Jan Vedder's Wife

by Amelia E. Barr

“We have nowhere else to go to-night, Snorro.” Then Margaret told him every thing.

He listened in silence, making no comments, asking no questions, until she finished in another burst of anguish, as she told him of Suneva’s 217 accusation. Then he said gravely: “It is a shame. Drink this cup of tea, and then we will go to the minister. He only can guide the boat in this storm.”

“I can not go there, Snorro. I have been almost rude and indifferent to him. Three times he has written to me concerning my duty; many times he has talked to me about it. Now he will say, ‘Thou hast reaped the harvest thou sowed, Margaret Vedder.’”

“He will say no unkind word to thee. I tell thee thou must go. There is none else that can help thee. Go for little Jan’s sake. Wrap the boy up warm. Come.”

She was weeping and weary, but Snorro took her to the manse, carrying little Jan under his own coat. Margaret shrank from an interview with Dr. Balloch, but she had no need. He was not a man to bruise the broken reed; no sooner did he cast his eyes upon the forlorn woman than he understood something of the crisis that had brought her to him for advice and protection.

He took them into his cheerful parlor, and sent their wet clothing to the kitchen to be dried. Then he said: “Snorro, now thou go 218 and help Hamish to make us a good supper. It is ill facing trouble on an empty stomach. And light a fire, Snorro, in the room up stairs; thou knowest which room; for Margaret and her son will have to sleep there. And after that, thou stop with Hamish, for it will be better so.”

There were no reproofs now on the good doctor’s lips. He never reminded Margaret how often he had striven to win her confidence and to lead her to the only source of comfort for the desolate and broken-hearted. First of all, he made her eat, and dry and warm herself; then he drew from her the story of her grief and wrongs.

“Thou must have thy own home, Margaret, that is evident,” he said; “and as for Suneva, I will see to her in the morning. Thou art innocent of thy husband’s death, I will make her to know that. Alas! how many are there, who if they can not wound upon proof, will upon likelihood! Now there is a room ready for thee, and thou must stay here, until this matter is settled for thee.”

It seemed a very haven of rest to Margaret. She went to it gratefully, and very soon fell 219 into that deep slumber which in youth follows great emotions. When she awoke the fire had been re-built, and little Jan’s bread and milk stood beside it. It was a dark, dripping morning; the rain smote the windows in sudden, gusts, and the wind wailed drearily around the house. But in spite of the depressing outside influences, her heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. She felt as those feel “who have escaped;” and she dressed and fed her child with a grateful heart.

When she went down stairs she found that, early as it was, the doctor had gone to her father’s house; and she understood that this visit was made in order to see him where conversation would not be interrupted by the entrance of buyers and sellers.