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.