An Orkney Maid

“‘Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

“‘My goodness, and my fortress, my high tower, and my deliverer, my shield, and He in whom I trust, who subdueth the people under me.’”

Anon he began to pace the floor as he continued: “‘Rid us and deliver us, from the hands of strange children–whose mouth speaketh vanity, and whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood.’ Rahal, could there be a better description of Russia–‘her right hand of falsehood, her mouth speaking vanity?’ David put the very words needed in our mouths when he taught us to say, ‘rid us of such an enemy, and of all who strike hands with him!’ Yes, rid us. We want to be rid of all such dead souls! Rid us.”

Then Rahal reminded her husband that only recently his physician had warned him against all excitement, especially of anger, and so finally induced him to take a sedative and go to sleep. But sleep was far from her. She sat down in her own room and closed her eyes against all worldly sights and sounds. Her soul was trying to reach her son’s soul and impress upon it her own trust in the love and mercy of the “God of battles.” She had hoped that some word or thought of Boris would come back to her in such a personal manner that she would feel that he was thinking of her and of the many sweet spiritual confidences they had had together.

But nothing came, no sign, no word, no sudden, flashing memory of some special promise. All was void and still until she heard the voices of Thora and Ian. Then she went down to them and found that the evil news had met them on their way home. She asked Ian if he had any knowledge of the whereabouts of Boris. Ian thought he might be at sea, as his ship was at Spithead among the carrying ships of the navy. “If he had been in Alma’s fight, you might have heard from him,” he added. “It would be his first battle and he would want to write to you about it. That would be only natural.”

“Well, then, I will look for good news. If bad news is coming, I will not pay it the compliment of going to meet it. Have you had a pleasant day? Where first did you go?”

“To the land-locked Bay of Stromness which was full of ships of all sizes, of schooners, and of little skiffs painted a light green colour like the pleasure skiffs of Kirkwall.”

“And the town?”

“Was very busy while we were there. It has but one long street, with steep branches running directly up the big granite hill which shelters it from the Atlantic. What I noticed particularly was, that the houses on the main street all had their gables seaward; and are so built that the people can step from their doors into their boats. I liked that arrangement. Stromness is really an Orcadean Venice. The town is a queer old place, with a non-English and non-Scotch look. The houses have an old-world appearance and the names over the doorways carry you back to Norseland. Only one street is flagged and little bays run up into the street through its whole length. But the place appeared to be very busy and happy. I noticed few Scotch there, the people seemed to be purely Norse. All were busy–men, women and children.”

“It used to be the last port for the Hudson Bay Company,” said Rahal, “and the big whaling fleets, and in days of war and convoys there were hundreds of big ships in its wonderful harbour. I suppose that you had no time to visit any of the ancient monuments there?” Rahal asked.

“No; Thora told me her grandmother Ragnor was buried in its cemetery and that her grave was near the church door and had a white pillar at the head of it. So we walked there.”

“Well, then?”

“I cannot describe to you the savage, lonely grandeur of its situation. It frightened me.”

“The men and women who chose it were not afraid of it.”

“Thora says its memory frightened her for years.”

“Thora was only eight years old when her father placed the pillar at the head of his mother’s grave. It was then she saw it–but at eight years many people are often more sensitive than at eighty. Yes, indeed! They may see, then, what eyes dimmed by earthly vision cannot see, and feel what hearts hardened by earth’s experiences cannot feel. Thora’s spiritual sight was very keen in childhood and is not dimmed yet.”

At these words Thora entered the room, wearing the little frock of white barége she had saved for this last day of Ian’s visit. Her face had been bathed, her hair brushed and loosened but yet dressed with the easiest simplicity. She was in trouble but she knew when to speak of trouble, and when to be silent. Her mother was talking of Stromness; when her father came, he would know all, and say all. So she went softly about the room, putting on the dinner table those last final accessories that it was her duty to supply.

Yet the conversation was careless and indifferent. Rahal talked of Stromness but her heart was far away from Stromness, and Thora would have liked to tell her mother how beautifully their future home had been papered, and all three were eager to discuss the news that had come. But all knew well that it would be better not to open the discussion till Ragnor was present to inform and direct their ignorance of events.

On the stroke of six, Ragnor entered. He had slept and washed and was apparently calm, but in some way his face had altered, for his heart had mastered his brain and its usual expression of intellectual strength was exchanged for one of intense feeling. His eyes shone and he had the look of a man who had just come from the presence of God.

“We are waiting for you, dear Coll,” said Rahal; and he answered softly: “Well, then, I am here.” For a moment his eyes rested on the table which Rahal had set with extra care and with the delicacies Ian liked best. Was it not the last dinner he would eat with them for three months? She thought it only kind to give it a little distinction. But this elaboration of the usual home blessings did not produce the expected results. Every one was anxious, the atmosphere of the room was tense and was not relieved until Ragnor had said a grace full of meaning and had sat down and asked Ian if he “had heard the news brought by that day’s packet?”

“Very brokenly, Father,” was the answer. “Two men, whom we met on the Stromness road, told us that it was ‘bad with the army,’ but they were excited and in a great hurry and would not stand to answer our questions.”

“No wonder! No wonder!”

“Whatever is the matter, Father?”

“I cannot tell you. The words stumble in my throat, and my heart burns and bleeds. Here is the London Times! Read aloud from it what William Howard Russell has witnessed–I cannot read the words–I would be using my own words–listen, Rahal! Listen, Thora! and oh, may God enter into judgment at once with the men responsible for the misery that Russell tells us of.”

At this point, Adam Vedder entered the room. He was in a passion that was relieving itself by a torrent of low voiced curses–curses only just audible but intensely thrilling in their half-whispered tones of passion. In the hall he had taken off his hat but on entering the room he found it too warm for his top-coat, and he began to remove it, muttering to himself while so doing. There was an effort to hear what he was saying but very quickly Ragnor stopped the monologue by calling:

“Adam! Thee! Thou art the one wanted. Ian is just going to read what the London Times says of this dreadful mismanagement.”

“‘Mismanagement!’ Is that what thou calls the crime? Go on, Ian! More light on this subject is wanted here.”

So Ian stood up and read from the Times’ correspondent’s letter the following sentences:

“The skies are black as ink, the wind is howling over the staggering tents, the water is sometimes a foot deep, our men have neither warm nor waterproof clothing and we are twelve hours at a time in the trenches–and not a soul seems to care for their comfort or even their lives; the most wretched beggar who wanders about the streets of London in the rain leads the life of a prince compared with the British soldiers now fighting out here for their country.

… “The commonest accessories of a hospital are wanting; there is not the least attention paid to decency or cleanliness, the stench is appalling, the fetid air can barely struggle out through chinks in the walls and roofs, and for all I can observe the men die without the least effort being made to save them. They lie just as they were let down on the ground by the poor fellows, their comrades, who brought them on their backs from the camp with the greatest tenderness but who are not allowed to remain with them. The sick appear to be tended by the sick, and the dying by the dying. There are no nurses–and men are literally dying hourly, because the medical staff of the British army has forgotten that old rags of linen are necessary for the dressing of wounds.”

“My God!” cried Ian, as he let the paper fall from the hands he clasped passionately together, “My God! How can Thou permit this?”

“Well, then, young man,” said Adam, “thou must remember that God permits what He does not will. And Conall,” he continued, “millions have been voted and spent for war and hospital materials, where are the goods?”

“The captain of the packet told me no one could get their hands on them. Some are in the holds of vessels and other things so piled on the top of them that they cannot be got at till the hold is regularly emptied. Some are stored in warehouses which no one has authority to open–some are actually rotting on the open wharves, because the precise order to remove them to the hospital cannot be found. The surgeons have no bandages, the doctors no medicine, and as I said there are no nurses but a few rough military orderlies. The situation paralyses those who see it!”

“Paralyses! Pure nonsense!” cried Vedder, whose face was wet with passionate tears, though he did not know it. “Paralyses! No, no! It must make them work miracles. I am going to Edinburgh tomorrow. I am going to buy all the luxuries and medicines I can afford for the lads fighting and suffering. Sunna is going to spend a week in gathering old linen in Kirkwall and then Mistress Brodie and she will bring it with them. Rahal, Thora, you must do your best. And thou, Conall?”

“Adam, thou can open my purse and take all thou thinks is right. My Boris may be among those dear lads; his mother will have something to send him. Wilt thou see it is set on a fair way to reach his hand?”

“I will take it to him. If he be in London with his vessel, I will find him; if he be at the front, I will find him. If he be in Scutari hospital, I will find him!”

“Oh, Adam, Adam!” cried Rahal, “thou art the good man that God loves, the man after His own heart.” Her face was set and stern and white as snow, and Thora’s was a duplicate of it; but Ragnor, during his short interval of rest, had arrived at that heighth and depth of confidence in God’s wisdom which made him sure that in the end the folly and wickedness of men would “praise Him”; so he was ready to help, and calm and strong in his sorrow.

At this point, Rahal rose and a servant came in and began to clear the table and carry away the remains of the meal. Then Rahal rose and took Thora’s hand and Ian went with them to the parlour. She spoke kindly to Ian who at her first words burst into bitter weeping, into an almost womanly burst of uncontrollable distress. So she kissed and left him with the only woman who had the power to soothe, in any degree, the sense of utter helplessness which oppressed him.

“I want to go to the Crimea!” he said, “I would gladly go there. It would give me a chance to die happily. It would repay me for all my miserable life. I want to go, Thora. You want me to go, Thora! Yes, you do, dear one!”

“No, I do not want you to go. I want you here. Oh, what a selfish coward I am. Go, Ian, if you wish–if you feel it right to go, then go.”

This subject was sufficient to induce a long and strange conversation during which Thora was led to understand that some great and cruel circumstances had ruined and in some measure yet controlled her lover’s life. She was begging him to go and talk to her father and tell him all that troubled him so cruelly when Rahal entered the room again.

“Dear ones,” she said, “the house is cold and the lamps nearly out. Say good night, now. Ian must be up early–and tomorrow we shall have a busy day collecting all the old linen we can.” She was yet as white as the long dressing gown she wore but there was a smile on her face that made it lovely as she recited slowly:

“Watching, wondering, yearning, knowingWhence the stream, and where ’tis goingSeems all mystery–by and byHe will speak, and tell us why.”

And the simple words had a charm in them, and though they said “Good night,” in a mist of tears, the sunshine of hope turned them into that wonderful bow which God ‘bended with his hands’ and placed in the heavens as a token of His covenant with man, that He would always remember man’s weakness and give him help in time of trouble. Now let every good man and woman say “I’ll warrant it! I never yet found a deluge of any kind but I found also that God had provided an ark for my refuge and my comfort.”

CHAPTER VIII

THORA’S PROBLEM

There is a tear for all who die,A mourner o’er the humblest grave;But nations swell the funeral cry,And triumph weeps above the brave.For them is Sorrow’s purest sigh,O’er Ocean’s heaving bosom sentIn vain their bones unburied lie,All earth becomes their monument.Born to the War of 1854 on October 21, 1854,a Daughter, called Red Cross.

The next night Vedder went away. His purposes were necessarily rather vague, but it was certain he would go to the front if he thought he could do any good there. He talked earnestly and long with Ragnor but when it came to parting, both men were strangely silent. They clasped hands and looked long and steadily into each other’s eyes. No words could interpret that look. It was a conversation for eternity.

In the meantime, the whole town was eager to do something but what could they do that would give the immediate relief that was needed? There were no sewing machines then, women’s fingers and needles could not cope with the difficulty, even regarding the Orkney men who were suffering. To gather from every one the very necessary old linen seemed to be the very extent of their usefulness.

In these first days of the trouble, Rahal and Thora were serious and quiet. A dull, inexplicable melancholy shrouded the girl like a garment. The pretty home preparing for Ian and herself lost its interest. She refused to look forward and lived only in the unhappy present. The few words Ian has said about some wrong or trouble in the past years of his life overshadowed her. She was naturally very prescient and her higher self dwelt much in

… that finer atmosphere,Where footfalls of appointed things,Reverberent of days to be,Are heard in forecast echoings,Like wave beats from a viewless sea.

However, if trouble lasts through the night, joy, or at least hope and expectation, comes in the morning; and certainly the first shock of grief settled down into patient hoping and waiting. Vedder and Ian were both good correspondents and the silence and loneliness were constantly broken by their interesting letters. And joyful or sorrowful, Time goes by.

Sunna wrote occasionally but she said she found Edinburgh dull, and that she would gladly return to Kirkwall if it was not for the Pentland Firth and its winter tempers and tantrums.

The war [she added] has stopped all balls and even house parties. There is no dancing and no sports of any kind, and I believe skating and golf have been forbidden. Love-making is the only recreation allowed and I am not tempted to sin in this direction. The churches are always open and their bells clatter all day long. I have no lovers. Every man will talk of the war, and then they get offended if you ask them why they are not gone. I have had the pleasure of saying a few painful truths to these feather-bed patriots, and they tell each other, no doubt, that I am impossible and impertinent. One of them said to me, myself: “Wait a wee, Miss Vedder, I wouldna wonder but some crippled war lad will fa’ to your lot, when the puir fellows come marching home again.” The Edinburgh men are just city flunkeys, they would do fine to wait on our Norse men. I would like well to see a little dandy advocate I know here, trotting after Boris.

So days came and went, and the passion of shame and sorrow died down and people did not talk of the war. But the doors of St. Magnus stood open all day long and there were always women praying there. They had begun to carry their anxieties and griefs to God; and that was well for God did not weary of their complaining. Women have the very heart of sympathy for a man’s griefs. God is the only refuge for a sorrowful woman.

Steadily the preparations for Thora’s marriage went on, but the spirit that animated their first beginnings had cooled down into that calm necessity, which always has to attend to all “finishings off.” Early in December, Thora’s future home was quite finished, and this last word expresses its beauty and completeness. Then Ragnor kissed his daughter, and put into her hand the key of the house and the deed of gift which made it her own forever. And in this same hour they decided that the first day of the New Year should be the wedding day; for Bishop Hedley would then be in Kirkwall and who else could marry the little Thora whom he had baptised and confirmed and welcomed into the fold of the church.

Nothing is more remarkable than the variety of moods in which women take the solemn initiatory rite ushering them into their real life and their great and honourable duties. Thora was joyful as a bird in spring and never weary of examining the lovely home, the perfect wardrobe, and the great variety of beautiful presents that had been given her.

Very soon it was the twentieth of December, and Ian was expected on the twenty-third. Christmas preparations had now taken the place of marriage preparations for every item was ready for the latter event. There had been a little anxiety about the dress and veil, but they arrived on the morning of the twentieth and were beautiful and fitting in every respect. The dress was of the orthodox white satin and the veil fell from a wreath of orange flowers and myrtle leaves. And oh, how proud and happy Thora was in their possession. Several times that wonderful day she had run secretly to her room to examine and admire them.

On the morning of the twenty-first she reminded herself that in two days Ian would be with her and that in nine days she would be his wife. She was genuine and happy about the event. She made no pretences or reluctances. She loved Ian with all her heart, she was glad she was going to be always with him. Life would then be full and she would be the happiest woman in the world. She asked her father at the breakfast table to send her, at once, any letters that might come for her in his mail. “I am sure there will be one from Ian,” she said, “and, dear Father, it hurts me to keep it waiting.”

About ten o’clock, Mrs. Beaton called and brought Thora a very handsome ring from Maximus Grant and a bracelet from herself. She stayed to lunch with the Ragnors and after the meal was over, they went upstairs to look at the wedding dress. “I want to see it on you, Thora,” said Mrs. Beaton, “I shall have a wedding dress to buy for my niece soon and I would like to know what kind of a fit Mrs. Scott achieves.” So Thora put on the dress, and Mrs. Beaton admitted that it “fit like a glove” and that she should insist on her niece Helen going to Mrs. Scott.

With many scattering, delaying remarks and good wishes, the lady finally bid Thora good-bye and Mrs. Ragnor went downstairs with her. Then Thora eagerly lifted two letters that had come in her father’s mail and been sent home to her. One was from Ian. “The last he will write to Thora Ragnor,” she said with a smile. “I will put it with his first letter and keep them all my life long. So loving is he, so good, so handsome! There is no one like my Ian.” Twice over she read his loving letter and then laid it down and lifted the one which had come with it.

“Jean Hay,” she repeated, “who is Jean Hay?” Then she remembered the writer–an orphan girl living with a married brother who did not always treat her as kindly as he should have done. Hearing and believing this story, Rahal Ragnor hired the girl, taught her how to sew, how to mend and darn and in many ways use her needle. Then discovering that she had a genius for dressmaking, she placed her with a first-class modiste in Edinburgh to be properly instructed and liberally attended to all financial requisites; for Rahal Ragnor could not do anything unless it was wholly and perfectly done. Then Thora had dressed Jean from her own wardrobe and asked her father to send their protegée to Edinburgh on one of the vessels he controlled. And Jean had been heartily grateful, had done well, and risen to a place of trust in her employer’s business; and a few times every year she wrote to Mrs. Ragnor or Thora. All these circumstances were remembered by Thora in a moment. “Jean Hay!” she exclaimed. “Well, Jean, you must wait a few minutes, until I have taken off my wedding dress. I am sorry I had to put it on–it was not very kind or thoughtful of Mrs. Beaton to ask me–I don’t believe mother liked her doing so–mother has a superstition or fret about everything. Well, then, it is no way spoiled–” and she lifted it and the white silk petticoat belonging to the dress and carefully put them in the place Rahal had selected as the safest for their keeping. It was a large closet in the spare room and she went there with them. As she returned to her own room she heard her mother welcoming a favourite visitor and it pleased her. “Now I need not hurry,” she thought. “Mistress Vorn will stay an hour at least, and I can take my own time.”

“Taking her own time” evidently meant to Thora the reading of Ian’s letter over again. And also a little musing on what Ian had said. There was, however, no hurry about Jean Hay’s letter and it was so pleasant to drift among the happy thoughts that crowded into her consideration. So for half an hour Jean’s letter lay at her side untouched–Jean was so far outside her dreams and hopes that afternoon–but at length she lifted it and these were the words she read:

Dear Miss Thora:

I was hearing since last spring that thou wert going to be married on the son of the Rev. Dr. Macrae–on the young man called John Calvin Macrae. Very often I was hearing this, and always I was answering, “There will be no word of truth in that story. Miss Ragnor will not be noticing such a young man as that. No, indeed!”

Here Thora threw down the letter and sat looking at it upon the floor as if she would any moment tear it to pieces. But she did not, she finally lifted it and forced herself to continue reading:

I was hating to tell thee some things I knew, and I was often writing and then tearing up my letter, for it made me sick to be thy true friend in such a cruel way. But often I have heard the wise tell “when the knife is needed, the salve pot will be of no use.” Now then, this day, I tell myself with a sad heart, “Jean, thou must take the knife. The full time has come.”

“Why won’t the woman tell what she has got to tell,” said Thora in a voice of impatient anguish, and in a few minutes she whispered, “I am cold.” Then she threw a knitted cape over her shoulders and lifted the letter again, oh, so reluctantly, and read:

The young man will have told your father, that he is McLeod’s agent and a sort of steward of his large properties. This does not sound like anything wrong, but often I have been told different. Old McLeod left to his son many houses. Three of them are not good houses, they are really fashionable gambling houses. Macrae has the management of them as well as of many others in various parts of the city. Of these others I have heard no wrong. I suppose they may be quite respectable.

This story has more to it. Whenever there is a great horse race there Macrae will be, and I saw myself in the daily newspapers that his name was among the winners on the horse Sergius. It was only a small sum he won, but sin is not counted in pounds and shillings. No, indeed! So there is no wonder his good father is feeling the shame of it.

Moreover, though he calls himself Ian, that is not his name. His name is John Calvin and his denial of his baptismal name, given to him at the Sabbath service, in the house of God, at the very altar of the same, is thought by some to be a denial of God’s grace and mercy. And he has been reasoned with on this matter by the ruling elder in his father’s kirk, but no reason would he listen to, and saying many things about Calvin I do not care to write.