CHAPTER VI
When Alma rose from her bed after six weeks’ illness, she was but a shadow of her former self. Her face was pale, with a yellow tinge, and her figure wasted to a degree painful to see. She was hardly more than a skeleton. Her dark eyes seemed larger, and glowed with a strange, hard light, such as is seen in the still-open eyes of one frozen to death. Her brown hair no longer stood in a luxuriant cluster round her head; much of it had fallen out, leaving hardly enough to cover the scalp and make a pitiful little knot at the back.
She had seen but little of her husband during her illness. Twice daily he had paid her a brief, formal visit; but only a few words were exchanged between them, and neither found any pleasure in seeing the other. He slept in a different part of the house, and they avoided each other as far as possible.
Ketill could not help noticing that his wife shunned him, but, occupied as he was with his own affairs, it affected him hardly at all.
Alma went about the house quietly, as she had always done, with a smile and a kindly word for all. But though none seemed to notice any change in her manner, her greetings were less heartily felt than before. Her heart was dead within her, and something was straining, straining to an intolerable tension, until it seemed impossible to last. Something must happen soon.
She often went out to the little mound where her child lay buried, and would stand for hours looking down at it. Strange, to have a part of oneself lying there under the frozen earth and yet to go about oneself with the warm blood pulsing in one’s veins. It seemed unreal, yet it was reality. Life seemed to have changed altogether.
She was no longer glad that the child had not lived. There had been a time when she had hoped for that very thing, but when her wish was realized, came pangs of conscience that destroyed her relief at its fulfilment. She no longer thought of what her life might have been had the child lived; she forgot that she had ever feared its birth; she had no feeling now but sorrow for its death, and remorse that she had wished for it.
Often old Kata would come to the churchyard to fetch her, gently reproaching her for staying there so long.
“’Tis no good to let all the sad thoughts stay in your mind. There’s life to be lived; you must not go wandering off among the dead so.”
And Alma would answer with a listless smile. One day she asked:
“Do you think, Kata, that there really is any life in the world?”
“Ay, indeed, there is. And if the Lord takes one joy from us, surely He will give something else in its place.”
“I am not complaining,” Alma replied. “I have never complained. But I have seen heavy crosses laid on weak shoulders.”
“They that seem weak can often bear the heaviest burden. ’Tis a sorrowful world, but, after all, ’tis only a moment in eternity. And maybe we’re only here to be tried in the fire, with trouble and affliction, and the ones that suffer most are those God loves the best. As if He was taking special pains with them, so they could be sooner ready to come to Him.”
One day, as Alma and Kata were standing in the churchyard, two ravens flew by. They flew over the church, and old Kata eyed them anxiously, making the sign of the cross.
Then, in a trembling voice, she said:
“They flew over the church. ’Tis a sign that some one’ll be called away before long.” And murmuring so that Alma could scarcely hear, she added: “If it be Thy will, O Lord, I should be taken, then Thy will be done!”
But to herself she thought: “If it should be the young mistress that’s called, then Heaven be praised. I am old and hard, I can wear on for a few years more, but the burden’s over-heavy on her; if the Lord would take her in His mercy.... God’s will be done.”
During the period of Alma’s illness, a certain amount of unrest had made itself apparent in the parish.
First of all, there were rumours abroad. No one could say where they had started, or how; it was impossible to trace anything more than the inevitable “So-and-so said so-and-so.” But the rumours were of a startling character, and it was highly desirable to find out whether they originated from a reliable source or not.
Briefly, the matter was this: it was whispered that Ormarr’s wife had given birth to her child as far back as the beginning of March.
And people made their calculations. The marriage had taken place at the beginning of September the previous year. That made the birth a great deal earlier than it should have been. And yet the child was reported to be strong and well, by no means as if born before its time.
It was mysterious. The good folk searched their memories; they could recall nothing unseemly in Runa’s behaviour as they had known her; far from it. The marriage had been rather sudden, true, but they had found nothing very extraordinary in that. The girl had been waiting for Ormarr, no doubt; no one had ever heard any other man’s name coupled with hers. It was looked on as a pretty example of a maiden’s patient waiting for her chosen lover, and Runa had risen in the general esteem thereby. But now—there were those who began to consider whether they might not have been over-hasty in their conclusions.
It looked as if there were something more behind it. And it was not pleasant to find that one had been deceived.
Nothing had leaked out as to Sera Ketill’s little affair with his foster-sister some months earlier, and no one now thought for a moment of connecting him in any way with the business.
But who could be the father?
Folk racked their brains to find one. Some had their own idea, but it would have required a bold spirit to give it utterance. The name of Ørlygur à Borg rose to the minds of many. He was the only man with whom Runa had been on intimate terms, and for whom she was known to have cherished any affection. That it should have led to such a result none had ever dreamt—who could have believed it?
But there it was. Live and learn—the lesson in this case being a warning against misplaced confidence.
Old Ørlygur had played his part well, and had been trusted farther than he should. No, there was no trusting any these days.
But why had he not married the girl himself?
’Twas simple enough—it was too late, and it would not do to sully the good repute of the family. He would never have survived the reproach had his wife been prematurely confined, and for him to marry a young wife at all—a mere child—was hardly suited to his dignity. So he had taken this way out of it. Sent the girl out of the country with his son, giving them strict orders to remain away long enough to guard against any doubt as to the child being theirs.
He had sacrificed his son, that was all.
Originally, it had been intended that Sera Ketill should inherit the estate. Every one was aware of that. And then one day comes Ormarr—on a visit only—and before you had time to turn round, he had sold his business and got married. It was sudden, to say the least.
And folk went farther.
As far as they knew, Sera Ketill’s marriage had come rather as a surprise to his father. Ah, the old fox! He had reckoned, no doubt, on getting his younger son to take over the paternity together with the estate. Then, by the wildest piece of luck, when Ketill upsets his plans by coming home married already, Ormarr makes all right again by coming back himself.
Ay, the Devil was kind to his own!
It was not long before the parish had put two and two together, and realized that Sera Ketill must have been aware of the whole thing from the first.
Here was the thought that inspired his preaching! Plain to see now the aim of all this Christian zeal. ’Twas the preparation for a struggle that he had known was bound to come; they had been watching it all the winter, never dreaming what lay behind.
And now it was beginning to get exciting. What did Sera Ketill intend to do? Would he break with his family openly? If so, how would it be done?
The church was filled as never before; the listeners carefully analysed the discourse from the pulpit, seeking some clue that fitted in with their ideas, some hint as to what was coming. But they learned nothing.
Sera Ketill, on his part, saw that his plan had succeeded. He could mark the growth of the seed in the faces of his flock from Sunday to Sunday. And deliberately he made his allusions vaguer and more general; now that all would make the proper application of whatever he said, there was no need for himself to deliver any direct attack.
It was a drama, played Sunday after Sunday in the church between father and son—and the onlookers were thrilled with a sense of some terrible end approaching.
Parochial disputes were nothing new, but up to now the people of Borg had always stood united on one side or the other, and their side had invariably won. But this was different; this was civil war—a house divided against itself. And it meant a battle the like of which had never been known in the records of the place.
The only drawback was that there seemed no possibility of doubt as to how it must end—unless some new development occurred meanwhile. Not only had Sera Ketill right on his side, but the Almighty was with him. And, moreover, he had taken the precaution to enlist the entire congregation under his banner.
Altogether, it would need something like a miracle to get that old fox Ørlygur out of the trap. No use for him to gnaw off a pinioned leg or brush—he was gripped round the middle, and there was no escape.
The thought of this great idol’s fall was a thing to make one shudder; even though he were to fall by his own misdeeds, one could hardly help pitying him.
After all, Ørlygur à Borg had always been their friend. None had ever been so ready to help, so open-handed, as he.... But he had always been a proud sort, Ørlygur à Borg, and pride goeth before a fall.
It was rather a conflict between a mortal and the Higher Powers—and they were not so presumptuous as to think of taking any part themselves. He would have to manage by himself—even if it meant ruin and disgrace in the end. However they might feel towards Ørlygur, the general benefactor, they were not disposed to take up arms against the Lord Himself for his sake.
And what said Sera Ketill so insistently: “If thy hand offend thee, cut it off....” Ay, even if that hand were a brother, a near kinsman....
Ay, Sera Ketill knew how to choose his words.
And if he did not venture now to take his father’s part, but stood up and opposed him at whatever cost, it was surely because he realized that God’s commandments must come before all else.
The spirit of hypocrisy made its triumphal progress through the parish.
It was characteristic of the fanatical intolerance which reigned that Ørlygur’s innumerable good deeds were forgotten in the storm of righteous indignation that rose against him. Folk great and small set themselves up in judgment upon their old chieftain and found it easy to discover some selfish motive behind every kindly and generous act of his in the past. Those who owed him most were sternest in their condemnation, and, in default of actual proof, were not afraid of altering facts to support their case. And they quieted conscience by the thought that even if all were not exactly as they put it, there was still evidence enough against Ørlygur to satisfy any reasonable mind. A little touch of colour one way or another made no difference.
The people had chosen; Ørlygur was already worsted and down. Certain of the result, they had declared for the winning side—a fine example of the unstable character of humanity, a weathercock moved by every puff of wind.
Ketill was only waiting for the return of his brother and sister-in-law.
He felt a slight nervousness in the anticipation, though he felt confident in his own mind as to the result of the blow he was prepared to deliver. His plan was complete in all details, all preliminary steps had been taken: he had but to wait for the decisive moment to strike.
But the waiting was monotonous. He had nothing more to do, and his mind in idleness was plagued by distressing thoughts.
If only he had some one to share things with, a companion after his own heart. He was realizing now what it was to be lonely. He even sought the company of his wife, but soon observed that she shunned him as far as possible.
The gulf of silence between them had become almost impassable, and he read enmity and suspicion in her glance.
He had never meant to be unkind to her. Maybe he had been a little neglectful at times—but she ought surely to have realized herself how busy he was, and how hard it was for him to find any time for little attentions.
He had time enough now, and would have been glad to make up for the past, if only by way of finding some comfort himself in his loneliness. His mind was suffering under a growing burden of isolation.
In the daytime he could generally find something to do, but the evenings were long, and the nights often unbearable. He could not sleep, and his nerves soon began to feel the effect of insufficient rest; he had to struggle, too, against haunting thoughts that left him almost physically exhausted.
Sometimes he even considered whether it might not be better to give up the whole scheme. But after all the pains he had taken to prepare it—no, he could not give up now. If he stayed his hand, all would be lost.
His wife seemed lost to him. She was coldly reserved, and utterly unresponsive towards his advances. And his conscience troubled him. He could almost see himself, at times, with her eyes; hear how his own words rang false in her ears. He was a cheat—and what was worse, he had been found out.
Even if he gave up his plans now, it would not help him. He could never win her back again, of that he was sure.
With his father, too, it was equally hopeless. Ørlygur would never trust him again, whatever he might do; and it was not to Ketill’s taste to humble himself to no avail.
No! If he gave up now, he would be utterly alone thenceforward. The people would desert him, for his preaching would no longer have any definite aim; his doctrine would lack its dominant purpose. He would be alone, forsaken by all, without a friend among his flock, his kin, or even in himself; alienated even from his God. A creature to be despised, or pitied; a thing of no account, unworthy either of hatred or affection. Intolerable!
No; if he were to be alone, he would at least have power. If he could not win the trust and affection of his people, he would at least command their obedience and outward respect. No one should have the right to accuse him of weakness.
Such were his conflicting thoughts as the days went on. Ketill was thoroughly wearied of inaction; he longed for the moment when he could act, as a child longs for its birthday. Again and again he pictured to himself the events of that day, conjuring up visions of his triumph; his one desire now was for it to come, and make an end of the waiting.
Also, he began to feel less sure of himself; to fear lest at the critical moment his nerve might fail him.
Once he had declared himself, however, there could be no question of withdrawal; all doubt and wavering would disappear; there he would stand, erect and strong, the victor in a struggle that he had vowed to win or die.
He was not blind to the danger of any weakness on his own part; irresolution would be fatal. But once he could take the decisive step, leaving himself no possibility of retreat, all would be well.
Victory was certain—for he was fighting without mercy, as injustice ever does.
Alma went about in the same dull, listless state as before. She seemed to be living in a world apart from all that went on around her.
She noticed her husband’s restlessness, and that he seemed to be trying to approach her. But she put it down to his weakness and lack of society—a need for companionship of any sort. And as a result, her antipathy increased. She was good enough—in default of all else! But at other times he cared nothing for her. It was not for her sake, not for herself, he sought her. Ketill never realized how his neglect had isolated her in a prison of solitude.
It was impossible to speak to him about the state of things between them; he would only gloss it over with an utter disregard of the truth. And any open insincerity and falsehood on his part would bring matters to a climax; she would be unable to restrain her feelings. What would happen exactly, she did not know; she did not venture to consider the possibility. It seemed impossible that she could ever survive such a revelation.
And yet she had a painful intuition that it would come, and that she would survive it. It was horrible to think that she must go on living after that. Were she but certain that it would kill her, she would gladly do her best to bring matters to a head instead of avoiding and dreading it.
But for the present the wheels of time seemed to have stopped; life was at a standstill.
Even the solitude she sought in her wanderings about the country seemed dreadful to her now. Ice and snow, ice and snow—the outlook was so bleak and desolate that it brought her mind to the verge of insanity.
Her head ached intensely as she looked out over the snow-covered waste; her brain seemed on the point of bursting, she felt herself fighting to retain her mental balance. Once she gave way there would be no recovery.
She would find a dark corner somewhere, and sit down with her head in her hands, rocking to and fro. Snow and barren waste—the sight of it worked on her till she dared not face it.
Then came the sunshine of spring, and she could go out once more. The snow was still there, but there were breaks in its monotonous expanse. And day by day she watched it disappear.
Then at last one day she heard the roar of the stream as it broke through the ice of its winter bondage. She hurried out to look.
The ice had been carried out into the fjord, and lay there, blue and green, rocking gently on the water. Later in the day it lost its freshness, dulled by the sand and mud carried down by the torrent. Streams were pouring everywhere from the heights above, forming small pools here and there where the water spread.
And gradually the earth rose up out of its covering of snow.
The landscape was dark and bare, relieved here and there by white specks—the ptarmigan had not yet changed their winter plumage.
Then the green of spring began to put forth, and birds of passage arrived. The air grew milder, and the song of birds was heard; there was a scent of growth abroad, a promise of harvests to come.
Early blossoms peeped out, braving the frosts with cheerful smiles. Time went on, and the light nights came, when the evening brought but a veil over the day, that was drawn aside again at dawn, when the bright sun rose, passing from a ruddy glow to a fullness of dazzling rays. Butterflies lived their little lives, and sank to earth, to pass through the cycle of nature before they came again. The lambs of last year were mothers now themselves, wise in the vicissitudes of life and saddened by experience.
But the horses, even the older ones, forgot for a moment their mere material needs, and galloped madly about under the influence of the joy-filled air.
Cattle let loose for the first time from their confinement behaved in most undignified fashion; even the astonished calves followed suit and joined in the romp with their elders. Good-natured mothers pretended to let themselves be outdone by their month-old offspring, until some youngster grew overbold, and had to be reminded by what was fitting. Great days, these, for a young calf, a time to play at being a grown-up bull, and making ferocious charges against all and sundry.
All the light-heartedness of spring about her brought at times a smile to Alma’s saddened face. But it was a smile of pity rather than of pleasure. All these young creatures, this life new to the world, had not yet tasted the bitterness of existence upon earth.
So she lived through the spring with the winter of life in her heart, that nothing could melt away once it had set in. No springtide for her, no budding and bloom.
She longed only for peace—in forgetfulness or death.