CHAPTER II
Sera Ketill went late to bed that night. By ill chance it was Saturday, and he had to have his sermon ready for the morrow.
On this occasion, above all, it behoved him to take some pains with it. It was his first service, and there would be a large and expectant congregation.
Nevertheless, he did not feel at all in the mood for dealing with his text: “Ye cannot serve two masters.”
He felt a sudden bitterness of regret that he had ever decided to become a priest. Had he but chosen any other profession—a lawyer, a doctor, even a trader! Then he would have been able at least to avenge his defeats indirectly, by letting others suffer for them. Just think, for instance, of the satisfaction with which he could have taken up the task of passing sentence upon some one or other, instead of pointing out the inadvisability, nay, the impossibility, of serving two masters. He wished he could have altered the text, and held forth, for instance, upon the abomination of desolation, or the Day of Judgment. But it could not be done; the text was of serving two masters, and nothing could alter it. And he had to have a good strong sermon on that text by tomorrow, or his first appearance would be a failure. He was not disposed to risk further defeats after the ill-success of his plans today. He needed the encouragement of a victory, and must take it where it seemed most easily attainable.
He thought of his changed position; all things had turned out badly up to now. His castles in the air; his dreams of power—unlimited power—in the parish, had, he could already perceive, faded into nothing. And suddenly it struck him that he had only to give vent to his own bitterness, directing it into the proper channel, and there was his sermon!
It took time, and it was late before his manuscript was finished. But as he contemplated it, noting with satisfaction the finishing touches, he felt assured that here at least was a masterpiece; he had only to deliver it with forceful and earnest eloquence, and it must have its effect. He had regained his self-control, and was ready to forget all the disappointment of the day in sleep.
Alma awoke early next morning.
She dressed in haste, and as quietly as possible, anxious not to awaken her husband, and with some difficulty found her way through the passages and out of the house.
She stood for a little outside. It was a quiet autumn day; the air seemed full of a strange peace and solemn calm. Being Sunday, there were none of the people astir, save those busy within doors in stables or kitchen, and of these she saw nothing.
Alma wandered round the place, making a survey of her surroundings. The buildings, with their turf roofs and solid walls of the same material, seemed pleasant enough to the eye, giving a sense of security in their massive solidity. They seemed as firmly rooted and immovable as if Nature and the Lord had planted them in the earth when earth was made.
She looked about for the church, but could see none. The tarred wooden structure yonder, with a turf wall round, could surely not be it—and yet, on closer inspection, she noticed a white cross rising from the roof. With a curious beating of the heart, she hurried across to the gate in the earthen wall. Reaching it, she found that the church stood in the middle of a modest little churchyard. She opened the gate and went in. Most of the graves were simply oblong mounds of earth, only here and there was there a headstone with the usual border round. And there were a few wooden crosses with lettering in black tar.
The church itself was locked. She walked round the outside, and looked in through one of the windows, of which there were three on either side. The interior was painted white. At one end stood the altar, on a small semicircular eminence, with a low rail round. Next to it were the choir stalls, consisting of a few benches along the walls and some loose ones arranged to allow of passage between. On the right, looking down the nave, was the pulpit, with painted figures of apostles on the panels, evidently older than the church itself. There was a small harmonium, polished and new-looking—the contrast made Alma smile. But she regretted it at once; the feeling of amusement at this primitive lack of taste which installed a brand-new cheap-line harmonium in an old church, disappeared. She felt that God’s all-seeing eye was on her as she stood there spying in through a window at His house.
Looking around for somewhere to sit down a little, she noticed that the churchyard wall on one side was low, and went across. On her way she passed a grave on which stood a small pillar of grey granite, the upper part broken off obliquely. She stopped, and half unconsciously read the inscription. Between the Christian name and surname stood the word skald. She passed on, wondering in her mind what the little word might mean, but gave it up, and soon forgot it.
Seating herself on the churchyard wall, she let her eyes wander over the country round, noting how the sun shone on the fjord and on the farther side of the valley, leaving a strip of shadow on the fjeld. And a feeling of longing rose in her breast. It was strange to see the sun shining on others, and herself be left in the shadow. It seemed as if there were joy there, beyond—joy in which she had no part, and which saddened her to watch. And it was not only today, not merely the shadow of a passing cloud that barred her from the sunlight; no, there stood the fjeld, the dark and massive, rocky height, that day after day was to steal the sunlight from her life. She felt that there was enmity between them—but a moment later she realized that the dark church and the gloomy fjeld were in harmony; and that God was in and over both.
Strange—ever since she had set foot in this place, she had felt the presence of God distinctly; a blind omnipotence, of merciless mercy—she hardly knew how to define it. God was not so distant in these surroundings as He had first appeared. The snow-white sides of the fjeld were pure and good to look upon; they might well be the abode of God. The country itself, in all its outlines, shapes, and colours, was so wild and unlike all else that it seemed impossible to regard it as inhabited by human beings only, with their petty trials and pleasures. It was impossible, here, to attach great importance to one’s own well-being or the reverse; one felt so pitifully small and weak. Even life and death seemed to lose their distinctive outline.
Alma caught herself thinking—and she smiled at the thought—that she had grown, and grown wiser since her arrival, all in the space of a day and a night. She felt now, to a degree almost beyond reason, that she was but a speck in eternity, only a ripple on the endless sea of time.
Ketill found his wife deep in thought, seated on the churchyard wall. She had not heard him approaching, and started when he touched her.
With a sudden access of tenderness, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
She made no resistance, though she resented the action inwardly. His strength and the physical charm of the man that had once attracted her were now grown repulsive.
Ketill noted that his wife looked serious. It suited her, and he stroked her hair.
“Sitting here all alone?” he asked.
“I was just looking round the place. One could sit here for years, I think, without getting tired of it. I wish I were a rock—set in a place like this for ever!”
Sera Ketill laughed. “I must say I prefer existence as a human being,” he said.
“But it is lovely here,” Alma went on. “So grand and wonderful—the rocks and the sea and the snow spreading everywhere, and the desolate fields—barrenness and abundance at once. It is like looking at the stars in the sky—emptiness and yet so rich....”
“A bit of good rich pasture land would be more to my taste,” objected Ketill teasingly.
“I suppose it would. Really, I think I feel more at home here than you do yourself.”
“Well, I’m glad you do not find the country altogether forbidding. Many people do, you know.”
“Forbidding? I feel as if I were under a spell. No will of my own, just a thing in the hands of Fate. And I love the feeling that there are great and distant powers that have taken my life into their hands.”
“You had better be careful, or you will be growing superstitious—it is a common failing among the people here. They believe in all kinds of spirits, portents, omens, fate, and all that sort of thing. Look at that gravestone there—the one with the granite pillar. A young poet was buried there. Somehow the top of the stone got broken off. And folk lay it to the charge of the powers of darkness—he killed himself, you know.”
“Yes.... A broken soul beneath a broken stone....”
“I don’t think the powers of darkness trouble themselves much about the gravestones in our churchyards.”
“A poet, you say? And he killed himself? How—why?”
“Threw himself over the cliff into the sea. You can see the spot—over there. It falls sheer down into the fjord.”
Alma looked and shuddered. A white wave broke the surface of the water, and dashed against the cliff.
“But why?”
“Nobody seems to know quite. They say it was something outside the usual causes—not starvation, for instance, or love or weariness of life.”
“Nobody knows? And yet he threw himself into the sea? Then it must have been a call from on high. He realized the presence of God, and followed it, into darkness and death.”
“Alma, whatever are you talking about!”
“I hardly know myself. The words came into my mouth without a thought. And I feel myself thinking strange things that never entered my head before.” And she laughed, a little nervous laugh. “It is as if the spirit were upon me, and I had to speak so.”
At this Ketill suddenly felt called upon to play the priest. Though, as a matter of fact, he was rather impressed by her words.
“Alma, that is blasphemy, you know.”
“Not at all.” She looked up in surprise. “I simply feel as if the Spirit of God were moving on the face of the waters, and as if I were a piece of dead clay, waiting to be created as a human being.”
By half-past nine, the congregation began to appear, coming up in little groups. Many were on horseback.
Alma was outside the house, and it seemed as if the place had suddenly become alive. Little knots of people came into view here and there, far or near, appearing and disappearing between the contours of the landscape. Nearly all were hurrying.
Reaching the church, they dismounted in groups, as they had come, tethering their horses near by. They were unsaddled, and some were merely hobbled and allowed to wander about at will. The churchgoers then set to tidying themselves before the service: pulling off the long riding hose, brushing dirt and hair from their clothes, unpacking collars or aprons, and fastening bows with careful neatness.
Then, having completed their toilet, they began to move about, exchanging greetings and news, collecting in new formations and changing again. A few spoke noisily, but for the most part they talked in an undertone, with much nodding of heads and brief ejaculations.
Alma was a centre of attraction, though most of the curious ones tried to conceal their interested observation. A few of the principal farmers and their wives, knowing who she must be, came up to greet her, but with some awkwardness, when they found she could not understand their speech. And they withdrew to the company of their fellows.
Ørlygur à Borg came alone.
Alma went up to her father-in-law, who smiled and took her hand, flushing like a youth, and with that curious kindly smile of his lighting up the furrowed face. He was looking better, she thought, than he had done the day before.
She took his arm, and would have led him into the house, but he shook his head, and nodded in the direction of the church, where the bell was now ringing in. Most of the congregation were already seated, only a few late comers were hastening up. Among them was old Kata. She thought herself unobserved, and waved a coloured kerchief in the air, muttering to herself: “Away, be off with you, cursed creatures; get away, wicked things.”
The bystanders imagined she was addressing invisible beings, evil spirits and demons,—the fylgjer of those present,—whom she had to drive away to make a passage for herself.
Alma entered the church with Ørlygur, leaning on his arm up the aisle. This was not customary except in the case of bride and bridegroom, but she knew no better. Ørlygur was somewhat embarrassed, but he felt happier than he had done for many a day; not for any consideration would he have withdrawn his arm.
He found her a seat next to his own sitting, but did not take that place himself. As the first layman in the parish he had duties to perform; he led the singing, and Alma noticed that it was the organ that followed his lead, not the reverse. She also remarked that his voice was surprisingly strong and pure for his years.
In the responses, however, he faltered a little; possibly, thought Alma, from nervousness on account of the fact that his son was officiating for the first time. A little after, she noticed a frown on his brow, lines that had not been there before, or at least not so marked. And it crossed her mind that Ørlygur à Borg was not on friendly terms with his son Ketill—there must be some good cause for it....
Already she seemed to have grown to love this old man, with his snow-white hair and beard, and the look of strength and yet of Christian kindliness in his face. Her eyes wandered from one to another of those present, old and young.
Many were better dressed than Ørlygur, who wore a suit of brown homespun material, his jacket buttoned up round the neck, and a pair of soft hide shoes on his feet. Many of the others wore collars and polished boots, yet it was easy to see that this man was the leader—the born master of his fellows, to whom all others must defer. Not that there was anything overbearing in his manner, far from it. He nodded to one and all, and they returned his greeting without servility, but with ungrudging respect as towards a superior whom they esteemed.
Ørlygur sat with bowed head and expressionless features throughout the sermon. But Alma could see that the people generally were carried away. And when the service was at an end, they gathered round Ørlygur and Ketill to offer their congratulations. Ørlygur, however, made no reply to their words of praise, only thanked them briefly. Shortly after, he took leave of Alma, shaking his head in response to her invitation to the house. She saw him go up to Ketill, who was standing in the middle of a group of peasants, and address a few words to him, whereupon both men walked away to where Ørlygur’s horse was standing.
“Ketill, I must have a word with you,” said Ørlygur to his son.
And as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest he went on.
“Do not speak; do not dare to say a word! Listen! You are a scoundrel and a rogue. Your sermon was hypocrisy, and inspired by something certainly not divine. You can deceive these poor folk, maybe, but you can no longer deceive me. I cannot imagine what use the Lord has for such a man as you—that He ever let you into His vineyard at all. And I cannot understand what Fate ever led that angel yonder to become your wife. How her beautiful eyes could fail to see through you—’tis more than I can fathom. Her will is for good—and yours for evil. Ay, you may smile! You are a hypocrite—a ne’er-do-well. But you are the priest of this parish, more’s the pity, and married to a good and beautiful girl—also, you are my son. I can only warn you to be careful. And I have this to tell you: Ormarr is taking over the estate of Borg; he has sold his business. And he is to marry Runa, my adopted daughter; they are going abroad at once. When Ormarr dies, Borg goes to their children—you understand me? I would advise you to be good to your wife. Should I hear otherwise, then God have mercy upon you. For her sake I will continue my duties in the church as before, hateful though it is to me to endure the sight of you. For her sake I pray that God will give me strength. Even now I cannot set foot in your house. Make what excuse you please to your wife; let her be spared from knowing the truth; bring her to Borg occasionally yourself. I would not see her suffer for your sins. And now I have spoken my mind.”
Ørlygur à Borg turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode off.
Sera Ketill had endeavoured once or twice to smile during his father’s outburst, but it was more for the sake of preserving his self-control that he had tried to consider the matter in a humourous light. As Ørlygur rode away, he stood with bowed head, set teeth, and frowning brow; then with an effort he pulled himself together, striving to regain his normal air of priestly authority.
When, a few minutes later, he encountered Alma, he said:
“My father was very busy, and could not come in. He told me to give you his kind regards. Ormarr is leaving tomorrow—going abroad, so they have much to do at Borg.”
“So that is why Ormarr did not come to church?”
“Yes, naturally.”
“But surely he will come and say good-bye?”
“It is hardly likely. He is only going away for a short time, and when he comes back he will live at Borg.”
“It will be nice to have him so near. But what about his business?”
“He has sold it, so my father tells me. As a matter of fact, this voyage is a sort of honeymoon. He is going to marry Runa, father’s adopted daughter, and she is going with him. We did not see her yesterday.”
“But it seems strange—not to pay a farewell visit.”
Ketill smiled sarcastically. “I should not expect it,” he said. “It is not the custom in this country.”