Jan Vedder's Wife

by Amelia E. Barr

Now all good work is good for far more than appears upon its surface. The duties undertaken by Margaret grew insensibly and steadily in beneficence and importance. In the first place, the effect upon her own character was very great. It was really two hours daily study of the finest kind. It was impossible that the books put into her hand could be read 233 and discussed with a man like Dr. Balloch without mental enlargement. Equally great and good was the moral effect of the companionship. Her pen became the pen of a ready writer, for the old clergyman kept up a constant correspondence with his college companions, and with various learned societies.

About three months after this alliance began, the doctor said one day, “Thou shalt not read to me this morning, for I want thee to carry some wine and jelly to old Neill Brock, and when thou art there, read to him. Here is a list of the Psalms and the Epistles that will be the best for him.” And Margaret came back from her errand with a solemnly happy light upon her face. “It was a blessed hour,” she said, “surely he is very near the kingdom.”

This service once begun grew by a very natural course of events. Margaret delighted in it. The sick loved her calm, gentle ways. She was patient and silent, and yet sympathetic. She had that womanly taste which naturally sets itself to make dainty dishes for those who can not eat coarse food. In a few months the sick all through the parish felt the soothing touch of her soft, cool hands, and became 234 familiar with the tones of her low, even voice, as she read aloud the portions which Dr. Balloch usually selected for every case.

And as there is no service so gratefully remembered as that given in sickness, Margaret Vedder gradually acquired a very sincere popularity. It rather amazed Peter to hear such remarks as the following: “Luke Thorkel is better, thanks to Margaret Vedder.” “John Johnson can go to the fishing with an easy mind now, Margaret Vedder is caring for his sick wife.” “The Widow Hay died last night. She would have died ere this, but for Margaret Vedder’s care.”

These outside duties made her home duties sufficient to fill all her time. She had no hours to spare for foolish repining, or morbid sorrow. Little Jan must be taught his letters, and his clothes must be made. Her garden, poultry and knitting kept her hands ever busy, and though her work was much of it of that silent kind which leads to brooding thought, she had now much of interest to fill her mind. Yet still, and always, there was the haunting, underlying memory of Jan’s disappearance or death, keeping her life hushed and silent. To no one 235 did she speak of it, and it seemed strange to her that Dr. Balloch visibly discouraged any allusion to it. Sometimes she felt as if she must speak to Snorro about it, but Snorro kept ever a little aloof from her. She was not very sure as to his friendship.

She thought this a little hard, for she had given him every opportunity to understand that her own animosity was dead. She permitted little Jan to spend nearly all his time with him, when he was not engaged in fishing, or busy on the quays. And Snorro now spent much of his time at home. His earnings during the fishing season more than sufficed for his wants. Every fine day in winter he was apt to call for little Jan, and Margaret rarely refused him the child’s company.

And little Jan dearly loved Snorro. Snorro put him in the water, and taught him how to swim like a seal. Snorro made him a spear and taught him how to throw it. He made him a boat and taught him how to sail it. He got him a pony and taught him how to ride it. Once they found a baby seal whose mother had been shot, and the child kept it at Snorro’s house. There also he had a dozen pet rabbits, 236 and three Skye terriers, and a wild swan with a broken wing, and many other treasures, which would not have been so patiently tolerated in the cleanliness and order of his own home.

So the time went pleasantly and profitably by for two years. Again the spring joy was over the land, and the town busy with the hope of the fishing season. Snorro’s plans were all made, and yet he felt singularly restless and unsettled. As he sat one evening wondering at this feeling, he said to himself: “It is the dreams I have had lately, or it is because I think of Jan so much. Why does he not write? Oh, how I long to see him! Well, the day will come, by God’s leave.”

Just as this thought crossed his mind, Dr. Balloch stepped across his threshold. Snorro rose up with a face of almost painful anxiety. He always associated a visit from the doctor with news from Jan. He could scarcely articulate the inquiry, “Hast thou any news?”

“Great news for thee, Snorro. Jan is coming home from Africa. He is broken down with the fever. He wants thee. Thou must go to him at once, for he hath done grand work, and proved himself a hero, worthy even of thy true great love.”