When the pair had left, Ormarr and his father sat alone in the sitting-room. And now for the first time Ormarr perceived how troubled in mind the old man was. He paced up and down the room, and for some time Ormarr forbore to question him. It was hard for Ørlygur to commence, but at length he pulled himself together, and spoke in a weak and faltering voice.
“Ormarr, you should have been my only son. It would have been better so. I am paying dearly for my disregard of the warning. Had I not been so self-willed, maybe your mother would have been alive now, and your life would have been very different. Not that I’ve anything to reproach you with, no....”
Ormarr grasped his father’s hand, and pressed it. The old man turned his head away, and went on:
“It is hard to see a thing one had treasured with heart and soul brought to ruin; to die, and leave an inheritance of responsibility behind. Ormarr, do you remember Pall à Seyru’s little girl?”
“Runa? Yes, indeed. Why have I not seen her this time? I hope she is not very seriously ill?” Ormarr had inquired after her on his return, but had simply been told that she was not well.
Ørlygur hesitated for a moment. Then he said:
“Runa has been betrayed—by your brother.”
Ormarr started as if struck, and his face paled. His father’s hand slipped from his grasp, and the two men sat for a while in silence. When at last they spoke, it was of other things.
“Yes,” said Ørlygur thoughtfully, “there are many things that will trouble me if the estate goes to Ketill. I have an idea that he thinks of collecting the debts I wrote off for the people here some time back, as still due to the estate. The folk do not trust him, and have certainly no love for him. If the place—and the honour of the family—are left to him.... I could wish them in better hands.”
“But I have come home now, father.”