Kirkwall streets.”
“You ought to know.”
“Yes, I am Highland Scotch, thank God! I understand this man, though I have never spoken to him. I know little about the Lowland Scot. He is a different race, and is quite a different man. You would not like him, Adam.”
“I know him. He is a fine fellow; quiet, cool-blooded, has little to say, and wastes no strength in emotion. There’s wisdom for you–but go on with thy talk, woman; it hurts me, but I must hear it to the end.”
“Well, then, Kenneth McLeod has the appearance of a gentleman, though he is only a trader.”
“Say smuggler, Rahal, and you might call him by a truer name.”
“Many whisper the same word. Of a smuggler, a large proportion of our people think no wrong. That you know. He is a kind of hero to some girls. Many grand parties these McLeods give–music and dancing, and eating and drinking, and the young officers of the garrison are there, as well as our own gay young men; and where these temptations are, young women are sure to go. His aunt is mistress of his house.
“Now, then, this thing happened when Boris was last here. One night he heard two men talking as they went down the street before him. The rain was pattering on the flagged walk and he did not well understand their conversation, but it was altogether of the McLeods and their entertainments. Suddenly he heard the name of Sunna Vedder. Thrice he heard it, and he followed the men to the public house, called for whiskey, sat down at a table near them and pretended to be writing. But he grew more and more angry as he heard the free and easy talk of the men; and when again they named Sunna, he put himself into their conversation and so learned they were going to McLeod’s as soon as the hour was struck for the dance. Boris permitted them to go, laughing and boastful; an hour afterwards he followed.”
“With whom did he go?”
“Alone he went. The dance was then in progress, and men and women were constantly going in and out. He followed a party of four, and went in with them. There was a crowd on the waxed floor. They were dancing a new measure called the polka; and conspicuous, both for her beauty and her dress, he saw Sunna among them. Her partner was Kenneth McLeod, and he was in full McLeod tartans. No doubt have I that Sunna and her handsome partner made a romantic and lovely picture.”
“What must be the end of all this? What the devil am I to think?”
“Think no worse than needs be.”
“What did Boris do–or say?”
“He walked rapidly to Sunna, and he said, ‘Miss Vedder, thou art wanted at thy home–at once thou art wanted. Get thy cloak, and I will walk with thee.’”
“Then?”
“She was angry, and yet terrified; but she left the room. Boris feared she would try and escape him, so he went to the door to meet her. Judge for thyself what passed between them as Boris took her home. At first she was angry, afterwards, she cried and begged Boris not to tell thee. I am sure Boris was kind to her, though he told her frankly she was on a dangerous road. All this I had from Boris, and it is the truth; as for what reports have grown from it, I give them no heed. Sunna was deceitful and imprudent. I would not think worse of her than she deserves.”
“Rahal, I am much thy debtor. This affair I will now take into my own hands. To thee, my promise stands good for all my life days–and thou may tell Boris, it may be worth his while to forgive Sunna. There is some fault with him also; he has made love to Sunna for a long time, but never yet has he said to me–‘I wish to make Sunna my wife!’ What is the reason of that?”
“Well, then, Adam, a young man wishes to make sure of himself. Boris is much from home–”
“There it is! For that very cause, he should have made a straight clear road between us. I do not excuse Sunna, but I say that wherever there is a cross purpose, there has likely never been a straight one. Thou hast treated me well, and I am thy debtor; but it shall be ill with all those who have led my child wrong–the more so, because the time chosen for their sinful deed makes it immeasurably more sinful.”
“The time? What is thy meaning? The time was the usual hour of all entertainments. Even two hours after the midnight is quite respectable if all else is correct.”
“Art thou so forgetful of the God-Man, who at this time carried the burden of all our sins?”
“Oh! You mean it is Lent, Adam?”
“Yes! It is Lent!”
“I was never taught to regard it.”
“Yet none keep Lent more strictly than Conall Ragnor.”
“A wife does not always adopt her husband’s ideas. I had a father, Adam, uncles and cousins and friends. None of them kept Lent. Dost thou expect me to be wiser than all my kindred?”
“I do.”
“Let us cease this talk. It will come to nothing.”
“Then good-bye.”
“Be not hard on Sunna. One side only, has been heard.”
“As kindly as may be, I will do right.”
Then Adam went away, but he left Rahal very unhappy. She had disobeyed her husband’s advice and she could not help asking herself if she would have been as easily persuaded to tell a similar story about her own child. “Thora is a school girl yet,” she thought, “but she is just entering the zone of temptation.”
In the midst of this reflection Thora came into the room. Her mother looked into her lovely face with a swift pang of fear. It was radiant with a joy not of this world. A light from an interior source illumined it; a light that wreathed with smiles the pure, childlike lips. “Oh, if she could always remain so young, and so innocent! Oh, if she never had to learn the sorrowful lessons that love always teaches!”
Thus Rahal thought and wished. She forgot, as she did so, that women come into this world to learn the very lessons love teaches, and that unless these lessons are learned, the soul can make no progress, but must remain undeveloped and uninstructed, even until the very end of this session of its existence.
CHAPTER III
ARIES THE RAM
O Christ whose Cross began to bloom
With peaceful lilies long ago;
Each year above Thy empty tomb
More thick the Easter garlands grow.
O’er all the wounds of this sad strife
Bright wreathes the new immortal life.
Thus came the word: Proclaim the year of the Lord!
And so he sang in peace;
Under the yoke he sang, in the shadow of the sword,
Sang of glory and release.
The heart may sigh with pain for the people pressed and slain,
The soul may faint and fall:
The flesh may melt and die–but the Voice saith, Cry!
And the Voice is more than all.–Carl Spencer.
It was Saturday morning and the next day was Easter Sunday. The little town of Kirkwall was in a state of happy, busy excitement, for though the particular
