On the morning after Bagga’s expedition with the lamb, Ormarr was up and
about before any of the others at Borg.
It was his custom to rise early. His nights were often restless, and it
was only after he had been up and out a little that he felt refreshed.
The work drove sad thoughts from his mind.
He was not happy, though he would have found it hard to say what was
wrong. He could not honestly declare that he regretted having given up
the path of fame that once had stood open to him through his music.
In the old days, whenever he had touched his violin, the contrast
between the harmony of music and the discord of the world as it was had
wrought on him so strongly that he had been driven to seek solitude. His
sensitive soul craved rest, quivering as it did under the harshness of
reality. It was not the desire for appreciation of his art, but the
longing for harmony in life that he felt most deeply.
Here, on the farm, existence was rendered tolerable by the fact that he
had to be constantly at work; the management of the estate gave him much
to do, in addition to which the affairs of the parish were almost wholly
entrusted to his care. And the affection and respect of his people,
which he could not but perceive, served largely to aid him in the
constant struggle within.
The people loved him, not only because he helped them in every possible
way, and never refused his aid and counsel, but also because they felt
that in him they had a true leader. They saw the firmness of character,
the stern will, which he exercised in his own life, and it gave them
courage.
Ormarr invariably began the day by a visit of inspection round the farm
to see that all was in order. The animals allowed to go loose about the
place were carefully looked to each morning to see that they had come to
no harm during the night.
One of the first things to catch his eye this morning was Ørlygur’s
lamb. He noticed the black head at once, and as he approached, the
animal rose up, bleating pitifully. Evidently it was in distress about
something. As soon as he had caught it, he noticed the blue ribbon at
its neck, looked at it, and found the name “Snebiorg” woven in red
letters. He was about to take it off, but changed his mind and let the
lamb go. There were not two women of that name in the parish. And the
lamb had got into the enclosure during the night, though the gate was
fastened. Ormarr was not quite clear in his own mind as to what had
happened, but at any rate, if the ribbon were intended for any one, it
was not for him.
He thought it over for a while, and then went into the house to wake
Ørlygur.
“Your lamb has come back. You will find it outside.”
Ørlygur was out of bed in an instant. His father hesitated, as if
deliberating whether to say more, but after a moment’s reflection left
the room.
Ørlygur threw on his clothes and hurried out—there was the lamb, sure
enough. But—it did not recognize him. Evidently, in the course of the
summer, it had forgotten him.
The ribbon at its neck caught his eye at once, and he bent down to
examine it. At first sight of the name he started in astonishment, and
let go his hold. Then, catching the animal again, he took the ribbon
from its neck with trembling fingers.
The lamb was let to run as it pleased; Ørlygur stood with the garter in
his hand, stroking it softly. His heart beat fast, his head was giddy.
Tears came to his eyes, and his thought was all confused, but there was
a great joy at his heart.
He sat down on the wall of the enclosure; the sun was just rising. Never
before had he seen such a glorious opening to any day. The piece of
ribbon in his hand made this day one beyond all others; it called him
from his sleep to be king in a beautiful world.
He realized now that, though he had felt sure before, there had
nevertheless been something lacking—and here it was. All was certain
now. And the joyous possibilities of the future seemed unbounded. He sat
there now for hours, deep in his dreams, twining the ribbon round his
fingers, one after another—none must be forgotten—and at last round his
neck.
Suddenly he started at the sight of his father approaching, and put away
the ribbon hastily. He got up in some embarrassment; it occurred to him
suddenly that Ormarr might perhaps have noticed the ribbon himself at
first. The thought left him utterly at a loss.
Ormarr came up and sat down quietly, as if unaware of anything typo.
“A fortunate thing about the lamb,” he said. “Coming back unharmed like
that. All sorts of accidents might have happened to it.”
“Yes,” said Ørlygur, trying to speak calmly.
“Have you time to help me today with the mangers in the big stable?—or
were you thinking of going somewhere else?”
Ørlygur felt suddenly that it was most urgent he should go somewhere
else, though he had no clear idea as to where. There was something in
Ormarr’s voice that seemed to suggest he was not expected to remain at
home.
He did not answer at once. Ormarr sat waiting for an answer, but without
impatience, as if realizing something of what was passing in the young
man’s mind.
When Ørlygur spoke, it was with a calmness that surprised himself.
“Yes—I was going for a walk ... over towards Bolli. I thought of giving
the lamb—to the widow there. She would be glad of it, no doubt; then she
could kill one of her own sheep instead.”
Ormarr apparently found nothing in this proposal beyond an ordinary act
of charity; he simply said:
“Yes, give it to her. Or perhaps to her daughter. Then you may be sure
it would be well looked after.”
“That is true.”
Ørlygur had now completely regained his composure, but was still
somewhat at a loss to understand his foster-father’s attitude in the
matter.
“You can bring them greeting from me,” said Ormarr, as he rose and
walked away.
Ormarr was both glad and sorry. But he knew it was best not to let
Ørlygur’s love affairs become a matter of dissension between them. They
of Borg had need to hold together well; he had made his sacrifice—all
that remained now was to prepare his wife.
* * * * *
When Ørlygur arrived at Bolli, with the lamb trotting contentedly behind
him, he found the widow outside the gate.
She looked at him, and then at the lamb. She had noticed that morning
that it was missing, but had merely thought it had been found and taken
away earlier in the day.
“Good morning,” she said in answer to his greeting. “Your lamb seems
loth to leave us.”
Bagga had told her mother before that the lamb always came back every
time she had essayed to drive it off with other stray sheep.
“It seems so,” Ørlygur agreed. “Can I have a word with Snebiorg?” There
was a lump in his throat; he could hardly speak the name.
“She is not at home just now. We had a stranger here last night, and she
has gone out to see him a little on his way. How far, I do not know. Can
you guess who the stranger was?”
“I think so. Guest the One-eyed, was it not?”
“Oh—then you knew he was here?”
“Yes. I was the first to meet him. When I left him yesterday he was on
his way to you.”
“Why did you not come with him, then, and fetch your lamb? When did you
fetch it?”
“I did not fetch it at all.”
“But—it was here last night, and this morning it was gone.”
Suddenly Ørlygur understood what had happened. And he flushed at the
thought.
“That may be so,” he answered vaguely. He hardly knew what to say.
The widow looked at him, as if somewhat offended at his tone.
“Won’t you come in and sit down for a while?”
“Thanks,” said Ørlygur. And they went indoors.
He had never been inside the house before. The little room was furnished
with two beds; he looked immediately at the one which was evidently
Bagga’s. Her hat hung on a nail at the head of the bed, her knife and
fork were in a little rack close by. On a shelf lay her Bible and Prayer
Book, with some other volumes. He dared not take them up to see what
they were—they looked like collections of the Sagas. The bed was neatly
made, and a knitted coverlet of many colours spread over.
He sat down on the other bed with a strange sense of being an intruder
here. His thoughts were vague, but he was dimly conscious that the place
was filled with the spirit and life of the girl herself. Here she lived;
the little trifles in the room were things she daily touched.
The widow, entering behind him, invited him to sit on the other bed. He
did so, feeling dazed, and seating himself uncomfortably on the very
edge. The widow suggested that he need not be afraid of lying down if he
were tired, but he declined the offer with some abruptness.
The woman sat knitting, and for a long time neither spoke, only glancing
across at each other from time to time.
The widow was not altogether pleased with this visit. She was at a loss
to think what Ørlygur à Borg could have to say to her daughter, but as
he did not speak, she was not inclined to ask him. Also, she remembered
her promise to Guest the One-eyed the day before.
They sat thus all day, exchanging only an occasional word. Once the
widow went out and made some coffee, which they drank in silence.
At length she remarked:
“You are very patient to wait so long.”
“Yes,” he replied.
A little later she brought him some food and a drink of milk. She
herself had eaten her meal in the larder, as was her wont. While he ate,
she sat with her knitting, glancing at her guest now and again.
“Bagga must soon be here.”
Ørlygur nodded.
The widow pointed to the bookshelf. “You might take a book, if you care
to, and pass the time. You must be tired of waiting.”
“I am not tired of waiting,” said Ørlygur.
Dusk was falling when Bagga at last returned. As soon as her mother
heard her footsteps outside, she rose and left the room. Ørlygur
remained seated. Something was about to happen—something wonderful,
incredible, beyond his control. He was to see her—hear her voice,
perhaps—even speak to her himself. He felt unable to move. The thing
must happen. And then—what then?
The widow exchanged a hasty greeting with her daughter, and told her
that one was waiting to speak with her.
Bagga was overcome with confusion, a wave of warmth swept through her
body, and her hands grew moist.
“Me—to speak with me—who is it, then?”
“Go in and see.”
The widow disappeared into the kitchen.
Bagga could hardly find strength to walk the few steps through into the
room. When at length she entered and saw Ørlygur standing there, she
stood and stared at him without a word. Ørlygur, too, was unable to
speak.
She offered her hand, and he took it, but the greeting was equally
awkward on both sides. At last Ørlygur plucked up courage to speak:
“Will you have my lamb?” he asked. “I have brought it with me.”
The girl smiled, but did not look up. “Thank you,” she said simply.
For a long time they stood facing each other without a word, hardly
daring to breathe. Ørlygur felt he had much to say, but could find no
words. At last he offered his hand again.
“Good-bye,” he said.
She took it hesitatingly, but this time their clasp was one of lingering
affection. They stood breathing heavily; then suddenly she leaned
forward with her forehead against his shoulder; her hot cheek touched
his. For a moment he pressed her to him, and passed his hand caressingly
over her hair.
With a sigh she slipped from his arms, pressed his hand once more, and
turned away. Then quietly Ørlygur left the room.
He went out of the house without taking leave of the widow. The latter,
returning a little later to the room, asked if he had gone.
“Yes,” said the girl.
“What did he come for?”
“He gave me his lamb.”
“Nothing more?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause.
“Does he love you?”
Bagga turned her face away. “Yes,” she whispered.
“And you love him too?”
The girl burst into tears. “Yes, mother.”
The widow took her daughter in her arms. “God’s blessing, my child. No
need to be sorry for that. By the look of him, he is not one to change.”