CHAPTER VII
Ørlygur a Borg was heavy at heart this spring.
He marked the covert whispering abroad, and it chilled him. But no one was anxious to be the first to tell him of the rumours that had spread, and he remained in ignorance of their essential theme. Yet he could not fail to see that there was something in the air—something that concerned himself.
The expression of men’s faces had changed. Ørlygur found himself regarded with curious glances—sometimes a look of wondering speculation, at times a look of something like scorn. If he came unexpectedly upon a group, they would cease their talking suddenly, or talk with such eagerness of indifferent matters that it was clear they had changed the subject on his arrival. They had been speaking of him—or at any rate of something he was not to know of.
At first he paid little heed to it all. What did he care for their gossip? He had always held himself apart and above all idle talk. Realities, matters of actual moment, were the only things that interested him. Let them wag their tongues if they pleased; say what they would of one another, good or ill. It was always the same in the end—they answered to the hand with the surest touch, not to the mere possessor of a gift of speech.
As days went on, their glances became more and more ill-disposed and evident; the crowd seemed to increase in boldness as its numbers grew. Ørlygur felt himself gradually surrounded; even at Borg itself there was an air of restraint apparent. His own people no longer met his gaze frankly, no longer laughed heartily at his jests; his orders even were no longer received and obeyed with the same willing alacrity as before. If any task called for special effort, there was no longer the same eager haste to help. It seemed rather as if he were being left to struggle by himself, an object of curiosity as to how he would manage alone. He could see, too, that he was being watched, as if all around him were trying to read his thoughts, and with no friendly eye.
Day by day it grew harder to bear. Ørlygur tried to get at what was in their minds, insinuating opportunities for them to speak out, but without avail. They could not—or would not—perceive his invitations to tell him frankly what was amiss.
He sought out his best friends in the parish, those whom he had befriended most. He called, not as with any evident object, but casually, leaving it to them to speak of what they evidently knew. But all to no purpose. It had not been the way of those whom Ørlygur had helped to cringe and fawn before him; they had acknowledged his assistance as between man and man. But now they met him with fluent insincerity, plainly trying to conceal the true state of the case. Outwardly, they were humble and full of deference and gratitude; but he could see their hearts were ice towards him.
There was hardly a soul in the parish who was not indebted to him in some way. But now that he stood in need of a friendly hand, their selfishness was revealed. Not one had the courage to speak out.
Then came the third of May—the date when farm hands and servants enter or leave their service.
Ørlygur was out and about betimes, looking to some lambs that had just arrived. It was dinner-time before he came back to the house. As he came up, he noticed that there were no men to be seen outside, though some of the ewes were in birth-throes and needing help. He attended to the most pressing cases himself, and then hurried up to the house.
Here a further surprise awaited him. All the hands, and the girls belonging to the house, stood with their boxes ready packed.
At the door he met the headman, dressed in his Sunday best and carrying a box. The man flushed a deep red at sight of his master, but tried to appear unconcerned.
Ørlygur had come up with the intention of sending out the first man he found to attend to the sheep. Now, he gave no orders, but asked instead:
“Are you leaving, then?”
“Ye—es,” stammered the man, evidently ill at ease.
“If you are not satisfied, why have you not told me before, instead of going off like this without a word in advance?”
“You never asked me to stay,” was the sullen reply.
“You have stayed on of your own accord now for twenty-two years, since I took you in as a child.”
This was undeniable. The man murmured something about having found another place.
“Where?”
“With Jonas à Myri.”
“Good. You can tell him from me that if he should be in need of hay again, as he was last winter, he can come to me as he did then. And now—you may go to the devil!”
Ørlygur turned on his heel and went indoors. In the passage he met one of the girls, dressed in her best.
“Are you going too?”
“You did not ask me to stay.”
A plot, thought the old man, and turned from her without a word.
All the farm hands were dressed and ready to leave, gathered together in a group. A silence fell on them as he approached.
One by one he asked them: “Are you leaving?” And always the same answer: “You did not ask me to stay.”
Ørlygur found difficulty in restraining his feelings. He was deeply attached to his people, most of whom had been in his service for many years. They had always got on well together; the hands at Borg had better wages than they could have obtained elsewhere. Some of them he had engaged when no one else would take them, and they would have been without support had it not been for his help. And now they were deserting him. Not one of them had been man enough to declare his intention beforehand, and give time for finding help elsewhere.
Ørlygur spoke with studied harshness, fearing to betray what he really felt.
“Get you gone, then, every man of you, and the sooner the better.”
It struck him that he had not seen old Ossa, who had served him for fifty years, and had been like a second mother to his children. He found her in the kitchen, preparing his meal.
“Are you not leaving too?” he asked bitterly.
“I’m too old to go about the country seeking work,” said she. Her voice seemed richer and softer than usual as she spoke.
“If it is only that, I could have lent you a horse,” returned Ørlygur, with a note of sarcasm in his voice.
“Nay, I’ve no wish to be leaving Borg. ’Twill not be of my own choosing if I should. And maybe I can be some use a bit yet. As long as I’ve but my keep and needn’t be a burden.”
There was a slight pause.
“Ossa, what is it? Why are they leaving the place?” Ørlygur asked, with some constraint.
“Master’s the best judge of that, I take it.”
“But—they say it’s because I haven’t asked them to stay on from last hiring. You know I’ve never asked them; as long as I thought they were satisfied, I took it they would stay.”
“Didn’t they say about leaving before, then?”
“You know that as well as I do.”
“Well, then, Master can surely stop them; they’ve no right to go if you order them to stay.”
“I’m too old to beg favours. And I’ve no mind to call in the law. You won’t tell me, then, what it’s all about?”
“If you don’t know, ’twould not help you to be told.”
“Well, well, I’ll not try to make you speak against your will. But I thank you for staying on.”
“I’ll have your dinner ready directly. You’ll need it this day.”
“Never mind the dinner. Put on a shawl and come and give me a hand with the sheep. They are lambing all over the place, and none to help them.”
And Ørlygur strode out.
A lamb was bleating pitifully at the back of the house. He hurried over to the spot, and found the headman already there. The man looked up as he approached. Ørlygur strode forward, his face white.
“You are no longer in my service,” he said. “And I do not want your help.” And with a blow he struck the fellow to the ground, and went on, paying no further heed to him.
Ørlygur à Borg was left with none to help him save old Ossa.
The sheep alone were more than he could manage; hundreds of them, and in the height of the lambing season. Scores of the young lambs perished daily, for lack of care. Ørlygur and Ossa worked all day and far into the night, doing all they could, but despite their efforts, many of the ewes died in giving birth, or strayed and were drowned or bogged; many of the lambs starved within reach of the udders they could not find. And it was impossible to milk the burdened beasts; many were soon suffering from lack of relief.
There were the cows to be seen to as well; Ørlygur and Ossa were so exhausted when at last they ceased work for the night that neither could do more than sink down in a chair for a few hours’ rest. They spoke only briefly, of necessary things, and ate their food on the way to and from their work.
On the following Sunday, Ørlygur asked of those he met at church if they knew of any hands to be had.
It seemed that there were none available anywhere.
And now he felt that they were rejoicing inwardly at his misfortunes. All were against him, he felt certain, but their opposition was so veiled that there was nothing he could take hold of or challenge.
Patience was the only thing. Ørlygur waited.
It could not be long, he felt, before something leaked out as to what lay at the root of it all. Some accidental hint, a word let drop, might give him a chance to take the matter up. And if he could but find out who was the leader responsible for it all, it should go hard with him.
He suspected Ketill, but could not understand how he could have such power in the parish already as to bring about such a change in the general attitude of the people.
As to his own practical difficulties—he might perhaps get hands from farther off, but he could not be away from the place himself, and there was no one he could send. Nothing for it, then, but to wait patiently for Ormarr’s return.
Ørlygur shook his head sadly as he realized his helplessness. Truly, he was getting old.
The vessel was nearly due now.
Ørlygur kept a close watch on the fjord, and held three horses in readiness for the moment when the ship rounded the point.
If only it would come! He shook his head; he had a feeling that there was but a little time left him now to live.
And he dreaded lest perhaps the ship should not come, or something have prevented Ormarr from making the voyage. He spoke to old Ossa about the weather; no, surely it could not send a fine vessel to the bottom.
Ørlygur’s hands trembled incessantly; he was visibly aged, and his voice quavered when he spoke of his own affairs.
Old Ossa was deeply concerned, but strove to hide her sympathy; Ørlygur was not pleased to find himself looked on as a helpless creature, and was apt to turn on her impatiently when he suspected her of overmuch anxiety on his behalf. He would not be looked after like a child. If she ventured to dry his socks at the fire, instead of hanging them to air in the ordinary way, he would keep his wet ones on. And when she tried to substitute new mittens for his old and tattered ones, he gave up wearing mittens at all.
“Getting old I may be,” he grumbled, “but I’m not an old woman yet.”
Then at last one day the ship hove in sight round the point.
Ørlygur hurried about, active as a boy, saddled his horses, forgot all his troubles, and astonished old Ossa by humming, all unconsciously, a fragment of a song, that he kept repeating over and over again.
And as soon as he was ready, off he rode to fetch his son home.
Sera Ketill had likewise been awaiting the arrival of the vessel with impatience, and had horses ready.
As soon as he saw it had arrived, he hurried to his wife.
“Ormarr and his wife have arrived—the ship is just coming in. Get ready as quickly as you can. We must go down to the quay and bid them welcome.”
Alma looked at him in surprise; something in his manner filled her with vague anxiety.
She put on her riding things—her habit was sadly too big for her now, but, after all, what did it matter? And Ketill and his wife set off for the trading station, reaching there just after Ørlygur himself.
Ormarr and Runa had already come ashore, and the party were about to set off for Borg when Ketill and Alma arrived on the scene. All three tried to conceal their astonishment: they had not expected Ketill.
He greeted them with outward calm, and they tried, for Alma’s sake, to appear as if there were nothing but good-will between them. But all three found it difficult to meet his glance. And Ketill smiled, as if with pleasure at the meeting, but in reality with malicious satisfaction at the evident impression his presence made. It was a tribute to his power. It would not be easy to get rid of him now.
Ørlygur was trembling, and had the greatest difficulty in controlling himself. Trouble was imminent now; of that he was certain. And he puzzled his brain to find the reason of Ketill’s appearance there—what had he to gain by it?
Ormarr took the child, and helped his wife into the saddle. He was very pale, and glanced covertly at Runa.
Alma came up to him.
“It is long since we met,” she said. And, noticing his pallor, she asked anxiously if he were “unwell.”
“It is nothing—I felt a little strange for the moment,” he said.
Ormarr, on his part, noted how changed Alma was, how ill and distressed. He was about to question her, but checked himself; best not, perhaps, to ask anything at all just now.
Alma read his intention, and understood that he wished to spare her. She felt she must hide the real cause, and gave only the more direct reason for her evident ill-health.
“I too have had a child since we last met,” she said; and added after a pause, “and lost it.”
Tears rose to her eyes. And just at that moment Ketill came up.
“What—crying?” he said, putting his arm round her. Alma shivered at his touch.
Ketill lifted the coverings from the child’s face and looked at it. “So this is the little heir,” he said jestingly. “We must have a look.”
Alma also glanced at the child.
“Congratulations, Runa,” said Alma, grasping her sister-in-law’s hand. “And Ormarr”—turning to him—“and you too, dear father-in-law. ’Tis a bonny child they have brought you home. May it bring luck to the house!”
“Ay, we need something to bring luck to the house,” said Ørlygur bitterly.
Alma looked at him, surprised at his tone.
“Oh—you mean you still can’t get hands for the farm work?”
Ørlygur saw that she asked in all innocence.
“No, my dear,” he answered. “And I am getting old. When the little lad here has grown a bit, I may do as a playmate for him, but little more. But we ought to be getting home.”
All five rode off together. Not a word was spoken until they reached the cross-road where Ketill and his Wife turned off to take the short path to Hof.
The three continued on their way in silence.
Ørlygur was glad that the meeting had been got over; sooner or later Runa would have had to meet Ketill, and it was well that it was done. He rode up beside her.
“You managed splendidly,” he said. “I have never seen a woman so brave and strong.”
Runa made no answer, but Ørlygur read her silence as expressing thanks.
Some way farther on she rode up to him again; he understood that she had something particular to say. She rode at his side for a little distance without speaking, then, leaning towards him, she said in a low voice:
“The past is forgotten.”
And they rode on in silence. But, despite her words, Ørlygur was not quite at his ease.
Later, when they arrived at Borg, and he saw how Ormarr helped his wife tenderly from her horse, and kissed her, the tears rose to his eyes, and he thanked God that these two, united in misfortune, seemed now, at least, to be living happily together in love.
Old Ossa came out to meet them, and Ørlygur turned to his son.
“The only one that is left,” he said, pointing to Ossa. “There are no more servants at Borg.”
“What do you mean?” queried Ormarr.
“It means that I have become such a hard master in my old age that I can neither keep old servants in my house nor get new to come.”
Later on he told Ormarr how the servants and farm hands had left with one accord, and how those he had befriended among his neighbours round had turned from him in his need. He said nothing, however, of his suspicions with regard to Ketill.
Ormarr thought for a moment, then turned to his father suddenly.
“There must be something behind all this,” he said.
Ørlygur nodded; he too was clear as to that, but what was at the bottom of it all, he could not say.
Ormarr seemed anxious to pass over the matter lightly for the present. “We must be able to get hands from somewhere,” he said easily. “And if our neighbours can do without us, I dare say we can manage without them.”
Sera Ketill and his wife rode on for some distance without speaking. Alma had an idea that Ketill wished to confide in her about something, but was at a loss how to begin.
She remembered how she had ridden that way with her husband once before: she had wept then, because he left her to ride alone. Now, the mere idea that he wished to speak to her made her shudder.
They came to the ford, and Ketill drew up close beside his wife, lest she should fall dizzy in crossing. He told her to close her eyes and hold on firmly, which she did. They crossed without difficulty. Alma could hear that the water no longer plashed about the horses’ feet. But she still kept her eyes closed.
She could feel that her husband was still at her side. At length he spoke. His voice was unsteady, as if he found it hard to speak at all.
“I want to speak to you about something,” he said.
Alma opened her eyes and glanced at him timidly. But Ketill was looking fixedly at his horse’s mane as he went on:
“It is an unpleasant matter, and I’m afraid it will distress you somewhat. But it must be faced. And when the time comes I am sure you will agree I have done rightly.”
He paused for a moment, and then went on:
“You saw the child?”
He waited, as if for an answer, but Alma made no reply.
“Did it not strike you as being extremely well-developed for a child newly born? It is supposed to have been born on the way up.”
Alma looked at him in astonishment.
“Do you mean that the child is not theirs?”
“The child is Runa’s. But Ormarr is not the father,” Ketill replied. “It was born in March. And Ormarr was not in Iceland the previous spring.”
Alma felt suddenly dizzy; she felt as if she must burst into tears, but sat still, outwardly calm. Something told her that though there might be something of truth in this, there was yet falsehood and mischief behind.
Bitter words rose to her lips; it was as if her husband were making her an accomplice in a deed worthy of Judas. But she dared not give vent to her feelings, and only said:
“Well, and if so, it is no concern of ours.”
“It concerns us—as being of the family—and it concerns me, as a priest.”
“What do you propose to do, then?”
“You have not heard all as yet. You do not know what people are saying throughout the parish—that the father of the child is—Ørlygur himself!”
“It is a lie!”
Alma was quivering with rage; she had never been so near to losing her self-control.
“I do not say it is true. Until it is proved, we must hope for the best. But you will no doubt agree with me that the matter calls for the strictest investigation. Ormarr and his father have treated the affair with great secrecy—that looks bad, to begin with. Did you not notice last year how Runa was kept out of the way when we were there? And can’t you see now why it was? Has it never struck you that her marriage was arranged with extraordinary haste? The whole thing was settled and done in a couple of days. It is a very awkward business indeed for father; the entire parish is against him. All his workpeople left the place this spring, and he has been there all alone, with but one old woman, until now.”
“Why did they leave him?”
“Probably because they knew what was said about him, and believed it true. Very likely they knew of some little incident that proved it. And after that, of course, they would not wish to have anything more to do with him.”
Alma was at a loss what to reply. She had a keen desire to defend Ørlygur, for she fully believed he was innocent. But her brain was in a whirl, and the one thing uppermost at the moment was an intense hatred of her husband. But she would not give it rein. She was helpless, and suffering bitterly.
“What do you think yourself?” she asked at last, in a low voice.
“I do not allow myself to think. But I have determined to have the matter cleared up. That is all.”