Runa’s trouble was not the only thing he had to bear; there were other matters that seemed to bode no good. And all were more or less connected with his son Ketill; Ketill, who was to inherit the estate and maintain the honourable traditions of Borg.
To begin with, things had looked well enough; excellent, indeed, in every way. The estate had grown richer since Ormarr had repaid the loans made to him, and the whole trade of the district was in the hands of Ørlygur’s trusted men. The place was flourishing—thanks largely to Ørlygur’s magnanimity in cancelling debts that proved too much of a burden—and the general state of affairs was healthy and promising. Then, in addition to the good name which Ketill would inherit, there was his position in holy orders. Altogether, the outlook for the family was one of dignity and honour.
Now, things looked otherwise. Some months before, Ørlygur had begun to learn something of Ketill’s true nature; his selfishness and meanness; to hand over the estate to him seemed less advisable now than he had thought. Still, it should doubtless be possible to make him realize the duties and responsibilities of his position; to persuade him on matters where any danger threatened.
But the new development had raised an issue of a far more serious character. Once it were known abroad that the master of Borg—as Ketill in time would be—had deliberately ruined a young girl,—a girl, moreover, under the protection of his father’s roof,—and had thereafter married another, probably for selfish considerations also, then the good name of the family, jealously guarded and built up through centuries, would be destroyed as by a flood. It seemed as if the fortunes of Borg were on the verge of ruin.
Ørlygur thought of these things—and the idea of disinheriting Ketill, at any rate as regarded succession to the estate, crossed his mind. If only he himself could be sure of living long enough, then he might perhaps make Runa or her child his heir. The child would after all be his own grandchild, with the blood of his race in its veins.
But as he sat, his thoughts and plans faded to mere dreams and aimless desires. The future was too hard for him to face.
Runa sat trying to pray, her lips moving without a sound, to frame the opening sentence of the Lord’s Prayer.
The man she had loved was far away in a foreign land—at that very moment, perhaps, he held another woman in his arms.
“Our Father....”
He had sworn that he loved her. Neither had spoken of marriage—she had not spoken of it because she had never doubted him.