CHAPTER X
On the morning after Bagga’s expedition with the lamb, Ormarr was up and about before any of the others at Borg.
It was his custom to rise early. His nights were often restless, and it was only after he had been up and out a little that he felt refreshed. The work drove sad thoughts from his mind.
He was not happy, though he would have found it hard to say what was wrong. He could not honestly declare that he regretted having given up the path of fame that once had stood open to him through his music.
In the old days, whenever he had touched his violin, the contrast between the harmony of music and the discord of the world as it was had wrought on him so strongly that he had been driven to seek solitude. His sensitive soul craved rest, quivering as it did under the harshness of reality. It was not the desire for appreciation of his art, but the longing for harmony in life that he felt most deeply.
Here, on the farm, existence was rendered tolerable by the fact that he had to be constantly at work; the management of the estate gave him much to do, in addition to which the affairs of the parish were almost wholly entrusted to his care. And the affection and respect of his people, which he could not but perceive, served largely to aid him in the constant struggle within.
The people loved him, not only because he helped them in every possible way, and never refused his aid and counsel, but also because they felt that in him they had a true leader. They saw the firmness of character, the stern will, which he exercised in his own life, and it gave them courage.
Ormarr invariably began the day by a visit of inspection round the farm to see that all was in order. The animals allowed to go loose about the place were carefully looked to each morning to see that they had come to no harm during the night.
One of the first things to catch his eye this morning was Ørlygur’s lamb. He noticed the black head at once, and as he approached, the animal rose up, bleating pitifully. Evidently it was in distress about something. As soon as he had caught it, he noticed the blue ribbon at its neck, looked at it, and found the name “Snebiorg” woven in red letters. He was about to take it off, but changed his mind and let the lamb go. There were not two women of that name in the parish. And the lamb had got into the enclosure during the night, though the gate was fastened. Ormarr was not quite clear in his own mind as to what had happened, but at any rate, if the ribbon were intended for any one, it was not for him.
He thought it over for a while, and then went into the house to wake Ørlygur.
“Your lamb has come back. You will find it outside.”
Ørlygur was out of bed in an instant. His father hesitated, as if deliberating whether to say more, but after a moment’s reflection left the room.
Ørlygur threw on his clothes and hurried out—there was the lamb, sure enough. But—it did not recognize him. Evidently, in the course of the summer, it had forgotten him.
The ribbon at its neck caught his eye at once, and he bent down to examine it. At first sight of the name he started in astonishment, and let go his hold. Then, catching the animal again, he took the ribbon from its neck with trembling fingers.
The lamb was let to run as it pleased; Ørlygur stood with the garter in his hand, stroking it softly. His heart beat fast, his head was giddy. Tears came to his eyes, and his thought was all confused, but there was a great joy at his heart.
He sat down on the wall of the enclosure; the sun was just rising. Never before had he seen such a glorious opening to any day. The piece of ribbon in his hand made this day one beyond all others; it called him from his sleep to be king in a beautiful world.
He realized now that, though he had felt sure before, there had nevertheless been something lacking—and here it was. All was certain now. And the joyous possibilities of the future seemed unbounded. He sat there now for hours, deep in his dreams, twining the ribbon round his fingers, one after another—none must be forgotten—and at last round his neck.
Suddenly he started at the sight of his father approaching, and put away the ribbon hastily. He got up in some embarrassment; it occurred to him suddenly that Ormarr might perhaps have noticed the ribbon himself at first. The thought left him utterly at a loss.
Ormarr came up and sat down quietly, as if unaware of anything typo.
“A fortunate thing about the lamb,” he said. “Coming back unharmed like that. All sorts of accidents might have happened to it.”
“Yes,” said Ørlygur, trying to speak calmly.
“Have you time to help me today with the mangers in the big stable?—or were you thinking of going somewhere else?”
Ørlygur felt suddenly that it was most urgent he should go somewhere else, though he had no clear idea as to where. There was something in Ormarr’s voice that seemed to suggest he was not expected to remain at home.
He did not answer at once. Ormarr sat waiting for an answer, but without impatience, as if realizing something of what was passing in the young man’s mind.
When Ørlygur spoke, it was with a calmness that surprised himself.
“Yes—I was going for a walk ... over towards Bolli. I thought of giving the lamb—to the widow there. She would be glad of it, no doubt; then she could kill one of her own sheep instead.”
Ormarr apparently found nothing in this proposal beyond an ordinary act of charity; he simply said:
“Yes, give it to her. Or perhaps to her daughter. Then you may be sure it would be well looked after.”
“That is true.”
Ørlygur had now completely regained his composure, but was still somewhat at a loss to understand his foster-father’s attitude in the matter.
“You can bring them greeting from me,” said Ormarr, as he rose and walked away.
Ormarr was both glad and sorry. But he knew it was best not to let Ørlygur’s love affairs become a matter of dissension between them. They of Borg had need to hold together well; he had made his sacrifice—all that remained now was to prepare his wife.
When Ørlygur arrived at Bolli, with the lamb trotting contentedly behind him, he found the widow outside the gate.
She looked at him, and then at the lamb. She had noticed that morning that it was missing, but had merely thought it had been found and taken away earlier in the day.
“Good morning,” she said in answer to his greeting. “Your lamb seems loth to leave us.”
Bagga had told her mother before that the lamb always came back every time she had essayed to drive it off with other stray sheep.
“It seems so,” Ørlygur agreed. “Can I have a word with Snebiorg?” There was a lump in his throat; he could hardly speak the name.
“She is not at home just now. We had a stranger here last night, and she has gone out to see him a little on his way. How far, I do not know. Can you guess who the stranger was?”
“I think so. Guest the One-eyed, was it not?”
“Oh—then you knew he was here?”
“Yes. I was the first to meet him. When I left him yesterday he was on his way to you.”
“Why did you not come with him, then, and fetch your lamb? When did you fetch it?”
“I did not fetch it at all.”
“But—it was here last night, and this morning it was gone.”
Suddenly Ørlygur understood what had happened. And he flushed at the thought.
“That may be so,” he answered vaguely. He hardly knew what to say.
The widow looked at him, as if somewhat offended at his tone.
“Won’t you come in and sit down for a while?”
“Thanks,” said Ørlygur. And they went indoors.
He had never been inside the house before. The little room was furnished with two beds; he looked immediately at the one which was evidently Bagga’s. Her hat hung on a nail at the head of the bed, her knife and fork were in a little rack close by. On a shelf lay her Bible and Prayer Book, with some other volumes. He dared not take them up to see what they were—they looked like collections of the Sagas. The bed was neatly made, and a knitted coverlet of many colours spread over.
He sat down on the other bed with a strange sense of being an intruder here. His thoughts were vague, but he was dimly conscious that the place was filled with the spirit and life of the girl herself. Here she lived; the little trifles in the room were things she daily touched.
The widow, entering behind him, invited him to sit on the other bed. He did so, feeling dazed, and seating himself uncomfortably on the very edge. The widow suggested that he need not be afraid of lying down if he were tired, but he declined the offer with some abruptness.
The woman sat knitting, and for a long time neither spoke, only glancing across at each other from time to time.
The widow was not altogether pleased with this visit. She was at a loss to think what Ørlygur à Borg could have to say to her daughter, but as he did not speak, she was not inclined to ask him. Also, she remembered her promise to Guest the One-eyed the day before.
They sat thus all day, exchanging only an occasional word. Once the widow went out and made some coffee, which they drank in silence.
At length she remarked:
“You are very patient to wait so long.”
“Yes,” he replied.
A little later she brought him some food and a drink of milk. She herself had eaten her meal in the larder, as was her wont. While he ate, she sat with her knitting, glancing at her guest now and again.
“Bagga must soon be here.”
Ørlygur nodded.
The widow pointed to the bookshelf. “You might take a book, if you care to, and pass the time. You must be tired of waiting.”
“I am not tired of waiting,” said Ørlygur.
Dusk was falling when Bagga at last returned. As soon as her mother heard her footsteps outside, she rose and left the room. Ørlygur remained seated. Something was about to happen—something wonderful, incredible, beyond his control. He was to see her—hear her voice, perhaps—even speak to her himself. He felt unable to move. The thing must happen. And then—what then?
The widow exchanged a hasty greeting with her daughter, and told her that one was waiting to speak with her.
Bagga was overcome with confusion, a wave of warmth swept through her body, and her hands grew moist.
“Me—to speak with me—who is it, then?”
“Go in and see.”
The widow disappeared into the kitchen.
Bagga could hardly find strength to walk the few steps through into the room. When at length she entered and saw Ørlygur standing there, she stood and stared at him without a word. Ørlygur, too, was unable to speak.
She offered her hand, and he took it, but the greeting was equally awkward on both sides. At last Ørlygur plucked up courage to speak:
“Will you have my lamb?” he asked. “I have brought it with me.”
The girl smiled, but did not look up. “Thank you,” she said simply.
For a long time they stood facing each other without a word, hardly daring to breathe. Ørlygur felt he had much to say, but could find no words. At last he offered his hand again.
“Good-bye,” he said.
She took it hesitatingly, but this time their clasp was one of lingering affection. They stood breathing heavily; then suddenly she leaned forward with her forehead against his shoulder; her hot cheek touched his. For a moment he pressed her to him, and passed his hand caressingly over her hair.
With a sigh she slipped from his arms, pressed his hand once more, and turned away. Then quietly Ørlygur left the room.
He went out of the house without taking leave of the widow. The latter, returning a little later to the room, asked if he had gone.
“Yes,” said the girl.
“What did he come for?”
“He gave me his lamb.”
“Nothing more?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause.
“Does he love you?”
Bagga turned her face away. “Yes,” she whispered.
“And you love him too?”
The girl burst into tears. “Yes, mother.”
The widow took her daughter in her arms. “God’s blessing, my child. No need to be sorry for that. By the look of him, he is not one to change.”