An Orkney Maid

Sitting on the side of her bed, she broke the seal and looked at the superscription. “It is from Adam Vedder,” she said, as she began to read it. No other word escaped her lips until she came to the end of the long epistle. Then she laid it down on the bed beside her and shivered out the words, “Boris is dying. Perhaps dead. Oh, Boris! My son Boris! Read for thyself.”

So Thora read the letter. It contained a vivid description of the taking of a certain small battery, which was pouring death and destruction on the little British company, who had gone as a forlorn hope to silence its fire. They were picked volunteers and they were led by Boris Ragnor. He had made a breach in its defences and carried his men over the cannon to victory. At the last moment he was shot in the throat and received a deadly wound in the side, as he tore from the hands of the Ensign the flag of his regiment, wrote Vedder.

I saw the fight between the men. I was carrying water to the wounded on the hillside. I, and several others, rushed to the side of Boris. He held the flag so tightly that no hand could remove it, and we carried it with him to the hospital. For two days he remained there, then he was carefully removed to my house, not very far away, and now he has not only one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses always with him but also myself. As for Sunna, she hardly ever leaves him. He talks constantly of thee and his father and sister. He sends all his undying love, and if indeed these wounds mean his death, he is dying gloriously and happily, trusting God implicitly, and loving even his enemies–a thing Adam Vedder cannot understand. He found out before he was twenty years old that loving his enemies was beyond his power and that nothing could make him forgive them. Our dear Boris! Oh, Rahal! Rahal! Poor stricken mother! God comfort thee, and tell thyself every minute “My boy has won a glorious death and he is going the way of all flesh, honoured and loved by all who ever knew him.”

Thy true friend,Adam Vedder.

This letter upset all other considerations, and when Ian came downstairs at the dinner hour, he found no one interested enough in his case to take it up with the proper sense of its importance. Ragnor was steeped in silent grief. Rahal had shut up her sorrow behind dry eyes and a closed mouth. The Bishop had taken the seat next to Thora. He felt as if no one had missed or even thought of him. And such conversation as there was related entirely to the war. Thora smiled at him across the table, but he was not pleased at Thora being able to smile; and he only returned the courtesy with a doleful shake of the head.

After dinner Ian said something about going to see McLeod, and then the Bishop interfered–“No, Ian,” he replied, “I want you to walk as far as the cathedral with me. Will you do that?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“Then let us be going, while there is yet a little sunshine.”

The cathedral doors stood open, but there was no one present except a very old woman, who at their approach rose from her knees and painfully walked away. The Bishop altered his course, so as to greet her–“Good afternoon, Sister Odd! Art thou suffering yet?”

“Only the pain that comes with many years, sir. God makes it easy for me. Wilt thou bless me?”

“Thou hast God’s blessing. Who can add to it? God be with thee to the very end!”

“Enough is that. Thy hand a moment, sir.”

For a moment they, stood silently hand clasped, then parted, and the Bishop walked straight to the vestry and taking a key from his pocket, opened the door. There was a fire laid ready for the match and he stooped and lit it, and Ian placed his chair near by.

“That is good!” he said. “Bring your own chair near to me, Ian, I have something to say to you.”

“I am glad of that, Bishop. No one seemed to care for my sorrow. I was made to feel this day the difference between a son and a son-in-law.”

“There is a difference, a natural one, but you have been treated as a son always. Ragnor has told me all about those charges. You may speak freely to me. It is better that you should do so.”

“I explained the charges to the whole family. Do they not believe me?”

“The explanation was only partial and one-sided. I think the charge of gambling may be put aside, with your promise to abstain from the appearance of evil for the future. I understand your position about the Sabbath. You should have gone on singing in some church. Supposing you got no spiritual help from it, you were at least lifting the souls of others on the wings of holy song, and you need not have mocked at the devout feelings of others by music unfit for the day.”

“It was a bit of boyish folly.”

“It was something far more than that. I had a letter from Jean Hay more than two months ago and I investigated every charge she made against you.”

“Well, Bishop?”

“I find that, examined separately, they do not indicate any settled sinfulness; but taken together they indicate a variable temper, a perfectly untrained nature, and a weak, unresisting will. Now, Ian, a weak, good man is a dangerous type of a bad man. They readily become the tools of wicked men of powerful intellect and determined character. I have met with many such cases. Your change of name–”

“Oh, sir, I could not endure Calvin tacked on to me! If you knew what I have suffered!”

“I know it all. Why did you not tell the Ragnors on your first acquaintance with them?”

“Mrs. Ragnor liked Ian because it is the Highland form for John, and Thora loved the name and I did not like, while they knew so little of me, to tell them I had only assumed it. I watched for a good opportunity to speak concerning it and none came. Then I thought I would consult you at this time, before the wedding day.”

“I could not have married you under the name of Ian. Discard it at once. Take it as a pet name between Thora and yourself, if you choose. No doubt you thought Ian was prettier and more romantic and suitable for your really handsome person.”

“Oh, Bishop, do not humiliate me! I–”

“I have no doubt I am correct. I have known young men wreck their lives for some equally foolish idea.”

“I will cast it off today. I will tell Thora the truth tonight. Before we are married, I will advertise it in next week’s News.”

“Before you are married, I trust you will have made the name of John Macrae so famous that you will need no such advertising.”

“What do you mean, Bishop?”

“I want you to go to the trenches at Redan or to fight your way into Sebastopol. You have been left too much to your own direction and your own way. Obedience is the first round of the ladder of Success. You must learn it. You can only be a subordinate till you manage this lesson. Your ideas of life are crude and provincial. You need to see men making their way upward, in some other places than in shops and offices. Above all, you must learn to conquer yourself and your indiscreet will. You are not a man, until you are master in your own house and fear no mutiny against your Will to act nobly. You have had no opportunities for such education. Now take one year to begin it.”

“You mean that I must put off my marriage for a year.”

“Exactly. Under present circumstances–”

“Oh, sir, that is not thinkable! It would be too mortifying! I could not go back to Edinburgh. I could not put off my marriage!”

“You will be obliged to do so. Do you imagine the Ragnors will hold wedding festivities, while their eldest son is dying, or his broken body on its way home for burial?”

“I thought the ceremony would be entirely religious and the festivities could be abandoned.”

“Is that what you wish?”

“Yes, Bishop.”

“Then you will not get it. A year’s strict mourning is due the dead, and the Ragnors will give every hour of it. Boris is their eldest son.”

“They should remember also their living daughter Thora will suffer as well as myself.”

“You are not putting yourself in a good light, John Macrae. Thora loves her brother with a great affection. Do you think she can comfort her grief for his loss, by giving you any loving honour that belongs to him? You do not know Thora Ragnor. She has her mother’s just, strong character below all her gentle ways, and what her father and mother say she will endorse, without question or reluctance. Now I know that Ragnor had resolved on a year’s separation and discipline, before he heard of his son’s dangerous condition.”

“Boris was not dead when that Vedder letter was written. He may not be dead now. He may not be going to die.”

“It is only his wonderful physical strength that has kept him alive so long. Vedder said to me, they looked for his death at any hour. He cannot recover. His wound is a fatal one. It is beyond hope. Vedder wrote while he was yet alive, so that he might perhaps break the blow to his family.”

“What then do you advise me to do?”

“Ragnor intends to go back with you and myself to Edinburgh. He will see your father and offer to buy you a commission as ensign in a good infantry regiment. We will ask your father if he will join in the plan.”

“My father will not join in anything to help me. How much will an ensign’s commission cost?”

“I think four or five hundred pounds. Ragnor would pay half, if your father would pay half.”

Then Ian rose to his feet, and his eyes blazed with a fire no one had ever seen there before. “Bishop,” he said, “I thank you for all you propose, but if I go to the trenches at Redan or the camp at Sebastopol, I will go on John Macrae’s authority and personality. I have one hundred pounds, that is sufficient. I can learn all the great things you expect me to learn there better among the rankers than the officers. I have known the officers at Edinburgh Castle. They were not fit candidates for a bishopric.”

The good man looked sadly at the angry youth and answered, “Go and talk the matter over with Thora.”

“I will. Surely she will be less cruel.”

“What do you wish, considering present circumstances?”

“I want the marriage carried out, devoid of all but its religious ceremony. I want to spend one month in the home prepared for us, and then I will submit to the punishment and schooling proposed.”

“No, you will not. Do not throw away this opportunity to retrieve your so far neglected, misguided life. There is a great man in you, if you will give him space and opportunity to develop, John. This is the wide open door of Opportunity; go through, and go up to where it will lead you. At any rate do whatever Thora advises. I can trust you as far as Thora can.” Then he held out his hand, and Ian, too deeply moved to speak, took it and left the cathedral without a word.

He found Thora alone in the parlour. She had evidently been weeping but that fact did not much soothe his sense of wrong and injustice. He felt that he had been put aside in some measure. He was not sure that even now Thora had been weeping for his loss. He told himself, she was just as likely to have been mourning for Boris. He felt that he was unjustly angry but, oh, he was so hopeless! Every one was ready to give him advice, no one had said to him those little words of loving sympathy for which his heart was hungry. He had felt it to be his duty to try and console Thora, and Thora had wept in his arms and he had kissed her tears away. She was now weary with weeping and suffering with headache. She knew also that talking against any decision of her father’s was useless. When he had said the word, the man or woman that could move him did not live. Acceptance of the will of others was a duty she had learned to observe all her life, it was just the duty that Ian had thought it right to resist. So amid all his love and disappointment, there was a cruel sense of being of secondary interest and importance, just at the very time he had expected to be first in everyone’s love and consideration.

Finally he said, “Dear Thora, I can feel no longer. My heart has become hopeless. I suffer too much. I will go to my room and try and submit to this last cruel wrong.”

Then Thora was offended. “There is no one to blame for this last cruel wrong but thyself,” she answered. “The death of Boris was a nearer thing to my father and mother than my marriage. Thy marriage can take place at some other time, but for my dear brother there is no future in this life.”

“Are you even sure of his death?”

“My mother has seen him.”

“That is nonsense.”

“To you, I dare say it is. Mother sees more than any one else can see. She has spiritual vision. We are not yet able for it, nor worthy of it.”

“Then why did she not see our wedding catastrophe? She might have averted it by changing the date.”

“Ask her;” and as Thora said these words and wearily closed her eyes, Rahal entered the room. She went straight to Ian, put her arms round him and kissed him tenderly. Then Ian could bear no more. He sobbed like a boy of seven years old and she wept with him.

“Thou poor unloved laddie!” she said. “If thou had gone wrong, it would have been little wonder and little blame to thyself. I think thou did all that could be done, with neither love nor wisdom to help thee. Rahal does not blame thee. Rahal pities and loves thee. Thou hast been cowed and frightened and punished for nothing, all the days of thy sad life. Poor lad! Poor, disappointed laddie! With all my heart and soul I pity thee!”

For a few moments there was not a word spoken and the sound of Ian’s bitter weeping filled the room. Ian had been flogged many a time when but a youth, and had then disdained to utter a cry, but no child in its first great sorrow, ever wept so heart-brokenly as Ian now wept in Rahal’s arms. And a man weeping is a fearsome, pitiful sound. It goes to a woman’s heart like a sword, and Thora rose and went to her lover and drew him to the sofa and sat down at his side and, with promises wet with tears, tried to comfort him. A strange silence that the weeping did not disturb was in the house and room, and in the kitchen the servants paused in their work and looked at each other with faces full of pity.

“The Wise One has put trouble on their heads,” said a woman who was dressing a goose to roast for dinner and her helper answered, “And there is no use striving against it. What must be, is sure to happen. That is Right.”

“All that we have done, is no good. Fate rules in this thing. I see that.”

“The trouble came on them unawares. And if Death is at the beginning, no course that can be taken is any good.”

“What is the Master’s will? For in the end, that will orders all things.”

“The mistress said the marriage would be put off for a year. The young man goes to the war.”

“No wonder then he cries out. It is surely a great disappointment.”

“Tom Snackoll had the same ill luck. He made no crying about it. He hoisted sail at midnight and stole his wife Vestein out of her window, and when her father caught them, they were man and wife. And Snackoll went out to speak to his father-in-law and he said to him, ‘My wife can not see thee today, for she is weary and I think it best for her to be still and quiet’; and home the father went and no good of his journey. Snackoll got praise for his daring.”

“Well then,” said a young man who had just entered, “it is well known that Vestein and her father and mother were all fully willing. The girl could as easily have gone out of the door as the window. Snackoll is a boaster. He is as great in his talk as a fox in his tail.”

Thus the household of Ragnor talked in the kitchen, and in the parlour Rahal comforted the lovers, and cheered and encouraged Ian so greatly that she was finally able to say to them:

“The wedding day was not lucky. Let it pass. There is another, only a year away, that will bring lasting joy. Now we have wept over our mischance, we will bury it and look to the future. We will go and wash away sorrow and put on fresh clothes, and look forward to the far better marriage a year hence.”

And her voice and manner were so persuasive, that they willingly obeyed her advice and, as they passed her, she kissed them both and told Ian to put his head in cold water and get rid of its aching fever, for she said, “The Bishop will want thee to sing some of thy Collects and Hymns and thou wilt like to please him. He is thy good friend.”

“I do not think so.”

“He is. Thou may take that, on my word.”

The evening brought a braver spirit. They talked of Boris and of his open-hearted, open-air life, and the Bishop read aloud several letters from young men then at the front. They were full of enthusiasm. They might have been read to an accompaniment of fife and drums. Ian was visibly affected and made no further demur about joining them. One of them spoke of Boris “leading his volunteers up the hill like a lion”; and another letter described his tenderness to the wounded and convalescents, saying “he spent his money freely, to procure them little comforts they could not get for themselves.”

They talked plainly and from their hearts, hesitating not to call his name, and so they brought comfort to their heavy sorrow. For it is a selfish thing to shut up a sorrow in the heart, far better to look at it full in the face, speak of it, discuss its why and wherefore and break up that false sanctity which is very often inspired by purely selfish sentiments. And when this point was reached, the Bishop took from his pocket a small copy of the Apocrypha and said, “Now I will tell you what the wisest of men said of such an early death as that of our dear Boris:

“‘He pleased God, and he was beloved of him, so that living among sinners, he was translated.

“‘Yea speedily was he taken away, lest that wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul.

“‘He, being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time.

“‘For his soul pleased the Lord, therefore hasted he to take him away from among the wicked.’”

And these words fell like heavenly dew on every heart. There was no comfort and honour greater than this to offer even a mother’s heart. A happy sigh greeted the blessed verses, and there was no occasion to speak. There was no word that could be added to it.

Then Ian had a happy thought for before a spell-breaking word could be said, he stepped softly to the piano and the next moment the room was ringing with some noble lines from the “Men of Harlech” set to notes equally stirring:

“Men of Harlech, young or hoary,Would you win a name in story,Strike for home, for life, for glory,Freedom, God and Right!“Onward! ’Tis our country needs us,He is bravest, he who leads us,Honour’s self now proudly leads us,Freedom! God and Right!Loose the folds asunder!Flag we conquer under!Death is glory now.”

The words were splendidly sung and the room was filled with patriotic fervour. Then the Bishop gave Ragnor and Thora a comforting look, as he asked, “Who wrote that song, Ian?”

“Ah, sir, it was never written! It sprang from the heart of some old Druid priest as he was urging on the Welsh to drive the Romans from their country. It is two verses from ‘The Song of the Men of Harlech.’”

“In olden times, Ian, the bards went to the battlefield with the soldiers. We ought to send our singers to the trenches. Ian, go and sing to the men of England and of France ‘The Song of the Men of Harlech.’ Your song will be stronger than your sword.”

“I will sing it to my sword, sir. It will make it sharper.” Then Rahal said, “You are a brave boy, Ian,” and Thora lifted her lovely face and kissed him.

Every heart was uplifted, and the atmosphere of the room was sensitive with that exalted feeling which finds no relief in speech. Humanity soon reacts against such tension. There was a slight movement, every one breathed heavily, like people awakening from sleep, and the Bishop said in a slow, soft voice:

“I was thinking of Boris. After all, the dear lad may return to us. Surgeons are very clever now, they can almost work miracles.”

“Boris will not return,” said Rahal.

“How can you know that, Rahal?”

“He told me so.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“On the afternoon of the eleventh of this month.”

“How?”

“Well, Bishop, I was making the cap I am wearing and I was selecting from some white roses on my lap the ones I thought best. Suddenly Boris stood at my side.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, Bishop. I saw him plainly, though I do not remember lifting my head.”

“How did he look?”

“Like one who had just won a victory. He was much taller and grander in appearance. Oh, he looked like one who had realized God’s promise that we should be satisfied. A kind of radiance was around him and the air of a conquering soldier. And he was my boy still! He called me ‘Mother,’ he sent such a wonderful message to his father.” And at the last word, Ragnor uttered just such a sharp, short gasp as might have come from the rift of a broken heart.

“Did you ask him any question, Rahal?”

“I could not speak, but my soul longed to know what he was doing and the longing was immediately answered. ‘I am doing the will of the Lord of Hosts,’ he said. ‘I was needed here.’ Then I felt his kiss on my cheek, and I lifted my head and looked at the clock. It had struck three just as I was conscious of the presence of Boris. It was only two minutes past three, but I seemed to have lived hours in that two minutes.”

“Do you think, Bishop, that God loves a soldier? He may employ them and yet not love them?”

Then the Bishop straightened himself and lifted his head, and his face glowed and his eyes shone as he answered, “I will give you one example, it could be multiplied indefinitely. Paul of Tarsus, a pale, beardless young man, dressed as a Roman soldier, is bringing prisoners to Damascus. Christ meets him on the road and Paul knows instantly that he has met the Captain of his soul. Hence forward, he is beloved and honoured and employed for Christ, and at the end of life he is joyful because he has fought a good fight and knows that his reward is waiting for him.

“God has given us the names of many soldiers beloved of Him–Abraham, Moses, Joshua, Gideon, David, etc. What care he took of them! What a friend in all extremities he was to them! All men who fight for their Faith, Home and Country, for Freedom, Justice and Liberty, are God’s armed servants. They do His will on the battlefield, as priests do it at the altar. So then,

“In the world’s broad field of battle,In the bivouac of life,Be not like dumb driven cattle,Be a hero in the strife!”

“We were speaking of the bards going to the battlefield with the soldiers, and as I was quoting that verse of Longfellow’s a few lines from the old bard we call Ossian came into my mind.”

“Tell us, then,” said Thora, “wilt thou not say the words to us, our dear Bishop?”

“I will do that gladly:

“Father of Heroes, high dweller of eddying winds,Where the dark, red thunder marks the troubled cloud,Open Thou thy stormy hall!Let the bards of old be near.Father of heroes! the people bend before thee.Thou turnest the battle in the field of the brave,Thy terrors pour the blasts of death,Thy tempests are before thy face,But thy dwelling is calm above the clouds,The fields of thy rest are pleasant.”

“When I was a young man,” he continued, “I used to read Ossian a good deal. I liked its vast, shadowy images, its visionary incompleteness, just because we have not yet invented the precise words to describe the indescribable.”

So they talked, until the frugal Orcadian supper of oatmeal and milk, and bread and cheese, appeared. Then the night closed and sealed what the day had done, and there was no more speculation about Ian’s future. The idea of a military life as a school for the youth had sprung up strong and rapidly, and he was now waiting, almost impatiently, for it to be translated into action.

A few restful, pleasant days followed. Ragnor was preparing to leave his business for a week, the Bishop was settling some parish difficulties, and Ian and Thora were permitted to spend their time as they desired. They paid one farewell visit to their future home and found an old woman who had nursed Thora in charge of the place.

“Thou wilt find everything just so, when you two come home together, my baby,” she said. “Not a pin will be out of its place, not a speck of dust on anything. Eva will always be ready, and please God you may call her far sooner than you think for.”

The Sabbath, the last Sabbath of the old year, was to be their last day together, and the Bishop desired Ian to make it memorable with song. Ian was delighted to do so and together they chose for his two solos, “O for the Wings of a Dove,” and the heavenly octaves of “He Hath Ascended Up on High and Led Captivity Captive.” The old cathedral’s great spaces were crowded, the Bishop was grandly in the spirit, and he easily led his people to that solemn line where life verges on death and death touches Immortality. It was Christ the beginning, and the end; Christ the victim on the cross, and Christ the God of the Ascension! And he sent every one home with the promise of Immortality in their souls and the light of it on their faces. His theme had touched largely on the Christ of the Resurrection, and the mystery and beauty of this Christ was made familiar to them in a way they had not before considered.