“Then I say this to thee. Thou shalt not break bread at thy Lord’s supper in His house. No, thou shalt not, for thou would be doing it unworthily, and eating damnation to thyself. What saith thy Lord Christ? If thine enemy hunger, feed him. Now, then, order the bread and tea for Jan Vedder.”
Peter called a woman servant and gave the order. Then, almost in a passion, he faced the minister, and said, “Oh, sir, if thou knew the evil this man hath done me and mine!”
“In such a case Christ’s instructions are very plain—‘Overcome evil with good.’ Now, thou knowest thy duty. If thou sin, I have warned thee—the sin is on thy own head.”
Jan heard nothing of this conversation. The voices of the two men were only like spent waves breaking on the shores of his consciousness. But very soon a woman brought him a basin of hot tea, and he drank it and ate a few mouthfuls. It gave him a little strength, he gathered himself together, opened the door, and without speaking went out into the night. The minister followed, watching him carefully, until he saw Michael Snorro take him in his big arms, and carry him to a pile of seal-skins. Then he knew that he was in good hands.
Poor Jan! He was utterly spent and miserable. The few minutes he had passed at Margaret’s side, had brought him no comfort. He heard her constantly muttering his name, but it was in the awful, far-distant voice of a soul speaking through a dream. She was unconscious of his presence; he trembled in hers. Just for a moment Thora had allowed him to lift his son, and to press the tiny face against his own. Then all was darkness, and a numb, aching sorrow, until he found himself in Snorro’s arms.
Many days Margaret Vedder lay between life and death, but at length there was hope, and Jan sailed again. He went away very miserable, though he had fully determined it should be his last voyage if Margaret wished it so. He would see her on his return, he would tell her how sorry he was, he would sell The Solan and give back the £600; he would even humble himself to Peter, and go back to the store, if there were no other way to make peace with Margaret. He felt that no personal sacrifice would be too great, if by it he could win back his home, and wife, and son. The babe had softened his heart. He told himself—oh, 91 so often—“Thou art a father;” and no man could have had a sweeter, stronger sense of the obligations the new relation imposed. He was so sure of himself that he could not help feeling equally sure of Margaret, and also of Peter. “For the child’s sake, they will forgive me, Snorro, and I’ll do well, yes, I will do well for the future.”
Snorro had many fears, but he could not bear to throw cold water on Jan’s hopes and plans for reformation. He did not believe that his unconditional surrender would be a good foundation for future happiness. He did not like Jan’s taking the whole blame. He did not like his giving up The Solan at Margaret’s word. Neither Peter Fae, nor his daughter, were likely to exalt any one who humbled himself.
“It is money in the hand that wins,” said Snorro, gloomily, “and my counsel is, that thou bear thyself bravely, and show her how well The Solan hath done already, and how likely she is to clear herself and pay back that weariful £600 before two years have gone away. If she will have it, let her have it. Jan, how could she give thee up for £600! Did she love thee?”