CHAPTER I

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Transcriber’s note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

GUEST THE ONE-EYED

* * * * * *

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

THE SWORN BROTHERS

A tale of the early days of Iceland by the most noted of living

Icelandic novelists. “To read it is like being struck in the face on a

sultry day with a breeze fresh from the glaciated mountains of the

Viking North.”

—_The Bookman._

“Gunnarsson has made his characters so genuine, so red-blooded and so

masculine that they stand out like living men.”

—_News-Tribune, Detroit._

_NEW YORK: ALFRED A. KNOPF_

* * * * * *

GUEST THE ONE-EYED

Translated from the Danish of

GUNNAR GUNNARSSON

by W. W. Worster

[Illustration]

New York

Alfred · A · Knopf

1922

Copyright, 1915, by Gunnar Gunnarsson

Copyright, 1922, by

Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

[Original title: AF BORGSLÆGTENS HISTORIE]

Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.

Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y.

Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y.

Manufactured in the United States of America

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CONTENTS

BOOK I

ORMARR ØRLYGSSON 9

BOOK II

THE DANISH LADY AT HOF 107

BOOK III

GUEST THE ONE-EYED 189

BOOK IV

THE YOUNG EAGLE 273

BOOK I

ORMARR ØRLYGSSON

CHAPTER I

Snow, snow, snow!

Below and above—here, there, and everywhere! Up to his knees in snow,

Pall à Seyru struggled across the wind-swept heights. The snow whirled

down in great downy flakes, making it impossible to see more than a few

yards ahead. Stooping, with heavy, weary steps, he tramped on, an empty

sack slung across his shoulders.

He had come from the trading station, and was on his way home to his own

hut in the mountains; the store-keeper had refused to grant him further

credit, and in consequence, he had chosen to return by this lonely track

across the hills, where he was sure of meeting no one on his way. It was

hard to come home at Christmas-time with empty hands to empty pots and

hungry mouths.

His only comfort was the snow. It fell so thickly as to shut out all

around, and seemed to numb even the poor peasant’s despair within the

dismal prison of his mind.

Now and again he heard a sound—the whir and cackle of ptarmigan flying

overhead.

Suddenly a gust of wind sent the snow flying over the ground.

Another—and then gust followed gust, growing at last to a veritable

hurricane, that swept the very snow-clouds from the sky. And as if by

magic, a vast plain of snow lay open to his eyes.

All Hofsfjordur was suddenly visible. Pall turned, and saw the last of

the clouds sweep down into the dark blue-green of the sea. To the

south-east, the peaks of the Hof Mountains rose out of the water, and

over the eastern landscape towered a long range of rocky mountains that

gradually merged into the great south-western plateau. His eye rested

for a moment on the vicarage farm of Hof—a few straggling buildings

clinging to the mountain-side, among which the black church itself

loomed out, right at the mouth of the fjord. The houses of the trading

station he could not see; they lay beyond, on the northern shore of the

fjord, safely sheltered behind the rocky walls of the islets that

offered such fine harbourage—to any ship that managed to reach so far.

The parish itself lay between him and the Hof Mountains. A valley two

miles farther up was divided into two narrow dales by the Borgasfjall, a

steep and rocky height. The rivulets from the two valleys—now but

streaks of smooth ice—met lower down, making part of the valley into a

peninsula. The southern stream was named Hofsa, and its valley

Hofsardalur; the northernmost Borgara, and its valley Borgardalur; but

the rivulets, from their confluence to the outflow into Hofsfjordur,

still went by the name of Borgara, and the broad valley was called

Borgardalur.

To the north, on the farther side of a narrow valley, likewise belonging

to the parish, were the faint outlines of broad, slowly rising hills—the

Dark Mountains. The ridge where Pall now stood was Borgarhals, and ran

for a long way between Borgardalur and Nordurdalen, in the heart of the

mountains, leading to the little glen where his cottage lay, close to a

brook, and not far from the lake. There were trout in the water there,

to be taken by net in summer, and in winter by fishing with lines

through holes in the ice. Wild geese, swans, and ducks were there in

plenty, from early spring to late autumn.

But Pall’s thoughts had wandered far from all this, settling, as did his

glance, on a row of stately gables that rose above a low hill in the

centre of the peninsula, formed by the waters of Borgara and Hofsa.

From three of the chimneys a kindly smoke ascended. The storm had

abated, and folk were beginning to move about here and there among the

outbuildings round the large walled farmyard. Already flocks of sheep

were on their way to the winter pasture at the foot of the hills, where

some dwarfed growth was still to be found.

This was Borg, the home of Ørlygur the Rich, as he was called. It was by

no means uncommon for folk to speak of him as “the King,” for he ruled

over scores of servants, and owned hundreds of cattle and horses and

thousands of sheep.

Suddenly Pall’s cheeks flushed with a happy thought. It had crossed his

mind that he might call at Borg. All knew that Ørlygur the Rich never

sent a poor man empty away. But then he realized that today was not the

first time the thought had come to him. No, better to give it up; he had

turned for help to Borg too many times before; he could not well ask

again.

With bowed head, and face grey as before, he dragged himself along the

almost impassable track; he was exhausted; his limbs seemed heavy as if

in chains.

From early morning to about ten o’clock, while the storm raged, the farm

hands and servants of Borg gathered in the women’s hall upstairs. The

men had come from their quarters, and sat about on the beds waiting for

the storm to abate before starting out to their work. The cowman alone

was forced to brave the elements and tend his cattle.

Ørlygur had opened the door to his own room. He sat with his

two-year-old son Ketill on his knees, and talked quietly with his men,

exchanging views, or giving them advice about the work of the place. He

always treated them as his equals. The men sat with their

breakfast-plates on their knees, eating as they talked. Some of the

womenfolk went to and fro with food or heavy outdoor clothing; others

were darning socks or mending shoes.

Ormarr, who was nearing his fourteenth year, sat in his father’s room,

on the edge of the bed, facing Ørlygur. It was in his mind that things

were beginning to be like they had been before his mother’s death, two

years ago. He sat with his hands on his knees, swinging his legs by way

of accompaniment to his thoughts.

Never before had he missed his mother so sorely as this morning, when

every one else seemed to have forgotten her; never before had he felt

her loss so keenly. He sighed, checked the swinging of his legs, and sat

motionless for a while. Tears rose to his eyes. He felt he must go out,

or he would be crying openly in a minute, and disturb the comfort of the

rest. For a moment he sat pondering where to go, then he remembered that

the cowman would by now have finished work in the shed, and taking down

an old violin from a rack, he left the room.

Reaching the cowshed, he sat down in his accustomed place, on a board

between two empty chests, and commenced tuning his instrument. It was an

old thing that had been in the family for generations, but no one could

remember having heard it played. Then, seven years before, Ormarr had

been taught the rudiments of music by a wandering fiddler, an

adventurous soul, who tramped the country with his fiddle slung over his

shoulder in a calfskin bag. Since then, Ormarr had given all his spare

time to the music.

His father had marked with grief how this one interest had gradually

swallowed up all else; the boy cared nothing for the management of the

estate, or indeed for any other work. Possibly it was this which had led

Ørlygur, in spite of the doctor’s advice, to wish for another son. And

his wife had sacrificed her life in giving him what he wished.

Hard and self-willed as he was in many ways, Ørlygur had yet a profound

belief in the right of every human being to determine his own life, to

follow his own nature and develop his gifts as long as it involved no

actual harm to others. And he made no attempt to coerce the boy; Ormarr

had his way.

* * * * *

About ten o’clock, when the snow had ceased, Ormarr slung his gun across

his shoulder and walked off toward Borgarhals to shoot ptarmigan.

On the way, he met Einar à Gili, a troublesome fellow, who, in defiance

of the general feeling, had so little respect for the uncrowned king of

Borg that he had several times thrashed his son Ormarr without the

slightest provocation. It was the more unpardonable, since Einar was

about ten years older, and strong as a giant. And now, at sight of him,

Ormarr’s fingers fumbled in passionate helplessness at the trigger of

his gun.

Einar hailed him, to all appearance innocent as could be. “Hey, Ormarr,

out shooting? Let’s go together?”

Ormarr had no desire to go out shooting with Einar, but was curious to

know why the other had suggested it.

“Then we can see who’s the best shot.”

This was irresistible. Einar was a proverbially bad shot with a gun, and

Ormarr knew it. He made no protest, and they went on together.

Every time he fired, Ormarr brought down two or three birds. Einar got

at the most one bird at a shot, and often sent the birds fluttering away

with broken wings.

Nevertheless, Einar picked up all the birds that fell, and stuffed them

into his own bag. Ormarr demanded his share.

“Oh, you’ve no bag, and there’s no sense wasting time tying your birds

together at every shot. Wait till we’ve done.”

Ormarr had his suspicions, but said nothing.

After a while they came to a good-sized rock, with two paths round.

Ormarr knew that the paths to the south was the longer.

“Let’s go round and meet on the other side. I’ll go this way,” he said,

taking the northern path. And Einar agreed.

When they met, neither had any more birds to show.

“But you fired, I heard you,” said Einar.

“I missed,” said Ormarr shortly. Einar laughed, but he took no notice.

“Look, there’s one sitting on that rock,” said Ormarr suddenly, pointing

to a boulder some hundred yards away. “I’ll take him.”

“No hurry,” said Einar; “I’ll bag that one myself. We needn’t go on any

longer—I’m going home now.”

“How many have we got?”

“Oh, twenty.”

“Good, then give me mine.”

“Ah, yes—next time we meet! I’m off. My love to the cattle at home.”

Somewhat to his disappointment, Ormarr did not seem to be greatly

annoyed, but merely walked off, calling quietly over his shoulder: “Mind

you don’t miss that bird, Mr. Clever-with-your-gun.”

Einar turned round angrily. “Don’t shout like that—you’ll scare it away.

That’s my twenty-first.”

“All right. It’s too frightened of you to move. Go and see.”

Einar took careful aim—his hand shook a little, but only because he was

inwardly chuckling over the trick he had played Ormarr, and the thought

of telling what he had done. Though, indeed, he might get little credit

for it all; people were rather apt to side with the lordly folk from

Borg. Still, it was good to have fooled that brat Ormarr again.

The bird was sitting close on the rock. Einar fired, and, raising his

gun, saw that the bird was still in the same position. Seeing no

feathers fly, he thought he must have missed, and loaded again. Then

creeping cautiously forward, he rested his gun on a stone, and fired

again. The ptarmigan did not move. Einar felt sure his shot must have

taken effect. He went right up to it. The bird was dead enough, but what

was more, it was cold. And lifting it, he saw a piece of paper tied to

one of its legs, with a few words in pencil. “Clever shot, aren’t you?

Thanks for a pleasant day’s sport.—Ormarr.”

“Curse the little jackanapes!”

Einar never told any one after all how he had scored off Ormarr that

day.

* * * * *

Ormarr hurried along up hill and down, firing and reloading rapidly,

scarcely seeming to take aim at all, but never missing his bird. His

narrow sunburnt face was flushed with exertion, and drops of

perspiration trickled down from his forehead. His eyes searched eagerly

about for game, and in a very short time he had a bag of twenty-seven.

Then suddenly, coming round the corner of a rock, he stood face to face

with Pall à Seyru. Pall tried to avoid him, but Ormarr called him back.

He sat down, wiped the perspiration from his face, and smiled as Pall

came up.

“Puh—I’m warm enough, for all it’s fifteen degrees of frost. You look

half frozen.”

Pall muttered something, and tried to hide his empty sack, which had the

effect of drawing Ormarr’s attention to it.

“What’s that—going back home with an empty bag? Won’t Bjarni let you

have things any more?”

“I’m in debt there already. And I couldn’t promise to pay before next

autumn.”

“But at Christmas-time—and you’re not a rich man.”

“That makes but little difference in his books.”

“Ho—who says that—you?”

“’Twas Bjarni said so.”

“And you had to go and ask him—beg of him—like that?”

“Our cow didn’t calve, and we’ve no milk. And there’s no food in the

place beyond.”

“H’m. What were you going this way round for? ’Tisn’t any short way

home.”

“I didn’t want to meet anyone.”

“And going back empty-handed? Why didn’t you come to us?”

“I’ve been a burden to many this long time—to your folk more than any.

And I’ll not ask for help from the parish.”

Something in the man’s face made Ormarr catch his breath. The blood left

his cheeks, and in a hushed voice he asked:

“You mean—you’d....”

Pall nodded. “Yes. There’s times when it seems better than living on

this way.”

Ormarr sprang to his feet.

“Pall ... here, take these birds—just from me. And come home and talk to

father. You must. He’ll be just as glad to do anything as you could be

for it. As for Bjarni, he’s a cur. You can tell him so from me next time

you see him.”

Pall was silenced, and tears rose to his eyes. Ormarr understood, and

said no more. They divided the birds into two lots, though Ormarr would

gladly have carried the whole, and in silence they started off down the

slope.

* * * * *

Ormarr slept in a bed next to his father’s. It had been his mother’s

bed. When the light was put out that night, Ormarr had not yet found

courage to tell what he had been thinking of since his meeting with Pall

that day. Nor did he know what had passed between his father and Pall.

Half an hour later, perceiving that his father was still awake, he

managed to whisper, softly and unsteadily:

“Father!”

It was as if Ørlygur had been waiting for this. He rose, and seated

himself at the boy’s bedside.

“’Twas well you met Pall this morning, lad. His wife and two little

children were waiting for him to come home.”

The words gave Ormarr the courage he had lacked.

“Father, may I give him Blesa? His cow won’t calve for six weeks, and

they’ve no milk.”

“I’ve promised Pall to send him Skjalda, and a few loads of hay the

first fine day the roads are passable. And I am going to take little

Gudrun to live here—they’ve enough to do as it is.”

Ormarr’s heart was full of thankfulness to his father for his kindness

to Pall. But he was shy of speaking; words might say less than he meant.

And there must be no misunderstanding between his father and

himself—this thought was always in Ormarr’s mind, for he loved his

father deeply. Now in the darkness of the room, he could hardly

distinguish his features, but in his mind’s eye he saw him clearly,

sitting there on the bedside. He knew every line in the calm, composed

face, finely framed in the dark hair and brown beard. Often he had been

told that there was not a handsomer man to be found than his father. He

had the physique of an athlete, and Ormarr knew his every movement and

attitude. He strove now to breathe all his love towards the loved

figure, vaguely seen in reality, yet clear as ever to his mind. He felt

that his father could not fail to perceive the mute expression of his

loving gratitude.

For a while both were silent. Then Ørlygur rose, and smoothing his son’s

hair, he said:

“You know, Ormarr, that all I possess will in time belong to you and

your brother. Then you will be able to give away more than trifles. At

present, you have little to use in charity, but what you have, you may

do with as you please. Remember that it is our duty to help those who

are poorer wherever we can. And when you hear of any one that needs a

helping hand, always come to me. Wealth is not lost by charity. And now

good-night—it is time we were asleep.”

He went back to his bed, and a moment after, spoke again.

“Ormarr, you remember how generous your mother always was. You seem to

grow more like her every day. I think she would have been very happy

tonight.”

Ormarr burst into tears, hiding his face in the pillow to make no sound.

And after a little while, he fell asleep.

When he awoke next morning, he felt for the first time since his

mother’s death as if she were invisibly present among them—as a link

between his father and himself.

And he was filled with a proud sense of having entered into a secret

covenant with his father; it gave him a feeling of manhood, of

responsibility.

CHAPTER II

Bjarni Jonsson, the trader, and Daniel Sveisson, the parish priest,—Sera

Daniel, as he was called,—sat drinking in Bjarni Jonsson’s front

parlour. They were seated by the window, looking out over the fjord.

The sun was setting, and the shadow of the house was flung far out over

the smooth sea. The smoke from the chimney had already reached the rocky

haunt of the eider duck. The cliff was the home of immense flocks of

many-coloured birds, for it was spring, and the breeding season was at

its height. Numbers of gorgeous drakes were swimming round the rock, and

amongst them a few plump and comely eider duck, taking an hour’s rest

from their duties before sunset, leaving the nest and eggs to the care

of the father birds.

Sera Daniel enjoyed the view, for he was looking out over his property.

The eider-duck cliffs, even those farther out, were by ancient custom

regarded as belonging to the living. And they brought him in a very nice

little sum.

He puffed away at his long pipe in silence.

Bjarni noticed his contented air, and was not pleased. Surely it would

be more reasonable that the revenue from the eider-duck cliffs should

come to him, Bjarni, as owner of the shore lands. But priests were all

alike, a greedy lot! For ages past they had been petted and spoiled with

all sorts of unjust privileges and unreasonable perquisites. And what

did they do for it all? Nothing in the least degree useful, nor ever

had—unless it were something useful to grow fat themselves in a

comfortable cure.

Such was Bjarni’s train of thought. And he meant it all quite earnestly.

But he said nothing, for, outwardly, he and Sera Daniel were the best of

friends—drank their grog together, and played cards in all good

fellowship. At the moment, they were only waiting for the doctor to come

and take a hand.

No, in his inmost heart Bjarni detested the priest; the portly figure of

the man was a continual eyesore to him. Sera Daniel was a man of

imposing presence, there was dignity and calm authority in his carriage

and bearing, and Bjarni, having no such attributes himself, found herein

further cause for jealousy.

It would be hard to find a less imposing specimen of the human male than

Bjarni Jonsson, trader, of Hofsfjordur. Outwardly, he resembled more an

ill-nourished errand boy than anything else. His face was grey and

angular, the top of his head was covered with a growth of colourless

hair, and his pale blue eyes were as a rule void of expression, for the

reason that he was in constant fear of betraying his ever-present

jealousy of every one and everything round him. And the struggle had

marked his face, his eyes, every movement of his puny, stunted body,

with a stamp of servile cunning. His clothes hung about him like the

rags of a scarecrow in the field, the draggled moustache that hid most

of his mouth added to the general impression of meanness and

insincerity.

At a first glance, Sera Daniel presented a complete contrast.

His burly, well-fed body seemed to exhale an atmosphere of

cordiality——an ecclesiastical cheerfulness which gave his whole bearing

something of the stamp of the prelate. His fair hair carefully brushed

back from the broad, arched forehead, the blue, beaming eyes, the frank

expression of his clean-shaven face, which, however, never for a moment

relapsed from the bright, superior, yet mild professional mask of

dignity, of healthy godliness attained through inward strife and by the

grace of Heaven; the placid, yet telling gestures of his somewhat large,

plump hands; the sonorous voice with its echo of sanctity; and last, not

least, his faultless black attire—in short, his whole outward appearance

seemed to combine human forbearance and lofty understanding with the

rare power of living a full and yet exemplary life, kindly chastening

himself as well as others—all the qualities that go to the making of a

true servant of the Lord.

But the simple, canny folk among whom he lived, and from whom he himself

was sprung, had not been long in penetrating beneath these externals.

They realized that he played his part well, and with a suitable mask,

which they tolerated, even respecting him for the same—at any rate, in

his presence, or when young people were about. But the elders among

themselves were not afraid of unmasking Sera Daniel with a sly wink, as

it were, in a manner of which he would certainly not have approved, nor

found consistent with the respect due to their spiritual guide.

Men played their parts well in the parish of Hofsfjordur.

And in the opinion of his parishioners, Sera Daniel was not the only one

who played a part at variance with the character behind the mask, though

Sera Daniel himself might have believed so.

There was one family, or more exactly, a single figure, that did not fit

in with the cast of the local comedy. A keen observer could not have

failed to notice that the life of the community centred round this one

man: a dominant figure among the rest, who knew how to shape their views

according to his will. And he was a source of much annoyance to the

actors proper, more especially those who had cast themselves for leading

rôles. That man was Ørlygur à Borg.

Ørlygur was in his forty-second year. From early youth he had been the

natural leader among his fellows; first and foremost, of course, as only

son and heir to Borg, but also by virtue of his personality, which was

excellently suited to bear the rank and wealth and responsibility

inherited from his forebears, who had, as far back as the memory of man,

been the self-appointed and generally respected leaders of the

community.

Ørlygur à Borg, apart from being the greatest landowner in the district,

was also chairman of the local council, and led the singing in church—in

short, all that an Icelander combining wealth with intellect and

personality could attain.

Moreover—and this was perhaps the corner-stone in the edifice of his

absolute authority—he was a conscientious adviser, an untiring and

disinterested helper of the poor, and an experienced and successful,

albeit unlicensed, veterinary surgeon. In this last capacity he was

consulted not only by the district, but also by many from other

counties, who were glad of his unfeed advice and skilful aid.

It was generally recognized that Ørlygur à Borg was ever ready to serve

and assist any one, however humble, provided they accepted him as a

ruler. He never tolerated any attempt to place others on a footing of

equality with himself, or any violation of his privileges, however

slight. To those who submitted to his sway, he was a mild and gracious

god; to those who forgot the deference he demanded, he was a merciless

tyrant, swooping down on them in defiance of all generally accepted

notions of justice—though he would forget and forgive readily enough

when it was over.

The peasants did not mind this. To them, Ørlygur à Borg was a kind of

human Providence—no less inevitable, and probably more pleasant, than

the divine. They knew, of course, that there was a King who ruled over

all, including the King of Borg. But they were nevertheless inclined to

place both on the same level. In the event of conflict arising,

doubtless Ørlygur à Borg would be a match for the other—even to gaining

for himself the armlet of sovereign power, as Halldor Snorrason had done

in the fight with Harold Hardrada. Ørlygur was equal to that at least.

Their faith in him amounted almost to a religion. They felt themselves,

under his protection, secure and well provided for.

Some few there were, however, who did not approve of the unlimited power

generally conceded to Ørlygur à Borg, and disliked what they considered

his unjustifiable assumption of superiority. This spring, there were at

least three such discontented souls within the parish. Two of them we

have met already—Sera Daniel and the trader, drinking their grog in the

parlour looking over the sea. And the third of the rebels was the

doctor, whom they were expecting to join them in a hand at cards.

The priest and the trader, when alone together, spoke but little. They

had no interests in common. Their intellectual sphere was very limited,

and both had the same characteristic of the narrow-minded: concentrating

every atom of thought and will each on his own well-being. Consequently,

all talk between the two was obviously insincere; so much so, that even

these two not very sensitive beings realized the fact, and instinctively

shrank from any intimacy of conversation.

On this occasion, as ill-luck would have it, the doctor kept them

waiting longer than usual, and Bjarni, as host, could not well sit all

the time without a word. At last, by way of saying something, he asked

how the wool was getting on.

“Dry and packed three days ago,” answered Sera Daniel.

Bjarni’s eyes flashed, and a smile flickered for a moment over his

wooden face.

Sera Daniel read that smile, and marked the scorn of it. But as the

scorn, he knew, applied no less to the smiler than to himself he

refrained, on principle, from taking offence.

Bjarni looked him straight in the face, and their eyes met. Then

suddenly both realized that this innocent and haphazard attempt at

casual conversation had opened up common ground between them, an

unexpected community of interest where each had only thought to find the

altogether unwished-for company of the other.

Bjarni did not quite know how to improve the opportunity at first. He

decided on a gambit of innocent raillery.

“Yes, we’re ready to weigh it now, I suppose ... that is, of course....”

Sera Daniel looked searchingly at him, unwilling as yet to take any

definite step himself.

“What are you paying this season?”

“Sixty-five for best white, forty-two for black and mixed.”

Sera Daniel glanced at him with a curious smile. “Is that—ah—the

ordinary price, or what you are paying Ørlygur à Borg?”

The trader’s face flushed violently; the hand holding the glass trembled

a little. Without waiting for an answer, Sera Daniel made another shot.

“Or perhaps you are thinking of paying the same price to all—for once?”

Bjarni eyed him awhile in silence. He seemed to be turning over

something in his mind. The priest felt the glance, and knew what lay

behind it, but evinced no discomfiture. On the contrary, he met the

trader’s eyes with a smile of irritating calm.

At last Bjarni spoke.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “if you can let me have your wool tomorrow

morning.”

* * * * *

That same night Ormarr sat on the slope of the hill looking down to

Hofsa—just above the spot where the wool from Borg was washed every

spring. He was keeping watch over the clip. Large quantities were

already dry and stowed in bags; the grassy slopes were dotted with

little white piles of that which had still to be spread, waiting till

the morning sun had drawn the dew.

Silently, filled with emotion, Ormarr gazed at the beauty and peace of

the spring night. The sky was clear and blue, and bright as day.

Below him flowed the crystal rivulets, and farther off, above green

mountain slopes veiled in the glistening web of dew, rose stark grey

cliffs, furrowed by glimmering waters, higher up again, the luminous

white of the snow peaks, tinted all the night through with the gold of

dancing sun rays.

From his childhood Ormarr had claimed the privilege of keeping guard

during the spring nights. In the earlier part of the season, he took his

post on the freshly growing pasture lands, keeping the sheep and horses

from straying in to nibble off the first blades of the young grass.

Later, when the sheep were shorn and driven up to the mountains, he

mounted guard over the wool, keeping a keen look-out for prowling

vagabonds, and covering up the heaps with tarpaulin in case of sudden

rain.

To him, the vigils of these quiet nights were as hours of devotion.

During the lonely watches, he bared his soul in worship of the majesty

of nature, free of the restraint he always felt in the presence of

others. He drank in the fresh night air, with its sweetness of spring,

like a precious draught. And at times, the depth of his feeling brought

great tears to his eyes. Alone, he could allow himself to some extent

thus to give way to emotion, yet even then not without a certain sense

of shame.

Tonight he was sadder than ever. It would be fine tomorrow, the last of

the wool would dry during the day, in time to be fetched away before

evening.

That meant it was his last night’s watch this spring.

His eyes took leave of the wild duck swimming in the stream near their

nests, that he had cared for and protected; several times he had waded

out to see how they fared. He looked the hillside up and down, bidding

good-bye to the buttercups and dandelions—every morning he had watched

their opening, a solitary witness, as they unfolded at the gracious

bidding of the sun. He noted, too, the great clusters of tiny-flowered

forget-me-nots that grew everywhere around.

At five o’clock he rose to go. From one of the chimneys smoke was

already rising, thin and clear as from a censer; old Ossa had hung the

big kettle over the fire for early coffee. A big plate of new bread

would be waiting for him, with butter, meat, cheese, and a steaming cup

of coffee—a delicious meal.

From force of habit he glanced round before moving off; counted the

chimneys from which smoke was rising, and looked about for any other

signs of life. Then suddenly he realized that something unusual was

going on. With trembling hands he adjusted the telescope he always

carried, and looked towards the spot.

A moment later he lowered the glass and stared in bewilderment towards

the fjord. In a flash he realized what was happening, and set off home

at full speed.

Heedless of Ossa and the meal she had already waiting for him, he dashed

up to his father’s room, not even stopping, as was his wont, to caress

the fair curly head of tiny Gudrun, the three-year-old daughter of Pall

à Seyru, whom Ørlygur had adopted. Ormarr loved the child.

He did not stop till he reached his father’s bed. When Ørlygur opened

his eyes, he saw Ormarr standing before him, very pale, and breathless

with his speed. The sight startled even the King of Borg out of his

habitual calm; he sat up with a start. Realizing instinctively that

something was wrong, he reached out for his clothes at once.

“What is it, my son?”

“Father ... Sera Daniel ... carting his wool in already to the

station....”

Ørlygur was already getting into his clothes. He stopped motionless for

a second; then a faint smile passed over his face, and he seemed to be

thinking. In less than a minute he had made up his mind.

“The horses!”

Ormarr did not wait for any further order. He hurried out of the room,

snatched up a bridle, and ran out calling:

“Gryla, Køput, Kondut!”

Barking and delighted, the farm dogs clustered round him, and followed

him out into the paddock, where he caught his father’s horse and vaulted

into the saddle.

Ten minutes later, forty horses were stamping and neighing ready for

work. Swiftly they were brought round, the pack-saddle put on, and

loaded up with the finished wool.

Ormarr had overheard his father’s brief, sharp orders to the foreman, a

man he could trust. He had kept close at hand all the time, listening

eagerly to what was said. At last, when all was ready for the start, he

looked up earnestly.

“Father—may I?”

Ørlygur à Borg looked at his son in surprise.

“You? Nay, lad, I’m afraid that would hardly do.”

But his voice was not so decided, harsh almost, as it was wont to be

when he refused a request. He even glanced inquiringly, as it were, at

the foreman, who smiled back merrily in return. That seemed to settle

it. Ormarr’s eyes were bright with anticipation.

Ørlygur laid one hand on his son’s shoulder—not patting his head or

cheek as he generally did—and said:

“Good. You can do the talking. You heard what is to be said and done—you

are sure you understand?”

Ormarr did not give himself time to answer. But his leap into the saddle

was enough; evidently he had grasped the spirit of his father’s

commands.

They did not take the usual route to the trading station; anything

moving along that road would be visible from below for the greater part

of the way. And they were to come unexpectedly. Therefore they took the

road across Borgarhals and Nordurdal, so as to reach the station before

any knew of their coming.

* * * * *

It was the unwritten law of the district that no wool should be brought

to the station before the King of Borg had sent in his. The custom dated

back further than any could remember, it was part of the traditional

precedence generally conceded to the masters of Borg. At first, it had

sprung from a natural desire among the people to show their respect for

their chieftain and benefactor. Then, when it had grown to be a

time-honoured custom, the men of Borg had taken care to have it

maintained, regarding any violation as a personal affront, a

challenge—and none had ever known such challenge to remain unpunished.

There was, moreover, another custom in connection with the sales of

wool—to wit, that Ørlygur à Borg fixed his own price for his, while the

others who had wool to sell had to be satisfied with what the trader

chose to pay them. Ørlygur took no heed of ruling market prices, but

based his figures on the prices he had to pay during the past year for

goods he himself had bought from the trader.

No one grumbled at the arrangement. Ørlygur always paid cash for what he

ordered, while every one else found it necessary to take goods on

credit; all had an account, great or small, with Bjarni, and were in

consequence dependent on his good-will. They knew, that in the event of

Bjarni’s good-will failing, there was always Ørlygur, ever ready to help

whoever asked.

Truth to tell, Bjarni, the trader, was not a little nervous when Sera

Daniel arrived with his wool early in the morning. He did his best,

however, to conceal his uneasiness, but the false jocularity with which

he strove to hide it was belied by the anxious glances wherewith he

scanned every now and then the road from Borg.

The weighing in was done in the big warehouse. Sera Daniel was smiling

and confident as usual, though his eyes showed signs of having slept ill

the night before.

“Well, Sera Daniel,” said Bjarni, who was watching the weighing with

mock earnestness, “this is a bold stroke of yours indeed.” He glanced

hurriedly in the direction of Borg as he spoke. “Frankly I was not at

all sure that you would have ventured, when it came to the point.

Anyhow, I fancy this marks the end of ‘the King’s’ supremacy.”

The doctor came up, yawning, and rubbing his eyes.

“Aha—this looks nice,” he observed. And then, referring to Bjarni’s last

remark, he went on: “And it’s high time we did start acting for

ourselves. Rebellion, eh? I tell you what, I’ll stand drinks all round

when you’ve finished here.”

There was great commotion at the station; folk hung about in crowds

outside the stockroom. A few only dared to enter; the rest preferred to

wait and see what happened. They were not without a certain satisfaction

at the act of rebellion, albeit aware that it was their duty to feel

indignant. There was a general atmosphere of excitement—what would

happen next?

“And this year the price of wool is the same to all,” said Bjarni

exultantly to the doctor. “If he doesn’t care to deal with me, he can go

to Jon Borgari.”

The doctor laughed loudly, and Sera Daniel smiled approval. Jon Borgari

was a man of sixty, who had set up on his own account in a small way,

some five years back. On payment of fifty Kroner, he had acquired a

licence to trade. His store was a mean little place, his whole

stock-in-trade hardly amounted to more than one of Ørlygur’s ordinary

purchases from Bjarni. He had found it impossible to do any considerable

business, as the peasants were all in debt to Bjarni already, and could

not transfer their custom elsewhere. Jon was considerably older than

Bjarni, but the latter’s business was of longer standing. Bjarni had

moved to Hofsfjordur twelve years before, and partly, at least, by his

industry and smartness, he had compelled an old-established house in the

place, a branch of a foreign firm, to close down. This he could never

have done had it not been for the patronage of Ørlygur à Borg.

It was commonly supposed that Jon Borgari had saved a good sum in his

time—and the idea was further supported by his recent marriage to a

maiden of eighteen, who had accepted him in preference to many eager

suitors of the younger generation. But no one ever dreamed of

considering Jon Borgari as a possible “purveyor to the King.”

Bjarni’s warehousemen were busy weighing in the priest’s consignment.

There was still no sign of life on the road from Borg. And gradually

even Bjarni himself began to forget his fears.

Then suddenly the blow fell. Ormarr with his five men, and the laden

horses, came galloping up: Ørlygur à Borg had sent his wool.

Bjarni was struck with amazement; for a moment he could not grasp the

situation. Sera Daniel retired prudently to the back of the room. The

doctor joined him, with an expression of pleasant anticipation on his

puffy face. This was going to be amusing. And, fortunately, he himself

had nothing to do with the affair.

When the first shock had passed off, Bjarni realized with a feeling of

relief that Ørlygur himself had stayed at home. To the onlooker this was

a wonder in itself. Never before had Ørlygur à Borg sent in his wool

without accompanying it in person.

For a moment all sorts of wild conjectures passed through Bjarni’s

brain. And then—he committed the fatal error of coming to the conclusion

which best suited himself; Ørlygur must have stayed away in order to

avoid being present at his own defeat, in the setting aside of ancient

custom.

Ormarr did not dismount. He rode straight up to the trader, and said:

“My father has given orders that his wool is to be weighed in at once.”

He spoke without the slightest trace of emotion; as if it were a matter

of course that the trader should stop the weighing of any one else’s

wool and attend to Ørlygur’s forthwith.

Bjarni again indulged in an erroneous inference: Ørlygur à Borg had

stayed away because he feared his demands might be refused. And if “the

King” himself thought that possible—why, then, it could be done!

A wave of joy swept over Bjarni. He felt as if he had already won a

decisive battle against heavy odds. And his reply was given in a tone

more overbearing than usual—though he regretted it the moment he had

spoken.

“We can’t very well stop weighing in this lot now. What do you say, Sera

Daniel?”

Sera Daniel said nothing at all. His friend Bjarni would have to carry

the matter through without assistance.

Bjarni turned to Ormarr once more—the boy was still in the saddle—and

adopting a fatherly tone, went on:

“But it won’t take very long, you know. If you start unloading the

horses now, and get the bales undone, while we’re finishing this, there

won’t be much time lost.”

But before any one could say more, a new development occurred. Ørlygur à

Borg, on his snorting, fiery mount, Sleipnir, dashed into the stockroom.

His entry came like a thunder-clap. The onlookers, who had kept their

distance up to now, drew closer in, holding their breath. No one, not

even Ørlygur’s own men, with the exception of Ormarr, had expected this.

Bjarni, Sera Daniel, and the doctor greeted him in servile fashion; he

answered with an impatient gesture, as of a sovereign in ungracious mood

towards importunate underlings. Then riding up to Ormarr, he asked

quietly:

“What are you waiting for?”

“They are weighing in Sera Daniel’s wool.”

“Has Bjarni refused to take over mine at once?”

“Yes. He asked us to unload and wait.”

“Good. We will take it back to Borg.”

Then, having given his orders, Ørlygur rode up to Bjarni, pressing him

so close that the foam from his horse bespattered the trader, forcing

him to retreat step by step.

“Now mark you this, Bjarni Jonsson. You can hire horses yourself to

fetch that wool from Borg. But do not come until you are prepared to pay

a heavy price. I warn you, my wool this year will not be cheap.”

Then, without a word of farewell, he turned his back on the speechless

and astonished trio, and with a cheery smile to the crowd, rode

homeward, followed by his men.

That day messengers were sent out from Borg to all the farmers round, to

say that Ørlygur à Borg was willing to buy wool for cash, at the same

prices as offered by the trader.

Next morning, he sent off one of his men with a letter and a

saddle-horse to Jon Borgari. Jon read the letter, mounted at once, and

rode back to Borg, where he was closeted with Ørlygur for some time.

When he left the place, he looked as if ten years had fallen from his

shoulders.

The farmers understood that Ørlygur’s offer to buy their wool for cash

was equivalent to a command—they must choose between him and the trader.

And they did not hesitate a moment.

Ørlygur paid them in gold and silver. Then, with his help, they wrote

out the lists of the goods they required, the lists being subsequently

handed to Jon Borgari. Jon was now Ørlygur’s ally, and in a very short

time his unpretending little store was threatening the trade of Bjarni

Jonsson’s own.

Bjarni Jonsson’s trick had recoiled upon himself. He got Sera Daniel’s

wool—but not a pound from any one beside.

CHAPTER III

One burning hot afternoon, late in the summer, Ormarr was sitting up on

the edge of a high ridge of Borgarfjall, to the west of Borg. A great

flock of sheep grazed on the plateau below.

Ormarr, as shepherd, found his task light. It was just after

lambing-time, and for the first two or three days the sheep had been

difficult to handle. Full of anxiety, and bleating piteously, they

rushed about in all directions, vainly seeking their offspring. Now,

however, they had more or less accustomed themselves to the new state of

things, and kept fairly well together, so that Ormarr was free to devote

most of his time to his favourite pursuits: playing the violin, and

dreaming.

He made a curious picture, this fourteen-year-old peasant lad, as he sat

there, clad in rough homespun, his clothes fitting clumsily, and hiding

the lithe beauty of his frame. The clear-cut face, the strong chin

resting on the violin, and the lean hand with its supple fingers running

over the strings, contrasted strangely with the everyday coat, darned

and patched in many places.

Often he fell into a reverie, his dark eyes gazing on the distant

mountains, the fingers relaxing, and the slender brown hand with the bow

resting on his knee. The face, too thin for a boy of his age, bore a

grave and thoughtful expression, with a touch of melancholy. The black

masses of curling, unruly hair, and the faint coppery tinge in the skin,

suggested Celtic descent.

Yet despite the trace of something foreign in his appearance, he was at

heart a true child of his country. The wistful, dreamy thoughts that

burned in his dark, passionate eyes, betrayed that rich and abundant

imagination peculiar to the sons of Iceland, fostered by the great

solitude and desolate yet fertile grandeur of the land itself. So deeply

is the sense of that grandeur rooted in their hearts, that even those

who have roamed the world over, and lived most of their lives in milder

and richer climes, will yet declare that Iceland is the most beautiful

of all.

Another typical trait in Ormarr’s nature was the melancholy that

consumed his soul—a product of youthful self-absorption without the

corresponding experience.

His descent from the ancient and noble race of Borg was apparent in his

chariness of words, in his credulity,—it was a thing inconceivable, that

he or any of his should tell a falsehood,—in his self-reliance, and

strong belief that he was in the right, as long as he followed the

dictates of his own conscience. Young as he was, every look, every

feature, betrayed the born chieftain in him.

This was evident most of all in his music—which consisted mainly of

dreams and fantasies he had himself composed. From the first day he had

learned to hold the instrument, he had thrown into his music a burning

interest and an overwhelming love. It gave him the only possible outlet

for the longing that filled him.

Loneliness and despair sobbed in the sweet and passionate strains; the

strings vibrated with a deep desire, that yet had no conscious aim, but

the sound brought relief, though never satisfying to the full.

His playing revealed his soul as a wanderer in the wilderness—as a giant

whose strength is doomed to slumber under the weight of unbreakable

shackles; it showed that, to him, life was a slow, consuming pain, the

purpose of which he could not grasp; that he was born with a wealth of

power, yet found no single thing to which he could devote it. Here he

was, heir to the estate, and yet—perhaps for that very reason—born in

bondage.

Despite his youth, Ormarr was alive to the danger of his changing moods,

which, as he often thought, bordered on insanity. Proud as he was of

being heir to Borg, he nevertheless felt a smouldering hatred of his

heritage, since it fettered him from birth. With all these longings in

his soul, he was conscious of being himself part and parcel of Borg;

something told him that here, and here alone, was the soil in which his

personality and varying moods could grow into one harmonious and united

whole. He had only to follow in the steps of his fathers. But this,

again, seemed too easy a solution of the riddle of life—he preferred a

struggle to the death. It was as if his descent, and his natural

prospects, excluded him from all the adventures he longed for; the part

for which he seemed cast was beneath the level of his strength and

ability.

But he realized that any outward expression of such thoughts would

compromise him, and bring disgrace upon his family: he must conceal

them, hide them in silence, never breathe a word of it all to any other.

Only in his music, where he could speak without betraying himself by

words, could he venture to ease his heart of its burden.

He felt like a galley slave, chained to the oar for life, without hope

of escape. The idea of rebellion, of emancipation, had never crossed his

mind. Had any one suggested such a thing, he would have risen up in arms

against it at once, for, in spite of all, he felt himself so at one with

his race that to desert it thus would be nothing less than to betray

himself.

* * * * *

That same afternoon an unexpected event took place at Borg. The Vicar,

Sera Daniel, accompanied by Bjarni Jonsson, came to call.

Ørlygur à Borg was resting on his bed, which in the daytime was covered,

like a couch, with a many-coloured rug, when news was brought him of the

visit. The girl informed him that she had asked the visitors into the

big hall. Ørlygur smiled when he heard their names. He had just returned

from a sale of driftwood, held at the instance of one of the farmers

whose lands ran down to the shore, and who yearly gathered in large

stocks of washed-up timber, which was subsequently sold, either

privately or by auction. He was tired, and felt too comfortable where he

was to care about moving.

“Let them come in here if they have anything to say,” he told the girl.

The two men exchanged glances when the message was brought them. Each

found a certain satisfaction in witnessing the humiliation of the other,

which helped him to bear his own. Nevertheless, on entering Ørlygur’s

room, both were visibly embarrassed.

Ørlygur himself did nothing to set them at their ease. Without rising,

he took their proffered hands, answered their greetings with a murmur of

something inaudible, and indicated that they might be seated.

There was but a single chair in the room, placed between the two beds.

Sera Daniel would willingly have left it to Bjarni—though he considered

it due to himself and his superior social position to take it in order

not to be too close to his host. Bjarni, however, had a similar

disinclination, and forestalled his companion by taking a seat at once

on the edge of the bed, well pleased at having attained his end, while

seeming to act from sheer natural modesty.

For a while no one spoke. Ørlygur stretched himself, and smiled faintly,

awaiting the explanation of the visit.

Sera Daniel cleared his throat for an introduction he had prepared

beforehand. But he got no further than a slight cough. And, looking at

Bjarni, he perceived that the latter was in a like predicament, his

usually grey face turning a fiery red.

Ørlygur was enjoying the situation, and maintained a ruthless silence.

Sera Daniel soon realized that he could look for no assistance from the

trader, who apparently considered that the priest’s closer proximity to

the enemy carried with it the obligation to deliver the first attack. At

last he stammered out:

“Er—we have come—to tell the truth—to see you. H’m—about a matter

that—er—distresses us somewhat. And we thought that—perhaps—it might be

not altogether pleasant to yourself—that is to say—of course—I mean,

considering....”

Ørlygur slowly rose to a sitting position. Then setting his hands firmly

on his knees and leaning forward slightly, he looked straight into the

other’s eyes.

“To tell the truth, Sera Daniel, I am not aware of any matter which

distresses me in any way at the moment. I fancy your idea of something

_mutually_ unpleasant must be due to a misunderstanding. Your troubles

are hardly mine, you know; the more so since we have seen very little of

each other for quite a long time now.”

“No, no, of course not. But—you know better than any one else that it is

you who set the example to all the parish.”

“If that is so, you explain yourself badly. I stay away from church,

certainly—for the simple reason that I prefer to avoid meeting a

clergyman whom I dislike. My affair with you will keep me away from

church until it is settled—possibly as long as you conduct the service

there. If the rest of your parishioners elect to do the same, it merely

means that your conscience will soon forbid you to remain as spiritual

guide to a flock who avoid you. If, on the other hand, your conscience

should prove more accommodating in this respect, I have no doubt that

the authorities will discover in a short time what you are unable to see

for yourself. You take my meaning, Sera Daniel?”

“I am not sure that I do. I cannot see why a thoughtless action on my

part last spring—which I deeply regret—should embitter you to such an

extent that you stake the spiritual welfare of the congregation in

revenge.”

“Oh, that’s rather too much. You say you regret your thoughtlessness

last spring. I translate that as meaning simply that you regret having

managed so badly; that you realize the failure of your clumsy conspiracy

against me, with our friend the trader there—who seems worn out by the

heavy business of the summer season, since he apparently can’t open his

mouth. And then you haven’t even the decency to keep this sordid affair

to itself, but must mix it up with the spiritual welfare of your

congregation. Well, it simply shows that you are more impudent even than

I had thought.”

“If it were not that my position as incumbent here forces me to set

aside my personal interests—for the sake of the parish, you

understand—and to avert if possible the disastrous consequences—”

“Disastrous? My dear Sera Daniel, you are a marvel. Unless you take ‘the

parish’ as meaning yourself and some few others, I cannot see your

argument at all. I do not regret, and see no reason to regret, what has

taken place, and I am afraid ‘the parish’ takes the same view. I am not

one of those men who act hastily and afterwards regret their folly.

Candidly, Sera Daniel, your ideas are too vague and too complicated for

me to care to discuss them further. I have had quite enough of empty

talk; let us come to facts. And here I imagine that Bjarni Jonsson will

be better able to speak. How very fortunate that he happened to come at

the same time.”

Then, turning to Bjarni, Ørlygur went on:

“As far as I remember, we arranged last time I saw you, that you could

come out here and buy my wool when you were prepared to pay a decent

price.”

“Certainly—yes, of course. That is, I am ready ... to discuss....”

“Very well, then. I hope the discussion will be brief. Let me make it

clear at the start that my terms are fixed, and not intended as a basis

for negotiation. You can, of course, refuse them if you prefer, but I

must insist on the matter being settled quickly. I need not tell you, I

suppose, that I bought up all the wool I could last spring, when I

realized that prices would be exceptionally high—your books have no

doubt made that evident to yourself already. I am willing to let you

have all my wool at a reasonable price, as I know that many of the

peasants hereabout are in your debt, and that you are anxious for a

settlement. I myself am not in your debt. I do not owe you money, and

certainly very little consideration. My peasants, on the other hand—you

must excuse my calling them ‘my peasants,’ we are linked, you know, by

friendship and common interests—my peasants owe you money, and I am

willing to offer my wool in clearance of their debts, or as much of

their debts as it will cover. The debt will thus be transferred to a

creditor who can perhaps afford to give them longer credit. You, I take

it, are chiefly anxious to make money.”

Bjarni sat with downcast eyes. The word of “the King” cut him like a

knife. He realized well enough that his business at Hofsfjordur would be

entirely ruined. Up till now he had cherished a faint hope that Ørlygur

would spare him, if only he humbled himself sufficiently. At length he

realized, that though Ørlygur had mercifully saved him from absolute

ruin, and reduced his loss by paying the farmers’ debts, he would never

have another customer unless he could succeed in winning him over again.

And the present reception did not seem to offer any great hope of

re-establishing that connection.

Yet he still clung to the hope that by absolute humility he might work

on Ørlygur to extend his leniency still further. Therefore, without a

murmur, he agreed to Ørlygur’s terms. He could not reconcile himself to

the idea of leaving the place and throwing up the excellent position he

had toiled and planned so many years to gain. He could not bear to think

that all was absolutely lost through his own stupidity.

His blood boiled at the thought, but he dared not show it; his fate

depended now on Ørlygur’s next move. And meanwhile, his little cunning

soul was on the alert for any opportunity of showing “the King” what a

loyal subject he could be, and would, if only he might be forgiven this

once.

Nevertheless, his heart was filled with a vindictive hatred—first and

foremost hatred of Ørlygur, then of Sera Daniel and the rest of the

community. Fate had been cruel to him, and was mocking him into the

bargain—the one consolation about the whole affair was that things

seemed as bad at least, if not worse, for Sera Daniel.

Had Bjarni, the trader, but known that Ørlygur à Borg was at that very

moment filled with loathing for the servility he displayed, he would

have given vent to a burst of rage on the spot—and it might have saved

him, as nothing else could.

Ørlygur certainly felt sorry for the fellow; he knew how much Bjarni had

at stake, and how harmless and altogether inferior he really was. He

decided, therefore, to spare him, if he could, by unreasonable demands,

lead him to give up his servile attitude and lose his temper in honest

fashion.

“Well, then, my horses and men are at your disposal for carrying the

wool, if you wish to buy it—the price of transport, of course, being in

addition. I can let you have fifty horses for the work, so it will not

take long. The price—well, it will simplify matters to fix one price for

all wool of the same colour. That is to say: one Krone for all white,

and half a Krone for the rest.”

Bjarni turned pale; for the moment he found it difficult to control his

features. He looked at Ørlygur with the eyes of a wounded dog. But

Ørlygur seemed not to notice his imploring gaze, and went on carelessly:

“Well, what do you say? Is that fair?”

“Yes,” stammered Bjarni in reply. Then, quickly, and with an assumption

of easiness, he added:

“Well, then, that is settled. Tomorrow?” He nodded as he said the last

word; he felt that the moment had come to change the tone of the

conversation. This cheerful acceptance on his part of an absurd price

was a friendly hand, which he expected Ørlygur would grasp at once.

The effect, however, was contrary to what he had looked for. Ørlygur

seemed to take it as a personal affront; he rose quickly, and said in an

angry voice:

“Very well, then!”

The two visitors also rose, and without a word all three walked from the

room.

Sera Daniel also was highly dissatisfied with the result of his visit.

Both he and Bjarni were in a state of painful suspense with regard to

the future; they could not persuade themselves that this was Ørlygur’s

last word in the matter. It was too dismal a failure for them to accept

it as final. Sera Daniel had hoped that the threatening cloud of

Ørlygur’s displeasure, which had darkened his work and prospects all

through the summer, would be dispelled. He fretted inwardly over every

word he had said, and the manner in which he had spoken. Bjarni, too,

had cherished similar hopes; an amicable settlement meant even more to

him than to the priest.

As if by common instinct, both men hesitated to leave; their manner

showed plainly that there was more in their minds. But Ørlygur pretended

not to understand their anxiety, and left it to them to make any further

move.

Meantime, they had reached the stables. And here they stopped. Ørlygur

seemed only waiting for them to take their leave; but the visitors still

hoped for some opening—something to happen, they did not quite know

what.

Then suddenly the quivering notes of a violin were heard. Here was a

welcome excuse for delaying their departure. Ørlygur was listening with

delight, as so often before, to his son’s playing; for a while all three

stood motionless.

Ørlygur smiled; a smile that covered, perhaps, both his admiration and

his aversion—the two conflicting feelings which Ormarr’s playing always

seemed to awaken at the same time.

Then Sera Daniel spoke—simply and naturally:

“How beautiful!” But at the same moment he reflected that he ought to

know Ørlygur’s character better than to say things like that. And by way

of altering the impression of his words, he added, in an entirely

different tone:

“There is the making of a fortune in that music.”

Ørlygur à Borg did not grasp his meaning. And though he knew that Sera

Daniel would never dare to make fun of him, “the King,” to his face, he

was on his guard. He looked at the speaker with a glance of cold

inquiry.

Sera Daniel went on:

“In foreign countries there are artists who make fortunes by playing the

violin. I have often wished that I were an artist like that ... it must

be wonderful to travel from one great city to another and be rich. I

have heard such men in Copenhagen, when I was studying there.”

When Ørlygur à Borg realized that the priest’s words pointed, not to

impossible realms of fancy, but to a world of beautiful reality, the

look in his eyes changed. So strange was his glance, so complete the

alteration, that Sera Daniel flushed with pleasure at the effect of his

words.

For a while Ørlygur stared straight before him, as if in thought. Great

things were passing in his mind. Where others would deliberate at

length, Ørlygur à Borg was capable of taking in a situation in a moment.

He was thinking of Ormarr’s and his brother’s future, and with his

wonted respect for sudden impulses, which he was almost inclined to

attribute to divine influence, he made up his mind quickly.

He turned to the priest.

“While I think of it, Sera Daniel, there is a matter I have been wanting

to talk over with you for some time. Are you going back home by the

shorter road? Then I will go with you part of the way.”

The trader took the words as a hint to himself to disappear. Bidding

good-bye to Ørlygur and the priest, he rode off with a troubled mind.

This was worse than all; an understanding between Ørlygur and Sera

Daniel left him utterly hopeless.

Sera Daniel, on the other hand, was delighted at the honour conferred on

him by the King of Borg. Leading his horse, he walked down the road with

Ørlygur, waiting for what was to come.

Ørlygur had made no mistake in calculating that the fright he had given

the priest would suffice to keep him from any further attempts at

revolt. After that lesson in the unwritten law of the parish, Sera

Daniel would be ready to serve him to the utmost, if need should arise.

And as things were turning out now, the priest might well be useful to

him, in regard to the future of his sons. Ørlygur determined to make

peace.

They walked on for a while in silence. Then Ørlygur spoke:

“Sera Daniel—would you undertake to teach Ormarr Danish? He knows a

little, and it would be as well for him to improve on it before he goes

away. He will be leaving for Copenhagen this autumn.”

Sera Daniel was almost moved.

“A pleasure indeed—a very great pleasure. I am glad to hear he is going.

There is a great future in store for him—of that I feel sure. I have

rarely heard any one play so well; he seems far in advance of his age.

You should send him to the Conservatoire at Copenhagen—they will make a

great artist of him there.”

“Yes—or to some eminent teacher.”

“At first—yes, of course.”

“From first to last,” Ørlygur corrected, with a smile. “He must have the

very best teacher throughout. I am going to give him every possible

chance. And with regard to his stay in Copenhagen, and matters

generally, perhaps you could give him some hints....”

They discussed the matter at length. And when Sera Daniel rode home, his

fickle heart swelled with love and admiration for Ørlygur the Rich, who

had become his gracious patron after the long, dreary months of enmity.

* * * * *

That evening when Ormarr had driven the sheep into the fold, he saw his

father coming slowly towards him, and realized that Ørlygur wished to

speak to him.

The two sat down on the grassy wall of the paddock.

“Bjarni Jonsson has been up to buy the wool.”

Ørlygur spoke without any sign of triumph in his voice, and Ormarr

evinced no excitement at the information. To both it seemed only natural

and inevitable that the matter should have ended thus.

“Sera Daniel came with him.”

After this there was a pause. Then Ørlygur looked his son in the eyes.

“Ormarr,” he went on, “I have something important to say to you. You are

growing up now, and we must think of your future. Not yours alone, but

that of your brother and the estate as well. In short, it concerns Borg.

Have you any wish to take over the management of the place?”

“I don’t know....” Ormarr gazed thoughtfully before him.

“Well, I will tell you what I have been thinking of today. Sera Daniel

tells me that there are men in foreign countries whose whole work in

life consists in playing the violin. You understand, of course, that

first of all they must learn to master it thoroughly. They are taught at

schools, or by private teachers. Would you care to do the same—to learn

to play properly—rules and notes and everything?”

“That means—going abroad?”

Ormarr’s voice trembled, and he turned a little pale. The golden bird of

fortune and adventure flashed into the vision of his mind.

“Yes. I spoke to Sera Daniel about teaching you English as well as

Danish. While you are in Copenhagen, you might find time to study other

languages, without neglecting your music. Languages are always useful:

if you become a great artist, you may have to travel in many countries,

play your violin everywhere. Anyhow, you shall have the chance. Perhaps

your liking for it may not last, or you may find you have not talent

enough. If so, you can come back to Iceland again—to Borg if you care

to. What do you think—would you like to try?”

“Yes, father—if you will let me. It would be wonderful.”

“I pray God I may be allowed to live a few years more. If you come back

here, you will still have your birthright to the estate. But if you

prefer to give up your claim, I will see that your brother is brought up

to take over the place himself. The next few years will show what is

best.”

* * * * *

Ormarr could not sleep that night. He lay weaving dreams about his

future.

To him, it all appeared one bright, sunny vision. He pictured life as

one grand triumphal procession. He knew that the country he was going to

abounded in forests of bright-hued beech and dark pine woods; with

lovely orchards, where ripe fruit hung on the trees ready for one to

pick and eat. He had read of Danish gardens, where roses and lilac

filled the air with their scent.

He counted the days now till he should be able to look with his own eyes

on palaces he had known hitherto only from pictures in books—real

palaces of kings! They would be no longer castles in the air to him, but

real; grand piles of solid stone and mortar. He could walk through their

halls, breathe the air of bygone centuries that hung there still; could

touch with his hands the very walls that had stood there for hundreds of

years.

He painted for himself a future like that of one of the old Icelandic

bards. He would play to kings and nobles. There was a lust of travel in

his blood, of wandering through life by the royal road of glory and

fame. It was almost painful to remember that he had ever thought of

living all his days at Borg, as his ancestors had done.

The great world called to him, and every fibre in him answered to the

call. He knew that there, where he was going, were wonderful machines

contrived to do the work of men. He had never been able to think of such

machines as really inanimate things; he longed to see with his own eyes

the arms, hands, and fingers they must surely possess. Yet, at the same

time, the thought of it made his flesh creep.

Think—to fill a room with light by the mere turning of a switch! And to

talk with people through a wire—which he imagined as hollow. And there

were places where conjurers worked miracles, and acrobats performed

impossible feats; clowns jested and played tricks.... And gardens filled

with cages of strange beasts from countries even farther off....

All these and many other things which he had read of, and grown to

consider as accessible only to a favoured few, were now to be part of

his own surroundings in his daily life. He would live in a city with

streets like deep chasms between unscalable cliffs—cave-hollowed cliffs

peopled with human beings, instead of giants and goblins. He would go to

theatres, where actors seemed to kill one another, and thunder,

lightning, and snow could be brought into play within four walls. He

would travel endless miles in machine-driven cars that raced along over

rails of steel....

Ormarr lay in his dark room, his eyes wide open, letting his fancy paint

all manner of visions in the richest colours. His mind was overwhelmed

by a turmoil of new sensations.

He tried to recall, one after another, all the pictures he had seen of

things in foreign lands; even to portraits of celebrities, of jockeys

galloping over turf, and sordid lithographs with impossible figures in

ridiculous postures, such as he had seen stuck up in the local stores.

A fever of anticipation burned in his veins. And when at last, towards

morning, he dropped off into a broken sleep, he was still surrounded by

a crowd of the impressions he had conjured up while awake. They vexed

him now; he found himself being thrown from cars that raced away from

him at full speed, losing his way in gloomy streets and labyrinthine

passages, being snatched up by the steel arms of strange machines and

crushed to pieces; standing with one end of a wire between his teeth and

vainly trying to speak to a famous man at the other end; he switched on

a light and set the house on fire, and was only saved from being burned

to death by waking to find the sun shining full in his face.

CHAPTER IV

When a youth is thrown from the realm of fancy and solitude into a world

of realities, one of two things takes place: either a process of

reaction sets in, and he fortifies his soul in some faith or tradition;

or he clutches greedily at life, becomes intoxicated by it, and loses

his foothold. Whatever happens to him depends less upon strength of

character than upon chance.

In Ormarr’s case, reality fell short of his expectation in some

respects, and in others exceeded it. He felt, also, as if he were born

anew, entering upon an existence based on new principles.

With all that he had looked forward to most keenly he was frankly

disappointed. On the other hand, he found an order of things, of people

and their actions, so alien to his own mind and development that he felt

himself an outsider, uncultured and inferior. It seemed to him then,

that the only possible way to make up for lost time was to fling himself

headlong into this human maelstrom and swim for dear life. And before he

was himself aware of it, he was floating with the tide. He soon proved

to have all the requisite qualifications for drifting so on the waters

of life; he had means enough, and withal a pleasant manner, with a

certain air of distinction, gay and yet self-possessed....

It did not occur to him to consider whither he was drifting; there was

no time to think. That he saw no land ahead or to either side did not

trouble him in the least. Life was pleasant enough—and since its

essential aim seemed to be that of making it pleasant, why trouble one’s

head about anything?

Fortunately, there was always one plank at hand to which he could turn

for safety in case of need—unless he wilfully thrust it from him. And as

this resource in itself possessed an extreme fascination for him—the

chance of becoming a great artist, a world-famed master—Ormarr never

quite lost touch of it, though he found it at times somewhat burdensome,

a check upon his natural movements towards pleasure and enjoyment.

His consistency in this respect was largely due to the personality of

his teacher, Abel Grahl, who had taken a kind and fatherly interest in

the boy from their first meeting. On the day after his arrival at

Copenhagen, Ormarr set out from his hotel at a very early hour, and went

in search of Grahl. Sera Daniel had instructed him to seek out this man

and not rest until he had persuaded him to become his teacher.

“Your career may depend upon it,” were the priest’s parting words.

Abel Grahl was an elderly man, and life had used him hardly. At twenty,

he had stood on the threshold of fame: his first appearance as a

violinist, in London, had created an unusual stir. Offers of engagements

came to him in plenty, but the day before he was to start on a tour,

embracing the principal cities of the world, he had managed to hurt his

finger slightly while out boating with some friends. Blood-poisoning set

in, and the finger had to be amputated. Then for three years he was lost

to the world; his friends and relations believed him dead. Suddenly he

reappeared in his native town of Copenhagen, a silent, retiring man; no

one ever learned where or how he had spent the intervening years. Even

his intimates refrained from asking, partly out of regard for his grief,

partly for fear of reopening some trouble not yet healed. He made his

living as a teacher of music especially with the violin; but his pupils

were few, since he mercilessly rejected all save those who showed

unusual promise.

He lived a solitary life, in a suite of rooms badly in need of repair.

The landlord had given him permission to remove the inner partitions,

and turn the whole place into one big studio; the kitchen he used as a

bedroom.

Grahl was not in the best of tempers on being awakened at six in the

morning by a continued and vigorous ringing at the bell. But at the

sight of his visitor, a lad in ill-fitting homespun clothes, with a

calfskin bag tucked under his arm (Grahl at once divined that it

contained a violin), he found some difficulty in keeping his

countenance. He looked at the boy with a faint, good-humoured smile.

Ormarr endeavoured to explain, in very imperfect Danish, the object of

his visit.

The old man burst out laughing. Then, noticing the boy’s confusion, he

asked him in, and patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Do you mean to say you have come all the way from Iceland to learn the

violin? What did you say your name was?”

“Ormarr, son of Ørlygur à Borg.”

“I see, Ormarr à Borg, then.”

“Yes, Ormarr Ørlygsson.”

“Ormarr Ørlygsson. And how did you manage to find me?”

“It was quite easy. I had the address written on a paper, and asked the

way.”

“Yes, yes—but I mean, who told you to come to me?”

“Sera Daniel—the priest. I was to come to you and get you to teach

me—you and no other. He said my career might depend upon it. And he said

if you refused, if you sent me away once or twice or more, I was to try

again.”

“H’m. Seems clear enough. And you look as if you were the sort to do it.

Well, let me hear what you can do with that instrument of yours.”

Ormarr took out his violin. He was visibly nervous, and it took him some

time to tune up.

Abel Grahl could not help remarking to himself that the boy seemed

awkward—and perhaps he did not even know his notes. Anyhow, he refrained

for the moment from further questioning.

At last Ormarr ran his bow across the strings, put down his bow and

violin, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.

Grahl watched him, making no sign. He was rather surprised to find

himself really interested, and waited impatiently for the boy to begin.

As Ormarr took up his instrument again, the old man asked:

“How old did you say you were?”

Ormarr hesitated. “Fifteen,” he said at length.

Grahl shook his head in despair. Then he checked himself.

“Well, well, we shall see. Go on now, if you are ready.”

Ormarr began to play, without watching the other’s face. He did not see

how the man’s expression changed from mere resignation to intense

feeling, that drove all the blood from his face. Now and again he

frowned, and started slightly, but repressed himself, and left Ormarr to

finish at his will.

Ormarr played for ten minutes. At the last stroke of the bow, Grahl

leapt to his feet.

“Who wrote that?”

“It’s—it’s only about a sunset.”

“Yes, yes, but where did you get hold of it—the tune?”

“I made it up myself.”

Grahl stared at him, but the boy never flinched. No, those eyes could

not lie!

“What else can you play?”

“There’s all the songs they used to sing at home. And the hymns from

church.”

“Can you play at sight?”

Ormarr shook his head doubtfully.

“I mean, do you know the written notes?”

“No; I was never taught.” Ormarr felt crushed at the confession.

For fully a quarter of an hour he was kept in suspense; it was like

waiting for the summons to execution.

Abel Grahl walked up and down. Now and again he stopped full in front of

the boy, scrutinizing him from head to foot. Then he shook his head as

if in dismissal, turned away abruptly, and stood for a while at the

window, whistling softly to himself; came back and stared at Ormarr once

more, looking hard into the dark, glowing eyes that seemed to have grown

dim. Who could say how much it might mean to this lad if he sent him

away? He felt, too, that those eyes could express something more than

despair.

He felt himself drawn toward this child of nature who had been flung at

him, at it were, like a ball, from hundreds of miles away—if he did not

take it but threw it back, would it land safely, or would it be lost in

the sea?

At last he spoke, though he had not yet made up his mind.

“It is a difficult thing to study—and it means years of work. Also, it

will cost a great deal of money. Where are you to get that from?”

“From my father.”

“And what is your father?”

“A farmer.”

“Is he rich?”

“Yes.”

“What is he worth, about?”

“He owns all Borg, and....”

“I mean, how many thousand...?”

“Three thousand.”

“Three thousand—is that all?”

“Yes. No one in Iceland has more than three thousand sheep. He has more

than any one else there.”

“Sheep—I see. A biggish place, then. Many horses?”

“I don’t know how many exactly. There are many—_stodhross_.”

“_Stodhross_—what’s that?”

“Horses that live out on the hills. But we’ve a hundred and twenty at

home, on the place.”

“The devil you have. And how many cows?”

“About a hundred most times.”

“Do you know any one here in Copenhagen?”

“No. But the priest, he gave me a letter to a man I was to ask to keep

my money for me, if you did not care to be troubled with it.”

“Have you much with you now?”

“I have a thousand Kroner in my pocket-book, and a few small notes in my

purse.”

“H’m. I suppose you can look after your money all right yourself?”

“Oh yes, I have it....” He thrust a hand into his pocket.

“No—I must have left it under my pillow.”

“Under your pillow—where?”

“At the place where I slept.”

“What on earth—Here, we must go along at once. Put on your coat—no,

never mind the violin. Where are you staying? What street?”

“I don’t know what street it is.”

“But good heavens, child—the name of the hotel, then?”

“Hotel H——, it is called. Sera Daniel told me to go there the first

night.”

They reached the street, and Grahl hurried on ahead to where some cabs

were standing. Hailing one, he gave the address, hurried the boy in, and

followed himself.

In the vestibule of the hotel they were met by the porter, who advanced

with a discreet smile, and handed a pocket-book to Ormarr.

“You don’t seem to care much for your money, sir. The maid found this

little sum under your pillow.”

The little episode was not perhaps, in itself, the decisive factor in

establishing the ultimate relationship between Ormarr and Grahl. But it

certainly did much to link them closer, and from that time forth, Grahl

assisted the young Icelander in many other ways, apart from merely

teaching him the violin.

Ormarr succeeded from the first in winning the old man’s affection, and

making him interested in his career. He was a constant source of

surprise to his teacher. First and foremost, there was his sudden

transformation from chrysalis to butterfly—from a peasant lad to a

man-about-town.

And Ormarr caused his teacher grave anxiety during those years. But he

never betrayed the confidence the old man had shown at first. And in

point of musical development he surpassed all that Grahl had ever hoped

for.

By the tenth winter, Grahl considered his pupil as perfect at least as

he himself had been when he had first appeared in public. All that was

needed now was to introduce him to an audience. The day for his début

was fixed, and the large room at the Concert Hall engaged.

For some time past, whispers had been current in musical circles about

Abel Grahl’s wonderful pupil. All were eager to hear him, and every seat

in the big hall was taken far in advance.

* * * * *

Ormarr had rooms on the outskirts of the town, looking out over the

Sound. In course of time, he had managed to get the apartments furnished

to his taste. The walls were hung with rugs, an enormous divan occupied

the centre of the room, a few small tables stood about here and there,

and the four big chairs were packed with cushions. The divan served as a

bed at night; in the daytime it was covered with a splendid Persian rug.

Black, white, and brown sheepskins were spread on the floor, and in

front of the divan was flung the pelt of a huge white bear.

Not a single picture was to be seen. But on the walls, hidden behind the

hangings, Ormarr had placed large reproductions of well-known portraits

of great composers. And when playing, he would uncover the picture of

that particular master with whose work he was occupied for the moment.

On the day before his first concert, Ormarr was resting, fully dressed,

on the divan. He was smoking; a bottle of wine and a glass stood within

reach on a small table.

He had been out for his usual morning walk. But for the last three hours

he had not moved. It was now drawing towards twilight. His glance moved

idly from one window to the other, following the race of clouds against

the background of a dull blue sky.

There was a knock at the door. Languidly Ormarr rose to open. He

recognized the voice of his friend, Aage Blad.

Save for Grahl, Ormarr’s only intimate friend was the young poet, Aage

Blad; the two were constant companions. Blad’s earnest love of life had

endeared him to Ormarr, and though the latter, true to his adopted rôle

of insincerity, often made fun of his friend’s seriousness, the poet had

soon realized that it was not meant, and as a rule paid no heed to it.

But if ever he found that he had gone too far, Ormarr always relapsed

into silence, and his friend understood that this was his way of asking

forgiveness.

Blad glanced at Ormarr’s face as he entered, and gathered at once that

his friend was not in the best of spirits. He shook hands in silence.

Ormarr flung himself down on the divan once more, leaving his visitor to

make himself at home. Blad moved up a chair, and the two friends smoked

in silence for a while, watching each other.

“Nervous?” queried Blad at last.

“Wish I were!”

“Curious thing to wish. Thank your stars you’re as cool about it as you

are. Anything wrong?”

“Oh, everything.”

“Oh, that’s no trifle, anyway.”

Silence.

“I tell you what, Ormarr, I shan’t feel comfortable myself until this

concert’s over. Honestly, I’m getting quite feverish about it. I’ve

never been so excited about one of my own things coming out—not even my

first book.”

“No need for you to get excited that I can see.”

“No need at all—you’re right, of course. It’s bound to go off all

right.”

“On the contrary—there’s everything to be anxious about.

Everything—everything. Oh, well, hang it all—have another drink.”

Ormarr threw himself back and closed his eyes.

Aage Blad sat watching him; there was a dull, resigned expression about

the corners of the mouth; the forehead was already deeply lined. There

was strength as well as weakness in the face, he thought. “A strange

fellow,” he told himself.

They smoked in silence for a while. Then, without opening his eyes,

Ormarr said:

“It is a long time since I saw my home. Funny thing, not feeling

home-sick all these years. Can’t understand it just now. I never longed

for home till this winter. As soon as the summer comes I must go back.

Like to come too?”

“H’m—I don’t know. Iceland—the very name of it makes me shiver. Anyhow,

you’ll have to redeem that fur coat you gave me—extravagant person that

you are.”

“But it’s not so cold at home. Not in the summer, at any rate. The

coldest thing about Iceland is its name. And the nights there—so

wonderfully calm and light they are in spring.... It’s a long time to

wait till the spring. I wish I were back home again now. I’ve never seen

a sky so blue and deep as there. Before I came to Denmark I had an idea

that in a flat country one would see more of the sky than at home, with

all the mountains and their shadows. But then the mountains are so far

away. And once you get there ... Aage, I would give all the forests in

the world, all the orchards and cornfields and flower gardens, for a

single mountain. But a real one, mind you, with huge rocky ridges, and

green plateaus, and snow at the top. Good heavens, man, to think that I

have one all to myself—yes, I own a mountain. I never thought of it

before. Can you understand how I ever could stay away from it all so

long? But I’m going back now—going home.”

“There’s the concert first, don’t forget—tomorrow. And you’re going to

be famous.”

“Tomorrow ... yes....”

Ormarr had sat up, resting on his elbow, while he spoke of his home.

Now, he threw himself back once more, as if exhausted, and lay with

closed eyes as before. For a few moments neither spoke.

“Aage,” said Ormarr at last, “I feel tired—deadly tired. I’ve been

idling here all day. Tomorrow? I feel as if tomorrow were already a

thing of the past.”

He got up, filled his glass and that of his friend.

“Drink! Aage, I’ve something to tell you. Just let me go on talking, and

don’t bother about it, I only want to get it out. What do you think I’ve

been seeing all the time, lying here with my eyes shut? This is no life

for me. I have been counting. It is my tenth winter here now. Ten years,

man—think! And today it seemed as if I had come yesterday. I have been

asleep—fast asleep. But it can’t go on. There’s something hurting me, a

sort of longing——Oh, I know it sounds all nonsense, but you needn’t

worry about that.... No, this won’t do. I don’t go on drinking and

enjoying life in this wasteful, silly fashion—and forgetting. I wasn’t

made to live like that. I was made to think, and to work. And now here

have I been living for ten years—yes, and working hard, I know—but all

for nothing. It means nothing at all, really. Famous? If I found myself

famous after tomorrow, I should be no better off than I am now. I’ve no

ambition of that sort any longer—not a scrap. I never realized it

before—it’s only just lately I’ve seen it. And think of dear old Abel

Grahl! Do you know, honestly, I believe he’s jealous—the dear old boy!

He’s fond of me, I know; and now that I’m on the eve of my ‘conquest,’

as he always says, he thinks of the time when he made his conquest—and

fate overtook him after. I’m sadly afraid that old trouble’s cropped up

again now with him. And after all, what is there to envy, anyway? What

sort of a future if I do succeed? The life of a flunkey—a menial in gold

lace, playing for money—and to whom? I’ve been studying my

fellow-creatures this winter—musical people—my audience-to-be.

Copenhagen’s not the world I know; but human beings are much the same

everywhere, I take it, though their looks and manners may differ

somewhat in detail. Grahl has been taking me about. He hates ‘society,’

I know, but he took it all up again for my sake—that’s the sort of man

he is. It all helps, he says. Oh, and you should have heard their talk,

their hard-and-fast opinions, and the views of the professional critics.

Sometimes I feel I simply can’t go on living. Simply can’t stand it.

What wretched caricatures we all are—myself included. No I’ve finished

with this sort of life. There’s not a thing in the world I care for now,

except to go back home. If only I could be sure _that_ was a genuine

feeling, and not another delusion. Don’t look down on me, old man—Heaven

knows, I’ve no great thoughts about myself just now. You know me well

enough to see that I’m not drunk. But I feel—oh, just worthless. All

these years—and living like this—it’s too contemptible. I feel as if I

hadn’t an atom of will-power left. Just sick and tired of everything ...

and longing, aching for something.... Good of you to listen so

patiently. Have a drink.”

Blad was silent for some time, and when at last he spoke it was in a low

voice.

“There’s something I should like to say to you,” he said quietly. “And

I’m half afraid to begin. I’ve been thinking a lot, and some of it I

mustn’t say at all. But I will say this: When we have been together

anywhere—out in the country, or on the sea, or in the town—anywhere, I

always had a feeling that we lived as it were on different levels, you

and I. To me, you were always the born leader; I felt if you took it

into your head to order me about, I should have to obey. Things seemed

somehow to belong to you. Then at other times, I could feel as if you

were a distinguished visitor—one can’t help these stray thoughts, you

know—as if Nature herself put on her best and did all she could to

please you—while I was just an ordinary person, not worth making a fuss

about. I belonged to her, as one of her children, and could stray about

unnoticed among the trees like any other creature in the forest; it

never came into my head to look on her in that gay lordly way of yours.

And sometimes it seemed you were the better off; sometimes that it was

better to be as I was. It’s all only fancies, of course, but still it

does prove one thing: that we are utterly different. I am quite content

to live an ordinary uneventful life; as long as I can ramble about in

Nature’s garden and cultivate the modest growths of my art, it is enough

for me. I don’t care for anything that calls for greater energy than I

generally give, whether it be the way of pleasure, or pain, or work.

I’ve no ambition worth mentioning. I can sit in my garden, and enjoy the

scent of the flowers, or go out in a boat, and watch the sunlight on the

water; walk in the woods in spring and see the delicate green of the

beech leaves against the sky—I am happy enough with such things. There

are heaps of little trifling things of that sort that please me every

day. But it’s all different with you. It may sound theatrical, perhaps,

but it’s as if you had mountains—glaciers and volcanoes—in your soul.

And I shouldn’t care to change with you—it’s all too big for me. But

then again, if you were like me, I shouldn’t care about you. You must

live and act in a different way; I see that. You could stand suffering

better than I; I’m sure of that. But I’m not quite sure that you have

the power of being really happy. Anyhow—well, you know I’m your friend,

and always will be.”

“I know that, Blad.”

Ormarr got up, switched on the light, looked through a bundle of

newspapers and found the one he was looking for. Nervously he turned the

pages till he came to the shipping intelligence.

“There is a boat leaving the day after tomorrow.”

He dropped the paper, walked up and down the room several times, shaking

his head defiantly, as if at his own thoughts, then threw himself down

in a chair. A moment later he glanced at his watch, and rose

reluctantly.

“It’s time I went round now—to Grahl. The final rehearsal....”

* * * * *

In the big room where, ten years before, a curious figure of a boy in

ill-fitting clothes had called on him for the first time, Abel Grahl sat

at the piano accompanying the later stage of that same youth—now a

slender, pale-faced young man. They were playing a nocturne—the only one

of Ormarr’s own compositions on the morrow’s program. The theme was that

same one of the sunset with which Ormarr had introduced himself to his

master, only the technique was different.

Ormarr looked out through the window as he played, seeing nothing in

particular. As long as he held his violin, his soul lived only in the

magic world of melody that flowed from the strings.

Grahl’s accompaniment was strangely absent and mechanical. His figure

was bowed at the shoulders, and the black coat he wore accentuated his

thinness. He had aged much of late, and looked haggard and worn. Now and

again he turned his head towards his pupil with a searching glance.

When they had been through the whole of the programme, Grahl remained

seated at the instrument, striking one chord repeatedly, his eyes fixed

on nothing. The corners of his mouth dropped in a bitter smile. Then,

turning to Ormarr, he said in a queer, strained voice:

“Play that Andante once more, will you? Not that you need it—it couldn’t

be better. Just play it for me.”

And Ormarr played.

When he had finished, Grahl spoke, without looking up, as to himself:

“That was one of the things I played at my first concert. I did not play

it as well as you—no, not half so well. I doubt if Beethoven himself

ever played it better!”

For a while he sat with bowed head. Then raising himself suddenly, he

ran his fingers over the keyboard, and the gay tones of the “Valse

d’Espagne” danced like demons out upon the silence that had followed

Beethoven’s Andante.

Ormarr, who had been standing deep in thought, looked round with a

start; Grahl rose from the music-stool with a harsh laugh.

“A fancy of mine,” he said shortly, “to let Waldteufel loose on the

heels of Beethoven.”

He went across to the table, lit a cigar, and slipped into an

easy-chair.

Ormarr followed his movements intently. There was a strange expression

in his eyes, and the lines on his forehead and face seemed deeper than

usual.

Grahl paid no heed to him; he was smoking, and evidently occupied with

his own reflections. When Ormarr moved, he looked up, and pointed to a

chair.

“Sit down, Ormarr; not time to go home yet. Take a cigar.”

“Thanks.”

Ormarr took a cigar and lit it, covertly watching the expression of the

old man’s face.

“Sit there, Ormarr, where I can see you; that’s it. I was thinking,

there’s not much left of the peasant lad who came up here that morning

ten years ago. The eyes are the same, yes; and a look about the

face—I’ve noticed it the last few days.... Anyhow, it was as well I

didn’t send you away that day after all.”

Ormarr felt his cheeks flush, and bent forward in his chair.

“My dear Grahl, I feel myself a man now in most things, but there’s one

thing that has stuck to me since I was a child. I never could thank any

one in words. And I don’t know how to thank you in any other way.... I’m

sure no father ever did more for his son than you have done for me. I

hardly know how any one could do more for a fellow-creature than you

have.”

“Oh.... And what is this, if you please, if not thanking me in words?”

“You know yourself how much I owe you—you know I don’t exaggerate things

as a rule....”

“There, Ormarr, that’s enough. You must have seen what it meant to me

all along—the joy and delight of teaching you. No more pupils now for

Abel Grahl. You are my last—and my greatest. If I could find one greater

still...? I don’t think I shall live to be roused from my bed a second

time at six in the morning by a lad with his fiddle in a calfskin bag

and the promise of fame in his eyes.”

Ormarr laughed at the thought. A moment later he was serious once more.

And Grahl went on:

“You’ll go travelling about the world, giving concerts here, there, and

everywhere. I wish I were strong enough to go with you.”

Ormarr laughed again, but without heartiness.

“Grahl, my dear master, why not? Come with me! Nowadays, with trains de

luxe and floating palaces, it will be pleasant as could be. And at least

I should have some one to play for.”

“I ... to travel ... after all? It’s late in the day ... and not exactly

the way I had once thought....”

Ormarr sprang to his feet, but sat down again.

“Grahl, you are my friend—the best I have, I think. I must tell you

something now—something that has happened to me. Listen: I do not care

about the concert tomorrow—it means nothing. Fame is nothing to me now.

To tell the truth, I shudder at the thought of going about playing for

people I do not know, and should not care to know. Strangers—foreigners!

It makes me a piece of common property; one of the artistic wonders of

the world. And then to see my name, my portrait, on huge posters

everywhere ... read interviews with myself, criticisms of my art—Grahl,

the thought of it sickens me. I won’t—I can’t—oh, if only I could get

out of it now, before....”

“Why, boy ... Ormarr, my dear lad, what is this? what has come over you?

Surely you do not—you could not think of throwing everything away

now—burning your ships? Ten years of hard work—yours and mine.... If

there were any risk, I could understand perhaps your being afraid ...

but as it is ... you have only to show yourself—one first appearance,

and the thing is done. No, Ormarr, you could not draw back now. It would

be madness—nothing else.”

“That may be. But none the less, that is how I feel. I have lost all

desire to show myself, to appear in public. I do not care for any

‘conquest.’ I could do it, I know. But that means that in reality I have

already conquered. It is satisfaction enough to me; I need not show

myself on a platform to utter strangers who have paid so much for the

right to hear me play this or that. Every item on the programme as a

right—and extras in return for their applause. No—if you cared, I should

not mind playing to you every day, for hours together—to you alone. Or

to any others that I cared about. Come back with me to Iceland. I will

look after you, be a son to you, take care of you, in every way. But

spare me this; release me from the burden of that concert and all that

should come after it.”

“Ormarr—you must be out of your senses.”

“Whether or no, I am what I am. And I can’t be otherwise. I am furious

with myself too; blind fool that I have been—oh, you don’t know what I

feel at this moment.”

Ormarr noticed that Grahl was feeling for his watch.

“Don’t,” he put in hastily. “I don’t want to see any one tonight. I

can’t stand it. I don’t know what may happen....”

Abel Grahl rose from his seat. When he spoke, his voice was calm and

earnest.

“Ormarr, remember I stand to you in a father’s stead. You cannot get

away from this. Where is my son, who had grown to be a man of the world?

We had grown out of stage fright, nerves and all that nonsense, surely?

Tomorrow is our concert. We must not forget it, we must be there in

time. But beyond that, we need not give the matter a thought.

There—that’s the way to look at it. Don’t forget.”

Ormarr paled slightly.

“Very well—have it your own way.”

A car was heard hooting outside, and they went out.

* * * * *

Ormarr stood on the platform of the Concert Hall, playing the Andante

from Beethoven’s Sonata. This was the third item on the programme. The

first had been a show piece, from Tchaikowsky, which had given him an

opportunity of displaying his extraordinary skill and masterly

technique. After the second, his own nocturne, it seemed as if the

applause would never end. The audience was delirious. The atmosphere of

the nocturne, with its melancholy depths and wild heights of joy, its

bewildering beauty and strange transitions, moved the dense crowd as if

by magic.

The appearance of the young artist had fascinated his listeners from the

outset. Despite the air of superiority and composure, there was nothing

of arrogance in his bearing. At the first entry of this young man, with

the pale, lean face and the half-closed eyes that yet seemed to see

everything, and see through every one, the audience felt the magnetism

of an extraordinary personality.

Success was certain, inevitable. From the very first, the audience had

surrendered unconditionally.

As he stood there playing, Ormarr appeared quite calm and collected. Not

the slightest tremor of the body, no trace of expression on his smooth

face, betrayed the struggle raging within. But Ormarr himself knew that

it was merely a question of time; up to a certain point he might control

himself—after that, the deluge.

Two men there were, however, among those in the hall, who suspected

something of the strain it cost him to keep his rebellious temperament

in check: they knew that his apparent calm was but a mask. The two were

Blad and Abel Grahl, sitting together in the front row.

The serene progress of the Andante was undisturbed by any sound from

those in front. Ormarr felt as if his listeners were turned to stone,

and his playing was caressing them like a gentle breeze.

Then suddenly there came over him an irresistible desire to jerk them

back to life—to startle them, set them fluttering and cackling like a

pack of frightened fowls. To tear at their sense, to render their

innermost souls, to fling at them, like a fiery volcanic eruption,

something unexpected and terrible—something unheard of.

In a fraction of a second it had come. A bursting of all bonds that

chained his ungovernable mind: reason, duty, ambition, the fear of

consequences. It was as if in a moment he flung from him the prejudices

and traditions in which men are wont to dress, and stood there before

them in primeval nakedness.

He saw Grahl trying to rise: trying to prevent something he knew was

coming....

And half unconsciously, as if it had been the most natural thing in the

world, he plunged blasphemously from Beethoven’s Andante into

Waldteufel’s “Valse d’Espagne.”

Ormarr was cool and calm as ever, but pale as a ghost. The music raced

away madly into the waltz, laughing and crying in complete abandon.

A feeling of something uncanny seized the audience for a second; as if

icy waters had overwhelmed them in flood, depriving them of movement,

suffocating all cries for help.

Grahl rose to his feet, and opened his mouth as if to cry aloud. Then he

fell back in his chair, without a sound.

Suddenly Ormarr stopped playing; his arms fell to his sides, and he

stood on the platform laughing—a tremulous, uneasy laugh. Then he turned

and fled.

A storm of shouts and noise rose up from the audience. The silence of

enraptured listeners had given place to the confusion of a disturbed

ant-hill. Some questioned, others raged, a few broke down entirely.

“Scandalous!” “Mad!” sounded through the din. Several minutes passed

before any thought of leaving. Then suddenly the word “dead” began to

circulate. And gradually the crowd grew quiet, and dispersed, moved to

forgiveness by the thought that the madman had ceased to live. Only a

few were aware that it was not the player who was dead.

* * * * *

Ormarr reached home and let himself in—not until then did he notice that

he had walked all the way without hat or overcoat, still carrying his

violin.

After all, what did it matter? His mind was in a state of utter

indifference to everything; completely numbed.

His shoes were muddy, his dress coat wet through; he raised his hand to

his forehead and wiped the rain from his face.

His throat was parched; he felt nervous and ill. He fumbled about for

whisky and a syphon, drained one glass at a draught and poured out

another. Then, drenched and dirty as he was, he threw himself down on

the divan, without a thought of changing his wet things.

The blood throbbed in his temples; there was not a clear thought in his

mind. When he shut his eyes, he felt as if a wheel were tearing round at

a furious rate inside his head.

The door bell rang—it was Blad.

“Grahl is dead!”

Blad threw down Ormarr’s hat and coat, which he had been carrying; he

himself was out of breath, and overpowered with emotion.

“Grahl—dead?” Ormarr sat bowed forward, his hands clasped, his eyes

staring vacantly before him. Blad stood watching him for a moment. Then

he burst out:

“You—you must be mad!”

“I suppose so—yes.”

“And—you don’t care in the least?”

Ormarr made no reply.

“Think of the scandal of it all!”

Still Ormarr said nothing.

“And then—Grahl! That ought never to have happened.”

“I suppose not.”

“Do you mean to say it is all nothing to you—that you have ruined your

own career for ever, and killed Grahl—your friend—your teacher? After

that—oh, but you must be insane, there’s no other word for it.”

“Very well, then.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Drunk? No, I wasn’t drunk. But do let’s talk of something else. It’s no

good discussing this any more. It’s done, and can’t be undone. I am

going back home—to Iceland. There’s a boat leaving tomorrow. Take off

your coat, won’t you—you’re going to stay now? Mix yourself a drink,

man, do.”

“No, thank you.” Blad spoke coldly, flinging out his words, and pacing

the floor excitedly.

“Have I hurt you too? I can’t think how I could have done that. Surely

you can’t feel hurt at my being what I am, and doing what I can’t help

doing? I asked you to stay just now, because I thought you were my

friend. If you are no longer my friend, then you had better go.”

“Really, I almost fancy you would like to turn me out now because I

decline to drink with you to Grahl’s happy decease. By Heaven, you do

not deserve that I should stay.”

“Oh, you damned fool—who’s talking about what I deserve!”

Blad stopped suddenly, as if paralysed by the word. Then in a voice

heavy with emotion, he said:

“Ormarr—that was the first ugly word I have ever heard you use. And it

was said to me—to me!”

“To you—yes. But you made me angry, you know. Up to then, I was only

miserable—and so hopelessly tired. And here you are reproaching me for

things I could not help. And really, you know, when you are so utterly

foolish as to measure me by your standards, I can’t call you anything

else. I don’t repent what I did tonight. How can a man repent things

that _happen_—things over which he had no control whatever? But I do

repent—or at least, I am sorry—for what happened before—for what brought

it all about. Grahl was my friend and benefactor—and yet I cannot feel

any grief at his death. I simply can’t think at all at the present

moment; haven’t a single atom of emotion in me. I’m just a wilderness.

Oh, if you knew what I am suffering now—death would be welcome; a

relief. There’s just one thing that grows and grows in me now—the need

to go back, to go home.”

“And your father—what will he say, do you think?”

“My father? I don’t know. I wonder what he will say. It will be a big

disappointment to him, this. How could I ever have done it? I don’t

understand myself now—it all seems so ridiculous; to lose control of

oneself like that.”

Blad started.

“Then—then you didn’t do it on purpose?”

“Good heavens, no! Did you—could you think that of me? I suppose you

fancied it was a new sort of advertising trick—well, why not?”

“Ormarr—forgive me. But you were so cool about it all—I never

thought....”

“All right, never mind. We won’t worry about it any more. I’m dead

tired. Stay here tonight, won’t you? I’m not going to bed; no good

trying to sleep. Stay and see me off; the boat goes at nine. Thanks,

that’s good of you. Get some sleep, if you can, yourself. There’s a lot

of things I’ll want you to do for me while I’m away. Send me—no ... no,

I won’t have any of these things here. You can take them over—keep what

you care about and sell the rest. I want to forget these years—as far as

I can. Though I’ve learned much in the time—and paid dearly for it. Now

I am going home—going home to Iceland, and then ... what next, I

wonder?”

CHAPTER V

It was a bright wintry day when Ormarr, watching from the captain’s

bridge, saw his native land rise snow-clad from the blue-green sea

against a high, clear sky. The captain noticed that the fur-clad man who

had been up on the bridge since early that morning to get the first

glimpse of land, seemed strangely moved at the sight of it. Well, it was

none of his business....

Never before had Ormarr seen Iceland rising thus out of the sea; he had

but a dim notion of the grandeur of the sight. Unconsciously, he had

always thought of Iceland in the green of spring or summer, and had

looked forward to seeing it so on his return. Being winter, of course,

there would be snow. But he had never thought to see it all so white and

clean and brilliant as now.

A vague joy filled him as he looked; he felt that his soul was come of

the race of those great mountains, as of a line of kings.

Iceland—his country! Like a cathedral, a consecrated pile of granite,

pure and holy in the seas of the far north. And the snow—how he loved

it! And the rocks, the hills and valleys ... the brooks and streams,

sleeping their winter sleep now, under the ice. And fire too, the

marvellous, merciless fire, smouldering quietly in its lava bed, yet

strong enough to melt the ice of a hundred years in less than a minute

and hurl it in huge floods of boiling water and redhot rocks and lava

down the mountain-side, through the valleys, out into the sea. What did

it care for men, or their goods or their lives! All had to die. And

better to die by fire or ice than on a bed of sickness. Far better to

die young in some mighty upheaval than to drag palsied bones through a

dreary wilderness of old age.

Ormarr smoothed his brow.

Why think of dying now? He was still young, and fit for action. Yet if

Mother Iceland should think fit to crush him to his death in her

embrace, well, he was ready. Well for him, perhaps, to find death on her

icebound, fiery heart, if the road of life proved too wearisome.

Strange thoughts—was he mad, after all? He was thinking now as he had

done so often when a child. But his dreams had changed. Then, Iceland

had been the starting-point of his imaginings; it had been as a weight

at his heel, keeping him in bondage, holding him back from all that he

thought made life worth living. Now it was changed—now all his dreams

turned towards it, centred round it—Iceland now was his home. Home? No,

he had no home anywhere on earth. Yet he felt drawn towards it none the

less; longing for his country....

But what was this—Iceland—hovering above him, looking down at him—would

she no longer receive him? Was he her child no more? Had the world worn

away the marks by which his mother had known him?

Foolishness—his brain was running wild. And yet—how was it with him,

after all? Was it not true that he was unworthy of love—a failure,

self-condemned?

Iceland, towering in shining armour, in glittering floes and spotless

mantle of snow. And one coming to her from the outer world, with the

dirt of alien countries on his feet, and the pain and weariness of the

world in his heart. Her sacred places were no longer open to him now;

closed, locked; the keys hidden far away, not there. Perhaps in the

place whence he had come, perhaps far distant, on some other continent.

Or hidden, maybe, on the other side of life.

Iceland! As he watched the land rise from the cold blue waves, he felt

that he, who once had been her child, was no longer worthy to be so. He

had sinned in coming back at all. And he vowed in his heart to set out

once more in quest of the key that might unlock its holy places to him

once more. Whatever happened, he must go away again. And if he could not

find what he sought, then there could be no return. Only let him first

breathe the air here for a little while, tread the soil that had been

his father’s—men who had never shamed their native land.

Again he smoothed his forehead—the movement had become a habit with him

whenever he wished to check or change a train of thought. And he laughed

harshly.

“Well, Ormarr Ørlygsson, my friend and brother,” he thought to himself,

“this time you are certainly mad ... mad beyond cure ... caught in the

act—hysteria pure and simple.”

He sighed deeply—there was an ache at his heart.

“What is it?” he thought. “If I go on like this ... if I let my thoughts

and fancies play at will like this, I shall end as a lunatic: lose all

control over myself, and be shut up somewhere—a pleasant prospect! Or at

best, be allowed to go about at home in a living death: a beast with

instincts and no soul, on the place I was born to rule. And father—to

see his son an object of pity or contempt.... No: I must get away now,

before something happens. Better perhaps not to land at all, but go on

round the coast, and back with the steamer to Copenhagen.

“Well, we shall see. Most likely it would be the wisest thing to do. On

the other hand, it would be cruel to father....

“Wait and see. Let me at least feel the soil of my own country under my

feet: touch the snow, drink its water, and breathe its air—satisfy

myself that it is not a vision merely, no fairy tale, but a reality.”

At the first port Ormarr went ashore. He felt happy as a child, and

laughed and joked with the crew. And when the boat neared the pier, he

waved his hand to the crowd there, though he did not know a soul among

them. They shrank back a little at the gay familiarity on the part of a

stranger—but Ormarr did not care.

He set out on foot to explore the neighbourhood, a poor enough place it

was. It was only with an effort that he restrained himself from walking

up to the windows of the little houses and looking in, or knocking at

the doors, just to breathe the atmosphere of a home in his own country.

On an open space some boys were racing about playing snowballs. This was

too much for Ormarr; before he knew it, he was in the thick of the

fight, and in a moment he had all the lads on top of him. With shouts

and laughter they pelted him from all sides, and ended by fairly burying

him in the loose snow.

The boys stood around laughing heartily when at last, gasping for

breath, he emerged; this was a first-rate playmate that had suddenly

appeared from nowhere. Eager queries were hurled at him.

A tall, freckled peasant lad came up and asked his name, others equally

inquisitive put their questions without giving him time to reply to the

first. Was he from the steamer just come in? Where had he come from?

From Copenhagen? What had he been doing there? Was he going on with the

steamer again? If so, he would have to hurry; the second whistle had

already gone.

And the whole crowd followed him down to the harbour, two of the smaller

boys taking each a hand. When he gave them some small coin, they decided

that he must be the new Governor at the very least, and felt some

tremors at the disrespectful manner in which they had treated such a

personage.

As the boat rowed off to the steamer, they stood on the pier waving

their caps, and stayed there, waving and shouting as the vessel moved

off.

Ormarr felt unspeakably grateful for this welcome from his country—a

welcome of smiles, and snow, and youth; the glowing warmth that was in

its element amid the biting cold. He felt himself akin to these lads,

with their hands and faces warm and wet from perspiration and melting

snow; who rolled about in the snowdrifts despite their clothing, braved

the cold and the roughness of the elements, enjoying themselves in the

depth of an arctic winter as well as in any tropical summer heat. They

had no idea of modern precautions against climate.

There they stood, waving to him, acknowledging him as one of their own,

never dreaming that he had been about to drift away into an artificial

life that nursed the frailties of the body regardless of health, until

the body became a thing to loathe, unless the soul itself were cynically

hardened.

This was the moment for action, the time to pull oneself together and

decide; here was the way to follow—follow it!

But first of all, to find the right way.

Ormarr felt now that he could go back to his father. Could tell him all,

confess that he had chosen a wrong path, a way whereby his body might

have passed unscathed, but his soul never—it was never meant that the

two should be divided. He must rest and think for a while and find a new

road.

Once more Ormarr had climbed to the bridge, and remained there till the

steamer touched at the next port. It would be a couple of days before he

could reach home.

The day wore away, and night came down, but it was still quite light.

The moon was high, right over the land, its white glow hovering over the

landscape and giving it an air of unreality, like a spell that held all

things in the bonds of sleep. The ship itself, chained to a silver beam,

was the captive of this enchanted country, for all that it kept on its

course; sooner or later, it seemed, the time would come when it must

crash on a rocky coast.

Ormarr turned from the moon, forgetting the base designs which he had

just attributed to its dull red bridge of rays. He looked at the

stars—and suddenly he remembered the summer nights at home, when he had

lain out among the hay in the fields, unable to draw his eyes from the

twinkling golden points of light.

The northern lights flickered and faded, and showed up anew; like fiery

clouds, appearing suddenly on one horizon, to vanish in a flaming trail

behind another. Ormarr loved them—their restlessness, their capricious,

fantastic shapes, the play of mood through every imaginable shade of

colour—it was a silent musical display of heavenly fire.

* * * * *

Next day, the captain and Ormarr were alone on the bridge. Each was

occupied with his own thoughts, and both were gazing towards the shore.

The captain broke the silence.

“See there, Hr. Ørlygsson—that ring of mist there round the peak. Now,

mist, I should say, is white as a rule, but looking at it there, against

the snow, it looks just grey.”

Ormarr made some brief reply; he was studying the face of the little

Danish captain.

The latter spoke again:

“I don’t know if you know this part of the country at all. When we round

that point just ahead, you will see one of the strangest fjords all

round the coast, though that’s saying a good deal. Rocks sticking up out

of the sea, sharp as needles some of them, and some all tumbled about in

groups; some look like houses, and there are a few that make gateways,

as it were, real arches, that you can take a ship through if you like.”

“Then we shall be in very soon, I suppose—and up to time for once.”

The little Dane drew himself up stiffly, glanced coldly at Ormarr, and

said:

“Begging your pardon, sir, my ship is always up to time.”

“Why, then, it is I who must ask your pardon, Captain Jantzen.”

“Always excepting pack ice and being hung up by a gale,” added the

captain in a milder tone. “Otherwise, I admit you’re right about being

up to time generally—my ship’s an exception, that’s all. I put it

plainly to the owners: either give me a time-table that I can keep to,

or find another skipper. It’s a point of honour with me, as you might

say. As a matter of fact, there was another Iceland boat once came into

port on the day fixed—only it was just a month late.”

The captain laughed at his own jest, and Ormarr joined in. Then Captain

Jantzen went on:

“Really, you know, it is a shame that there should be such a wretched

service of steamers in these waters. There are several companies, I

know, but they simply agree that there’s no sense in competition, so

they keep up freights, and run their ships as they please. You may often

have to wait weeks for a boat, and then find the sailing’s cancelled for

some reason or other. Yes, there’s a chance for a man with energy and

capital, that’s certain.”

Ormarr started at the other’s words; it was as if a mist faded from

before his eyes; here before him was a chance to redeem himself.

He turned to the captain and looked at him searchingly; a good man, by

the look of him, and with determination in his face. Suddenly he noticed

that the man lacked one finger on his left hand—strange, Abel Grahl too

had lost a finger. The coincidence seemed to form a bond between himself

and the captain. Fate, perhaps—why not?

He shook his head, smiling at himself for the superstition.

Nevertheless, he asked the captain:

“Ever taken a turn with Fate, Captain Jantzen?”

The captain smiled, a mirthless smile that might have been a setting of

his teeth.

“I should think so,” he said, with an air of definite certainty, as if

answering question about a harbour he knew blindfolded. “And if you

haven’t, I’ll give you a bit of advice: take it by the horns straight

away; don’t wait on the defensive, attack at once. There’s this about

it: when luck favours a man, and he’s sound enough not to get spoiled by

it at once, sure enough, Fate will try to get a foot on his neck.”

He stretched out his left hand towards Ormarr, showing the index finger

missing, and went on:

“It cost me that. I was a deck hand on a fishing-boat at the time,

though I knew the sea, and had many a rough turn with it, and saved more

than one from drowning. And that’s a thing the sea won’t forgive. One

day I was alone on the foredeck, getting the anchor ready, when there

was a hitch in the cable. And then a thing happened that I’ve never

known before or since—my feet slipped sheer away from under me, as if

some one had pulled them. I came down headlong, and the anchor tore away

to the bottom of the sea, taking me with it. My finger was caught

between two links of the cable—there was no getting it free. I thought

to myself, ‘Not this time, anyway,’ and managed to get at my knife, and

hacked it off. It didn’t seem to hurt much while I was in the water—but

when I came up—the men—believe me or not, as you will, but they started

back when they saw my face. I hurried down below—I had a sort of feeling

what it was. And I tell you, sir, there was the mark of death in my face

when I looked; the mark Fate puts on a man before handing him over. And

it was twenty-four hours before it passed off.”

Captain Jantzen laughed.

“Since then, Fate’s left me alone. Maybe she never found out how I’d

cheated her. And if she has forgotten, why, maybe I shall live to be an

old man after all.” And as if repenting his levity, the little captain

became serious once more.

“All the same, it’s not right to joke about that sort of thing.”

Ormarr had listened with interest to the captain’s story. When he had

finished, he was silent for a moment, then asked:

“How long have you been captain of ‘Bjørnen,’ Captain Jantzen?”

“Why, it’ll be twelve years this spring.” And in a tone of some

resignation he went on:

“It’s not likely I’ll have her for another dozen years. Though I’d like

to. She’s a fine boat, and somehow we sort of belong to one another. But

the owner’s getting on now, and his health’s not what it might be. And

no sons. I fancy the other shareholders are not quite pleased with

things as it is.”

Ormarr walked up to the captain, and looking straight at him, asked

abruptly:

“What about buying them out?”

Jantzen started, and looked inquiringly at Ormarr.

“I mean it.”

“Well—yes, I dare say. It’s a limited company. The biggest shareholder

is the owner—and if any one were to buy up all the other shares on the

quiet, well, there’s no saying....”

Ormarr and the captain seemed suddenly to have become remarkably

intimate with each other—so, at least, it seemed to the others on board.

They remained for a long time in the captain’s cabin, bending over a map

of Iceland, discussing routes, tariffs, and traffic in a half-whisper.

They talked of nothing but how many vessels and what size would be

needed if one company were to take over the whole of the goods and

passenger traffic between Iceland-Denmark, Iceland-Norway, and

Iceland-Great Britain.

It was late when Ormarr shook hands with the captain and went to his

bunk, with the parting words:

“Then the first thing you have to do is to buy up all the shares on the

market. After that, get the old man to sell his holding—but to me and no

one else!”

* * * * *

The following morning, Ørlygur à Borg was standing on the borders of his

land, deep in thought. He had dreamed a strange dream the night before,

and was trying hard to remember the details. One thing only stood out

plainly in his memory. He had been standing on this very spot, a little

hill just outside Borg, one day towards the end of summer. And there he

had fought—with what, he could not say. But it was against something

stronger than himself, something which would overpower him unless

Ormarr, his son, came to his aid. Then suddenly he had seen a viking

ship rounding the point, steering straight up the fjord. The sight of

the vessel gave him new strength; he knew that Ormarr was coming to help

him, and the ship was sailing faster than any he had ever seen.... Here

the dream had ended abruptly.

Ørlygur stood on the hill, trying hard to recall more of the vision. As

if to aid his memory, he looked out in the direction of the fjord....

A steamer was rounding the point.

Ørlygur à Borg lost no time; he ran to the stables, and saddled his

horse. He was about to saddle another in addition, but checked

himself—possibly it was only an important message. Anyhow, instead of

mounting, he had a sleigh brought out, and drove off towards the

snow-covered valley at full speed, reaching the trading station just

before “Bjørnen” came in.

Ormarr was not a little surprised to find his father among the crowd of

people gathered on the shore. Most of those present had recognized

Ormarr where he stood on the bridge, and there was a general surprise at

his appearance. No one had expected him. Only his father seemed to

regard his homecoming as natural, and showed no sign of astonishment.

Ormarr was in high spirits and full of pleasant anticipation; he shook

hands right and left. Ørlygur found it hard to conceal his emotion at

the meeting.

Ormarr introduced Captain Jantzen to his father, but the latter spoke

only a few words to the captain; he seemed intent on getting home

without delay, where he could have his son to himself.

Before taking his seat in the sleigh, Ormarr took the captain aside:

“Remember,” he said, “you must get everything ready beforehand. First of

all, a detailed scheme and tariff rates, for our calculations. I shall

be here all winter. After that, I am going to England and France, to get

the money. I shall get it, never fear. Anyhow, I shall see you next

summer in Copenhagen. And then we can set to work in earnest. Be ready

for a struggle when the time comes—it will take some doing, but we can

do it. _Au revoir._”

On the way out to Borg, the horse was allowed to choose its own pace;

father and son were too engrossed in their talk to trouble about

anything else.

Ørlygur could not quite understand his son’s attitude towards music and

fame—possibly because Ormarr himself was loth to lay bare all the

trouble of his mind. Moreover, he felt a different man already, far

healthier in mind and body, after the last few days, as if separated by

a wide gulf from the Ormarr who had left Copenhagen after the scandal at

the Concert Hall, a broken man, to seek rest and idleness in his own

country.

Ørlygur could not altogether grasp his son’s changed attitude towards

the question of his musical career, which had cost ten years of his life

and several thousand pounds. But he thoroughly understood and approved

of his new plan for a better and cheaper and more reliable service of

steamers between Iceland and abroad.

Ormarr pointed out the advantage of having an independent national

steamship service, and Ørlygur at once perceived the possibilities of

the scheme for furthering the development of Iceland commerce and

industry. The idea of excluding other countries from participating here

appealed to him, and gained his entire support for the scheme. The very

thought thrilled the old chieftain’s heart. Ay, they deserved no better,

those slack-minded, selfish traders—they would only be reaping the

results of their own shortcomings. They should no longer be allowed to

monopolize trade, send up prices, make unreasonable profits, and do what

they liked generally. There would be an end of their ill-found,

ramshackle vessels, coming and going at their own convenience without

the slightest regard for the public or their own advertised times. It

was war—and he rejoiced at it. No question but that the people of Borg

must win in the end.

As they were nearing home, Ormarr said:

“I am going to stay here this winter, father, before I set out

again—Heaven knows how long it may be before I come back after that. I

should like to live to enjoy one more spring here in Iceland. But after

that, I must go abroad; work, work. It will take best part of the

summer, I reckon, to raise the money—it will need a lot of money.”

Ørlygur gazed thoughtfully at the landscape, and answered:

“Well, well—I suppose you are right.”

For a while no sound was heard but the beat of the horse’s hoofs and the

creaking of the sleigh. Then Ørlygur said in a half-whisper:

“But—we have some money here, you know, ourselves.”

Ormarr looked at his father keenly, and after a moment’s thought he

said:

“Look here, father, I will tell you what I have thought of doing about

the money part of the business. I want to get the money without offering

shares. It will be difficult, I dare say. But I must be independent

here; I cannot bear to be bound by considerations of credit, or other

men’s interests, and that sort of thing. It would spoil the whole thing.

The business must be my property; I will not have a thing that can be

ruined by others after I have built it up. But if I should be unable to

get the capital in the way I want it—why, then, I may come to you.

Provided, of course, I can be sure of running no risk in the investment.

I owe you too much already.—My inheritance, you say? I have not come

into the property yet. But suppose we put it that way; that I owe so

much to the estate. Anyhow, I owe it; it is money that must be paid, if

things do not go altogether against us. For the present, I must fall

back on you. But I shall not want much—nothing like what I have been

drawing up to now. And I am proud that you are willing to help me, when

I know I must have disappointed you by what I have done up to now.”

“I trust you, Ormarr,” his father said. “I do not quite understand, but

I feel sure you were obliged to act as you did. The rest does not

concern me. I know that you are honest and sincere, and I know that your

aim now is not a selfish one.”

For a time no more was said; both men seemed anxious to let it appear

that their minds were occupied with anything rather than with each

other. But for all his apparent calmness, Ormarr was overwhelmed with

gratitude to his father; to the fate that had given him such a father;

given him Borg for his inheritance, and suffered him to be born a son of

this little nation. Ørlygur, on his part, concealed beneath an

expression of indifference a feeling of pride and love for his son.

As the sleigh drove up in front of the house, all the servants came out

to welcome Ormarr, with a heartiness that showed plainly enough for all

their quiet manner. A tall girl of about thirteen, with lovely flaxen

hair flowing loose about her shoulders, appeared; this was Gudrun, a

daughter of Pall à Seyru, now adopted by Ørlygur. Ketill was nowhere to

be seen; Ormarr asked where his brother was.

Ørlygur smiled.

“Have you forgotten already? I wrote you in my last letter that I had

sent him to the school at Rejkjavik. He wants to enter the Church, I

understand. And I have been thinking that it would not be a bad idea

later on, if he took over the living here. If, then, you decide to live

abroad, as seems likely, and give up the estate here, then he could

manage that as well. For the present, I have my health and strength, and

hope to look after it myself for many years. We shall see.”

* * * * *

Of Ormarr’s stay at Borg that winter there is little to be said. Every

Sunday the people of the parish came up to hear him play the violin. He

was delighted to play to them, and touched at their grateful, almost

devotional, reception of his playing.

Spring came. The snow melted, and the rivers sent floods of muddy water

and blue ice towards the sea. A great unrest came over Ormarr, and he

left earlier than he had planned. So, after all, he missed the soft

purity of the Iceland spring, the beautiful white nights with the glow

of light on the fields and ridges pearled with dew. He missed the sight

of the butterflies fluttering in gaudy flocks, and the birds among the

little hillocks where their nests lay hid.

He had already felt the grip of spring at his heart when he saw the wild

swans and other fowl heading for the still frozen heights farther

inland, driving their wedges through the air, and crying aloud in joy of

life. And that same viking spirit which had driven his fathers before

him came on him now and drove him abroad in haste.

As he left Iceland for the second time, his father stood on the pier

with moist eyes. Ørlygur remained there, watching till nothing was to be

seen of the vessel but a few grey wisps of smoke. Then he tore himself

away, mounted his horse, and rode home, deep in thought.

If his blessing carried any weight, then surely matters would go well

with his son.

He slept but ill that night; he was sorry he had not prevailed upon

Ormarr to accept the money from him. It would have saved much trouble,

and, at any rate, a certain amount of time.

If only Ormarr had come to him, rather than procure the funds he needed

from others, and upon doubtful terms....

CHAPTER VI

The cold, pure light of an autumn morning found the electric lamps still

burning in a villa by the Sound. It was the residence of Ormarr

Ørlygsson, company director, a man well known in the business world, and

bearer of sundry decorations.

The light shone through the rose-coloured curtains of the French windows

opening on to a verandah facing the sea. The room was large; the

arrangement marked its owner as a bachelor. It served as office,

sitting-room, and study. The wall opposite the window was occupied

entirely by shelves filled with books: works of reference and lighter

literature. The other walls, each with a heavily curtained door, were

hung with paintings, all representing Icelandic landscapes. In one

corner was a heavy piece of bronze statuary, likewise Icelandic, “The

Outlaw.” The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet.

Ormarr sat at the big writing-table, his head buried in his hands.

Lights burned in a crystal globe above his head, and in a reading-lamp

at his elbow. The glow from the green shade of the latter, blending with

the light of day, created a weird effect.

Ormarr had been sitting at his desk the whole night, going through piles

of accounts and business papers.

For some time he sat thus, motionless. When at last he looked up, it was

plain that thirteen years of work as a business man had left their mark

on him. His face was thinner; his dark, rough hair was longer than was

customary among men on the bourse, and the fact gave a touch of

independence to his otherwise faultless appearance.

His expression was changed; the large, dark eyes were restless—a dreamy,

far-away look alternating rapidly with a glance of keen alertness. When

alone, his look varied continually with his varying moods, but in the

presence of others he kept rigid control over his features; the severest

scrutiny could detect nothing of the workings of his mind. Two deep

furrows slanted down on either side the mouth, completing the impression

of resolute firmness combined with melancholy resignation and

bitterness.

As he looked round the room, his eyes betrayed the trouble in his mind.

He glanced deliberately at each of the things around him, works of art

and furnishings, as if in farewell, dwelling now and then on some single

item as if trying to fix it in his mind.

Gradually he began to realize that his first impression of the previous

day was correct—he was a stranger in his own place. And he shuddered at

the thought. Unconsciously he picked up the cable he had received the

day before, smoothed it out before him, and read it over with bitter,

scornful eyes.

“What a fool I have been!” he muttered. “I might have known....” And he

laughed—a choking, unnatural laugh, and rose slowly to his feet.

Languidly he drew back the curtain, opened the window, and stepped out

on to the verandah.

Leaning on the railing, he looked out over the shore, with the troubled

sea and the Swedish coast beyond. The view had calmed him often, but

there was no rest in it now; he looked at it all impatiently, no longer

able to find any comfort in visions.

All was changed now.

His clothes irked him; his hands were soiled with dust from the papers

he had been busied with; a general sense of bodily discomfort pervaded

him. And as if to escape from his emotional self, he left the room

hurriedly; a bath and a change of clothes would be something at

least....

* * * * *

The housekeeper received her master’s orders to serve lunch on the

verandah with some surprise. It was a way of hers to appear mildly

surprised at things and today there certainly seemed some reason for

astonishment: for thirteen years her master had never been at home to a

meal at that hour of the day—why was he not at the office as usual?

Ormarr’s manner, however, forebade all questioning, and she did not

venture to ask if anything were wrong.

Ormarr went to the telephone, and rung up the office, speaking coolly

enough.

“That you Busck? Good morning. Captain Jantzen there? Morning,

Captain.... No, nothing wrong, but something has happened. Yes ...

listen! You must hand over ‘Bjornen’ to the first mate this voyage....

What? Lose half an hour? Can’t be helped; I want you here. Come out here

at once, please, but first get the chief clerk to tell you what I want

done about the shares, and do as he says. Then out here to me as quick

as you can. I’ll tell you all about it when you arrive. Right—good-bye.”

A few minutes later the telephone bell rang. Ormarr took up the receiver

with a gesture of annoyance, but on recognizing the speaker’s voice, his

manner changed.

“Yes—yes. Morning, Ketill. Ill? No, not a bit. Are you both there? Well,

come out and have lunch with me instead. Don’t know what we’ve got in

the house, but come anyway. Eh? No, not a bit. I have been rather

busy—up all night.... No, never can sleep in the daytime. Right, then.

_Au revoir._”

* * * * *

Ketill, now getting on for thirty, was already in orders, and was to be

presented to the living of Hof in Hofsfjordur in the autumn, Sera Daniel

being about to retire on account of age.

The original plan had been that Ketill should have spent a few days only

in Copenhagen when going abroad in the spring, on his way to Switzerland

and Italy, returning _via_ England. But Ketill, who had preferred

staying at an hotel rather than at his brother’s, had soon found

friends, largely owing to his brother’s introductions. One of the

acquaintances thus made was that of a banker, Vivild, whose daughter

Alma had quickly captured Ketill’s heart.

His tour of Europe, then, came to consist of but a few short trips, with

Copenhagen as his headquarters. Ormarr had been surprised at this, but

his brother gave him no enlightenment as to the attraction which drew

him constantly back to the capital. Until one fine day Ketill announced

his engagement and forthcoming marriage.

Ormarr had always looked on Alma as a tender plant, that could never be

transplanted and live; the news surprised him. But he made no comment.

Without realizing it himself, he had been deeply in love with dainty,

sweet-natured Alma, but for no other reason apparently than a sense of

his own unworthiness, had said no word of it to her. And here was his

brother, holding the blossom himself, and tantalizingly inviting him to

admire its sweetness.

The part of brother-in-law was by no means a pleasant prospect to

Ormarr, but he reconciled himself to the thought.

Ketill—Sera Ketill, as we should now call him—was young and

good-looking, with a pleasant and genial bearing. At times Ormarr could

not help feeling that there was something a trifle insincere in his

brother’s geniality. Still, Ketill was a nice enough fellow to all

outward seeming, albeit a trifle stouter of build than need be.

There was never any exchange of confidence between the two brothers;

they knew, indeed, but little of each other. Ormarr was conscious of an

involuntary dislike of Ketill; he tried in vain to subdue the feeling;

it remained unaltered. Ketill, on the other hand, appeared not to notice

any lack of brotherly love and sympathy. Neither of the two men realized

that Ketill’s nature not only did not invite, but rendered impossible

any real confidence.

The first to notice this, albeit but vaguely to begin with, was Alma.

The discovery troubled her a little, but she let it pass.

From all appearances, the union was a promising one, and the wedding was

looked forward to by both parties with equal anticipation. The ceremony

was to take place on the day before Ketill’s entering upon his new

dignity, and the bride was to accompany him to their new home.

Alma and Ketill arrived at Ormarr’s house half an hour after Ketill had

rung up. Alma promptly went out to assist the housekeeper with the

lunch.

The brothers, standing by the writing-table in the sitting-room, lit

their cigarettes. Sera Ketill looked with unconcealed scrutiny at his

brother’s face, and with his usual affectation of heartiness said at

once:

“Well, if you’re not ill, you look precious near it. What’s gone wrong

now? Business?”

“That’s as you like to take it.”

“What do you mean by that? Nothing important, I suppose.”

“Important?—well, in a way, it is.” Ormarr passed the wire across to his

brother, who read it through.

“Well, what does it mean?”

“It means that since yesterday I am—a millionaire.”

“The devil you are—Heaven forgive me! Well, you are in luck. How did you

manage it? Can’t you tell a fellow how it’s done? A millionaire!...

Well, I’m.... Lord forgive me! It’s all right, I suppose?”

“Yes, it’s right enough.”

“Well.... And What are you going to do now? Extend the business ... new

routes?... If you take my advice, you’ll be a bit careful. Buy up the

land in Iceland—that’s a sound investment. Buy up Hofsfjordur.... What a

lucky devil!... Lord forgive me!... But what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, anyhow, you can do things in earnest now. Monopolize the trade of

Iceland. You control the traffic already; the people know you, and trust

you—that’s worth a lot in itself. They’re not an easy lot to win—that

way, but once you’ve got them ... if you manage things properly, you’re

all right there. Ormarr, you’re in luck. Look at me now—in orders. And

even if I get the estate.... The old man—father, I mean—he’s getting

childish already. Gives things away—money, live stock, food—you never

saw. And he’s struck off all outstanding debts the peasants owed

him—it’s whittling down the power of Borg to nothing. And we ought to

have kept it up. Ever since you paid back the money you had from him—it

wasn’t quite fair to me, you know, his letting you have all that—but

anyhow, since you paid him back, he seems to think he’s a millionaire,

and can throw money about as he likes. Well, well, I’m fixed up now, I

suppose. But you—millionaire, what are you going to do now?”

“I’ll tell you.... No, it’s no use trying to explain....”

“Yes, yes, go on. What is it? New speculations? I’m interested in that

sort of thing; go on.”

“No, it’s not speculation. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Don’t you believe it! When things turn out like they have done here. To

tell the truth—I’ve been thinking of a little flutter on my own account.

Old man Vivild’s put me on to a good thing ... but it seems you know the

trick of it, so....”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t. Stick to Vivild if you’re going in for

that sort of thing. He’s a sound man, and a clever one.”

“Well, well, as you please. But I can’t get over it.... A

millionaire!... the dev—— Lord forgive me!”

* * * * *

After lunch the three sat together in a corner of the garden—Ketill and

Alma side by side on a bench, Ormarr a little apart.

The conversation flagged somewhat; a few desultory attempts fell flat.

Suddenly Ormarr realized that his brother’s manner was different when

Alma was present. He had noticed something before ... a curious abrupt

change of mood, from lively jocularity to a sort of dreamy, thoughtful

silence. But it had never occurred to him that it was Alma that brought

about the change. Could it be a mask? In any case, the mask, if mask it

were, suited him a great deal better than his normal appearance.

And as he watched them, Alma with her brown hair and bright dark eyes

and Ketill with his heavy face and priestly air of calm, a feeling of

resentment rose in him against his brother.

“I love coming out here,” said Alma suddenly. “It’s so different to the

atmosphere at home—business.... Ugh.”

Ketill smiled. But Ormarr laughed and said:

“I should have thought one would feel more at home in the atmosphere one

grew up in. But, as a matter of fact, you are wrong about the atmosphere

here—it is all business really, and nothing else.”

“Father says you are not really a business man. And I think he is

right.”

“The facts would seem to prove your father wrong, Froken Vivild.”

“He says you are—extraordinary. And that you’ve a lucky sense.”

“Maybe. It comes to the same thing. I fancy success in business is

largely a matter of luck. Do you know what has helped me most all along?

Well, before I started in business, I was well known, in a way, from my

efforts in another direction. Not to put too fine a point on it—people

believed me mad. And, consequently, everything I set out to do was

regarded as more madness. It was the best thing that could have been—and

I’m very much obliged to the people who thought so....”

A little later, Ormarr saw his guests to the gate, and stood watching

them as they left, arm in arm.

“A lovely creature,” he thought. “The graceful way she walks.... But a

child, no more. And he—I wonder how he will treat her. I’m afraid she

will have a hard time of it with him. Perhaps when all’s said and done,

she would have been better off with me.”

He stood watching the dainty figure as it receded, noting the graceful

curves, and the mass of brown hair under the wide-brimmed hat.

“A dream,” he mused. “One of life’s lovely dreams....”

He closed the gate and walked up towards the house.

“No one to stop it ... life must run its course. _I_ dare not

interfere—I may be wrong. And—in my case, it is too late now.”

* * * * *

An hour later, Captain Jantzen was sitting in Ormarr’s room, in his

usual place, an arm-chair at one end of the writing-table.

Ormarr passed across a box of cigars, and rang for wine.

Captain Jantzen was obviously ill at ease.

“Well, sir,” he asked, “good news, I hope?”

“No, Jantzen; bad news.” Ormarr hunted out the telegram he had shown

Ketill, and passed it over. Jantzen read it through hurriedly, and

glanced up quickly at Ormarr.

“If I remember rightly, we’re on the right side here.”

“That is so.”

“Why, then—we are safe. This gives us a free hand now—we can cover all

outstanding loans, we can out-distance all competition.”

“Yes—and it puts me out of the game, Jantzen.”

“How? I don’t understand....”

“No, I’m afraid you’d hardly understand....”

“Well, sir, I confess as much. But there must surely be something behind

this—I don’t see....”

“Only that victory has put me out of action, that is all. Ever since I

started this thing, it has only been the difficulty of carrying it

through that kept me to it. Now that is disposed of, I collapse. I can’t

live in that fruitful sort of country where you’ve only to plough and

change your crops now and again—I can’t work at a thing that runs by

itself. It’s not only that it doesn’t interest me; I haven’t the power

of self-deception it requires. I’m perfectly aware of that. I feel at

the moment like a bow that has been strung and drawn to its limit, and

shot its bolt where it should. I’ve no use for repetition. And, take my

word for it, if luck has favoured me up to now—in business, I mean—it

would surely fail me after this. Once before in my life I have suffered

the defeat of victory. And then, I chanced on you—it was Fate that led

me to a new task; and with it, at the end, a new victory—a new defeat.

True, the result has been somewhat different this time. But it comes to

the same thing. I have done with the task—or it has done with me.”

Jantzen watched the speaker’s face intently; he remembered the pale

features of a younger man, who had stood with tears in his eyes, on the

bridge of his vessel, at the first sight of Iceland from the sea. It was

a face he had come to love—so strong it could be at times, and at times

so weak.

And a deep despondency, such as he had only known in lonely watches far

at sea by night, filled his heart.

Ormarr was absolutely calm and unmoved to all appearances; he seemed to

have no regrets. He emptied his glass and nodded to Jantzen.

“There’s no harm done, that I can see. What do you say to taking over

the management yourself, Jantzen?”

“Impossible. I could never look after a business like that—I’m not built

for it.”

“Nonsense, Captain. Don’t tell me you couldn’t run a line of steamers.

The idea! I suppose the truth of it is you’re unwilling to give up your

ship.”

“That’s true. I’ve captained ‘Bjørnen’ now for five-and-twenty years.”

“But the business is more important than a single vessel. Let’s stick to

the matter in hand—the business itself. I can no longer manage it

myself. And you are the only man I can trust to take over. You must take

it over. As for ‘Bjørnen’—we can easily find another man. But if the

business itself were now to pass into the hands of strangers, all our

work will have been in vain; we should, in fact, have done more harm

than good.—I suppose you will say that it is my duty to carry on. That’s

reasonable enough—as long as the course you propose is possible. But it

is not possible any longer. It is simply this: I can control myself only

to a limited degree; that you may take for a simple fact. And the limit

is reached. What I am to do now I do not know. First of all, I shall go

home—it is long since I was there. Anything in the shape of rest, or

interruption, is dangerous to me, and that is why I have not been home

to see my father for thirteen years. But something tells me that he

needs me now, though I have no idea in what way I can be of use. Never

mind. I am subject to my instincts; to defy them would be a crime

against myself—perhaps against a higher power. We are both of us

somewhat superstitious, you and I. Anyhow, to come to the point. You,

Captain Jantzen, will now acquire this business by purchase.”

“Purchase? Now you are joking. I might perhaps _manage_ the business, if

there’s no other way....”

“That won’t do. You must buy it outright. As to terms, I shall be your

only creditor, and you won’t find me a hard one to deal with.”

“But—by that arrangement, the management—the business itself—will be in

Danish hands.”

“Where did you learn your trade, Captain? On the coasts of

Iceland—working for a people not your own. And you will admit that you

have more than a little sympathy with that little island and its people,

obstinate though they may be at times. Also, it would be a good thing

for my countrymen to realize that they need not always look upon the

Danes as enemies.”

Ormarr took up his glass. “Well, here’s to the venture!”

Captain Jantzen’s hand trembled slightly, and he spilt a few red drops

on the costly carpet as he drank.

“Since you will have it so, why, let it be. But I’m sorry about

‘Bjørnen.’”

CHAPTER VII

One evening towards the end of summer, two people were seated in the

room at Borg which served Ørlygur as bedroom and sitting-room. They were

an old man, grey-haired and stooping, and a pale-faced young woman.

The last few years had left their mark on Ørlygur à Borg. The stately

bearing and alertness which had distinguished him in days gone by, had

given place to a listlessness and an expression of gloom. There was

little of the old masterfulness in the man who sat now on the edge of

the bed, staring at the ruddy flicker of a tallow candle. His eyes were

no longer keen and bright, but dull and spiritless, as at the present

moment, or at times wandering anxiously, as if seeking aid against some

threatening peril.

The young woman seated near him was finely built, with a wealth of

flaxen hair, but seemed in ill-health and troubled in mind. Her whole

bearing was one of resignation and despair. Her eyes were red with

weeping; dark rings showed up beneath them from the pallor of her

cheeks—the signs of restless nights and sad thoughts.

Twelve strokes from the big upright clock broke the silence, and

startled Ørlygur from his musings. He glanced at the bowed form of the

woman, and then at a letter which lay on the table.

Once more he conned the sentence which had brought such pain to himself

and his adopted daughter—as if to make sure there had been no mistake.

No, it was right enough: “I am engaged to a girl I met here this

summer ... Alma ... daughter of.... Married in a fortnight, just before

I leave, so you can expect us both....”

The letter was from his son Ketill.

And there, before him, sat the woman that same Ketill had ruined—and her

state would soon be evident to all.

Some time back the girl’s pale face and mournful bearing had moved

Ørlygur to question her, and he had learned the cause from her own

mouth. Runa, as she was called by all on the place, was at least as

deeply attached to Ørlygur as to her real father, Pall à Seyru. And it

had not been difficult for her to confide in him. The truth had come as

a terrible shock to the old man, but both had consoled themselves with

the thought that Ketill at least had no intention of leaving her thus

betrayed; that he would behave as an honourable man. If not—why, Ørlygur

would see that he did so.

But now, all unexpectedly, that consolation was destroyed, leaving a

dark future indeed ahead.

Runa’s trouble was not the only thing he had to bear; there were other

matters that seemed to bode no good. And all were more or less connected

with his son Ketill; Ketill, who was to inherit the estate and maintain

the honourable traditions of Borg.

To begin with, things had looked well enough; excellent, indeed, in

every way. The estate had grown richer since Ormarr had repaid the loans

made to him, and the whole trade of the district was in the hands of

Ørlygur’s trusted men. The place was flourishing—thanks largely to

Ørlygur’s magnanimity in cancelling debts that proved too much of a

burden—and the general state of affairs was healthy and promising. Then,

in addition to the good name which Ketill would inherit, there was his

position in holy orders. Altogether, the outlook for the family was one

of dignity and honour.

Now, things looked otherwise. Some months before, Ørlygur had begun to

learn something of Ketill’s true nature; his selfishness and meanness;

to hand over the estate to him seemed less advisable now than he had

thought. Still, it should doubtless be possible to make him realize the

duties and responsibilities of his position; to persuade him on matters

where any danger threatened.

But the new development had raised an issue of a far more serious

character. Once it were known abroad that the master of Borg—as Ketill

in time would be—had deliberately ruined a young girl,—a girl, moreover,

under the protection of his father’s roof,—and had thereafter married

another, probably for selfish considerations also, then the good name of

the family, jealously guarded and built up through centuries, would be

destroyed as by a flood. It seemed as if the fortunes of Borg were on

the verge of ruin.

Ørlygur thought of these things—and the idea of disinheriting Ketill, at

any rate as regarded succession to the estate, crossed his mind. If only

he himself could be sure of living long enough, then he might perhaps

make Runa or her child his heir. The child would after all be his own

grandchild, with the blood of his race in its veins.

But as he sat, his thoughts and plans faded to mere dreams and aimless

desires. The future was too hard for him to face.

Runa sat trying to pray, her lips moving without a sound, to frame the

opening sentence of the Lord’s Prayer.

The man she had loved was far away in a foreign land—at that very

moment, perhaps, he held another woman in his arms.

“Our Father....”

He had sworn that he loved her. Neither had spoken of marriage—she had

not spoken of it because she had never doubted him.

“Our Father which art....”

He had never written to her—not a line. It was a cruel blow to her to

realize that he had never loved her—and yet she bore within her the seed

of life he had planted. And her whole future now was ruined and

desolate....

“Our father....”

But she could not pray. A flood of thoughts streamed into her

mind—memories of mild spring evenings in the past and fears for her

present position in one confusion. Her brain could not set either prayer

or thought into form.

Ørlygur rose and came over to her; he tried to comfort her, but found no

words. One thing only he knew: reparation must be made, at whatever

cost.

* * * * *

Sera Ketill was far from pleased to learn that his brother was returning

to Iceland on the same boat with himself and his bride. Something told

him that it would be to his interest to keep his father and Ormarr

apart.

Ketill had come to regard himself as heir to the estate by this time,

and already saw himself installed at Borg. He never dreamed that

Ormarr’s present journey, which he regarded as merely a flying visit,

could prove in any way a danger to himself and his plans. Ormarr had

told him nothing of the transfer of the business. At the most, thought

Ketill, it would be a nuisance.

His elder brother was in many ways much like his father. Both seemed

eternally to regard themselves as owing a duty to all and sundry—simply

because they happened to have been born in better circumstances than

most of those around them. Ketill thought himself sufficiently a man of

the world to be able to destroy this conviction; and he was not far from

regarding it as a childish weakness on the part of Ørlygur and Ormarr.

Regard for others, indeed!

Ketill was not hampered severely by trammels of faith or morality. He

had gone to a school where the general rule of conduct seemed to be each

for himself; his studies at college had brought him among students who

for the most part made little attempt to conceal the fact that they made

light of their calling. One after another, he had seen them go out into

the world as priests, in the service of God, spiritually defective,

rotten, and corrupt, to their task of leading others by the right way.

And all this had left him with but little respect himself for his

mission; he enrolled himself with the rest, as a matter of course.

His latest idea was nothing less than to buy up the whole of

Hofsfjordur. To own a whole parish—it would be a position of unique

power and authority. Priest and sole landlord of the place. And then he

could take over the business now run by Jon Borgari’s widow under

Ørlygur’s supervision. It was a dazzling scheme.

He was enraged when he heard that his father had cancelled the debts

owing to him by the peasants. Carefully handled, they would have made a

splendid weapon. And he puzzled his brains for some way whereby he

might—when his father had gone—render the old chieftain’s action null

and void.

Ormarr’s return now was a serious blow to his plans. He had more than

once hinted to Ormarr that Ørlygur was getting strange in his manner and

actions of late, and it had been in his mind that afterwards he could

break the sad news to his brother that their father had towards the end

been not altogether responsible for his actions.

But now Ormarr would see his father for himself, and there was no

prospect of carrying out that part of the plan. Moreover, it was likely

that Ormarr and Ørlygur, in their talks together, might bring out

several little matters not at all to his advantage, and seriously damage

his prospects. He must, at all events, try as far as possible to be

present whenever the two seemed disposed to talk over things generally.

He had, of course, given orders for the vicarage to be set in order

ready for his arrival, but he could doubtless stay under his father’s

roof for a time on his return, without giving cause for comment.

* * * * *

Ormarr’s arrival with the newly married couple was altogether

unexpected. Ørlygur was greatly moved, and embraced his son with tears

in his eyes.

Ormarr was deeply touched when he saw how his father had aged. He

thanked the Fate that had led him to throw up his work and come home.

Also, it seemed that his coming was well timed; for he was quick to note

the strained relations between his father and Ketill, though the reason

was not at first apparent.

Ørlygur received his younger son with marked coolness, but spared no

pains to make his welcome as cordial as possible to his daughter-in-law.

Ketill’s idea of making a stay at Borg to begin with was promptly

shattered. Ørlygur had guessed his intention, and soon after the midday

meal, went out himself to see that horses were saddled. On re-entering

the room, he acquainted Ketill of the fact, and added: “You will want to

show your wife over the new home before it gets dark.”

The hint was too direct to be disregarded; there was nothing for it but

to go with a good grace.

When the pair had left, Ormarr and his father sat alone in the

sitting-room. And now for the first time Ormarr perceived how troubled

in mind the old man was. He paced up and down the room, and for some

time Ormarr forbore to question him. It was hard for Ørlygur to

commence, but at length he pulled himself together, and spoke in a weak

and faltering voice.

“Ormarr, you should have been my only son. It would have been better so.

I am paying dearly for my disregard of the warning. Had I not been so

self-willed, maybe your mother would have been alive now, and your life

would have been very different. Not that I’ve anything to reproach you

with, no....”

Ormarr grasped his father’s hand, and pressed it. The old man turned his

head away, and went on:

“It is hard to see a thing one had treasured with heart and soul brought

to ruin; to die, and leave an inheritance of responsibility behind.

Ormarr, do you remember Pall à Seyru’s little girl?”

“Runa? Yes, indeed. Why have I not seen her this time? I hope she is not

very seriously ill?” Ormarr had inquired after her on his return, but

had simply been told that she was not well.

Ørlygur hesitated for a moment. Then he said:

“Runa has been betrayed—by your brother.”

Ormarr started as if struck, and his face paled. His father’s hand

slipped from his grasp, and the two men sat for a while in silence. When

at last they spoke, it was of other things.

“Yes,” said Ørlygur thoughtfully, “there are many things that will

trouble me if the estate goes to Ketill. I have an idea that he thinks

of collecting the debts I wrote off for the people here some time back,

as still due to the estate. The folk do not trust him, and have

certainly no love for him. If the place—and the honour of the family—are

left to him.... I could wish them in better hands.”

“But I have come home now, father.”

Ørlygur looked questioningly at his son.

“But—you will not be here very long? Your business....”

“I have sold it.”

“Sold the fleet? To whom?” Ørlygur flung out the question with evident

anxiety in his voice, and looked keenly at his son.

“To Jantzen.”

“Ah—that is another thing. You can trust him?”

“As I could myself, or you, father.”

“I thought so, or you would not have sold to him.”

“I had to sell out, because we had succeeded in our aim, and there was

no longer any need for me to continue. I could not go on. Once I have

mastered a thing, when the element of uncertainty and contest—apart from

what is obtainable by all—has gone, then I can work at it no longer.”

“Then you will take over the estate here?”

“Yes. That is—or will be—a task for me; something that others could not

do as well. You are old now, father, and your last years should be lived

in peace. I may be a little strange here, at first, still, I can feel

that I have come home.”

Father and son sat in the growing darkness without thought of needing

lights. Each wanted to know all about the other’s life during the years

since they had last been together. Ormarr also was keenly concerned to

learn about matters in the parish, who had died and what newcomers were

to be reckoned with; there were a hundred questions to be answered.

Ørlygur, on his part, was eager to hear of his son’s doings during those

years, for Ormarr had said but little in his letters.

“There is nothing to tell,” he said now. “I have worked hard—slaved at

the work—beyond that, nothing.”

“You are yourself again now—or at least recognizable as yourself,” said

Ørlygur. “Changes there are, of course, but mostly in your looks only.

Voice, and eyes, and expression have not changed. I have noticed

sometimes you smile just as you used to do—it is very long ago now. They

have been weary years, since your mother and you seemed so far

away—sometimes you too seemed as far off as your mother in her grave.

But I see you have been true to yourself all the time. And I am glad you

have come home. I thank you, Ormarr. And I thank God for sending you

back to me.”

It was dark now, but still no lights were lit. The house was silent;

nothing heard save when one of the two men spoke.

They talked on, fitfully, springing from one thing to another. But for

all their frankness and sincerity, there was evidently something that

preyed on both their minds.

At last Ørlygur brought up the matter himself.

“Worst of all is that about poor little Runa.”

Ormarr rose, walked to the window, and stood drumming with his fingers

on the panes. Then, as if ashamed of having shown feeling, he returned

to his seat.

“Runa?... Yes. No one must know what has happened. We cannot have _her_

dishonoured. For him I have no pity, except for the sake of his wife.

She is a good little soul, father, and we must be kind to her. But

Runa ... father, I know what I must do.”

Ørlygur was silent. A strange stillness seemed to fill the room.

“I suppose you are right,” said Ørlygur at last. “There is not any one

else...?”

Ormarr rose. “No, there is no one else,” he said shortly, and he lit the

lamp.

Ørlygur took a candlestick with a stump of candle in, lit it, and kissed

his son’s forehead.

“Good-night, Ormarr,” he said quietly. “I am going to bed now.”

As he passed Runa’s bed, the light fell on two wakeful, shining eyes.

Making sure that none of the others in the room were awake, Ørlygur bent

down and kissed her.

“Don’t be afraid, little Runa. Ormarr has something to say to you in the

morning.”

* * * * *

Ormarr sat on, staring at the windows, long after his father had gone.

His own calmness surprised him. He felt as if he were playing himself as

a pawn on the board of life—and yet he could play—and let himself be

played—willingly enough. Neither he nor his father had considered Runa’s

possible wishes in the matter. Ormarr smiled as the thought struck him.

But, in any case, her honour must be saved.

A drowsy weariness came over him. How empty life was, after all! What

had he, himself, got out of it in return for all his labour? His years

of work had been for the benefit of others. But was his work of any

great importance, after all? There had been a time when he had thought

only of fame and pleasure. Then he had seen that there were other things

more worth regard. At first he had regarded the domains of love as

sacred and inviolable, but after a time had plunged recklessly across

the border. And since then he had always regarded himself as one who

could never hope to meet with his heart’s desire, his ideal. The whole

question of love seemed one of but slight importance to him

thenceforward. And he had been occupied with other things.

It all came back to him now, as he thought of his brother’s relations

with his old-time playmate, the fair-haired child whom he had known

later as a tall, bright-spirited girl.

And now he was to marry her. She was a woman now—and his brother had

betrayed her. It was a thing that had to be, for her honour’s sake and

that of the family name. His brother’s child would be brought up as his.

He was to marry, and his wife would bear a child—another’s child.

How strangely the threads of life were woven! Well, after all, why not?

It mattered little—nothing really mattered. What would the child be

like? he wondered. Boy or girl? And what was the mother like? Again, it

did not matter much.

Anyhow, this must be the last phase—the final stage of his life. It must

end as it had begun—at Borg. Like his forefathers, he was fated to be a

link in a chain, rather than an individual.

Only it meant now that all his dreams of something greater and better

were at an end.

He glanced up and saw that it was light outside; the moon had come out

from behind a hill. Moved by a sudden impulse, he took his hat and coat

and went out.

The sky was cloudy, semi-darkness and bright moonlight alternating in

quick succession; the earth looked cold and forbidding under a heavy

frost, with the streams showing up as dark lines through the white.

Ormarr took a path he knew, leading to Borgara, where as a lad he had

guarded the wool by night. Leaning against a rock, he stood, letting

thoughts and fancies play through his mind at random. The happenings of

the day, the revelations he had heard, seemed more like a dream than any

reality.

* * * * *

Runa lay wakeful long through the night. Ormarr’s unexpected return had

thrown her into a state of confused emotion. The simultaneous arrival of

Ketill seemed but of minor importance, though why this should be so, she

could not have told herself.

She remembered Ormarr from his last visit home, and how she had felt

drawn to him at the time. He, on the other hand, had not paid much

attention to her, and was doubtless unaware of the impression he had

made. To her, he was the greatest and best, the most wonderful of men;

an ideal, inaccessible, but nevertheless to be worshipped.

Then he had gone away—vanished as suddenly as he had come, to live

thenceforward only as a dream in her heart. And she was firmly convinced

that he had never given her a thought. In this, as a matter of fact, she

was right.

On learning of his arrival now, she had tried in every way to avoid him,

to conceal herself from him. All the others might know, but Ormarr—no,

that was too cruel. And now—he would learn it soon enough. His father

would tell him, and he would know what she was—the very thought of it

made her shudder. She was not what she appeared to be; she was nothing.

She hated Ketill, and wished herself dead.

The thought of taking her own life had crossed her mind, but fear

restrained her. Now the thought came up again, and when Ørlygur had

whispered to her as he passed, whispered a thing she dared not

understand, she made up her mind. There was no fear in her heart now,

she had taken her decision.

Shortly after Ørlygur had retired, she rose up, dressed herself

noiselessly, and crept along the passage towards the room where Ormarr

slept. A light showed from beneath the door; evidently he was still

awake. With bated breath she passed by, and crept from the house without

a sound. She longed to look in through the window, just to see what he

looked like—now. But she dared not risk it. She stepped cautiously and

quietly until a little way from the house, then suddenly she broke into

a run, and made away towards the place she had in mind....

Ormarr saw a woman come rushing down towards the river. His first

impulse was to run towards her, but, realizing that she must pass close

by where he stood, he remained motionless, waiting.

The woman checked her pace and stood for a moment with hands clasped to

her breast. Then she bent down and, taking up one of the sacks that were

strewn around, began filling it with stones. She felt its weight, and,

apparently satisfied, tied up the mouth. No sound came from her lips.

In a flash Ormarr realized who it was, and what she had in mind. He saw

her move down to the water’s edge, the sack in her hand. Then, rising,

he called to her softly:

“Runa!”

The girl stood still as if paralysed. He walked up to her without a

word; he did not look at the sack, but touched it as if by accident with

his foot, sending it into the water. Then, taking the girl’s arm, he led

her quietly back to the house.

He took her to his room, led her to a seat and sat down beside her,

taking her hands in his and stroking them tenderly. The girl’s breast

heaved; she was deadly pale, but she made no sound. So unexpected had

been Ormarr’s intervention that she had hardly realized as yet what had

happened.

Ormarr held her hands in his.

“Poor child, it is hard for you, I know. Life is hard. I have learned

something of that myself. Poor child, poor child! But, Runa, you must

trust me ... will you try? I will be kind to you. Perhaps, after all,

you may be glad of the child and I as well. For we must marry, you know;

it is the only thing to do. But only as a matter of form, of course, to

save a scandal. The child will be born in wedlock, and it will be

understood to be mine. No one knows anything as yet; we can go abroad at

once, and stay away a year or so. It is not what you had wished for, I

know, not what you had a right to expect, but—there is no other way now.

As far as _he_ is concerned it is too late.”

Runa burst into tears, and sat weeping silently, with scarcely a

movement of her face; but her breast heaved violently, and the tears

poured down her cheeks.

“I know, dear child, it is hard for you; you love him, and me you

neither know nor care for.”

The girl drew back her hands and wiped her eyes.

“I hate him,” she said, almost in a whisper. And a moment after, she

added passionately, defiantly. “And I never loved him at all.”

She threw herself face downwards over the table, sobbing bitterly.

Ormarr left her to herself for a while. Then going over to her, he

stroked her hair, and tried to comfort her, as one would with a child.

And when she looked up, there was a light in her eyes, of gladness, as

when a child meets kindness from one it loves and respects.

Tears rose to Ormarr’s eyes; the thought crossed his mind that she might

at that moment be wishing the child were his. And a pang of vague

longing passed through him, such as he had known at times when life had

seemed empty for the lack of one thing.

As if by one accord, the two avoided each other’s eyes.

Then resolutely Ormarr threw off his shyness, as if it were a thing to

be ashamed of. He went straight to her, and spoke as calmly as he

could—though his voice quivered a little.

“Runa, there is nothing else to be done. You must be my wife.”

“Yes,” she answered. There was nothing of bitterness or regret in her

voice. But she fell to crying again.

Then said Ormarr: “You will be mistress of Borg, you know, and that

means a big responsibility, and much to look after.”

She had stopped crying now, and was evidently listening, though she

still hid her face. Ormarr went on:

“I have finished my work abroad now. When we come back from our journey,

we shall take over the management of Borg. Father is old, and needs

rest. And then it will be for us to see that our child is so brought up

that we can leave the place in good hands after us.”

Runa sat for a while without speaking; she had stopped crying now. Then

she rose, and carefully dried her eyes to leave no sign of weeping, and

murmured something about it being time for her to go. And then tears

came into her eyes again, and she blushed.

Ormarr had opened the door, but closed it again and came towards her.

“Well,” he said, “don’t you think we might shake hands and consider it

settled? That is, unless you would rather have time to think it over? We

could at least promise to give each other the best we can....” Ormarr

could hardly speak, so deeply was he moved.

Runa gave him her hand—a warm, trembling hand. He pressed it, and let

her go.

When the door had closed behind her, Ormarr began slowly undressing,

thinking aloud, as was his wont.

“If life is really only a tiny meaningless flicker, and death the

eternal and constant state, if life is only little indifferent momentary

things, and death the great and boundless, then why all this

complication and suffering? If my soul could perish, could be destroyed

by suffering like the smoke of wood consumed by fire, like the scent of

a flower shed out into space, like a colour that fades in strong

sunlight, then it would surely have become disintegrated long since. Or

are we all figures on a stage? If there were any connecting string

between myself and the gods above, I fancy I should make a first-rate

marionette.”

He put out the light and got into bed.

“It is just like me to try and conceal my thoughts from my innermost

self, to breathe a philosophical mist over the windows of my own mind.

If I were to be honest now, I should have to confess something

different. Be honest for once? And confess! Confess that a new,

inexplicable joy had suddenly welled forth within me!

“Just because I have seen the flush of a soul turned towards my own. And

here I am already building castles in the air, with golden towers of

great anticipation. But, to be honest, I must build here and now,

whether I will or not, and trust that the building may stand.”

The moonlight shone in over him; he turned his glance towards it and

looked up smiling at the sad, wry face, nodded to it, and then turned

over on his side and fell asleep.

BOOK II

THE DANISH LADY AT HOF

CHAPTER I

Fru Alma had come to Iceland knowing nothing of the language of the

country. Ketill and his brother had always spoken Danish; it had never

occurred to her that all Icelanders might not understand it.

When she came to Borg on her first arrival, and met her father-in-law,

who could neither understand her nor speak to her, she realized that

this ignorance on her part would make her lonely and isolated, and she

asked her husband:

“Why did you not teach me Icelandic, Ketill?”

But Ketill answered curtly. He was in ill-humour on account of the

failure of his first plans, and his reception generally.

“Never thought of it,” was all he said.

Alma, whose womanly instinct had told her at once that all was not as it

should be among the family, glanced anxiously from one to another of

those round her. Then she observed:

“But I can’t talk to any one.”

“You can talk to me.”

Alma was silent. It was the first time her husband had spoken unkindly

to her.

Later on, as they went home to Hof, Ketill rode in silence, with never a

word to his wife all the way.

Alma’s heart was full of conflicting emotions. She was sorry that there

should be any coolness between herself and her husband; but her

conscience at least was clear. And why could he not talk to her; tell

her what it was that evidently troubled him? It struck her that he had

never really confided in her, save in regard to matters of no account.

Suddenly she realized that they were really strangers. She had never

really known him, after all; he had never opened his heart to her. And

the distance between them seemed so tangible that it was hard to realize

that they were actually married. Despite the intimacy of their

relationship, they were separated by a veil of darkness and uncertainty.

And so they were to live, side by side, year after year, bound one to

another by a bond that could not be broken,—ay, and by another that

would soon be evident,—to live in each other’s company through every

day. And the thought was so painful to her that she found herself

unwilling to contemplate that her children would have to call this man

their father.

The change in her feelings, or more properly, her sudden realization of

the true state of things, the recognition of her thoughtless rashness in

entering upon this marriage, came to her as something overwhelming; she

hardly knew herself. All in a moment she was changed; she was no longer

the light-hearted, innocent girl, but a creature unknown, with unknown

possibilities.

It was done now, and she was helpless. She had given vent to thoughts

and feelings which, as her old self, she would never have dreamed of. So

unaccustomed was she to act on the dictates of her own feeling and not

by custom and tradition, to measure things by her own ideas and not by

orthodox, accepted standards, that she felt herself now a dangerous

person, a criminal, forced to seek refuge in silence and emptiness from

words or thoughts that might lead to disaster.

There was her husband now, riding ahead, and paying no heed to how she

managed on the way. Where was the courteous gentleman who had stood by

her side at the altar? And she had told herself—and others—that she had

found the ideal partner for life! A priest, moreover, a servant of God,

set in the forefront of humanity as an example to others!

Little by little she worked herself up to a state of bitter scorn. Once

she had let herself go, she knew no bounds.

And she did not spare herself, now that she had once ventured to form

her own judgment of things and people, herself included.

Oh, what an irresponsible fool she had been in her self-deception!

Trustful and idealistic—yes, and narrow-minded and unwittingly a

hypocrite. A doll, a child, a foolish butterfly thing.... Heavens, how

little and mean and stupid, wicked and ridiculous, she had been—she and

so many others of her kind.

There was her husband, riding ahead ... yes....

A reaction of regret at her impetuosity came over her. It was a dreadful

thing not to love and honour him. Oh, if only he would make it easier;

turn round and nod to her kindly, or say a friendly word. She would be

loving and forgiving at once. Who could say what troubles were burdening

him all the time? And perhaps it was only to spare her that he said

nothing. Men were strange in that way; they fancied that a woman

suffered less in such estrangement if she did not learn the cause of it.

Then—oh, it was incredible! They were at the ford now, and he was riding

through the stream without so much as a look behind him.... Well,

perhaps there was nothing so strange in that, after all; possibly it had

not occurred to him that she had never forded a stream on horseback in

her life; it was only thoughtlessness on his part.

But all the same it was a hard struggle to keep her mind in any friendly

attitude towards him, or to keep back the fears that would rise to her

eyes. She bit her lips, and strove to restrain her feelings.

Her horse was already knee deep in the water—and the Hofsa at this part

was wide, yet with a fairly strong current.

Alma had never ridden through running water before; at first it seemed

to her as if the horse had suddenly flung itself sideways against the

stream. Instinctively she leaned over herself, farther and farther,

against the stream. Ketill, a couple of lengths in front, looked round

just as she was about to fall, turned his horse, and seized her arm just

in time.

The roar of the water, and a sense of dizziness in her head, rendered

her unconscious for the moment. But the grip on her arm was hard, and a

feeling of anger rose in her towards her husband. Again she restrained

herself; it was perhaps only his firmness that had saved her; she forgot

about his carelessness in riding ahead of her across the ford. Her

kindly feelings were uppermost, and as soon as they had crossed to the

farther bank, she turned to him, trying honestly to speak in a friendly

tone, and asked:

“What is it, Ketill; what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing—nothing,” answered Ketill, and gave his horse a cut with the

whip, so that the animal sprang forward a pace.

At that, Alma broke down entirely, and fell to sobbing helplessly; she

was weary and desperate, unable to think, or even consciously to feel;

she was alone in a great solitude, herself a solitary speck of misery in

an endless expanse.

* * * * *

They reached the vicarage. Alma was now in a state of dull indifference.

She had, however, carefully dried the tears from her face, and drawn

down her veil.

The vicarage servants, about a score in all, had gathered in front of

the house to welcome the new master and his wife. Ketill was abrupt and

reserved as hitherto; he shook hands with them all, as was the custom of

the country, but his greeting was cold and formal.

Somewhat unwillingly, Alma laid her slight, warm hand in the first hand

outstretched towards her; but the evident respect and kindly feeling

with which it was taken touched her at once, and she grasped it with

sincere feeling. And the ice once broken, she was able to greet each of

the simple, silent folk with unfeigned heartiness. She could not

understand their stammered words, but her own manner spoke for itself,

and one old woman, the last to come forward, was so touched by the

natural kindliness of the fine lady from foreign parts, that she forgot

herself so far as to put one arm around her shoulder and kiss her on the

cheek.

Alma felt herself trembling, and could hardly restrain her tears.

Leaning on the old woman’s arm, she passed into the house.

Ketill gave some brief orders, and the servants dispersed. But even this

first encounter had been enough to plant in the heart of each of them a

seed of ill-will towards their master, and affection towards the Danish

lady he had brought with him as his wife.

* * * * *

The old woman led Alma into the low-ceilinged sitting-room and left her.

Neither could understand the other’s speech, and she had judged it best

to retire.

Alma sat down on a chair just inside the door, still wearing her

riding-habit and veil, and looked round the room. It was painted white,

with four heavy beams across the ceiling. The two windows at one end of

the room were already hung with heavy winter curtains above the white.

The furniture was of polished mahogany. The floor was carpeted, and a

heavy old-fashioned stove was built into the centre of one wall. A big

upright clock ticked monotonously, with a beat as cold and devoid of

feeling as the utterance of a philosopher whom nothing on earth could

move. There was a sense of comfort about the general atmosphere of the

room, yet it had, as is often the case with rooms antiquely furnished, a

touch of aloofness, forbidding the introduction of any other tone, or at

least dominating others by its own.

Close to one of the windows Alma noticed a large writing-table and a

bookshelf; that seemed familiar. And suddenly she realized that the room

was to be not hers alone, but her husband’s also. Probably he had no

study of his own in the house. And a feeling of bitterness crept into

her heart; the room seemed less inviting now.

She rose, and crossed to the window farthest from the writing-desk,

where there stood a small work-table. Here she sat down in an

easy-chair, still without taking off her things, and looked out of the

window. Outside was a small plot of potatoes and turnips, hedged in with

the remains of a rhubarb bed, against the high bank which sheltered the

garden on the north. The windows faced south-west, looking on to the

bleak, high field beyond the enclosure. Behind the vicarage towered the

Hof Mountains, hanging threateningly, as it were, above the place;

farther in the distance were blue-grey peaks and ridges. It was all so

strange to her that now, looking at it calmly, it seemed unreal,

incredible.

Alma turned cold at heart as she looked. She remembered her first survey

of the landscape earlier in the day, from Borg; she had found nothing

green in it all save the sea. All the meadows and pastures round the

house seemed withered and grey; the autumn green of the fields in

Denmark was nowhere to be seen. All things seemed barren and decayed,

with a grey pallor, as it were, of something nearing death, that she had

seen before only in aged humanity. Here, she perceived, autumn was a

reality, and not merely a passing phase to be taken lightly. Most of the

houses, small and low, were built of turf and stone together. And the

separate buildings of each homestead seemed to creep in close to one

another, keeping as close to the ground as possible, like a flock of

animals cowering before an approaching storm.

The impression it made on her then, of impending disaster, of something

evil lying in wait, had vanished as quickly as it had come; she had not

had time to dwell on it. But now it recurred to her mind, and she felt

herself surrounded by coldness and enmity on all sides—until she

remembered the greetings of the servants, and the old woman who had

ushered her in to the house. The kindness they had shown to her, alone

and helpless as she was, seemed like a protecting circle round her. And

easier in mind for the thought, she fell to pondering how she could best

learn their language quickly, that she might at least find some kind

words for them in return.

While she was thus engaged, her husband entered.

She glanced at his face; anxious first of all to learn if he were still

in the same ill-humour as before. The light was fading, but she could

see that his expression was cold and hard, that of a stranger. Her heart

beat violently; she sat without a word.

Ketill hardly gave her so much as a glance; he walked up and down the

room once or twice, as if in thought, then stood by the window farthest

from her, looking out. After a while, he drew a deep breath, and came

towards her. His brow was lined, and his face stern, but there appeared

nevertheless to be some attempt at friendliness in his bearing—as if to

show that she at least was not the cause of his ill-temper.

“Well here we are, at home!”

“Yes.”

Alma’s heart throbbed painfully, but he did not notice her emotion—only

that she had not taken off her riding things.

“Haven’t you got your things off yet?”

“You have not bidden me welcome yet, Ketill.”

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind, don’t worry about that.”

“No, no.... Forgotten, did you say? Ketill, I hardly know you again.”

“Whatever do you mean by that? One can’t always be in the best of

tempers, I suppose?”

“No, perhaps not. But—it seems a strange homecoming, that’s all.”

Ketill was silent. He had no reply to offer, and the conversation bored

him. He was curiously indifferent to Alma’s feeling of well-being or the

reverse. What was she, after all? A child, thoughtless, ignorant, like

all women—and most men too, for that matter. She was out of sorts just

now—never mind, she would have forgotten it by tomorrow. At any rate, he

could make it all right again then; perhaps he might feel more in the

mood for paying attention to her troubles. Ketill was thinking in this

strain when Alma spoke again.

“It is strange that you should be so different now, all at once. It

almost seems as if our marriage had separated us rather than brought us

together.”

Ketill had no time now to bother about whether there were any truth in

this or not: no, the only thing to do was to smile in a superior fashion

and not let himself be put out. And he smiled accordingly, the

self-satisfied smile of a priest and a model husband, setting aside his

bad temper for the moment, and said:

“There, there, little philosopher—let us put off the quarrel till

another day.”

“Quarrel? Oh, I had never thought to quarrel. I’m only unhappy, that’s

all.”

“Well, don’t you think it might be reasonable to imagine that I had some

reason for being—well, not in the best of tempers today—what?”

“Yes, indeed, Ketill. But you have told me nothing; I know nothing of

what could have upset you.”

“Well, hardly. Women don’t understand men’s troubles as a rule.”

“That seems a new sort of thing for you to say.”

“Possibly. We’ve hardly known each other long enough for me to have told

you everything I think.”

“True, we have not known each other so very long. I only hope we may not

find we knew too little of each other.”

Ketill laughed; to his mind, the question was not worth taking so

seriously.

“Well, you’ve certainly grown less of a child and more of a woman—more

of a married woman—than you were.”

But Alma found it utterly impossible to fall in with his tone.

“I am tired, Ketill. I should like to go to bed.”

“Already! Well, well, perhaps it’s the best thing you could do.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and called down the passage: “Kata!”

The old woman who had first shown Alma in, answered his call, and Ketill

charged her briefly to show her mistress upstairs; she was unwell, and

would go to bed at once.

Old Kata led her mistress to the bedroom above. She could not overcome

the awkwardness caused by the impossibility of speech, but did her best

to make up for it by kindly looks and gestures.

She would have withdrawn again at once, but Alma held her back, made her

sit down on a chair by the bed, and tried to talk to her, repeating

little phrases again and again till they were understood. Kata seemed

willing enough, and did her best to understand; she would have liked to

explain that she and all the others had already taken to their new

mistress, and were anxious to do all they could for her. It was a marvel

to Kata that a fine lady could be so natural and sweet and

condescending. All that she had seen before of that sort had been proud

and stiff and disdainful towards humble folk.

She tried to relate a dream she had had the night before about a burning

light washed up by the waves, on the shore just below. Old Kata was a

poor enough creature to look at, but by no means poor in spirit. She had

her own world of visions and dreams, and was mistress there. And she

would not speak to all and sundry of her dreams; but folk knew she had

the gift, and could see what she would and learn what she pleased.

Kata was sure that the light she had seen was the _fylgje_, the

attendant spirit, of the young Danish lady. Kata always saw a person’s

_fylgje_ before she encountered the person in reality, and she had

rarely seen so beautiful a _fylgje_ as this. For what could be more

beautiful than a burning light? A burning light in the darkness. And she

was accustomed also to interpret and say what such things meant. But

here she could not. A burning light in the darkness—what could that

mean? Something good, something beautiful it must be. And the person it

followed must be a good and lovable soul.

* * * * *

Later that evening, the servants sat talking things over together before

going to bed. They spoke of their Danish mistress, and gathered round

old Kata, who, of course, had first claim to speak with authority here.

“Anyway, she’s a good heart,” said one of the men.

“And not too proud to take humble folks’ hand—as she did my very own.”

Old Kata let them talk; she could afford to be silent. Her turn would

surely come. She had had most to do with their mistress up to now, and,

moreover, she was recognized as the wisest head in the place—not

excepting any priest. She sat now with her knitting, considering it

beneath her dignity to take notice of all that was said.

Moreover, she had already expressed her opinion, in the most favourable

terms, and as the others likewise had nothing but praise to utter, there

was no call for her to take further part.

“Anyway, I’m certain she won’t be as hard and cruel as the last one was,

with her scolding and words,” said one of the maids. “What say you,

Kata?”

“She’s the blessedest light I’ve met in all my days,” answered Kata

quietly, and a trifle slowly, as was her way. “There’s never an evil

thought in her soul, nor a hard word in her mouth. And that’s the

truth.”

CHAPTER II

Sera Ketill went late to bed that night. By ill chance it was Saturday,

and he had to have his sermon ready for the morrow.

On this occasion, above all, it behoved him to take some pains with it.

It was his first service, and there would be a large and expectant

congregation.

Nevertheless, he did not feel at all in the mood for dealing with his

text: “Ye cannot serve two masters.”

He felt a sudden bitterness of regret that he had ever decided to become

a priest. Had he but chosen any other profession—a lawyer, a doctor,

even a trader! Then he would have been able at least to avenge his

defeats indirectly, by letting others suffer for them. Just think, for

instance, of the satisfaction with which he could have taken up the task

of passing sentence upon some one or other, instead of pointing out the

inadvisability, nay, the impossibility, of serving two masters. He

wished he could have altered the text, and held forth, for instance,

upon the abomination of desolation, or the Day of Judgment. But it could

not be done; the text was of serving two masters, and nothing could

alter it. And he had to have a good strong sermon on that text by

tomorrow, or his first appearance would be a failure. He was not

disposed to risk further defeats after the ill-success of his plans

today. He needed the encouragement of a victory, and must take it where

it seemed most easily attainable.

He thought of his changed position; all things had turned out badly up

to now. His castles in the air; his dreams of power—unlimited power—in

the parish, had, he could already perceive, faded into nothing. And

suddenly it struck him that he had only to give vent to his own

bitterness, directing it into the proper channel, and there was his

sermon!

It took time, and it was late before his manuscript was finished. But as

he contemplated it, noting with satisfaction the finishing touches, he

felt assured that here at least was a masterpiece; he had only to

deliver it with forceful and earnest eloquence, and it must have its

effect. He had regained his self-control, and was ready to forget all

the disappointment of the day in sleep.

* * * * *

Alma awoke early next morning.

She dressed in haste, and as quietly as possible, anxious not to awaken

her husband, and with some difficulty found her way through the passages

and out of the house.

She stood for a little outside. It was a quiet autumn day; the air

seemed full of a strange peace and solemn calm. Being Sunday, there were

none of the people astir, save those busy within doors in stables or

kitchen, and of these she saw nothing.

Alma wandered round the place, making a survey of her surroundings. The

buildings, with their turf roofs and solid walls of the same material,

seemed pleasant enough to the eye, giving a sense of security in their

massive solidity. They seemed as firmly rooted and immovable as if

Nature and the Lord had planted them in the earth when earth was made.

She looked about for the church, but could see none. The tarred wooden

structure yonder, with a turf wall round, could surely not be it—and

yet, on closer inspection, she noticed a white cross rising from the

roof. With a curious beating of the heart, she hurried across to the

gate in the earthen wall. Reaching it, she found that the church stood

in the middle of a modest little churchyard. She opened the gate and

went in. Most of the graves were simply oblong mounds of earth, only

here and there was there a headstone with the usual border round. And

there were a few wooden crosses with lettering in black tar.

The church itself was locked. She walked round the outside, and looked

in through one of the windows, of which there were three on either side.

The interior was painted white. At one end stood the altar, on a small

semicircular eminence, with a low rail round. Next to it were the choir

stalls, consisting of a few benches along the walls and some loose ones

arranged to allow of passage between. On the right, looking down the

nave, was the pulpit, with painted figures of apostles on the panels,

evidently older than the church itself. There was a small harmonium,

polished and new-looking—the contrast made Alma smile. But she regretted

it at once; the feeling of amusement at this primitive lack of taste

which installed a brand-new cheap-line harmonium in an old church,

disappeared. She felt that God’s all-seeing eye was on her as she stood

there spying in through a window at His house.

Looking around for somewhere to sit down a little, she noticed that the

churchyard wall on one side was low, and went across. On her way she

passed a grave on which stood a small pillar of grey granite, the upper

part broken off obliquely. She stopped, and half unconsciously read the

inscription. Between the Christian name and surname stood the word

_skald_. She passed on, wondering in her mind what the little word might

mean, but gave it up, and soon forgot it.

Seating herself on the churchyard wall, she let her eyes wander over the

country round, noting how the sun shone on the fjord and on the farther

side of the valley, leaving a strip of shadow on the fjeld. And a

feeling of longing rose in her breast. It was strange to see the sun

shining on others, and herself be left in the shadow. It seemed as if

there were joy there, beyond—joy in which she had no part, and which

saddened her to watch. And it was not only today, not merely the shadow

of a passing cloud that barred her from the sunlight; no, there stood

the fjeld, the dark and massive, rocky height, that day after day was to

steal the sunlight from her life. She felt that there was enmity between

them—but a moment later she realized that the dark church and the gloomy

fjeld were in harmony; and that God was in and over both.

Strange—ever since she had set foot in this place, she had felt the

presence of God distinctly; a blind omnipotence, of merciless mercy—she

hardly knew how to define it. God was not so distant in these

surroundings as He had first appeared. The snow-white sides of the fjeld

were pure and good to look upon; they might well be the abode of God.

The country itself, in all its outlines, shapes, and colours, was so

wild and unlike all else that it seemed impossible to regard it as

inhabited by human beings only, with their petty trials and pleasures.

It was impossible, here, to attach great importance to one’s own

well-being or the reverse; one felt so pitifully small and weak. Even

life and death seemed to lose their distinctive outline.

Alma caught herself thinking—and she smiled at the thought—that she had

grown, and grown wiser since her arrival, all in the space of a day and

a night. She felt now, to a degree almost beyond reason, that she was

but a speck in eternity, only a ripple on the endless sea of time.

* * * * *

Ketill found his wife deep in thought, seated on the churchyard wall.

She had not heard him approaching, and started when he touched her.

With a sudden access of tenderness, he took her in his arms and kissed

her.

She made no resistance, though she resented the action inwardly. His

strength and the physical charm of the man that had once attracted her

were now grown repulsive.

Ketill noted that his wife looked serious. It suited her, and he stroked

her hair.

“Sitting here all alone?” he asked.

“I was just looking round the place. One could sit here for years, I

think, without getting tired of it. I wish I were a rock—set in a place

like this for ever!”

Sera Ketill laughed. “I must say I prefer existence as a human being,”

he said.

“But it is lovely here,” Alma went on. “So grand and wonderful—the rocks

and the sea and the snow spreading everywhere, and the desolate

fields—barrenness and abundance at once. It is like looking at the stars

in the sky—emptiness and yet so rich....”

“A bit of good rich pasture land would be more to my taste,” objected

Ketill teasingly.

“I suppose it would. Really, I think I feel more at home here than you

do yourself.”

“Well, I’m glad you do not find the country altogether forbidding. Many

people do, you know.”

“Forbidding? I feel as if I were under a spell. No will of my own, just

a thing in the hands of Fate. And I love the feeling that there are

great and distant powers that have taken my life into their hands.”

“You had better be careful, or you will be growing superstitious—it is a

common failing among the people here. They believe in all kinds of

spirits, portents, omens, fate, and all that sort of thing. Look at that

gravestone there—the one with the granite pillar. A young poet was

buried there. Somehow the top of the stone got broken off. And folk lay

it to the charge of the powers of darkness—he killed himself, you know.”

“Yes.... A broken soul beneath a broken stone....”

“I don’t think the powers of darkness trouble themselves much about the

gravestones in our churchyards.”

“A poet, you say? And he killed himself? How—why?”

“Threw himself over the cliff into the sea. You can see the spot—over

there. It falls sheer down into the fjord.”

Alma looked and shuddered. A white wave broke the surface of the water,

and dashed against the cliff.

“But why?”

“Nobody seems to know quite. They say it was something outside the usual

causes—not starvation, for instance, or love or weariness of life.”

“Nobody knows? And yet he threw himself into the sea? Then it must have

been a call from on high. He realized the presence of God, and followed

it, into darkness and death.”

“Alma, whatever are you talking about!”

“I hardly know myself. The words came into my mouth without a thought.

And I feel myself thinking strange things that never entered my head

before.” And she laughed, a little nervous laugh. “It is as if the

spirit were upon me, and I had to speak so.”

At this Ketill suddenly felt called upon to play the priest. Though, as

a matter of fact, he was rather impressed by her words.

“Alma, that is blasphemy, you know.”

“Not at all.” She looked up in surprise. “I simply feel as if the Spirit

of God were moving on the face of the waters, and as if I were a piece

of dead clay, waiting to be created as a human being.”

* * * * *

By half-past nine, the congregation began to appear, coming up in little

groups. Many were on horseback.

Alma was outside the house, and it seemed as if the place had suddenly

become alive. Little knots of people came into view here and there, far

or near, appearing and disappearing between the contours of the

landscape. Nearly all were hurrying.

Reaching the church, they dismounted in groups, as they had come,

tethering their horses near by. They were unsaddled, and some were

merely hobbled and allowed to wander about at will. The churchgoers then

set to tidying themselves before the service: pulling off the long

riding hose, brushing dirt and hair from their clothes, unpacking

collars or aprons, and fastening bows with careful neatness.

Then, having completed their toilet, they began to move about,

exchanging greetings and news, collecting in new formations and changing

again. A few spoke noisily, but for the most part they talked in an

undertone, with much nodding of heads and brief ejaculations.

Alma was a centre of attraction, though most of the curious ones tried

to conceal their interested observation. A few of the principal farmers

and their wives, knowing who she must be, came up to greet her, but with

some awkwardness, when they found she could not understand their speech.

And they withdrew to the company of their fellows.

Ørlygur à Borg came alone.

Alma went up to her father-in-law, who smiled and took her hand,

flushing like a youth, and with that curious kindly smile of his

lighting up the furrowed face. He was looking better, she thought, than

he had done the day before.

She took his arm, and would have led him into the house, but he shook

his head, and nodded in the direction of the church, where the bell was

now ringing in. Most of the congregation were already seated, only a few

late comers were hastening up. Among them was old Kata. She thought

herself unobserved, and waved a coloured kerchief in the air, muttering

to herself: “Away, be off with you, cursed creatures; get away, wicked

things.”

The bystanders imagined she was addressing invisible beings, evil

spirits and demons,—the _fylgjer_ of those present,—whom she had to

drive away to make a passage for herself.

Alma entered the church with Ørlygur, leaning on his arm up the aisle.

This was not customary except in the case of bride and bridegroom, but

she knew no better. Ørlygur was somewhat embarrassed, but he felt

happier than he had done for many a day; not for any consideration would

he have withdrawn his arm.

He found her a seat next to his own sitting, but did not take that place

himself. As the first layman in the parish he had duties to perform; he

led the singing, and Alma noticed that it was the organ that followed

his lead, not the reverse. She also remarked that his voice was

surprisingly strong and pure for his years.

In the responses, however, he faltered a little; possibly, thought Alma,

from nervousness on account of the fact that his son was officiating for

the first time. A little after, she noticed a frown on his brow, lines

that had not been there before, or at least not so marked. And it

crossed her mind that Ørlygur à Borg was not on friendly terms with his

son Ketill—there must be some good cause for it....

Already she seemed to have grown to love this old man, with his

snow-white hair and beard, and the look of strength and yet of Christian

kindliness in his face. Her eyes wandered from one to another of those

present, old and young.

Many were better dressed than Ørlygur, who wore a suit of brown homespun

material, his jacket buttoned up round the neck, and a pair of soft hide

shoes on his feet. Many of the others wore collars and polished boots,

yet it was easy to see that this man was the leader—the born master of

his fellows, to whom all others must defer. Not that there was anything

overbearing in his manner, far from it. He nodded to one and all, and

they returned his greeting without servility, but with ungrudging

respect as towards a superior whom they esteemed.

Ørlygur sat with bowed head and expressionless features throughout the

sermon. But Alma could see that the people generally were carried away.

And when the service was at an end, they gathered round Ørlygur and

Ketill to offer their congratulations. Ørlygur, however, made no reply

to their words of praise, only thanked them briefly. Shortly after, he

took leave of Alma, shaking his head in response to her invitation to

the house. She saw him go up to Ketill, who was standing in the middle

of a group of peasants, and address a few words to him, whereupon both

men walked away to where Ørlygur’s horse was standing.

* * * * *

“Ketill, I must have a word with you,” said Ørlygur to his son.

And as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest he went on.

“Do not speak; do not dare to say a word! Listen! You are a scoundrel

and a rogue. Your sermon was hypocrisy, and inspired by something

certainly not divine. You can deceive these poor folk, maybe, but you

can no longer deceive me. I cannot imagine what use the Lord has for

such a man as you—that He ever let you into His vineyard at all. And I

cannot understand what Fate ever led that angel yonder to become your

wife. How her beautiful eyes could fail to see through you—’tis more

than I can fathom. Her will is for good—and yours for evil. Ay, you may

smile! You are a hypocrite—a ne’er-do-well. But you are the priest of

this parish, more’s the pity, and married to a good and beautiful

girl—also, you are my son. I can only warn you to be careful. And I have

this to tell you: Ormarr is taking over the estate of Borg; he has sold

his business. And he is to marry Runa, my adopted daughter; they are

going abroad at once. When Ormarr dies, Borg goes to _their_

children—you understand me? I would advise you to be good to your wife.

Should I hear otherwise, then God have mercy upon you. For her sake I

will continue my duties in the church as before, hateful though it is to

me to endure the sight of you. For her sake I pray that God will give me

strength. Even now I cannot set foot in your house. Make what excuse you

please to your wife; let her be spared from knowing the truth; bring her

to Borg occasionally yourself. I would not see her suffer for your sins.

And now I have spoken my mind.”

Ørlygur à Borg turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode off.

* * * * *

Sera Ketill had endeavoured once or twice to smile during his father’s

outburst, but it was more for the sake of preserving his self-control

that he had tried to consider the matter in a humourous light. As

Ørlygur rode away, he stood with bowed head, set teeth, and frowning

brow; then with an effort he pulled himself together, striving to regain

his normal air of priestly authority.

When, a few minutes later, he encountered Alma, he said:

“My father was very busy, and could not come in. He told me to give you

his kind regards. Ormarr is leaving tomorrow—going abroad, so they have

much to do at Borg.”

“So that is why Ormarr did not come to church?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“But surely he will come and say good-bye?”

“It is hardly likely. He is only going away for a short time, and when

he comes back he will live at Borg.”

“It will be nice to have him so near. But what about his business?”

“He has sold it, so my father tells me. As a matter of fact, this voyage

is a sort of honeymoon. He is going to marry Runa, father’s adopted

daughter, and she is going with him. We did not see her yesterday.”

“But it seems strange—not to pay a farewell visit.”

Ketill smiled sarcastically. “I should not expect it,” he said. “It is

not the custom in this country.”

CHAPTER III

For the next few days Sera Ketill went about with a preoccupied air. He

was trying to weigh the situation and settle his plans.

If his father and Ormarr had thought he would give up the struggle

without protest, they were mistaken. He would not allow himself to be

crushed. If they asked for war, they should have it. True, everything

seemed to favour them at present, but on the other hand, the odds

absolved him, he considered, from any obligation to be overscrupulous in

his choice of weapons. All’s fair in love and war.

He remembered, with something like regret, the pleasant spring evenings

when he had wandered side by side with Runa, enjoying a brief

flirtation. Happy days—with nothing but the pleasure of the moment to

consider. He had no longings to plague him, having all that he desired.

He imagined himself in love with the shy, dreamy child who trusted

herself so unreservedly to him. It had cost him something to leave her,

but, nevertheless, something within him told him that he must; that he

could not go on enjoying one idle, happy phase, but must move forward to

a new and more strenuous one, that promised in return greater rewards

for greater strife.

And, once he had left her, Runa had passed from his mind entirely; all

that was left of her was a vague memory, the recollection of one of his

minor adventures, a careless day of sunshine in his past. He had never

thought she would cross his path again; it had never once occurred to

him to write to her. He regretted his thoughtlessness now. If he had

kept up a kind of correspondence with her, he might have used his

influence over the girl to some purpose. Anyhow, it was fortunate that

the incident had turned out as it had. No scandal—not a soul to fear. He

could be quite easy on that score, for it was in the interest of the

other party that nothing should leak out. And, with a little deft

manipulation on his part, the hushing up of the matter might even prove

a most useful weapon in his hand. Again, all was fair in love and war.

On the whole, his position was not so bad. He had made a good match, and

his wife had considerable expectations in addition to her present

fortune. Yes, he would be able to look after himself. Ormarr might take

over the estate—for a time. But he who laughs last, laughs best. When

all was said and done, his father and brother had not yet got him into

their power; he had his congregation, and his position gave him an

excellent opportunity to influence public opinion. Meantime, he would

take care to win them over by his powers of persuasion generally, and

gradually make them his faithful adherents.

The old man had been furious on Sunday; he had probably been far from

appreciating his son’s talents as a preacher. But he would know how to

lash the old man’s feelings with his words from the pulpit; he would

reach farther and cut deeper than any other had done before. No fanciful

theology, but argument backed by chapter and verse from the Scriptures.

There could be no question of defence or refutation; it would be

pleasant to see Ørlygur à Borg writhing under the interpretations of the

Old Testament delivered by his son. Ay, he would show them that a priest

was a man to be feared, an enemy not to be lightly challenged.

Sera Ketill was already elated with thoughts of his victory to come. He

drew up far-reaching plans, and began at once to con the doctrines of

the Church in his mind—as weapons to be used in his campaign against his

father and brother.

* * * * *

Alma was left very much to herself; her husband had little time to spare

for entertaining her. When he was not busy with his sermons, he was

occupied out of doors.

The cattle were brought in for water, and the sheep called down from the

mountain pastures where they had grazed throughout the summer. Their

numbers had to be checked, according to the list prepared when they had

first gone out, to see if any were missing. Then came the question as to

how many should be kept during the winter. The hay in the lofts was

measured out in horse-loads; one sheep needed but a single horse-load

for the whole winter, this being eked out by the winter grazing grounds,

which gave a certain amount of feed each year, on the hillsides or down

by the shore. A cow, on the other hand, would need forty horse-loads,

whereas a horse could manage with ten. All these and other details had

to be considered.

Then came the killing season, and large droves of sheep were sent off,

either direct to the slaughter-houses or to the market.

There were repairs to be undertaken, buildings and outhouses to be seen

to; altogether, there were many things which claimed Sera Ketill’s

attention, and often his personal supervision, especially the sale and

slaughtering of the stock.

Indoors, too, there was much to be done; supplies of dried, preserved,

and pickled provisions were invariably laid in for each winter.

Alma herself had not much to do. When it was fine enough she went for

long walks; otherwise, she spent most of her time reading or sewing. Now

and again she would go out into the kitchen, and try to talk to the

maids. When Kata was at liberty, Alma sought her company, either in the

kitchen or in the sitting-room. Kata preferred the former; it seemed to

her a mark of favouritism to be invited into the inner rooms. Alma had

come to appreciate highly the old woman’s straightforward earnestness

and her power of maintaining discipline when necessary, and old Kata had

no greater wish than to do all in her power for her young mistress. She

carried out her duties faithfully, and saw to it that the other servants

did the same.

Alma had thus plenty of time to consider her own position. But it was a

difficult matter to arrive at any clear conclusion out of the maze of

moods and fancies that filled her mind.

At times she even thought of returning home to her people, but only for

a moment. She felt she would never be able to take up the threads of her

old life again. And indeed, from a practical point of view, it seemed

impossible. What would her husband say to such a step? Moreover, she

would probably be having a child before long.

Apart from these considerations, however, she could hardly bring herself

to leave the country; it had made a powerful impression on her from the

first, and she felt herself strangely under its spell. Here, at least,

she could live, even if she had to renounce all idea of any happiness in

her domestic life with her husband. If she went away now, she felt that

a part of her being would be left behind; to live elsewhere would be

spiritless, intolerable.

She bore with resignation the shattering of her dreams of love, and made

no attempt to deceive herself with ideas of a future reconciliation.

Love, she felt, would play no further part in her life; when she

endeavoured to sound her feelings on this point, she found herself

coldly indifferent. Her conscience was in no way hurt by her attitude

towards her husband; it could not be otherwise, since he on his part

seemed to have no longer any pleasure in the possession of her,

regarding her merely as a chattel he had acquired.

She even went so far as to imagine that he had never loved her, but only

pretended to do so, and had only won her by sheer selfish calculation.

In the days of their courtship, such a thought had never entered her

mind; but now, disappointment had driven all love away, leaving only a

sense of injury.

Chiefly dominant, however, was the sense of indifference; Alma had

almost become a fatalist. Sorrows and disappointments were things to be

taken as they came, and stacked aside, as a card-player lays aside the

tricks he has taken, or a miser packs away his treasures. All

unknowingly, she was gradually developing in herself something of the

essential character of the country that had so impressed her; so it was

that the snow gathered and hung on the mountain-side, ever more and

more, until it crashed down in an avalanche, burying houses and men, or

sweeping them out to sea. So also in the heart of the volcanoes molten

stuff was gathered slowly—to burst forth one day and spread death and

desolation abroad. And human beings might do as they, gathering slowly

the force that, suddenly loosed, should change their destinies.

* * * * *

Autumn spread its heavy tones over the land, persistent, yet ever

changing.

There were grey, wet days, when all things were obliterated under masses

of rain. Then violent storms, when window-frames and houses rattled and

shook, and the dust was whirled in huge yellow clouds. Haystacks were

caught in the whirlwind, tumbledown cottages demolished; even the

strongest men were at times obliged to move on all fours over the hills,

to avoid being swept over some precipice. Boats along the shore were

crushed like egg-shells; there were sad days for the fisherfolk.

Sometimes the elements seemed to be resting, leaving the weather calm

and mild; at other times there would be days of shifting light and

shade, of scurrying clouds and sudden hailstorms that left white streaks

along the hillsides where they passed.

The days were growing shorter; everywhere the advance of darkness made

itself felt, like a mighty bass in the autumnal choir, relieved by the

clear treble of the stars and the northern lights.

Alma spent the long evenings at home for the most part, busy with her

own thoughts. There was little interchange of words between her and her

husband. They seemed separated by a gulf of silence; Ketill, apparently,

found nothing distressing in the fact. It was convenient to have a wife

who was quiet, and did not bother him. But Alma felt as if they lived in

different worlds, with but the slightest link between them.

Sometimes the fact that they were married—and the intimacies which alone

declared it—seemed to her so tragically humourous that she had to bite

her lips lest she should break out into bitter laughter.

The autumn nights had a depressing effect on her mind, filling her with

a consuming pain—a deep and intolerable longing for some one in whose

heart she had a place, though but the merest little corner, where she

could feel at rest.

At milking-time, about ten o’clock, she could be sure of finding old

Kata in the cowshed. And often she would steal out to her there,

watching the old woman at work in the dim light. Old Kata knew that her

mistress might be coming, and sent off Kobbi, the old cowman, for a jug,

which was filled straight from the udder,—an especial piece of

consideration on the part of Kata,—and the three would sit talking

together as best they could. The two old folk had already taught their

mistress something of the language, enough at any rate for her to

understand them, and now and again put in a word herself.

CHAPTER IV

Time rolled on.

The autumn nights grew longer; the days dwindled to a few hours’ feeble

light.

Winter was near at hand.

Then came the snow. First one night, when all was still. There it lay

next morning, a soft, white sheet spread out under a blue-tinted sky.

All the earth seemed silent as in church, at the hour of meditation. And

when any sound broke the stillness, its echo seemed to dwell in the ear

for longer than usual, dying away slowly, as if loth to depart.

The wind came, levelling the snow to fill the hollows of the ground;

then more snow, then rain, and then frost; winter was come in earnest,

come to stay. Heavy, murky clouds shed their burden of snow, but passed

away again; winter had many aspects and was never one thing for long at

a time. Westerly winds flung the snow hither and thither, mountain

torrents rushed down on their way to the sea. And then suddenly, in the

midst of all this wild confusion, would come calm, clear nights, of

ghostly quiet, no sound to be heard save the murmur of the sea, like

beating of the wings of time.

And men lived on, under the heavy yoke of winter. It seemed as if the

winter itself were ever trying to foist itself upon them, claiming

acknowledgment of its presence. It set its mark upon the window-panes,

thrust itself at them through the cracks of doors; but they strove to

keep it out, thawing the pictures on their windows, bundling the snow

from their thresholds with scant ceremony, even with abuse. No wonder

that the winter turned spiteful at times, lying in wait for men and

leading them astray in storms, luring them to destruction in some

concealed ravine where their last breath could be offered up as a

sacrifice upon its altar. It was but reasonable so.

This winter, the Hofsfjordur folk had little time to spare for

contemplation of the usual struggle; they took the necessary steps for

their protection, but their minds were largely occupied with other

matters.

There was the new priest, Sera Ketill, son of the mighty King of

Borg—and he gave them food for thought in abundance. From his first

sermon, he had made his influence felt, chiefly, perhaps, through his

eloquence and the depth of feeling he seemed to display. Then, later, it

became evident that there was a certain tendency in his discourses; his

arguments pointed towards some conclusion, though what this was could

hardly be seen as yet. His masterly treatment of his texts revealed an

iron will, that had evidently set itself some great and difficult task.

Sera Ketill revealed himself as a fanatic, stern and merciless in his

interpretations and demands. He appeared as an idealist, looking ever

toward the goal of perfection, which he seemed to regard as undoubtedly

attainable. In his judgments and castigation he was unrelenting as a

Jesuit; his doctrine was clear and hard, admitting of no compromise: if

the eye offended, pluck it out; if the offending hand were nearer and

dearer than all else, there was still no way but one—cut it off and cast

it from thee. Thus Sera Ketill taught his flock.

Sunday after Sunday the church was full; week by week Sera Ketill knit

more closely the bond between his parishioners and himself. At first

they admired him, but it was not long before they came to love him. What

had been, was forgotten; he was their priest now. All knew that Ormarr

was to inherit Borg after his father, and it was not difficult to

forgive Ketill for having, in earlier days, cherished other hopes.

Plainly he had himself been the first to mortify the flesh, and put away

his own worldly desires. And who should call him to account for any

youthful indiscretions? After all, perhaps he had not been serious in

his reputed intention of discontinuing the benign and considerate rule

that had been a tradition of the Borg family towards those round them.

His sternness in matters spiritual, on the other hand, was

unimpeachable; it showed his earnest desire for the welfare of their

souls, and those who followed his precepts were happy in so doing, even

though it cost them something to break with the old easy-going ways.

Conscience needed to be kept awake and sensitive. And it was not

altogether unpleasant to come to church and be rated and stormed at for

all backslidings; one sat listening with beating heart, subject to an

emotion which Sera Ketill’s predecessor had certainly never had power to

call forth. The wearisome homilies of the old days, full of spiritless

and superficial argument, had made it hard for them to keep decorously

awake. But now, it was a different atmosphere altogether. “Thou shalt

love the Lord thy God with all thine heart.” Also, “Thou shalt love thy

neighbour as thyself.” But hence it followed that one should tolerate

nothing in one’s neighbour that would not be tolerated in oneself. “For

I the Lord thy God am a jealous God,” ay, jealous even towards His

children. Wherefore it behoved them to adopt a similar attitude towards

those around them. Wheresoever anything became apparent which was not in

the spirit of God, let them rise up and denounce it; if they suffered

any among them to look with scorn, or even with indifference, upon the

Holy Word, then they themselves were guilty. And for such sinners there

was nothing but everlasting damnation; the Scriptures had declared it

plainly.

Sera Ketill’s doctrine admitted but two alternatives—either heaven or

hell.

And he did not confine his teachings to the pulpit. His eyes were

everywhere, and as often as he discovered anything among his flock that

was not according to his teaching, he was ready with word and deed. And

he brooked no resistance—he spoke in the name of the Lord. Illegitimate

relationships that had gone on for years were ordered to be legalized;

it was not an uncommon thing for an old couple who had never been

properly married to appear in church for the ceremony with their

grown-up children as witnesses. A fever of zeal spread from the vicarage

throughout the parish. True, there were occasional murmurings from those

who were called upon to mend their ways, but even they felt the power of

this new influence in their hearts. And little by little the flock was

led into the paths of righteousness.

First and foremost, Sera Ketill demanded of his congregation that they

should attend regularly for worship in God’s House, where, by hearing of

the Word, their hearts might be opened to receive the Lord. Anything

beyond a single Sunday’s absence called forth a visit and a reproof for

neglect. Thus it was not long before Sera Ketill became the unquestioned

leader of the parish, acknowledged by all.

Among the poorer folk he gained great popularity by foregoing his right

of grazing on their land; here was an example near to hand of the

self-denial he preached. Such a thing had hardly been heard of before.

Plainly, Sera Ketill was one who himself lived up to his principles.

His judgment was taken as infallible, any decision on his part was to

them as if inspired by the Almighty. And week by week they grew more and

more dependent upon him; every Sunday he whittled away some portion of

the spiritual independence they had hitherto enjoyed. Yet they hardly

felt it as a loss; they were made to feel that it was pleasing to God

that they should do as they were bidden.

Sera Ketill’s doctrine bore the outward semblance of hallowed certainty

and divine infallibility. But there was something vague about it still,

something that had not yet been declared outright. A sense of

expectancy, half-unconscious, perhaps, hung over the parish. Whither was

Sera Ketill leading them? What was it that was coming?

Ketill himself realized well enough that his scope of operations was

limited: he could only carry matters to a certain point. Like a skilful

general, he carefully estimated the fighting strength at his disposal,

and never permitted himself to indulge in any over-sanguine imaginings

as to how far his people would follow him when it came to the pinch.

Above all things, he must not lose his head; must not act prematurely.

His objective was clear, but it could only be reached by patience. Given

but time enough, the ripened fruit would fall at his feet. Meantime, he

must foster the growing zeal among his flock; in time, they would be

ready for any outburst of fanaticism. Not too quickly—no. But his time

would surely come.

* * * * *

Ørlygur à Borg attended service regularly; Sunday after Sunday he

listened to the wild outpourings of his son. And sorrow and wonder grew

in his heart.

Ketill strove to maintain his appearance of sincerity towards his

father, but he knew that the old man saw through the mask.

Ørlygur, on his part, for all that he had declared that Ketill could no

longer deceive him, found it hard to account for his son’s zeal. If he

were not serious, then why ... what was he aiming at? But again and

again he felt an instinctive certainty that his son’s preaching was not

inspired by any divine influence.

And apart from the religious aspect, Ørlygur was sorely troubled to see

the people thus easily led. He knew his folk, and was himself a leader

of no common power; he could not but wonder now, whither they were being

led. Also, he knew only too well the cold reaction that often follows

undue excitement.

Many a long winter night the King of Borg tossed restlessly in bed,

uttering many a prayer to God—the only Being whose superiority he

acknowledged. He was weighed down by a sense of impending disaster—there

was trouble coming, and coming swiftly nearer.

Ketill was the leading source of his uneasiness; again and again he

asked himself if he could not somehow step in and avert the threatening

catastrophe. But he racked his brains in vain to find any way in which

he could act as things were. What was there for him to oppose? He could

not take action against his son’s enthusiasm in the cause of religion

and piety? Heaven forbid! Was he to endeavour to minimize the devotion

of the people to their God? Even though Ketill’s heart were cold, and

his zeal but a sham, who could say but that he might yet be an

instrument in the hand of the Lord—a creature inspired as to his deeds,

though not in spirit? Ørlygur à Borg could not raise his hand against

Heaven.

For all this, his suspicions never abated, but rather increased, as he

watched the growing hold of his son upon the parish. Was it not a masked

attack upon the supremacy of Borg? His son was trying to usurp his place

as chieftain. He called to mind the story of David and Absalom, and

David’s bitter lament for the death of his son. And he could not free

himself from the thought that Heaven must be working out some plan with

Ketill, the prodigal; at times, also, it seemed that something evil were

lying in wait. And, in such moments, the old man longed to take his son,

his child, in his arms, and weep over him, despite all the wrong he had

suffered at his hands. Ørlygur made no attempt to disguise from himself

the baseness of Ketill’s conduct, but he fancied it might be the will of

God moving in some mysterious way. His heart was torn by the meanness

and hypocrisy of his son; he felt himself wounded to the death. And yet

all the time his heart was bursting with a desire to forgive.

Nevertheless, the same disgust and aversion filled him every time they

met. He felt he must step in and put a stop to all this underhand

scheming and working; Ketill was a creeping, venomous thing, to be

crushed underfoot ere it had wrought irreparable harm.

For the first time in his life Ørlygur felt uncertain of himself,

wavering as to his proper course of action. He doubted his right to

lead; doubted even if he had been right up to now in stewardship under

God of all that was His.

He searched his conscience, yet he could find no evil there. Yet what if

his judgment of himself were at fault, blinded by pride and self-deceit?

How should a man judge of himself?—God alone could judge.

The brave old warrior was stricken and weakened now; his own flesh and

blood had wounded him, and, in face of it, doubt and uncertainty gripped

his soul.

The winter wore on.

Each day brought the foreboding of disaster more and more prominently to

Ørlygur’s mind; each night increased the restless tension of his heart.

Then late in March came a letter from Ormarr, then in Italy.

The news was encouraging; Runa had borne a child, a son, some weeks

before, and both were well. Ormarr and his wife were happy together;

Runa appeared to have forgotten her past trouble, and Ormarr did his

best not to revive any unpleasant memory. He himself was well and happy,

though longing at times for his home at Borg; he was anxious to return,

and tend and comfort his father in the last years of his life.

They would be coming back as early as could be managed, reaching Iceland

in June. The child was to be regarded as newly born; it could hardly be

difficult to conceal the exact truth as to its age. And as Ørlygur knew,

they had been married in Denmark the previous autumn. Finally, Ormarr

bade his father be of good cheer, and wished to be sincerely remembered

to his sister-in-law, Alma.

Ørlygur found the letter encouraging, yet at the same time there was

something in it that saddened him. He was glad to have the support of

his son’s youth and strength in his loneliness, and his heart went out

to the boy in welcome. Here, at last, he would have some one he could

trust, some one in whom he could confide. But at the same time, there

were fears in his mind as to what would come when Ormarr returned, and

his anxiety increased as the time for his homecoming grew nearer.

Gloomy dreams haunted his sleep—a thing he had never known before. What

it all meant was beyond him, but somehow, all seemed to centre round the

idea of approaching death. At the same time, he realized with dread that

there might be worse in store for him than death—something more terrible

than what was after all but a natural end.

CHAPTER V

The winter was a hard time for Fru Alma.

Never, surely, had a tender, womanly heart been so overwhelmed with

loneliness and doubt, conflicting feelings and bewildering thoughts, or

borne it all with greater fortitude and patience.

A snow-white lily snatched from the sunny spring and thrust away into a

gloomy loft. And what is the withering of a lily to the agonies of a

human heart? Here was a human creature, plucked from a careless

butterfly existence under a cloudless sky of youth, and transplanted to

a land of grim solemnity and earnest—the home of Fate, where dreams and

omens and forebodings reigned; who could endure it and not suffer?

Alma’s soul developed in adversity, but it was an unnatural growth—the

growth of herbage in the shade, outwardly luxuriant, no more. Such

growths, once brought into the light of the sun, must wither and shrink,

to rise no more.

Hardest of all, perhaps, was the monotony of her life. Despite the

changing weather, lengthening days, intercourse with people around her

as she picked up a little more of the language, despite the busy

Sundays, it was a sadly uneventful existence, and there seemed no hope

of relief in the future. The coming years loomed out as burdens to be

borne in due course, days of drab wakefulness, with restless nights of

evil dreams; the healing rest that night should bring was but a mirage.

When the loneliness became unbearable she would seek the company of old

Kata, or of the other servants. And her kindness to them all was soon

known far and wide. Were any in trouble, be sure Fru Alma would not pass

them by; her generous sympathy was recognized by all. “The Danish Lady

at Hof,” they called her, and looked to her as one to whom any appeal

for help should naturally be made, as to a patron saint, or the Son of

God Himself. And there was no irreverence in the comparison.

The vicarage was constantly besieged by beggars and vagabonds; Sera

Ketill, scenting personal advantage to himself in his wife’s reputation

for charity, encouraged her in the work. He thanked her—but his thanks

were insincere and superficial, and Alma was not deceived. She and old

Kata were the only ones who saw through him, each in her own way. The

two women never spoke of him together; he was the one theme upon which

they never exchanged confidences. Alma could not speak ill of her

husband to any one, and it was not old Kata’s way to make ill worse.

Kata knew exactly what went on at the vicarage, and she was the only one

who did. Ørlygur was only partially aware of the true state of affairs

between Ketill and his wife.

* * * * *

Kata, who herself had never been wife nor mistress to any man, was more

outspoken with Fru Alma than she had ever been with any other soul. She

found in her a creature pure and undefiled as herself, a nature trustful

and unsuspicious, with that high confidence that gives the greatest

worth, beyond what ordinary sense can perceive. And Kata tested her in

many ways before venturing to speak freely; but Alma passed every ordeal

triumphantly, unaware that she was being tried. Chief of all was

absolute, voluntary silence, speaking of a matter to none until one knew

that speech was but as speaking to oneself. Good wine should not be

poured into untried vessels.

It is hard to say whether old Kata’s confidences were to Alma’s good or

the reverse. In any case, it was a relief to her to talk with the old

woman, and at first she paid but little heed to what she heard. There

were strange themes which she would never have dreamed of discussing

with any one, and when alone, she gave them but little thought.

Gradually, however, they became more insistent, and laid firm hold on

her mind.

True, she never saw nor heard “things,” as old Kata claimed to do; she

was not given to seeing visions, and certainly had no claim to the power

of second sight. But she had strange dreams which Kata, when in the

mood, would interpret in such wise that Alma became thoroughly convinced

of the old woman’s powers.

They had strange talks together at times.

“Why is it, do you think, Kata,” Alma might ask, “that there is always

more suffering than joy in life?”

“I doubt but it’s all because they crucified the Son of God.”

“But don’t you think there’s many a human being must have suffered as

much as He did? Others have been crucified, you know; and then death on

the cross is not the worst kind of torture that could be imagined.”

“Nay, there’s many a heavy cross to be borne, that’s true. But God is

God, and that’s another thing.”

Or Fru Alma would start another theme, asking Kata’s views as to whether

sufferings of human beings were confined to this world, or if there were

perhaps still greater pains and trouble to come.

Old Kata opined that each and every one would receive punishment or

reward according to their doings in this world.

“It seems to me,” said Alma quietly, “that we are so bound by inherited

weakness and sin that however much evil we may do, we cannot fairly be

judged beyond our life on earth.”

“There’s a deal in that, maybe,” answered Kata. “And there’s many a poor

sinner not rightly answerable for all they’ve done. But God is God.”

One day, when a number of dead bodies from a wreck had been washed

ashore in the fjord, Alma said:

“Sometimes I can’t help thinking that mankind, for all the limitation of

our powers, could manage some things more justly at least than

Providence seems to do.”

“Never speak like that,” said old Kata warningly. “Think of the

Scriptures. ’Tis God’s finger guiding all.”

“Oh, I know it’s a blessed thing to have faith in time of trouble. And

as long as it’s only oneself.... But when something dreadful happens to

others, and there seems no sense nor reason for it all, then one can’t

help asking, why, what is it all for? Surely one might think that a

heavenly providence would be kind, and work for our good.”

“Ay, ’tis strange to think, no doubt,” answered Kata. “And there’s times

when it’s hard to answer such things. But God is God.”

This last expression was a constant formula in Kata’s mouth, which to

herself at least seemed to dispose of the most difficult problem.

Alma ventured to put a direct question.

“Have you never felt yourself, sometime, that you didn’t really want to

say ‘God’s will be done’?”

“Now you’re asking me something,” said Kata, “and something I’d not

answer to any but yourself.”

The spinning-wheel stopped, and Kata paused; not a word was uttered for

some moments. At last the old woman went on:

“Once there was a poor man and a young woman. She was not rich, neither,

but they two were fond of each other, and gave each other promise. They

would wait till they could buy a little farm; it might take years, but

they would wait. You know the hills over yonder they call the Dark

Mountains. Well, the young man, he went up there to serve with a farmer

who offered him good wages. And the girl, she stayed behind, and never

saw him all that summer. But she had her ring to look at, and hope. In

the autumn, he came down over the mountains to see her. And there came a

snowstorm on the way, and he was frozen to death in the mountains....”

Old Kata’s voice had changed; its tone brought tears to Alma’s eyes, and

though the speaker herself shed never a tear, it was a little time

before she could go on.

“Yes. ’Twas a hard blow to my faith at the time, and I was all doubt in

my heart. But later on that same year I learned the truth. He was going

to marry the daughter of the farmer he’d been working with, and only

came down to ask me to give back the ring and give me mine again. And

then I said ‘God’s will be done.’ ’Twas providence clear enough. ’Tis

not for us mortals to fathom the ways of God, and there’s much that

seems mysterious, ay, and hard and unjust. But God is God. And we’re but

weak things in His hand, without understanding. But for all that we can

make our hearts a shining light, and show the way to wanderers that’s

lost the way.”

* * * * *

When Alma knew she was to give birth to a child, she gave way entirely,

and pent-up tears burst forth.

“Oh, how could it, how could it ever come like this?” she moaned.

She was to bring forth a child that should carry the nature of its

father or its mother—to what degree she could not say. And the prospect

of a child she felt she could not love filled her with horror, the curse

of a joyless motherhood. If only God in His mercy had made her barren;

had spared her the anguish of bringing another life into this world of

suffering and misery.

She wept herself by degrees into a calmer state, and a sense of pity and

self-reproach grew up in her—pity for the new little being to come, and

self-reproach that she herself was so weak.

Surely it was sinful to look forward without thankfulness to motherhood,

a sin against the child unborn.

And yet—how could she ever be glad?

Life was a void to her; she had no desire in life but to cease living.

Listlessly she saw the days go by, the burden of her sorrow ever

increasing.

But those around her paid little heed; they had seen so many young

mothers who seemed to think themselves laden with all the trouble of all

the world.

Ørlygur à Borg noticed her condition, and saw, too, that she took no

pleasure in the prospect. His heart was touched at the thought, and his

tenderness towards her increased. Often on Sundays he would arrive some

time before the service, in order to see her, and if he could, console

her a little.

They went to church together, the old man and the young woman; Alma

still sat in her old place beside his. And she was grateful for his

kindness and friendliness; he seemed to her the most lovable man she had

ever known.

One Sunday, just before church, Ketill happened to return to the house,

and found his father’s overcoat hanging in the hall. The lining was

outward, and the corner of an envelope showed in the pocket.

Ketill glanced round, listened, and seized the letter, slipped into a

room close by and closed the door behind him.

Hurriedly he read the message through. It was Ormarr’s letter telling of

the birth of Runa’s child.

Ketill’s hands trembled, and his face flushed. With a nervous laugh he

thrust the letter into his pocket. Then, as by an afterthought, he took

it out again, stood for a moment irresolute, and making sure he was not

observed, put it back in the coat from which he had taken it.

He went back to join his father and Alma, in the sitting-room, trying

hard to appear unmoved. But he felt he could not quite control himself,

and began fumbling among some papers on the writing-table. He was still

thus occupied when the bell rang for the last time. His wife and Ørlygur

would have waited for him, but he bade them go on, saying he would

follow immediately.

Ketill waited till their steps had died away, then hurried out to the

hall; he knew he was now alone in the house. He took down the coat, and

let it fall to the ground, where it might seem to have slipped from the

peg. Then he took the letter from the envelope, and laid it unfolded by

the coat, as if it had fallen out.

This done, he hurried across to the church. On the way he stopped, felt

in his pocket, and beckoning to a lad near, whispered:

“I left my pocket-book on the writing-table in my room. Run in and fetch

it for me.”

The boy ran off to obey, and passing through the hall noticed the coat

lying on the floor. He stopped to pick it up, and caught sight of the

letter. He glanced through it, hardly knowing what he was doing, and

finally left everything as he had found it.

When he reached the church with the pocket-book, he was evidently ill at

ease; those who remarked it put it down to embarrassment at attracting

attention.

Sera Ketill’s sermon was not so effective today as usual. Possibly his

delivery was in part responsible. The priest seemed curiously absent;

once or twice he even came to a standstill, and had to cast about for

words.

It was the custom for none to leave the church till the priest and his

family had left. Sera Ketill seemed in a remarkable hurry today. He

strode across to the house at once, and quickly.

Coat and letter lay where he had left them, but had evidently been

moved. Ketill smiled. He picked up the letter, slipped it into the

envelope, and put it back in the pocket. He had barely finished when

Ørlygur and Alma entered.

Ørlygur had noticed nothing, but Alma thought it strange to find her

husband there in the hall, after he had made such haste to leave the

church, doing something with his father’s coat.

Her heart beat fast, and she turned to Ørlygur.

“Another time, father, when you hang your overcoat up like that, be sure

there is nothing in the pockets.”

As she spoke, hardly realizing what she had said, at first, the

consciousness of her own suspicions of her husband came to her suddenly,

and she flushed.

Ørlygur laughed, and answered:

“I don’t think there is anything to be afraid of.”

And he felt in his pockets. “Nothing here but a letter from Ormarr, and

any one’s welcome to read that.”

He spoke lightly, but a moment afterwards, recollecting the contents, he

turned pale. Alma noticed it, but tried to appear unconcerned.

When Ørlygur had gone, she remained standing, deep in thought.

It dawned upon her that there must be some connection between her

husband’s evident nervousness and Ørlygur’s sudden start. What it could

be she was unable to imagine.

Outwardly calm, she rejoined her husband.

“Your father showed me a letter he had just received from Ormarr.”

“Did he _show_ it to you?”

Ketill sprang up suddenly, and came towards her, but she appeared not to

notice, and went on:

“Ormarr and his wife are getting on nicely. They are in Naples, and

expect to be home early in June.”

“Did you read the letter?” asked Ketill, with a careless air.

“No. Ørlygur told me what was in it.”

Alma was watching her husband’s face, and could not fail to mark the

smile with which he greeted her last remark. Evidently, he had got hold

of the letter himself somehow, and found in it something that Ørlygur

would not willingly have known.

With bowed head, she left the room, and went to her bedroom, threw

herself on the bed, and burst into tears.

Her husband was a thief—a priest, and a thief.

What a cruel burden was this Heaven had laid upon her. What would this

man’s child be? Oh that the Lord would take it before ever it woke to

life!

Alma wept long and bitterly, falling at last into a heavy sleep. It

lasted but a little while, however, and she awoke in high fever.

She was put to bed, and a doctor sent for. But before he could reach

her, the trouble was over—Alma had given her child to the

world—stillborn.

When Alma came to herself, she saw her husband bending over the little

body, which they would not allow her to see. Ketill’s face showed

neither tears nor sorrow.

And she thought to herself: I shall die now. And it will be laid in the

earth by my side, with never a kindly look from any human being in this

world.

With an effort she managed to raise herself on her elbow and glance down

into the cradle where the little body lay. It was all uncovered, on a

white sheet, so very small and grey, with little white finger-nails. The

sight was like a hot steel in her heart. And with a cry she fell back,

unconscious.

For several days Alma lay between life and death, and when at last the

crisis was passed, she looked up to find old Kata by her side.

The old woman smiled encouragingly, but would not let her speak.

“Lie still, my dear; the worst is over now.”

A day or two later, when Alma was well enough to sit up in bed a little,

she asked:

“How long have I been lying here, Kata?”

“This is the tenth day.”

“Have I been ill so long? And who has been watching besides you?”

“Nay, I’d have none but myself for that. I’ve slept a little now and

again.”

Alma grasped the old woman’s wrinkled hand.

“How ever could you, Kata! And how can I ever thank you?”

“No need to try, my dear. ’Tis enough that you’re getting well again.”

“Have I—did I talk in my sleep at all?”

“Nay, nothing to worry about. Said this and that, maybe, but I paid no

heed.”

Kata busied herself about the room, avoiding Alma’s eyes. “’Tis no use

listening to feverish talk,” she added.

During the long days that followed, while Alma was in bed, Kata told her

fairy stories about kings and princes, with some idea of diverting her

thoughts. And Alma could not but smile at the old woman’s curious ideas

as to the life of royalty; she did not, however, attempt to correct her

impressions.

But once, in a pause, Alma broke in suddenly:

“Poor little mite—lying out there in the cold.”

She had learned of the burial of her child some time before.

And she fell to crying softly at the thought.

Old Kata came to the bedside and stroked her hand.

“All’s in God’s hand,” she said. “And all for the best.”

CHAPTER VI

When Alma rose from her bed after six weeks’ illness, she was but a

shadow of her former self. Her face was pale, with a yellow tinge, and

her figure wasted to a degree painful to see. She was hardly more than a

skeleton. Her dark eyes seemed larger, and glowed with a strange, hard

light, such as is seen in the still-open eyes of one frozen to death.

Her brown hair no longer stood in a luxuriant cluster round her head;

much of it had fallen out, leaving hardly enough to cover the scalp and

make a pitiful little knot at the back.

She had seen but little of her husband during her illness. Twice daily

he had paid her a brief, formal visit; but only a few words were

exchanged between them, and neither found any pleasure in seeing the

other. He slept in a different part of the house, and they avoided each

other as far as possible.

Ketill could not help noticing that his wife shunned him, but, occupied

as he was with his own affairs, it affected him hardly at all.

Alma went about the house quietly, as she had always done, with a smile

and a kindly word for all. But though none seemed to notice any change

in her manner, her greetings were less heartily felt than before. Her

heart was dead within her, and something was straining, straining to an

intolerable tension, until it seemed impossible to last. Something must

happen soon.

She often went out to the little mound where her child lay buried, and

would stand for hours looking down at it. Strange, to have a part of

oneself lying there under the frozen earth and yet to go about oneself

with the warm blood pulsing in one’s veins. It seemed unreal, yet it was

reality. Life seemed to have changed altogether.

She was no longer glad that the child had not lived. There had been a

time when she had hoped for that very thing, but when her wish was

realized, came pangs of conscience that destroyed her relief at its

fulfilment. She no longer thought of what her life might have been had

the child lived; she forgot that she had ever feared its birth; she had

no feeling now but sorrow for its death, and remorse that she had wished

for it.

Often old Kata would come to the churchyard to fetch her, gently

reproaching her for staying there so long.

“’Tis no good to let all the sad thoughts stay in your mind. There’s

life to be lived; you must not go wandering off among the dead so.”

And Alma would answer with a listless smile. One day she asked:

“Do you think, Kata, that there really is any life in the world?”

“Ay, indeed, there is. And if the Lord takes one joy from us, surely He

will give something else in its place.”

“I am not complaining,” Alma replied. “I have never complained. But I

have seen heavy crosses laid on weak shoulders.”

“They that seem weak can often bear the heaviest burden. ’Tis a

sorrowful world, but, after all, ’tis only a moment in eternity. And

maybe we’re only here to be tried in the fire, with trouble and

affliction, and the ones that suffer most are those God loves the best.

As if He was taking special pains with them, so they could be sooner

ready to come to Him.”

One day, as Alma and Kata were standing in the churchyard, two ravens

flew by. They flew over the church, and old Kata eyed them anxiously,

making the sign of the cross.

Then, in a trembling voice, she said:

“They flew over the church. ’Tis a sign that some one’ll be called away

before long.” And murmuring so that Alma could scarcely hear, she added:

“If it be Thy will, O Lord, I should be taken, then Thy will be done!”

But to herself she thought: “If it should be the young mistress that’s

called, then Heaven be praised. I am old and hard, I can wear on for a

few years more, but the burden’s over-heavy on her; if the Lord would

take her in His mercy.... God’s will be done.”

* * * * *

During the period of Alma’s illness, a certain amount of unrest had made

itself apparent in the parish.

First of all, there were rumours abroad. No one could say where they had

started, or how; it was impossible to trace anything more than the

inevitable “So-and-so said so-and-so.” But the rumours were of a

startling character, and it was highly desirable to find out whether

they originated from a reliable source or not.

Briefly, the matter was this: it was whispered that Ormarr’s wife had

given birth to her child as far back as the beginning of March.

And people made their calculations. The marriage had taken place at the

beginning of September the previous year. That made the birth a great

deal earlier than it should have been. And yet the child was reported to

be strong and well, by no means as if born before its time.

It was mysterious. The good folk searched their memories; they could

recall nothing unseemly in Runa’s behaviour as they had known her; far

from it. The marriage had been rather sudden, true, but they had found

nothing very extraordinary in that. The girl had been waiting for

Ormarr, no doubt; no one had ever heard any other man’s name coupled

with hers. It was looked on as a pretty example of a maiden’s patient

waiting for her chosen lover, and Runa had risen in the general esteem

thereby. But now—there were those who began to consider whether they

might not have been over-hasty in their conclusions.

It looked as if there were something more behind it. And it was not

pleasant to find that one had been deceived.

Nothing had leaked out as to Sera Ketill’s little affair with his

foster-sister some months earlier, and no one now thought for a moment

of connecting him in any way with the business.

But who could be the father?

Folk racked their brains to find one. Some had their own idea, but it

would have required a bold spirit to give it utterance. The name of

Ørlygur à Borg rose to the minds of many. He was the only man with whom

Runa had been on intimate terms, and for whom she was known to have

cherished any affection. That it should have led to such a result none

had ever dreamt—who could have believed it?

But there it was. Live and learn—the lesson in this case being a warning

against misplaced confidence.

Old Ørlygur had played his part well, and had been trusted farther than

he should. No, there was no trusting any these days.

But why had he not married the girl himself?

’Twas simple enough—it was too late, and it would not do to sully the

good repute of the family. He would never have survived the reproach had

his wife been prematurely confined, and for him to marry a young wife at

all—a mere child—was hardly suited to his dignity. So he had taken this

way out of it. Sent the girl out of the country with his son, giving

them strict orders to remain away long enough to guard against any doubt

as to the child being theirs.

He had sacrificed his son, that was all.

Originally, it had been intended that Sera Ketill should inherit the

estate. Every one was aware of that. And then one day comes Ormarr—on a

visit only—and before you had time to turn round, he had sold his

business and got married. It was sudden, to say the least.

And folk went farther.

As far as they knew, Sera Ketill’s marriage had come rather as a

surprise to his father. Ah, the old fox! He had reckoned, no doubt, on

getting his younger son to take over the paternity together with the

estate. Then, by the wildest piece of luck, when Ketill upsets his plans

by coming home married already, Ormarr makes all right again by coming

back himself.

Ay, the Devil was kind to his own!

It was not long before the parish had put two and two together, and

realized that Sera Ketill must have been aware of the whole thing from

the first.

_Here_ was the thought that inspired his preaching! Plain to see now the

aim of all this Christian zeal. ’Twas the preparation for a struggle

that he had known was bound to come; they had been watching it all the

winter, never dreaming what lay behind.

And now it was beginning to get exciting. What did Sera Ketill intend to

do? Would he break with his family openly? If so, how would it be done?

The church was filled as never before; the listeners carefully analysed

the discourse from the pulpit, seeking some clue that fitted in with

their ideas, some hint as to what was coming. But they learned nothing.

Sera Ketill, on his part, saw that his plan had succeeded. He could mark

the growth of the seed in the faces of his flock from Sunday to Sunday.

And deliberately he made his allusions vaguer and more general; now that

all would make the proper application of whatever he said, there was no

need for himself to deliver any direct attack.

It was a drama, played Sunday after Sunday in the church between father

and son—and the onlookers were thrilled with a sense of some terrible

end approaching.

Parochial disputes were nothing new, but up to now the people of Borg

had always stood united on one side or the other, and their side had

invariably won. But this was different; this was civil war—a house

divided against itself. And it meant a battle the like of which had

never been known in the records of the place.

The only drawback was that there seemed no possibility of doubt as to

how it must end—unless some new development occurred meanwhile. Not only

had Sera Ketill right on his side, but the Almighty was with him. And,

moreover, he had taken the precaution to enlist the entire congregation

under his banner.

Altogether, it would need something like a miracle to get that old fox

Ørlygur out of the trap. No use for him to gnaw off a pinioned leg or

brush—he was gripped round the middle, and there was no escape.

The thought of this great idol’s fall was a thing to make one shudder;

even though he were to fall by his own misdeeds, one could hardly help

pitying him.

After all, Ørlygur à Borg had always been their friend. None had ever

been so ready to help, so open-handed, as he.... But he had always been

a proud sort, Ørlygur à Borg, and pride goeth before a fall.

It was rather a conflict between a mortal and the Higher Powers—and they

were not so presumptuous as to think of taking any part themselves. He

would have to manage by himself—even if it meant ruin and disgrace in

the end. However they might feel towards Ørlygur, the general

benefactor, they were not disposed to take up arms against the Lord

Himself for his sake.

And what said Sera Ketill so insistently: “If thy hand offend thee, cut

it off....” Ay, even if that hand were a brother, a near kinsman....

Ay, Sera Ketill knew how to choose his words.

And if he did not venture now to take his father’s part, but stood up

and opposed him at whatever cost, it was surely because he realized that

God’s commandments must come before all else.

The spirit of hypocrisy made its triumphal progress through the parish.

It was characteristic of the fanatical intolerance which reigned that

Ørlygur’s innumerable good deeds were forgotten in the storm of

righteous indignation that rose against him. Folk great and small set

themselves up in judgment upon their old chieftain and found it easy to

discover some selfish motive behind every kindly and generous act of his

in the past. Those who owed him most were sternest in their

condemnation, and, in default of actual proof, were not afraid of

altering facts to support their case. And they quieted conscience by the

thought that even if all were not exactly as they put it, there was

still evidence enough against Ørlygur to satisfy any reasonable mind. A

little touch of colour one way or another made no difference.

The people had chosen; Ørlygur was already worsted and down. Certain of

the result, they had declared for the winning side—a fine example of the

unstable character of humanity, a weathercock moved by every puff of

wind.

* * * * *

Ketill was only waiting for the return of his brother and sister-in-law.

He felt a slight nervousness in the anticipation, though he felt

confident in his own mind as to the result of the blow he was prepared

to deliver. His plan was complete in all details, all preliminary steps

had been taken: he had but to wait for the decisive moment to strike.

But the waiting was monotonous. He had nothing more to do, and his mind

in idleness was plagued by distressing thoughts.

If only he had some one to share things with, a companion after his own

heart. He was realizing now what it was to be lonely. He even sought the

company of his wife, but soon observed that she shunned him as far as

possible.

The gulf of silence between them had become almost impassable, and he

read enmity and suspicion in her glance.

He had never meant to be unkind to her. Maybe he had been a little

neglectful at times—but she ought surely to have realized herself how

busy he was, and how hard it was for him to find any time for little

attentions.

He had time enough now, and would have been glad to make up for the

past, if only by way of finding some comfort himself in his loneliness.

His mind was suffering under a growing burden of isolation.

In the daytime he could generally find something to do, but the evenings

were long, and the nights often unbearable. He could not sleep, and his

nerves soon began to feel the effect of insufficient rest; he had to

struggle, too, against haunting thoughts that left him almost physically

exhausted.

Sometimes he even considered whether it might not be better to give up

the whole scheme. But after all the pains he had taken to prepare it—no,

he could not give up now. If he stayed his hand, all would be lost.

His wife seemed lost to him. She was coldly reserved, and utterly

unresponsive towards his advances. And his conscience troubled him. He

could almost see himself, at times, with her eyes; hear how his own

words rang false in her ears. He was a cheat—and what was worse, he had

been found out.

Even if he gave up his plans now, it would not help him. He could never

win her back again, of that he was sure.

With his father, too, it was equally hopeless. Ørlygur would never trust

him again, whatever he might do; and it was not to Ketill’s taste to

humble himself to no avail.

No! If he gave up now, he would be utterly alone thenceforward. The

people would desert him, for his preaching would no longer have any

definite aim; his doctrine would lack its dominant purpose. He would be

alone, forsaken by all, without a friend among his flock, his kin, or

even in himself; alienated even from his God. A creature to be despised,

or pitied; a thing of no account, unworthy either of hatred or

affection. Intolerable!

No; if he were to be alone, he would at least have power. If he could

not win the trust and affection of his people, he would at least command

their obedience and outward respect. No one should have the right to

accuse him of weakness.

Such were his conflicting thoughts as the days went on. Ketill was

thoroughly wearied of inaction; he longed for the moment when he could

act, as a child longs for its birthday. Again and again he pictured to

himself the events of that day, conjuring up visions of his triumph; his

one desire now was for it to come, and make an end of the waiting.

Also, he began to feel less sure of himself; to fear lest at the

critical moment his nerve might fail him.

Once he had declared himself, however, there could be no question of

withdrawal; all doubt and wavering would disappear; there he would

stand, erect and strong, the victor in a struggle that he had vowed to

win or die.

He was not blind to the danger of any weakness on his own part;

irresolution would be fatal. But once he could take the decisive step,

leaving himself no possibility of retreat, all would be well.

Victory was certain—for he was fighting without mercy, as injustice ever

does.

* * * * *

Alma went about in the same dull, listless state as before. She seemed

to be living in a world apart from all that went on around her.

She noticed her husband’s restlessness, and that he seemed to be trying

to approach her. But she put it down to his weakness and lack of

society—a need for companionship of any sort. And as a result, her

antipathy increased. She was good enough—in default of all else! But at

other times he cared nothing for her. It was not for her sake, not for

herself, he sought her. Ketill never realized how his neglect had

isolated her in a prison of solitude.

It was impossible to speak to him about the state of things between

them; he would only gloss it over with an utter disregard of the truth.

And any open insincerity and falsehood on his part would bring matters

to a climax; she would be unable to restrain her feelings. What would

happen exactly, she did not know; she did not venture to consider the

possibility. It seemed impossible that she could ever survive such a

revelation.

And yet she had a painful intuition that it would come, and that she

would survive it. It was horrible to think that she must go on living

after that. Were she but certain that it would kill her, she would

gladly do her best to bring matters to a head instead of avoiding and

dreading it.

But for the present the wheels of time seemed to have stopped; life was

at a standstill.

Even the solitude she sought in her wanderings about the country seemed

dreadful to her now. Ice and snow, ice and snow—the outlook was so bleak

and desolate that it brought her mind to the verge of insanity.

Her head ached intensely as she looked out over the snow-covered waste;

her brain seemed on the point of bursting, she felt herself fighting to

retain her mental balance. Once she gave way there would be no recovery.

She would find a dark corner somewhere, and sit down with her head in

her hands, rocking to and fro. Snow and barren waste—the sight of it

worked on her till she dared not face it.

Then came the sunshine of spring, and she could go out once more. The

snow was still there, but there were breaks in its monotonous expanse.

And day by day she watched it disappear.

Then at last one day she heard the roar of the stream as it broke

through the ice of its winter bondage. She hurried out to look.

The ice had been carried out into the fjord, and lay there, blue and

green, rocking gently on the water. Later in the day it lost its

freshness, dulled by the sand and mud carried down by the torrent.

Streams were pouring everywhere from the heights above, forming small

pools here and there where the water spread.

And gradually the earth rose up out of its covering of snow.

The landscape was dark and bare, relieved here and there by white

specks—the ptarmigan had not yet changed their winter plumage.

Then the green of spring began to put forth, and birds of passage

arrived. The air grew milder, and the song of birds was heard; there was

a scent of growth abroad, a promise of harvests to come.

Early blossoms peeped out, braving the frosts with cheerful smiles. Time

went on, and the light nights came, when the evening brought but a veil

over the day, that was drawn aside again at dawn, when the bright sun

rose, passing from a ruddy glow to a fullness of dazzling rays.

Butterflies lived their little lives, and sank to earth, to pass through

the cycle of nature before they came again. The lambs of last year were

mothers now themselves, wise in the vicissitudes of life and saddened by

experience.

But the horses, even the older ones, forgot for a moment their mere

material needs, and galloped madly about under the influence of the

joy-filled air.

Cattle let loose for the first time from their confinement behaved in

most undignified fashion; even the astonished calves followed suit and

joined in the romp with their elders. Good-natured mothers pretended to

let themselves be outdone by their month-old offspring, until some

youngster grew overbold, and had to be reminded by what was fitting.

Great days, these, for a young calf, a time to play at being a grown-up

bull, and making ferocious charges against all and sundry.

All the light-heartedness of spring about her brought at times a smile

to Alma’s saddened face. But it was a smile of pity rather than of

pleasure. All these young creatures, this life new to the world, had not

yet tasted the bitterness of existence upon earth.

So she lived through the spring with the winter of life in her heart,

that nothing could melt away once it had set in. No springtide for her,

no budding and bloom.

She longed only for peace—in forgetfulness or death.

CHAPTER VII

Ørlygur a Borg was heavy at heart this spring.

He marked the covert whispering abroad, and it chilled him. But no one

was anxious to be the first to tell him of the rumours that had spread,

and he remained in ignorance of their essential theme. Yet he could not

fail to see that there was something in the air—something that concerned

himself.

The expression of men’s faces had changed. Ørlygur found himself

regarded with curious glances—sometimes a look of wondering speculation,

at times a look of something like scorn. If he came unexpectedly upon a

group, they would cease their talking suddenly, or talk with such

eagerness of indifferent matters that it was clear they had changed the

subject on his arrival. They had been speaking of him—or at any rate of

something he was not to know of.

At first he paid little heed to it all. What did he care for their

gossip? He had always held himself apart and above all idle talk.

Realities, matters of actual moment, were the only things that

interested him. Let them wag their tongues if they pleased; say what

they would of one another, good or ill. It was always the same in the

end—they answered to the hand with the surest touch, not to the mere

possessor of a gift of speech.

As days went on, their glances became more and more ill-disposed and

evident; the crowd seemed to increase in boldness as its numbers grew.

Ørlygur felt himself gradually surrounded; even at Borg itself there was

an air of restraint apparent. His own people no longer met his gaze

frankly, no longer laughed heartily at his jests; his orders even were

no longer received and obeyed with the same willing alacrity as before.

If any task called for special effort, there was no longer the same

eager haste to help. It seemed rather as if he were being left to

struggle by himself, an object of curiosity as to how he would manage

alone. He could see, too, that he was being watched, as if all around

him were trying to read his thoughts, and with no friendly eye.

Day by day it grew harder to bear. Ørlygur tried to get at what was in

their minds, insinuating opportunities for them to speak out, but

without avail. They could not—or would not—perceive his invitations to

tell him frankly what was amiss.

He sought out his best friends in the parish, those whom he had

befriended most. He called, not as with any evident object, but

casually, leaving it to them to speak of what they evidently knew. But

all to no purpose. It had not been the way of those whom Ørlygur had

helped to cringe and fawn before him; they had acknowledged his

assistance as between man and man. But now they met him with fluent

insincerity, plainly trying to conceal the true state of the case.

Outwardly, they were humble and full of deference and gratitude; but he

could see their hearts were ice towards him.

There was hardly a soul in the parish who was not indebted to him in

some way. But now that he stood in need of a friendly hand, their

selfishness was revealed. Not one had the courage to speak out.

Then came the third of May—the date when farm hands and servants enter

or leave their service.

Ørlygur was out and about betimes, looking to some lambs that had just

arrived. It was dinner-time before he came back to the house. As he came

up, he noticed that there were no men to be seen outside, though some of

the ewes were in birth-throes and needing help. He attended to the most

pressing cases himself, and then hurried up to the house.

Here a further surprise awaited him. All the hands, and the girls

belonging to the house, stood with their boxes ready packed.

At the door he met the headman, dressed in his Sunday best and carrying

a box. The man flushed a deep red at sight of his master, but tried to

appear unconcerned.

Ørlygur had come up with the intention of sending out the first man he

found to attend to the sheep. Now, he gave no orders, but asked instead:

“Are you leaving, then?”

“Ye—es,” stammered the man, evidently ill at ease.

“If you are not satisfied, why have you not told me before, instead of

going off like this without a word in advance?”

“You never asked me to stay,” was the sullen reply.

“You have stayed on of your own accord now for twenty-two years, since I

took you in as a child.”

This was undeniable. The man murmured something about having found

another place.

“Where?”

“With Jonas à Myri.”

“Good. You can tell him from me that if he should be in need of hay

again, as he was last winter, he can come to me as he did then. And

now—you may go to the devil!”

Ørlygur turned on his heel and went indoors. In the passage he met one

of the girls, dressed in her best.

“Are you going too?”

“You did not ask me to stay.”

A plot, thought the old man, and turned from her without a word.

All the farm hands were dressed and ready to leave, gathered together in

a group. A silence fell on them as he approached.

One by one he asked them: “Are you leaving?” And always the same answer:

“You did not ask me to stay.”

Ørlygur found difficulty in restraining his feelings. He was deeply

attached to his people, most of whom had been in his service for many

years. They had always got on well together; the hands at Borg had

better wages than they could have obtained elsewhere. Some of them he

had engaged when no one else would take them, and they would have been

without support had it not been for his help. And now they were

deserting him. Not one of them had been man enough to declare his

intention beforehand, and give time for finding help elsewhere.

Ørlygur spoke with studied harshness, fearing to betray what he really

felt.

“Get you gone, then, every man of you, and the sooner the better.”

It struck him that he had not seen old Ossa, who had served him for

fifty years, and had been like a second mother to his children. He found

her in the kitchen, preparing his meal.

“Are you not leaving too?” he asked bitterly.

“I’m too old to go about the country seeking work,” said she. Her voice

seemed richer and softer than usual as she spoke.

“If it is only that, I could have lent you a horse,” returned Ørlygur,

with a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“Nay, I’ve no wish to be leaving Borg. ’Twill not be of my own choosing

if I should. And maybe I can be some use a bit yet. As long as I’ve but

my keep and needn’t be a burden.”

There was a slight pause.

“Ossa, what is it? Why are they leaving the place?” Ørlygur asked, with

some constraint.

“Master’s the best judge of that, I take it.”

“But—they say it’s because I haven’t asked them to stay on from last

hiring. You know I’ve never asked them; as long as I thought they were

satisfied, I took it they would stay.”

“Didn’t they say about leaving before, then?”

“You know that as well as I do.”

“Well, then, Master can surely stop them; they’ve no right to go if you

order them to stay.”

“I’m too old to beg favours. And I’ve no mind to call in the law. You

won’t tell me, then, what it’s all about?”

“If you don’t know, ’twould not help you to be told.”

“Well, well, I’ll not try to make you speak against your will. But I

thank you for staying on.”

“I’ll have your dinner ready directly. You’ll need it this day.”

“Never mind the dinner. Put on a shawl and come and give me a hand with

the sheep. They are lambing all over the place, and none to help them.”

And Ørlygur strode out.

A lamb was bleating pitifully at the back of the house. He hurried over

to the spot, and found the headman already there. The man looked up as

he approached. Ørlygur strode forward, his face white.

“You are no longer in my service,” he said. “And I do not want your

help.” And with a blow he struck the fellow to the ground, and went on,

paying no further heed to him.

* * * * *

Ørlygur à Borg was left with none to help him save old Ossa.

The sheep alone were more than he could manage; hundreds of them, and in

the height of the lambing season. Scores of the young lambs perished

daily, for lack of care. Ørlygur and Ossa worked all day and far into

the night, doing all they could, but despite their efforts, many of the

ewes died in giving birth, or strayed and were drowned or bogged; many

of the lambs starved within reach of the udders they could not find. And

it was impossible to milk the burdened beasts; many were soon suffering

from lack of relief.

There were the cows to be seen to as well; Ørlygur and Ossa were so

exhausted when at last they ceased work for the night that neither could

do more than sink down in a chair for a few hours’ rest. They spoke only

briefly, of necessary things, and ate their food on the way to and from

their work.

On the following Sunday, Ørlygur asked of those he met at church if they

knew of any hands to be had.

It seemed that there were none available anywhere.

And now he felt that they were rejoicing inwardly at his misfortunes.

All were against him, he felt certain, but their opposition was so

veiled that there was nothing he could take hold of or challenge.

Patience was the only thing. Ørlygur waited.

It could not be long, he felt, before something leaked out as to what

lay at the root of it all. Some accidental hint, a word let drop, might

give him a chance to take the matter up. And if he could but find out

who was the leader responsible for it all, it should go hard with him.

He suspected Ketill, but could not understand how he could have such

power in the parish already as to bring about such a change in the

general attitude of the people.

As to his own practical difficulties—he might perhaps get hands from

farther off, but he could not be away from the place himself, and there

was no one he could send. Nothing for it, then, but to wait patiently

for Ormarr’s return.

Ørlygur shook his head sadly as he realized his helplessness. Truly, he

was getting old.

* * * * *

The vessel was nearly due now.

Ørlygur kept a close watch on the fjord, and held three horses in

readiness for the moment when the ship rounded the point.

If only it would come! He shook his head; he had a feeling that there

was but a little time left him now to live.

And he dreaded lest perhaps the ship should not come, or something have

prevented Ormarr from making the voyage. He spoke to old Ossa about the

weather; no, surely it could not send a fine vessel to the bottom.

Ørlygur’s hands trembled incessantly; he was visibly aged, and his voice

quavered when he spoke of his own affairs.

Old Ossa was deeply concerned, but strove to hide her sympathy; Ørlygur

was not pleased to find himself looked on as a helpless creature, and

was apt to turn on her impatiently when he suspected her of overmuch

anxiety on his behalf. He would not be looked after like a child. If she

ventured to dry his socks at the fire, instead of hanging them to air in

the ordinary way, he would keep his wet ones on. And when she tried to

substitute new mittens for his old and tattered ones, he gave up wearing

mittens at all.

“Getting old I may be,” he grumbled, “but I’m not an old woman yet.”

Then at last one day the ship hove in sight round the point.

Ørlygur hurried about, active as a boy, saddled his horses, forgot all

his troubles, and astonished old Ossa by humming, all unconsciously, a

fragment of a song, that he kept repeating over and over again.

And as soon as he was ready, off he rode to fetch his son home.

* * * * *

Sera Ketill had likewise been awaiting the arrival of the vessel with

impatience, and had horses ready.

As soon as he saw it had arrived, he hurried to his wife.

“Ormarr and his wife have arrived—the ship is just coming in. Get ready

as quickly as you can. We must go down to the quay and bid them

welcome.”

Alma looked at him in surprise; something in his manner filled her with

vague anxiety.

She put on her riding things—her habit was sadly too big for her now,

but, after all, what did it matter? And Ketill and his wife set off for

the trading station, reaching there just after Ørlygur himself.

Ormarr and Runa had already come ashore, and the party were about to set

off for Borg when Ketill and Alma arrived on the scene. All three tried

to conceal their astonishment: they had not expected Ketill.

He greeted them with outward calm, and they tried, for Alma’s sake, to

appear as if there were nothing but good-will between them. But all

three found it difficult to meet his glance. And Ketill smiled, as if

with pleasure at the meeting, but in reality with malicious satisfaction

at the evident impression his presence made. It was a tribute to his

power. It would not be easy to get rid of him now.

Ørlygur was trembling, and had the greatest difficulty in controlling

himself. Trouble was imminent now; of that he was certain. And he

puzzled his brain to find the reason of Ketill’s appearance there—what

had he to gain by it?

Ormarr took the child, and helped his wife into the saddle. He was very

pale, and glanced covertly at Runa.

Alma came up to him.

“It is long since we met,” she said. And, noticing his pallor, she asked

anxiously if he were “unwell.”

“It is nothing—I felt a little strange for the moment,” he said.

Ormarr, on his part, noted how changed Alma was, how ill and distressed.

He was about to question her, but checked himself; best not, perhaps, to

ask anything at all just now.

Alma read his intention, and understood that he wished to spare her. She

felt she must hide the real cause, and gave only the more direct reason

for her evident ill-health.

“I too have had a child since we last met,” she said; and added after a

pause, “and lost it.”

Tears rose to her eyes. And just at that moment Ketill came up.

“What—crying?” he said, putting his arm round her. Alma shivered at his

touch.

Ketill lifted the coverings from the child’s face and looked at it. “So

this is the little heir,” he said jestingly. “We must have a look.”

Alma also glanced at the child.

“Congratulations, Runa,” said Alma, grasping her sister-in-law’s hand.

“And Ormarr”—turning to him—“and you too, dear father-in-law. ’Tis a

bonny child they have brought you home. May it bring luck to the house!”

“Ay, we need something to bring luck to the house,” said Ørlygur

bitterly.

Alma looked at him, surprised at his tone.

“Oh—you mean you still can’t get hands for the farm work?”

Ørlygur saw that she asked in all innocence.

“No, my dear,” he answered. “And I am getting old. When the little lad

here has grown a bit, I may do as a playmate for him, but little more.

But we ought to be getting home.”

All five rode off together. Not a word was spoken until they reached the

cross-road where Ketill and his Wife turned off to take the short path

to Hof.

The three continued on their way in silence.

Ørlygur was glad that the meeting had been got over; sooner or later

Runa would have had to meet Ketill, and it was well that it was done. He

rode up beside her.

“You managed splendidly,” he said. “I have never seen a woman so brave

and strong.”

Runa made no answer, but Ørlygur read her silence as expressing thanks.

Some way farther on she rode up to him again; he understood that she had

something particular to say. She rode at his side for a little distance

without speaking, then, leaning towards him, she said in a low voice:

“The past is forgotten.”

And they rode on in silence. But, despite her words, Ørlygur was not

quite at his ease.

Later, when they arrived at Borg, and he saw how Ormarr helped his wife

tenderly from her horse, and kissed her, the tears rose to his eyes, and

he thanked God that these two, united in misfortune, seemed now, at

least, to be living happily together in love.

Old Ossa came out to meet them, and Ørlygur turned to his son.

“The only one that is left,” he said, pointing to Ossa. “There are no

more servants at Borg.”

“What do you mean?” queried Ormarr.

“It means that I have become such a hard master in my old age that I can

neither keep old servants in my house nor get new to come.”

Later on he told Ormarr how the servants and farm hands had left with

one accord, and how those he had befriended among his neighbours round

had turned from him in his need. He said nothing, however, of his

suspicions with regard to Ketill.

Ormarr thought for a moment, then turned to his father suddenly.

“There must be something behind all this,” he said.

Ørlygur nodded; he too was clear as to that, but what was at the bottom

of it all, he could not say.

Ormarr seemed anxious to pass over the matter lightly for the present.

“We must be able to get hands from somewhere,” he said easily. “And if

our neighbours can do without us, I dare say we can manage without

them.”

* * * * *

Sera Ketill and his wife rode on for some distance without speaking.

Alma had an idea that Ketill wished to confide in her about something,

but was at a loss how to begin.

She remembered how she had ridden that way with her husband once before:

she had wept then, because he left her to ride alone. Now, the mere idea

that he wished to speak to her made her shudder.

They came to the ford, and Ketill drew up close beside his wife, lest

she should fall dizzy in crossing. He told her to close her eyes and

hold on firmly, which she did. They crossed without difficulty. Alma

could hear that the water no longer plashed about the horses’ feet. But

she still kept her eyes closed.

She could feel that her husband was still at her side. At length he

spoke. His voice was unsteady, as if he found it hard to speak at all.

“I want to speak to you about something,” he said.

Alma opened her eyes and glanced at him timidly. But Ketill was looking

fixedly at his horse’s mane as he went on:

“It is an unpleasant matter, and I’m afraid it will distress you

somewhat. But it must be faced. And when the time comes I am sure you

will agree I have done rightly.”

He paused for a moment, and then went on:

“You saw the child?”

He waited, as if for an answer, but Alma made no reply.

“Did it not strike you as being extremely well-developed for a child

newly born? It is supposed to have been born on the way up.”

Alma looked at him in astonishment.

“Do you mean that the child is not theirs?”

“The child is Runa’s. But Ormarr is not the father,” Ketill replied. “It

was born in March. And Ormarr was not in Iceland the previous spring.”

Alma felt suddenly dizzy; she felt as if she must burst into tears, but

sat still, outwardly calm. Something told her that though there might be

something of truth in this, there was yet falsehood and mischief behind.

Bitter words rose to her lips; it was as if her husband were making her

an accomplice in a deed worthy of Judas. But she dared not give vent to

her feelings, and only said:

“Well, and if so, it is no concern of ours.”

“It concerns us—as being of the family—and it concerns me, as a priest.”

“What do you propose to do, then?”

“You have not heard all as yet. You do not know what people are saying

throughout the parish—that the father of the child is—Ørlygur himself!”

“It is a lie!”

Alma was quivering with rage; she had never been so near to losing her

self-control.

“I do not say it is true. Until it is proved, we must hope for the best.

But you will no doubt agree with me that the matter calls for the

strictest investigation. Ormarr and his father have treated the affair

with great secrecy—that looks bad, to begin with. Did you not notice

last year how Runa was kept out of the way when we were there? And can’t

you see now why it was? Has it never struck you that her marriage was

arranged with extraordinary haste? The whole thing was settled and done

in a couple of days. It is a very awkward business indeed for father;

the entire parish is against him. All his workpeople left the place this

spring, and he has been there all alone, with but one old woman, until

now.”

“Why did they leave him?”

“Probably because they knew what was said about him, and believed it

true. Very likely they knew of some little incident that proved it. And

after that, of course, they would not wish to have anything more to do

with him.”

Alma was at a loss what to reply. She had a keen desire to defend

Ørlygur, for she fully believed he was innocent. But her brain was in a

whirl, and the one thing uppermost at the moment was an intense hatred

of her husband. But she would not give it rein. She was helpless, and

suffering bitterly.

“What do you think yourself?” she asked at last, in a low voice.

“I do not allow myself to _think_. But I have determined to have the

matter cleared up. That is all.”

CHAPTER VIII

Sunday came. A glorious spring day with a bright blue cloudless sky and

the air a-quiver with heat; a day of smiles without a shadow, breathing

peace to all mankind.

Coming out into the sunshine on such a day, free from the cares and toil

of everyday life, the heart seemed filled with a natural desire to give

thanks and praise to God for the blessing of life.

But on this Sunday, there were few in all Hofsfjordur whose minds were

bent on praising the Lord. Folk hastened to the service, but their

thoughts were not with God. This day, the first Sunday after Ormarr

Ørlygsson’s homecoming, was a day of mark; something, all knew, was

about to happen. And all repaired to the church to see. Even tiny

children were brought thither; no one was willing to stay at home

minding children today.

Sera Ketill was up and about before any of his people at Hof. He moved

about restlessly outside the house, avoiding the grass, which was still

thickly drenched with dew.

Again and again he glanced over in the direction of Borg. A thin bluish

column of smoke could be seen rising straight up above the chimneys of

his old home. And involuntarily he found in it something like a symbol

of peace. There was something of a covenant in the ray of smoke that

rose as it were from some sacrifice acceptable to the Lord.

How was this day to end? Sera Ketill asked himself the question, and

wondered who would be coming to church from Borg that day.

Ørlygur and Ormarr moved about in silence, each bent upon his own tasks.

There was much to be done; they had made no attempt as yet to secure new

hands. It had been agreed that Ørlygur should go to church, the others

remaining at home. Had it not been for his duties there, Ørlygur himself

would rather have stayed away.

Early that morning he had fetched in Sleipnir, his saddle-horse, from

the fields, and stabled it without fodder to be ready for the road. He

let another animal into the box to keep it company, and the pair

remained there during the morning, relieving the tedium of their

confinement by licking each other.

At last it was time to start. Ørlygur had saddled his horse, but delayed

moving off, finding this thing and that to attend to, as if loth to

leave the place. Now and again he stopped still, looking out over the

country round; from all quarters he could see his fellow-parishioners

come riding; all moving towards Hof as the centre of attraction. He

noticed, too, that the enclosure round the vicarage was already dark

with the crowd of those who had come early.

Finally, realizing that he had no time to spare if he wished to arrive

in time, he stepped off resolutely. Then he turned and stopped.

Ormarr was in the courtyard, teaching a new-born lamb to suck. He had

been an adept at the work in his younger days, but had forgotten his

deftness now, and was fumbling awkwardly.

Ørlygur went straight up to him.

“I think you had better come with me, after all,” he said. “I feel—I

feel lonely today, Ormarr. Never mind the lamb, it will manage till we

come back.”

Ormarr looked up. There was something strange about his father’s manner

today, something he had not noticed before. He rose up without a word,

saddled a horse, and a few minutes later father and son set out.

Where the road was good, they gave their horses rein. But Ormarr noticed

that, despite the pace, his father was constantly turning to look back

at Borg. A new fancy of his, he thought.

There was a stretch of difficult going just ahead; on reaching it, they

slackened speed, and rode on side by side at a walk. Suddenly, and

without preamble, Ørlygur said:

“I had a strange dream last night. Curiously distinct it was too. I was

standing on the hill outside”—he nodded towards Borg—“and a funeral came

along the road—this very way—towards the house. A great procession, the

biggest I had even seen. And the strange thing about it was that it was

coming from the church towards Borg—instead of the opposite way.”

He paused for a moment, and continued:

“And that was not all. I was quite sure that it was my own corpse the

people were following. And yet I stood there on the hill myself, looking

on. If it means anything at all, I suppose it should be taken by

contraries—to say that I am to be buried alone, without a soul to follow

me to the grave.”

They reached the level road as he ceased speaking, and Ørlygur at once

galloped on ahead; Ormarr did not overtake him till they had reached the

vicarage. Neither spoke.

There was a numerous attendance of people. But it was noticeable that

they did not talk together, but busied themselves tidying up after the

ride with nervous care. There was none of the customary laughter and

easy conversation, all seemed curiously silent. Neighbours did not move

to greet one another and shake hands; and none entered the church. All

waited, a silent crowd, with their minds at the highest pitch of

sinister anticipation.

For the second time the church bell called to the worshippers to enter.

But no one moved.

At sight of Ørlygur and his son riding up, the crowd remained impassive,

merely staring at the new arrivals as they approached. But they watched

them closely, with occasional side-glances at others, who appeared to be

watching likewise.

As Ørlygur rode up, he divined at once that no one had as yet entered

the church; that all were waiting for himself and his son. They were

watching them, too. One glance showed him the situation, and his anger

rose suddenly. Usually, he dismounted outside the fence. But now, he

galloped straight across the enclosure, up to the wall of the

churchyard, Ormarr following at his heels. The crowd had to give way

hastily to avoid being trampled down. Still there was no murmur, only

the same watching glances from all. And all could see that the master of

Borg was in no gentle mood today.

Suddenly the gathering moved with one accord towards the church and

poured in. The bell called for the third time—a strange, solitary sound

in the quiet air.

Ørlygur and Ormarr secured their horses and went straight into the

church. They were the last to enter, save for old Kata, who hobbled

along, waving her coloured kerchief in the air to ward off invisible

ghosts and evil things.

Ørlygur read the opening prayer, and the service proceeded as usual,

until Sera Ketill ascended into the pulpit.

Ørlygur was in his usual seat in the choir. Alma sat at his side. Ormarr

had found a place in the nave, just in front of the organ.

When Sera Ketill appeared in the pulpit, a dead silence filled the

church, as if all had ceased to breathe. For a moment the priest stood

silent, with a thoughtful mien. Then he spoke—a little unsteadily at

first, and fumbling with his fingers at the notes before him. But soon

he gained power, and spoke out strongly and in a clear, resonant voice.

His hands clutched the edge of the pulpit with such force that the

knuckles showed white.

“Brethren in Christ,” he began, “before proceeding to interpret the text

for today, I have a painful duty to perform—a painful duty indeed. Let

me therefore fortify myself by supplication. I ask you all to say with

me the Lord’s Prayer:

“Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our

daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that

trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us

from evil: For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever

and ever. Amen.”

Sera Ketill wiped his brow.

“Yes: Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory. And we will serve

Thee only. Grant us strength that no earthly ties may keep us from Thee

and Thy way. That our duty to Thee may ever be set before all else; that

we may willingly take up our cross and bear it in patience as did Thy

well-beloved Son.”

Sera Ketill paused a moment, and then continued:

“Brethren in Christ, we all know how the Son of God cleansed the Temple

at Jerusalem. Today a like duty is laid upon us, the meanest of His

servants. To the Almighty, this poor house of prayer is no less sacred

than the great Temple; it is the House of the Lord, and no evil must be

suffered to dwell therein. And those who have given offence to God

cannot be suffered to enter His House until they have begged of Him

forgiveness for their sins, kneeling before him with a humble and a

contrite heart.

“There is here in our midst an old man who is a cause of offence among

this congregation, together with his son, the sharer of his sin.

“The son took to wife a woman out of his father’s house. And the woman

has given birth to a child that cannot be the offspring of her husband.

Whose, then, is the child? It is said that the old man is the father. I

have seen the child, and I cannot but believe that it must have been

born earlier than is said. Indeed, I am certain of this. And my wife has

seen the child, and can testify to the same. The woman, then, has borne

a child in sin. But who is the father?

“Until this matter is made clear, until the parentage of this child is

established according to the laws of the Church, we cannot tolerate

among us those from whom this offence is come. We cannot suffer them to

worship God under the same roof.

“And now, Ørlygur à Borg, and you, Ormarr Ørlygsson, I call on you, in

the name of God, to leave this holy place. Amen.”

Alma leaned over towards Ørlygur and grasped his arm. From the

commencement of her husband’s speech she had divined his intention, and

now in a moment she realized what had been vague to her before.

Ørlygur sat motionless throughout his son’s denunciation, but his brow

was firmly knit, and a strange light shone in his eyes.

As Ketill finished, Ormarr rose to leave the church. Passing by the

pulpit, he looked straight at his brother; both men were deadly pale.

Ormarr stood still for a moment, and said:

“You are playing a dangerous game, brother Ketill.” Then he passed on.

But now Ørlygur rose to his feet, Alma still clinging to his arm, and

called out in a loud, firm voice:

“Ormarr!”

Ormarr stopped, looked back, and strode to his father’s side.

Alma still held the old man’s arm. She clung to him, and begged

imploringly: “Do not leave me here; take me back with you to Borg. Let

me come with you and stay with you there.”

Ørlygur patted her trembling hands, and said gently; “Ormarr will look

after you, my dear.” And to Ormarr he said: “Go with her home, and

protect her, whatever happens. Do not let her leave Borg unless by her

own desire. Be kind to her, my son. And now go, both of you. I will come

presently.”

But Alma held Ormarr back, and they did not leave the church.

Ørlygur had followed them down the aisle toward the door. Then he turned

back, not noticing that they remained inside the church. When he had

left them, old Kata emerged from her corner, and going up to Ormarr,

asked: “May I come with you to Borg and stay?”

Alma caught her hand, and Ormarr nodded in consent. Alma was trembling

pitifully; Ormarr and Kata had to support her.

Ørlygur à Borg walked back toward the pulpit, stopped in front of it,

and said:

“This is the House of God. But it seems that the Evil One has usurped

His place. I am to be driven out from it—well and good. But before I go,

let me tell what all these righteous folk are full of zeal to know.”

And pointing to the priest in the pulpit, he went on:

“There is the father of the child.”

When Alma heard the old man’s words, it was as if the inward tension of

the past months had suddenly given way. Her features relaxed, she ceased

to tremble, and her eyes lost their fire. She felt as if she were

sinking into a sea of mist. And then to nothingness.

The light of her mind was suddenly extinguished, her soul had taken

flight, back to the eternity whence it had come. Only her body remained,

panting, unharmed, a living monument to that which had gone, an empty

dwelling, that has not yet crumbled, though the last living thing it

sheltered, the last thought, is gone.

A wave of astonishment swept through the congregation at Ørlygur’s

revelation. Then a moment after all was quiet once more.

Sera Ketill was still in the pulpit, pale as a corpse. He had reckoned

with every possibility save only this; no form of defence, no

counter-attack, but he would have had his answer ready. But this.... It

was not like his father.

It was all over now. The words that meant his destruction were spoken.

And yet he was still alive. The earth had not swallowed him up, no fire

had descended from heaven to consume him. He was unhurt; ruined beyond

help, yet he stood there as if nothing had happened. It seemed somehow

ridiculous.

Ørlygur faced his son, speaking directly to him:

“How could you do this thing? And how could ever God permit it? How

could He tolerate a hypocrite in His House? My son, I do not hate you,

and yet I say: Be thou accursed until repentance and charity have filled

your soul. Ay, I curse my son, not because I hate him, but because of my

love for him. Accursed—be accursed until our Heavenly Father shall have

let the glory of His goodness penetrate into your soul, and the darkness

of the Evil One give place to light. May your soul never rest, and may

it never leave its earthly dwelling, until Almighty God has given the

sign of His forgiveness!”

The congregation sat in awed silence while Ørlygur was speaking. When

the old man had finished, he turned to leave the church. But he

tottered, and would have fallen had he not grasped at the side of a seat

for support.

Ormarr hurried to his side, leaving Kata to look after Alma. Ørlygur

sank helpless into his son’s arms. The congregation looked on as if

spellbound; no one moved.

The old man put his hand to his heart and murmured; “I am dying.

Heavenly Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Ormarr laid him down on the floor of the church, and stood bending over

him, at a loss what next to do. The old man seemed trying to speak.

Ormarr put his ear close to his father’s mouth, and caught the words:

“... home ... to Borg.”

They were the last words Ørlygur à Borg ever uttered.

Ormarr felt his father’s heart and pulse—it was all over. Lifting the

body tenderly in his arms, he carried it out of the church.

Old Kata, standing by the entrance, crossed herself and muttered

something about the ways of the Lord.... Then to herself she added:

“So it was _his_ death the ravens came to tell!”

And Kata took the unconscious Alma by the hand and followed after Ormarr

and his burden.

When they had left, an old peasant rose and walked out of the church.

Then the congregation followed, walking with downcast eyes, a few only

casting furtive glances in the direction of the pulpit, where Sera

Ketill stood.

Ormarr carried his father across the churchyard to the horses, Kata and

Alma following close behind. When he saw his sister-in-law’s condition,

he shivered.

Kata was watching him. “Ay,” she said, “her poor troubled soul’s found

rest at last. And we should thank the Lord that He took her reason. Let

me come and nurse her—she’ll need no other help as long as I live.”

Ormarr was puzzled to think how he should get his father’s body and the

two women home, with but two horses for the journey. Sleipnir could

easily carry him and his father’s body. With a side-saddle, Alma could

have mounted the second horse, Kata leading it. As it was, the women

would have to walk, and he must ride at a foot-pace the whole way. There

was nothing else to be done that he could see.

He was on the point of telling Kata his plan when he perceived the

congregation crowding round. The old peasant who had first left the

church came up to him, and said:

“You will let us carry the old chief home to Borg?”

Ormarr turned on him furiously.

“You have killed my father among you; not one of you shall touch his

body.”

But the old peasant would not give way. His voice was thick with emotion

as he went on:

“We have done a great injustice to your father. You will not forbid us

now to make amends as far as we can. Had he lived, we should have come

to him, to ask his forgiveness. And for all that you are his son, you

know him little if you think he would have sent us away unheard. He was

too generous for that.”

Ormarr saw that there were tears in the man’s eyes. He glanced round the

circle, and saw everywhere bowed heads and evident distress. And

suddenly he remembered his father’s dream.

“True,” he said. “It is your right to pay him the last honour on earth.

Carry him home.”

A bier was found, and the party moved off, with Ormarr at the head.

Alma, with eyes staring blankly before her, walked between him and old

Kata.

All the others, men, women, and children, followed on foot, leading

their horses. Never had the parish seen so impressive a funeral train,

nor such a numerous following.

They moved but slowly, step by step, all the long road to Borg, the men

relieving one another at the bier. As soon as the body was lifted up,

they commenced with one accord to sing the beautiful funeral hymn:

“_Alt eins og blomstrid eina._”

They sang through all the verses, and when it was ended, another hymn

was sung; afterwards, the first again.

Singing and sobbing, the procession moved on—a strange sight to see. The

birds circled round the train in silence, forgetting for a moment their

spring song. But the sky was clear and blue as before.

So they passed along the way. When they reached the river, Ormarr took

Alma and Kata in his arms and carried them across. The men waded over

likewise, leading their horses; only the women and children crossed on

horseback.

At last they came to Borg. The body of the chief was laid on a big table

in the hall, and another hymn was sung. The followers were about to move

off, when Ormarr turned to them and said:

“You have carried my father home, and I thank you. I know that he was

always your friend, and if you will accept the friendship I offer you

now, it would be as he wished. I hope to hold the place he held amongst

you—that of a brother and friend. And if you have need of me in any way,

you know where to find me. You must be tired and hungry now. If you will

break bread under my roof now, before you return, then I take it that

the good-will that was of old between Borg and its neighbours is there

still.”

When he had finished speaking, he had to shake hands with all. At his

suggestion the women went out to the kitchen and pantries to prepare

food.

It was late, and all had been well cared for, when the guests rode away.

But, before they left, the whole staff of servants and hands who had

been at Borg that spring had returned, having obtained release from

their later masters, and permission from Ormarr to re-enter their former

service.

Alma never recovered. She wandered about like a living corpse. Old Kata

nursed her as well as she could, consoling herself and others with the

thought that she did not suffer. Alma was no longer conscious of joy or

pain.

* * * * *

Sera Ketill stood in the pulpit, watching his people leave the church.

He made no movement, but followed all with observant eyes.

He saw how the scene had affected his wife, and that she had sought

refuge with his father. And he understood that he had lost her for ever.

Then, marking the change in her expression, he suspected the truth: that

she had lost her reason on hearing her husband denounced by his own

father.

He listened to his father’s curse, and saw him sink to the ground and

die. He heard the congregation singing hymns outside the church. Then

gradually all sound died away ... the last he heard was a vague

murmur—fragments of the singing borne by errant winds towards him

through the open door.

Still he remained in the pulpit, leaning on his arms, as if nothing had

happened. He did not think. A scornful smile seemed frozen on his lips;

he suddenly realized that he was sneering, and wondered how long he had

been doing so. And then it came to him painfully that he could not rest

until he knew what it was all about; he must wake, and look at things

and see. And suddenly it dawned upon him that he was sneering at

himself. He drew himself up and laughed aloud, as if in an endeavour to

break the terrible stillness of the church. He marked the harsh, uncanny

sound of his own laughter. And, stepping down from the pulpit, he left

the church.

From the churchyard he could see the funeral procession moving towards

Borg. He watched it for a while, tried to laugh, but in vain. He went

home, and found the house empty. Looked into the servants’ quarters—the

place was deserted. He went out again and searched about outside.

Coming back to the house, after making sure that there was not a soul to

be seen, he found a dog beside the door. The animal slunk away. Ketill

spoke to it softly, beckoned to it, trying with friendly voice and

gesture to call it to him. But the dog would not come, and finally ran

away.

Ketill looked after it without any sign of emotion. Then he went indoors

and sat down at his writing-table. He sat there all through the day,

still wearing his vestments. Thoughts crowded in upon him—thoughts that

he could not drive away.

He had sinned against life, taking the gift of life in vain. And now he

was alone, an outcast, rejected and despised by all. Even a dog disowned

him.

He had sinned against God, taking His name in vain. The House of God was

closed to him. Alone, cursed by his father and abandoned by his God!

He had sinned against love; he had used his utmost efforts to ruin the

lives of two innocent women. God had intervened to save them: the one

through the love of human beings, the other by taking away her reason.

And he—he was left alone and shunned by all. The world was full of love

around him, on every side were human beings, his fellow-creatures,

loving and being loved. To him only love was denied; for him alone there

was no kindly thought in any single heart. All who knew him hated and

despised him. He had crushed the flower of love underfoot—it would bloom

no more on his way, nor gladden him by its fragrance.

Alone. And what should he do now? Why could he not sink to the earth and

die? Why was not his body given to the worms? Why could he not rot away,

and return to dust? What had he to do with life now? Or was it that life

had not yet done with him?

He made no effort to check the current of his thoughts, but suffered

them to come and go as they pleased.

Tears flowed down his cheeks. There was a strange sensation at his heart

now, as if despair and loneliness were to become a source of joy;

something akin to what the earth must feel when spring casts loose the

fetters of winter.

He sat on. The faint, scarcely perceptible northern twilight crept into

the room; he did not mark it. He had forgotten the existence of time.

His only thought was that he was alone.

Alone.

And suddenly he fell on his knees. On hands and knees he crept out of

the room, through the passage, out into the courtyard and across the

enclosure, through the churchyard up to the door of the church.

He pressed his forehead against the granite steps, and sobbed bitterly.

The sun showed in the north, a dull red glow, with the sky deeper and

darker round it. Farther off hung clouds, a delicate rose, neatly and

regularly in tier upon tier. Night, but the sun was there. The meadows

were thickly veiled with dew. All nature was at peace.

But before the door of one poor dark little church lay the priest, his

forehead pressed against the cold stone.

And for the first time in his life he prayed from his heart to the God

in whom he had never before believed.

“Peace, Lord, give peace to my soul!”

But there was no peace.

Ketill lay there long, sobbing and praying. Then, rising, he stood with

bowed head and clasped hands, and whispered:

“Lord, I will seek Thee and Thy peace. My life shall be a prayer and a

cry to Thee. And Thou who hast said: ‘Seek, and ye shall find; ask, and

it shall be given unto you’—Thou wilt not deny me peace. A humble and a

contrite heart....”

BOOK III

GUEST THE ONE-EYED

CHAPTER I

A grey, dull day—not a glimpse of the sun since morning.

A man came hobbling along the little-used path, a solitary figure under

the leaden sky. The clouds hung so low that it seemed as if the heavens

had fallen, and were supported only by the mountain peaks on the

horizon. A grey, dull day—and the man’s spirit was grey and dull within

him. All that the day had given him was a fragment of a song that had

sprung into his mind; he hummed it half-consciously as he went along.

“No sun over the sand,

Waste, waste.

No eagle over land,

Dead, dead.”

His voice was deep and hollow-sounding; in its depth a ring of

loneliness and unsatisfied longing. There seemed a power of fate and

sorrow behind it, as behind the dull roar of the sea. The eternal

restlessness of life, and the boundless seeking of the soul quivered in

this old man’s voice. Strong, yet soft, its tones had power at times to

move those who heard to sadness in themselves.

He felt a peculiar comfort in the sound of his own voice when wandering

thus alone; and he was a man who wandered much alone. And for all that

he carried no heavy burden, his steps often faltered.

His right leg was crippled, which made journeying none the easier; the

stout staff he carried was but a poor substitute for a sound limb.

Despite his infirmity, he tramped the country far and wide. Just now, he

was on his way across the chain of hills to the north of Hofsfjordur,

known as the Dark Mountains.

He had never been in Hofsfjordur. All the other districts round he had

visited many a time in his twenty years of vagabond life, but somehow he

had always passed by this. If any asked him why, he might answer that it

was because of the bad roads. Yet he was well used to roads that were no

better.

However it might be, this time he was on his way. The day was drawing to

a close, and he had still far to go. The night would be dark, and

hopeless then to find his way; there was nothing for it but to find some

sheltered spot where he could rest.

He was thoroughly tired, and his lameness was more marked than usual;

his sound leg too was aching from its unfair share of the work. He

rocked along uncertainly, like a machine on the verge of breakdown, or a

windmill making its last rotations before a calm.

His heavy coat dragged like the wings of a wounded bird. It was a

picture well in keeping with the landscape, the man with his long white

beard, the tangled grey hair showing below a big soft hat of the

indeterminate colour of age. From beneath his bushy brows showed the

glimpse of an eye—he had but one—almost unearthly in its intelligence

and penetrating glance. His whole appearance, with his beggar’s pouch

and limping gait, presented an almost unreal effect, harmonizing to a

striking degree with the surroundings. He seemed to be in his element in

this waste tract, beneath the low-lying clouds that at times almost

enveloped him.

He limped on, a monarch in the realm of mist and solitude.

But there was nothing of power in his thoughts. He simply felt at home

here, and in no way disheartened at the prospect of a night in the open.

Again and again he hummed his fragment of a song. It was his way to make

up such refrains as he walked, humming them hour after hour to while

away the tedium of the road. Also, it was a form of expression, giving

relief to his feelings and easing his mind.

At last, after innumerable repetitions of his melancholy chant, he fell

silent. Not all at once, but stopping for a little, then taking it up

and stopping again, with longer and longer pauses between. And his

glance grew dull, his brow wrinkled and furrowed. Night was at hand; he

stopped on a sudden as if to make a survey of his surroundings.

“Here am I, a worm in all creation,” he muttered. “And the day has left

me up on a desolate hill. Make haste, Eye, and find us a place to rest.”

Gradually the fog lifted, and the sky cleared. The darkness, however,

grew more intense, and the contours of the hills were soon almost

indistinguishable.

The wanderer glanced around, searching for some corner that might offer

some little shelter. Comfort and warmth were not to be expected in these

regions. But at length he spied two boulders leaning one against the

other. “Like brothers,” he thought to himself, and added aloud:

“Good evening, brothers!”

The sense of loneliness vanished, and his heart was glad; he seemed to

feel already a bond of kindliness between him and this his night’s

abode. Pleasanter thoughts rose in his mind, and he gripped his faithful

staff with a heartiness that might once have been extended to his

fellow-men. Now, the staff was almost his only friend. He spoke to it

aloud, thanking it for help during the day; he even felt somewhat shamed

at not having done so before. He dug and scraped away a heap of moss and

little stones, to fill the northern opening between the boulders, making

a kind of cave.

This done, he opened his wallet and took out some food, given him

earlier in the day by some kindly soul, and ate it, lying in the shelter

of his cave. When the meal was finished, he rose to his knees, and hid

his face for a moment in his hands, as if silently returning thanks.

Then after some shifting about, he curled himself up in the most

convenient position within the cramped space at his disposal. He patted

the hard stones, and spoke, half aloud, as his thoughts came.

“Feel strangely happy this evening. Not lonely now, just at home. Nice

soft sand here to lie on. And the stones that lie there saying nothing,

they are like friends. Battered about, like me, by sun and storms and

time. Ay, we’ve much in common, for all they stay still and I’m for ever

moving from place to place. Who knows—perhaps this night may be my

longest at last. Must come some time—some night be night for ever. If

so, ’tis a good place for old bones to rest. Maybe there comes One

tonight to take the unrest out of my soul and give me the peace I’ve

sought. If so, why, call up all the worms and creeping things that live

on flesh, and make a feast of me.”

Drowsiness crept over him; he closed his eyes and prayed:

“Lord, see the end of one more day in Thy service. Lord, may it please

Thee soon to lift the burden from my shoulders—the burden of sin. Lord,

Thou knowest my heart is full of penitence and distress; Lord, grant me

soon Thy peace. Amen!”

He ceased, and lay for a while without opening his eyes. Then, turning

over on his side, he huddled himself up for warmth, and resigned himself

to what the night might bring—rest, or the fever of sleeplessness.