CHAPTER VII
Ørlygur a Borg was heavy at heart this spring.
He marked the covert whispering abroad, and it chilled him. But no one was anxious to be the first to tell him of the rumours that had spread, and he remained in ignorance of their essential theme. Yet he could not fail to see that there was something in the air—something that concerned himself.
The expression of men’s faces had changed. Ørlygur found himself regarded with curious glances—sometimes a look of wondering speculation, at times a look of something like scorn. If he came unexpectedly upon a group, they would cease their talking suddenly, or talk with such eagerness of indifferent matters that it was clear they had changed the subject on his arrival. They had been speaking of him—or at any rate of something he was not to know of.
At first he paid little heed to it all. What did he care for their gossip? He had always held himself apart and above all idle talk. Realities, matters of actual moment, were the only things that interested him. Let them wag their tongues if they pleased; say what they would of one another, good or ill. It was always the same in the end—they answered to the hand with the surest touch, not to the mere possessor of a gift of speech.
As days went on, their glances became more and more ill-disposed and evident; the crowd seemed to increase in boldness as its numbers grew. Ørlygur felt himself gradually surrounded; even at Borg itself there was an air of restraint apparent. His own people no longer met his gaze frankly, no longer laughed heartily at his jests; his orders even were no longer received and obeyed with the same willing alacrity as before. If any task called for special effort, there was no longer the same eager haste to help. It seemed rather as if he were being left to struggle by himself, an object of curiosity as to how he would manage alone. He could see, too, that he was being watched, as if all around him were trying to read his thoughts, and with no friendly eye.
Day by day it grew harder to bear. Ørlygur tried to get at what was in their minds, insinuating opportunities for them to speak out, but without avail. They could not—or would not—perceive his invitations to tell him frankly what was amiss.
He sought out his best friends in the parish, those whom he had befriended most. He called, not as with any evident object, but casually, leaving it to them to speak of what they evidently knew. But all to no purpose. It had not been the way of those whom Ørlygur had helped to cringe and fawn before him; they had acknowledged his assistance as between man and man. But now they met him with fluent insincerity, plainly trying to conceal the true state of the case. Outwardly, they were humble and full of deference and gratitude; but he could see their hearts were ice towards him.
There was hardly a soul in the parish who was not indebted to him in some way. But now that he stood in need of a friendly hand, their selfishness was revealed. Not one had the courage to speak out.
Then came the third of May—the date when farm hands and servants enter or leave their service.