CHAPTER VIII
When Ørlygur awoke next morning he felt ill at ease. The sense of mental balance he had gained from the music of the night before seemed far off, and he had difficulty in recalling it.
But at the same time the feeling of utter despair that he had felt, especially after his vain attempt to speak at the graveside, had left him.
“Strange,” he murmured. “But the promise—it seems now as if it no longer existed, after I failed to utter it then.”
And he smiled bitterly.
“Was I really so weak?” he thought.
He dressed and went out. The sky was overcast, and the landscape, now deprived of the brightness of the sun, looked dead and gloomy, as if waiting only for the white wrappings of the snow to sink into the long frozen sleep of winter.
For the first time, Ørlygur felt the approach of winter as something threatening and to be feared. And involuntarily his thoughts turned to the spring that lay beyond. His heart beat fast as he pictured to himself the joy that comes with spring—the joy of seeing green things spring up out of the earth, the poor little blossoms of the rocky hills, the flight of white and many-coloured butterflies, the light nights, and the clear, smooth water of lakes set free from their murky covering of ice. He longed for the spring to come, and longed to share his joy in it with another.
His love for Bagga welled up in him like a spring torrent triumphant over the grip of winter, carrying all before it. It was this feeling which had been slumbering beneath his faint-hearted thoughts, and now it rose and swept all else from his mind.
“Why did I not speak to her yesterday?” he asked himself, in bitter self-reproach. “Why did I not go to her when she stood there weeping by the grave? What madness was it that made me greet her as if she had been a stranger? And she saw it—saw I was changed, and that was why she would not bid me farewell. If only I have not hurt her beyond healing! How can I ever explain—how can I tell her of this mysterious power that has overwhelmed me until now? She would not understand it all—and if I do not tell her all, she will see that I am keeping something back. It may be that I have ruined everything—that she can never love me now. How could I ever dream of carrying on my father’s work? It was an impulse sent from hell, and changeable and weak as I am, I let it take possession of me. I, who am so little able to control myself that I answered with boyish rudeness when the priest spoke to me—he meant well enough, no doubt. I can see myself that I am but a fool—how much more a fool should I appear to others if I were to go out attempting to teach others the way to peace.”
Again his thoughts turned to Bagga. He was filled with a sudden desire to go and see her, now, at once. Yet he did not move. Something seemed to hold him back.
He hated himself for his irresolution and want of firmness. But there was something he felt he must do before he sought her; what it was, he knew not.
His gaze wandered, as if seeking a solution. And suddenly his eyes rested on Borgarfjall.
“That was it!” he said to himself. “I told the priest.... But it was only in jest....”
He stood thinking.
“Perhaps the priest will remind me of it some day. Or tell others—and I shall be looked on as a braggart. I could never bear it. Bagga might try to stop me if I made the attempt, but if she heard I had vowed to do it and drawn back she would never think the same of me again. It would pain her; she would feel ashamed. And that must never be.”
He decided to act at once. He would climb Borgarfjall the next day. And the idea of danger crossed his mind; perhaps he would never see her again.
But the mere possibility of this was unendurable—never to see her again. It was too dreadful to be a possibility at all. No; it could not be but that he would come back safely to her after all.
And the more he thought, the more he felt certain of success. Here at last was something real to grapple with, something material, and he felt more confident in himself. No more fighting in the dark against thoughts and fancies, but a trial of physical strength and endurance.
That it was but a caricature of his former lofty project never once occurred to him—he would hardly have understood it in that light. His nature was one that craved real hardships to encounter; he was not of the stuff to fight with figments of the brain.
He would do it. He would start tomorrow. And, meanwhile, how was he to pass the rest of today?
Suddenly he thought of the doctor. A talk with him would be good medicine to shake off idle fancies. Yes, he would ride over and see the doctor.
And this time he saddled his horse without a trace of hesitation, and rode off to the trading station.