CHAPTER XIV
The household at Borg were all within doors. There was no working outside on such a day. The sheep had to be looked to now and again. During the storms they took shelter where they could, but these once past, they scattered about to graze once more.
Ormarr had set his men to work repairing stables and cowsheds, taking a part himself in what had to be done. But there was no such pressing haste; the hands went to their work with gossiping and laughter, telling stories of all sorts, from gruesome ghost-tales to amusing anecdotes from near and far. There was hardly work enough for all. And the wild weather out of doors made it more cheerful to be within.
Ormarr and Ørlygur took no part in the general gaiety. It was not their way to be gloomy, but no one seemed to notice that today they kept, as it were, somewhat aloof. The masters might well have something that occupied their minds, for the moment, as might any one else. And no one thought anything of their silence, least of all attempting to intrude on their reserve.
As a matter of fact, neither Ormarr nor Ørlygur was in the slightest degree depressed, but each had that in his mind which claimed his attention beyond all else.
Ørlygur could not forget his visit to Bolli the day before. Time and again the various impressions of what had passed recurred to his mind—how he had sat waiting, how clean and tidy everything had been in the place. And the girl—every single movement of hers was fixed in his memory, even to the ever-restless little finger of her left hand. He repeated over and over again the words he had heard her speak; even the intonation was still fresh in his mind.
So deeply was he occupied with these recollections that he found little thought for Guest the One-eyed, and yet he longed to see the old man again. He felt an ever-increasing desire to talk with him, and, in particular, to learn from a reliable source whether his father had really been so evil a man as was generally declared to be the case. Possibly Guest the One-eyed might be able to recount something at least to the credit of the former priest. Had there been anything good in him, Guest the One-eyed would surely have found it. And Ørlygur earnestly hoped that his father might prove to have been not altogether bad.
Ormarr was thinking of a dream he had had the night before. It was hardly any connected dream, only a sudden vision that had come while he slept. He had seen his father and Sera Ketill standing hand in hand at the foot of his bed. That was all. But Ormarr could not get the vision out of his mind, and was superstitious enough to attach some importance to it. The more he thought of it, the more he felt sure it must mean something—what, he could not say.
Was it that his father had wished to declare to him that he had forgiven Ketill, and no longer desired any feeling of enmity to exist between the brothers? It seemed the most reasonable explanation.
But how could his father ever expect him to forgive Ketill, after he had witnessed the terrible scene in the church, and all it had cost? Not only the life it had taken; there was also the tragedy of the poor woman who had dragged through twenty years of life a mental wreck. Ormarr had seen his brother denounce their father from the pulpit for the sin he, Ketill, had committed; the consequences of that sin had been left to Ormarr to mitigate as far as he could.
Ormarr himself had only known his brother as a boy. All the time he had been abroad they had never met, until the time when Ketill appeared in Copenhagen about to enter on his priesthood. And on that occasion, despite the claims of relationship, Ormarr had found it impossible to feel any real liking for him. Now, knowing as he did that even at that time the avowed servant of God had a sin upon his conscience of which he showed no sign, it was impossible to feel any regard for him. Since then they had had no intercourse with each other, and it had never occurred to Ormarr that Ketill could ever feel himself unfairly treated in the apportionment either of material inheritance or of affection. Ormarr had never sought to probe the workings of his brother’s mind, and had no idea of the way he schemed and wrought in secret. He had seen only the outward effect of action, knowing nothing of the inner cause, and all that he had seen had been evil. So evil, indeed, had Sera Ketill’s actions been that they seemed to justify the name that had been given him—the Devil’s Priest.
No. He searched his mind and heart, but could not find a single spark of kindly feeling towards his brother, much less affection. No matter how hard he tried to be impartial, he was forced to admit that the expression even of any other feeling than that of hatred would be falsehood. It was easy to say, “Forgive the dead,” but—he still hated his brother and loathed his memory. The man was dead, and had already heard his judgment pronounced. Ormarr himself might die, but he felt that even on the point of death he could not feel otherwise than he did now.
Ketill had been evil all through; no act had been so mean but he could stoop to it, no redeeming feature could be found in all his doings. He had violated all the laws of love and kinship, and trampled all that was sacred underfoot. Lying and fraud had been his chosen weapons, and his methods were as foul as his soul. Forgive him? No—it was all beyond forgiveness.
To forgive him would be almost like becoming himself an accomplice in his brother’s evil deeds; his soul would be tarnished by the mere toleration of such a memory.
The Devil’s Priest had been his brother, blood of his parents’ blood; it did not help him. It was impossible to forgive. It seemed natural and inevitable as the breath of life to curse him, hate him, and condemn him.
Even his death had been that of a coward—a fitting end. And the last attempt to win the hearts of the people after death by leaving his fortune to the poor—that, too, was a meanness entirely in keeping with the rest. It had gained him nothing, after all, for the poor accepted his gifts, but reserved the right to curse him, all the same.
No—even though his father took Ketill by the hand, and led him forward to ask his brother’s pardon, though the vision were to come a hundred times, night after night for the rest of his life—he could not forgive him.
Thus Ormarr thought, and his heart grew ever harder towards his brother. Later in the day, passing by Alma’s window, he saw her sitting there, with eyes staring emptily out into space. And his indignation rose anew; he muttered between his teeth a curse on the name of the Devil’s Priest.
The household were sitting down to the evening meal when Guest the One-eyed came crawling on hands and knees up the slope towards the house. Ørlygur, seeking solitude for the enjoyment of his thoughts and dreams, was the only one out of doors; he at once noticed the approaching figure, and hurried towards him, heartily glad at the meeting. He no longer felt awkward or shy, but promptly seized the beggar’s sack to carry up to the house himself.
“I am glad you have come,” he said, shaking hands warmly.
The old man stood up with difficulty; his legs were tottering under him. He looked earnestly at the young man with his solitary eye, evidently noting with satisfaction the unfeigned pleasure in his face.
His brain throbbed still to the words: Home to Borg! home to Borg! And he returned the young man’s greeting in a voice hardly audible.
He had come home—and his son was glad to see him.
Then suddenly he realized that his son did not know him, and the thought dashed his gladness to the ground in a violent reaction.
Ørlygur took him by the arm, and led him through to the courtyard. They had nearly reached the house when Alma came out, leaning on old Kata’s arm. Kata had seen him coming, and had brought her mistress out to meet him.
At sight of the two women, Guest the One-eyed all but fell. With an effort, Ørlygur led him to the big slab of stone that stood in the middle of the courtyard and could be used as a seat. The old man sank down on it, covering his face with his hands.
Ørlygur, alarmed at the old man’s evident illness, hurried into the house to call his father.
Kata was in high spirits, and talked volubly to her mistress.
“I knew he would come; it was to be. Not a doubt of it but God has brought him here, at the end of his wanderings. Truly God is Almighty.”
But the beggar sat on his stone, sobbing and murmuring brokenly:
“My God! my God!—this is my doing; I have put out the light of her soul. Those empty eyes! O God, a dreadful thing! And Thou hast willed it so, that I should see and understand there could be no forgiveness, for all my prayers no mercy.... Lord, Thy will be done!”
The two women came up to him; he raised his head and looked at them, with fear in his eyes.
The Danish Lady came nearer, and stroked his hair.
But old Kata took his hand, and said:
“Welcome now! God has forgiven you.”
The man sat still, with a face of despair, the tears pouring down his cheeks.
“God can never forgive me,” he said.
“He can,” said old Kata earnestly. “God can forgive all sins of all mankind. And you have borne His punishment with patience.”
“I have borne His punishment, yes. And now there is only death.”
The old woman’s wrinkled face lit with a smile.
“Be glad of that,” she said.
Guest the One-eyed sat drinking in the peace that flowed to him through the gentle touch of Alma’s fingers as they stroked his hair. Old Kata watched him, and understood.
“See,” she said, “she does not know—and yet she knows enough. That is her way with all who she feels are good at heart and suffering. No other would she touch. And never has she come to any with such tenderness as now. Heaven bless her.”
“Heaven bless her,” repeated the broken man.
Just at that moment Ormarr came out from the house, Ørlygur close behind him. The boy had whispered to his father that Guest the One-eyed had come, and was evidently ill. Ormarr had risen immediately and came striding out now with a friendly smile on his face.
The beggar rose to his feet, looked him in the face, and bowed his head. Ormarr stood rooted to the spot, and deathly pale. This old man, this wandering beggar, was his brother, the one-time priest—the Devil’s Priest. And in a moment all the stories he had heard of him passed through Ormarr’s mind—his wisdom, his unselfishness, his generosity and self-sacrifice. Ormarr saw the depth of his misery, how deeply he was crushed and humbled, body and soul. And he had seen Alma caressing him, thus placing him at once among the “good.” And this living witness to Life’s vengeance upon sin, with its merciless humiliation, wiped away all hatred from his heart. But a moment ago he had hated his brother; now all was changed. Ormarr sought down into the depths of his heart to see if any vestige of hate remained, but found none; all unkindliness was gone, and only pity and sympathy remained—yes, and love. Once more the vision of the night before rose to his eyes.
Swiftly he stepped towards the pitiful figure and raised him up; the two stood sobbing in each other’s arms. Two sufferers under the heavy yoke of life; two creatures with whom life had played its pitiless game of love and hate; two brothers in strife and sorrow.
And when they had stood thus awhile, Ormarr kissed his brother and stroked his cheek, and said:
“Welcome home, brother.”
And Ketill answered: “God bless you, Ormarr. I have come from our father’s grave, and I felt in my heart that you would forgive me.”
Ørlygur had been watching the scene with deep emotion. At first he saw in it nothing but an unusually hearty welcome on the part of Ormarr towards a wandering beggar. But gradually it became clear to him that it was more than this, and as their words revealed the truth, he stood half wondering if it could be real.
Then Ormarr turned to him and said:
“Ørlygur, it is your father.”
For a moment the young man stood still, his face twitching in the effort to control his feelings. Then he gave up and, sobbing openly, embraced the old man in his turn.
Here was a new joy, a thing undreamed of. From childhood he had believed his father dead, and in death remembered only with execration by all who had known him. And here was his father alive, a man whom all who knew him blessed. No longer any need to ask if it were not possible to find some little good in all his father’s deeds; Guest the One-eyed was a man whose good deeds were told on every side. This was his father; one whom the whole country blessed and revered for his Christian spirit and unselfish life. A man who left with all some kindly memory of every meeting; one who knew better than all his fellows how to bring out the good in every man. However terribly he might have sinned, it had been more than atoned for in those twenty years of humility and self-sacrifice. Surely the life of Guest the One-eyed was enough to expiate all.
So Ørlygur thought, as he wept in his father’s arms, and his heart trembled to think how wonderful were the ways of life.
Suddenly the old man shivered and sank down, unable to stand. They helped him to a seat on the stone, supporting him tenderly. His body shook with a convulsive fit of coughing; his mouth filled with blood, and he smiled as he saw what it was.
Ormarr and Ørlygur carried him into the house, Kata and Alma following behind.
As soon as they had laid him on the bed, Ormarr left the room, saying he would return directly.
He went into the large dining-room, where his wife was still busy with supper for the workers. A girl who was helping her left the room as he entered; Ormarr closed the door behind her.
Runa glanced at him, laid down the things she was holding, and sat down on a chest.
“What is it, Ormarr?” she asked in a low, anxious voice.
Ormarr opened his lips to speak, but could not. He took her hand and sat stroking her hair.
“This,” he said at last. “Guest the One-eyed has come. And he is ill—very ill—I fear he is dying.”
“Dying—oh, what can we do? What is it? Can we get a doctor to help?”
Runa had risen to her feet as she spoke, but something in Ormarr’s look checked her, and she sat down again.
Ormarr’s voice was hardly recognizable as he went on:
“There is more. Guest the One-eyed is ... is my brother ... Ketill....”
“Ketill! Alive?”
Ormarr was silent.
“He lives,” said Runa, as if to herself. “Thank God—thank God for that!”
“You—you are glad of that,” said Ormarr eagerly. Then he turned away. “He is here,” he went on, “and dying. I have forgiven him—and Alma ... she was stroking his hair....”
“Alma?” repeated Runa, deeply moved. “Oh ... and that is Guest the One-eyed. No wonder that he never came here before.”
Ormarr sat down beside his wife, then rose again. “Shall we ... will you come and see him?” he said. “We have put him to bed in the little room.”
“Yes,” said Runa. “Do you think he will die?”
“I am afraid so.”
“If only death may bring him peace. It has been a weary way for him.”
They entered the room together. Ketill lay very still, and the others were careful not to disturb him. He opened his eyes as they approached, and at sight of Runa he covered his face with his hands.
She bent over him, and kissed his forehead gently. Then, sitting down at the bedside, she said in a calm, soft voice:
“Look at me, Ketill.”
She laid her hands on his and said again:
“Look at me, Ketill. It is all forgiven.”
But he kept his face turned from her, and only muttered, sadly:
“How could you ever forgive me?”
“Look at me, Ketill, and see.”
And he looked up into her eyes.
“It is true,” he said. “Love—only love and kindness there. You have forgiven me—thank you for that, Runa. Heaven bless you.”
He lay still for a while, and his breathing seemed easier. Then suddenly he raised his head and looked round.
“Nothing left now but to die,” he said. “I can see it is getting dark already. Let me see it to the end—the end of the day; the twilight and dear faces round me. I shall not see tomorrow.”
“Do not talk,” said Runa gently. “Do not tire yourself.”
“Let me talk,” he answered, with a smile. “My tongue will not have long to talk at all; it will last me the little that is left. Perhaps it might speak some little word that would live in memory—if only that might be. My friends, do not think I fear to die—that I would put it off a single second if I could. It would be good to live with you, but there is more than that to think of. Only death can make atonement complete—and blessed be death for that it does. Forgive me for my words—I would not hurt you, any one, or make light of your goodness—you, who have forgiven me. But it is true that only death can give me peace and forgiveness of all.”
He looked from one to another of those standing round.
“Friends—beautiful faces,” he went on. “And I can see the souls of all through your eyes, and all your thoughts. My heart bleeds for all the pain and sorrowing that I who was Sera Ketill left to you. Even you, my son, young as you are, have found suffering already in life. Shall I tell you what I read in your eyes now? Sorrow—sorrow that you cannot feel all regret now that your father is to die. Do not grieve that I tell you, Ørlygur; your thoughts are the clean, good thoughts of a child, and I love them. There is more in your mind too. I know what it means to you to learn now that your father did not die as you thought—a suicide. But Sera Ketill died then, only a Guest on earth remained behind. And there is one thing more, that you yourself perhaps would not have said before so many—you are thinking of the girl you have chosen, and how she, too, will be glad to hear what you have learned today. Come here to me, Ørlygur, and take my blessing.”
Ørlygur rose, and the tears he had been trying bravely to repress flowed freely now. He fell on his knees beside the bed, and hid his face in the coverlet. The old man laid his hand on his son’s head.
“Best that it should be said,” he went on. “And you may be glad of your choice. Her heart is pure, as yours is. And she will be faithful—as you. Clean and pure in heart....”
He broke off, weeping.
“Clean and pure in heart,” he murmured brokenly. “Oh, that I had been so ... that I had been....”
His voice was lost, and for some time he could not speak. Then with an effort he controlled himself, and spoke again:
“Nothing done can be undone. By the grace of God it may seem that wrong has been atoned for and forgiven. I do not know whether I have atoned for my sins, or whether they can ever be wiped out. Ormarr, you are wondering yourself now how it can be that the hatred of me that still glowed for a moment in your eyes when you found me before has vanished so suddenly. Shall I tell you why it was? It was because you saw and understood how I had suffered—suffered the pains of hell, more than a man can bear. And because you had suffered too. In suffering all hearts meet; more than all, when death and the ties of blood are there to help. And you, Runa, you are thanking God that I am still alive, and that I have suffered as I have. Never a doubt in your heart but that God has forgiven me. And so you, too, have forgiven. Kata, you and I can read each other’s thoughts; our thoughts are one. And though you know it before I speak, let me say it; it is you I have to thank most of all.”
He was silent for a moment, turned over on his side, and went on:
“At the moment when it was in my mind to throw myself into the sea—I had thought to drown myself in my despair—I remembered you. I had often thought of you, and guessed something of the sorrow at your heart, though you never let it be seen. I knew your story—knew that one had deceived you, and that you could not forget. I saw how you went about as a blessing to others, though you suffered more than all the rest. And it seemed to me that perhaps your life was, after all, the greatest thing—greater than all else, to put self aside and live for others. And it was then I felt the desire to try if I could not wipe away my sin—try to spread blessings around me instead of despair. And so I fled away to a distant part, hiding at night and travelling by day. ‘Guest’ I called myself, and was the poorest of men, a beggar, a wanderer, living by the grace of God and man, eating with the dogs, and sleeping at night in barns or sheds among the cattle. And I had not wandered long before I found enough for me to do. Wherever I came, I found strife and malice and envy and misunderstanding among those who should have lived together in love. And I took upon me to work for reconciliation between my fellow-men—with one another, and with life and death. For men forget that life is but a speck in the vastness of space without end; that life comes from death and moves towards death in a narrow circle. And so they fight to the death, and seek to wound their fellows, ay, and strew poison in their wounds, forgetting that every hurt a man deals his fellow burns deepest in his own heart. With hands thirsting for blood and souls afire with hate they fight one against another—as they had fought for generations. And the priests—the servants of God? Why do they not go out among the people, speaking to each, and trying to link the souls of all together in brotherly love? Instead of standing up like idols aloof in their pulpits, and delivering the word of God as an oracle. That is the only priesthood that is worthy of its name, the only way to show forth God’s word so that it shall be felt and understood and live in the soul itself. I could have won many a man to leave his home and follow me—to leave his father and mother, his wife, and go with me. But how many are ripe for such a task? And it was not for that I had set out upon my way.”
The fever increased. He lay bathed in perspiration, and his eyes glittered more brightly than before. The others gathered closer round him, trying to calm him, begging him not to tire himself with talking, but he went on:
“And now that I am to go, my greatest sorrow is that there is none to take up my poor work. For what is the work of one man? Oh, if there were enough; if there were many who could understand that the greatest of all is to put aside self and bring peace on earth. That the greatest joy of all is to be a poor man, going from place to place and showing others the way to free their hearts from the yoke of worldly things. But the priests—they have taken office and would keep it; they are paid for their work in money, and grasp at it; they seek a higher and a higher place in worldly things, for their heart is set on worldly gain—not with their people, not with their God. It is much to ask. I know—too much to ask of any in these days. But it is because none will give it that hatred and dissension live and grow. I do not know—forgive me that I say this—I do not know if there is any God, but I believe and hope it. If I should say I know, it would be a lie. But I do know that there is more happiness in peace than in a divided mind. I know that enmity makes the heart evil, and that friendship makes it good. And I know that our life is made richer by love and goodness; easier to bear, more natural. Where all is hatred and strife, who can find any meaning in life at all? The only thing that helps us to understand life at all is our own striving for the best in it.”
The room grew darker. As the sick man spoke his last words, the daylight faded.
“Light,” he said. “The darkness will be long enough when it comes.”
A candle was lighted and placed beside the bed. Silence filled the room, broken only by the old man’s heavy breathing. Those around him were busy each with his own thoughts. Alma sat on the sofa, and had apparently lapsed into her usual state of semi-consciousness, from which the arrival of the wanderer had roused her for a moment. It grew dark and the light was lit, but she did not heed.
Suddenly the old man whispered faintly:
“Help me off with my clothes.”
Runa and Ormarr did so; tears came to their eyes at the sight of his miserable rags. Ørlygur sat apart, his face swollen with weeping. Ketill smiled as the cold sheets touched his body.
Suddenly his expression changed to one of earnest thought. And after a little while he asked:
“If—if Alma would come and sit beside me here.”
The Danish Lady roused herself a little as they helped her to the bedside; she took the sick man’s hands in hers and stroked them. Then after a little while she sank back into helplessness again.
Ketill lay with a smile on his face. Once he tried to lift his head, but could not.
“Only a little while now,” he said. Then, glancing towards old Kata, he went on:
“Lay her hands on my lips, that I may kiss them.”
Kata did so.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, as he kissed the limp hands of her who had been his wife. “And good-bye for a little while.”
“It is time now,” he said faintly—“time to say good-bye to all.”
One after another bent over him, kissed his forehead, and received the touch of his lips.
Ørlygur came last. He threw himself down sobbing on the bed.
“My son—my son,” the old man whispered. Then his face seemed to harden, and he lay as if unconscious. After a while he looked up again, and seemed trying to speak. Faintly at first, then in a stronger voice, he spoke once more:
“God—God—my God!...”
His hands twitched feebly.
“Are you still there? Have they all gone?”
His hands dropped limply to his sides. Those near him touched his fingers, but could not speak.
“I can feel you are with me still. But I cannot move my hands. Is this death?”
He breathed with difficulty.
Suddenly, with his old, powerful voice, he cried aloud:
“Alma, Alma!”
He raised himself up in bed and then fell back. Guest the One-eyed—a Guest on earth for twenty weary years—was no more. And Sera Ketill, priest, had won the peace he sought.
Those who watched and understood had eyes only for the man there on the bed. None noticed the Danish Lady.
When her name was called, Alma clutched at her heart. Now she sat still, looking vaguely round. Then, rising, she asked in a new voice that made the others start.
“Where am I?”
And, flushing slightly, she went on:
“That was Ketill’s voice.”
She pressed her hands to her breast once more, and sank down. Her heart had ceased to beat.
Her sudden, unexpected death came with a shock to the others, and they stopped weeping. For a moment all stood as if turned to stone.
Then they lifted her up and laid her on the bed beside her husband. And all knelt beside the bed in silent prayer.
The candle flickered in the dark, throwing a restless gleam on the pale faces of the dead. The darkness seemed creeping in to cover them.
For a little all was deathly still.
Then old Kata rose and opened a window—“to let the souls pass out.” And, going over to the others, she knelt with them beside the bed.
But the light went out in the draught, and darkness closed about the living and the dead.