“Thou broad-billowed sea,
    Never sundered from thee,
  May I wander the welkin below;
    May the plash and the roar
    Of the waves on the shore
  Beat the march to my feet as I go;
    Ever strong, ever free,
    When the breath of the sea,
  Like the fan of an angel, I know;
    Ever rising with power,
    To the call of the hour,
  Like the swell of the tides as they flow.”

    -Blackie.

The gravitation of character is naturally toward its weakest point.  Margaret’s weakest point was an intense, though unconscious, selfishness.  Jan’s restless craving for change and excitement made him dissatisfied with the daily routine of life, lazy, and often unreasonable.  His very blessings became offenses to him.  His clean, well-ordered house, made him fly to the noisy freedom of Ragon Torr’s kitchen.  Margaret’s never-ceasing industry, her calmness, neatness and deliberation, exasperated him as a red cloth does a bull.

Suneva Torr had married Paul Glumm, and Jan often watched her as he sat drinking his ale in Torr’s kitchen.  At home, it is true, she tormented Glumm with her contrary, provoking moods; but then, again, she met him with smiles and endearments that atoned for every thing.  Jan thought it would be a great relief if Margaret were only angry sometimes.  For he wearied of her constant serenity, as people weary of sunshine without cloud or shadow.

And Margaret suffered.  No one could doubt that who watched her face from day to day.  She made no complaint, not even to her mother.  Thora, however, perceived it all.  She had foreseen and foretold the trouble, but she was too noble a woman to point out the fulfillment of her prophecy.  As she went about her daily work, she considered, and not unkindly, the best means for bringing Jan back to his wife and home, and his first pride in them.

She believed that the sea only could do it.  After all, her heart was with the men who loved it.  She felt that Jan was as much out of place counting eggs, as a red stag would be if harnessed to a plow.  She, at least, understood the rebellious, unhappy look on his handsome face.  When the ling fishing was near at hand, she said to Peter:  “There is one thing that is thy duty, and that is to give Jan the charge of a boat.  He is for the sea, and it is not well that so good a sailor should go out of the family.”

“I have no mind to do that.  Jan will do well one day, and he will do as ill as can be the next.  I will not trust a boat with him.”

“It seems to me that where thou could trust Margaret, thou might well trust nineteen feet of keel, and fifty fathom of long lines.”

Peter answered her not, and Thora kept silence also.  But at the end, when he had smoked his pipe, and was lifting the Bible for the evening exercise, he said:  “Thou shalt have thy way, wife; Jan shall have a boat, but thou wilt see evil will come of it.”

“Thou wert always good, Peter, and in this thing I am thinking of more than fish.  There is sorrow in Margaret’s house.  A mother can feel that.”

“Now, then, meddle thou not in the matter.  Every man loves in his own way.  Whatever there is between Jan and Margaret is a thing by itself.  But I will speak about the boat in the morning.”

Peter kept his word, and kept it without smallness or grudging.  He still liked Jan.  If there were trouble between him and Margaret he regarded it as the natural initiation to married life.  Norse women were all high-spirited and wished to rule; and he would have despised Jan if he had suspected him of giving way to Margaret’s stubborn self-will.  Though she was his own daughter, he did not wish to see her setting an example of wifely supremacy.

So he called Jan pleasantly and said, “I have saved for thee ’The Fair Margaret.’  Wilt thou sail her this season, Jan?  She is the best boat I have, as thou well knows.  Fourteen hundred hooks she is to carry, and thou can hire six men to go with thee.”

It made Peter’s eyes feel misty to see the instantaneous change in Jan’s face.  He could not speak his thanks, but he looked them; and Peter felt troubled, and said, almost querulously, “There, that will do, son Jan; go now, and hire the men thou wants.”

“First of all, I should like Snorro.”

Peter hesitated, but he would not tithe his kindness, and he frankly answered, “Well, then, thou shalt have Snorro-though it will go hard with me, wanting him.”

“But we will make it go well with thee on the sea, father.”

“As for that, it will be as God pleases.  A man’s duty is all my claim on thee.  Margaret will be glad to see thee so happy.”  He dropped his eyes as he spoke of Margaret.  He would not seem to watch Jan, although he was conscious of doing so.

“A woman has many minds, father.  Who knows if a thing will make her happy or angry?”

“That is a foolish saying, Jan.  A wife must find her pleasure in the thing that pleases her husband.  But now thou wilt have but little time; the boat is to be tried, and the hooks and lines are to go over, and the crew to hire.  I have left all to thee.”

This pleased Jan most of all.  Only a bird building its first nest could have been as happy as he was.  When at night he opened the door of his house, and went in with a gay smile, it was like a resurrection.  The pale rose-color on Margaret’s cheek grew vivid and deep when he took her in his arms, and kissed her in the old happy way.  She smiled involuntarily, and Jan thought, “How beautiful she is!” He told her all Peter had said and done.  He was full of gratitude and enthusiasm.  He did not notice for a few moments that Margaret was silent, and chillingly unresponsive.  He was amazed to find that the whole affair displeased her.

“So, then, I have married a common fisherman after all,” she said bitterly; “why, Suneva Torr’s husband has a bigger boat than thine.”

It was an unfortunate remark, and touched Jan on a very raw place.  He could not refrain from answering, “He hath had better luck than I. Ragon Torr gave Glumm Suneva’s tocher, and he has bought his own boat with it.”

“Why not?  Every one knows that Glumm is a prudent man.  He never gets on his feet for nothing.”

Jan was inexpressibly pained and disappointed.  For a moment a feeling of utter despair came over him.  The boat lay upon his heart like a wreck.  He drank his tea gloomily, and the delicately-browned fish, the young mutton, and the hot wheat cakes, all tasted like ashes in his mouth.  Perhaps, then, Margaret’s heart smote her, for she began to talk, and to press upon Jan’s acceptance the viands which had somehow lost all their savor to him.  Her conversation was in like case.  She would not speak of the boat, since they could not agree about it; and no other subject interested Jan.  But, like all perfectly selfish people, she imagined, as a matter of course, that whatever interested her was the supreme interest.  In her calm, even voice, she spoke of the spring house-cleaning, and the growth of her pansies and tulip bulbs, and did not know that all the time Jan was thinking of his boat, heaving on the tide-top, or coming into harbor so heavy with fish that she would be-in Shetland phrase-lippering with the water.

But, after all, the week of preparation was a very happy week to Jan and Snorro; and on the sixteenth of May they were the foremost of the sixty boats that sailed out of Lerwick for the ling ground.  There was a great crowd on the pier to see them off-mothers, and wives, and sweethearts; boys, sick and sad with longing and envy; and old men, with the glamor of their own past in their faces.  Among them was Suneva, in a bright blue dress, with blue ribbons fluttering in her yellow hair.  She stood at the pier-head and as they passed poured a cup of ale into the sea, to forespeak good luck for the fleet.  Jan would have dearly liked to see his wife’s handsome face watching him, as he stood by the main-mast and lifted his cap to Peter.  Margaret was not there.

She really felt very much humiliated in Jan’s position.  She had always held herself a little apart from the Lerwick women.  She had been to Edinburgh, she had been educated far above them, and she was quite aware that she would have a very large fortune.  Her hope had been to see Jan take his place among the merchants and bailies of Lerwick.  She had dreams of the fine mansion that they would build, and of the fine furniture which would come from Edinburgh for it.  Margaret was one of those women to whom a house can become a kingdom, and its careful ordering an affair of more importance than the administration of a great nation.  When she chose Jan, and raised him from his humble position, she had no idea that he would drift back again to the fishing nets.

For the first time she carried her complaint home.  But Thora in this matter had not much sympathy with her.  “The sea is his mother,” she said; “he loved her before he loved thee; when she calls him, he will always go back to her.”

“No man in Shetland hath a better business to his hand; and how can he like to live in a boat, he, that hath a home so quiet, and clean, and comfortable?”

Thora sighed.  “Thou wilt not understand then, that what the cradle rocks the spade buries.  The sea spoke to Jan before he lay on his mother’s breast.  His father hath a grave in it.  Neither gold nor the love of woman will ever keep them far apart; make up thy mind to that.”

All this might be true, but yet it humiliated Margaret.  Besides, she imagined that every wife in Lerwick was saying, “Not much hold has Margaret Vedder on her husband.  He is off to sea again, and that with the first boat that sails.”  Yet if success could have reconciled her, Jan’s was wonderful.  Not unfrequently “The Fair Margaret” took twenty score ling at a haul, and every one was talking of her good luck.

During these days Jan and Snorro drew very close to each other.  When the baits were set most of the men went to sleep for three hours; but Snorro always watched, and very often Jan sat with him.  And oh, the grand solemnity and serenity of these summer nights, when through belts of calm the boats drifted and the islands in a charmed circle filled the pale purple horizon before them.  Most fair then was the treeless land, and very far off seemed the sin and sorrow of life.  The men lay upon the deck, with a pile of nets or their folded arms for a pillow, and surely under such a sky, like Jacob of old, they dreamed of angels.

Snorro and Jan, sitting in the soft, mystical light, talked together, dropping their voices involuntarily, and speaking slowly, with thoughtful pauses between the sentences.  When they were not talking, Snorro read, and the book was ever the same, the book of the Four Gospels.  Jan often watched him when he thought Jan asleep.  In that enchanted midnight glow, which was often a blending of four lights-moonlight and twilight, the aurora and the dawning-the gigantic figure and white face, bending over the little book, had a weird and almost supernatural interest.  Then this man, poor, ugly, and despised, had an incomparable nobility, and he fascinated Jan.

One night he said to him, “Art thou never weary of reading that same book, Snorro?”

“Am I then ever weary of thee, my Jan?  And these are the words of One who was the first who loved me.  Accordingly, how well I know his voice.”  Then, in a fervor of adoring affection, he talked to Jan of his dear Lord Christ, “who had stretched out his arms upon the cross that he might embrace the world.”  And as he talked the men, one by one, raised themselves on their elbows and listened; and the theme transfigured Snorro, and he stood erect with uplifted face, and looked, in spite of his fisher’s suit, so royal that Jan felt humbled in his presence.  And when he had told, in his own simple, grand way, the story of him who had often toiled at midnight with the fishers on the Galilean sea, as they toiled upon the Shetland waters, there was a great silence, until Jan said, in a voice that seemed almost strange to them:  “Well, then, mates, now we will look to the lines.”

All summer, and until the middle of October, Jan continued at sea; and all summer, whether fishing for ling, cod, or herring, “The Fair Margaret” had exceptionally good fortune.  There were many other fishers who woke, and watched, and toiled in their fishing, who did not have half her “takes.”  “It is all Jan’s luck,” said Glumm, “for it is well known that he flings his nets and goes to sleep while they fill.”

“Well, then, ‘it is the net of the sleeping fisherman takes:’  that is the wise saying of old times”-and though Snorro did not think of it, the Shetland proverb was but the Norse form of the Hebrew faith:  “He giveth his beloved in their sleep.”

Still, in spite of his success, Jan was not happy.  A married man’s happiness is in the hands of his wife, and Margaret felt too injured to be generous.  She was not happy, and she thought it only just that Jan should be made to feel it.  He had disappointed all her hopes and aspirations; she was not magnanimous enough to rejoice in the success of his labors and aims.  Besides, his situation as the hired skipper of a boat was contemptible in her eyes; her servant was engaged to a man in the same position.  Another aggravating circumstance was that her old schoolmate, the minister’s niece (a girl who had not a penny piece to her fortune) was going to marry a rich merchant from Kirkwall.  How she would exult over “Margaret Vedder who had married a common fisherman.”  The exultation was entirely imaginary, but perhaps it hurt as much as if it had been actually made.

Success, too, had made Jan more independent:  or perhaps he had grown indifferent to Margaret’s anger, since he found it impossible to please her.  At any rate, he asked his friends to his house without fear or apology.  They left their footmarks on her floors, and their fingermarks upon her walls and cushions, and Jan only laughed and said, “There was, as every one knew, plenty of water in Shetland to make them clean again.”  Numberless other little things grieved and offended her, so little that, taken separately, they might have raised a smile, but in the aggregate they attained the magnitude of real wrongs.

But, happy or miserable, time goes on, and about the middle of October even the herring fishing is over.  Peter was beginning to count up his expenses and his gains.  Jan and Snorro were saying to one another, “In two days we must go back to the store.”  That is, they were trying to say it, but the air was so full of shrieks that no human voice could be heard.  For all around the boat the sea was boiling with herring fry, and over them hung tens of thousands of gulls and terns.  Marmots and guillemots were packed in great black masses on the white foam, and only a mad human mob of screaming women and children could have made a noise comparable.  Even that would have wanted the piercing metallic ring of the wild birds’ shriek.

Suddenly Snorro leaped to his feet.  “I see a storm, Jan.  Lower and lash down the mast.  We shall have bare time.”

Jan saw that the birds had risen and were making for the rocks.  In a few minutes down came the wind from the north-east, and a streak of white rain flying across the black sea was on top of “The Fair Margaret” before the mast was well secured.  As for the nets, Snorro was cutting them loose, and in a few moments the boat was tearing down before the wind.  It was a wild squall; some of the fishing fleet went to the bottom with all their crews.  “The Fair Margaret,” at much risk of loss, saved Glumm’s crew, and then had all she could manage to raise her mizzen, and with small canvas edge away to windward for the entrance of Lerwick bay.

Jan was greatly distressed.  “Hard to bear is this thing, Snorro,” he said; “at the last to have such bad fortune.”

“It is a better ending than might have been.  Think only of that, Jan.”

“But Peter will count his lost nets; there is nothing else he will think of.”

“Between nets and men’s lives, there is only one choice.”

Peter said that also, but he was nevertheless very angry.  The loss took possession of his mind, and excluded all memory of his gains.  “It was just like Jan and Snorro,” he muttered, “to be troubling themselves with other boats.  In a sudden storm, a boat’s crew should mind only its own safety.”  These thoughts were in his heart, though he did not dare to form them into any clear shape.  But just as a drop or two of ink will diffuse itself through a glass of pure water and defile the whole, so they poisoned every feeling of kindness which he had to Jan.

“What did I tell thee?” he said to Thora, bitterly.  “Jan does nothing well but he spoils it.  Here, at the end of the season, for a little gust of wind, he loses both nets and tackle.”

“He did well when he saved life, Peter.”

“Every man should mind his own affairs.  Glumm would have done that thing first.”

“Then Glumm would have been little of a man.  And thou, Peter Fae, would have been the first to tell Glumm so.  Thou art saying evil, and dost not mean it.”

“Speak no more.  It is little a woman understands.  Her words are always like a contrary wind.”

Peter was very sulky for some days, and when at last he was ready to settle with Jan, there was a decided quarrel.  Jan believed himself to be unfairly dealt with, and bitter words were spoken on both sides.  In reality, Peter knew that he had been hard with his son, harder by far than he had ever intended to be; but in his heart there had sprung up one of those sudden and unreasonable dislikes which we have all experienced, and for which no explanation is possible.  It was not altogether the loss of the nets-he did not know what it was-but the man he liked, and praised, and was proud of one week, he could hardly endure to see or speak to the next.

“That ends all between thee and me,” said Peter, pushing a little pile of gold toward Jan.  It was a third less than Jan expected.  He gave it to Margaret, and bade her “use it carefully, as he might be able to make little more until the next fishing season.”

“But thou wilt work in the store this winter?”

“That I will not.  I will work for no man who cheats me of a third of my hire.”

“It is of my father thou art speaking, Jan Vedder; remember that.  And Peter Fae’s daughter is thy wife, though little thou deservest her.”

“It is like enough that I am unworthy of thee; but if I had chosen a wife less excellent than thou it had perhaps been better for me.”

“And for me also.”

That was the beginning of a sad end; for Jan, though right enough at first, soon put himself in the wrong, as a man who is idle, and has a grievance, is almost sure to do.  He continually talked about it.  On the contrary, Peter held his tongue, and in any quarrel the man who can be silent in the end has the popular sympathy.  Then, in some way or other, Peter Fae touched nearly every body in Lerwick.  He gave them work, or he bought their produce.  They owed him money, or they expected a favor from him.  However much they sympathized with Jan, they could not afford to quarrel with Peter.

Only Michael Snorro was absolutely and purely true to him; but oh, what truth there was in Michael!  Jan’s wrongs were his wrongs; Jan’s anger was but the reflection of his own.

He watched over him, he sympathized with him, he loved him entirely, with a love “wonderful, passing the love of woman.”