CHAPTER XI
Guest the One-eyed felt both ill and tired when, after bidding farewell to Bagga, he limped up towards the farm.
An old man, evidently the master of the place, was busy with some men thatching a hayrick with slabs of turf. The turf lay rolled up and set in piles about on the ground, a couple of hundred rolls, perhaps, in all. It had been a laborious task to cut the pieces thin and even at the edge; the strips were about ten feet long. Two men were busy on the stack, preparing it for the roof, the highest point carefully set so as to give an even slope on all sides. Others were lifting the rolls, taking great care to avoid a break. The farmer himself did but little of the work, being chiefly occupied with looking on and giving orders.
The arrival of a stranger caused a momentary pause in the work. Those on the ground gathered round him, and the two men on the stack leaned over to see.
“Who are you?” asked the farmer curtly.
“A beggar,” answered the newcomer, seating himself on one of the rolls of turf.
“I thought as much,” grumbled the man. “Can’t you sit on the ground, instead of spoiling my turf?” And, turning angrily to the men, he shouted:
“Well, what is there to stare at? Get to your work.”
Guest the One-eyed sat down, and for a while was left to himself. A dog came trotting up, sniffed at him, and curled up dog-fashion at his feet, apparently satisfied of being in decent company.
At length the farmer turned to him again.
“Well, old Greybeard, what news from anywhere?”
“There’s little news I can tell.”
“I daresay. All you think of is the meals you get—in other folks’ kitchens.”
“There’s many things a man can think of. Will you give me shelter for the night?”
“I’ve no beds for lazy vagabonds. But you can sleep in the barn if you like, though I warn you it’s draughty. I take it you can do some tricks or tell a story or something in return?”
Guest the One-eyed smiled and, looking up at him, said:
“Have you ever heard the story of the rich man and Lazarus?”
The farmer turned pale with rage. “You cursed bundle of rags!” he shouted. “You dare ... I’ll have you taken up before the sheriff for begging if you don’t mind your words!”
The men looking on smiled. The local authority was Ormarr à Borg, and all knew there would be little gained by an angry man who came to him demanding the punishment of some poor wanderer for begging. It would, indeed, be about the best thing that could happen to the culprit himself.
“What is your name?” demanded the farmer, striding towards him with a threatening mien.
“I am called Guest the One-eyed,” answered the old man, with his quiet smile.
The farmer was taken aback. “Guest the One-eyed! Impossible. He never comes this way. Guest the One-eyed....”
He looked at the beggar again, shifted his feet, and stood in some confusion. “God’s blessing,” he stammered out at last. “Forgive me—I did not know. Come—come up to the house with me.”
And clumsily he helped the wanderer to rise; his hands were little used to helping others.
“Let me take your sack,” he said.
“Nay—a beggar carries his own,” answered Guest the One-eyed, and hoisted it on his back. Then suddenly he smiled and, swinging down the sack once more, handed it to the farmer, who took it as if it were a favour granted him.
Guest the One-eyed glanced at him mischievously.
“’Tis strange to see you with a beggar’s pouch. None would have thought you could ever come to that.”
The farmer cast a sidelong glance at his men, and was about to make an angry retort, but restrained himself and gave a forced laugh. Then he said:
“If I were to fill the sack with more than you could carry—what then?”
“Then I should let it lie.”
The farmer was evidently anxious to make much of his visitor; the latter, however, seemed to care little for his hospitality, and would not even accept the bed that was offered him. The farmer assured him that it was a bed reserved for personages of distinction; bishops and high officials had lain in it. But Guest the One-eyed preferred to sleep in the barn, and all that the farmer could do was to have the cracks in the walls stopped as far as possible, and a fresh layer of hay laid over the rotting stuff that strewed the floor.
Before retiring, the beggar brought up the subject of Sera Ketill.
“That scoundrel!” cried the farmer angrily. “Ay, a scoundrel he was.” And a murmur from those around showed that he had voiced the general feeling. “He duped them all. Not a man but was on his side. I remember him, and his lying sermons and his talk—and I was no wiser than the rest, to doubt my old friend. Ørlygur à Borg, he was a true man, and Sera Ketill that killed him—his own father.... I shan’t forget! And his poor wife, the Danish Lady at Hof—ruined for life. Twenty years now she’s lived at Borg, and never got back to sense nor wit. ’Tis a comfort to think he’ll suffer for it all, or there’s no justice in heaven. The Devil must have marked him from the first—and took and kept him, and best he should. If I met Sera Ketill at the gates of Paradise, I’d turn and go another way.”
And the farmer laughed, pleased with his own wit and confident of his own salvation.
Guest the One-eyed had listened with pale face to the outburst of hatred and scorn. At last he rose heavily to his feet and said:
“It is time a weary man went to his rest.”
The farmer went with him to the barn.
“If you will sleep here,” he said. “Though why you should, with a fine bed waiting, I can’t see.”
“’Tis best to seek a place that’s not above one’s deserts,” said the other mildly. And he added, “Though, for some, it may be hard to find.”
Left to himself, the wanderer lay staring into the darkness. And his lips moved in an inaudible prayer.
“My God, my God—if only I might dare to hope for forgiveness at the last; only one gleam of Thy mercy to lighten my heart. I am weighed down with the burden of my sin, and long has been my penance, but what is all against the evil I have done? Yet I thank Thee, Lord, that I alone am let to suffer; that Thy wrath has not been visited on that innocent child.”
During the night his fever increased. He could not sleep, and lay tossing uneasily from side to side, murmuring often to himself:
“Lord, I feel now that Death is near. Good that it comes at last, and yet I fear it. What will Death mean for me? Some hell more terrible than I have lived through all these years? Thy will be done! It will not be tonight, I think. Another day, and then ... Death.... Lord, Thy will be done!”
He lapsed into a state of drowsy helplessness, murmuring still to himself:
“Lord, Lord ... two children were granted me of Thy grace. And to the one was given Thy peace in death; the other has found happiness in life.... I thank Thee, Lord....”
He lay bathed in perspiration; dust and fragments of hay clung to his face and hands.
“Two Women ... Lord, forgive me.... Mercy, Lord....”
He flung himself over on his side and hid his face.
“Father, how often have I sinned against Thee! And knowing my sin, yet hardening my heart. Even then I suffered, but I would not heed, and persevered in sin. Forgive me, Lord.”
For a while he lay still, then turned again. He strove to raise himself, but his strength failed him, and, sinking back, he cried aloud:
“Forgive me, Lord—forgive me, Lord....”
His words were lost in the darkness, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
He woke some hours later, exhausted and parched with thirst. But he could not rise to seek for water, and at length he sank into a restless, feverish sleep.
Early next morning he was awakened by the entry of the farmer. At first he hardly realized where he was. He was ill, with a racking pain in his head. But he strove to appear as if nothing were amiss.
“Good morning,” said the farmer. “And how do you feel today? Was it very draughty up here?”
“Good morning. I have slept well, and I thank you.”
The farmer laughed at sight of his visitor’s face, which was plastered with scraps of hay. “You’ve enough hay about you to feed a sheep through the winter,” he said with a laugh.
Guest the One-eyed had risen. As he stepped out into the cold morning air, his teeth chattered audibly. “The sun is not up yet, it seems,” he murmured.
Never before had he so longed for the rising of the sun. He stood now staring towards the east; it seemed to him a miracle that he should be suffered to see the sun rise once more.
“The blessed sun,” he murmured to himself.
The sky showed a dull blue between hurrying banks of cloud. The farmer yawned, and observed carelessly, “It’s cold in the mornings now. Come in; there will be coffee ready soon.”
Guest the One-eyed went into the cowshed, washed himself at the drinking-trough, and dried his face and hands on his coat, the farmer watching him the while.
“You’re one for cleanliness, I see,” he said. “I never trouble to wash myself, these cold mornings.”
The wanderer produced a piece of comb, and tidied his hair and beard; it was a matter of some difficulty to get rid of the scraps of hay.
“Why not stay here for the day and have a good rest?” suggested the farmer. And with a sly glance he added: “I daresay we can afford to give you a bite of food.”
“I thank you. But I must go on.”
“Ay, there’s always haste with those that have nothing to do,” said the farmer, with a touch of malice.
He walked down a little way with his guest, some of the farm hands accompanying them. The wanderer bade farewell to each in turn, and all answered with a blessing. Then they turned back, the farmer alone going on a few steps more.
“Have you not some good word to leave with me?” he asked a little awkwardly.
Guest the One-eyed looked at the man from head to foot; the burly fellow stood as timidly before him as a child that had done wrong.
“It would be well if you were oftener to take the beggar’s bag upon your shoulders,” he said. And, having shaken hands in parting, he walked away.
“God be with you,” said the farmer, and stood for some moments watching the beggar as he limped along. For the first time in his life he began to feel that perhaps after all wealth and security were not the only things worth coveting. There were other things—other feelings than the sense of material gain or loss.
He walked back to the house somewhat humbled in mind, and, going into his room, sat down on the bed with his head bowed in his hands. For long hours he sat there, seemingly in thought. In the evening, he roused himself with a sigh, and went out to where the men were working. His tone seemed harsher than his wont as he ordered them about.
But Guest the One-eyed went on his way, shivering and muttering to himself:
“Haste—yes, for today. But tomorrow? Who knows? Who asks? What do we know of it all? Life ... and mortals playing at joy and sorrow; a little life ... a long life ... playing at life ... playing with others’ hearts and with our own. And thinking it all in earnest. And the end? The grave, the grave. Cold earth, dark earth, where the sun cannot reach, though its grace be spread all above. My God, my God, what are my thoughts? Not earnest? Is it not earnest, all our life? Lord, forgive me. Thoughts, thoughts that come and go—but not for long. Thoughts fearing to end, to die under the earth, and never reach to heaven. My soul—Lord God, where is my soul? Is there a soul that is mine? Lord, Lord, forgive me! This is the last day Thy grace allows me; the last day of life on earth, of life and the blessing of the sun for me; the last day granted me to feel joy in the light. Joy? But my days have been pain, pain. And yet there is joy.... The last day ... Lord, here am I, Thy servant. Let Thy wrath be turned away from me, O Lord, and see my heart that repents, repents. Forgive me, Lord....”
He crouched down beside a rock, and laid his head upon the stone.
“God in heaven, I can feel Thy presence. Or is it that God is far away? Is it mercy or God’s judgment that comes? Forgive me, Lord, if there can be forgiveness.... Thy will be done!”
He rose, and limped along his painful way.