The household at Borg were all within doors. There was no working
outside on such a day. The sheep had to be looked to now and again.
During the storms they took shelter where they could, but these once
past, they scattered about to graze once more.
Ormarr had set his men to work repairing stables and cowsheds, taking a
part himself in what had to be done. But there was no such pressing
haste; the hands went to their work with gossiping and laughter, telling
stories of all sorts, from gruesome ghost-tales to amusing anecdotes
from near and far. There was hardly work enough for all. And the wild
weather out of doors made it more cheerful to be within.
Ormarr and Ørlygur took no part in the general gaiety. It was not their
way to be gloomy, but no one seemed to notice that today they kept, as
it were, somewhat aloof. The masters might well have something that
occupied their minds, for the moment, as might any one else. And no one
thought anything of their silence, least of all attempting to intrude on
their reserve.
As a matter of fact, neither Ormarr nor Ørlygur was in the slightest
degree depressed, but each had that in his mind which claimed his
attention beyond all else.
Ørlygur could not forget his visit to Bolli the day before. Time and
again the various impressions of what had passed recurred to his
mind—how he had sat waiting, how clean and tidy everything had been in
the place. And the girl—every single movement of hers was fixed in his
memory, even to the ever-restless little finger of her left hand. He
repeated over and over again the words he had heard her speak; even the
intonation was still fresh in his mind.
So deeply was he occupied with these recollections that he found little
thought for Guest the One-eyed, and yet he longed to see the old man
again. He felt an ever-increasing desire to talk with him, and, in
particular, to learn from a reliable source whether his father had
really been so evil a man as was generally declared to be the case.
Possibly Guest the One-eyed might be able to recount something at least
to the credit of the former priest. Had there been anything good in him,
Guest the One-eyed would surely have found it. And Ørlygur earnestly
hoped that his father might prove to have been not altogether bad.
Ormarr was thinking of a dream he had had the night before. It was
hardly any connected dream, only a sudden vision that had come while he
slept. He had seen his father and Sera Ketill standing hand in hand at
the foot of his bed. That was all. But Ormarr could not get the vision
out of his mind, and was superstitious enough to attach some importance
to it. The more he thought of it, the more he felt sure it must mean
something—what, he could not say.
Was it that his father had wished to declare to him that he had forgiven
Ketill, and no longer desired any feeling of enmity to exist between the
brothers? It seemed the most reasonable explanation.
But how could his father ever expect him to forgive Ketill, after he had
witnessed the terrible scene in the church, and all it had cost? Not
only the life it had taken; there was also the tragedy of the poor woman
who had dragged through twenty years of life a mental wreck. Ormarr had
seen his brother denounce their father from the pulpit for the sin he,
Ketill, had committed; the consequences of that sin had been left to
Ormarr to mitigate as far as he could.
Ormarr himself had only known his brother as a boy. All the time he had
been abroad they had never met, until the time when Ketill appeared in
Copenhagen about to enter on his priesthood. And on that occasion,
despite the claims of relationship, Ormarr had found it impossible to
feel any real liking for him. Now, knowing as he did that even at that
time the avowed servant of God had a sin upon his conscience of which he
showed no sign, it was impossible to feel any regard for him. Since then
they had had no intercourse with each other, and it had never occurred
to Ormarr that Ketill could ever feel himself unfairly treated in the
apportionment either of material inheritance or of affection. Ormarr had
never sought to probe the workings of his brother’s mind, and had no
idea of the way he schemed and wrought in secret. He had seen only the
outward effect of action, knowing nothing of the inner cause, and all
that he had seen had been evil. So evil, indeed, had Sera Ketill’s
actions been that they seemed to justify the name that had been given
him—the Devil’s Priest.
No. He searched his mind and heart, but could not find a single spark of
kindly feeling towards his brother, much less affection. No matter how
hard he tried to be impartial, he was forced to admit that the
expression even of any other feeling than that of hatred would be
falsehood. It was easy to say, “Forgive the dead,” but—he still hated
his brother and loathed his memory. The man was dead, and had already
heard his judgment pronounced. Ormarr himself might die, but he felt
that even on the point of death he could not feel otherwise than he did
now.
Ketill had been evil all through; no act had been so mean but he could
stoop to it, no redeeming feature could be found in all his doings. He
had violated all the laws of love and kinship, and trampled all that was
sacred underfoot. Lying and fraud had been his chosen weapons, and his
methods were as foul as his soul. Forgive him? No—it was all beyond
forgiveness.
To forgive him would be almost like becoming himself an accomplice in
his brother’s evil deeds; his soul would be tarnished by the mere
toleration of such a memory.
The Devil’s Priest had been his brother, blood of his parents’ blood; it
did not help him. It was impossible to forgive. It seemed natural and
inevitable as the breath of life to curse him, hate him, and condemn
him.
Even his death had been that of a coward—a fitting end. And the last
attempt to win the hearts of the people after death by leaving his
fortune to the poor—that, too, was a meanness entirely in keeping with
the rest. It had gained him nothing, after all, for the poor accepted
his gifts, but reserved the right to curse him, all the same.
No—even though his father took Ketill by the hand, and led him forward
to ask his brother’s pardon, though the vision were to come a hundred
times, night after night for the rest of his life—he could not forgive
him.
Thus Ormarr thought, and his heart grew ever harder towards his brother.
Later in the day, passing by Alma’s window, he saw her sitting there,
with eyes staring emptily out into space. And his indignation rose anew;
he muttered between his teeth a curse on the name of the Devil’s Priest.
The household were sitting down to the evening meal when Guest the
One-eyed came crawling on hands and knees up the slope towards the
house. Ørlygur, seeking solitude for the enjoyment of his thoughts and
dreams, was the only one out of doors; he at once noticed the
approaching figure, and hurried towards him, heartily glad at the
meeting. He no longer felt awkward or shy, but promptly seized the
beggar’s sack to carry up to the house himself.
“I am glad you have come,” he said, shaking hands warmly.
The old man stood up with difficulty; his legs were tottering under him.
He looked earnestly at the young man with his solitary eye, evidently
noting with satisfaction the unfeigned pleasure in his face.
His brain throbbed still to the words: Home to Borg! home to Borg! And
he returned the young man’s greeting in a voice hardly audible.
He had come home—and his son was glad to see him.
Then suddenly he realized that his son did not know him, and the thought
dashed his gladness to the ground in a violent reaction.
Ørlygur took him by the arm, and led him through to the courtyard. They
had nearly reached the house when Alma came out, leaning on old Kata’s
arm. Kata had seen him coming, and had brought her mistress out to meet
him.
At sight of the two women, Guest the One-eyed all but fell. With an
effort, Ørlygur led him to the big slab of stone that stood in the
middle of the courtyard and could be used as a seat. The old man sank
down on it, covering his face with his hands.
Ørlygur, alarmed at the old man’s evident illness, hurried into the
house to call his father.
Kata was in high spirits, and talked volubly to her mistress.
“I knew he would come; it was to be. Not a doubt of it but God has
brought him here, at the end of his wanderings. Truly God is Almighty.”
But the beggar sat on his stone, sobbing and murmuring brokenly:
“My God! my God!—this is my doing; I have put out the light of her soul.
Those empty eyes! O God, a dreadful thing! And Thou hast willed it so,
that I should see and understand there could be no forgiveness, for all
my prayers no mercy.... Lord, Thy will be done!”
The two women came up to him; he raised his head and looked at them,
with fear in his eyes.
The Danish Lady came nearer, and stroked his hair.
But old Kata took his hand, and said:
“Welcome now! God has forgiven you.”
The man sat still, with a face of despair, the tears pouring down his
cheeks.
“God can never forgive me,” he said.
“He can,” said old Kata earnestly. “God can forgive all sins of all
mankind. And you have borne His punishment with patience.”
“I have borne His punishment, yes. And now there is only death.”
The old woman’s wrinkled face lit with a smile.
“Be glad of that,” she said.
Guest the One-eyed sat drinking in the peace that flowed to him through
the gentle touch of Alma’s fingers as they stroked his hair. Old Kata
watched him, and understood.
“See,” she said, “she does not know—and yet she knows enough. That is
her way with all who she feels are good at heart and suffering. No other
would she touch. And never has she come to any with such tenderness as
now. Heaven bless her.”
“Heaven bless her,” repeated the broken man.
Just at that moment Ormarr came out from the house, Ørlygur close behind
him. The boy had whispered to his father that Guest the One-eyed had
come, and was evidently ill. Ormarr had risen immediately and came
striding out now with a friendly smile on his face.
The beggar rose to his feet, looked him in the face, and bowed his head.
Ormarr stood rooted to the spot, and deathly pale. This old man, this
wandering beggar, was his brother, the one-time priest—the Devil’s
Priest. And in a moment all the stories he had heard of him passed
through Ormarr’s mind—his wisdom, his unselfishness, his generosity and
self-sacrifice. Ormarr saw the depth of his misery, how deeply he was
crushed and humbled, body and soul. And he had seen Alma caressing him,
thus placing him at once among the “good.” And this living witness to
Life’s vengeance upon sin, with its merciless humiliation, wiped away
all hatred from his heart. But a moment ago he had hated his brother;
now all was changed. Ormarr sought down into the depths of his heart to
see if any vestige of hate remained, but found none; all unkindliness
was gone, and only pity and sympathy remained—yes, and love. Once more
the vision of the night before rose to his eyes.
Swiftly he stepped towards the pitiful figure and raised him up; the two
stood sobbing in each other’s arms. Two sufferers under the heavy yoke
of life; two creatures with whom life had played its pitiless game of
love and hate; two brothers in strife and sorrow.
And when they had stood thus awhile, Ormarr kissed his brother and
stroked his cheek, and said:
“Welcome home, brother.”
And Ketill answered: “God bless you, Ormarr. I have come from our
father’s grave, and I felt in my heart that you would forgive me.”
Ørlygur had been watching the scene with deep emotion. At first he saw
in it nothing but an unusually hearty welcome on the part of Ormarr
towards a wandering beggar. But gradually it became clear to him that it
was more than this, and as their words revealed the truth, he stood half
wondering if it could be real.
Then Ormarr turned to him and said:
“Ørlygur, it is your father.”
For a moment the young man stood still, his face twitching in the effort
to control his feelings. Then he gave up and, sobbing openly, embraced
the old man in his turn.
Here was a new joy, a thing undreamed of. From childhood he had believed
his father dead, and in death remembered only with execration by all who
had known him. And here was his father alive, a man whom all who knew
him blessed. No longer any need to ask if it were not possible to find
some little good in all his father’s deeds; Guest the One-eyed was a man
whose good deeds were told on every side. This was his father; one whom
the whole country blessed and revered for his Christian spirit and
unselfish life. A man who left with all some kindly memory of every
meeting; one who knew better than all his fellows how to bring out the
good in every man. However terribly he might have sinned, it had been
more than atoned for in those twenty years of humility and
self-sacrifice. Surely the life of Guest the One-eyed was enough to
expiate all.
So Ørlygur thought, as he wept in his father’s arms, and his heart
trembled to think how wonderful were the ways of life.
Suddenly the old man shivered and sank down, unable to stand. They
helped him to a seat on the stone, supporting him tenderly. His body
shook with a convulsive fit of coughing; his mouth filled with blood,
and he smiled as he saw what it was.
Ormarr and Ørlygur carried him into the house, Kata and Alma following
behind.
As soon as they had laid him on the bed, Ormarr left the room, saying he
would return directly.
He went into the large dining-room, where his wife was still busy with
supper for the workers. A girl who was helping her left the room as he
entered; Ormarr closed the door behind her.
Runa glanced at him, laid down the things she was holding, and sat down
on a chest.
“What is it, Ormarr?” she asked in a low, anxious voice.
Ormarr opened his lips to speak, but could not. He took her hand and sat
stroking her hair.
“This,” he said at last. “Guest the One-eyed has come. And he is
ill—very ill—I fear he is dying.”
“Dying—oh, what can we do? What is it? Can we get a doctor to help?”
Runa had risen to her feet as she spoke, but something in Ormarr’s look
checked her, and she sat down again.
Ormarr’s voice was hardly recognizable as he went on:
“There is more. Guest the One-eyed is ... is my brother ... Ketill....”
“Ketill! Alive?”
Ormarr was silent.
“He lives,” said Runa, as if to herself. “Thank God—thank God for that!”
“You—you are glad of that,” said Ormarr eagerly. Then he turned away.
“He is here,” he went on, “and dying. I have forgiven him—and Alma ...
she was stroking his hair....”
“Alma?” repeated Runa, deeply moved. “Oh ... and that is Guest the
One-eyed. No wonder that he never came here before.”
Ormarr sat down beside his wife, then rose again. “Shall we ... will you
come and see him?” he said. “We have put him to bed in the little room.”
“Yes,” said Runa. “Do you think he will die?”
“I am afraid so.”
“If only death may bring him peace. It has been a weary way for him.”
They entered the room together. Ketill lay very still, and the others
were careful not to disturb him. He opened his eyes as they approached,
and at sight of Runa he covered his face with his hands.
She bent over him, and kissed his forehead gently. Then, sitting down at
the bedside, she said in a calm, soft voice:
“Look at me, Ketill.”
She laid her hands on his and said again:
“Look at me, Ketill. It is all forgiven.”
But he kept his face turned from her, and only muttered, sadly:
“How could you ever forgive me?”
“Look at me, Ketill, and see.”
And he looked up into her eyes.
“It is true,” he said. “Love—only love and kindness there. You have
forgiven me—thank you for that, Runa. Heaven bless you.”
He lay still for a while, and his breathing seemed easier. Then suddenly
he raised his head and looked round.
“Nothing left now but to die,” he said. “I can see it is getting dark
already. Let me see it to the end—the end of the day; the twilight and
dear faces round me. I shall not see tomorrow.”
“Do not talk,” said Runa gently. “Do not tire yourself.”
“Let me talk,” he answered, with a smile. “My tongue will not have long
to talk at all; it will last me the little that is left. Perhaps it
might speak some little word that would live in memory—if only that
might be. My friends, do not think I fear to die—that I would put it off
a single second if I could. It would be good to live with you, but there
is more than that to think of. Only death can make atonement
complete—and blessed be death for that it does. Forgive me for my
words—I would not hurt you, any one, or make light of your goodness—you,
who have forgiven me. But it is true that only death can give me peace
and forgiveness of all.”
He looked from one to another of those standing round.
“Friends—beautiful faces,” he went on. “And I can see the souls of all
through your eyes, and all your thoughts. My heart bleeds for all the
pain and sorrowing that I who was Sera Ketill left to you. Even you, my
son, young as you are, have found suffering already in life. Shall I
tell you what I read in your eyes now? Sorrow—sorrow that you cannot
feel all regret now that your father is to die. Do not grieve that I
tell you, Ørlygur; your thoughts are the clean, good thoughts of a
child, and I love them. There is more in your mind too. I know what it
means to you to learn now that your father did not die as you thought—a
suicide. But Sera Ketill died then, only a Guest on earth remained
behind. And there is one thing more, that you yourself perhaps would not
have said before so many—you are thinking of the girl you have chosen,
and how she, too, will be glad to hear what you have learned today. Come
here to me, Ørlygur, and take my blessing.”
Ørlygur rose, and the tears he had been trying bravely to repress flowed
freely now. He fell on his knees beside the bed, and hid his face in the
coverlet. The old man laid his hand on his son’s head.
“Best that it should be said,” he went on. “And you may be glad of your
choice. Her heart is pure, as yours is. And she will be faithful—as you.
Clean and pure in heart....”
He broke off, weeping.
“Clean and pure in heart,” he murmured brokenly. “Oh, that I had been
so ... that I had been....”
His voice was lost, and for some time he could not speak. Then with an
effort he controlled himself, and spoke again:
“Nothing done can be undone. By the grace of God it may seem that wrong
has been atoned for and forgiven. I do not know whether I have atoned
for my sins, or whether they can ever be wiped out. Ormarr, you are
wondering yourself now how it can be that the hatred of me that still
glowed for a moment in your eyes when you found me before has vanished
so suddenly. Shall I tell you why it was? It was because you saw and
understood how I had suffered—suffered the pains of hell, more than a
man can bear. And because you had suffered too. In suffering all hearts
meet; more than all, when death and the ties of blood are there to help.
And you, Runa, you are thanking God that I am still alive, and that I
have suffered as I have. Never a doubt in your heart but that God has
forgiven me. And so you, too, have forgiven. Kata, you and I can read
each other’s thoughts; our thoughts are one. And though you know it
before I speak, let me say it; it is you I have to thank most of all.”
He was silent for a moment, turned over on his side, and went on:
“At the moment when it was in my mind to throw myself into the sea—I had
thought to drown myself in my despair—I remembered you. I had often
thought of you, and guessed something of the sorrow at your heart,
though you never let it be seen. I knew your story—knew that one had
deceived you, and that you could not forget. I saw how you went about as
a blessing to others, though you suffered more than all the rest. And it
seemed to me that perhaps your life was, after all, the greatest
thing—greater than all else, to put self aside and live for others. And
it was then I felt the desire to try if I could not wipe away my sin—try
to spread blessings around me instead of despair. And so I fled away to
a distant part, hiding at night and travelling by day. ‘Guest’ I called
myself, and was the poorest of men, a beggar, a wanderer, living by the
grace of God and man, eating with the dogs, and sleeping at night in
barns or sheds among the cattle. And I had not wandered long before I
found enough for me to do. Wherever I came, I found strife and malice
and envy and misunderstanding among those who should have lived together
in love. And I took upon me to work for reconciliation between my
fellow-men—with one another, and with life and death. For men forget
that life is but a speck in the vastness of space without end; that life
comes from death and moves towards death in a narrow circle. And so they
fight to the death, and seek to wound their fellows, ay, and strew
poison in their wounds, forgetting that every hurt a man deals his
fellow burns deepest in his own heart. With hands thirsting for blood
and souls afire with hate they fight one against another—as they had
fought for generations. And the priests—the servants of God? Why do they
not go out among the people, speaking to each, and trying to link the
souls of all together in brotherly love? Instead of standing up like
idols aloof in their pulpits, and delivering the word of God as an
oracle. _That_ is the only priesthood that is worthy of its name, the
only way to show forth God’s word so that it shall be felt and
understood and live in the soul itself. I could have won many a man to
leave his home and follow me—to leave his father and mother, his wife,
and go with me. But how many are ripe for such a task? And it was not
for that I had set out upon my way.”
The fever increased. He lay bathed in perspiration, and his eyes
glittered more brightly than before. The others gathered closer round
him, trying to calm him, begging him not to tire himself with talking,
but he went on:
“And now that I am to go, my greatest sorrow is that there is none to
take up my poor work. For what is the work of one man? Oh, if there were
enough; if there were many who could understand that the greatest of all
is to put aside self and bring peace on earth. That the greatest joy of
all is to be a poor man, going from place to place and showing others
the way to free their hearts from the yoke of worldly things. But the
priests—they have taken office and would keep it; they are paid for
their work in money, and grasp at it; they seek a higher and a higher
place in worldly things, for their heart is set on worldly gain—not with
their people, not with their God. It is much to ask. I know—too much to
ask of any in these days. But it is because none will give it that
hatred and dissension live and grow. I do not know—forgive me that I say
this—I do not _know_ if there is any God, but I believe and hope it. If
I should say I know, it would be a lie. But I do know that there is more
happiness in peace than in a divided mind. I know that enmity makes the
heart evil, and that friendship makes it good. And I know that our life
is made richer by love and goodness; easier to bear, more natural. Where
all is hatred and strife, who can find any meaning in life at all? The
only thing that helps us to understand life at all is our own striving
for the best in it.”
The room grew darker. As the sick man spoke his last words, the daylight
faded.
“Light,” he said. “The darkness will be long enough when it comes.”
A candle was lighted and placed beside the bed. Silence filled the room,
broken only by the old man’s heavy breathing. Those around him were busy
each with his own thoughts. Alma sat on the sofa, and had apparently
lapsed into her usual state of semi-consciousness, from which the
arrival of the wanderer had roused her for a moment. It grew dark and
the light was lit, but she did not heed.
Suddenly the old man whispered faintly:
“Help me off with my clothes.”
Runa and Ormarr did so; tears came to their eyes at the sight of his
miserable rags. Ørlygur sat apart, his face swollen with weeping. Ketill
smiled as the cold sheets touched his body.
Suddenly his expression changed to one of earnest thought. And after a
little while he asked:
“If—if Alma would come and sit beside me here.”
The Danish Lady roused herself a little as they helped her to the
bedside; she took the sick man’s hands in hers and stroked them. Then
after a little while she sank back into helplessness again.
Ketill lay with a smile on his face. Once he tried to lift his head, but
could not.
“Only a little while now,” he said. Then, glancing towards old Kata, he
went on:
“Lay her hands on my lips, that I may kiss them.”
Kata did so.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, as he kissed the limp hands of her who had
been his wife. “And good-bye for a little while.”
“It is time now,” he said faintly—“time to say good-bye to all.”
One after another bent over him, kissed his forehead, and received the
touch of his lips.
Ørlygur came last. He threw himself down sobbing on the bed.
“My son—my son,” the old man whispered. Then his face seemed to harden,
and he lay as if unconscious. After a while he looked up again, and
seemed trying to speak. Faintly at first, then in a stronger voice, he
spoke once more:
“God—God—my God!...”
His hands twitched feebly.
“Are you still there? Have they all gone?”
His hands dropped limply to his sides. Those near him touched his
fingers, but could not speak.
“I can feel you are with me still. But I cannot move my hands. Is this
death?”
He breathed with difficulty.
Suddenly, with his old, powerful voice, he cried aloud:
“Alma, Alma!”
He raised himself up in bed and then fell back. Guest the One-eyed—a
Guest on earth for twenty weary years—was no more. And Sera Ketill,
priest, had won the peace he sought.
Those who watched and understood had eyes only for the man there on the
bed. None noticed the Danish Lady.
When her name was called, Alma clutched at her heart. Now she sat still,
looking vaguely round. Then, rising, she asked in a new voice that made
the others start.
“Where am I?”
And, flushing slightly, she went on:
“That was Ketill’s voice.”
She pressed her hands to her breast once more, and sank down. Her heart
had ceased to beat.
Her sudden, unexpected death came with a shock to the others, and they
stopped weeping. For a moment all stood as if turned to stone.
Then they lifted her up and laid her on the bed beside her husband. And
all knelt beside the bed in silent prayer.
The candle flickered in the dark, throwing a restless gleam on the pale
faces of the dead. The darkness seemed creeping in to cover them.
For a little all was deathly still.
Then old Kata rose and opened a window—“to let the souls pass out.” And,
going over to the others, she knelt with them beside the bed.
But the light went out in the draught, and darkness closed about the
living and the dead.
BOOK IV
THE YOUNG EAGLE
CHAPTER I
A pale face showed behind a window in a dimly lighted room. The features
were young, but sharply marked, and the eyes had a strange, far-away
look. It was as if they were peering into life from within the portals
of death, or as if searching into the great unknown, striving to fathom
the hereafter, longing for peace, praying for peace, yet finding none.
Finding only a growing unrest, a torturing uncertainty that grew and
grew, an ever-increasing agony of longing.
That is what the night saw.
But the eyes behind the window looked out over the landscape that lay
spread before them in shadowy billows under the dark autumn sky, seeking
to recognize something here and there. That way should be a homestead;
it was there in the daylight; surely it should be visible now. But the
eyes looked in vain; the gazer found himself at last imagining that the
great expanse of shadow was that of a cloud on which he sailed across
the sky.
There was a sort of comfort in thus letting imagination run its course.
Yet unconsciously he pressed his foot to the floor, as if to make sure
of being still on earth. Up in the whirling ocean of space there was no
lasting foothold anywhere. And yet it was a pleasant fancy—to be sailing
through the sky. Clouds were things that came and went, and melted into
space under the rays of the sun. When this particular cloud on which he
rode should end, and he himself be hurled through space, where would he
land? Would he land anywhere at all?
He expected to see the dark shadow change its shape, but in vain. This
was a check; the sameness of the outlook irritated him. Evidently both
he and his cloud were shamefully dull, that they could not move better
than this.
And he looked up towards the heavens, as if to call the attention of his
lazy cloud to its swifter-moving fellows above.
No sooner had he done so, however, than his flight of fancy was
forgotten. There were the stars—and they fascinated him in turn.
Grey clouds spread their net across the heavens, drifting rapidly from
west to east, hiding and revealing the twinkling stars as they raced by.
Suddenly it seemed to him as if the clouds were standing still, and the
stars themselves moved across the sky, crawling hurriedly over the
meshes of the cloudy net, showing clear in a blue space one moment and
vanishing the next.
So intently did he follow the fancied movement of the stars that in a
little time his eyes were dazzled; it seemed as if he himself had been
drawn into a dance of stars.
He closed his eyes. And, as he did so, sank into oblivion, with a
disturbed yet sorely needed rest.
It was only for a moment. Abruptly he again became conscious of his
surroundings. His vision returned from its wild wanderings, and crept,
as it were, behind him—he saw himself—a pale face behind the window in a
dimly lighted room.
The sight came as a shock; grim reality had taken the place of fancy
now. And a sensation of horror came over him—he started back from the
window as if he had seen a ghost.
His eyes fell upon the two open coffins, with their white draperies,
that seemed to take shape as he watched them—the shape of what lay
within. The dim light of the tapers helped to bring him back to the
present, and even the weight of grief that came with it brought in its
train a restfulness of its own.
Silently he crossed the room and sat down at the foot of the coffins,
gazing at them till the white of the wrappings pained his eyes.
Then, bending forward, he fell into a fit of sobbing. A sense of utter
helplessness came over him; soul and sense were dulled.
CHAPTER II
Someone was scraping cautiously at the door.
He sprang from his seat, and fear gripped his heart once more. He rubbed
his eyes, realizing that he had been asleep, and stared round him to see
what had wakened him.
The noise was renewed, this time with a subdued whine. He grew calmer
now, and opened the door.
A pair of brown eyes and the sharp nose of a dog appeared in the gloom
of the passage. The animal looked up at him pleadingly, waiting for
leave to enter. And once inside, it stopped still.
Ørlygur seated himself once more by the coffins, taking no heed of the
dog. He had forgotten it. For the moment he was occupied wholly with a
sense of dissatisfaction with himself; time after time that night he had
allowed himself to be taken by surprise. First, he had let fancy run
riot in his brain; then, on coming to himself, he had given way to a
sense of fear; sleep had overcome him, and on waking he had allowed
himself to give way to fear again. He knew there was nothing to fear; he
was no coward—it was only when taken by surprise....
Involuntarily he glanced towards the door, where the dog had lain down.
A pair of bright, watchful eyes met his, and the thought flashed through
his mind that no human being could be more faithful than this dog. He
beckoned it to him, and the animal promptly obeyed. It crept up close to
him and laid its head upon his knees, licking his hand affectionately.
For a moment he enjoyed the kindly touch. Then his thoughts went
wandering again.
“I can never be happy again,” he thought to himself. “I cannot
understand how any one can be happy now. What pleasure is there in
anything? Everything dies at last. Eternity—the everlasting—it is
terrible to think of. And all one’s life but a drop in the ocean—what
does it matter if we live or die? And our joys and sorrows—what are
they, after all? All becomes insignificant. Some are glad when the sun
shines; others are glad without knowing why. It is simple foolishness.
Have they never seen a man die? Do they forget that one day they, too,
must die?—die and rot ...”
The tears flowed down his cheeks, but he did not move; his features were
set as though already stiffening in death.
“Die and rot in the grave....”
And he breathed softly, as if breathing in the air of death in the room,
while the tears still flowed.
Suddenly he closed his eyes, and pictured himself dead and rotting—his
flesh pale and bloodless—turning green and ghastly—falling from the
bones, hanging in strips from the fingers and stripping like a mask from
the face to bare the clenched, grinning teeth.
He opened his eyes with a start; an icy shiver passed through him, and
he clenched his hands. But he did not move from his seat.
“God in heaven,” he thought, “I am going mad!”
His tears ceased to flow. And in a moment he was cool and collected once
more. It was as if the trouble had passed from him, leaving only a deep
earnestness.
And in unconscious effort to protect himself his thoughts turned towards
the woman he loved.
He saw her now, in his mind; her lovely figure, her masses of golden
hair, her bright, smiling face, and her eyes, that spoke so eloquently
when they met his. Involuntarily he smiled.
But no sooner was he conscious of having smiled than the joy was gone,
and his face relapsed into the same cold, sad look.
“If she had never seen me,” he thought. “If she had lived far away, or
in some other time—then her eyes would have smiled at the sight of
another as they do now for me. What is it all worth after all? An
accident—a casual chance. Or could it be that, even if both she and I
had been different, we should have loved each other still?”
Tears came to his eyes.
“I can never be happy,” he thought again. “Once I was always happy;
always sure that the future would bring joy, more joy ... and I never
dreamed but that it was good and happy to live. Now I am changed. I
cannot understand it all. Everything seems different—even my thoughts
are new to me. All changed ... I am like a stranger to myself. And
why—what is the cause of it all? Because my father that I believed to be
dead comes home alive—and dies.”
He sat staring before him.
Once more he surveyed the varied phases through which he had passed from
the time when ten days before he had first come upon Guest the One-eyed
in the mountains—not knowing then that the wise and kindly wanderer,
beloved of all, was no other than his father, the hated Sera Ketill, who
had disappeared twenty years back, and was looked on as dead—from that
first meeting until now, when he sat keeping watch over two corpses;
that of the beggar who had been twenty years on pilgrimage to expiate
his sins, and that of his wife, the Danish Lady at Hof, who during those
twenty years had paid the penalty of her husband’s crimes, only to
forgive him at the last and follow him on his last long journey across
the river of Death.
It was a week now since the two had died. And they were to be buried
next day.
Ørlygur had begged and received permission to watch over them on this
their last night on earth. It had been his great desire to keep that
vigil alone, for he hoped that the night would bring him some revelation
of himself; his feelings, his strength, his will.
The succession of unexpected happenings, the complete revolution in his
inner and outer life, had left him in a state of vague unrest, a prey to
dreams and longings hitherto unknown to him. A strange and mysterious
power seemed hovering over him, possessing him completely. All life
seemed changed.
The desire for common worldly pleasures and success, the thought of
being looked up to by his fellow-men—all seemed empty and meaningless
now—or even sinful.
The dying words of Guest the One-eyed had burnt themselves into his
heart, filling him with remorse and spiritual unrest. What was it he had
said about a successor—one to carry on his work—to show his fellows that
the greatest joy in life was a pilgrimage in poverty and humility,
setting aside all worldly things?...
Ørlygur could not forget—the dying man’s voice; his intonation remained
firmly impressed on his mind; he saw again the look of sadness on the
wrinkled face as the wanderer lay back on his pillow.
And to him, the son of the aged pilgrim, it was as the opening of a new
world of thought. He had promised himself to take up the task, to
continue the work his father had begun, without a thought of the
difficulties that might lie in his way.
As long as the undertaking remained as but an inward emotion, a
consciousness of his intention, burning within him like a sacred flame
that consumed all gloomy doubts, so long did he feel himself uplifted in
soul, raised far above to a height where his bereavement itself seemed
but a little thing. He almost felt that in thus bowing to his father’s
will and vowing to accomplish his desire, he had saved the weary pilgrim
from the horror of death.
And for a while the difficulties of realization never crossed his mind.
At times he did remember that he was a lover. But the self-reproach with
which he realized that he had for a time forgotten his love passed off
again: a momentary remembrance, no more.
During the first days of this his new passion he was as one entranced,
lifted above himself in a fervour of resolve. His soul was possessed by
one thought, by a mighty dazzling dream. A glorious ray of golden light
streamed into his mind, to the exclusion of all else. His soul answered
to but one note—the mighty theme of self-sacrifice that rang through it.
Intoxicated with joy, he passed the long nights without sleep. At first
the new, strange exultation more than outweighed the physical strain,
and the grey days that came and went seemed bright and beautiful. He had
never known what it was to suffer from sleeplessness; nights without
sleep seemed now but an added treasure, an extended scope for happy
consciousness. But soon the climax came, and his feast of dreams was at
an end.
The days lost their beauty. He was weary and irritable from the moment
he rose; he longed for night to come, for peace and solitude in which to
dream again. But when night came and he sought to gather up once more
the threads of his imaginings, his brain was dull, and his mind refused
to frame new thoughts. At first he tried to content himself with merely
recalling what he had dreamed before. It satisfied him for a while, but
a repetition showed the things once glorious as dull and faded; he could
hardly understand how he had ever been so moved by what now seemed vague
and distant. And with sorrow in his heart, as for something lost, he
fell asleep. Next day he resolved to watch the last night by the dead,
and had obtained his wish to keep the vigil alone.
It had not dawned upon him that he had already been defeated—that the
life he had resolved upon was a thing foreign to him, with no root in
his soul, an abrupt departure from his natural bent and his former ways.
He did not know that suffering was a gift of Fate, granted to many, yet
to few in such extent that they are able to forget their own good and
ill, and live for others wholly. He did not know that it is only the
chosen of Sorrow who are freed from all thought of self.
Even had he grasped the truth, it would not have helped him to
relinquish his ideas and admit they were but weavings of an
over-sensitive mind. His nature was too stubborn to give in without a
bitter struggle.
And his doubts did not come openly to begin with, but in disguise; only
later, after long uncertainty and pondering, did they reveal themselves
as what they were.
Irresolution, following on the tense pitch of excitement, rendered him
distrustful of himself to an unwonted degree.
He sat now with bowed head, as if listening intently in a world of
silence. And it seemed as if the silence spoke to him. No natural
utterance, this sound that reached his ears, but an unknown tongue, a
passing murmur of something mysterious—a wave that rose and fell, now
loud, now low.
He strove with all his sense to find some meaning—at times it seemed as
if words and sentences were there, but disconnected, without any purport
he could understand.
Breathlessly he listened. His brain throbbed; all his faculties were
concentrated in one present effort; this thing that was being told him
now—he must hear it, understand it. That was all his task. Perhaps it
might solve all the riddles of his questioning—give him a key to life.
And suddenly his sub-conscious mind came to his aid, whispering some
lines from a poem by Hjalmar à Bolu. And in relief he murmured the words
to himself, lifting his head and breathing freely once more:
“If Thou wilt not hear my words,
Divine, eternal grace,
Then shall the burning cry of my blood
Sunder the heavens about Thee.”
CHAPTER III
The stars in the east grew fainter, till they paled into nothingness,
and the day rose slowly over the hills.
The clouds had gone, save for a heavy bank that hung becalmed in the
west. Daylight spread abroad, and the blue of the sky grew brighter,
until it almost lost itself in a shimmering white.
A strangely beautiful morning; the earth seemed aglow with such delight
of day as is only seen when its face is furrowed by autumn. The heather
shone blood-red on the hillside, as if striving to show the world that
its glow was that of life, and not of death. The waters of fjord and
stream were calm and still as if storm and turbulence were strangers
there. Even the unmown grass of the fields was smiling with dewdrops on
every yellowing stalk and blade reflecting the bright rays. And over the
close-cropped stretches where the grass had been cut, the dew lay in a
glistening carpet. Not a sound on the stillness of the air, not so much
as the cry of a sheep or the neighing of a horse.
Not till the farm hands were astir, with an opening of doors and the
sound of human voices, was the spell broken, and the almost unworldly
stillness gave place to the work and life of common day.
The first to open his door that morning was Ormarr à Borg. And he
remained standing with bowed head close outside the house. He was not
thinking of the world of nature about him, and paid no heed to the glory
of the morning sun that shone on his white hair and slight, stooping
figure. His features were strained, and the pallor of his face, the
redness of his eyes, showed that he had not slept. He stood a little
while, then folded his thin hands, with the fingers that were still
those of a violinist, bowed his head, and with closed eyes and
compressed lips prayed the Lord’s Prayer.
Suddenly he drew himself up, passed his hands over his face, and smiled.
“Strange,” he murmured. “Why should I have done that now? I have said
that prayer aloud in church for years, and at home with the rest. But I
have not said it by myself since I can remember.”
The smile left his face, and he grew serious. “What is more strange,” he
continued, “is that I should feel almost ashamed of it myself after.”
He shook his head. “Are we afraid of ourselves more than of others?”
He raised his head and glanced round, seeking for something else to
occupy his mind. He noticed the beauty of the day, and felt the peace of
it with grateful relief.
Then he turned, walked through the passage, and softly entered the room
where the dead lay.
Ørlygur was seated by the coffins, his elbows on his knees and his face
buried in his hands. His dog lay at his feet, asleep.
As Ormarr entered, he looked up; his eyes showed that he had been
sleeping. Ormarr smiled—a strangely gentle smile—but made no sign of
having seen that the boy had slept. But Ørlygur sprang to his feet,
flushing hotly, and answered only with an inaudible murmur when Ormarr
bade him good morning.
Ormarr stepped quietly across the room and made the sign of the cross
above the bodies. Then, turning to Ørlygur, he said, with great
tenderness:
“Go in and rest, lad, till it is time to start.”
Ørlygur’s face had paled again; he looked straight in the other’s eyes.
“No!” he said. And his tone was so harsh, so defiant, that Ormarr
wondered what could be in his mind. Possibly the lad was hurt at the
proposal coming a moment after he had awakened from sleep.
“I did not mean to hurt you,” said Ormarr quietly.
“I know,” answered Ørlygur in a gentler tone. “Don’t misunderstand me. I
only meant that—we can always get all the sleep we need—more than
enough.”
Silently the two men left the room and went out into the open.
Ormarr was anxious for a quiet talk with Ørlygur, whose manner lately
had been strange. He had formed his own opinion as to the reason—but
that last defiant “No!” and the frank, conciliatory tone of the
following words seemed to require some further explanation.
It had occurred to Ormarr that, as he had never himself referred to the
girl Snebiorg, Ørlygur might perhaps imagine he was hostile to any union
between them, whereas nothing could be farther from his mind; had not
the boy’s father on his death-bed given him his blessing? Ormarr was
eager to make his attitude clear in regard to this at least.
As they walked, he studied the young man’s face. There was a strange,
far-away look in his eyes that baffled him.
He had intended to open the matter directly, but somehow he felt it
impossible to do so now. And, fearing lest Ørlygur should notice his
scrutiny, he looked away, and said casually:
“The sun has come to warm the graves for them, it seems.”
Ørlygur glanced up at the sun, and was silent for a moment; then he
answered absently:
“Yes. The sun must have been his best friend in life.”
The old man turned towards him; the tone and manner in which he had
spoken were unusual.
“Those in misfortune,” he said softly, “have but few friends as a rule.”
Ørlygur’s eyes took on the same fixed, determined look they had shown in
the chamber of death a little before.
“He was not one of those in misfortune,” he answered steadily, with a
dignity beyond his years; “he was more fortunate than all.”
Ormarr looked at him with his wise old eyes, as if to read his innermost
thoughts. But there was a tremor at his heart. “This is Faith,” he
thought to himself. “Faith in something that seems sure beyond all
doubt. It is the first time it has come to him in life. If the boy were
a Catholic, now, he would turn monk; he is convinced at this moment that
self-abnegation is the one true way. God alone knows the workings of his
mind, but it is a dangerous crisis to pass through.”
And, looking away from him again, Ormarr pursued his own train of
thought.
“He is hardly what one would call of a religious bent. That is well. It
may be only a slight attack; perhaps it will pass off. After all, he is
still a child in many ways. But he needs some one to help him—and must
not know it.”
He smiled at a sudden thought. “I am glad I caught him asleep.”
They reached the wall of the enclosure, and stopped. Then, as if he had
been thinking of this all the time, Ormarr began:
“There was something I wanted to say to you. I would have left it till
later, but it is best to get it said. It is something that concerns you
deeply—I mean about the girl.”
Ørlygur started slightly; Ormarr detected at once that he was ill at
ease. But he said nothing, and Ormarr went on:
“You have said nothing to me about any relationship with her, and
perhaps it is as well. But from what your dear father said, you love one
another, and you yourself are fully determined to marry her. Is that
so?”
Ørlygur was so taken aback that he was at a loss for a moment. He felt
that there were obstacles in the way, that he ought to make some
objection now. But he could do no more than stammer out a low-voiced
“Yes.”
Ormarr was satisfied. He had gained something at once. And without
appearing to have marked the young man’s hesitation, still less divine
its cause, he continued:
“Well, then, I don’t see any reason for delay. Once the matter has been
decided, the sooner it is accomplished, the better. I will confess that
at first I was not altogether disposed to approve of it. You may have
noticed that—and for that reason hesitated to tell me of your
intentions. But, now, I can only say that both your mother and myself
are looking forward with pleasure to your marriage. It will be the
happiest day of the life that yet remains to us when we can see you
wedded to the woman you love. And as far as we are concerned, there is
nothing to prevent your taking over the place here in the spring. We are
both a little weary, though we are not so very old. You will understand
that ours has not been a restful life, or a very happy one, and it will
be a double pleasure to see you happily settled. All that we wish for is
to end our days in peace. And so—God bless you. If our wishes could
secure it, Borg should be once more a home of happiness and peace.”
Tears rose to Ormarr’s eyes as he spoke, and his hand trembled as he
offered it. He was deeply moved, partly by memories of the past that
rose up in his mind, and also by the thought that the young man’s
happiness depended on the success of his, Ormarr’s, own stratagem before
it was too late.
Ørlygur grasped the hand held out to him. He wept at seeing his
foster-father’s emotion, and also because he felt that he was here being
forced into something; he was in a way defeated. But at the same time
the picture of Snebiorg rose to his mind; it seemed almost as if she
were there with them. What was he to do? Sooner or later he must either
prove false to her or to the promise he had silently given by his
father’s death-bed. For the moment he could come to no decision—he could
only weep. His helplessness pained him. It was terrible to think that he
must choose between giving up his love or betray his promise.
He held Ormarr’s hand in his, and strove to speak, but could say nothing
for tears.
Say something he must. And at length he stammered out:
“Not now—I cannot. Another time. But not—not this spring.”
He let go the other’s hand, and hurried away, with bowed head. But the
old man stood still, looking after him with tearful eyes.
“Poor lad,” he murmured. “But—thank God, he loves her. And that will
save him.”
Thoughtfully Ormarr walked back to the house.
CHAPTER IV
On leaving Ørlygur, Ormarr went in to see to the preparations for the
funeral. Ørlygur went off to a corner of the enclosure where he would be
out of sight of the house. There he stood, leaning against the wall, and
looking out over the valley.
His tears had ceased, and a strange calm crept over him. “So it was
that,” he thought to himself. “It was that I could not understand. But I
see it now. I must choose between her and—my mission.”
The idea involved in this last word made him start.
“My mission—but how do I know it is that? Anyhow, whether or no, it does
not matter. I have promised—I have given my word to one who is now
dead—and that my father. I must either break my word to him, or desert
her.”
He gazed thoughtfully up at the mountains.
“Those mountains there—how wonderful they are. Peak after peak rising to
heaven, and sweet grassy slopes between. But loveliest looking down, on
to the glassy lakes. Borgarfjall, with its great masses of rock, rising
steeply up towards the sky. No one has ever set foot there—only the
eagles have ever reached those heights.”
The look in his eyes faded, and he stood gazing vacantly before him.
“Desert her,” he thought to himself. “She who leaned towards me, and
touched my cheek with her own. How could I think of it! _She_ could
never be faithless. How would she look if she learned?... Oh, the sight
would kill me. Nothing more terrible to see than the eyes of a creature
that has lost what it hoped for and believed in. To see that in her
eyes....”
He laughed—a cold, forced laugh.
“What a coward I am, after all. I can think of leaving her, forsaking
her, and breaking promises so sacred that they could not even be uttered
in words. But I dare not even think of meeting her eyes when she knows.
What a cur I must be—and I—I would go out into the world as an apostle.”
He shook his head.
“It is madness. How could I ever bring peace to any soul, when I start
my pilgrimage by robbing her who trusted me of her heart’s peace?”
An evil light showed in his eyes.
“I wonder ... would she really suffer so very much after all?...”
He clenched his fists.
“Oh, I deserve to be whipped! And, in any case, I am not worthy of _her_
love. It seems I am growing into a rogue. I dare not look her in the
face now. Her eyes—so pure ... and her soul, clean and free from any
evil thought. And she—she trusts me—trusts _me_ ... it is horrible!”
He drew a deep breath.
“I might go to her, and tell her everything. She would understand.
But—her heart would feel but one thing of it all—that we must part. And
that is all that my heart can feel now.”
He sighed, but in a moment his face hardened again.
“This is temptation. And I was nearly giving way. Nearly gave in at the
first onset. I am too weak. The first thing to do is to take some
decisive step, to cut off all retreat. But how?”
A thought came suddenly to his mind, and he shuddered.
“Today—at the graveside. Say it there, say it for all to hear; swear
it ... and then I shall be bound for life, for ever. And then—what
then?”
His whole body trembled; his teeth chattered; he cried to God in his
agony of doubt. But he felt that his prayer was not sincere. And with
faltering step he made his way back to the house.
A voice within him spoke, urging him earnestly, clearly:
“Do not do it. It is more than you can keep. You may say the words, but
you will not mean what you say from your heart. What _can_ you do or
say?”
He would not listen, but he tried in vain to disregard the voice that
would be heard. He staggered like a drunken man; his strength failed
him.
Then the first voice died away and another spoke scornfully:
“You will make a fool of yourself, that is all.”
He stopped suddenly, and turned pale. But only for a moment. Then he
walked on with a firm step.
“That was vanity,” he murmured. “It was only my fear of what others
would think. Now I know what I have to do.”
CHAPTER V
The funeral of Guest the One-eyed and the Danish Lady was to take place
at noon.
From the time Ørlygur returned to the house to the setting out of the
funeral train, the hours had passed without his knowing it. Great
numbers of people flocked to the house; all greeted him when they
arrived. Some he greeted in return; others he did not appear to notice
at all. He was strangely absent in his manner, but this was readily
forgiven, as being due to his grief at the sudden loss.
When he was called in to bid a last farewell to the mortal remains
before the coffins were closed, he burst into a violent fit of sobbing.
His meditations of the night before on the emptiness of worldly things,
the hopelessness of life, returned to him vividly. He was conscious,
too, that it was not only the death of these two who had gone that
pained him most. He saw himself as a miserably selfish creature. At such
a time, there should be no place in his heart for other feeling than
sorrow at the double bereavement, and yet in fact he was only sorry for
himself. He despised himself; he felt that if others could read his
heart they would look down on him in scorn. Their word of sympathy and
consolation stung him; he shrank from the thought of the ceremony to
come, when he would be forced to take part with all these others.
Why not bury our dear ones quietly, in some secluded spot? Why make an
exhibition of one’s grief before the world? In his own case, it was the
more intolerable, since his grief was in reality not for the dead.
He heard the lids screwed down, and stood weeping, with his handkerchief
to his eyes. Suddenly he became aware of a stir in the room, and looked
up. People were standing round with Prayer Books in their hands, turning
the pages to find the hymn that was to be sung.
The priest, whom he had not noticed before, was there standing by the
coffins, book in hand.
Ørlygur again pressed his handkerchief to his eyes. The priest was
speaking, but he paid no heed to what was being said, and continued to
weep silently.
Then there was a pause, and the bearers prepared to move. A psalm was to
be sung as the coffins were carried out.
Ørlygur dried his eyes and hurried away, all moving aside respectfully
to let him pass. He ground his teeth, and could hardly refrain from
crying out.
“They should spit on me,” he thought to himself. “It is no more than I
deserve. I am unworthy of their sympathy—I do not even care for it!” For
a moment he felt as if he must shout the thought aloud.
Outside the house some one handed him the reins of his horse; the animal
stood there ready saddled. He stood beside it, one arm thrown over the
animal’s neck. The horse rubbed itself affectionately against him, as if
inviting the customary caress. But he took no heed, and remained
standing motionless. His dog lay at the feet of the horse, and looked
up; the two animals exchanged greetings in their own way, sniffing at
each other.
The coffins were to be carried by horses, two to each burden. The first
pair were brought forward, and planks slung between them. Then a psalm
was sung, and the first coffin fastened in its place.
When both were thus secured, the train moved off, the mourners and
followers leading their horses until the psalm was at an end. Then all
mounted, and rode on in silence towards the vicarage at Hof.
Ørlygur rode behind the second coffin, gazing out over the country with
tear-stained eyes.
“It all looks strange,” he thought to himself. “As if it were there only
for a time. Or is it only myself that am become a stranger? My mind that
has so changed that nothing in it now can last? It seems so. We see
things according to the mood of our own mind. I seem like a stone set
rolling, knowing nothing of where it will stop.
“Not a pleasant thing to be compared with, either. A rolling stone must
needs be on the downward track. Well, after all, most comparisons have a
weakness somewhere. A stone rolling down from barren mountains to a
grassy valley, where it finds a softer bed, has surely changed for the
better. But my path lies the opposite way. And no one ever knew a stone
roll upward. Only the glowing rock, hurled from the bowels of the earth
by a volcano, comes to a rest in the mountains after an upward flight.
Oh, what nonsense!” he broke off. “I am not a stone.
“Or, at least, it is only my heart that is of stone,” he went on
bitterly. “Why can I feel no real grief at my loss? Why is there room in
my heart for all these things on such a day as this? Am I worse than
other people, I wonder? I do not feel unkindly towards any one. Or is it
that _thinking_ of sorrow stifles the real sorrow itself? If _she_ were
dead....”
He turned pale at the thought, and tears flowed from his eyes.
“God in heaven! That would mean death to me—to live would be impossible.
Her body to decay, her golden hair to be soiled by earth—her eyes
lifeless and dull....”
His heart beat as if it would burst, and he shivered.
“Death is disgusting,” he thought.
Suddenly he ceased to weep, and a silence seemed to fill him.
“I cannot bear to think of her as dead,” he thought. “And yet I have
planned to do that which will ruin her life—to kill her love, and strike
her soul the cruellest blow that any human being can inflict upon
another. What a desperate tangle it all is. Would it not be better for
her to die? Would it not be better if I were to end her life—kill her at
once? Surely it would. But it was not her I was thinking of. I was only
thinking of myself; not of what would be best for her, but of what would
hurt me least. And if it were better for her to die, then what I am
about to do is a greater crime than if I took her life....”
Ørlygur was so deep in thought that he did not observe the progress of
the party until they had reached the churchyard, and the others
dismounted. Only when the coffin in front, on which his eyes were fixed,
was lowered to the ground did he come to himself and get down from his
horse.
His last thoughts had almost stunned him; his brain seemed incapable of
normal action. As if in a trance he followed the coffins into the
church, and remained standing with bowed head while the psalms were sung
and the priest delivered his oration. He noticed nothing of what was
passing round him.
In a few minutes now they would be at the graveside; the coffins would
be lowered, and then, as was the custom, he would be expected to say
something himself.
What should he say? There was no clear idea in his mind—well, no doubt
something would occur to him when the moment came. What he said did not
matter much, as long as he said something.
The coffins were brought out, and the mourners gathered close round the
double grave. Ørlygur stood just behind the mound of earth that had been
thrown up.
The coffins were lowered into the earth, the mourners singing and
weeping; the priest cast earth into the grave, and the last hymn was
sung. Mechanically Ørlygur stepped up on to the mound. He felt that all
eyes were upon him—that all were waiting expectantly for him to speak.
He raised his eyes, and looked round.
His gaze fell on a pair of tear-stained blue eyes on the other side of
the grave. There was a look in them almost of fear—an anxious
uncertainty such as he had never before seen on _her_ face. But no
sooner had her eyes met his than her expression changed, and the strange
look vanished.
It had never occurred to him that Snebiorg might be at the funeral; he
had not noticed her till now. She had been among those who joined the
party at the church. It was a shock to him to see her now, so overcome
with grief, and with that look of doubt and fear upon her face—it struck
him to the heart.
And here he stood, on a mound by the graveside, with all eyes upon him.
All were waiting to hear what he would say. Speak now he must. He pulled
himself together, but his heart trembled at the thought of what he must
say. _She_ was standing there. Well, she would forgive him, when she
heard it all—heard the confession and the promise from his own mouth.
He looked round hesitatingly. His foster-father was looking at him with
a strange expression—a look that made him lower his eyes.
Ormarr had seen that Ørlygur was about to speak. He did not know what
was in the boy’s mind, but something told him that what he was about to
say must not be said. He fixed his gaze on the young man’s face with all
his inner power concentrated in his eyes, trying to compel his
attention. Ørlygur was looking at Snebiorg; Ormarr saw him hesitate.
This seemed further proof that there was something which must be
averted. At last Ormarr caught his eye, and Ørlygur bowed his head.
Then Ormarr turned and left the grave. It was a sign for the gathering
to disperse.
But the thought which had checked Ørlygur when he met his
foster-father’s gaze was the remembrance of his having been found
sleeping that morning at his vigil by the dead. With that in his mind,
and with that look fixed on his face, he _could_ not say what he had
planned. It was impossible.
He stood staring down into the grave.
Those present thought only that the boy was too deeply moved to say the
words of affectionate farewell he would have uttered. And all, even the
men who had come up to fill in the grave, moved away and left him to
himself.
He seemed as if turned to stone.
“Too late,” he thought. “And now—what am I to do? Is all to go on as
before? That cannot be—I at least am no longer the same....”
And with a sigh he thought of _how_ he had changed not for the better,
but for the worse. He was a coward.
And, looking down into the grave, he spoke aloud:
“I am growing less and less worthy to be called your son.”
And to himself he continued:
“Why do you not help me? Why do you not stand by me when you see me so
weak? Or is it your will that I should not be aided in this?”
Suddenly he remembered how his father on his death-bed had blessed his
union with Snebiorg, and a wave of joy flowed through his heart.
“Father—father!” he cried, with tears in his voice. “Is that your will?
But what of my promise?...”
His joy turned to grief at the thought. And so, at issue with himself,
he stood looking down into the grave.
The priest came up.
“What does he want now, I wonder?” thought Ørlygur, watching the
approaching figure with indifferent eyes. The whole air and bearing of
this well-fed, self-satisfied priest were intolerable to him. It was
worst of all when he spoke, with dead words and traditional phrases that
meant nothing.
The priest came up to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“My young friend,” he began—he was fifteen years older than Ørlygur
himself—“I can well understand how you must feel the loss of such a
father—a man of rare virtue in this wicked world. Yet it should be a
consolation to you to know that he died at peace with God.”
Ørlygur looked at him, thinking still. Here was this man pouring out a
stream of words over him. It was horrible to hear. “God” in his mouth
sounded worse than devil.
“We should all remember,” the priest went on, “that however much we may
grieve at losing the dear departed, there is comfort in the thought that
they are beyond the power of evil—that death is but the gateway to the
Kingdom of Glory. And to these two especially, death must have come as a
blessed deliverance.”
Ørlygur looked at him without speaking. “He thinks he is much wiser than
I,” was his thought.
“The burial of the dead,” went on the priest, “should really be an
occasion for rejoicing. In any case, the dominant feeling in the hearts
of the bereaved should be one of joy at the thought that those who have
left us have passed to their true home. And be sure that God looks with
more approval on such a thought than on any outburst of uncontrolled
grief, which is really nothing but selfish sorrow for the loss we have
sustained through His will, and rebellion against His decrees. All is
according to the will of God, and we should cheerfully and gladly bow to
His divine pleasure.”
Ørlygur let the priest run on. “He is a fool,” he thought. “He means
well, no doubt, but is none the less a fool. This is one of his stock
prescriptions for cases where some formal consolation has to be
delivered. He is a sort of spiritual quack. When a man loses his father,
he pours out a dose from a bottle—a big bottle, but containing only a
very ordinary mixture. As a student of the human heart, he is ignorant
to a degree. He cannot imagine that a mourner standing by a grave should
have any other feeling than that of loss. He sees it merely as an
ordinary case, calling for the usual nostrums. And he talks of a wounded
heart as if it were inflammation of the lungs. What does he know of the
range of feeling in a human heart?”
The priest went on in the same tone as before. Ørlygur said nothing.
“He wants me to say something,” thought Ørlygur. “But what am I to say?
Tell him it is a fine day? I wonder if he would go away if I did? I wish
I could get rid of him somehow; he tires me. I would rather climb a
mountain than listen to more of this. Look at Borgarfjall there, lofty
and steep. I would sooner climb it to the top than listen to this priest
for half a day.”
Suddenly he turned to the man, with a smile, and said:
“Look here, I’ve thought of something. Some day, when I have time, I
want to climb up to the top of Borgarfjall there and build a bit of a
monument on the top. It’s a fine-looking mountain, but I don’t like the
outline of the top. Ought to have something there—don’t you think?”
The priest stared at him, dumb with astonishment.
“I hardly think any but a bird could get up there,” he said
hesitatingly.
“Well, it’s certainly no place for silly sheep,” retorted Ørlygur, with
a laugh. “Good-day to you.”
And he turned and walked away.
The priest stood looking after him in perplexity.
“Now, was that intentional rudeness,” he said to himself, “or has he
lost his senses?”
It was some minutes before he could sufficiently regain his priestly
dignity and composure to leave the churchyard.
The men came to fill in the grave, and the mourners flocked round to lay
their wreaths on the mound that covered the remains of Guest the
One-eyed and the Danish Lady.
Among them were Ormarr and his wife Runa. Snebiorg and her mother were
also there, but there was no sign of Ørlygur to be seen. He had met the
doctor, a man whom he liked, and was walking with him a little distance
off.
Ormarr and Runa went up to the widow from Bolli and her daughter, and
greeted them kindly, thanking them for their attendance. They talked for
a little of indifferent matters, and then Ormarr said suddenly to the
widow:
“I should like to have a word with you alone.”
Snebiorg blushed, and remained shyly standing beside Runa, while Ormarr
and her mother went off a little way. The widow’s face revealed nothing
of her feelings, but in her heart she was keenly aware that what was
coming concerned her daughter’s happiness and her own peace of mind.
“Ørlygur seems strange today,” she thought to herself. “I hope nothing
is wrong.” And she strove to repress a sigh.
As soon as they were out of hearing of the others, Ormarr spoke.
“I do not know if you are aware of it,” he said, “but Ørlygur and Bagga
love each other. I have only known it myself a few days.”
The widow nodded, and Ormarr went on:
“I only wished to tell you that my wife and I heartily approve of their
marrying.”
The widow’s face brightened; the wrinkles seemed smoothed away. Unable
to speak, she offered Ormarr a trembling hand. Ormarr grasped it
cordially, and then, putting his arm through hers, they walked up and
down together.
“I may be frank with you,” Ormarr went on. “We have known each other for
a long time now, and I am sure you will not be hasty. First of all, I
must tell you that Runa and I were opposed to the idea to begin with. We
should never have attempted to stand in the way of his own wishes, but
we hoped he would give up his intention of marrying Snebiorg. But my
brother, whom we have buried today, gave his blessing to the union, and
from that moment I felt that my own reasons for opposing it had only
been poor and of minor importance. And now that I have told you this, I
can come to what I chiefly wanted to say. Something has happened to
Ørlygur; what it is I do not know, for he has not confided in me or in
any one else. He is hardly likely to open his heart to any one on the
subject, I think. But I have an idea as to what is passing in his mind,
and I am anxious about him. Even if he should appear to have changed his
mind with regard to Bagga, I want you to do your utmost to encourage her
and keep her faithful to him, for I know that in his heart he loves her,
and will always do so. But there is something on his mind at present; he
is in doubt about something; more, I cannot say. You know he comes of an
impulsive race, and if he should now, while he is young, lose control of
his feelings and cease to take a healthy interest in life, then the
family will die out. It would be a pity. I know that you have suffered,
and more than most. I also have known suffering, and I should be proud
if I could say I had borne my trials as well as you have yours. If,
therefore, your daughter inherits her mother’s courage and strength, it
would be a good thing for the race. As yet I am not quite clear what we
ought to do. But I wished to let you know my feelings, so that I might
have you on my side. The interests of—our children, I had nearly
said—are at stake. I always regard Ørlygur as my own son. And it will be
a hard struggle, for neither of them, certainly not Ørlygur, must ever
realize that we are taking any part.”
The widow was calmer now. She looked earnestly at Ormarr’s face, as if
seeking to read his mind. Then she offered her hand. It was not
trembling now.
“You can trust me,” she said. “I do not know what it is that troubles
Ørlygur, and I do not wish to know. It is enough for me if he continues
to feel as he does for Bagga. But if he should desert her, it would kill
her. And if he kills my daughter, then, as surely as there is a God in
heaven, I will kill him!”
Ormarr started violently. “Woman!” he cried, “God forgive you!”
“I would not have said it—it slipped out,” she went on apologetically.
“Such words must seem strange in the mouth of an old woman. But I could
not help it. You need have no fear of me; I shall do as you wish. You
can trust me as long as I can feel that you are acting honestly. You are
now, and I believe you will continue so.”
Ormarr smiled.
“If I did not know it to be otherwise, I might think you were my
sister,” he said. Then, speaking more seriously, he continued:
“I should have preferred that you did not come back with us to Borg
today. But there are a number of others coming, and after we have stood
here talking so long it would perhaps excite remark if you were not to
come. Anyhow, to prevent any danger to our plans, it would be best to
keep Ørlygur and Bagga from coming together, at any rate by
themselves—if it can be done quietly.”
The widow nodded.
They walked back to the grave, where Runa and Snebiorg were waiting.
Several others now approached, and the widow and her daughter were
formally invited to accompany the party home to Borg.
Horses were then saddled, and they moved off, most of those remaining
taking the road to Borg.