Ormarr looked at his father keenly, and after a moment’s thought he said:
“Look here, father, I will tell you what I have thought of doing about the money part of the business. I want to get the money without offering shares. It will be difficult, I dare say. But I must be independent here; I cannot bear to be bound by considerations of credit, or other men’s interests, and that sort of thing. It would spoil the whole thing. The business must be my property; I will not have a thing that can be ruined by others after I have built it up. But if I should be unable to get the capital in the way I want it—why, then, I may come to you. Provided, of course, I can be sure of running no risk in the investment. I owe you too much already.—My inheritance, you say? I have not come into the property yet. But suppose we put it that way; that I owe so much to the estate. Anyhow, I owe it; it is money that must be paid, if things do not go altogether against us. For the present, I must fall back on you. But I shall not want much—nothing like what I have been drawing up to now. And I am proud that you are willing to help me, when I know I must have disappointed you by what I have done up to now.”
“I trust you, Ormarr,” his father said. “I do not quite understand, but I feel sure you were obliged to act as you did. The rest does not concern me. I know that you are honest and sincere, and I know that your aim now is not a selfish one.”
For a time no more was said; both men seemed anxious to let it appear that their minds were occupied with anything rather than with each other. But for all his apparent calmness, Ormarr was overwhelmed with gratitude to his father; to the fate that had given him such a father; given him Borg for his inheritance, and suffered him to be born a son of this little nation. Ørlygur, on his part, concealed beneath an expression of indifference a feeling of pride and love for his son.
As the sleigh drove up in front of the house, all the servants came out to welcome Ormarr, with a heartiness that showed plainly enough for all their quiet manner. A tall girl of about thirteen, with lovely flaxen hair flowing loose about her shoulders, appeared; this was Gudrun, a daughter of Pall à Seyru, now adopted by Ørlygur. Ketill was nowhere to be seen; Ormarr asked where his brother was.
Ørlygur smiled.
“Have you forgotten already? I wrote you in my last letter that I had sent him to the school at Rejkjavik. He wants to enter the Church, I understand. And I have been thinking that it would not be a bad idea later on, if he took over the living here. If, then, you decide to live abroad, as seems likely, and give up the estate here, then he could manage that as well. For the present, I have my health and strength, and hope to look after it myself for many years. We shall see.”
Of Ormarr’s stay at Borg that winter there is little to be said. Every Sunday the people of the parish came up to hear him play the violin. He was delighted to play to them, and touched at their grateful, almost devotional, reception of his playing.
Spring came. The snow melted, and the rivers sent floods of muddy water and blue ice towards the sea. A great unrest came over Ormarr, and he left earlier than he had planned. So, after all, he missed the soft purity of the Iceland spring, the beautiful white nights with the glow of light on the fields and ridges pearled with dew. He missed the sight of the butterflies fluttering in gaudy flocks, and the birds among the little hillocks where their nests lay hid.