Alma turned cold at heart as she looked. She remembered her first survey of the landscape earlier in the day, from Borg; she had found nothing green in it all save the sea. All the meadows and pastures round the house seemed withered and grey; the autumn green of the fields in Denmark was nowhere to be seen. All things seemed barren and decayed, with a grey pallor, as it were, of something nearing death, that she had seen before only in aged humanity. Here, she perceived, autumn was a reality, and not merely a passing phase to be taken lightly. Most of the houses, small and low, were built of turf and stone together. And the separate buildings of each homestead seemed to creep in close to one another, keeping as close to the ground as possible, like a flock of animals cowering before an approaching storm.
The impression it made on her then, of impending disaster, of something evil lying in wait, had vanished as quickly as it had come; she had not had time to dwell on it. But now it recurred to her mind, and she felt herself surrounded by coldness and enmity on all sides—until she remembered the greetings of the servants, and the old woman who had ushered her in to the house. The kindness they had shown to her, alone and helpless as she was, seemed like a protecting circle round her. And easier in mind for the thought, she fell to pondering how she could best learn their language quickly, that she might at least find some kind words for them in return.
While she was thus engaged, her husband entered.
She glanced at his face; anxious first of all to learn if he were still in the same ill-humour as before. The light was fading, but she could see that his expression was cold and hard, that of a stranger. Her heart beat violently; she sat without a word.
Ketill hardly gave her so much as a glance; he walked up and down the room once or twice, as if in thought, then stood by the window farthest from her, looking out. After a while, he drew a deep breath, and came towards her. His brow was lined, and his face stern, but there appeared nevertheless to be some attempt at friendliness in his bearing—as if to show that she at least was not the cause of his ill-temper.
“Well here we are, at home!”
“Yes.”
Alma’s heart throbbed painfully, but he did not notice her emotion—only that she had not taken off her riding things.
“Haven’t you got your things off yet?”
“You have not bidden me welcome yet, Ketill.”