CHAPTER V
The winter was a hard time for Fru Alma.
Never, surely, had a tender, womanly heart been so overwhelmed with loneliness and doubt, conflicting feelings and bewildering thoughts, or borne it all with greater fortitude and patience.
A snow-white lily snatched from the sunny spring and thrust away into a gloomy loft. And what is the withering of a lily to the agonies of a human heart? Here was a human creature, plucked from a careless butterfly existence under a cloudless sky of youth, and transplanted to a land of grim solemnity and earnest—the home of Fate, where dreams and omens and forebodings reigned; who could endure it and not suffer?
Alma’s soul developed in adversity, but it was an unnatural growth—the growth of herbage in the shade, outwardly luxuriant, no more. Such growths, once brought into the light of the sun, must wither and shrink, to rise no more.
Hardest of all, perhaps, was the monotony of her life. Despite the changing weather, lengthening days, intercourse with people around her as she picked up a little more of the language, despite the busy Sundays, it was a sadly uneventful existence, and there seemed no hope of relief in the future. The coming years loomed out as burdens to be borne in due course, days of drab wakefulness, with restless nights of evil dreams; the healing rest that night should bring was but a mirage.
When the loneliness became unbearable she would seek the company of old Kata, or of the other servants. And her kindness to them all was soon known far and wide. Were any in trouble, be sure Fru Alma would not pass them by; her generous sympathy was recognized by all. “The Danish Lady at Hof,” they called her, and looked to her as one to whom any appeal for help should naturally be made, as to a patron saint, or the Son of God Himself. And there was no irreverence in the comparison.
The vicarage was constantly besieged by beggars and vagabonds; Sera Ketill, scenting personal advantage to himself in his wife’s reputation for charity, encouraged her in the work. He thanked her—but his thanks were insincere and superficial, and Alma was not deceived. She and old Kata were the only ones who saw through him, each in her own way. The two women never spoke of him together; he was the one theme upon which they never exchanged confidences. Alma could not speak ill of her husband to any one, and it was not old Kata’s way to make ill worse. Kata knew exactly what went on at the vicarage, and she was the only one who did. Ørlygur was only partially aware of the true state of affairs between Ketill and his wife.
Kata, who herself had never been wife nor mistress to any man, was more outspoken with Fru Alma than she had ever been with any other soul. She found in her a creature pure and undefiled as herself, a nature trustful and unsuspicious, with that high confidence that gives the greatest worth, beyond what ordinary sense can perceive. And Kata tested her in many ways before venturing to speak freely; but Alma passed every ordeal triumphantly, unaware that she was being tried. Chief of all was absolute, voluntary silence, speaking of a matter to none until one knew that speech was but as speaking to oneself. Good wine should not be poured into untried vessels.
It is hard to say whether old Kata’s confidences were to Alma’s good or the reverse. In any case, it was a relief to her to talk with the old woman, and at first she paid but little heed to what she heard. There were strange themes which she would never have dreamed of discussing with any one, and when alone, she gave them but little thought. Gradually, however, they became more insistent, and laid firm hold on her mind.
True, she never saw nor heard “things,” as old Kata claimed to do; she was not given to seeing visions, and certainly had no claim to the power of second sight. But she had strange dreams which Kata, when in the mood, would interpret in such wise that Alma became thoroughly convinced of the old woman’s powers.
They had strange talks together at times.
“Why is it, do you think, Kata,” Alma might ask, “that there is always more suffering than joy in life?”
“I doubt but it’s all because they crucified the Son of God.”
“But don’t you think there’s many a human being must have suffered as much as He did? Others have been crucified, you know; and then death on the cross is not the worst kind of torture that could be imagined.”
“Nay, there’s many a heavy cross to be borne, that’s true. But God is God, and that’s another thing.”
Or Fru Alma would start another theme, asking Kata’s views as to whether sufferings of human beings were confined to this world, or if there were perhaps still greater pains and trouble to come.
Old Kata opined that each and every one would receive punishment or reward according to their doings in this world.
“It seems to me,” said Alma quietly, “that we are so bound by inherited weakness and sin that however much evil we may do, we cannot fairly be judged beyond our life on earth.”
“There’s a deal in that, maybe,” answered Kata. “And there’s many a poor sinner not rightly answerable for all they’ve done. But God is God.”
One day, when a number of dead bodies from a wreck had been washed ashore in the fjord, Alma said:
“Sometimes I can’t help thinking that mankind, for all the limitation of our powers, could manage some things more justly at least than Providence seems to do.”
“Never speak like that,” said old Kata warningly. “Think of the Scriptures. ’Tis God’s finger guiding all.”
“Oh, I know it’s a blessed thing to have faith in time of trouble. And as long as it’s only oneself.... But when something dreadful happens to others, and there seems no sense nor reason for it all, then one can’t help asking, why, what is it all for? Surely one might think that a heavenly providence would be kind, and work for our good.”
“Ay, ’tis strange to think, no doubt,” answered Kata. “And there’s times when it’s hard to answer such things. But God is God.”
This last expression was a constant formula in Kata’s mouth, which to herself at least seemed to dispose of the most difficult problem.
Alma ventured to put a direct question.
“Have you never felt yourself, sometime, that you didn’t really want to say ‘God’s will be done’?”
“Now you’re asking me something,” said Kata, “and something I’d not answer to any but yourself.”
The spinning-wheel stopped, and Kata paused; not a word was uttered for some moments. At last the old woman went on:
“Once there was a poor man and a young woman. She was not rich, neither, but they two were fond of each other, and gave each other promise. They would wait till they could buy a little farm; it might take years, but they would wait. You know the hills over yonder they call the Dark Mountains. Well, the young man, he went up there to serve with a farmer who offered him good wages. And the girl, she stayed behind, and never saw him all that summer. But she had her ring to look at, and hope. In the autumn, he came down over the mountains to see her. And there came a snowstorm on the way, and he was frozen to death in the mountains....”
Old Kata’s voice had changed; its tone brought tears to Alma’s eyes, and though the speaker herself shed never a tear, it was a little time before she could go on.
“Yes. ’Twas a hard blow to my faith at the time, and I was all doubt in my heart. But later on that same year I learned the truth. He was going to marry the daughter of the farmer he’d been working with, and only came down to ask me to give back the ring and give me mine again. And then I said ‘God’s will be done.’ ’Twas providence clear enough. ’Tis not for us mortals to fathom the ways of God, and there’s much that seems mysterious, ay, and hard and unjust. But God is God. And we’re but weak things in His hand, without understanding. But for all that we can make our hearts a shining light, and show the way to wanderers that’s lost the way.”
When Alma knew she was to give birth to a child, she gave way entirely, and pent-up tears burst forth.
“Oh, how could it, how could it ever come like this?” she moaned.
She was to bring forth a child that should carry the nature of its father or its mother—to what degree she could not say. And the prospect of a child she felt she could not love filled her with horror, the curse of a joyless motherhood. If only God in His mercy had made her barren; had spared her the anguish of bringing another life into this world of suffering and misery.
She wept herself by degrees into a calmer state, and a sense of pity and self-reproach grew up in her—pity for the new little being to come, and self-reproach that she herself was so weak.
Surely it was sinful to look forward without thankfulness to motherhood, a sin against the child unborn.
And yet—how could she ever be glad?
Life was a void to her; she had no desire in life but to cease living. Listlessly she saw the days go by, the burden of her sorrow ever increasing.
But those around her paid little heed; they had seen so many young mothers who seemed to think themselves laden with all the trouble of all the world.
Ørlygur à Borg noticed her condition, and saw, too, that she took no pleasure in the prospect. His heart was touched at the thought, and his tenderness towards her increased. Often on Sundays he would arrive some time before the service, in order to see her, and if he could, console her a little.
They went to church together, the old man and the young woman; Alma still sat in her old place beside his. And she was grateful for his kindness and friendliness; he seemed to her the most lovable man she had ever known.
One Sunday, just before church, Ketill happened to return to the house, and found his father’s overcoat hanging in the hall. The lining was outward, and the corner of an envelope showed in the pocket.
Ketill glanced round, listened, and seized the letter, slipped into a room close by and closed the door behind him.
Hurriedly he read the message through. It was Ormarr’s letter telling of the birth of Runa’s child.
Ketill’s hands trembled, and his face flushed. With a nervous laugh he thrust the letter into his pocket. Then, as by an afterthought, he took it out again, stood for a moment irresolute, and making sure he was not observed, put it back in the coat from which he had taken it.
He went back to join his father and Alma, in the sitting-room, trying hard to appear unmoved. But he felt he could not quite control himself, and began fumbling among some papers on the writing-table. He was still thus occupied when the bell rang for the last time. His wife and Ørlygur would have waited for him, but he bade them go on, saying he would follow immediately.
Ketill waited till their steps had died away, then hurried out to the hall; he knew he was now alone in the house. He took down the coat, and let it fall to the ground, where it might seem to have slipped from the peg. Then he took the letter from the envelope, and laid it unfolded by the coat, as if it had fallen out.
This done, he hurried across to the church. On the way he stopped, felt in his pocket, and beckoning to a lad near, whispered:
“I left my pocket-book on the writing-table in my room. Run in and fetch it for me.”
The boy ran off to obey, and passing through the hall noticed the coat lying on the floor. He stopped to pick it up, and caught sight of the letter. He glanced through it, hardly knowing what he was doing, and finally left everything as he had found it.
When he reached the church with the pocket-book, he was evidently ill at ease; those who remarked it put it down to embarrassment at attracting attention.
Sera Ketill’s sermon was not so effective today as usual. Possibly his delivery was in part responsible. The priest seemed curiously absent; once or twice he even came to a standstill, and had to cast about for words.
It was the custom for none to leave the church till the priest and his family had left. Sera Ketill seemed in a remarkable hurry today. He strode across to the house at once, and quickly.
Coat and letter lay where he had left them, but had evidently been moved. Ketill smiled. He picked up the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and put it back in the pocket. He had barely finished when Ørlygur and Alma entered.
Ørlygur had noticed nothing, but Alma thought it strange to find her husband there in the hall, after he had made such haste to leave the church, doing something with his father’s coat.
Her heart beat fast, and she turned to Ørlygur.
“Another time, father, when you hang your overcoat up like that, be sure there is nothing in the pockets.”
As she spoke, hardly realizing what she had said, at first, the consciousness of her own suspicions of her husband came to her suddenly, and she flushed.
Ørlygur laughed, and answered:
“I don’t think there is anything to be afraid of.”
And he felt in his pockets. “Nothing here but a letter from Ormarr, and any one’s welcome to read that.”
He spoke lightly, but a moment afterwards, recollecting the contents, he turned pale. Alma noticed it, but tried to appear unconcerned.
When Ørlygur had gone, she remained standing, deep in thought.
It dawned upon her that there must be some connection between her husband’s evident nervousness and Ørlygur’s sudden start. What it could be she was unable to imagine.
Outwardly calm, she rejoined her husband.
“Your father showed me a letter he had just received from Ormarr.”
“Did he show it to you?”
Ketill sprang up suddenly, and came towards her, but she appeared not to notice, and went on:
“Ormarr and his wife are getting on nicely. They are in Naples, and expect to be home early in June.”
“Did you read the letter?” asked Ketill, with a careless air.
“No. Ørlygur told me what was in it.”
Alma was watching her husband’s face, and could not fail to mark the smile with which he greeted her last remark. Evidently, he had got hold of the letter himself somehow, and found in it something that Ørlygur would not willingly have known.
With bowed head, she left the room, and went to her bedroom, threw herself on the bed, and burst into tears.
Her husband was a thief—a priest, and a thief.
What a cruel burden was this Heaven had laid upon her. What would this man’s child be? Oh that the Lord would take it before ever it woke to life!
Alma wept long and bitterly, falling at last into a heavy sleep. It lasted but a little while, however, and she awoke in high fever.
She was put to bed, and a doctor sent for. But before he could reach her, the trouble was over—Alma had given her child to the world—stillborn.
When Alma came to herself, she saw her husband bending over the little body, which they would not allow her to see. Ketill’s face showed neither tears nor sorrow.
And she thought to herself: I shall die now. And it will be laid in the earth by my side, with never a kindly look from any human being in this world.
With an effort she managed to raise herself on her elbow and glance down into the cradle where the little body lay. It was all uncovered, on a white sheet, so very small and grey, with little white finger-nails. The sight was like a hot steel in her heart. And with a cry she fell back, unconscious.
For several days Alma lay between life and death, and when at last the crisis was passed, she looked up to find old Kata by her side.
The old woman smiled encouragingly, but would not let her speak.
“Lie still, my dear; the worst is over now.”
A day or two later, when Alma was well enough to sit up in bed a little, she asked:
“How long have I been lying here, Kata?”
“This is the tenth day.”
“Have I been ill so long? And who has been watching besides you?”
“Nay, I’d have none but myself for that. I’ve slept a little now and again.”
Alma grasped the old woman’s wrinkled hand.
“How ever could you, Kata! And how can I ever thank you?”
“No need to try, my dear. ’Tis enough that you’re getting well again.”
“Have I—did I talk in my sleep at all?”
“Nay, nothing to worry about. Said this and that, maybe, but I paid no heed.”
Kata busied herself about the room, avoiding Alma’s eyes. “’Tis no use listening to feverish talk,” she added.
During the long days that followed, while Alma was in bed, Kata told her fairy stories about kings and princes, with some idea of diverting her thoughts. And Alma could not but smile at the old woman’s curious ideas as to the life of royalty; she did not, however, attempt to correct her impressions.
But once, in a pause, Alma broke in suddenly:
“Poor little mite—lying out there in the cold.”
She had learned of the burial of her child some time before.
And she fell to crying softly at the thought.
Old Kata came to the bedside and stroked her hand.
“All’s in God’s hand,” she said. “And all for the best.”