Jan Vedder's Wife by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (i wanna iguana read aloud .txt) 📖

does he mean?"

"One whom we can not see; one who knows the constellations, and has come to take him to his God."

Just at sunset a flash of strange light transfigured for a moment the pallor of his face; he opened wide his blue eyes, and standing erect, bowed his head in an untranslatable wonder and joy. It was the moment of release, and the weary body fell backward, deserted and dead, into the minister's arms.

During the few months previous to his death, Tulloch had been much in every one's heart and on every one's tongue. There had not been a gathering of any kind in which his name had not been the prominent one; in some way or other, he had come into many lives. His death made a general mourning, especially among the fishers, to whom he had ever been a wise and trustworthy friend. He had chosen his grave in a small islet half a mile distant from Lerwick--a lonely spot where the living never went, save to bury the dead.

The day of burial was a clear one, with a salt, fresh wind from the south-west. Six fishermen made a bier of their oars, and laid the coffin upon it. Then the multitude followed, singing as they went, until the pier was reached. Boat after boat was filled, and the strange procession kept a little behind the one bearing the coffin and the minister. The snow lay white and unbroken on the island, and, as it was only a few acres in extent, the sea murmured unceasingly around all its shores.

The spot was under a great rock carved by storms into cloud-like castles and bastions. Eagles watched them with icy gray eyes from its summit, and the slow cormorant, and the sad sea-gulls. Overhead a great flock of wild swans were taking their majestic flight to the solitary lakes of Iceland, uttering all the time an inspiring cry, the very essence of eager expectation and of joyful encouragement. Dr. Balloch stood, with bared head and uplifted eyes, watching them, while they laid the mortal part of his old friend in "that narrow house, whose mark is one gray stone." Then looking around on the white earth, and the black sea, and the roughly-clad, sad-faced fishers, he said, almost triumphantly--

"The message came forth from him in whom we live, and move, and have our being:

"Who is nearer to us than breathing, and closer than hands or feet.

"Come up hither and dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

"The days of thy sorrow have been sufficient; henceforward there is laid up for thee the reward of exceeding joy.

"Thou shalt no more fear the evil to come; the bands of suffering are loosed. Thy Redeemer hath brought thee a release from sorrow.

"So he went forth unto his Maker; he attained unto the beginning of peace.

"He departed to the habitations of just men made perfect, to the communion of saints, to the life everlasting."

Then he threw a few spadefuls of earth into the grave, and every man in turn did the same, till the sepulture was fully over. Silently then the boats filled, and all went to their homes. They were solemn, but not sorrowful. The simple, pathetic service left behind it a feeling as of triumph. It had shown them they were mortal, but assured them also of immortality.

During the following summer Margaret received many letters from Jan; and she wrote many to him. Nothing is so conducive to a strong affection as a long sweet course of love-letters, and both of them impressed their souls on the white paper which bore to each other their messages of affection. It was really their wooing time, and never lover was half so impatient to claim his bride, as Jan was to see again his fair, sweet Margaret. But it was not likely that he could return for another year, and Margaret set herself to pass the time as wisely and happily as possible.

Nor did she feel life to be a dreary or monotonous affair. She was far too busy for morbid regrets or longings, for ennui, or impatience. Between Dr. Balloch, little Jan, the "Tulloch Homes," and her own house, the days were far too short. They slipped quickly into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the months grew to a year, and then every morning she awoke with the same thought--"Even to-day Jan might come." Little Jan shared her joyous expectations. He was always watching the horizon for any strange-looking craft. The last thing at night, the first in the morning, sometimes during the night, he scanned the bay, which was now filling fast with fishing boats from all quarters.

One Sunday morning very, very early, he came to his mother's bedside. "Wake, my mother! There is a strange ship in the bay. She is coming straight to harbor. Oh! I feel surely in my heart, that it is my father's ship! Let me go. Let me go now, I ask thee."

Margaret was at the window ere the child ceased speaking. "Thou may go," she said, "for I certainly think it is 'The Lapwing.'"

He had fled at the first words, and Margaret awoke Elga, and the fires were kindled, and the breakfast prepared, and the happy wife dressed herself in the pale blue color that Jan loved; and she smiled gladly to see how beautifully it contrasted with the golden-brown of her hair, and the delicate pink in her cheeks.

As for the child, his clear, sharp eyes soon saw very plainly that the vessel had come to anchor in the bay. "Well," he said, "that will be because the tide does not serve yet." John Semple, an old Scot from Ayrshire, was on the pier, the only soul in sight. "John, thou loose the boat, and row me out to 'The Lapwing.' It is 'The Lapwing.' I know it is. Come, thou must be in a hurry."

"'Hurry' is the deil's ain word, and I'll hurry for naebody; forbye, I wadna lift an oar for man nor bairn on the Sawbath day."

"Dost thou think it is 'The Lapwing?'"

"It may be: I'll no say it isn't."

The child had unfastened the boat while he was talking; he leaped into it, and lifted an oar. "Then I must scull, John. Thou might go with me!"

"I'm no gaun to break the Sawbath, an' a water way is waur than a land way, for then you'll be atween the deil an' the deep sea. Bide at hame, Jan, an' ye'll be a wise lad."

Jan shook his head, and went away by himself. The bay was smooth as glass, and he paddled with marvelous ease and speed. Very soon he came alongside the yacht: the sailors were holystoning the deck, but there was not a face looked over the side that little Jan knew.

"Well, then, is this 'The Lapwing?'" he asked.

"That's her name; what's your name, you little monkey?"

"Jan Vedder. Throw me a rope."

The men laughed as if at some excellent joke, and taunted and teased the child until he was in a passion. In the middle of the quarrel Jan himself came on deck.

"A lad as wants to come on board, Captain."

Jan looked down at the lad who wanted to come on board, and the bright, eager face gave him a sudden suspicion. "What is thy name?" he asked.

"Jan Vedder. Wilt thou throw me a rope?"

Then the captain turned and gave some orders, and in a few minutes little Jan stood on the deck of "The Lapwing." His first glance, his first movement was toward the handsomely dressed officer who was watching him with such a smiling, loving face.

"Thou art my father! I know thou art!" and with the words he lifted up his face and arms as if to be kissed and embraced.

Then they went into the cabin and Snorro was called, and perhaps Jan had a little pang of jealousy when he witnessed the joy of the child, and saw him folded to Snorro's big heart. Jan and Snorro were already dressed in their finest uniforms. They had only been waiting for the daybreak to row into harbor. But now there was no need of delay. "My mother is waiting for thee," said little Jan, anxiously. "Come, let us go to her."

It was still very early. John Semple had disappeared, and not a soul else was stirring. But this time when Jan approached his old home, the welcome was evident from afar. The chimneys were smoking, the blinds raised, the door wide open, and Margaret, beautiful and loving, stood in it, with beaming face and open arms to welcome him.

Then there was a wonderful breakfast, and they sat over it until the bells were ringing for church. "There will be time to talk afterward," said Snorro, "but now, what better thing can be done than to go to church? It will be the best place of all, and it is well said, 'for a happy hour a holy roof.' What dost thou think, Jan?"

"I think as thou dost, and I see the same answer in my Margaret's face. Well, then, we will take that road."

So Jan, with his wife upon his arm, went first, and Snorro, holding little Jan by the hand, followed. The congregation were singing a psalm, a joyful one, it seemed to Jan, and they quietly walked to the minister's pew, which was always reserved for strangers.

Ere they reached it there was a profound sensation, and Dr. Balloch slightly raised himself and looked at the party. Jan was in his full uniform, and so was Snorro, but there was no mistaking either of the men. And no mistaking the tone of the service which followed! It seemed as if the minister had flung off fifty years, and was again talking to his flock with the fire and enthusiasm of his youth. His prayer was like a song of triumph; his sermon, the old joyful invitation of the heart that had found its lost treasure, and called upon its neighbors to come and rejoice with it. The service ended in a song that was a benediction, and a benediction that was a song.

Then Dr. Balloch hastened to come down, and Jan, seeing how he trembled with joy, went to meet and support him; and so there, even on the pulpit stairs, the good minister kissed and blessed him, and called him, "my dear son." Peter put out both hands to Jan, and Margaret embraced Suneva, and in the church-yard the whole congregation waited, and there was scarcely a dry eye among either men or women.

"Thou come home to my house to-night, Jan," said Peter, "thou, and thy wife and child; come, and be gladly welcome, for this is a great day to me."

"Come, all of you," said Suneva, "and Snorro, he must come too."

So they spent the night at Peter's house, and the next morning Peter walked to his store between his son-in-law and his grandson, the proudest and happiest man in Shetland. All, and far more than all of his old love for Jan had come back to his heart. Jan could have asked him now for the half of his fortune, and it would have been given cheerfully.


CHAPTER XV.


LABOR AND REST.

"Turning to the celestial city, to infinite serenities, to love
without limit, to perfect joy."

The next evening Peter and Suneva and Dr. Balloch sat around