Christian Christiansson tried to excuse himself, but every eye was on him, and seeing that he could not escape without the danger of exposing himself to suspicion, he yielded and allowed himself to be led away.
The little journey to Government House was like the progress to a Calvary. Every step was sown with memories--memories of the pleasures, the passions, the darling joys, the sorrows and the tragedies of the past--but while they seemed to strike up at him out of the very stones of the street, he had to nod and smile as the Secretary, walking by his side, rattled along with explanations and descriptions of the places they passed on their way.
"This is our principal thoroughfare, Mr. Christiansson. That is our chief hotel, and this is our national bank. The large building flying the Iceland falcon is our parliament hall. That is our old cathedral, sir, and this--this is Government House."
Suffocated with shame, choking with a sense of duplicity, and trembling with the fear of detection, Christian Christiansson continued to say, "Yes" and "Is that so?" until he reached the porch of his old home. And then, remembering how and when he had passed out of it last--alone, at night, disgraced and with his father's door closed against him--it was almost as much as he could do to restrain an impulse to turn about and fly. But just at that moment his father's door opened quickly, and there on the threshold another man, in the uniform of the Governor, stood waiting with outstretched hand to welcome him.
The palpitation of Christian Christiansson's heart was almost choking him. What wild harlequinade of real life was this, that he who had been so nearly flung out of Iceland should be received back to it with open arms? What mad game of blind-man's buff were the powers of destiny playing with him? It was not for nothing that he had taken the name of Christian Christiansson. What invisible wings of Fate had been over him when he did so? And were they plumed to honor or to dishonor, to reward or to punishment, to joy or to sorrow, to life or to death?
IV
The Sheriff made Minister was the same man still. He received Christian Christiansson with suavest politeness but without a trace of recognition.
"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to Iceland! My wife is in the drawing-room--she will be delighted to see you. We may go this way--this way through my bureau--do me the honor to follow me. Don't knock against the stove--strangers do sometimes. A ramshackle old house, sir, for which my predecessor was responsible--I'm building a better in another part of the town. You've not yet dined? How fortunate! In these high latitudes we keep up primitive customs, Mr. Christiansson. We dine in the middle of the day, and you are just in the nick of time. I was holding a meeting of my executive when the news of your arrival reached me, and I took the liberty to invite one or two of my colleagues. This is the drawing-room--have the goodness to step inside."
Muttering monosyllables only in reply to the Minister's explanations, Christian Christiansson followed him through the house that was as familiar as the palm of his hand until he came face to face with his hostess and the friends who had been invited to meet him.
The hostess was an acquaintance of his school-days, grown middle-aged and matronly, and the friends were the Rector of the Latin School, looking elderly and iron-grey, and the Bishop, looking white and old. They received him with the utmost cordiality, but, like the Minister, without a sign of recognition.