deep in thought, and allowed his horse to pick its own way at its own
pace. All respected his reserve, and he was left in peace.
The doctor had joined the party with Ormarr. The widow and her daughter
rode immediately in front, and Ormarr noted how the doctor’s eyes dwelt
on the girl. It appeared, from something the doctor let fall in
conversation, that he was again in need of a housekeeper.
Ormarr was struck by a sudden idea, but shook his head a moment after.
“No,” he thought; “it would be too dangerous.”
The doctor was a widower, childless, and lived alone at the trading
station, keeping only a girl to look after the house. And many stories
were current as to the doctor and his housekeepers. Most of them left
after a short time in the house, some of them going out of the country
altogether, after which nothing was heard of them. It was also said that
he drank in secret, and some believed him to be out of his mind. In any
case, it was not a place for a respectable girl.
Ormarr was thinking hard as he rode along.
“She ought to stand the test,” he muttered to himself. “And who
knows—perhaps it might be the very thing. A chance that might not come
again....”
He found a pretext for entering into conversation with the doctor, and,
slackening his pace by imperceptible degrees, managed to fall behind
with him, in rear of the party.
It was not long before he had elicited from the doctor the confession
that his latest housekeeper had indeed left him.
Ormarr laughed. “You’ve had quite a number of housekeepers these last
few years.”
“Yes,” answered the other. “It is more and more difficult to find a
respectable woman, and what I am to do now, I do not know. Do without, I
suppose.”
“I hope it is not as bad as all that,” said Ormarr. “The work is not so
very hard, I take it, and there are generally plenty of girls willing
enough to take an easy post. I have an idea, by the way, that the widow
there would like her daughter to go out into the world a little; if you
like, I could speak to her about it.”
The doctor was profuse in his thanks.
Then they changed the subject, and, whipping up their horses, rejoined
the rest.
Later in the day Ormarr spoke to the widow.
“The doctor is in want of a housekeeper,” he said. “What do you
think?—would Snebiorg like to undertake the work?”
The widow looked at him searchingly.
“Bagga—housekeeper at the doctor’s?” she said harshly. “Never! Never as
long as I live!”
“Why not?” asked Ormarr quietly.
“You know well enough what is said about him.”
“True,” Ormarr returned. “I know his weakness where women are concerned,
but I have never heard of his ever having gone to extremes. He is too
soft and good-natured for that—certainly, he is no rogue. I do not think
there is anything to fear. And you can, of course, rely on your daughter
herself.”
The widow was silent a moment.
“I suppose I must do as you wish,” she said at length. “But I shall hold
you responsible if any harm comes of it.”
“I can understand that you do not quite like the idea. But Ørlygur is on
friendly terms with the doctor, and always looks in there whenever he
goes in to the station. And if the knowledge that the woman he loves is
in the doctor’s house, and the doctor’s own advances, do not spur him to
act on his own behalf, then the case must be worse than I had thought. I
do not think there is any risk, really.”
The widow sighed. She did not quite like the idea of Bagga being made
use of in this fashion, and perhaps exposed to danger. But Ormarr
reassured her.
“With God’s help, all will go well,” she said at last, and gave her
consent.
Ormarr had no difficulty in arranging details, and it was settled that
Bagga should take over her duties in the doctor’s house next day.
CHAPTER VI
The widow and her daughter rode home that evening in silence. Each was
occupied with her own thoughts, and would not have found it easy to
share them with the other.
The horses knew their way, and, despite the darkness, the journey was
accomplished rapidly and without mishap. The animals seemed to know that
the quicker they went, the sooner they would be able to rest.
Mother and daughter exchanged only a few trivial remarks as they
unsaddled and turned the horses loose. They did not even trouble to
light up, but went straight to bed.
They had lain in silence for some time, when Bagga’s voice came suddenly
out of the dark:
“Mother, why must I leave home?”
The widow was at a loss for an answer, and, to escape the question,
pretended to be asleep.
Bagga fell to weeping softly. It seemed all so senseless and cruel—why
should she leave home when she had no wish to go? Who could say if these
strangers with whom she was to live would be kind to her or not? It hurt
her to leave home at all—but her mother willed it so.
Worse than this was the thought that Ørlygur seemed changed. There was
something in his look and manner which told her she was not the same in
his eyes that she had been when last they had met—when he had given her
the lamb. Her conscience had been uneasy on that day of the funeral—it
was the funeral of her good friend, Guest the One-eyed; and yet she had
been glad, thinking only that she would be sure to see Ørlygur again.
She had hoped, too, that he would speak to her—perhaps even take her
hand. But he had only given her a hasty greeting, and his handshake had
been disappointing. She had been careful herself to leave without
bidding him farewell; she could not bear to take his hand again in that
strange way. Was it because there were others present that he had been
so strange? Or had he ceased to love her? If he could only know how she
suffered, for all her brave attempts to seem unconcerned, then surely he
would at least have given her one such look as that which had drawn them
together at the first. But perhaps it was only sorrow at his bereavement
that had made him look so unlike himself; perhaps next time they met all
would be well again. Oh, it was wrong of her to be bitter and think the
worst; God might well punish her for that. And she had sinned in going
to the funeral with any other thought than that of mourning the loss of
Guest the One-eyed.
So Bagga argued with herself, and made up her mind at last that if she
bore her trials bravely, then God might again be merciful and grant her
again the joy of feeling that she and Ørlygur were united in heart.
She ceased to weep. Her pure and innocent heart had found consolation in
her simple thoughts. All would surely be well again. And as her mind
dwelt on the remembrance of her lover, she ceased to see him as he had
been today, and saw only Ørlygur as she had known him—the picture she
had treasured in her heart.
At last all conscious thought faded away; she only saw him—saw his face,
his figure; the smile that had made her so happy, and the look in his
eyes that she loved. They went with her into dreams, and daylight found
her with a serene and happy smile. And when her mother came to wake her,
there was such quiet and innocent peace in the girl’s face that the old
woman’s anxious look changed to a tearful smile as she whispered to
herself:
“Surely she can come to no harm. The Lord would never let her suffer.”
And, dressing quietly, lest she should wake her, the widow stole out to
her work.
On waking, Bagga noticed at once that her mother was already up. She got
out of bed herself, and, without making any attempt to dress, sat down
on the bed to think. Today she was to leave home. At first she half
hoped it was all a dream, but in a moment she realized that it was the
sad truth. And the question which had risen to her mind the night before
came to her now again: Why should she go? Hitherto, her mother had never
said anything about her going away from home; on the contrary, she had
always felt that her mother would have been sorry to lose her. And then
to decide on this so suddenly.... There must be some reason for it
all—something they had not told her. She was to go as housekeeper to the
doctor, a man she had never liked. From her first sight of him she had
felt an instinctive aversion to him. His looks, his friendly advances,
repelled her. But if her mother thought it best, that must be enough.
And if her mother did not wish to tell her the reason for so thinking,
there was no more to be said.
She would not ask.
Going out, she found her mother had just finished making the coffee.
They talked with some restraint; it seemed awkward even to talk of
little everyday things now. The widow was evidently distressed herself,
and Bagga was on the verge of tears. From her manner, the mother judged
that Bagga had determined not to ask the reason of her being sent away
from home. This was as well, since it saved her the necessity of
answering awkward questions; but, on the other hand, it puzzled her to
think why her daughter should have refrained from asking.
The few necessary preparations for the journey were soon made, and a man
came up to the house with the horse Bagga was to ride.
It was noticeable that at parting the widow carefully impressed upon her
daughter not to hesitate in telling her all that happened—to let her
know at once, if need be.
“It will be lonely here when you have gone, child,” she said.
Bagga burst into tears, but strove bravely to recover herself. The two
women embraced, and the widow walked beside the horse until they came to
the stream. Here they stopped, and bade each other farewell tenderly.
“God be with you,” said the mother earnestly. “Trust in Him, and keep
yourself pure in soul and body. And, should it please Him to call me to
Himself, remember that there is one beside myself who loves you.”
Bagga blushed at her words, and warm joy filled her heart. Then, with a
parting kiss, she touched her horse and rode across the stream.
The widow stood for some minutes waving to her. And when Bagga turned to
look once more, before passing over the last ridge of hills that would
shut out the sight of her home, her mother stood there still, a grey,
forsaken figure on the autumn landscape. The sight went to her heart.
CHAPTER VII
Ørlygur had left the churchyard with a smile on his face after his
unfriendly remark to the priest about Borgarfjall and silly sheep. But
the smile soon vanished.
“That was childish of me,” he reflected. “Whatever made me say it, I
wonder? And now I suppose I shall have to scramble up there one day, and
very likely break my neck. No need to do it really, of course. But,
then, that would be rather mean again. I seem to be getting that way of
late.”
Suddenly he perceived the doctor standing before him.
“Two and two are four,” said the latter, with a gleam of kindly mischief
in his eyes.
Ørlygur looked up at him uncomprehendingly.
“Don’t be offended,” said the doctor. “But really, you know, any one
could see that a man walking about with such a scowl on his face was not
sorrowing for the dead. Looks much more as if he were busy with some
mathematical problem or other.”
Ørlygur tried to smile.
“How would you like to make the ascent of Borgarfjall?” he asked
jestingly.
The doctor looked out over the valley, measuring distances with his eye.
“Shouldn’t care about it, to tell the truth,” he answered. “But if I had
to, well, I should provide myself with a bottle of whisky, and empty it.
Then, when the ground began to move a bit, I should just wait till the
part where I stood—or lay—came uppermost, and the top of Borgarfjall
under; it would be easy enough to just give a heave and roll down to it.
Otherwise, I think I should wait till after death.”
“But you don’t believe in any life after death,” said Ørlygur, smiling.
The doctor’s manner changed abruptly. “I don’t know,” he said seriously.
“Don’t know what I do believe.” Then, returning to his former
mischievous tone, he went on: “Anyhow, I fancy whisky is a freethinker.
And I sometimes feel the spirit moving me.”
Ørlygur was smiling no longer. “What is it like to get drunk?” he asked.
The doctor looked at him searchingly, then laughed aloud.
“Well, it makes you somewhat foolhardy as a rule,” he said. “And
light-hearted, light-headed, and all the rest of it. Afterwards, it’s
apt to be the other way—heavy, you know, especially about the head.
You’ve a charming frankness, by the way, young man, when it comes to
asking delicate questions.”
“Why should I not?” said Ørlygur quickly. “Would you prefer me to
pretend I didn’t know you drank?”
The doctor was somewhat taken aback. “No,” he said; “I shouldn’t. Your
straightforwardness is one of your best qualities. You don’t care for
whisky, I know. But come over one day and get drunk on it—it will
probably save you, at any rate for some time, from any risk of going
that way yourself.”
“I didn’t feel any wish to try,” said Ørlygur. “It just occurred to me,
that was all.”
They walked up and down in silence, Ørlygur looking straight before him,
the doctor watching him covertly the while.
“Most likely a woman,” he thought to himself. “In trouble of some sort,
that’s clear. And—funny thing, now I come to think of it, we’ve never
heard anything about his being taken with any one up till now. Anyhow,
why he should be troubled about anything in that line, I can’t make out.
She must be a fool who wouldn’t have him and gladly. Hearts are a
nuisance.”
He murmured the last words half aloud, and sighed.
Ørlygur glanced at him. “What is it?” he asked.
“Eh? Only my heart, I said. It’s the whisky’s done it, you know. And I
was thinking of the time when I hadn’t yet given it the chance to get in
and spoil things.”
The doctor looked him fixedly in the eyes. Ørlygur stopped, met his
gaze, then both lowered their eyes and walked on. After a little, the
doctor spoke again, looking straight ahead of him.
“You’re one of the few people I ever trouble to think of,” he said.
“Because I have an idea that you’ve some sort of friendly feeling for
me. Heaven only knows why you should. Consequently, the least I can do
for you is—not to warn you, but just to point out to you the rocks that
upset my little voyage; then you can go round or steer headlong into
them, just as you please.”
He changed suddenly to a lighter tone. “I’m no hand at serious talk. And
you’re looking just now as if you’d just entered Holy orders. I think
I’ll go and find some one more amusing to talk to.”
He offered his hand, and the grip he gave belied his words. Ørlygur
understood that the other had gone in order to leave him to himself. And
he was grateful.
For a while he walked about by himself. Then, noticing that the others
were saddling up, he found his horse, and rode with the party, but in
silence, keeping to himself. He noticed the priest among the party, and
fancied he marked an unfriendly look in his face. But it did not trouble
him. On reaching home, he let his horse go loose, and wandered about by
himself, leaving Ormarr and Runa to entertain their guests.
All that afternoon he wandered restlessly about, either keeping to
himself or going from group to group, exchanging brief remarks
occasionally with some, answering others with a word or so, often
without being properly aware of what had been said. All saw that he was
troubled and distrait.
He saw that Bagga was among the guests, but she was not alone, and he
made no attempt to speak to her. And yet, time and again when he lost
sight of her for a moment, he could not rest till he had found her
again. It was a consolation to look at her, to see that she was there.
When the widow and her daughter rode away, Ørlygur took care to be at
hand when the horses were saddled. He hoped Bagga would come up and
speak to him. But she pretended not to notice him, though he was sure
she must have seen him.
At that, his misery overcame him, and he went to bed without saying
good-night to any one. But he could not sleep. He heard the others come
up to bed, and could hear their regular breathing through the thin
partition between the rooms. The idea of sleep irritated him. What was
sleep?—a giving up of the mind to nothingness. A thing unworthy of human
beings. Surely it was the outcome of indifference, idleness, an evil
habit that had grown through generations—a kind of hereditary vice.
He lay long restless, letting his thoughts come and go.
Then he became aware of a strange sound somewhere in the house.
Music—somewhere a melody seemed filtering through the air, calling his
thoughts back from their wanderings.
It must be Ormarr playing. Ørlygur dressed softly and stole out of the
room. As he neared the door of the room where he had watched the night
before with the dead, the sound grew clearer—it was there Ormarr had
chosen to play.
He stood still and listened.
He did not know the melody, but its indescribable softness and
melancholy soothed his mind. If Ormarr were playing for his own
consolation, he was also comforting another and bringing peace to a
troubled heart. Ørlygur listened, letting the music work upon his mind.
And gradually he forgot himself entirely; that which had been himself
disappeared, and there was something else—there was life, a precious
thing. It was worth living for, only to feel this enthralment of the
moment; to realize this harmonious blending of joy and sorrow, of life
and death blending, as it were, into a golden mist, and melting into
eternity.
The last notes died away. Ørlygur crept back to his room, and slept.
CHAPTER VIII
When Ørlygur awoke next morning he felt ill at ease. The sense of mental
balance he had gained from the music of the night before seemed far off,
and he had difficulty in recalling it.
But at the same time the feeling of utter despair that he had felt,
especially after his vain attempt to speak at the graveside, had left
him.
“Strange,” he murmured. “But the promise—it seems now as if it no longer
existed, after I failed to utter it then.”
And he smiled bitterly.
“Was I really so weak?” he thought.
He dressed and went out. The sky was overcast, and the landscape, now
deprived of the brightness of the sun, looked dead and gloomy, as if
waiting only for the white wrappings of the snow to sink into the long
frozen sleep of winter.
For the first time, Ørlygur felt the approach of winter as something
threatening and to be feared. And involuntarily his thoughts turned to
the spring that lay beyond. His heart beat fast as he pictured to
himself the joy that comes with spring—the joy of seeing green things
spring up out of the earth, the poor little blossoms of the rocky hills,
the flight of white and many-coloured butterflies, the light nights, and
the clear, smooth water of lakes set free from their murky covering of
ice. He longed for the spring to come, and longed to share his joy in it
with another.
His love for Bagga welled up in him like a spring torrent triumphant
over the grip of winter, carrying all before it. It was this feeling
which had been slumbering beneath his faint-hearted thoughts, and now it
rose and swept all else from his mind.
“Why did I not speak to her yesterday?” he asked himself, in bitter
self-reproach. “Why did I not go to her when she stood there weeping by
the grave? What madness was it that made me greet her as if she had been
a stranger? And she saw it—saw I was changed, and that was why she would
not bid me farewell. If only I have not hurt her beyond healing! How can
I ever explain—how can I tell her of this mysterious power that has
overwhelmed me until now? She would not understand it all—and if I do
not tell her all, she will see that I am keeping something back. It may
be that I have ruined everything—that she can never love me now. How
could I ever dream of carrying on my father’s work? It was an impulse
sent from hell, and changeable and weak as I am, I let it take
possession of me. I, who am so little able to control myself that I
answered with boyish rudeness when the priest spoke to me—he meant well
enough, no doubt. I can see myself that I am but a fool—how much more a
fool should I appear to others if I were to go out attempting to teach
others the way to peace.”
Again his thoughts turned to Bagga. He was filled with a sudden desire
to go and see her, now, at once. Yet he did not move. Something seemed
to hold him back.
He hated himself for his irresolution and want of firmness. But there
was something he felt he must do before he sought her; what it was, he
knew not.
His gaze wandered, as if seeking a solution. And suddenly his eyes
rested on Borgarfjall.
“That was it!” he said to himself. “I told the priest.... But it was
only in jest....”
He stood thinking.
“Perhaps the priest will remind me of it some day. Or tell others—and I
shall be looked on as a braggart. I could never bear it. Bagga might try
to stop me if I made the attempt, but if she heard I had vowed to do it
and drawn back she would never think the same of me again. It would pain
her; she would feel ashamed. And that must never be.”
He decided to act at once. He would climb Borgarfjall the next day. And
the idea of danger crossed his mind; perhaps he would never see her
again.
But the mere possibility of this was unendurable—never to see her again.
It was too dreadful to be a possibility at all. No; it could not be but
that he would come back safely to her after all.
And the more he thought, the more he felt certain of success. Here at
last was something real to grapple with, something material, and he felt
more confident in himself. No more fighting in the dark against thoughts
and fancies, but a trial of physical strength and endurance.
That it was but a caricature of his former lofty project never once
occurred to him—he would hardly have understood it in that light. His
nature was one that craved real hardships to encounter; he was not of
the stuff to fight with figments of the brain.
He would do it. He would start tomorrow. And, meanwhile, how was he to
pass the rest of today?
Suddenly he thought of the doctor. A talk with him would be good
medicine to shake off idle fancies. Yes, he would ride over and see the
doctor.
And this time he saddled his horse without a trace of hesitation, and
rode off to the trading station.
CHAPTER IX
The doctor was in unusually good spirits when Ørlygur arrived.
He had good reason to be pleased with himself; not only had he found a
housekeeper in place of the last, who had left him without notice, but
he had found the most beautiful girl in the parish to succeed her.
And if ever there was a man who knew how to appreciate good looks in his
housekeeper, it was Jon Hallsson, the doctor.
Ørlygur was unaware of the direct cause of his friend’s good humour, and
when the doctor invited him to stay and sample the new housekeeper’s
cooking, he accepted without ever dreaming—and without asking—who the
new housekeeper might be. The doctor was always changing his folk, and
Ørlygur was not interested in the subject.
“If you’ve come to try my whisky, why, you couldn’t have chosen a better
time,” said the doctor gaily. “I’m just in the humour for a bout
today—after dinner, that is.”
Ørlygur shook his head.
“I have given up the whisky idea,” he said, with a laugh. “Not only
because I don’t really care for it, but it throws one off one’s balance
too easily. No; I have found something else.”
“Oh? And what may that be?”
“Mountaineering.”
The doctor laughed. “I prefer the whisky,” he said. “It elevates the
mind without moving the body, and the fall is thus less painful.”
“No need to fall at all,” suggested Ørlygur.
“If you are still thinking of going up Borgarfjall, I should say there’s
every chance of it,” returned the other.
“I am,” said Ørlygur. “I am going up tomorrow, to build that cairn.”
The doctor looked at him.
“Surely you are not serious?” he said.
“Indeed, I am,” answered Ørlygur. And with a smile he added: “I want to
get up and look about a little—see something of the world.”
“If only you don’t find yourself seeing something of another world—one
that your friend the priest seems to know such a lot about.”
In vain the doctor pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the
project. Ørlygur was accustomed to mountain-climbing, and was obstinate.
He must and would make the ascent.
“Must,” repeated the doctor. “What nonsense!”
“It is simply this—if I don’t do it, I shall have made a fool of myself
in the eyes of that priest. I don’t know how you would like that as an
alternative.”
“Oh, if that’s the case, I’ve nothing more to say. I’d rather drink off
a bottle of sulphuric acid at once than let that fool crow over me.”
“Well, then, that’s enough,” said Ørlygur. “Let’s talk of something
else. I came over this evening because I wanted livening up a little.”
“Very nice of you, I’m sure, to credit me with any ability that way.
Suppose we try something to eat for a start.”
They went into the dining-room and sat down. A moment later the door
from the kitchen was opened, and Snebiorg entered with a soup tureen on
a tray. At sight of Ørlygur she stopped, and hesitated. Then she looked
down and blushed, but came forward and set down the soup on the table.
Ørlygur had risen, but said nothing. All the merriment had vanished from
his face, leaving him serious and astonished. The doctor was looking at
the girl, and did not perceive the change which had come over his guest.
“My new housekeeper,” he said, still without looking at Ørlygur. “A
beauty, isn’t she? And if my nose doesn’t deceive me, she knows how to
cook.” And he stroked her arm.
“How dare you touch me!” cried the girl, and, flushing more hotly than
before, she left the room.
“Ah, a bit stand-offish, it seems,” said the doctor complacently. “But
none the worse for that.” And he turned towards his guest.
He caught but one glimpse of Ørlygur’s furious face; next moment a
violent blow under the jaw sent him headlong to the floor.
He rose slowly, staring in profound astonishment, felt himself as if to
ascertain what damage had been done, and then appeared perfectly calm
once more.
“Good thing I was sitting down,” he said, with a touch of humour. “Not
so far to fall, anyway. Handy with your fists, young man, I must say.
Well, no reason to let the soup get cold. So you’re taken with her,
too—why, so much the better, then we’re agreed. And seeing we’ve no
difference of opinion on that head, I can’t see why you find it
necessary to knock me down. I’m not a fighting man myself—very nice to
watch, of course, when you’re not in it yourself, but otherwise.... Why
couldn’t you tell me how matters stood? Your girl, not to be touched,
and so on. Much nicer, you know, between friends, than landing out
suddenly like that. Anyhow, I don’t mind admitting that the—er—hint was
direct enough. Enough for me, at any rate. Peaceable character, you
know, and not as young as I used to be. I’m not particularly scrupulous
as to rights of property in that sort of goods generally, but seeing
it’s you, and we’re friends in a way—no more to be said. And since
you’re determined on breaking your neck tomorrow, I daresay you’ll
forgive me for hoping you may succeed. If I were in your place, I’d let
a dozen priests think and say what they pleased, as long as I kept the
girl, rather than go ramping off trying to cut out eagles and all the
fowls of the air by clambering up to places never meant to be reached
without wings—unless she asked you to, of course. If she asked me, I’d
do it ten times over and reckon it cheap at that. I suppose it’s a
secret, though, or your respected foster-father would hardly have
arranged for his daughter-in-law to come here as housekeeper. Her mother
wouldn’t have let her, I know.”
“Snebiorg and I are engaged,” answered Ørlygur calmly. “It is a secret,
that is true, known only to ourselves, and now, of course, to you....”
Ørlygur was surprised to find himself lying with such ease. “But I hope
you will keep it to yourself now you do know.”
“My dear fellow”—the doctor stroked his chin reflectively—“_you_’ve no
call to be anxious—not in the least. I’m not likely to gossip about a
thing like that. But, Lord, if you knew how sincerely I hope you may
break your neck tomorrow.”
“I shan’t bear you any grudge for that,” answered Ørlygur, in the same
light tone. “But I’m very much afraid you’ll be disappointed. I never
felt fitter in my life.”
“I’ve no doubt as to your fitness,” answered the doctor, “after the
practical illustration you gave me just now. But as to getting up
there—as long as there’s no sign of wings sprouting out from your
shoulder-blades, I would suggest that you’re a fool to try it, all the
same.”
Ørlygur shook his head.
“Well, well, it’s your own affair.”
They had finished dinner, and as they rose from the table, Ørlygur,
according to custom, offered his hand to his host. The doctor grasped it
heartily.
“Excuse me a moment,” he said, and went out into the kitchen, closing
the door behind him.
Snebiorg was in the kitchen; she had not appeared in the dining-room
after the soup.
“I want to ask your pardon,” he said frankly. “I promise you it shall
not occur again. Until this moment I had no idea that you were a friend
of Ørlygur à Borg. He is a good friend of mine, and I hope you also will
regard me as a friend.”
Snebiorg looked at him at first with some distrust; she had never liked
the man. But there was a certain shyness in his manner now, and a kindly
tenderness in his eyes, altogether different from his former attitude
towards her. And she could not but feel he was sincere.
She made no answer, but he noticed the altered look in her face, and,
greatly relieved, he went back to Ørlygur and led him to the
sitting-room.
“I’ve been out to beg pardon,” he said, offering a box of cigars.
“She’ll be as safe here with me now as with her mother. And if you think
it’s only because you knocked me down just now, you’re wrong.”
Ørlygur looked at him doubtfully.
“I know what you’re thinking of,” the doctor went on. “My promise
wouldn’t count for much when I’ve been drinking, eh? But there’s just a
bit of my heart that the whisky hasn’t altogether spoiled as yet.”
He glanced up at a large picture of his dead wife on the wall. There
were other portraits of her about the room. And his eyes were moist.
Ørlygur was moved, and held out his hand.
Then the whisky was brought out, but Ørlygur declined; the doctor poured
out a glass for himself. They sat for a while in silence, each busy with
his own thoughts.
Ørlygur could not get over his astonishment at meeting Snebiorg in the
doctor’s house, and in particular at the news that it was Ormarr who had
arranged for her to come. It troubled him, also, that her mother had
been willing to let her come at all.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him—here, perhaps, was the solution of it
all.
“Trying to make me jealous—that must be it. And not a bad idea. If I had
any doubt in my own mind before, this has certainly made an end.”
He glanced at his host, wondering whether he, too, was in the plot. The
doctor seemed to perceive that he was being scrutinized.
“Ørlygur,” he said, in a strangely quiet voice, “I wonder what ever made
you care about me at all? I’ve had a feeling ever since I’ve known you
that you had a sort of liking for me. But, how you ever could, I can’t
imagine.”
Ørlygur looked at him a moment, and then glanced away.
“If you want to know,” he said, “it’s not for any one reason in
particular, but several. To begin with, you’re alway the same to rich
and poor.... Indeed, I’ve heard that you often treat poor people for
nothing, and give them medicines into the bargain.”
“That’s nothing,” said the doctor, waving his hand carelessly.
“And, then, you stay in a poor place like this, instead of finding
somewhere where you could make a better position.”
“Mere selfishness on my part,” said the doctor. “My wife lived here; it
was here I met her—here we lived for the one short year we had
together.... Yes, I daresay it may seem almost blasphemous for me to
talk like that, seeing what every one knows about my life generally. But
it’s true, all the same. That’s why I stay on here.”
Ørlygur sat looking straight before him. “It’s just those trifles—and
that one thing you call selfishness that made me like you,” he said
softly.
Both were silent. Then the doctor reached out for his glass, and emptied
it. And, without appearing to address Ørlygur directly, he went on:
“Sitting here by myself, I often think how queerly fate weaves her
threads. Something’s happening every moment—things happening that matter
to some one or other. Only, I’m outside it all; just sit here and look
on. Like the carcase of a fly that the spider Life has left hung up in a
corner of the web.”
He poured out a fresh glass, and laughed.
“Sit here drinking whisky and never move. Never get any farther. I won’t
say my life’s been worse than many others in the way of troubles. I may
feel so at times, but it’s just weakness on my part. Here I have a
comfortable room to sit in, an arm-chair, and something to drink. And
there’s many that are out in the cold. Possibly I may be as lonely and
unhappy as they. But at least I can live in something like material
comfort. I’m not starving, for instance. Altogether, I must be a poor
sort of fellow not to be more content than I am, and go steady, instead
of sinking deeper and deeper into drink. Sometimes I’ve thought of
committing suicide. But when I go over the pros and cons, it seems
better to go on living. I don’t expect death to bring me anything
better. And I suppose I’m doing a certain amount of good while I’m
alive. Though, on the other hand, I do some harm. Heaven knows why—my
nature, I suppose.”
He looked up suddenly.
“Getting dark,” he said.
Twilight had fallen; already it was hard to distinguish objects in the
room. The two men saw each other’s faces only as pale spots in the dark.
The doctor rose to light the lamp.
Ørlygur rose also.
“Don’t trouble. I’m going home now,” he said. “I shall have to be up
early tomorrow.”
The doctor followed him out to his horse, that was loose in the
enclosure. Ørlygur saddled up, and took his leave; there was a curious,
thoughtful expression on his face. A moment after, he dismounted again,
and, handing the reins to the doctor, who was waiting to see him ride
off, he went into the kitchen, where a light was burning.
He closed the door after him as he entered, and looked into Bagga’s
eyes, that were red and swollen with tears.
“How did you come here?” he asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” answered Bagga calmly. “Mother said I was to come. And I
would not disobey her.”
“I have told the doctor we are engaged,” he said, in the same low tones.
She nodded, as if agreeing it was the natural thing to do.
Then Ørlygur’s heart was filled with an endless joy, and a proud yet
gentle smile lit his face. He opened his arms and drew her to him. For a
moment they stood there, held close in each other’s arms. Then Ørlygur
looked into her eyes and said:
“I am going up to the top of Borgarfjall, to build a cairn there. And
then I shall come and fetch you.”
She nodded again, with the same expression of quiet understanding. Then
their lips met in a long kiss. Ørlygur felt his head grow dizzy, and it
was not till he found himself galloping away on his horse that he
recovered.
“If I fail tomorrow,” he thought to himself, “I am a scoundrel. But I
must build that cairn.”
And after a while he murmured half aloud, with an air almost of
disappointment:
“She didn’t seem in the least impressed—took it as if it were nothing at
all.”
CHAPTER X
Jon Hallsson was standing deep in thought when Ørlygur dashed out of the
kitchen, snatched the reins out of his hands, and galloped off without a
word or look in farewell.
“He’s in a hurry to go off and break his neck,” he thought, and added:
“I wonder he doesn’t give up that mad idea. With a girl like that....”
Then he went indoors, hoping that he might remain undisturbed that
night.
When Jon Hallsson had settled down to drink in the evening, he did not
like to be called out. But his drinking had never interfered with his
work; some people even went so far as to say that they would rather have
him slightly drunk than perfectly sober. Strangely enough, despite his
weakness in respect of drink and women, he had never lost the respect of
those about him. He was a clever doctor, and kind to the poor; he talked
straight out, like a man—at times a little too much so. And so people
liked him. After all, it was no concern of theirs how he lived or what
he made of his life. There was only one man who detested him, and that
was the priest. But the latter was not so popular among his flock that
he could venture to give vent to his feelings beyond an occasional
remark.
Jon Hallsson was from another part of the country, but had held his
present post for fifteen years. When he had first come to the place, he
had been unmarried, and the district at Hofsfjordur was regarded as
merely a stepping-stone to a better. He was looked on by his colleagues
as a man who would certainly rise in his profession.
Shortly after his arrival, he had married a beautiful young girl, the
daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood. She died in childbirth within
the year, and the child immediately after.
The blow had crushed him utterly, leaving only a shadow of his former
self. He filled the house with pictures of his dead wife, and dwelt on
them, clinging to memories as a stricken bird to its nest. But his
physical cravings would not be denied. And he was not strong enough to
master them. Little by little he gave way, and though at times he
realized that he was sinking, he had not power to check himself. Other
young men in his profession rose beyond him, while he grew more and more
hopeless of ever advancing at all. He was like a pebble in the river of
life; once it had come to a stop, the stream flowed over and past it,
wearing away every projecting corner that could give a hold, until
gradually it became surrounded by other stones, and the way for further
progress was blocked and it sank down to insignificance in the lowest of
the mass.
Jon Hallsson lit the lamp and sat down to drink. He could hear Snebiorg
busy in the dining-room, and in a little while she came in to tell him
that his tea was ready.
“Thanks,” he said, and did not move. As she went to the door, he added:
“You need not wait to clear away the things. Go to bed when you like.
Good-night.”
For a long time he sat in silence. Then, as was his way when he had been
drinking for some time, he began talking to himself. It was as if the
silence became unendurable.
“Nonni,” he said, using the pet name by which his wife had always called
him—“Nonni, my boy, it’s time for bed. Getting late, and the lamp will
want filling soon. And you don’t like sitting in the dark, do you? And
the oil’s down in the cellar, and you’d go headlong to the bottom if you
tried them. Much as you can do to stand on your legs now. But there’s a
candle....”
He emptied his glass and filled it again.
“My friend, you drink like a fish. Drink a lot too much. No earthly need
for that last glass. Too much whisky ’s a bad thing anyway. And there’s
no need to empty the bottle each time. There’s a deal left now, but if
I’m not mistaken you’ll finish it before you turn in tonight. And then,
my boy, you will be drunk. And do all sorts of mad things. But kindly
remember—the door where that girl sleeps is not to be touched. Not even
touch the handle. No.”
He rose with difficulty and took down a large photograph of his wife.
“Best to do it now,” he said. “While you’ve some sense left. There’s a
hammer in the surgery.”
He stumbled out of the room, and nailed up the picture of his wife on
the door at the foot of the stairs that led to Snebiorg’s room.
“Ragna,” he said, “keep guard over that door for me, will you? You know
what I am when I’ve had too much. Do all sorts of mad things. But
mustn’t go up there. Not up there—no. You guard the door, Ragna. Yes.”
Then he stumbled back to his arm-chair and his glass.
“There you are, my boy; now you can carry on for a bit. Couldn’t get to
sleep now anyhow. Not eleven yet. And there’s lots of things to think of
yet.”
He took a long drink and laughed.
“Fount of youth—serves up the same old thoughts as if they were new.
Night after night—chewing the cud of old thoughts. Nonni, my boy, you’re
a ruminating animal. Sad, isn’t it? Well, what does it matter? Heaps of
people do the same. Chew the cud of their sorrows and joys, and their
trifles, and their love—yes, ha ha, love, of course. Nice word for
something else.... There, now you’re being a beast. And if you are, you
needn’t make out all the world’s the same. You knew something about love
yourself, once ... blubbering, Nonni—whisky going to your eyes, what?
Dry up, do; it won’t make things any better. Can’t stand one
bottle—you’re getting out of form. Well, well, here’s the last glass for
tonight. Not too much soda this time—stiff one to make you sleep. Only
think, if one could drop off to sleep and out of it all. Well, well,
that’ll come too before long, never fear. Nuisance that you can’t take a
light with you when you go. Nasty to wake up in the dark when you’re
dead. What nonsense—you don’t wake up when you’re dead.... Anyhow, it’s
nothing to be afraid of, Nonni, my boy. Well, off we go—walk steady,
now. Those stairs ... but we weren’t going up those stairs.... And why
not, I should like to know? Fine girl there waiting ... and the other
young fool, he’ll break his neck ... finest girl I’ve set eyes on for
many a long day.”
He staggered from the room, and out to the staircase door, where his
wife’s picture hung.
“What the—good Lord, it’s Ragna! I’m sorry, Ragna—first time you’ve....
Oh, I remember now. Well, well, there’s no going that way. No, I
shouldn’t have ... no.... Good-night, Ragna.”
He turned towards his own room next to the surgery. “That’s right,
Nonni, boy—that’s the way. Leave the girl alone. Heart? Never mind your
heart—nothing to do with the heart really, you know. Not that sort of
thing.... This way, boy. That’s right.”
He went into his own room, and stumbled into bed. For a long time he lay
awake, muttering to himself. At last, when the candle had burnt down and
the room was in darkness, he gradually lapsed into sleep.
CHAPTER XI
It was still dark next morning when Ørlygur rose, dressed, and silently
stole out from the house. He took with him a thirty-foot rope that he
had procured the day before, and some food. Then, taking the well-known
path up to the mountains, he set off through the darkness.
His dog went with him.
Ørlygur was perfectly calm, without a thought for the perilous nature of
his undertaking. He was thinking that he would first have to reach the
highest ledge, and get a proper view of the peak, before he could see
how to manage the rest.
All he had to do for the present was to husband his strength both
physically and mentally, so as to have plenty in reserve for the final
and most difficult part. He was a good walker; if only he kept his wind
and did not strain himself, he would be fit enough after a short rest
for the last climb to the summit.
He walked on steadily, and by daybreak he had reached the third ridge.
He told himself that he had been going quite slowly; a child could have
walked as far in the time. He could safely try a little faster now, and
get as far as possible in the cool of the morning. Without hastening his
step, he lengthened his stride a little. As he ascended, the ridges came
closer and closer in succession, and he had reached the seventh when he
felt the first rays of the sun. For a moment he rested, watching the
sunrise. Only three more ridges now, and he would be at the base of the
peak.
He glanced at the village below. Here and there he could distinguish
people afoot; tiny figures they seemed, viewed from where he stood. The
valley was still in shadow, and all its colours, except that of the
ruddy heather, seemed dull and vague. Even the surface of the water was
grey, in places almost leaden in hue.
He waited only a little while and then resumed his steady climb. At
length the stone buttress of the peak rose directly before him, standing
up sheer in places, at others with a slight slope.
He walked along the foot. It was no easy ascent, that was clear. The
vertical rifts in the massive rock offered no pathway up, and the
horizontal clefts and ledges were far apart, with a distance of some ten
to twenty feet between.
After some time spent in examining the face of the rock he was still as
far as ever from perceiving any practicable way. He came to a
standstill, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the rock before him.
“Anyhow, it has to be done,” he muttered.
And, pulling himself together, he shook off the feeling of despair that
was threatening. He found a sunny spot where there was a clear trickle
of water, and lay down in the heather.
“First something to eat, then a rest, and then another look round,” he
thought to himself. “I can surely find a way up there somehow.” And,
taking out the food he had brought with him, he began to eat.
He was perfectly calm. They would not be anxious about him at home, even
if he were not back till late at night. He had stated beforehand that he
believed some sheep had strayed far up on to the topmost plateau, and
must look for them; all knew that it would be a lengthy business to get
a couple of obstinate sheep down from the top of the mountain, so they
would not expect him back early.
He ate his food without haste, and then lay resting for half an hour,
thinking of anything but the business in hand. Then, perceiving that he
was beginning to feel drowsy, he sprang up resolutely and walked briskly
round the face of the rock.
“You and I have a little matter to settle between us,” he said gaily,
nodding up at the wall of stone.
He found he could walk round on three sides; the fourth, that towards
the northward, was too steep, and the loose sand there rendered it still
more difficult to find any foothold. To try there would mean going down
rather than up. The rock here sloped down from the top of the peak to
about half-way down the side; Ørlygur had thought of coming down that
way, but he realized that in places the angle was too abrupt; he would
inevitably lose his footing and go crashing down. It was this which had
led him to take a rope, thinking it might be of some assistance here.
Twice he walked round the three sides of the rock. But there was no
cleft anywhere that went right to the top. Already he felt his courage
failing, and, fearing to lose it altogether, he boldly commenced
climbing up the cleft which seemed to lead farthest up.
Before starting, however, he coiled the rope round him so as to be
easily got at if required. Then he began scrambling up the narrow cleft.
It was a difficult path, at times the cleft seemed to vanish altogether;
in other places it widened out so that it was impossible to keep his
footing on both sides at once.
The dog, finding it could no longer follow, began howling pitifully.
Ørlygur scolded the animal impatiently, but only succeeded in making
matters worse; the dog ran backwards and forwards along the base, trying
to find some way up. But all its efforts were in vain, and at last it
returned to the bottom of the cleft up which Ørlygur had started, and
lay there, nose in air, and howling miserably, only desisting now and
again to look up at its master with sorrowful eyes.
Ørlygur made but slow progress in the ascent. Still, it was better than
he had thought. But more than once, after passing some particularly
awkward spot, he reflected that he would never be able to get down
without the aid of the rope.
He was unwilling to think of what he would do if the cleft now suddenly
came to an end; the thought occurred to him constantly, but he thrust it
aside, and went on steadily. But he knew it could not be for long.
Where the cleft was more than usually narrow, he set his back against
one side, and hands and feet against the other, carefully hoisting
himself up and making sure of his hold with one foot and hand before
moving the other. Where it was wider, or almost disappeared, he clung
tightly to the side, testing the rocky points that jutted out before
trusting his weight to them. At times he had but just time to get a grip
with his hands, when his foothold gave way. Then, clinging tightly with
his fingers, he had to feel about with his feet for a rest before
shifting his grip. Inch by inch, by the exercise of all his strength and
all his will, he climbed on, until at last he reached a ledge that
allowed him a much-needed rest. He looked down at the way he had come,
but the sight made him dizzy, and he hastily averted his eyes. It seemed
incredible that he should have come up there; from where he was, the
rock seemed to fall away inwards beneath him. He determined not to look
back again; he felt that if he did so he would never reach the top. He
turned instead to a scrutiny of the way before him.
A cold sweat broke out on him as he realized that the cleft he had been
climbing ran but some ten or twelve feet more, making perhaps a sixth
part of the height.
But the ledge, he remembered, continued to the left, in a series of
jutting crags, until it reached another vertical cleft running right to
the top. One thing was clear: it would be impossible to pass along the
ledge with the rope coiled round his body; the path was far too narrow,
and if the rope should catch on any projecting point he would be thrown
off his balance.
Another thing was borne in upon him now—that to think overmuch about the
task before him was more dangerous than all else. Without more ado, he
loosened the rope and let one end fall, fastening the other carefully to
the rock on which he was seated.
Where it was possible to get along the ledge, it would surely be
possible to come back the same way, he thought. It was only in the
actual descent that the difficulties were greater. And if he came to any
point that was absolutely impassable, he could always give it up and
return—“Perhaps,” he added, with emphasis.
Little by little he made his way along the ledge, depending at times
upon the grip of his hands alone, with his body entirely unsupported.
First a firm grip with the one hand and then a careful search with the
other for a fresh hold. All his thoughts were concentrated upon his
hands and their hold. When at length he had reached the flat rock that
he had been making for, he found himself exhausted for the moment. He
closed his eyes, and allowed his whole body to relax for a brief
respite.
It gave him some relief; when he opened his eyes again, he felt as if he
had slept. Once more he recommenced his perilous way, creeping carefully
and with every nerve strained, to the next projecting rock. This brought
him to the commencement of the upward cleft he had in mind. The first
part was an easy slope, and could be managed well enough; higher up,
however, it grew steeper. Ørlygur realized that, even if he succeeded in
getting up, it would be almost impossible to get down again. For a
moment he considered whether it would not be better after all to go back
for the rope, but he gave up the idea at once. The passage along the
ledge was one he felt he had not strength now to repeat. And with the
rope round his body it would mean almost certain disaster to attempt it.
Losing no time in further reflection, he started up the cleft.
At first all went well. Then came a stretch of smooth rock rising
straight up on either side. The slightest false move here would be
fatal, and there were some ten or twelve feet of it to be covered. How
he managed it, he never quite knew, and from this point onwards he moved
unconsciously, knowing nothing of his own progress until he found
himself lying, exhausted and breathless, at the summit. His clothes were
torn, his hands bleeding and bruised, and there was a cut on one knee.
The keen mountain air refreshed him, and he lay quietly drinking it in
before rising to his feet. He remembered now how he had been on the
point of slipping at that last stretch of smooth rock, and, nerved by
fear, had made a superhuman effort. It had been muscle acting without
brain, for his mind had been a blank at the time. But it was done now.
After that terrible moment, the last part of the way had been easier,
and he had not stopped to think.
After resting for a little, he went to the edge and peered over. Now
that he was here, he felt no sensation of dizziness as when he had
looked down before. But it was evident beyond doubt that it would be
certain death to attempt to descend by the way he had come.
Still, here he was. And down he must get somehow.
He was terribly thirsty, and looked around for water. After some
searching he found a tiny spring, clear and cold as ice. A little moss
grew round about it, in beautifully varying shades of green. He lay down
and drank, rested and drank again, till his thirst was quenched and he
felt himself refreshed. Then he rose.
“And now for that monument!” he cried gaily.
He had only his bare hands to work with, and they were bruised and sore,
but there was no lack of material at hand; rocks of all sorts and sizes
lay strewn about. He chose, first of all, a big flat stone as a
foundation, looking first to see that its position was such as to render
the cairn visible from the valley below, and set to work building up
carefully with suitable pieces. After a couple of hours’ work, the thing
was done—a compact pile of stone, tapering from a broad base evenly
towards the top. On this he placed a large flat stone spreading out like
the brim of a hat, and above it a smaller one again.
When the work was finished, he patted the stone with his hand, and
laughed.
“There you are,” he said. “Now, see and stay there as long as you can,
for I doubt if any one will come to set you up again if you fall.”
Then, putting on his jacket, which he had laid aside for the work, he
commenced to walk round the little platform which formed the summit of
the peak. On three sides the rock fell away sheer; on the fourth was a
steep slope of loose sand mixed with a soft kind of rock. Here and there
were hard projections of lava and stone. To miss one’s foothold there
would mean rolling down, with the first stop some eight hundred feet
below. And, likely as not, the rolling would develop into a series of
bouncing leaps, breaking every bone in one’s body.
Ørlygur noted half-absently that it was no use trying to get down on
this side. Then he sat down and gazed out over the valley below. The
land merged into the horizon on all sides save the north-east, where the
sea showed a leaden-grey surface, broken in places by white-topped
breakers. To the south were snow-capped hills, that seemed more like
part of the sky than earth, their glittering surface seeming out of
keeping with the dark hues of the lower land. A bank of fog came gliding
in from the sea, clear of the bottom of the valley and not touching the
mountain heights, making a weird effect. Ørlygur found himself suddenly
looking down from clear air into a sea of fog two hundred feet below,
that hid the valley from view. He looked down the mountain-side. It
seemed far less formidable now that the fog obscured the greater part.
And he rose with a sudden impulse to try the descent now while it was
less dangerous.
“How stupid,” he said to himself a moment later. “Of course, it is
dangerous as ever. Still, I must try it. No use trying to go down the
way I came up; it would be no better than jumping off the edge. The
sandy slope on the other side is my only chance; I must try to get off
it as soon as I can find a ledge, and take my chance of slipping before
I strike one.”
He took off his shoes and stockings, and removed his coat. At first he
thought of throwing them over on the side where he had come up, but on
second thoughts he refrained. To look over there now might make him
nervous. He left his things lying where they were.
“The stones will be rough, with bare feet,” he reflected. “But if I get
back safely....”
Carefully he surveyed the slope, and marked out his path. Then, lying
flat down, he thrust his feet over the edge. For a fraction of a second
he paused, and then the struggle commenced. To seek for secure foothold
was hopeless; the only thing was to make the most of such resistance as
the stones offered, and prevent himself from going down too fast. His
eyes could only see where to place his hand; his feet must be left to
feel their way. Every movement had to be made swiftly, and yet with the
utmost care, and, above all, without losing coolness and self-control.
The actual distance to the first ledge was not great; it was not more
than five minutes from starting when he glanced to the side and found
himself level with it. But it seemed like ages. A little below him, and
slightly to one side, a point of lava jutted out. Possibly it might be
loose and give way at a touch; anyhow, it was all that offered, and
there was no time to waste. Already he could fancy himself gliding past
the ledge, and then....
Before he could recall his mind from this dangerous channel, his body
had done all that was needed; he found himself grasping what proved to
be the point of a large rock. Feeling it would hold, he drew himself up
and threw one arm round it. This steadied him, and gave him a chance to
rest. A few feet to one side was the ledge and safety. But to reach it
across the few intervening feet of loose ground seemed an impossibility.
If he slipped but an inch or two beyond, it would be hopeless to try and
work up again; he would go sliding down with but little chance of
stopping himself.
Just then he heard his dog barking, but paid little heed.
No, there was nothing for it now but to make the attempt. But there
seemed little hope of success.
The danger in no way unnerved him; on the contrary, the confronting of
actual difficulty seemed to allure him. He would try—and then....
He closed his eyes and offered up a prayer. It was the first time he had
done so throughout the undertaking. But the imminent peril of death
compelled him, and his lips stammered out the old words. It was the
age-old acknowledgment of the powers above—a tribute to darkness and the
unknown. He uttered the words earnestly, but it was none the less
something of a formality. He was prepared to die; it was only to loosen
the last tie that bound him....
Before his prayer was ended, he was recalled to the present in startling
wise.
“Hullo, there you are! Hung up nicely, by the look of you.”
Ørlygur opened his eyes in astonishment. Jon Hallsson was there, on the
ledge, in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a bag in his hand. The sweat
poured down his face, which was flushed with unwonted exertion; he was
so exhausted that he could hardly speak.
“Looks as though the best thing I can do’s to go down again, and wait
for you at the bottom of your beastly mountain. Though I’m not likely to
be much use to you when you get there. Wish you were safely over here,
don’t you? Well, so do I, but how to get you there’s another thing.”
“You’ve come in the nick of time,” cried Ørlygur merrily. All thought of
death or danger seemed to have vanished. “But how did you find your way
up?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on the place—ever since this morning, watching
through a telescope. First time I spied something moving on the top, I
thought it must be an eagle. I hoped all along you’d have more sense.
But when I saw the eagle building castles—sacrificial altars—on the
topmost heights of pig-headed obstinacy, I took it that by some miracle
or other you’d got here after all. So I packed up some tools and
bandages and things, and came out to deal with a fine crop of fractures.
But there’s neither god nor devil would persuade me to come crawling out
to where you are now.”
“Don’t want you to, I’m sure. Does any one know you’ve come up here at
all?”
“No sense in telling them that I could see. At least, not till I’d made
sure whether you were mincemeat or not.”
“Have you a knife with you?”
“Sir—you insult me. Didn’t I tell you I’d come out here prepared for
operations generally?”
“Well, I wish you’d content yourself meantime with amputating an end of
that rope I left hanging down near where the dog is. About twenty feet.
Then, if you’ll make one end fast where you are, and throw me the other,
you’ll have me safe and sound on the ledge beside you in a moment. Not
that I’m in any hurry to get away from here, really—it’s quite a
comfortable place to rest a bit. But I’ve just discovered that I’m
desperately hungry, and there’s still some food left in my bag.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” retorted the doctor. “Rope, you say? I can’t get
it without climbing up that silly place, and I’m not an acrobat.”
“Well, then, slip down to Borg and fetch another.”
“Slip, indeed—very kind of you,” snapped the doctor. And, followed by a
merry laugh from Ørlygur, he turned back towards the cleft where the
rope had been left, muttering curses on all foolhardy boys and this
present escapade in particular.
A little later he returned with the rope in his hand. He seemed even
more angry than when he had started.
“Risking my neck for your mad pranks,” he grumbled. “I had to scramble
up the rocks to cut it high enough—I hope you may hang yourself with it
some day. Nearly got hung up myself. And came down with a run, and gave
myself a most abominable bump at the end of it.”
He did not say where he was hurt, but when he fancied Ørlygur was not
looking he rubbed himself tenderly behind.
It was but a moment’s work to make the rope fast, throw out one end to
Ørlygur, and draw him slowly in on to the ledge.
“There! And now, where’s the damage?” asked the doctor impatiently, by
way of welcome.
“No damage up to now, thanks. But if you feel put out about it, I’ll let
you take off one leg at the knee for your trouble.”
They made their way back to the rock where Ørlygur had left his bag. The
dog had not moved from the spot, and at sight of its master sprang
towards him, greeting him with delight, and continued gambolling around,
evidently overjoyed at finding him again.
While Ørlygur was eating, the doctor stared up at the rock and the rest
of the rope hanging from the rock above. After a time he asked:
“The cleft seems to end there. I suppose you just flew the rest of the
way?”
Ørlygur explained how he had made his way round the ledge. “It’s easy
enough,” he declared. “You could drive a caravan round.”
“But why on earth did you leave the rope behind?”
“Oh, I thought it would be more fun to get along hanging by my arms,
with the rest of me in mid-air. Neater, you understand.”
“I see. You’re pleased to make a jest of your own infernal
wickedness—for it’s wicked, nothing less, to play the fool with life and
death like that.”
But Ørlygur only laughed and went on with his meal. The doctor continued
his study of the rock, as if imagining himself making the ascent, and
shuddered. Then, abandoning his ill-humoured tone, he turned to Ørlygur
with tears in his eyes.
“Oh, you young fool!” he said. “Can nothing content you but roads that
were meant for the eagles?”
“I’m going another road tomorrow,” said Ørlygur, with a laugh.
The doctor looked at him doubtfully.
“Well, don’t count on me this time,” he said. “I’ll not go dangling at
your heels with an ambulance train every time you’ve a fancy to risk
your neck.”
“There’s not much risk this time—not in that way, at least. I’m only
going over to the station to carry off your housekeeper.”
“And that’s what I get for my pains—not to speak of subsequent
complications,” grunted the doctor. It was cool up there in his
shirt-sleeves, and a recent bump made it uncomfortable for him to sit
down. But there was a note of relief in his voice as he spoke.
As soon as Ørlygur had finished eating, they started on their way down.
It was sunshine the first part of the way, but a little farther down
they found themselves enveloped in a bank of clammy fog. At a distance,
Ørlygur’s dog was magnified to the size of a calf, and well-known rocks
became distorted and unrecognizable. Nevertheless, they found no
difficulty in making their way down. The path was always just visible,
and Ørlygur knew the track so well that he could have followed it
blindfold. As they went on, the fog became thicker; the doctor’s horse
was nowhere to be seen. They searched for some time without success;
they could hardly see an arm’s length ahead. The saddle had been left
beside the track, and this they discovered, but the horse was gone.
“We’ve always some horses in the paddock at home at this time of year,”
said Ørlygur. “You can take one of ours. I’ll find yours tomorrow.”
On arriving at Borg, Ørlygur at once caught one of the horses wandering
loose, and put on the doctor’s saddle.
“You’ll come indoors and have a cup of coffee before you go on?” he said
to the doctor.
“Thanks, I won’t say no. And perhaps a drop of something stronger
wouldn’t be amiss. But catch a couple more horses while you’re about
it.”
“What for?”
The doctor turned his head away, and answered a trifle sadly:
“No need to put off that business you were speaking of till tomorrow, is
there?”
Ørlygur looked at him without a word.
“Besides, you’d be company for me on the way home. I don’t feel like
wandering about alone in this fog.”
Ørlygur set off at once after two more horses, and tied up the three in
readiness. Then the two men went indoors, and Ørlygur ordered coffee.
After a while Ormarr came in.
“What brings you here, doctor?” he asked.
Jon Hallsson made no reply, but glanced at Ørlygur. Ormarr followed his
glance.
“And where have you been, Ørlygur?” he asked, noticing the boy’s hands
and clothing.
“I’d better go and change, I think,” said Ørlygur awkwardly—“I’ve been
up Borgarfjall,” he added. “Up to the top.” And he rose to his feet.
Ormarr looked from one to the other in astonishment.
“Up Borgarfjall! And you, too, doctor?”
“No,” answered the doctor, with emphasis. “No climbing to the top of
Borgarfjall for me, thank you.”
Ormarr turned to Ørlygur with a questioning look.
“What were you doing up there?”
“I thought a sort of monument would look nice on top.”
“Sort of monument!...” Ormarr shook his head. “But the top—the peak—it’s
more than any man could do to get there!”
“Exactly,” said Ørlygur.
Ormarr and the doctor burst out laughing, in which Ørlygur joined. Then
hurriedly he made his escape.
When he had left the room, Ormarr turned to the doctor.
“What does it all mean?” he asked.
“My dear Ormarr Ørlygsson, don’t ask me. I have to thank you, by the
way, for finding me a most excellent housekeeper.”
“Oh,” answered Ormarr, somewhat at a loss, “I just happened to know....”
“You just happened to know my little weakness,” put in the doctor
angrily.
Both men were silent for a moment. Then the doctor burst out laughing.
“Never been so done in all my life,” he said in an injured tone.
“I’m very sorry,” said Ormarr. “But it was the only way I could see
to....”
“Oh, never mind. Most happy to reciprocate, if needed, and all that. But
where am I to get another now?”
Ormarr’s face lit up with a sudden gleam of pleasure. He was about to
speak, when the doctor interrupted him.
“Yes, she is,” he said sharply. “It’s all settled. I’ve played my little
part. And Ørlygur’s going off now to fetch her.”
Ormarr rose, laughing, and held out his hand.
“My dear doctor, let me congratulate you.”
“Me!” snapped the other.
“Yes, you. A most rapid and satisfactory cure. If I can help you to find
another housekeeper....”
“Thank you, I won’t trouble you.”
The doctor grasped Ormarr’s hand cordially. “I’m just as pleased with
the result as you can be, really,” he said, with frank sincerity.
“Ørlygur and I are rather friends, you know. But he is a headstrong
young fool, all the same. You ought to go and look at that place where
he went up.”
“Then you were with him?”
“Not at the time—no. But from something he let fall last night, and
seeing something moving up there today, I had an idea, and went up to
see what he was doing.”
“What’s all this about a monument?”
“I don’t know. But I fancy he wanted to relieve his feelings in some
way—by doing something out of the ordinary, you understand.”
Ormarr seemed to be thinking hard. Then he looked up.
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“It’s only an idea of mine. He is young, and full of energy.... But, of
course, I may be wrong.”
“I fancy you are right,” said Ormarr. “More so, perhaps, than you
imagine.”
There was a pause. Ormarr was the first to speak.
“Look here,” he said. “Let Ørlygur ride over now and fetch the girl, and
you stay here for tonight. We have not seen much of each other up to
now, but you have been a good friend to my son—my foster-son, that is.
There are several things we two old fellows could find to talk about.
Besides, you must be tired.”
The doctor accepted the invitation, and when Ørlygur was ready to start,
Ormarr went up to him.
“You will bring her home here, of course. But I think you ought to go
round by Bolli, and bring her mother as well.”
Ørlygur answered with a grateful glance and a nod. And no more was said.
* * * * *
Ormarr Ørlygsson and Jon Hallsson sat long talking together. Each sat by
a window, watching the little streams of moisture that trickled down the
panes.
The doctor seemed weary and in low spirits.
“I’m tired of life myself,” he said. “Have been for years now. And yet I
potter about trying to keep others alive, when I daresay they’re just as
tired of it as I am. Doesn’t seem much sense in it anyway.”
Ormarr shook his head.
“Life is a precious thing,” he said. “And often we don’t realize it
until it is too late. Then we fall to musing dismally about it, instead
of using our experience for the good of others—for those who are to come
after us. We say to ourselves: I have suffered; so will they. Well, why
not? Let them look after themselves. But why have we suffered? Because
we are narrow-minded and ungrateful. Surely we have known some glorious
moments; how can we complain of life after? Life is a round of ceaseless
change, day and night, sunshine and rain; we ourselves pass from the
unknown to the unknown again ... and that is why a moment of harmony we
call happiness is a wondrous thing—a thing that can never be paid for
throughout all eternity.”
“You may be right,” said the doctor. “I feel myself an ungrateful
creature at this moment.”
“I have only felt that harmony myself at moments when I was able to
forget myself entirely in my music,” Ormarr went on. “And then it was
really only a complete forgetfulness of all that was passing around me.
How much greater must be the happiness of those who _meet_ in harmony;
two human beings sharing happiness! For them it is the rising of a sun
that nothing can darken but the grave.”
The doctor bowed his head.
“And then?” he said. “When the grave had taken one of them?”
“Would you wish you had never known the happiness that has given you the
greatest sorrow of your life?”
The doctor shook his head. “No! Not if it cost me all eternity in
torture.”
“Have you ever thought of it before?”
“No,” said the doctor. “But I see what you mean. And you are right. It
simply comes to this: that we should be grateful for life—grateful and
happy for having been allowed to live.”
Ormarr nodded. “Happy and grateful—yes. And humble, too.”
CHAPTER XII
Ørlygur and Bagga rode quietly through the mist over the hills from the
station to Bolli. There was no need for haste. They rode side by side,
keeping close together, holding each other’s hands in a clasp that
seemed as if it were never to end.
They spoke but little. Each felt, in absence, that there was so much to
say. But, on the surface, they were yet as strangers to each other in
this, that it was not easy to speak of little trivial things. There was
so much that they had not yet known; and their minds were full of a
silent, happy longing and anticipation.
Yet they rode there together in the mist, as if it were but natural that
they should—as if they already belonged to each other—were already one
heart and one soul.
The mist that wrapped them seemed a light and kindly thing.
They did not think how life had played with them but a few hours back,
like pawns in a game, or how the mist of the present hour was but a
pause while life determined what the next move should be. They rode side
by side, holding each other’s hand. And neither felt the vaguest glimmer
of doubt as to the other’s will—the other’s love. Both felt that nothing
in life could part them now. And the thought of death was far away.
They rode together over the hills, two grey figures in the mist. But
there was sunshine in their souls.
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Transcriber’s note:
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.