Jan Vedder's Wife

Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr

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• Publié par: zyaj
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 49
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Jan Vedder's Wife, by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Jan Vedder's Wife Author: Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr Release Date: April 26, 2010 [eBook #32144] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JAN VEDDER'S WIFE*** E-text prepared by Katherine Ward and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries (http://www.archive.org/details/americana) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive/American Libraries. See http://www.archive.org/details/janvedderswife00barrrich JAN VEDDER’S WIFE BY BY AMELIA E. BARR NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS. COPYRIGHT , 1885 BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY CONTENTS. C HAPTER I.—JAN’ S WEDDING . C HAPTER II.—A LITTLE C LOUD IN THE SKY. C HAPTER III.—JAN’ S OPPORTUNITY. C HAPTER IV.—THE D ESOLATED H OME. C HAPTER V.—SHIPWRECK. C HAPTER VI.—MARGARET’ S H EART. C HAPTER VII.—THE MAN AT D EATH’ S D OOR. C HAPTER VIII.—D EATH AND C HANGE. C HAPTER IX.—JAN AT H IS POST. C HAPTER X.—SWEET H OME. C HAPTER XI.—SNORRO IS WANTED. C HAPTER XII.—SNORRO AND JAN. C HAPTER XIII.—LITTLE JAN’ S TRIUMPH. C HAPTER XIV.—JAN’ S R ETURN. C HAPTER XV.—LABOR AND R EST. 1 17 36 54 74 94 116 140 167 193 228 252 275 297 317 CHAPTER I. JAN’S WEDDING. “Eastward, afar, the coasts of men were seen Dim, shadowy, and spectral; like a still Broad land of spirits lay the vacant sea Beneath the silent heavens—here and there, Perchance, a vessel skimmed the watery waste, Like a white-winged sea-bird, but it moved Too pale and small beneath the vail of space. There, too, went forth the sun Like a white angel, going down to visit The silent, ice-washed cloisters of the Pole.” —R ICHTER’ S “TITAN.” More than fifty years ago this thing happened: Jan Vedder was betrothed to Margaret Fae. It was at the beginning of the Shetland summer, that short interval of inexpressible beauty, when the amber sunshine lingers low in the violet skies from week to week; and the throstle and the lark sing at midnight, and the whole land has an air of enchantment, mystic, wonderful, and far off. In the town of Lerwick all was still, though it was but nine o’clock; for the men were at the ling-fishing, and the narrow flagged street and small quays were quite deserted. Only at the public fountain there was a little crowd of women and girls, and they sat around its broad margin, with their water pitchers and their knitting, laughing and chatting in the dreamlike light. “Well, and so Margaret Fae marries at last; she, too, marries, like the rest of the world.” “Yes, and why not?” “As every one knows, it is easier to begin that coil than to end it; and no one has ever thought that Margaret would marry Jan—he that is so often at the dance, and so seldom at the kirk.” “Yes, and it is said that he is not much of a man. Magnus Yool can wag him here; and Nicol Sinclair send him there, and if Suneva Torr but cast her nixieeyes on him, he leaves all to walk by her side. It is little mind of his own he hath; besides that, he is hard to deal with, and obstinate.” “That is what we all think, Gisla; thou alone hast uttered it. But we will say no more of Jan, for oft ill comes of women’s talk.” The speakers were middle-aged women who had husbands and sons in the fishing fleet, and they cast an anxious glance toward it, as they lifted their water pitchers to their heads, and walked slowly home together, knitting as they went. Lerwick had then only one street of importance, but it was of considerable length, extending in the form of an amphitheater along the shore, and having numberless little lanes or closes, intersected by stairs, running backward to an eminence above the town. The houses were generally large and comfortable, but they were built without the least regard to order. Some faced the sea, and some the land, and the gable ends projected on every side, and at every conceivable angle. Many of their foundations were drilled out of the rock upon the shore, and the smooth waters of the bay were six feet deep at the open doors or windows. The utmost quiet reigned there. Shetland possessed no carts or carriages, and only the clattering of a shelty’s gallop, or the song of a drunken sailor disturbed the echoes. The whole place had a singular, old-world look, and the names over the doors carried one back to Norseland and the Vikings. For in these houses their children dwelt, still as amphibious as their forefathers, spending most of their lives upon the sea, rarely sleeping under a roof, or warming 4 3 2 themselves at a cottage fire; a rugged, pious, silent race, yet subject, as all Norsemen are, to fits of passionate and uncontrollable emotion. Prominently among the Thorkels and Halcros, the Yools and Traills, stood out the name of Peter Fae. Peter had the largest store in Lerwick, he had the largest fish-curing shed, he was the largest boat owner. His house of white stone outside the town was two stories high, and handsomely furnished; and it was said that he would be able to leave his daughter Margaret £10,000; a very large fortune for a Shetland girl. Peter was a Norseman of pronounced type, and had the massive face and loose-limbed strength of his race, its faculty for money-getting, and its deep religious sentiment. Perhaps it would be truer to say, its deep Protestant sentiment, for Norsemen have always been Protestants; they hated the Romish church as soon as they heard of it. If the Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-American wishes to see whence came the distinguishing traits of his race, let him spend a few weeks among the Shetland Norsemen, for they have pre-eminently those qualities we are accustomed to pride ourselves upon possessing—the open air freshness of look, the flesh and blood warmth of grip, the love of the sea, the resolute earnestness of being and doing, the large, clear sincerity of men accustomed to look stern realities in the face. Peter’s wife, Thora, was also of pure Norse lineage, and in many an unrecognized way her ancestors influenced her daily life. She had borne four sons, but, in the expressive form of Shetland speech, “the sea had got them;” and her daughter Margaret was the sole inheritor of their gathered gold. Thora was a proud, silent woman, whose strongest affections were with her children in their lonely sea graves. In her heart, deeper down than her faith could reach, lay a conviction that the Faes and Thorkels who had sailed those seas for centuries had “called” her boys to them. And she was always nursing an accusation against herself for a rite which she had observed for their welfare, but which she was now sure had been punished by their death. For often, when they had been tossing on the black North Sea, she had gone to the top of the hill, and looking seaward she had raised from the past the brown-sailed ships, and the big yellow-haired men tugging at their oars; and in her heart there had been a supplication to their memory, which Peter, had he known it, would have denounced, with the sternest wrath, as neither more nor less than a service to Satan. But what do we know of the heart nearest to our own? What do we know of our own heart? Some ancestor who sailed with Offa, or who fought with the Ironsides, or protested with the Covenanters, or legislated with the Puritans, may, at this very hour, be influencing us, in a way of which we never speak, and in which no other soul intermeddles. Thora had one comfort. Her daughter was of a spirit akin to her own. Peter had sent her to Edinburgh, hoping that she would bring back to his northern home some of those lowland refinements of which he had a shadowy and perhaps exaggerated idea. But Margaret Fae’s character was not of that semi-fluid nature which can easily be run into new molds. She had looked with distrust and dislike upon a life which seemed to her artificial and extravagant, and had come back to Shetland with every Norse element in her character strengthened and confirmed. 5 6 7 What then made her betroth herself to Jan Vedder? A weak, wasteful man, who had little but his good-natured, pleasant ways and his great beauty to recommend him. And yet the wise and careful Margaret Fae loved him; loved him spontaneously, as the brook loves to run, and the bird loves to sing. “But bear in mind, husband,” said Thora, on the night of the betrothal, “that this thing is of thy own doing. Thou hired Jan Vedder, when thou couldst well have hired a better man. Thou brought him to thy house. Well, then, was there any wonder that ill-luck should follow the foolish deed?” “Wife, the lad is a pleasant lad. If he had money to even Margaret’s tocher, and if he were more punctual at the ordinances, there would be no fault to him.” “So I think, too. But when a man has not religion, and has beside empty pockets, then he is poor for both worlds. It seems, then, that our Margaret must marry with a poor man. And let me tell thee, it was a little thing moved thee, for because Jan had a handsome face, and a bright smile, thou liked him.” “Many a sore heart folks get who set liking before judgment. But if there is good in the lad, then to get married will bring it out.” “That is as it may be. Often I have seen it bring out ill. Can any one tell if a man be good or ill, unless they dwell under the same roof with him? Abroad, who is so pleasant as Ragon Torr? But at home, every body there has to look to his wishes.” At this point in the conversation, Margaret entered. She was a tall, straight girl, with a finely-featured, tranquil face, admirably framed in heavy coils of hair that were yellow as dawn. Her complexi