Then Sunna saw that the moment she had waited for had arrived and she said: “I will tell thee a good story of Robert Burns to flavour thy collops. Will that be to thy wish?”
“It is beyond my wish. Thou can not tell me one I do not know.”
“I heard one today from Thora Ragnor that I never heard thee tell.”
“Then it cannot be fit for thee and Thora Ragnor to repeat.”
“Wilt thou hear it?”
“Is it about some girl he loved?”
“No, it is about a man he scorned. Thou must have heard of Andrew Horner?”
“Never heard the creature’s name before.”
“Then the story will be fresh to thee. Will thou hear it now?”
“As well now, as later.” For Adam really had no expectation of hearing anything he had not already heard and judged; and he certainly expected nothing unusual from the proper and commonplace Thora Ragnor. But Sunna exerted all her facial skill and eloquence, and told the clever incident with wonderful spirit and delightful mimicry. Adam was enchanted; he threw down his knife and fork and made the room ring with laughter and triumph so genuine that Sunna–much against her will–was compelled to laugh with him. They heard the happy thunder in the kitchen, and wondered whatever was the matter with the Master.
“It is Robert Burns, his own self, and no other man. It is the best thing I have heard from ‘the lad that was born in Kyle!’” Vedder cried. “Ill-natured! Not a bit of it! Just what the Horner man deserved!” Then he took some more collops and a fresh taste of Glenlivet, and anon broke into laughter again.
“Oh! but I wish I was in Edinburgh tonight! There’s men there I would go to see and have my laugh out with them.”
“Grandfather, why should we not go to Edinburgh next winter? You could board me with Mistress Brodie, and come every day to sort our quarrels and see that I was properly treated. Then you could have your crow over the ignoramuses who did not know such a patent Burns story; and I could take lessons in music and singing, and be learning something or seeing something, every hour of my life.”
“And what about Boris?”
“The very name of Boris tires my tongue! I can do without Boris.”
“Well, then, that is good! Thou art learning ‘the grand habit of doing without.’”
“Wilt thou take me to Edinburgh? My mother would like thee to do that. I think I deserve it, Grandfather; yes, and so I ask thee.”
“If I was going, I should have no mind to go without thee. One thing I wish to know–in what way hast thou deserved it?”
“I did not expect thee to ask me a question like that. Have I fretted and pined, and forgot to eat and sleep, and gone dowdy and slovenly, because my lover has been fool enough to desert me? Well, then, that is what any other girl would have done. But because I am of thy blood and stock, I take what comes to me as part of my day’s work, and make no more grumble on the matter than one does about bad weather. Is that not the truth?”
“One thing is sure–thou art the finest all round girl in the Orcades.”
“Then it seems to me thou should take me to Edinburgh. I want that something, that polish, only great cities can give me.”
“Blessings on thee! All Edinburgh can give, thou shalt have! But it is my advice to thee to remain here until Mrs. Brodie goes back, then go thou with her.”
“That will be what it should be. Mrs. Brodie, I feel, will be my stepmother; and–”
“She will never step past thee. Fear not!”
“Nor will any one–man or woman–step between thee and me! Doubt me not!”
“Well, then, have thy way. I give thee my word to take thee to Edinburgh in the autumn. Thou shalt either stay with Mrs. Brodie or at the Queen’s Hotel on Prince’s Street, with old Adam Vedder.”
“Best of all is thy last offer. I will stay with thee. I am used to men’s society. Women bore me.”
“Women bore me also.”
“Know this, there are three women who do not bore thee. Shall I speak their names?”
“I will not hinder thee.”
“Sunna Vedder?”
“I love her. She cannot bore me.”
“Rahal Ragnor?”
“I respect her. She does not bore me–often.”
“Yes, that is so; it is but seldom thou sees her. Well, then, Barbara Brodie?”
“I once loved her. She can never be indifferent to me.”
“Thou hast told me the truth and I will not follow up this catechism.”
“For that favour, I am thy debtor. I might not always have been so truthful. Now, then, be honest with me. What wilt thou do all the summer, with no lover to wait on thy whims and fancies?”
“On thee I shall rely. Where thou goes, I will go, and if thou stay at home, with thee I will stay. Thou can read to me. I have never heard any of our great Sagas and that is a shame. I complain of that neglect in my education! I heard Maximus Grant recite from ‘The Banded Men and Haakon the Good,’ when I was in Edinburgh, and I said to myself, ‘how much finer is this, than opera songs, sung with a Scotch burr, in the Italian; or than English songs, sung by Scotch people who pronounce English after the Scotch fashion!’ Then I made up my mind that this coming winter I would let Edinburgh drawing-rooms hear the songs of Norse warriors; the songs in which the armour rattles and the swords shine!”
“That, indeed, will befit thee! Now, then, for the summer, keep thyself well in hand. Say nothing of thy plans, for if but once the wind catches them, they will soon be for every one to talk to death.”
Adam was finishing his plate of rice pudding and cream when he gave this advice; and with it, he moved his chair from the table and said: “Come into the garden. I want to smoke. Thou knows a good dinner deserves a pipe, and a bad one demands it.”
Then they went into the garden and talked of the flowers and the young vegetables, and said not a word of Edinburgh and the Sagas that the winds could catch and carry round to human folk for clash and gossip. And when the pipe was out, Adam said: “Now I am going into the town. That Burns story is on my lips, my teeth cannot keep my tongue behind them much longer.”
“A good time will be thine. I wish that I could go with thee.”
“What wilt thou do?”
“Braid my hair and dress myself. Then I shall take out thy Saga of ‘The Banded Men’ and study the men who were banded, and find them out, in all their clever ways. Then I can show them to others. If I get tired of them–and I do get tired of men very quickly–I will put on my bonnet and tippet, and go and carry Mrs. Brodie thy respectful–”
“Take care, Sunna!”
“Good wishes! I can surely go so far.”
“Know this–every step on that road may lead to danger–and thou cannot turn back and tread them the other way. There now, be off! I will talk with thee no longer.”
Sunna said something about Burns in reply, but Vedder heard her not. He was satisfying his vocal impatience by whistling softly and very musically “The Garb of Old Gaul,” and Sunna watched and listened a moment, and then in something of a hurry went to her room. A new thought had come to her–one which pleased her very much; and she proceeded to dress herself accordingly.
“None too good is my Easter gown,” she said pleasantly to herself; “and I can take Eric a basket of the oranges grandfather brought home today. A treat to the dear little lad they will be. Before me is a long afternoon, and I shall find the proper moment to ask the advice of Maximus about ‘The Banded Men.’” So with inward smiles she dressed herself, and then took the highway in a direction not very often taken by her.
It led her to a handsome mansion overlooking the Venice of the Orcades, the village and the wonderful Bay of Kirkwall, into which
… by night and day,
The great sea water finds its way
Through long, long windings of the hills.
The house had a silent look, and its enclosure was strangely quiet, though kept in exquisite order and beauty. As she approached, a lady about fifty years old came to the top of the long, white steps to meet her, appearing to be greatly pleased with her visit.
“Only at dinner time Max was speaking of thee! And Eric said his sweetheart had forgotten him, and wondering we all were, what had kept thee so long away.”
“Well, then, thou knowest about the war and the enlisting–everyone, in some way, has been touched by the changes made.”
“True is that! Quickly thou must come in, for Eric has both second-sight and hearing, and no doubt he knows already that here thou art–” and talking thus as she went, Mrs. Beaton led the way up a wide, light stairway. Even as Mrs. Beaton was speaking a thin, eager voice called Sunna’s name, a door flew open, and a man, beautiful as a dream-man, stood in the entrance to welcome them. And here the word “beautiful” need not to be erased; it was the very word that sprang naturally from the heart to the lips of every one when they met Maximus Grant. No Greek sculptor ever dreamed of a more perfect form and face; the latter illumined by noticeable grey eyes, contemplative and mystical, a face, thoughtful and winning, and constantly breaking into kind smiles.
He took Sunna’s hand, and they went quickly forward to a boy of about eleven years old, whom Sunna kissed and petted. The little lad was in a passion of delight. He called her “his sweetheart! his wife! his Queen!” and made her take off her bonnet and cloak and sit down beside him. He was half lying in a softly cushioned chair; there was a large globe at his side, and an equally large atlas, with other books on a small table near by, and Max’s chair was close to the whole arrangement. He was a fair, lovely boy, with the seraphic eyes that sufferers from spinal diseases so frequently possess–eyes with the look in them of a Conqueror of Pain. But also, on his young face there was the solemn Trophonean pallor which signs those who daily dare “to look at death in the cave.”
“Max and I have been to the Greek islands,” he said, “and Sunna, as soon as I am grown up, and am quite well, I shall ask thee to marry me, and then we will go to one of the loveliest of them and live there. Max thinks that would be just right.”
“Thou little darling,” answered Sunna, “when thou art a man, if thou ask me to marry thee, I shall say ‘yes!’”
“Of course thou wilt. Sunna loves Eric?”
“I do, indeed, Eric! I think we should be very happy. We should never quarrel or be cross with each other.”
“Oh! I would not like that! If we did not quarrel, there would be no making-up. I remember papa and mamma making-up their little tiffs, and they seemed to be very happy about it–and to love each other ever so much better for the tiff and the make-up. I think we must have little quarrels, Sunna; and then, long, long, happy makings-up.”
“Very well, Eric; only, thou must make the quarrel. With thee I could not quarrel.”
“I should begin it in this way: ‘Sunna, I do not approve of thy dancing with–say–Ken McLeod.’ Then thou wilt say: ‘I shall dance with whom I like, Eric’; and I will reply: ‘thou art my wife and I will not allow thee to dance with McLeod’; and then thou wilt be naughty and saucy and proud, and I shall have to be angry and masterful; and as thou art going out of the room in a terrible temper, I shall say, ‘Sunna!’ in a sweet voice, and look at thee, and thou wilt look at me, with those heavenly eyes, and then I shall open my arms and thou wilt fly to my embrace, and the making-up will begin.”
“Well, then, that will be delightful, Eric, but thou must not accuse me of anything so bad as dancing with Mr. McLeod.”
“Would that be bad to thee?”
“Very bad, indeed! I fear I would never try to have a ‘make-up’ with any one who thought I would dance with him.”
“Dost thou dislike him?”
“That is neither here nor there. He is a Scot. I may marry like the rest of the world, but while my life days last, Sunna Vedder will not marry a Scot.”
“Yes–but there was some talk that way. My aunt heard it. My aunt hears everything.”
“I will tell thee, talk that way was all lies. No one will Sunna Vedder marry, that is not of her race.” Then she put her arms round Eric, and kissed his wan face, calling him “her own little Norseman!”
“Tell me, Sunna, what is happening in the town?” said he.
“Well, then, not much now. Men are talking of the war, and going to the war, and empty is the town. About the war, art thou sorry?”
“No, I am glad–
“How glorious the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle for their native land!”
And he raised his small, thin hands, and his face glowed, and he looked like a young St. Michael.
Then Max lifted the globe and books aside and put his chair close to his brother’s. “Eric has the soul of a soldier,” he said, “and the sound of drums and trumpets stirs him like the cry of fire.”
“And so it happens, Mr. Grant, that we have much noise lately from the trumpets and the fife and drums.”
“Yes, man is a military animal, he loves parade,” answered Max.
“But in this war, there is much more than parade.”
“You are right, Miss Vedder. It was prompted by that gigantic heart-throb with which, even across oceans, we feel each other’s rights and wrongs. And in this way we learn best that we are men and brothers. Can a man do more for a wrong than give his life to right it?”
Then Eric cried out with hysterical passion: “I wish only that I might have my way with Aberdeen! Oh, the skulking cowards who follow him! Max! Max! If you would mount our father’s big war horse and hold me in front of you and ride into the thick of the battle, and let me look on the cold light of the lifted swords! Oh, the shining swords! They shake! They cry out! The lives of men are in them! Max! Max! I want to die–on a–battlefield!”
And Max held the weeping boy in his arms, and bowed his head over him and whispered words too tender and sacred to be written down.
For a while Eric was exhausted; he lay still watching his brother and Sunna, and listening to their conversation. They were talking of the excitement in London, and of the pressure of the clergy putting down the reluctancies and falterings of the peace men.
“Have you heard, Miss Vedder,” said Grant, “that one of the bishops decided England’s call to war by a wonderful sermon in St. Paul’s?”
“I am sorry to be ignorant. Tell me.”
“He preached from Jeremiah, Fourth Chapter and Sixth Verse; and his closing cry was from Nahum, Second Chapter and First Verse, ‘Set up the standard toward Zion. Stay not, for I will bring evil from the north and a great destruction,’ and he closed with Nahum’s advice, ‘He that dasheth in pieces is come up before thy face, keep the munition, watch the way, make thy loins strong, fortify thy power mightily.’”
“Well, then, how went the advice?”
“I know not exactly. It is hard to convince commerce and cowardice that at certain times war is the highest of all duties. Neither of them understand patriotism; and yet every trembling pacifist in time of war is a misfortune to his country.”
“And the country will give them–what?” asked Sunna.
“The cold, dead damnation of a disgrace they will never outlive,” answered Max.
There was a sharp cry from Eric at these words, and then a passionate childish exclamation–“Not bad enough! Not bad enough!” he screamed. “Oh, if I had a sword and a strong hand! I would cut them up in slices!” Then with an hysterical cry the boy fell backward.
In an instant Max had him in his arms and was whispering words of promise and consolation, and just then, fortunately, Mrs. Beaton entered with a servant who was carrying a service of tea and muffins. It was a welcome diversion and both Max and Sunna were glad of it. Max gently unloosed Eric’s hand from Sunna’s clasp and then they both looked at the child. He had fallen into a sleep of exhaustion and Max said, “It is well. When he is worn out with feeling, such sleeps alone save his life. I am weary, also. Let us have a cup of tea.” So they sat down and talked of everything but the war–“He would hear us in his sleep,” said Max, “and he has borne all he is able to bear today.” Then Sunna said:
“Right glad am I to put a stop to such a trouble-raising subject. War is a thing by itself, and all that touches it makes people bereft of their senses or some other good thing. Here has come news of Thora Ragnor’s hurried marriage, but no one knows or cares about the strange things happening at our doorstep. Such haste is not good I fear.”
“Does Ragnor approve of it?” asked Mrs. Beaton.
“Thora’s marriage is all right. They fell in love with each other the moment they met. No other marriage is possible for either. It is this, or none at all,” answered Sunna.
“I heard the man was the son of a great Edinburgh preacher.”
“Yes, the Rev. Dr. Macrae, of St. Mark’s.”
“That is what I heard. He is a good man, but a very hard one.”
“If he is hard, he is not good.”
“Thou must not say that, little Miss; it may be the Episcopalian belief, but we Calvinists have a stronger faith–a faith fit for men and soldiers of the Lord.”
“There! Mrs. Beaton, you are naming soldiers. That is against our agreement to drop war talk. About Macrae I know nothing. He is not aware that anyone but Thora Ragnor lives; and I was not in the least attracted by him–his black hair and black eyes repelled me–I dislike such men.”
“Will they live in Edinburgh?”
“I believe they will live in Kirkwall. Mrs. Ragnor owns a pretty house, which she will give them. She is going to put it in order and furnish it from the roof to the foundation. Thora is busy about her napery–the finest of Irish linen and damask. Now then, I must hurry home. My grandfather will be waiting his tea.”
Max rose with her. He looked at his little brother and said: “Aunt, he will sleep now for a few hours, will you watch him till I return?”
“Will I not? You know he is as safe with me as yourself, Max.”
So with an acknowledging smile of content, he took Sunna’s hand and led her slowly down the stairway. There was a box running all across the sill of the long window, lighting the stairs, and it was full and running over with the delicious muck plant. Sunna laid her face upon its leaves for a moment, and the whole place was thrilled with its heavenly perfume. Then she smiled at Max and his heart trembled with joy; yet he said a little abruptly–“Let us make haste. The night grows cloudy.”
Their way took them through the village, and Sunna knew that she would, in all likelihood, be the first woman ever seen in Maximus Grant’s company. The circumstance was pleasant to her, and she carried herself with an air and manner that she readily caught and copied from him. She knew that there was a face at every window, but she did not turn her head one way or the other. Max was talking to her about the Sagas and she had a personal interest in the Sagas, and any ambition she had to be socially popular was as yet quite undeveloped.
At the point where the Vedder and Ragnor roads crossed each other, two men were standing, talking. They were Ragnor and Vedder, and Ragnor was at once aware of the identity of the couple approaching; but Vedder appeared so unaware, that Ragnor remarked: “I see Sunna, Vedder, coming up the road, and with her is Colonel Max Grant.”
“But why ‘Colonel,’ Ragnor?”
“When General Grant died his son was a colonel in the Life Guards. He left the army to care for his brother. I heard that the Queen praised him for doing so.”
Then the couple were so close, that it was impossible to affect ignorance of their presence any longer; and the old men turned and saluted the young couple. “I thank thee, Colonel,” said Vedder, as he “changed hats” with the Colonel, “but now I can relieve thee of the charge thou hast taken. I am going home and Sunna will go with me; but if thou could call on an old man about some business, there is a matter I would like to arrange with thee.”
“I could go home with you now, Vedder, if that would be suitable.”
“Nay, it would be too much for me tonight. It is concerning that waste land on the Stromness road, near the little bridge. I would like to build a factory there.”
“That would be to my pleasure and advantage. I will call on you and talk over the matter, at any time you desire.”
“Well and good! Say tomorrow at two o’clock.”
“Three o’clock would be better for me.”
“So, let it be.” Then he took Sunna’s hand and she understood that her walk with Grant was over. She thanked Max for his courtesy, sent a message to Eric, and then said her good night with a look into his eyes which dirled in his heart for hours afterwards. Some compliments passed between the men and then she found herself walking home with her grandfather.
“Thou ought not to have seen me, Grandfather,” she said a little crossly, “I was having such a lovely walk.”
“I did not want to see thee, and have I not arranged for thee something a great deal better on tomorrow’s afternoon?”
“One never knows–”
“Listen; he is to come at three o’clock, it will be thy fault if he leaves at four. Thou can make tea for him–thou can walk in the greenhouse and the garden with him, thou can sing for him–no, let him sing for thee–thou can ask him to help thee with ‘The Banded Men’–and if he goes away before eight o’clock I will say to thee–‘take the first man that asks thee for thou hast no woman-witchery with which to pick and choose!’ Grant is a fine man. If thou can win him, thou wins something worth while. He has always held himself apart. His father was much like him. All of them soldiers and proud as men are made, these confounded, democratic days.”
“And what of Boris?” asked Sunna.
“May Boris rest wherever he is! Thou could not compare Boris with Maximus Grant.”
“That is the truth. In many ways they are not comparable. Boris is a rough, passionate man. Grant is a gentleman. Always I thought there was something common in me; that must be the reason why I prefer Boris.”
“To vex me, thou art saying such untruthful words. I know thy contradictions! Go now and inquire after my tea. I am in want of it.”
During tea, nothing further was said of Maximus Grant; but Sunna was in a very merry mood, and Adam watched her, and listened to her in a philosophical way;–that is, he tried to make out amid all her persiflage and bantering talk what was her ruling motive and intent–a thing no one could have been sure of, unless they had heard her talking to herself–that mysterious confidence in which we all indulge, and in which we all tell ourselves the truth. Sunna was undressing her hair and folding away her clothing as she visited this confessional, but her revelations were certainly honest, even if fragmentary, and full of doubt and uncertainty.
“Grant, indeed!” she exclaimed, “I am not ready for Grant–I believe I am afraid of the man–he would make me over–make me like himself–in a month he would do it–I like Boris best! I should quarrel with Boris, of course, and we should say words neither polite nor kind to each other; but then Boris would do as that blessed child said, ‘Look at me’; and I should look at him, and the making-up would begin. Heigh-ho! I wish it could begin tonight!” She was silent then for a few minutes, and in a sadder voice added–“with Max I should become an angel–and I should have a life without a ripple–I would hate it, just as I hate the sea when it lies like a mirror under the sunshine–then I always want to scream out for a great north wind and the sea in a passion, shattering everything in its way. If I got into that mood with Max, we should have a most unpleasant time–” and she laughed and tossed her pillows about, and then having found a comfortable niche in one of them, she tucked her handsome head into it and in a few moments the sleep of youth and perfect health lulled her into a secret garden in the Land of Dreams.
The next day Sunna appeared to be quite oblivious regarding Grant’s visit and Vedder was too well acquainted with his granddaughter to speak of it. He only noticed that she was dressed with a peculiar simplicity and neatness. At three o’clock Grant was promptly at the Vedder House, and at half-past four the land in question had been visited and subsequently bought and sold. Then the cup of tea came in, and the walk in the garden followed, and at six there was an ample meal, and during the singing that followed it, Vedder fell fast asleep, as was his custom, and when he awoke Grant was just going and the clock was striking ten. Vedder looked at Sunna and there was no need for him to speak.
“It was ‘The Banded Men,’” said Sunna with a straight look at her grandfather.
“Well, then, I know a woman who is a match for any number of ‘banded men.’”
“And in all likelihood that woman will be a Vedder. Good night, Grandfather.”