CHAPTER VI
The cold, pure light of an autumn morning found the electric lamps still burning in a villa by the Sound. It was the residence of Ormarr Ørlygsson, company director, a man well known in the business world, and bearer of sundry decorations.
The light shone through the rose-coloured curtains of the French windows opening on to a verandah facing the sea. The room was large; the arrangement marked its owner as a bachelor. It served as office, sitting-room, and study. The wall opposite the window was occupied entirely by shelves filled with books: works of reference and lighter literature. The other walls, each with a heavily curtained door, were hung with paintings, all representing Icelandic landscapes. In one corner was a heavy piece of bronze statuary, likewise Icelandic, “The Outlaw.” The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet.
Ormarr sat at the big writing-table, his head buried in his hands. Lights burned in a crystal globe above his head, and in a reading-lamp at his elbow. The glow from the green shade of the latter, blending with the light of day, created a weird effect.
Ormarr had been sitting at his desk the whole night, going through piles of accounts and business papers.
For some time he sat thus, motionless. When at last he looked up, it was plain that thirteen years of work as a business man had left their mark on him. His face was thinner; his dark, rough hair was longer than was customary among men on the bourse, and the fact gave a touch of independence to his otherwise faultless appearance.
His expression was changed; the large, dark eyes were restless—a dreamy, far-away look alternating rapidly with a glance of keen alertness. When alone, his look varied continually with his varying moods, but in the presence of others he kept rigid control over his features; the severest scrutiny could detect nothing of the workings of his mind. Two deep furrows slanted down on either side the mouth, completing the impression of resolute firmness combined with melancholy resignation and bitterness.
As he looked round the room, his eyes betrayed the trouble in his mind. He glanced deliberately at each of the things around him, works of art and furnishings, as if in farewell, dwelling now and then on some single item as if trying to fix it in his mind.
Gradually he began to realize that his first impression of the previous day was correct—he was a stranger in his own place. And he shuddered at the thought. Unconsciously he picked up the cable he had received the day before, smoothed it out before him, and read it over with bitter, scornful eyes.
“What a fool I have been!” he muttered. “I might have known....” And he laughed—a choking, unnatural laugh, and rose slowly to his feet. Languidly he drew back the curtain, opened the window, and stepped out on to the verandah.
Leaning on the railing, he looked out over the shore, with the troubled sea and the Swedish coast beyond. The view had calmed him often, but there was no rest in it now; he looked at it all impatiently, no longer able to find any comfort in visions.
All was changed now.
His clothes irked him; his hands were soiled with dust from the papers he had been busied with; a general sense of bodily discomfort pervaded him. And as if to escape from his emotional self, he left the room hurriedly; a bath and a change of clothes would be something at least....
The housekeeper received her master’s orders to serve lunch on the verandah with some surprise. It was a way of hers to appear mildly surprised at things and today there certainly seemed some reason for astonishment: for thirteen years her master had never been at home to a meal at that hour of the day—why was he not at the office as usual? Ormarr’s manner, however, forebade all questioning, and she did not venture to ask if anything were wrong.
Ormarr went to the telephone, and rung up the office, speaking coolly enough.
“That you Busck? Good morning. Captain Jantzen there? Morning, Captain.... No, nothing wrong, but something has happened. Yes ... listen! You must hand over ‘Bjornen’ to the first mate this voyage.... What? Lose half an hour? Can’t be helped; I want you here. Come out here at once, please, but first get the chief clerk to tell you what I want done about the shares, and do as he says. Then out here to me as quick as you can. I’ll tell you all about it when you arrive. Right—good-bye.”
A few minutes later the telephone bell rang. Ormarr took up the receiver with a gesture of annoyance, but on recognizing the speaker’s voice, his manner changed.
“Yes—yes. Morning, Ketill. Ill? No, not a bit. Are you both there? Well, come out and have lunch with me instead. Don’t know what we’ve got in the house, but come anyway. Eh? No, not a bit. I have been rather busy—up all night.... No, never can sleep in the daytime. Right, then. Au revoir.”
Ketill, now getting on for thirty, was already in orders, and was to be presented to the living of Hof in Hofsfjordur in the autumn, Sera Daniel being about to retire on account of age.
The original plan had been that Ketill should have spent a few days only in Copenhagen when going abroad in the spring, on his way to Switzerland and Italy, returning via England. But Ketill, who had preferred staying at an hotel rather than at his brother’s, had soon found friends, largely owing to his brother’s introductions. One of the acquaintances thus made was that of a banker, Vivild, whose daughter Alma had quickly captured Ketill’s heart.
His tour of Europe, then, came to consist of but a few short trips, with Copenhagen as his headquarters. Ormarr had been surprised at this, but his brother gave him no enlightenment as to the attraction which drew him constantly back to the capital. Until one fine day Ketill announced his engagement and forthcoming marriage.
Ormarr had always looked on Alma as a tender plant, that could never be transplanted and live; the news surprised him. But he made no comment. Without realizing it himself, he had been deeply in love with dainty, sweet-natured Alma, but for no other reason apparently than a sense of his own unworthiness, had said no word of it to her. And here was his brother, holding the blossom himself, and tantalizingly inviting him to admire its sweetness.
The part of brother-in-law was by no means a pleasant prospect to Ormarr, but he reconciled himself to the thought.
Ketill—Sera Ketill, as we should now call him—was young and good-looking, with a pleasant and genial bearing. At times Ormarr could not help feeling that there was something a trifle insincere in his brother’s geniality. Still, Ketill was a nice enough fellow to all outward seeming, albeit a trifle stouter of build than need be.
There was never any exchange of confidence between the two brothers; they knew, indeed, but little of each other. Ormarr was conscious of an involuntary dislike of Ketill; he tried in vain to subdue the feeling; it remained unaltered. Ketill, on the other hand, appeared not to notice any lack of brotherly love and sympathy. Neither of the two men realized that Ketill’s nature not only did not invite, but rendered impossible any real confidence.
The first to notice this, albeit but vaguely to begin with, was Alma. The discovery troubled her a little, but she let it pass.
From all appearances, the union was a promising one, and the wedding was looked forward to by both parties with equal anticipation. The ceremony was to take place on the day before Ketill’s entering upon his new dignity, and the bride was to accompany him to their new home.
Alma and Ketill arrived at Ormarr’s house half an hour after Ketill had rung up. Alma promptly went out to assist the housekeeper with the lunch.
The brothers, standing by the writing-table in the sitting-room, lit their cigarettes. Sera Ketill looked with unconcealed scrutiny at his brother’s face, and with his usual affectation of heartiness said at once:
“Well, if you’re not ill, you look precious near it. What’s gone wrong now? Business?”
“That’s as you like to take it.”
“What do you mean by that? Nothing important, I suppose.”
“Important?—well, in a way, it is.” Ormarr passed the wire across to his brother, who read it through.
“Well, what does it mean?”
“It means that since yesterday I am—a millionaire.”
“The devil you are—Heaven forgive me! Well, you are in luck. How did you manage it? Can’t you tell a fellow how it’s done? A millionaire!... Well, I’m.... Lord forgive me! It’s all right, I suppose?”
“Yes, it’s right enough.”
“Well.... And What are you going to do now? Extend the business ... new routes?... If you take my advice, you’ll be a bit careful. Buy up the land in Iceland—that’s a sound investment. Buy up Hofsfjordur.... What a lucky devil!... Lord forgive me!... But what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, anyhow, you can do things in earnest now. Monopolize the trade of Iceland. You control the traffic already; the people know you, and trust you—that’s worth a lot in itself. They’re not an easy lot to win—that way, but once you’ve got them ... if you manage things properly, you’re all right there. Ormarr, you’re in luck. Look at me now—in orders. And even if I get the estate.... The old man—father, I mean—he’s getting childish already. Gives things away—money, live stock, food—you never saw. And he’s struck off all outstanding debts the peasants owed him—it’s whittling down the power of Borg to nothing. And we ought to have kept it up. Ever since you paid back the money you had from him—it wasn’t quite fair to me, you know, his letting you have all that—but anyhow, since you paid him back, he seems to think he’s a millionaire, and can throw money about as he likes. Well, well, I’m fixed up now, I suppose. But you—millionaire, what are you going to do now?”
“I’ll tell you.... No, it’s no use trying to explain....”
“Yes, yes, go on. What is it? New speculations? I’m interested in that sort of thing; go on.”
“No, it’s not speculation. I’ve had enough of that.”
“Don’t you believe it! When things turn out like they have done here. To tell the truth—I’ve been thinking of a little flutter on my own account. Old man Vivild’s put me on to a good thing ... but it seems you know the trick of it, so....”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t. Stick to Vivild if you’re going in for that sort of thing. He’s a sound man, and a clever one.”
“Well, well, as you please. But I can’t get over it.... A millionaire!... the dev—— Lord forgive me!”
After lunch the three sat together in a corner of the garden—Ketill and Alma side by side on a bench, Ormarr a little apart.
The conversation flagged somewhat; a few desultory attempts fell flat.
Suddenly Ormarr realized that his brother’s manner was different when Alma was present. He had noticed something before ... a curious abrupt change of mood, from lively jocularity to a sort of dreamy, thoughtful silence. But it had never occurred to him that it was Alma that brought about the change. Could it be a mask? In any case, the mask, if mask it were, suited him a great deal better than his normal appearance.
And as he watched them, Alma with her brown hair and bright dark eyes and Ketill with his heavy face and priestly air of calm, a feeling of resentment rose in him against his brother.
“I love coming out here,” said Alma suddenly. “It’s so different to the atmosphere at home—business.... Ugh.”
Ketill smiled. But Ormarr laughed and said:
“I should have thought one would feel more at home in the atmosphere one grew up in. But, as a matter of fact, you are wrong about the atmosphere here—it is all business really, and nothing else.”
“Father says you are not really a business man. And I think he is right.”
“The facts would seem to prove your father wrong, Froken Vivild.”
“He says you are—extraordinary. And that you’ve a lucky sense.”
“Maybe. It comes to the same thing. I fancy success in business is largely a matter of luck. Do you know what has helped me most all along? Well, before I started in business, I was well known, in a way, from my efforts in another direction. Not to put too fine a point on it—people believed me mad. And, consequently, everything I set out to do was regarded as more madness. It was the best thing that could have been—and I’m very much obliged to the people who thought so....”
A little later, Ormarr saw his guests to the gate, and stood watching them as they left, arm in arm.
“A lovely creature,” he thought. “The graceful way she walks.... But a child, no more. And he—I wonder how he will treat her. I’m afraid she will have a hard time of it with him. Perhaps when all’s said and done, she would have been better off with me.”
He stood watching the dainty figure as it receded, noting the graceful curves, and the mass of brown hair under the wide-brimmed hat.
“A dream,” he mused. “One of life’s lovely dreams....”
He closed the gate and walked up towards the house.
“No one to stop it ... life must run its course. I dare not interfere—I may be wrong. And—in my case, it is too late now.”
An hour later, Captain Jantzen was sitting in Ormarr’s room, in his usual place, an arm-chair at one end of the writing-table.
Ormarr passed across a box of cigars, and rang for wine.
Captain Jantzen was obviously ill at ease.
“Well, sir,” he asked, “good news, I hope?”
“No, Jantzen; bad news.” Ormarr hunted out the telegram he had shown Ketill, and passed it over. Jantzen read it through hurriedly, and glanced up quickly at Ormarr.
“If I remember rightly, we’re on the right side here.”
“That is so.”
“Why, then—we are safe. This gives us a free hand now—we can cover all outstanding loans, we can out-distance all competition.”
“Yes—and it puts me out of the game, Jantzen.”
“How? I don’t understand....”
“No, I’m afraid you’d hardly understand....”
“Well, sir, I confess as much. But there must surely be something behind this—I don’t see....”
“Only that victory has put me out of action, that is all. Ever since I started this thing, it has only been the difficulty of carrying it through that kept me to it. Now that is disposed of, I collapse. I can’t live in that fruitful sort of country where you’ve only to plough and change your crops now and again—I can’t work at a thing that runs by itself. It’s not only that it doesn’t interest me; I haven’t the power of self-deception it requires. I’m perfectly aware of that. I feel at the moment like a bow that has been strung and drawn to its limit, and shot its bolt where it should. I’ve no use for repetition. And, take my word for it, if luck has favoured me up to now—in business, I mean—it would surely fail me after this. Once before in my life I have suffered the defeat of victory. And then, I chanced on you—it was Fate that led me to a new task; and with it, at the end, a new victory—a new defeat. True, the result has been somewhat different this time. But it comes to the same thing. I have done with the task—or it has done with me.”
Jantzen watched the speaker’s face intently; he remembered the pale features of a younger man, who had stood with tears in his eyes, on the bridge of his vessel, at the first sight of Iceland from the sea. It was a face he had come to love—so strong it could be at times, and at times so weak.
And a deep despondency, such as he had only known in lonely watches far at sea by night, filled his heart.
Ormarr was absolutely calm and unmoved to all appearances; he seemed to have no regrets. He emptied his glass and nodded to Jantzen.
“There’s no harm done, that I can see. What do you say to taking over the management yourself, Jantzen?”
“Impossible. I could never look after a business like that—I’m not built for it.”
“Nonsense, Captain. Don’t tell me you couldn’t run a line of steamers. The idea! I suppose the truth of it is you’re unwilling to give up your ship.”
“That’s true. I’ve captained ‘Bjørnen’ now for five-and-twenty years.”
“But the business is more important than a single vessel. Let’s stick to the matter in hand—the business itself. I can no longer manage it myself. And you are the only man I can trust to take over. You must take it over. As for ‘Bjørnen’—we can easily find another man. But if the business itself were now to pass into the hands of strangers, all our work will have been in vain; we should, in fact, have done more harm than good.—I suppose you will say that it is my duty to carry on. That’s reasonable enough—as long as the course you propose is possible. But it is not possible any longer. It is simply this: I can control myself only to a limited degree; that you may take for a simple fact. And the limit is reached. What I am to do now I do not know. First of all, I shall go home—it is long since I was there. Anything in the shape of rest, or interruption, is dangerous to me, and that is why I have not been home to see my father for thirteen years. But something tells me that he needs me now, though I have no idea in what way I can be of use. Never mind. I am subject to my instincts; to defy them would be a crime against myself—perhaps against a higher power. We are both of us somewhat superstitious, you and I. Anyhow, to come to the point. You, Captain Jantzen, will now acquire this business by purchase.”
“Purchase? Now you are joking. I might perhaps manage the business, if there’s no other way....”
“That won’t do. You must buy it outright. As to terms, I shall be your only creditor, and you won’t find me a hard one to deal with.”
“But—by that arrangement, the management—the business itself—will be in Danish hands.”
“Where did you learn your trade, Captain? On the coasts of Iceland—working for a people not your own. And you will admit that you have more than a little sympathy with that little island and its people, obstinate though they may be at times. Also, it would be a good thing for my countrymen to realize that they need not always look upon the Danes as enemies.”
Ormarr took up his glass. “Well, here’s to the venture!”
Captain Jantzen’s hand trembled slightly, and he spilt a few red drops on the costly carpet as he drank.
“Since you will have it so, why, let it be. But I’m sorry about ‘Bjørnen.’”