A stranger suddenly dropped in these Shetland islands, especially in winter, would not unnaturally say, “how monotonously dreary life must be here! In such isolation the heart must lose its keen sense of sympathy, and be irresponsive and dumb.” That is the great mistake about the affections. It is not the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of kings, or the marching of armies that move them most. When they answer from their depths, it is to the domestic joys and tragedies of life. Ever since Eve wept over her slain son, and Rebecca took the love-gifts of Isaac, this has been the case; and until that mighty angel, who stands on the sea and land, cries, “Time shall be no more,” the home loves, and the home trials, will be the center of humanity’s 298 deepest and sweetest emotions. So, then, the little Shetland town had in it all the elements necessary for a life full of interest—birth and death, love and sorrow, the cruel hand and the generous hand, the house of mourning and the house of joy.
Just before Christmas-tide, Tulloch was sitting alone at midnight. His malady was too distressing to allow him to sleep, but a Norseman scorns to complain of physical suffering, and prefers, so long as it is possible, to carry on the regular routine of his life. He was unable to go much out, and his wasted body showed that it was under a constant torture, but he said nothing, only he welcomed Margaret and the doctor warmly, and seemed to be glad of their unspoken sympathy. It had been stormy all day, but the wind had gone down, and a pale moon glimmered above the dim, tumbling sea. All was quiet, not a footfall, not a sound except the dull roar of the waves breaking upon the beach.
Suddenly a woman’s sharp cry cut the silence like a knife. It was followed by sobs and shrieks and passing footsteps and the clamor of many voices. Every one must have noticed 299 how much more terrible noises are at night than in the daytime; the silly laughter of drunkards and fools, the maniac’s shout, the piercing shriek of a woman in distress, seem to desecrate its peaceful gloom, and mock the slow, mystic panorama of the heavens. Tulloch felt unusually impressed by this night-tumult, and early in the morning sent his servant out to discover its meaning.
“It was Maggie Barefoot, sir; her man was drowned last night; she has six bairns and not a bread-winner among them. But what then? Magnus Tulloch went too, and he had four little lads—their mother died at Lammas-tide. They’ll be God’s bairns now, for they have neither kith nor kin. It is a sad business, I say that.”
“Go and bring them here.”
The order was given without consideration, and without any conscious intention. He was amazed himself when he had uttered it. The man was an old servant, and said hesitatingly, “Yes, but they are no kin of thine.”
“All the apples on the same tree have come from the same root, Bele; and it is like enough that all the Tullochs will have had one forbear. 300 I would be a poor Tulloch to see one of the name wanting a bite and sup. Yes, indeed.”
He was very thoughtful after seeing the children, and when Dr. Balloch came, he said to him at once: “Now, then, I will do what thou hast told me to do—settle up my affairs with this world forever. Wilt thou help me?”
“If I think thou does the right thing, I will help thee, but I do not think it is right to give thy money to Margaret Vedder. She has enough and to spare. ‘Cursed be he that giveth unto the rich.’ It was Mahomet and Anti-Christ that said the words, but for all that they are good words.”
“I have no kin but a fifth cousin in Leith; he is full of gold and honor. All that I have would be a bawbee to him. But this is what I think, my money is Shetland money, made of Shetland fishers, and it ought to stay in Shetland.”