The winter was a hard time for Fru Alma.
Never, surely, had a tender, womanly heart been so overwhelmed with loneliness and doubt, conflicting feelings and bewildering thoughts, or borne it all with greater fortitude and patience.
A snow-white lily snatched from the sunny spring and thrust away into a gloomy loft. And what is the withering of a lily to the agonies of a human heart? Here was a human creature, plucked from a careless butterfly existence under a cloudless sky of youth, and transplanted to a land of grim solemnity and earnest—the home of Fate, where dreams and omens and forebodings reigned; who could endure it and not suffer?
Alma’s soul developed in adversity, but it was an unnatural growth—the growth of herbage in the shade, outwardly luxuriant, no more. Such growths, once brought into the light of the sun, must wither and shrink, to rise no more.
Hardest of all, perhaps, was the monotony of her life. Despite the changing weather, lengthening days, intercourse with people around her as she picked up a little more of the language, despite the busy Sundays, it was a sadly uneventful existence, and there seemed no hope of relief in the future. The coming years loomed out as burdens to be borne in due course, days of drab wakefulness, with restless nights of evil dreams; the healing rest that night should bring was but a mirage.
When the loneliness became unbearable she would seek the company of old Kata, or of the other servants. And her kindness to them all was soon known far and wide. Were any in trouble, be sure Fru Alma would not pass them by; her generous sympathy was recognized by all. “The Danish Lady at Hof,” they called her, and looked to her as one to whom any appeal for help should naturally be made, as to a patron saint, or the Son of God Himself. And there was no irreverence in the comparison.
The vicarage was constantly besieged by beggars and vagabonds; Sera Ketill, scenting personal advantage to himself in his wife’s reputation for charity, encouraged her in the work. He thanked her—but his thanks were insincere and superficial, and Alma was not deceived. She and old Kata were the only ones who saw through him, each in her own way. The two women never spoke of him together; he was the one theme upon which they never exchanged confidences. Alma could not speak ill of her husband to any one, and it was not old Kata’s way to make ill worse. Kata knew exactly what went on at the vicarage, and she was the only one who did. Ørlygur was only partially aware of the true state of affairs between Ketill and his wife.
Kata, who herself had never been wife nor mistress to any man, was more outspoken with Fru Alma than she had ever been with any other soul. She found in her a creature pure and undefiled as herself, a nature trustful and unsuspicious, with that high confidence that gives the greatest worth, beyond what ordinary sense can perceive. And Kata tested her in many ways before venturing to speak freely; but Alma passed every ordeal triumphantly, unaware that she was being tried. Chief of all was absolute, voluntary silence, speaking of a matter to none until one knew that speech was but as speaking to oneself. Good wine should not be poured into untried vessels.
It is hard to say whether old Kata’s confidences were to Alma’s good or the reverse. In any case, it was a relief to her to talk with the old woman, and at first she paid but little heed to what she heard. There were strange themes which she would never have dreamed of discussing with any one, and when alone, she gave them but little thought. Gradually, however, they became more insistent, and laid firm hold on her mind.