CHAPTER VII
One evening towards the end of summer, two people were seated in the room at Borg which served Ørlygur as bedroom and sitting-room. They were an old man, grey-haired and stooping, and a pale-faced young woman.
The last few years had left their mark on Ørlygur à Borg. The stately bearing and alertness which had distinguished him in days gone by, had given place to a listlessness and an expression of gloom. There was little of the old masterfulness in the man who sat now on the edge of the bed, staring at the ruddy flicker of a tallow candle. His eyes were no longer keen and bright, but dull and spiritless, as at the present moment, or at times wandering anxiously, as if seeking aid against some threatening peril.
The young woman seated near him was finely built, with a wealth of flaxen hair, but seemed in ill-health and troubled in mind. Her whole bearing was one of resignation and despair. Her eyes were red with weeping; dark rings showed up beneath them from the pallor of her cheeks—the signs of restless nights and sad thoughts.
Twelve strokes from the big upright clock broke the silence, and startled Ørlygur from his musings. He glanced at the bowed form of the woman, and then at a letter which lay on the table.
Once more he conned the sentence which had brought such pain to himself and his adopted daughter—as if to make sure there had been no mistake. No, it was right enough: “I am engaged to a girl I met here this summer ... Alma ... daughter of.... Married in a fortnight, just before I leave, so you can expect us both....”
The letter was from his son Ketill.
And there, before him, sat the woman that same Ketill had ruined—and her state would soon be evident to all.
Some time back the girl’s pale face and mournful bearing had moved Ørlygur to question her, and he had learned the cause from her own mouth. Runa, as she was called by all on the place, was at least as deeply attached to Ørlygur as to her real father, Pall à Seyru. And it had not been difficult for her to confide in him. The truth had come as a terrible shock to the old man, but both had consoled themselves with the thought that Ketill at least had no intention of leaving her thus betrayed; that he would behave as an honourable man. If not—why, Ørlygur would see that he did so.
But now, all unexpectedly, that consolation was destroyed, leaving a dark future indeed ahead.
Runa’s trouble was not the only thing he had to bear; there were other matters that seemed to bode no good. And all were more or less connected with his son Ketill; Ketill, who was to inherit the estate and maintain the honourable traditions of Borg.
To begin with, things had looked well enough; excellent, indeed, in every way. The estate had grown richer since Ormarr had repaid the loans made to him, and the whole trade of the district was in the hands of Ørlygur’s trusted men. The place was flourishing—thanks largely to Ørlygur’s magnanimity in cancelling debts that proved too much of a burden—and the general state of affairs was healthy and promising. Then, in addition to the good name which Ketill would inherit, there was his position in holy orders. Altogether, the outlook for the family was one of dignity and honour.
Now, things looked otherwise. Some months before, Ørlygur had begun to learn something of Ketill’s true nature; his selfishness and meanness; to hand over the estate to him seemed less advisable now than he had thought. Still, it should doubtless be possible to make him realize the duties and responsibilities of his position; to persuade him on matters where any danger threatened.
But the new development had raised an issue of a far more serious character. Once it were known abroad that the master of Borg—as Ketill in time would be—had deliberately ruined a young girl,—a girl, moreover, under the protection of his father’s roof,—and had thereafter married another, probably for selfish considerations also, then the good name of the family, jealously guarded and built up through centuries, would be destroyed as by a flood. It seemed as if the fortunes of Borg were on the verge of ruin.
Ørlygur thought of these things—and the idea of disinheriting Ketill, at any rate as regarded succession to the estate, crossed his mind. If only he himself could be sure of living long enough, then he might perhaps make Runa or her child his heir. The child would after all be his own grandchild, with the blood of his race in its veins.
But as he sat, his thoughts and plans faded to mere dreams and aimless desires. The future was too hard for him to face.
Runa sat trying to pray, her lips moving without a sound, to frame the opening sentence of the Lord’s Prayer.
The man she had loved was far away in a foreign land—at that very moment, perhaps, he held another woman in his arms.
“Our Father....”
He had sworn that he loved her. Neither had spoken of marriage—she had not spoken of it because she had never doubted him.
“Our Father which art....”
He had never written to her—not a line. It was a cruel blow to her to realize that he had never loved her—and yet she bore within her the seed of life he had planted. And her whole future now was ruined and desolate....
“Our father....”
But she could not pray. A flood of thoughts streamed into her mind—memories of mild spring evenings in the past and fears for her present position in one confusion. Her brain could not set either prayer or thought into form.
Ørlygur rose and came over to her; he tried to comfort her, but found no words. One thing only he knew: reparation must be made, at whatever cost.
Sera Ketill was far from pleased to learn that his brother was returning to Iceland on the same boat with himself and his bride. Something told him that it would be to his interest to keep his father and Ormarr apart.
Ketill had come to regard himself as heir to the estate by this time, and already saw himself installed at Borg. He never dreamed that Ormarr’s present journey, which he regarded as merely a flying visit, could prove in any way a danger to himself and his plans. Ormarr had told him nothing of the transfer of the business. At the most, thought Ketill, it would be a nuisance.
His elder brother was in many ways much like his father. Both seemed eternally to regard themselves as owing a duty to all and sundry—simply because they happened to have been born in better circumstances than most of those around them. Ketill thought himself sufficiently a man of the world to be able to destroy this conviction; and he was not far from regarding it as a childish weakness on the part of Ørlygur and Ormarr. Regard for others, indeed!
Ketill was not hampered severely by trammels of faith or morality. He had gone to a school where the general rule of conduct seemed to be each for himself; his studies at college had brought him among students who for the most part made little attempt to conceal the fact that they made light of their calling. One after another, he had seen them go out into the world as priests, in the service of God, spiritually defective, rotten, and corrupt, to their task of leading others by the right way. And all this had left him with but little respect himself for his mission; he enrolled himself with the rest, as a matter of course.
His latest idea was nothing less than to buy up the whole of Hofsfjordur. To own a whole parish—it would be a position of unique power and authority. Priest and sole landlord of the place. And then he could take over the business now run by Jon Borgari’s widow under Ørlygur’s supervision. It was a dazzling scheme.
He was enraged when he heard that his father had cancelled the debts owing to him by the peasants. Carefully handled, they would have made a splendid weapon. And he puzzled his brains for some way whereby he might—when his father had gone—render the old chieftain’s action null and void.
Ormarr’s return now was a serious blow to his plans. He had more than once hinted to Ormarr that Ørlygur was getting strange in his manner and actions of late, and it had been in his mind that afterwards he could break the sad news to his brother that their father had towards the end been not altogether responsible for his actions.
But now Ormarr would see his father for himself, and there was no prospect of carrying out that part of the plan. Moreover, it was likely that Ormarr and Ørlygur, in their talks together, might bring out several little matters not at all to his advantage, and seriously damage his prospects. He must, at all events, try as far as possible to be present whenever the two seemed disposed to talk over things generally. He had, of course, given orders for the vicarage to be set in order ready for his arrival, but he could doubtless stay under his father’s roof for a time on his return, without giving cause for comment.
Ormarr’s arrival with the newly married couple was altogether unexpected. Ørlygur was greatly moved, and embraced his son with tears in his eyes.
Ormarr was deeply touched when he saw how his father had aged. He thanked the Fate that had led him to throw up his work and come home. Also, it seemed that his coming was well timed; for he was quick to note the strained relations between his father and Ketill, though the reason was not at first apparent.
Ørlygur received his younger son with marked coolness, but spared no pains to make his welcome as cordial as possible to his daughter-in-law.
Ketill’s idea of making a stay at Borg to begin with was promptly shattered. Ørlygur had guessed his intention, and soon after the midday meal, went out himself to see that horses were saddled. On re-entering the room, he acquainted Ketill of the fact, and added: “You will want to show your wife over the new home before it gets dark.”
The hint was too direct to be disregarded; there was nothing for it but to go with a good grace.
When the pair had left, Ormarr and his father sat alone in the sitting-room. And now for the first time Ormarr perceived how troubled in mind the old man was. He paced up and down the room, and for some time Ormarr forbore to question him. It was hard for Ørlygur to commence, but at length he pulled himself together, and spoke in a weak and faltering voice.
“Ormarr, you should have been my only son. It would have been better so. I am paying dearly for my disregard of the warning. Had I not been so self-willed, maybe your mother would have been alive now, and your life would have been very different. Not that I’ve anything to reproach you with, no....”
Ormarr grasped his father’s hand, and pressed it. The old man turned his head away, and went on:
“It is hard to see a thing one had treasured with heart and soul brought to ruin; to die, and leave an inheritance of responsibility behind. Ormarr, do you remember Pall à Seyru’s little girl?”
“Runa? Yes, indeed. Why have I not seen her this time? I hope she is not very seriously ill?” Ormarr had inquired after her on his return, but had simply been told that she was not well.
Ørlygur hesitated for a moment. Then he said:
“Runa has been betrayed—by your brother.”
Ormarr started as if struck, and his face paled. His father’s hand slipped from his grasp, and the two men sat for a while in silence. When at last they spoke, it was of other things.
“Yes,” said Ørlygur thoughtfully, “there are many things that will trouble me if the estate goes to Ketill. I have an idea that he thinks of collecting the debts I wrote off for the people here some time back, as still due to the estate. The folk do not trust him, and have certainly no love for him. If the place—and the honour of the family—are left to him.... I could wish them in better hands.”
“But I have come home now, father.”
Ørlygur looked questioningly at his son.
“But—you will not be here very long? Your business....”
“I have sold it.”
“Sold the fleet? To whom?” Ørlygur flung out the question with evident anxiety in his voice, and looked keenly at his son.
“To Jantzen.”
“Ah—that is another thing. You can trust him?”
“As I could myself, or you, father.”
“I thought so, or you would not have sold to him.”
“I had to sell out, because we had succeeded in our aim, and there was no longer any need for me to continue. I could not go on. Once I have mastered a thing, when the element of uncertainty and contest—apart from what is obtainable by all—has gone, then I can work at it no longer.”
“Then you will take over the estate here?”
“Yes. That is—or will be—a task for me; something that others could not do as well. You are old now, father, and your last years should be lived in peace. I may be a little strange here, at first, still, I can feel that I have come home.”
Father and son sat in the growing darkness without thought of needing lights. Each wanted to know all about the other’s life during the years since they had last been together. Ormarr also was keenly concerned to learn about matters in the parish, who had died and what newcomers were to be reckoned with; there were a hundred questions to be answered. Ørlygur, on his part, was eager to hear of his son’s doings during those years, for Ormarr had said but little in his letters.
“There is nothing to tell,” he said now. “I have worked hard—slaved at the work—beyond that, nothing.”
“You are yourself again now—or at least recognizable as yourself,” said Ørlygur. “Changes there are, of course, but mostly in your looks only. Voice, and eyes, and expression have not changed. I have noticed sometimes you smile just as you used to do—it is very long ago now. They have been weary years, since your mother and you seemed so far away—sometimes you too seemed as far off as your mother in her grave. But I see you have been true to yourself all the time. And I am glad you have come home. I thank you, Ormarr. And I thank God for sending you back to me.”
It was dark now, but still no lights were lit. The house was silent; nothing heard save when one of the two men spoke.
They talked on, fitfully, springing from one thing to another. But for all their frankness and sincerity, there was evidently something that preyed on both their minds.
At last Ørlygur brought up the matter himself.
“Worst of all is that about poor little Runa.”
Ormarr rose, walked to the window, and stood drumming with his fingers on the panes. Then, as if ashamed of having shown feeling, he returned to his seat.
“Runa?... Yes. No one must know what has happened. We cannot have her dishonoured. For him I have no pity, except for the sake of his wife. She is a good little soul, father, and we must be kind to her. But Runa ... father, I know what I must do.”
Ørlygur was silent. A strange stillness seemed to fill the room.
“I suppose you are right,” said Ørlygur at last. “There is not any one else...?”
Ormarr rose. “No, there is no one else,” he said shortly, and he lit the lamp.
Ørlygur took a candlestick with a stump of candle in, lit it, and kissed his son’s forehead.
“Good-night, Ormarr,” he said quietly. “I am going to bed now.”
As he passed Runa’s bed, the light fell on two wakeful, shining eyes. Making sure that none of the others in the room were awake, Ørlygur bent down and kissed her.
“Don’t be afraid, little Runa. Ormarr has something to say to you in the morning.”
Ormarr sat on, staring at the windows, long after his father had gone.
His own calmness surprised him. He felt as if he were playing himself as a pawn on the board of life—and yet he could play—and let himself be played—willingly enough. Neither he nor his father had considered Runa’s possible wishes in the matter. Ormarr smiled as the thought struck him.
But, in any case, her honour must be saved.
A drowsy weariness came over him. How empty life was, after all! What had he, himself, got out of it in return for all his labour? His years of work had been for the benefit of others. But was his work of any great importance, after all? There had been a time when he had thought only of fame and pleasure. Then he had seen that there were other things more worth regard. At first he had regarded the domains of love as sacred and inviolable, but after a time had plunged recklessly across the border. And since then he had always regarded himself as one who could never hope to meet with his heart’s desire, his ideal. The whole question of love seemed one of but slight importance to him thenceforward. And he had been occupied with other things.
It all came back to him now, as he thought of his brother’s relations with his old-time playmate, the fair-haired child whom he had known later as a tall, bright-spirited girl.
And now he was to marry her. She was a woman now—and his brother had betrayed her. It was a thing that had to be, for her honour’s sake and that of the family name. His brother’s child would be brought up as his. He was to marry, and his wife would bear a child—another’s child.
How strangely the threads of life were woven! Well, after all, why not? It mattered little—nothing really mattered. What would the child be like? he wondered. Boy or girl? And what was the mother like? Again, it did not matter much.
Anyhow, this must be the last phase—the final stage of his life. It must end as it had begun—at Borg. Like his forefathers, he was fated to be a link in a chain, rather than an individual.
Only it meant now that all his dreams of something greater and better were at an end.
He glanced up and saw that it was light outside; the moon had come out from behind a hill. Moved by a sudden impulse, he took his hat and coat and went out.
The sky was cloudy, semi-darkness and bright moonlight alternating in quick succession; the earth looked cold and forbidding under a heavy frost, with the streams showing up as dark lines through the white.
Ormarr took a path he knew, leading to Borgara, where as a lad he had guarded the wool by night. Leaning against a rock, he stood, letting thoughts and fancies play through his mind at random. The happenings of the day, the revelations he had heard, seemed more like a dream than any reality.
Runa lay wakeful long through the night. Ormarr’s unexpected return had thrown her into a state of confused emotion. The simultaneous arrival of Ketill seemed but of minor importance, though why this should be so, she could not have told herself.
She remembered Ormarr from his last visit home, and how she had felt drawn to him at the time. He, on the other hand, had not paid much attention to her, and was doubtless unaware of the impression he had made. To her, he was the greatest and best, the most wonderful of men; an ideal, inaccessible, but nevertheless to be worshipped.
Then he had gone away—vanished as suddenly as he had come, to live thenceforward only as a dream in her heart. And she was firmly convinced that he had never given her a thought. In this, as a matter of fact, she was right.
On learning of his arrival now, she had tried in every way to avoid him, to conceal herself from him. All the others might know, but Ormarr—no, that was too cruel. And now—he would learn it soon enough. His father would tell him, and he would know what she was—the very thought of it made her shudder. She was not what she appeared to be; she was nothing. She hated Ketill, and wished herself dead.
The thought of taking her own life had crossed her mind, but fear restrained her. Now the thought came up again, and when Ørlygur had whispered to her as he passed, whispered a thing she dared not understand, she made up her mind. There was no fear in her heart now, she had taken her decision.
Shortly after Ørlygur had retired, she rose up, dressed herself noiselessly, and crept along the passage towards the room where Ormarr slept. A light showed from beneath the door; evidently he was still awake. With bated breath she passed by, and crept from the house without a sound. She longed to look in through the window, just to see what he looked like—now. But she dared not risk it. She stepped cautiously and quietly until a little way from the house, then suddenly she broke into a run, and made away towards the place she had in mind....
Ormarr saw a woman come rushing down towards the river. His first impulse was to run towards her, but, realizing that she must pass close by where he stood, he remained motionless, waiting.
The woman checked her pace and stood for a moment with hands clasped to her breast. Then she bent down and, taking up one of the sacks that were strewn around, began filling it with stones. She felt its weight, and, apparently satisfied, tied up the mouth. No sound came from her lips.
In a flash Ormarr realized who it was, and what she had in mind. He saw her move down to the water’s edge, the sack in her hand. Then, rising, he called to her softly:
“Runa!”
The girl stood still as if paralysed. He walked up to her without a word; he did not look at the sack, but touched it as if by accident with his foot, sending it into the water. Then, taking the girl’s arm, he led her quietly back to the house.
He took her to his room, led her to a seat and sat down beside her, taking her hands in his and stroking them tenderly. The girl’s breast heaved; she was deadly pale, but she made no sound. So unexpected had been Ormarr’s intervention that she had hardly realized as yet what had happened.
Ormarr held her hands in his.
“Poor child, it is hard for you, I know. Life is hard. I have learned something of that myself. Poor child, poor child! But, Runa, you must trust me ... will you try? I will be kind to you. Perhaps, after all, you may be glad of the child and I as well. For we must marry, you know; it is the only thing to do. But only as a matter of form, of course, to save a scandal. The child will be born in wedlock, and it will be understood to be mine. No one knows anything as yet; we can go abroad at once, and stay away a year or so. It is not what you had wished for, I know, not what you had a right to expect, but—there is no other way now. As far as he is concerned it is too late.”
Runa burst into tears, and sat weeping silently, with scarcely a movement of her face; but her breast heaved violently, and the tears poured down her cheeks.
“I know, dear child, it is hard for you; you love him, and me you neither know nor care for.”
The girl drew back her hands and wiped her eyes.
“I hate him,” she said, almost in a whisper. And a moment after, she added passionately, defiantly. “And I never loved him at all.”
She threw herself face downwards over the table, sobbing bitterly.
Ormarr left her to herself for a while. Then going over to her, he stroked her hair, and tried to comfort her, as one would with a child. And when she looked up, there was a light in her eyes, of gladness, as when a child meets kindness from one it loves and respects.
Tears rose to Ormarr’s eyes; the thought crossed his mind that she might at that moment be wishing the child were his. And a pang of vague longing passed through him, such as he had known at times when life had seemed empty for the lack of one thing.
As if by one accord, the two avoided each other’s eyes.
Then resolutely Ormarr threw off his shyness, as if it were a thing to be ashamed of. He went straight to her, and spoke as calmly as he could—though his voice quivered a little.
“Runa, there is nothing else to be done. You must be my wife.”
“Yes,” she answered. There was nothing of bitterness or regret in her voice. But she fell to crying again.
Then said Ormarr: “You will be mistress of Borg, you know, and that means a big responsibility, and much to look after.”
She had stopped crying now, and was evidently listening, though she still hid her face. Ormarr went on:
“I have finished my work abroad now. When we come back from our journey, we shall take over the management of Borg. Father is old, and needs rest. And then it will be for us to see that our child is so brought up that we can leave the place in good hands after us.”
Runa sat for a while without speaking; she had stopped crying now. Then she rose, and carefully dried her eyes to leave no sign of weeping, and murmured something about it being time for her to go. And then tears came into her eyes again, and she blushed.
Ormarr had opened the door, but closed it again and came towards her.
“Well,” he said, “don’t you think we might shake hands and consider it settled? That is, unless you would rather have time to think it over? We could at least promise to give each other the best we can....” Ormarr could hardly speak, so deeply was he moved.
Runa gave him her hand—a warm, trembling hand. He pressed it, and let her go.
When the door had closed behind her, Ormarr began slowly undressing, thinking aloud, as was his wont.
“If life is really only a tiny meaningless flicker, and death the eternal and constant state, if life is only little indifferent momentary things, and death the great and boundless, then why all this complication and suffering? If my soul could perish, could be destroyed by suffering like the smoke of wood consumed by fire, like the scent of a flower shed out into space, like a colour that fades in strong sunlight, then it would surely have become disintegrated long since. Or are we all figures on a stage? If there were any connecting string between myself and the gods above, I fancy I should make a first-rate marionette.”
He put out the light and got into bed.
“It is just like me to try and conceal my thoughts from my innermost self, to breathe a philosophical mist over the windows of my own mind. If I were to be honest now, I should have to confess something different. Be honest for once? And confess! Confess that a new, inexplicable joy had suddenly welled forth within me!
“Just because I have seen the flush of a soul turned towards my own. And here I am already building castles in the air, with golden towers of great anticipation. But, to be honest, I must build here and now, whether I will or not, and trust that the building may stand.”
The moonlight shone in over him; he turned his glance towards it and looked up smiling at the sad, wry face, nodded to it, and then turned over on his side and fell asleep.