Guest the One-Eyed

Fru Alma had come to Iceland knowing nothing of the language of the country. Ketill and his brother had always spoken Danish; it had never occurred to her that all Icelanders might not understand it.

When she came to Borg on her first arrival, and met her father-in-law, who could neither understand her nor speak to her, she realized that this ignorance on her part would make her lonely and isolated, and she asked her husband:

“Why did you not teach me Icelandic, Ketill?”

But Ketill answered curtly. He was in ill-humour on account of the failure of his first plans, and his reception generally.

“Never thought of it,” was all he said.

Alma, whose womanly instinct had told her at once that all was not as it should be among the family, glanced anxiously from one to another of those round her. Then she observed:

“But I can’t talk to any one.”

“You can talk to me.”

Alma was silent. It was the first time her husband had spoken unkindly to her.

Later on, as they went home to Hof, Ketill rode in silence, with never a word to his wife all the way.

Alma’s heart was full of conflicting emotions. She was sorry that there should be any coolness between herself and her husband; but her conscience at least was clear. And why could he not talk to her; tell her what it was that evidently troubled him? It struck her that he had never really confided in her, save in regard to matters of no account.

Suddenly she realized that they were really strangers. She had never really known him, after all; he had never opened his heart to her. And the distance between them seemed so tangible that it was hard to realize that they were actually married. Despite the intimacy of their relationship, they were separated by a veil of darkness and uncertainty. And so they were to live, side by side, year after year, bound one to another by a bond that could not be broken,—ay, and by another that would soon be evident,—to live in each other’s company through every day. And the thought was so painful to her that she found herself unwilling to contemplate that her children would have to call this man their father.

The change in her feelings, or more properly, her sudden realization of the true state of things, the recognition of her thoughtless rashness in entering upon this marriage, came to her as something overwhelming; she hardly knew herself. All in a moment she was changed; she was no longer the light-hearted, innocent girl, but a creature unknown, with unknown possibilities.

It was done now, and she was helpless. She had given vent to thoughts and feelings which, as her old self, she would never have dreamed of. So unaccustomed was she to act on the dictates of her own feeling and not by custom and tradition, to measure things by her own ideas and not by orthodox, accepted standards, that she felt herself now a dangerous person, a criminal, forced to seek refuge in silence and emptiness from words or thoughts that might lead to disaster.

There was her husband now, riding ahead, and paying no heed to how she managed on the way. Where was the courteous gentleman who had stood by her side at the altar? And she had told herself—and others—that she had found the ideal partner for life! A priest, moreover, a servant of God, set in the forefront of humanity as an example to others!

Little by little she worked herself up to a state of bitter scorn. Once she had let herself go, she knew no bounds.

And she did not spare herself, now that she had once ventured to form her own judgment of things and people, herself included.

Oh, what an irresponsible fool she had been in her self-deception! Trustful and idealistic—yes, and narrow-minded and unwittingly a hypocrite. A doll, a child, a foolish butterfly thing.... Heavens, how little and mean and stupid, wicked and ridiculous, she had been—she and so many others of her kind.

There was her husband, riding ahead ... yes....

A reaction of regret at her impetuosity came over her. It was a dreadful thing not to love and honour him. Oh, if only he would make it easier; turn round and nod to her kindly, or say a friendly word. She would be loving and forgiving at once. Who could say what troubles were burdening him all the time? And perhaps it was only to spare her that he said nothing. Men were strange in that way; they fancied that a woman suffered less in such estrangement if she did not learn the cause of it.

Then—oh, it was incredible! They were at the ford now, and he was riding through the stream without so much as a look behind him.... Well, perhaps there was nothing so strange in that, after all; possibly it had not occurred to him that she had never forded a stream on horseback in her life; it was only thoughtlessness on his part.

But all the same it was a hard struggle to keep her mind in any friendly attitude towards him, or to keep back the fears that would rise to her eyes. She bit her lips, and strove to restrain her feelings.

Her horse was already knee deep in the water—and the Hofsa at this part was wide, yet with a fairly strong current.

Alma had never ridden through running water before; at first it seemed to her as if the horse had suddenly flung itself sideways against the stream. Instinctively she leaned over herself, farther and farther, against the stream. Ketill, a couple of lengths in front, looked round just as she was about to fall, turned his horse, and seized her arm just in time.

The roar of the water, and a sense of dizziness in her head, rendered her unconscious for the moment. But the grip on her arm was hard, and a feeling of anger rose in her towards her husband. Again she restrained herself; it was perhaps only his firmness that had saved her; she forgot about his carelessness in riding ahead of her across the ford. Her kindly feelings were uppermost, and as soon as they had crossed to the farther bank, she turned to him, trying honestly to speak in a friendly tone, and asked:

“What is it, Ketill; what is the matter with you?”

“Nothing—nothing,” answered Ketill, and gave his horse a cut with the whip, so that the animal sprang forward a pace.

At that, Alma broke down entirely, and fell to sobbing helplessly; she was weary and desperate, unable to think, or even consciously to feel; she was alone in a great solitude, herself a solitary speck of misery in an endless expanse.

They reached the vicarage. Alma was now in a state of dull indifference. She had, however, carefully dried the tears from her face, and drawn down her veil.

The vicarage servants, about a score in all, had gathered in front of the house to welcome the new master and his wife. Ketill was abrupt and reserved as hitherto; he shook hands with them all, as was the custom of the country, but his greeting was cold and formal.

Somewhat unwillingly, Alma laid her slight, warm hand in the first hand outstretched towards her; but the evident respect and kindly feeling with which it was taken touched her at once, and she grasped it with sincere feeling. And the ice once broken, she was able to greet each of the simple, silent folk with unfeigned heartiness. She could not understand their stammered words, but her own manner spoke for itself, and one old woman, the last to come forward, was so touched by the natural kindliness of the fine lady from foreign parts, that she forgot herself so far as to put one arm around her shoulder and kiss her on the cheek.

Alma felt herself trembling, and could hardly restrain her tears. Leaning on the old woman’s arm, she passed into the house.

Ketill gave some brief orders, and the servants dispersed. But even this first encounter had been enough to plant in the heart of each of them a seed of ill-will towards their master, and affection towards the Danish lady he had brought with him as his wife.

The old woman led Alma into the low-ceilinged sitting-room and left her. Neither could understand the other’s speech, and she had judged it best to retire.

Alma sat down on a chair just inside the door, still wearing her riding-habit and veil, and looked round the room. It was painted white, with four heavy beams across the ceiling. The two windows at one end of the room were already hung with heavy winter curtains above the white. The furniture was of polished mahogany. The floor was carpeted, and a heavy old-fashioned stove was built into the centre of one wall. A big upright clock ticked monotonously, with a beat as cold and devoid of feeling as the utterance of a philosopher whom nothing on earth could move. There was a sense of comfort about the general atmosphere of the room, yet it had, as is often the case with rooms antiquely furnished, a touch of aloofness, forbidding the introduction of any other tone, or at least dominating others by its own.

Close to one of the windows Alma noticed a large writing-table and a bookshelf; that seemed familiar. And suddenly she realized that the room was to be not hers alone, but her husband’s also. Probably he had no study of his own in the house. And a feeling of bitterness crept into her heart; the room seemed less inviting now.

She rose, and crossed to the window farthest from the writing-desk, where there stood a small work-table. Here she sat down in an easy-chair, still without taking off her things, and looked out of the window. Outside was a small plot of potatoes and turnips, hedged in with the remains of a rhubarb bed, against the high bank which sheltered the garden on the north. The windows faced south-west, looking on to the bleak, high field beyond the enclosure. Behind the vicarage towered the Hof Mountains, hanging threateningly, as it were, above the place; farther in the distance were blue-grey peaks and ridges. It was all so strange to her that now, looking at it calmly, it seemed unreal, incredible.

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.”

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind, don’t worry about that.”

“No, no.... Forgotten, did you say? Ketill, I hardly know you again.”

“Whatever do you mean by that? One can’t always be in the best of tempers, I suppose?”

“No, perhaps not. But—it seems a strange homecoming, that’s all.”

Ketill was silent. He had no reply to offer, and the conversation bored him. He was curiously indifferent to Alma’s feeling of well-being or the reverse. What was she, after all? A child, thoughtless, ignorant, like all women—and most men too, for that matter. She was out of sorts just now—never mind, she would have forgotten it by tomorrow. At any rate, he could make it all right again then; perhaps he might feel more in the mood for paying attention to her troubles. Ketill was thinking in this strain when Alma spoke again.

“It is strange that you should be so different now, all at once. It almost seems as if our marriage had separated us rather than brought us together.”

Ketill had no time now to bother about whether there were any truth in this or not: no, the only thing to do was to smile in a superior fashion and not let himself be put out. And he smiled accordingly, the self-satisfied smile of a priest and a model husband, setting aside his bad temper for the moment, and said:

“There, there, little philosopher—let us put off the quarrel till another day.”

“Quarrel? Oh, I had never thought to quarrel. I’m only unhappy, that’s all.”

“Well, don’t you think it might be reasonable to imagine that I had some reason for being—well, not in the best of tempers today—what?”

“Yes, indeed, Ketill. But you have told me nothing; I know nothing of what could have upset you.”

“Well, hardly. Women don’t understand men’s troubles as a rule.”

“That seems a new sort of thing for you to say.”

“Possibly. We’ve hardly known each other long enough for me to have told you everything I think.”

“True, we have not known each other so very long. I only hope we may not find we knew too little of each other.”

Ketill laughed; to his mind, the question was not worth taking so seriously.

“Well, you’ve certainly grown less of a child and more of a woman—more of a married woman—than you were.”

But Alma found it utterly impossible to fall in with his tone.

“I am tired, Ketill. I should like to go to bed.”

“Already! Well, well, perhaps it’s the best thing you could do.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and called down the passage: “Kata!”

The old woman who had first shown Alma in, answered his call, and Ketill charged her briefly to show her mistress upstairs; she was unwell, and would go to bed at once.

Old Kata led her mistress to the bedroom above. She could not overcome the awkwardness caused by the impossibility of speech, but did her best to make up for it by kindly looks and gestures.

She would have withdrawn again at once, but Alma held her back, made her sit down on a chair by the bed, and tried to talk to her, repeating little phrases again and again till they were understood. Kata seemed willing enough, and did her best to understand; she would have liked to explain that she and all the others had already taken to their new mistress, and were anxious to do all they could for her. It was a marvel to Kata that a fine lady could be so natural and sweet and condescending. All that she had seen before of that sort had been proud and stiff and disdainful towards humble folk.

She tried to relate a dream she had had the night before about a burning light washed up by the waves, on the shore just below. Old Kata was a poor enough creature to look at, but by no means poor in spirit. She had her own world of visions and dreams, and was mistress there. And she would not speak to all and sundry of her dreams; but folk knew she had the gift, and could see what she would and learn what she pleased.

Kata was sure that the light she had seen was the fylgje, the attendant spirit, of the young Danish lady. Kata always saw a person’s fylgje before she encountered the person in reality, and she had rarely seen so beautiful a fylgje as this. For what could be more beautiful than a burning light? A burning light in the darkness. And she was accustomed also to interpret and say what such things meant. But here she could not. A burning light in the darkness—what could that mean? Something good, something beautiful it must be. And the person it followed must be a good and lovable soul.

Later that evening, the servants sat talking things over together before going to bed. They spoke of their Danish mistress, and gathered round old Kata, who, of course, had first claim to speak with authority here.

“Anyway, she’s a good heart,” said one of the men.

“And not too proud to take humble folks’ hand—as she did my very own.”

Old Kata let them talk; she could afford to be silent. Her turn would surely come. She had had most to do with their mistress up to now, and, moreover, she was recognized as the wisest head in the place—not excepting any priest. She sat now with her knitting, considering it beneath her dignity to take notice of all that was said.

Moreover, she had already expressed her opinion, in the most favourable terms, and as the others likewise had nothing but praise to utter, there was no call for her to take further part.

“Anyway, I’m certain she won’t be as hard and cruel as the last one was, with her scolding and words,” said one of the maids. “What say you, Kata?”

“She’s the blessedest light I’ve met in all my days,” answered Kata quietly, and a trifle slowly, as was her way. “There’s never an evil thought in her soul, nor a hard word in her mouth. And that’s the truth.”

Sera Ketill went late to bed that night. By ill chance it was Saturday, and he had to have his sermon ready for the morrow.

On this occasion, above all, it behoved him to take some pains with it. It was his first service, and there would be a large and expectant congregation.

Nevertheless, he did not feel at all in the mood for dealing with his text: “Ye cannot serve two masters.”

He felt a sudden bitterness of regret that he had ever decided to become a priest. Had he but chosen any other profession—a lawyer, a doctor, even a trader! Then he would have been able at least to avenge his defeats indirectly, by letting others suffer for them. Just think, for instance, of the satisfaction with which he could have taken up the task of passing sentence upon some one or other, instead of pointing out the inadvisability, nay, the impossibility, of serving two masters. He wished he could have altered the text, and held forth, for instance, upon the abomination of desolation, or the Day of Judgment. But it could not be done; the text was of serving two masters, and nothing could alter it. And he had to have a good strong sermon on that text by tomorrow, or his first appearance would be a failure. He was not disposed to risk further defeats after the ill-success of his plans today. He needed the encouragement of a victory, and must take it where it seemed most easily attainable.

He thought of his changed position; all things had turned out badly up to now. His castles in the air; his dreams of power—unlimited power—in the parish, had, he could already perceive, faded into nothing. And suddenly it struck him that he had only to give vent to his own bitterness, directing it into the proper channel, and there was his sermon!

It took time, and it was late before his manuscript was finished. But as he contemplated it, noting with satisfaction the finishing touches, he felt assured that here at least was a masterpiece; he had only to deliver it with forceful and earnest eloquence, and it must have its effect. He had regained his self-control, and was ready to forget all the disappointment of the day in sleep.

Alma awoke early next morning.

She dressed in haste, and as quietly as possible, anxious not to awaken her husband, and with some difficulty found her way through the passages and out of the house.

She stood for a little outside. It was a quiet autumn day; the air seemed full of a strange peace and solemn calm. Being Sunday, there were none of the people astir, save those busy within doors in stables or kitchen, and of these she saw nothing.

Alma wandered round the place, making a survey of her surroundings. The buildings, with their turf roofs and solid walls of the same material, seemed pleasant enough to the eye, giving a sense of security in their massive solidity. They seemed as firmly rooted and immovable as if Nature and the Lord had planted them in the earth when earth was made.

She looked about for the church, but could see none. The tarred wooden structure yonder, with a turf wall round, could surely not be it—and yet, on closer inspection, she noticed a white cross rising from the roof. With a curious beating of the heart, she hurried across to the gate in the earthen wall. Reaching it, she found that the church stood in the middle of a modest little churchyard. She opened the gate and went in. Most of the graves were simply oblong mounds of earth, only here and there was there a headstone with the usual border round. And there were a few wooden crosses with lettering in black tar.

The church itself was locked. She walked round the outside, and looked in through one of the windows, of which there were three on either side. The interior was painted white. At one end stood the altar, on a small semicircular eminence, with a low rail round. Next to it were the choir stalls, consisting of a few benches along the walls and some loose ones arranged to allow of passage between. On the right, looking down the nave, was the pulpit, with painted figures of apostles on the panels, evidently older than the church itself. There was a small harmonium, polished and new-looking—the contrast made Alma smile. But she regretted it at once; the feeling of amusement at this primitive lack of taste which installed a brand-new cheap-line harmonium in an old church, disappeared. She felt that God’s all-seeing eye was on her as she stood there spying in through a window at His house.

Looking around for somewhere to sit down a little, she noticed that the churchyard wall on one side was low, and went across. On her way she passed a grave on which stood a small pillar of grey granite, the upper part broken off obliquely. She stopped, and half unconsciously read the inscription. Between the Christian name and surname stood the word skald. She passed on, wondering in her mind what the little word might mean, but gave it up, and soon forgot it.

Seating herself on the churchyard wall, she let her eyes wander over the country round, noting how the sun shone on the fjord and on the farther side of the valley, leaving a strip of shadow on the fjeld. And a feeling of longing rose in her breast. It was strange to see the sun shining on others, and herself be left in the shadow. It seemed as if there were joy there, beyond—joy in which she had no part, and which saddened her to watch. And it was not only today, not merely the shadow of a passing cloud that barred her from the sunlight; no, there stood the fjeld, the dark and massive, rocky height, that day after day was to steal the sunlight from her life. She felt that there was enmity between them—but a moment later she realized that the dark church and the gloomy fjeld were in harmony; and that God was in and over both.

Strange—ever since she had set foot in this place, she had felt the presence of God distinctly; a blind omnipotence, of merciless mercy—she hardly knew how to define it. God was not so distant in these surroundings as He had first appeared. The snow-white sides of the fjeld were pure and good to look upon; they might well be the abode of God. The country itself, in all its outlines, shapes, and colours, was so wild and unlike all else that it seemed impossible to regard it as inhabited by human beings only, with their petty trials and pleasures. It was impossible, here, to attach great importance to one’s own well-being or the reverse; one felt so pitifully small and weak. Even life and death seemed to lose their distinctive outline.

Alma caught herself thinking—and she smiled at the thought—that she had grown, and grown wiser since her arrival, all in the space of a day and a night. She felt now, to a degree almost beyond reason, that she was but a speck in eternity, only a ripple on the endless sea of time.

Ketill found his wife deep in thought, seated on the churchyard wall. She had not heard him approaching, and started when he touched her.

With a sudden access of tenderness, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

She made no resistance, though she resented the action inwardly. His strength and the physical charm of the man that had once attracted her were now grown repulsive.

Ketill noted that his wife looked serious. It suited her, and he stroked her hair.

“Sitting here all alone?” he asked.

“I was just looking round the place. One could sit here for years, I think, without getting tired of it. I wish I were a rock—set in a place like this for ever!”

Sera Ketill laughed. “I must say I prefer existence as a human being,” he said.

“But it is lovely here,” Alma went on. “So grand and wonderful—the rocks and the sea and the snow spreading everywhere, and the desolate fields—barrenness and abundance at once. It is like looking at the stars in the sky—emptiness and yet so rich....”

“A bit of good rich pasture land would be more to my taste,” objected Ketill teasingly.

“I suppose it would. Really, I think I feel more at home here than you do yourself.”

“Well, I’m glad you do not find the country altogether forbidding. Many people do, you know.”

“Forbidding? I feel as if I were under a spell. No will of my own, just a thing in the hands of Fate. And I love the feeling that there are great and distant powers that have taken my life into their hands.”

“You had better be careful, or you will be growing superstitious—it is a common failing among the people here. They believe in all kinds of spirits, portents, omens, fate, and all that sort of thing. Look at that gravestone there—the one with the granite pillar. A young poet was buried there. Somehow the top of the stone got broken off. And folk lay it to the charge of the powers of darkness—he killed himself, you know.”

“Yes.... A broken soul beneath a broken stone....”

“I don’t think the powers of darkness trouble themselves much about the gravestones in our churchyards.”

“A poet, you say? And he killed himself? How—why?”

“Threw himself over the cliff into the sea. You can see the spot—over there. It falls sheer down into the fjord.”

Alma looked and shuddered. A white wave broke the surface of the water, and dashed against the cliff.

“But why?”

“Nobody seems to know quite. They say it was something outside the usual causes—not starvation, for instance, or love or weariness of life.”

“Nobody knows? And yet he threw himself into the sea? Then it must have been a call from on high. He realized the presence of God, and followed it, into darkness and death.”

“Alma, whatever are you talking about!”

“I hardly know myself. The words came into my mouth without a thought. And I feel myself thinking strange things that never entered my head before.” And she laughed, a little nervous laugh. “It is as if the spirit were upon me, and I had to speak so.”

At this Ketill suddenly felt called upon to play the priest. Though, as a matter of fact, he was rather impressed by her words.

“Alma, that is blasphemy, you know.”

“Not at all.” She looked up in surprise. “I simply feel as if the Spirit of God were moving on the face of the waters, and as if I were a piece of dead clay, waiting to be created as a human being.”

By half-past nine, the congregation began to appear, coming up in little groups. Many were on horseback.

Alma was outside the house, and it seemed as if the place had suddenly become alive. Little knots of people came into view here and there, far or near, appearing and disappearing between the contours of the landscape. Nearly all were hurrying.

Reaching the church, they dismounted in groups, as they had come, tethering their horses near by. They were unsaddled, and some were merely hobbled and allowed to wander about at will. The churchgoers then set to tidying themselves before the service: pulling off the long riding hose, brushing dirt and hair from their clothes, unpacking collars or aprons, and fastening bows with careful neatness.

Then, having completed their toilet, they began to move about, exchanging greetings and news, collecting in new formations and changing again. A few spoke noisily, but for the most part they talked in an undertone, with much nodding of heads and brief ejaculations.

Alma was a centre of attraction, though most of the curious ones tried to conceal their interested observation. A few of the principal farmers and their wives, knowing who she must be, came up to greet her, but with some awkwardness, when they found she could not understand their speech. And they withdrew to the company of their fellows.

Ørlygur à Borg came alone.

Alma went up to her father-in-law, who smiled and took her hand, flushing like a youth, and with that curious kindly smile of his lighting up the furrowed face. He was looking better, she thought, than he had done the day before.

She took his arm, and would have led him into the house, but he shook his head, and nodded in the direction of the church, where the bell was now ringing in. Most of the congregation were already seated, only a few late comers were hastening up. Among them was old Kata. She thought herself unobserved, and waved a coloured kerchief in the air, muttering to herself: “Away, be off with you, cursed creatures; get away, wicked things.”

The bystanders imagined she was addressing invisible beings, evil spirits and demons,—the fylgjer of those present,—whom she had to drive away to make a passage for herself.

Alma entered the church with Ørlygur, leaning on his arm up the aisle. This was not customary except in the case of bride and bridegroom, but she knew no better. Ørlygur was somewhat embarrassed, but he felt happier than he had done for many a day; not for any consideration would he have withdrawn his arm.

He found her a seat next to his own sitting, but did not take that place himself. As the first layman in the parish he had duties to perform; he led the singing, and Alma noticed that it was the organ that followed his lead, not the reverse. She also remarked that his voice was surprisingly strong and pure for his years.

In the responses, however, he faltered a little; possibly, thought Alma, from nervousness on account of the fact that his son was officiating for the first time. A little after, she noticed a frown on his brow, lines that had not been there before, or at least not so marked. And it crossed her mind that Ørlygur à Borg was not on friendly terms with his son Ketill—there must be some good cause for it....

Already she seemed to have grown to love this old man, with his snow-white hair and beard, and the look of strength and yet of Christian kindliness in his face. Her eyes wandered from one to another of those present, old and young.

Many were better dressed than Ørlygur, who wore a suit of brown homespun material, his jacket buttoned up round the neck, and a pair of soft hide shoes on his feet. Many of the others wore collars and polished boots, yet it was easy to see that this man was the leader—the born master of his fellows, to whom all others must defer. Not that there was anything overbearing in his manner, far from it. He nodded to one and all, and they returned his greeting without servility, but with ungrudging respect as towards a superior whom they esteemed.

Ørlygur sat with bowed head and expressionless features throughout the sermon. But Alma could see that the people generally were carried away. And when the service was at an end, they gathered round Ørlygur and Ketill to offer their congratulations. Ørlygur, however, made no reply to their words of praise, only thanked them briefly. Shortly after, he took leave of Alma, shaking his head in response to her invitation to the house. She saw him go up to Ketill, who was standing in the middle of a group of peasants, and address a few words to him, whereupon both men walked away to where Ørlygur’s horse was standing.

“Ketill, I must have a word with you,” said Ørlygur to his son.

And as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest he went on.

“Do not speak; do not dare to say a word! Listen! You are a scoundrel and a rogue. Your sermon was hypocrisy, and inspired by something certainly not divine. You can deceive these poor folk, maybe, but you can no longer deceive me. I cannot imagine what use the Lord has for such a man as you—that He ever let you into His vineyard at all. And I cannot understand what Fate ever led that angel yonder to become your wife. How her beautiful eyes could fail to see through you—’tis more than I can fathom. Her will is for good—and yours for evil. Ay, you may smile! You are a hypocrite—a ne’er-do-well. But you are the priest of this parish, more’s the pity, and married to a good and beautiful girl—also, you are my son. I can only warn you to be careful. And I have this to tell you: Ormarr is taking over the estate of Borg; he has sold his business. And he is to marry Runa, my adopted daughter; they are going abroad at once. When Ormarr dies, Borg goes to their children—you understand me? I would advise you to be good to your wife. Should I hear otherwise, then God have mercy upon you. For her sake I will continue my duties in the church as before, hateful though it is to me to endure the sight of you. For her sake I pray that God will give me strength. Even now I cannot set foot in your house. Make what excuse you please to your wife; let her be spared from knowing the truth; bring her to Borg occasionally yourself. I would not see her suffer for your sins. And now I have spoken my mind.”

Ørlygur à Borg turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode off.

Sera Ketill had endeavoured once or twice to smile during his father’s outburst, but it was more for the sake of preserving his self-control that he had tried to consider the matter in a humourous light. As Ørlygur rode away, he stood with bowed head, set teeth, and frowning brow; then with an effort he pulled himself together, striving to regain his normal air of priestly authority.

When, a few minutes later, he encountered Alma, he said:

“My father was very busy, and could not come in. He told me to give you his kind regards. Ormarr is leaving tomorrow—going abroad, so they have much to do at Borg.”

“So that is why Ormarr did not come to church?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“But surely he will come and say good-bye?”

“It is hardly likely. He is only going away for a short time, and when he comes back he will live at Borg.”

“It will be nice to have him so near. But what about his business?”

“He has sold it, so my father tells me. As a matter of fact, this voyage is a sort of honeymoon. He is going to marry Runa, father’s adopted daughter, and she is going with him. We did not see her yesterday.”

“But it seems strange—not to pay a farewell visit.”

Ketill smiled sarcastically. “I should not expect it,” he said. “It is not the custom in this country.”

For the next few days Sera Ketill went about with a preoccupied air. He was trying to weigh the situation and settle his plans.

If his father and Ormarr had thought he would give up the struggle without protest, they were mistaken. He would not allow himself to be crushed. If they asked for war, they should have it. True, everything seemed to favour them at present, but on the other hand, the odds absolved him, he considered, from any obligation to be overscrupulous in his choice of weapons. All’s fair in love and war.

He remembered, with something like regret, the pleasant spring evenings when he had wandered side by side with Runa, enjoying a brief flirtation. Happy days—with nothing but the pleasure of the moment to consider. He had no longings to plague him, having all that he desired. He imagined himself in love with the shy, dreamy child who trusted herself so unreservedly to him. It had cost him something to leave her, but, nevertheless, something within him told him that he must; that he could not go on enjoying one idle, happy phase, but must move forward to a new and more strenuous one, that promised in return greater rewards for greater strife.

And, once he had left her, Runa had passed from his mind entirely; all that was left of her was a vague memory, the recollection of one of his minor adventures, a careless day of sunshine in his past. He had never thought she would cross his path again; it had never once occurred to him to write to her. He regretted his thoughtlessness now. If he had kept up a kind of correspondence with her, he might have used his influence over the girl to some purpose. Anyhow, it was fortunate that the incident had turned out as it had. No scandal—not a soul to fear. He could be quite easy on that score, for it was in the interest of the other party that nothing should leak out. And, with a little deft manipulation on his part, the hushing up of the matter might even prove a most useful weapon in his hand. Again, all was fair in love and war.

On the whole, his position was not so bad. He had made a good match, and his wife had considerable expectations in addition to her present fortune. Yes, he would be able to look after himself. Ormarr might take over the estate—for a time. But he who laughs last, laughs best. When all was said and done, his father and brother had not yet got him into their power; he had his congregation, and his position gave him an excellent opportunity to influence public opinion. Meantime, he would take care to win them over by his powers of persuasion generally, and gradually make them his faithful adherents.

The old man had been furious on Sunday; he had probably been far from appreciating his son’s talents as a preacher. But he would know how to lash the old man’s feelings with his words from the pulpit; he would reach farther and cut deeper than any other had done before. No fanciful theology, but argument backed by chapter and verse from the Scriptures. There could be no question of defence or refutation; it would be pleasant to see Ørlygur à Borg writhing under the interpretations of the Old Testament delivered by his son. Ay, he would show them that a priest was a man to be feared, an enemy not to be lightly challenged.

Sera Ketill was already elated with thoughts of his victory to come. He drew up far-reaching plans, and began at once to con the doctrines of the Church in his mind—as weapons to be used in his campaign against his father and brother.

Alma was left very much to herself; her husband had little time to spare for entertaining her. When he was not busy with his sermons, he was occupied out of doors.

The cattle were brought in for water, and the sheep called down from the mountain pastures where they had grazed throughout the summer. Their numbers had to be checked, according to the list prepared when they had first gone out, to see if any were missing. Then came the question as to how many should be kept during the winter. The hay in the lofts was measured out in horse-loads; one sheep needed but a single horse-load for the whole winter, this being eked out by the winter grazing grounds, which gave a certain amount of feed each year, on the hillsides or down by the shore. A cow, on the other hand, would need forty horse-loads, whereas a horse could manage with ten. All these and other details had to be considered.

Then came the killing season, and large droves of sheep were sent off, either direct to the slaughter-houses or to the market.

There were repairs to be undertaken, buildings and outhouses to be seen to; altogether, there were many things which claimed Sera Ketill’s attention, and often his personal supervision, especially the sale and slaughtering of the stock.

Indoors, too, there was much to be done; supplies of dried, preserved, and pickled provisions were invariably laid in for each winter.

Alma herself had not much to do. When it was fine enough she went for long walks; otherwise, she spent most of her time reading or sewing. Now and again she would go out into the kitchen, and try to talk to the maids. When Kata was at liberty, Alma sought her company, either in the kitchen or in the sitting-room. Kata preferred the former; it seemed to her a mark of favouritism to be invited into the inner rooms. Alma had come to appreciate highly the old woman’s straightforward earnestness and her power of maintaining discipline when necessary, and old Kata had no greater wish than to do all in her power for her young mistress. She carried out her duties faithfully, and saw to it that the other servants did the same.

Alma had thus plenty of time to consider her own position. But it was a difficult matter to arrive at any clear conclusion out of the maze of moods and fancies that filled her mind.

At times she even thought of returning home to her people, but only for a moment. She felt she would never be able to take up the threads of her old life again. And indeed, from a practical point of view, it seemed impossible. What would her husband say to such a step? Moreover, she would probably be having a child before long.

Apart from these considerations, however, she could hardly bring herself to leave the country; it had made a powerful impression on her from the first, and she felt herself strangely under its spell. Here, at least, she could live, even if she had to renounce all idea of any happiness in her domestic life with her husband. If she went away now, she felt that a part of her being would be left behind; to live elsewhere would be spiritless, intolerable.

She bore with resignation the shattering of her dreams of love, and made no attempt to deceive herself with ideas of a future reconciliation. Love, she felt, would play no further part in her life; when she endeavoured to sound her feelings on this point, she found herself coldly indifferent. Her conscience was in no way hurt by her attitude towards her husband; it could not be otherwise, since he on his part seemed to have no longer any pleasure in the possession of her, regarding her merely as a chattel he had acquired.

She even went so far as to imagine that he had never loved her, but only pretended to do so, and had only won her by sheer selfish calculation. In the days of their courtship, such a thought had never entered her mind; but now, disappointment had driven all love away, leaving only a sense of injury.

Chiefly dominant, however, was the sense of indifference; Alma had almost become a fatalist. Sorrows and disappointments were things to be taken as they came, and stacked aside, as a card-player lays aside the tricks he has taken, or a miser packs away his treasures. All unknowingly, she was gradually developing in herself something of the essential character of the country that had so impressed her; so it was that the snow gathered and hung on the mountain-side, ever more and more, until it crashed down in an avalanche, burying houses and men, or sweeping them out to sea. So also in the heart of the volcanoes molten stuff was gathered slowly—to burst forth one day and spread death and desolation abroad. And human beings might do as they, gathering slowly the force that, suddenly loosed, should change their destinies.

Autumn spread its heavy tones over the land, persistent, yet ever changing.

There were grey, wet days, when all things were obliterated under masses of rain. Then violent storms, when window-frames and houses rattled and shook, and the dust was whirled in huge yellow clouds. Haystacks were caught in the whirlwind, tumbledown cottages demolished; even the strongest men were at times obliged to move on all fours over the hills, to avoid being swept over some precipice. Boats along the shore were crushed like egg-shells; there were sad days for the fisherfolk.

Sometimes the elements seemed to be resting, leaving the weather calm and mild; at other times there would be days of shifting light and shade, of scurrying clouds and sudden hailstorms that left white streaks along the hillsides where they passed.

The days were growing shorter; everywhere the advance of darkness made itself felt, like a mighty bass in the autumnal choir, relieved by the clear treble of the stars and the northern lights.

Alma spent the long evenings at home for the most part, busy with her own thoughts. There was little interchange of words between her and her husband. They seemed separated by a gulf of silence; Ketill, apparently, found nothing distressing in the fact. It was convenient to have a wife who was quiet, and did not bother him. But Alma felt as if they lived in different worlds, with but the slightest link between them.

Sometimes the fact that they were married—and the intimacies which alone declared it—seemed to her so tragically humourous that she had to bite her lips lest she should break out into bitter laughter.

The autumn nights had a depressing effect on her mind, filling her with a consuming pain—a deep and intolerable longing for some one in whose heart she had a place, though but the merest little corner, where she could feel at rest.

At milking-time, about ten o’clock, she could be sure of finding old Kata in the cowshed. And often she would steal out to her there, watching the old woman at work in the dim light. Old Kata knew that her mistress might be coming, and sent off Kobbi, the old cowman, for a jug, which was filled straight from the udder,—an especial piece of consideration on the part of Kata,—and the three would sit talking together as best they could. The two old folk had already taught their mistress something of the language, enough at any rate for her to understand them, and now and again put in a word herself.