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.”