The autumn nights had a depressing effect on her mind, filling her with a consuming pain—a deep and intolerable longing for some one in whose heart she had a place, though but the merest little corner, where she could feel at rest.
At milking-time, about ten o’clock, she could be sure of finding old Kata in the cowshed. And often she would steal out to her there, watching the old woman at work in the dim light. Old Kata knew that her mistress might be coming, and sent off Kobbi, the old cowman, for a jug, which was filled straight from the udder,—an especial piece of consideration on the part of Kata,—and the three would sit talking together as best they could. The two old folk had already taught their mistress something of the language, enough at any rate for her to understand them, and now and again put in a word herself.
CHAPTER IV
Time rolled on.
The autumn nights grew longer; the days dwindled to a few hours’ feeble light.
Winter was near at hand.
Then came the snow. First one night, when all was still. There it lay next morning, a soft, white sheet spread out under a blue-tinted sky. All the earth seemed silent as in church, at the hour of meditation. And when any sound broke the stillness, its echo seemed to dwell in the ear for longer than usual, dying away slowly, as if loth to depart.
The wind came, levelling the snow to fill the hollows of the ground; then more snow, then rain, and then frost; winter was come in earnest, come to stay. Heavy, murky clouds shed their burden of snow, but passed away again; winter had many aspects and was never one thing for long at a time. Westerly winds flung the snow hither and thither, mountain torrents rushed down on their way to the sea. And then suddenly, in the midst of all this wild confusion, would come calm, clear nights, of ghostly quiet, no sound to be heard save the murmur of the sea, like beating of the wings of time.
And men lived on, under the heavy yoke of winter. It seemed as if the winter itself were ever trying to foist itself upon them, claiming acknowledgment of its presence. It set its mark upon the window-panes, thrust itself at them through the cracks of doors; but they strove to keep it out, thawing the pictures on their windows, bundling the snow from their thresholds with scant ceremony, even with abuse. No wonder that the winter turned spiteful at times, lying in wait for men and leading them astray in storms, luring them to destruction in some concealed ravine where their last breath could be offered up as a sacrifice upon its altar. It was but reasonable so.
This winter, the Hofsfjordur folk had little time to spare for contemplation of the usual struggle; they took the necessary steps for their protection, but their minds were largely occupied with other matters.