Guest the One-Eyed

by Gunnar Gunnarsson

CHAPTER V

The funeral of Guest the One-eyed and the Danish Lady was to take place at noon.

From the time Ørlygur returned to the house to the setting out of the funeral train, the hours had passed without his knowing it. Great numbers of people flocked to the house; all greeted him when they arrived. Some he greeted in return; others he did not appear to notice at all. He was strangely absent in his manner, but this was readily forgiven, as being due to his grief at the sudden loss.

When he was called in to bid a last farewell to the mortal remains before the coffins were closed, he burst into a violent fit of sobbing. His meditations of the night before on the emptiness of worldly things, the hopelessness of life, returned to him vividly. He was conscious, too, that it was not only the death of these two who had gone that pained him most. He saw himself as a miserably selfish creature. At such a time, there should be no place in his heart for other feeling than sorrow at the double bereavement, and yet in fact he was only sorry for himself. He despised himself; he felt that if others could read his heart they would look down on him in scorn. Their word of sympathy and consolation stung him; he shrank from the thought of the ceremony to come, when he would be forced to take part with all these others.

Why not bury our dear ones quietly, in some secluded spot? Why make an exhibition of one’s grief before the world? In his own case, it was the more intolerable, since his grief was in reality not for the dead.

He heard the lids screwed down, and stood weeping, with his handkerchief to his eyes. Suddenly he became aware of a stir in the room, and looked up. People were standing round with Prayer Books in their hands, turning the pages to find the hymn that was to be sung.

The priest, whom he had not noticed before, was there standing by the coffins, book in hand.

Ørlygur again pressed his handkerchief to his eyes. The priest was speaking, but he paid no heed to what was being said, and continued to weep silently.

Then there was a pause, and the bearers prepared to move. A psalm was to be sung as the coffins were carried out.

Ørlygur dried his eyes and hurried away, all moving aside respectfully to let him pass. He ground his teeth, and could hardly refrain from crying out.

“They should spit on me,” he thought to himself. “It is no more than I deserve. I am unworthy of their sympathy—I do not even care for it!” For a moment he felt as if he must shout the thought aloud.

Outside the house some one handed him the reins of his horse; the animal stood there ready saddled. He stood beside it, one arm thrown over the animal’s neck. The horse rubbed itself affectionately against him, as if inviting the customary caress. But he took no heed, and remained standing motionless. His dog lay at the feet of the horse, and looked up; the two animals exchanged greetings in their own way, sniffing at each other.

The coffins were to be carried by horses, two to each burden. The first pair were brought forward, and planks slung between them. Then a psalm was sung, and the first coffin fastened in its place.

When both were thus secured, the train moved off, the mourners and followers leading their horses until the psalm was at an end. Then all mounted, and rode on in silence towards the vicarage at Hof.

Ørlygur rode behind the second coffin, gazing out over the country with tear-stained eyes.

“It all looks strange,” he thought to himself. “As if it were there only for a time. Or is it only myself that am become a stranger? My mind that has so changed that nothing in it now can last? It seems so. We see things according to the mood of our own mind. I seem like a stone set rolling, knowing nothing of where it will stop.

“Not a pleasant thing to be compared with, either. A rolling stone must needs be on the downward track. Well, after all, most comparisons have a weakness somewhere. A stone rolling down from barren mountains to a grassy valley, where it finds a softer bed, has surely changed for the better. But my path lies the opposite way. And no one ever knew a stone roll upward. Only the glowing rock, hurled from the bowels of the earth by a volcano, comes to a rest in the mountains after an upward flight. Oh, what nonsense!” he broke off. “I am not a stone.

“Or, at least, it is only my heart that is of stone,” he went on bitterly. “Why can I feel no real grief at my loss? Why is there room in my heart for all these things on such a day as this? Am I worse than other people, I wonder? I do not feel unkindly towards any one. Or is it that thinking of sorrow stifles the real sorrow itself? If she were dead....”

He turned pale at the thought, and tears flowed from his eyes.

“God in heaven! That would mean death to me—to live would be impossible. Her body to decay, her golden hair to be soiled by earth—her eyes lifeless and dull....”

His heart beat as if it would burst, and he shivered.

“Death is disgusting,” he thought.

Suddenly he ceased to weep, and a silence seemed to fill him.

“I cannot bear to think of her as dead,” he thought. “And yet I have planned to do that which will ruin her life—to kill her love, and strike her soul the cruellest blow that any human being can inflict upon another. What a desperate tangle it all is. Would it not be better for her to die? Would it not be better if I were to end her life—kill her at once? Surely it would. But it was not her I was thinking of. I was only thinking of myself; not of what would be best for her, but of what would hurt me least. And if it were better for her to die, then what I am about to do is a greater crime than if I took her life....”

Ørlygur was so deep in thought that he did not observe the progress of the party until they had reached the churchyard, and the others dismounted. Only when the coffin in front, on which his eyes were fixed, was lowered to the ground did he come to himself and get down from his horse.

His last thoughts had almost stunned him; his brain seemed incapable of normal action. As if in a trance he followed the coffins into the church, and remained standing with bowed head while the psalms were sung and the priest delivered his oration. He noticed nothing of what was passing round him.

In a few minutes now they would be at the graveside; the coffins would be lowered, and then, as was the custom, he would be expected to say something himself.

What should he say? There was no clear idea in his mind—well, no doubt something would occur to him when the moment came. What he said did not matter much, as long as he said something.

The coffins were brought out, and the mourners gathered close round the double grave. Ørlygur stood just behind the mound of earth that had been thrown up.

The coffins were lowered into the earth, the mourners singing and weeping; the priest cast earth into the grave, and the last hymn was sung. Mechanically Ørlygur stepped up on to the mound. He felt that all eyes were upon him—that all were waiting expectantly for him to speak. He raised his eyes, and looked round.

His gaze fell on a pair of tear-stained blue eyes on the other side of the grave. There was a look in them almost of fear—an anxious uncertainty such as he had never before seen on her face. But no sooner had her eyes met his than her expression changed, and the strange look vanished.

It had never occurred to him that Snebiorg might be at the funeral; he had not noticed her till now. She had been among those who joined the party at the church. It was a shock to him to see her now, so overcome with grief, and with that look of doubt and fear upon her face—it struck him to the heart.

And here he stood, on a mound by the graveside, with all eyes upon him. All were waiting to hear what he would say. Speak now he must. He pulled himself together, but his heart trembled at the thought of what he must say. She was standing there. Well, she would forgive him, when she heard it all—heard the confession and the promise from his own mouth.

He looked round hesitatingly. His foster-father was looking at him with a strange expression—a look that made him lower his eyes.

Ormarr had seen that Ørlygur was about to speak. He did not know what was in the boy’s mind, but something told him that what he was about to say must not be said. He fixed his gaze on the young man’s face with all his inner power concentrated in his eyes, trying to compel his attention. Ørlygur was looking at Snebiorg; Ormarr saw him hesitate. This seemed further proof that there was something which must be averted. At last Ormarr caught his eye, and Ørlygur bowed his head.

Then Ormarr turned and left the grave. It was a sign for the gathering to disperse.

But the thought which had checked Ørlygur when he met his foster-father’s gaze was the remembrance of his having been found sleeping that morning at his vigil by the dead. With that in his mind, and with that look fixed on his face, he could not say what he had planned. It was impossible.

He stood staring down into the grave.

Those present thought only that the boy was too deeply moved to say the words of affectionate farewell he would have uttered. And all, even the men who had come up to fill in the grave, moved away and left him to himself.

He seemed as if turned to stone.

“Too late,” he thought. “And now—what am I to do? Is all to go on as before? That cannot be—I at least am no longer the same....”

And with a sigh he thought of how he had changed not for the better, but for the worse. He was a coward.

And, looking down into the grave, he spoke aloud:

“I am growing less and less worthy to be called your son.”

And to himself he continued:

“Why do you not help me? Why do you not stand by me when you see me so weak? Or is it your will that I should not be aided in this?”

Suddenly he remembered how his father on his death-bed had blessed his union with Snebiorg, and a wave of joy flowed through his heart.

“Father—father!” he cried, with tears in his voice. “Is that your will? But what of my promise?...”

His joy turned to grief at the thought. And so, at issue with himself, he stood looking down into the grave.

The priest came up.

“What does he want now, I wonder?” thought Ørlygur, watching the approaching figure with indifferent eyes. The whole air and bearing of this well-fed, self-satisfied priest were intolerable to him. It was worst of all when he spoke, with dead words and traditional phrases that meant nothing.

The priest came up to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“My young friend,” he began—he was fifteen years older than Ørlygur himself—“I can well understand how you must feel the loss of such a father—a man of rare virtue in this wicked world. Yet it should be a consolation to you to know that he died at peace with God.”

Ørlygur looked at him, thinking still. Here was this man pouring out a stream of words over him. It was horrible to hear. “God” in his mouth sounded worse than devil.

“We should all remember,” the priest went on, “that however much we may grieve at losing the dear departed, there is comfort in the thought that they are beyond the power of evil—that death is but the gateway to the Kingdom of Glory. And to these two especially, death must have come as a blessed deliverance.”

Ørlygur looked at him without speaking. “He thinks he is much wiser than I,” was his thought.

“The burial of the dead,” went on the priest, “should really be an occasion for rejoicing. In any case, the dominant feeling in the hearts of the bereaved should be one of joy at the thought that those who have left us have passed to their true home. And be sure that God looks with more approval on such a thought than on any outburst of uncontrolled grief, which is really nothing but selfish sorrow for the loss we have sustained through His will, and rebellion against His decrees. All is according to the will of God, and we should cheerfully and gladly bow to His divine pleasure.”

Ørlygur let the priest run on. “He is a fool,” he thought. “He means well, no doubt, but is none the less a fool. This is one of his stock prescriptions for cases where some formal consolation has to be delivered. He is a sort of spiritual quack. When a man loses his father, he pours out a dose from a bottle—a big bottle, but containing only a very ordinary mixture. As a student of the human heart, he is ignorant to a degree. He cannot imagine that a mourner standing by a grave should have any other feeling than that of loss. He sees it merely as an ordinary case, calling for the usual nostrums. And he talks of a wounded heart as if it were inflammation of the lungs. What does he know of the range of feeling in a human heart?”

The priest went on in the same tone as before. Ørlygur said nothing.

“He wants me to say something,” thought Ørlygur. “But what am I to say? Tell him it is a fine day? I wonder if he would go away if I did? I wish I could get rid of him somehow; he tires me. I would rather climb a mountain than listen to more of this. Look at Borgarfjall there, lofty and steep. I would sooner climb it to the top than listen to this priest for half a day.”

Suddenly he turned to the man, with a smile, and said:

“Look here, I’ve thought of something. Some day, when I have time, I want to climb up to the top of Borgarfjall there and build a bit of a monument on the top. It’s a fine-looking mountain, but I don’t like the outline of the top. Ought to have something there—don’t you think?”

The priest stared at him, dumb with astonishment.

“I hardly think any but a bird could get up there,” he said hesitatingly.

“Well, it’s certainly no place for silly sheep,” retorted Ørlygur, with a laugh. “Good-day to you.”

And he turned and walked away.

The priest stood looking after him in perplexity.

“Now, was that intentional rudeness,” he said to himself, “or has he lost his senses?”

It was some minutes before he could sufficiently regain his priestly dignity and composure to leave the churchyard.

The men came to fill in the grave, and the mourners flocked round to lay their wreaths on the mound that covered the remains of Guest the One-eyed and the Danish Lady.

Among them were Ormarr and his wife Runa. Snebiorg and her mother were also there, but there was no sign of Ørlygur to be seen. He had met the doctor, a man whom he liked, and was walking with him a little distance off.

Ormarr and Runa went up to the widow from Bolli and her daughter, and greeted them kindly, thanking them for their attendance. They talked for a little of indifferent matters, and then Ormarr said suddenly to the widow:

“I should like to have a word with you alone.”

Snebiorg blushed, and remained shyly standing beside Runa, while Ormarr and her mother went off a little way. The widow’s face revealed nothing of her feelings, but in her heart she was keenly aware that what was coming concerned her daughter’s happiness and her own peace of mind.

“Ørlygur seems strange today,” she thought to herself. “I hope nothing is wrong.” And she strove to repress a sigh.

As soon as they were out of hearing of the others, Ormarr spoke.

“I do not know if you are aware of it,” he said, “but Ørlygur and Bagga love each other. I have only known it myself a few days.”

The widow nodded, and Ormarr went on:

“I only wished to tell you that my wife and I heartily approve of their marrying.”

The widow’s face brightened; the wrinkles seemed smoothed away. Unable to speak, she offered Ormarr a trembling hand. Ormarr grasped it cordially, and then, putting his arm through hers, they walked up and down together.

“I may be frank with you,” Ormarr went on. “We have known each other for a long time now, and I am sure you will not be hasty. First of all, I must tell you that Runa and I were opposed to the idea to begin with. We should never have attempted to stand in the way of his own wishes, but we hoped he would give up his intention of marrying Snebiorg. But my brother, whom we have buried today, gave his blessing to the union, and from that moment I felt that my own reasons for opposing it had only been poor and of minor importance. And now that I have told you this, I can come to what I chiefly wanted to say. Something has happened to Ørlygur; what it is I do not know, for he has not confided in me or in any one else. He is hardly likely to open his heart to any one on the subject, I think. But I have an idea as to what is passing in his mind, and I am anxious about him. Even if he should appear to have changed his mind with regard to Bagga, I want you to do your utmost to encourage her and keep her faithful to him, for I know that in his heart he loves her, and will always do so. But there is something on his mind at present; he is in doubt about something; more, I cannot say. You know he comes of an impulsive race, and if he should now, while he is young, lose control of his feelings and cease to take a healthy interest in life, then the family will die out. It would be a pity. I know that you have suffered, and more than most. I also have known suffering, and I should be proud if I could say I had borne my trials as well as you have yours. If, therefore, your daughter inherits her mother’s courage and strength, it would be a good thing for the race. As yet I am not quite clear what we ought to do. But I wished to let you know my feelings, so that I might have you on my side. The interests of—our children, I had nearly said—are at stake. I always regard Ørlygur as my own son. And it will be a hard struggle, for neither of them, certainly not Ørlygur, must ever realize that we are taking any part.”

The widow was calmer now. She looked earnestly at Ormarr’s face, as if seeking to read his mind. Then she offered her hand. It was not trembling now.

“You can trust me,” she said. “I do not know what it is that troubles Ørlygur, and I do not wish to know. It is enough for me if he continues to feel as he does for Bagga. But if he should desert her, it would kill her. And if he kills my daughter, then, as surely as there is a God in heaven, I will kill him!”

Ormarr started violently. “Woman!” he cried, “God forgive you!”

“I would not have said it—it slipped out,” she went on apologetically. “Such words must seem strange in the mouth of an old woman. But I could not help it. You need have no fear of me; I shall do as you wish. You can trust me as long as I can feel that you are acting honestly. You are now, and I believe you will continue so.”

Ormarr smiled.

“If I did not know it to be otherwise, I might think you were my sister,” he said. Then, speaking more seriously, he continued:

“I should have preferred that you did not come back with us to Borg today. But there are a number of others coming, and after we have stood here talking so long it would perhaps excite remark if you were not to come. Anyhow, to prevent any danger to our plans, it would be best to keep Ørlygur and Bagga from coming together, at any rate by themselves—if it can be done quietly.”

The widow nodded.

They walked back to the grave, where Runa and Snebiorg were waiting. Several others now approached, and the widow and her daughter were formally invited to accompany the party home to Borg.

Horses were then saddled, and they moved off, most of those remaining taking the road to Borg.

Meantime, Ørlygur had left the doctor and was riding on alone. He was 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.