and dry and warm herself; then he drew from her the story of her grief and wrongs.
"Thou must have thy own home, Margaret, that is evident," he said; "and as for Suneva, I will see to her in the morning. Thou art innocent of thy husband"s death, I will make her to know that. Alas!
how many are there, who if they can not wound upon proof, will upon likelihood! Now there is a room ready for thee, and thou must stay here, until this matter is settled for thee."
It seemed a very haven of rest to Margaret. She went to it gratefully, and very soon fell into that deep slumber which in youth follows great emotions. When she awoke the fire had been re-built, and little Jan"s bread and milk stood beside it. It was a dark, dripping morning; the rain smote the windows in sudden, gusts, and the wind wailed drearily around the house. But in spite of the depressing outside influences, her heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. She felt as those feel "who have escaped;" and she dressed and fed her child with a grateful heart.
When she went down stairs she found that, early as it was, the doctor had gone to her father"s house; and she understood that this visit was made in order to see him where conversation would not be interrupted by the entrance of buyers and sellers.
Dr. Balloch found Peter sitting at breakfast with Suneva, in his usual cheerful, self-complacent mood. In fact, he knew nothing of Margaret"s flight from his house. She rarely left her boy to join the tea-table; she never appeared at the early breakfast. Her absence was satisfactory to both parties, and had long ceased to call forth either protest or remark. So neither of them were aware of the step she had taken, and the minister"s early visit did not connect itself with her, until he said gravely to Peter, "Dost thou know where thy daughter is?"
"She hath not left her room yet," answered Suneva; "she sleeps late for the child"s sake."
"She hath left thy house, Peter. Last night I gave her and the child shelter from the storm."
Peter rose in a great pa.s.sion: "Then she can stay away from my house.
Here she comes back no more."
"I think that, too. It is better she should not come back. But now thou must see that her own home is got ready for her, and that quickly."
"What home?"
"The house thou gave her at her marriage."
"I gave her no house. She had the use of it. The t.i.tle deeds never left my hands."
"Then more shame to thee. Did thou not boast to every one, that thou had given the house and the plenishing? No t.i.tle deeds, no lawyer"s paper, can make the house more Margaret Vedder"s than thy own words have done. Thou wilt not dare to break thy promise, thou, who ate the Bread of Remembrance only last Sabbath Day. Begin this very hour to put the house in order, and then put the written right to it in her hands. Any hour thou may be called to give an account; leave the matter beyond disputing."
"It will take a week to glaze and clean it."
"It is glazed and cleaned. Michael Snorro brought the sashes one by one to the store, and glazed them, when he had done his work at night.
He hath also mended the plaster, and kept a fire in the house to dry it; and he hath cleaned the yard and re-hung the gate. Begin thou at once to move back again the furniture. It never ought to have been removed, and I told thee that at the time. Thou knowest also what promises thou made me, and I will see that thou keep them every one, Peter Fae. Yes, indeed, I will!"
"It is too wet to move furniture."
"The rain will be over at the noon. Until then thy men can carry peats and groceries, and such store of dried meats as will be necessary."
"Peter," said Suneva indignantly, "I counsel thee to do nothing in a hurry."
Dr. Balloch answered her, "I counsel thee, Mistress Fae, to keep well the door of thy mouth. It is no light thing to make the charges thou hast made against an innocent woman."
"I asked her how Jan Vedder got his death? Let her tell that."
"I might ask thee how Paul Glumm got his death! Listen now, and I will show thee what a great thing may come from one foul suspicion. Thou married Paul Glumm, and it is well known he and thee were not always in the same mind, for thou loved company and he loved quiet. Then Glumm took thee to the Skoolfiord, where there were none at the station but thee and he. Thou knowest how thou rebelled at that, and how often thou could be found in thy father"s house. Suddenly Glumm takes a sickness, and when a doctor sees him there is little hope, and after three days he dies. Then thou art back at Lerwick again, quick enough, and in a few weeks thou hast plenty of lovers. Now, then, how easy to say, "Glumm"s death was a very strange affair!" "Such a strong young man!" "Did his wife know any thing about it?" "Did she send for a doctor as soon as might be?" "Did she give him the medicine the doctor left?" "Was she not very glad when she was free again?"
Mistress Fae, I say not these things were so, or were even said, I am only trying to show thee how easy it is out of nothing at all to make up a very suspicious case. But come, Peter, there is duty to be done, and I know that thou wilt do it. And I am in haste about it, for it is not easy for Hamish to have a woman and child at the manse. Hamish has failed much lately."
"Send the woman with her child here."