Guest the One-Eyed

Time rolled on.

The autumn nights grew longer; the days dwindled to a few hours’ feeble light.

Winter was near at hand.

Then came the snow. First one night, when all was still. There it lay next morning, a soft, white sheet spread out under a blue-tinted sky. All the earth seemed silent as in church, at the hour of meditation. And when any sound broke the stillness, its echo seemed to dwell in the ear for longer than usual, dying away slowly, as if loth to depart.

The wind came, levelling the snow to fill the hollows of the ground; then more snow, then rain, and then frost; winter was come in earnest, come to stay. Heavy, murky clouds shed their burden of snow, but passed away again; winter had many aspects and was never one thing for long at a time. Westerly winds flung the snow hither and thither, mountain torrents rushed down on their way to the sea. And then suddenly, in the midst of all this wild confusion, would come calm, clear nights, of ghostly quiet, no sound to be heard save the murmur of the sea, like beating of the wings of time.

And men lived on, under the heavy yoke of winter. It seemed as if the winter itself were ever trying to foist itself upon them, claiming acknowledgment of its presence. It set its mark upon the window-panes, thrust itself at them through the cracks of doors; but they strove to keep it out, thawing the pictures on their windows, bundling the snow from their thresholds with scant ceremony, even with abuse. No wonder that the winter turned spiteful at times, lying in wait for men and leading them astray in storms, luring them to destruction in some concealed ravine where their last breath could be offered up as a sacrifice upon its altar. It was but reasonable so.

This winter, the Hofsfjordur folk had little time to spare for contemplation of the usual struggle; they took the necessary steps for their protection, but their minds were largely occupied with other matters.

There was the new priest, Sera Ketill, son of the mighty King of Borg—and he gave them food for thought in abundance. From his first sermon, he had made his influence felt, chiefly, perhaps, through his eloquence and the depth of feeling he seemed to display. Then, later, it became evident that there was a certain tendency in his discourses; his arguments pointed towards some conclusion, though what this was could hardly be seen as yet. His masterly treatment of his texts revealed an iron will, that had evidently set itself some great and difficult task.

Sera Ketill revealed himself as a fanatic, stern and merciless in his interpretations and demands. He appeared as an idealist, looking ever toward the goal of perfection, which he seemed to regard as undoubtedly attainable. In his judgments and castigation he was unrelenting as a Jesuit; his doctrine was clear and hard, admitting of no compromise: if the eye offended, pluck it out; if the offending hand were nearer and dearer than all else, there was still no way but one—cut it off and cast it from thee. Thus Sera Ketill taught his flock.

Sunday after Sunday the church was full; week by week Sera Ketill knit more closely the bond between his parishioners and himself. At first they admired him, but it was not long before they came to love him. What had been, was forgotten; he was their priest now. All knew that Ormarr was to inherit Borg after his father, and it was not difficult to forgive Ketill for having, in earlier days, cherished other hopes. Plainly he had himself been the first to mortify the flesh, and put away his own worldly desires. And who should call him to account for any youthful indiscretions? After all, perhaps he had not been serious in his reputed intention of discontinuing the benign and considerate rule that had been a tradition of the Borg family towards those round them. His sternness in matters spiritual, on the other hand, was unimpeachable; it showed his earnest desire for the welfare of their souls, and those who followed his precepts were happy in so doing, even though it cost them something to break with the old easy-going ways. Conscience needed to be kept awake and sensitive. And it was not altogether unpleasant to come to church and be rated and stormed at for all backslidings; one sat listening with beating heart, subject to an emotion which Sera Ketill’s predecessor had certainly never had power to call forth. The wearisome homilies of the old days, full of spiritless and superficial argument, had made it hard for them to keep decorously awake. But now, it was a different atmosphere altogether. “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart.” Also, “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” But hence it followed that one should tolerate nothing in one’s neighbour that would not be tolerated in oneself. “For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God,” ay, jealous even towards His children. Wherefore it behoved them to adopt a similar attitude towards those around them. Wheresoever anything became apparent which was not in the spirit of God, let them rise up and denounce it; if they suffered any among them to look with scorn, or even with indifference, upon the Holy Word, then they themselves were guilty. And for such sinners there was nothing but everlasting damnation; the Scriptures had declared it plainly.

Sera Ketill’s doctrine admitted but two alternatives—either heaven or hell.

And he did not confine his teachings to the pulpit. His eyes were everywhere, and as often as he discovered anything among his flock that was not according to his teaching, he was ready with word and deed. And he brooked no resistance—he spoke in the name of the Lord. Illegitimate relationships that had gone on for years were ordered to be legalized; it was not an uncommon thing for an old couple who had never been properly married to appear in church for the ceremony with their grown-up children as witnesses. A fever of zeal spread from the vicarage throughout the parish. True, there were occasional murmurings from those who were called upon to mend their ways, but even they felt the power of this new influence in their hearts. And little by little the flock was led into the paths of righteousness.

First and foremost, Sera Ketill demanded of his congregation that they should attend regularly for worship in God’s House, where, by hearing of the Word, their hearts might be opened to receive the Lord. Anything beyond a single Sunday’s absence called forth a visit and a reproof for neglect. Thus it was not long before Sera Ketill became the unquestioned leader of the parish, acknowledged by all.

Among the poorer folk he gained great popularity by foregoing his right of grazing on their land; here was an example near to hand of the self-denial he preached. Such a thing had hardly been heard of before. Plainly, Sera Ketill was one who himself lived up to his principles.

His judgment was taken as infallible, any decision on his part was to them as if inspired by the Almighty. And week by week they grew more and more dependent upon him; every Sunday he whittled away some portion of the spiritual independence they had hitherto enjoyed. Yet they hardly felt it as a loss; they were made to feel that it was pleasing to God that they should do as they were bidden.

Sera Ketill’s doctrine bore the outward semblance of hallowed certainty and divine infallibility. But there was something vague about it still, something that had not yet been declared outright. A sense of expectancy, half-unconscious, perhaps, hung over the parish. Whither was Sera Ketill leading them? What was it that was coming?

Ketill himself realized well enough that his scope of operations was limited: he could only carry matters to a certain point. Like a skilful general, he carefully estimated the fighting strength at his disposal, and never permitted himself to indulge in any over-sanguine imaginings as to how far his people would follow him when it came to the pinch. Above all things, he must not lose his head; must not act prematurely. His objective was clear, but it could only be reached by patience. Given but time enough, the ripened fruit would fall at his feet. Meantime, he must foster the growing zeal among his flock; in time, they would be ready for any outburst of fanaticism. Not too quickly—no. But his time would surely come.

Ørlygur à Borg attended service regularly; Sunday after Sunday he listened to the wild outpourings of his son. And sorrow and wonder grew in his heart.

Ketill strove to maintain his appearance of sincerity towards his father, but he knew that the old man saw through the mask.

Ørlygur, on his part, for all that he had declared that Ketill could no longer deceive him, found it hard to account for his son’s zeal. If he were not serious, then why ... what was he aiming at? But again and again he felt an instinctive certainty that his son’s preaching was not inspired by any divine influence.

And apart from the religious aspect, Ørlygur was sorely troubled to see the people thus easily led. He knew his folk, and was himself a leader of no common power; he could not but wonder now, whither they were being led. Also, he knew only too well the cold reaction that often follows undue excitement.

Many a long winter night the King of Borg tossed restlessly in bed, uttering many a prayer to God—the only Being whose superiority he acknowledged. He was weighed down by a sense of impending disaster—there was trouble coming, and coming swiftly nearer.

Ketill was the leading source of his uneasiness; again and again he asked himself if he could not somehow step in and avert the threatening catastrophe. But he racked his brains in vain to find any way in which he could act as things were. What was there for him to oppose? He could not take action against his son’s enthusiasm in the cause of religion and piety? Heaven forbid! Was he to endeavour to minimize the devotion of the people to their God? Even though Ketill’s heart were cold, and his zeal but a sham, who could say but that he might yet be an instrument in the hand of the Lord—a creature inspired as to his deeds, though not in spirit? Ørlygur à Borg could not raise his hand against Heaven.

For all this, his suspicions never abated, but rather increased, as he watched the growing hold of his son upon the parish. Was it not a masked attack upon the supremacy of Borg? His son was trying to usurp his place as chieftain. He called to mind the story of David and Absalom, and David’s bitter lament for the death of his son. And he could not free himself from the thought that Heaven must be working out some plan with Ketill, the prodigal; at times, also, it seemed that something evil were lying in wait. And, in such moments, the old man longed to take his son, his child, in his arms, and weep over him, despite all the wrong he had suffered at his hands. Ørlygur made no attempt to disguise from himself the baseness of Ketill’s conduct, but he fancied it might be the will of God moving in some mysterious way. His heart was torn by the meanness and hypocrisy of his son; he felt himself wounded to the death. And yet all the time his heart was bursting with a desire to forgive.

Nevertheless, the same disgust and aversion filled him every time they met. He felt he must step in and put a stop to all this underhand scheming and working; Ketill was a creeping, venomous thing, to be crushed underfoot ere it had wrought irreparable harm.

For the first time in his life Ørlygur felt uncertain of himself, wavering as to his proper course of action. He doubted his right to lead; doubted even if he had been right up to now in stewardship under God of all that was His.

He searched his conscience, yet he could find no evil there. Yet what if his judgment of himself were at fault, blinded by pride and self-deceit? How should a man judge of himself?—God alone could judge.

The brave old warrior was stricken and weakened now; his own flesh and blood had wounded him, and, in face of it, doubt and uncertainty gripped his soul.

The winter wore on.

Each day brought the foreboding of disaster more and more prominently to Ørlygur’s mind; each night increased the restless tension of his heart.

Then late in March came a letter from Ormarr, then in Italy.

The news was encouraging; Runa had borne a child, a son, some weeks before, and both were well. Ormarr and his wife were happy together; Runa appeared to have forgotten her past trouble, and Ormarr did his best not to revive any unpleasant memory. He himself was well and happy, though longing at times for his home at Borg; he was anxious to return, and tend and comfort his father in the last years of his life.

They would be coming back as early as could be managed, reaching Iceland in June. The child was to be regarded as newly born; it could hardly be difficult to conceal the exact truth as to its age. And as Ørlygur knew, they had been married in Denmark the previous autumn. Finally, Ormarr bade his father be of good cheer, and wished to be sincerely remembered to his sister-in-law, Alma.

Ørlygur found the letter encouraging, yet at the same time there was something in it that saddened him. He was glad to have the support of his son’s youth and strength in his loneliness, and his heart went out to the boy in welcome. Here, at last, he would have some one he could trust, some one in whom he could confide. But at the same time, there were fears in his mind as to what would come when Ormarr returned, and his anxiety increased as the time for his homecoming grew nearer.

Gloomy dreams haunted his sleep—a thing he had never known before. What it all meant was beyond him, but somehow, all seemed to centre round the idea of approaching death. At the same time, he realized with dread that there might be worse in store for him than death—something more terrible than what was after all but a natural end.

The winter was a hard time for Fru Alma.

Never, surely, had a tender, womanly heart been so overwhelmed with loneliness and doubt, conflicting feelings and bewildering thoughts, or borne it all with greater fortitude and patience.

A snow-white lily snatched from the sunny spring and thrust away into a gloomy loft. And what is the withering of a lily to the agonies of a human heart? Here was a human creature, plucked from a careless butterfly existence under a cloudless sky of youth, and transplanted to a land of grim solemnity and earnest—the home of Fate, where dreams and omens and forebodings reigned; who could endure it and not suffer?

Alma’s soul developed in adversity, but it was an unnatural growth—the growth of herbage in the shade, outwardly luxuriant, no more. Such growths, once brought into the light of the sun, must wither and shrink, to rise no more.

Hardest of all, perhaps, was the monotony of her life. Despite the changing weather, lengthening days, intercourse with people around her as she picked up a little more of the language, despite the busy Sundays, it was a sadly uneventful existence, and there seemed no hope of relief in the future. The coming years loomed out as burdens to be borne in due course, days of drab wakefulness, with restless nights of evil dreams; the healing rest that night should bring was but a mirage.

When the loneliness became unbearable she would seek the company of old Kata, or of the other servants. And her kindness to them all was soon known far and wide. Were any in trouble, be sure Fru Alma would not pass them by; her generous sympathy was recognized by all. “The Danish Lady at Hof,” they called her, and looked to her as one to whom any appeal for help should naturally be made, as to a patron saint, or the Son of God Himself. And there was no irreverence in the comparison.

The vicarage was constantly besieged by beggars and vagabonds; Sera Ketill, scenting personal advantage to himself in his wife’s reputation for charity, encouraged her in the work. He thanked her—but his thanks were insincere and superficial, and Alma was not deceived. She and old Kata were the only ones who saw through him, each in her own way. The two women never spoke of him together; he was the one theme upon which they never exchanged confidences. Alma could not speak ill of her husband to any one, and it was not old Kata’s way to make ill worse. Kata knew exactly what went on at the vicarage, and she was the only one who did. Ørlygur was only partially aware of the true state of affairs between Ketill and his wife.

Kata, who herself had never been wife nor mistress to any man, was more outspoken with Fru Alma than she had ever been with any other soul. She found in her a creature pure and undefiled as herself, a nature trustful and unsuspicious, with that high confidence that gives the greatest worth, beyond what ordinary sense can perceive. And Kata tested her in many ways before venturing to speak freely; but Alma passed every ordeal triumphantly, unaware that she was being tried. Chief of all was absolute, voluntary silence, speaking of a matter to none until one knew that speech was but as speaking to oneself. Good wine should not be poured into untried vessels.

It is hard to say whether old Kata’s confidences were to Alma’s good or the reverse. In any case, it was a relief to her to talk with the old woman, and at first she paid but little heed to what she heard. There were strange themes which she would never have dreamed of discussing with any one, and when alone, she gave them but little thought. Gradually, however, they became more insistent, and laid firm hold on her mind.

True, she never saw nor heard “things,” as old Kata claimed to do; she was not given to seeing visions, and certainly had no claim to the power of second sight. But she had strange dreams which Kata, when in the mood, would interpret in such wise that Alma became thoroughly convinced of the old woman’s powers.

They had strange talks together at times.

“Why is it, do you think, Kata,” Alma might ask, “that there is always more suffering than joy in life?”

“I doubt but it’s all because they crucified the Son of God.”

“But don’t you think there’s many a human being must have suffered as much as He did? Others have been crucified, you know; and then death on the cross is not the worst kind of torture that could be imagined.”

“Nay, there’s many a heavy cross to be borne, that’s true. But God is God, and that’s another thing.”

Or Fru Alma would start another theme, asking Kata’s views as to whether sufferings of human beings were confined to this world, or if there were perhaps still greater pains and trouble to come.

Old Kata opined that each and every one would receive punishment or reward according to their doings in this world.

“It seems to me,” said Alma quietly, “that we are so bound by inherited weakness and sin that however much evil we may do, we cannot fairly be judged beyond our life on earth.”

“There’s a deal in that, maybe,” answered Kata. “And there’s many a poor sinner not rightly answerable for all they’ve done. But God is God.”

One day, when a number of dead bodies from a wreck had been washed ashore in the fjord, Alma said:

“Sometimes I can’t help thinking that mankind, for all the limitation of our powers, could manage some things more justly at least than Providence seems to do.”

“Never speak like that,” said old Kata warningly. “Think of the Scriptures. ’Tis God’s finger guiding all.”

“Oh, I know it’s a blessed thing to have faith in time of trouble. And as long as it’s only oneself.... But when something dreadful happens to others, and there seems no sense nor reason for it all, then one can’t help asking, why, what is it all for? Surely one might think that a heavenly providence would be kind, and work for our good.”

“Ay, ’tis strange to think, no doubt,” answered Kata. “And there’s times when it’s hard to answer such things. But God is God.”

This last expression was a constant formula in Kata’s mouth, which to herself at least seemed to dispose of the most difficult problem.

Alma ventured to put a direct question.

“Have you never felt yourself, sometime, that you didn’t really want to say ‘God’s will be done’?”

“Now you’re asking me something,” said Kata, “and something I’d not answer to any but yourself.”

The spinning-wheel stopped, and Kata paused; not a word was uttered for some moments. At last the old woman went on:

“Once there was a poor man and a young woman. She was not rich, neither, but they two were fond of each other, and gave each other promise. They would wait till they could buy a little farm; it might take years, but they would wait. You know the hills over yonder they call the Dark Mountains. Well, the young man, he went up there to serve with a farmer who offered him good wages. And the girl, she stayed behind, and never saw him all that summer. But she had her ring to look at, and hope. In the autumn, he came down over the mountains to see her. And there came a snowstorm on the way, and he was frozen to death in the mountains....”

Old Kata’s voice had changed; its tone brought tears to Alma’s eyes, and though the speaker herself shed never a tear, it was a little time before she could go on.

“Yes. ’Twas a hard blow to my faith at the time, and I was all doubt in my heart. But later on that same year I learned the truth. He was going to marry the daughter of the farmer he’d been working with, and only came down to ask me to give back the ring and give me mine again. And then I said ‘God’s will be done.’ ’Twas providence clear enough. ’Tis not for us mortals to fathom the ways of God, and there’s much that seems mysterious, ay, and hard and unjust. But God is God. And we’re but weak things in His hand, without understanding. But for all that we can make our hearts a shining light, and show the way to wanderers that’s lost the way.”

When Alma knew she was to give birth to a child, she gave way entirely, and pent-up tears burst forth.

“Oh, how could it, how could it ever come like this?” she moaned.

She was to bring forth a child that should carry the nature of its father or its mother—to what degree she could not say. And the prospect of a child she felt she could not love filled her with horror, the curse of a joyless motherhood. If only God in His mercy had made her barren; had spared her the anguish of bringing another life into this world of suffering and misery.

She wept herself by degrees into a calmer state, and a sense of pity and self-reproach grew up in her—pity for the new little being to come, and self-reproach that she herself was so weak.

Surely it was sinful to look forward without thankfulness to motherhood, a sin against the child unborn.

And yet—how could she ever be glad?

Life was a void to her; she had no desire in life but to cease living. Listlessly she saw the days go by, the burden of her sorrow ever increasing.

But those around her paid little heed; they had seen so many young mothers who seemed to think themselves laden with all the trouble of all the world.

Ørlygur à Borg noticed her condition, and saw, too, that she took no pleasure in the prospect. His heart was touched at the thought, and his tenderness towards her increased. Often on Sundays he would arrive some time before the service, in order to see her, and if he could, console her a little.

They went to church together, the old man and the young woman; Alma still sat in her old place beside his. And she was grateful for his kindness and friendliness; he seemed to her the most lovable man she had ever known.

One Sunday, just before church, Ketill happened to return to the house, and found his father’s overcoat hanging in the hall. The lining was outward, and the corner of an envelope showed in the pocket.

Ketill glanced round, listened, and seized the letter, slipped into a room close by and closed the door behind him.

Hurriedly he read the message through. It was Ormarr’s letter telling of the birth of Runa’s child.

Ketill’s hands trembled, and his face flushed. With a nervous laugh he thrust the letter into his pocket. Then, as by an afterthought, he took it out again, stood for a moment irresolute, and making sure he was not observed, put it back in the coat from which he had taken it.

He went back to join his father and Alma, in the sitting-room, trying hard to appear unmoved. But he felt he could not quite control himself, and began fumbling among some papers on the writing-table. He was still thus occupied when the bell rang for the last time. His wife and Ørlygur would have waited for him, but he bade them go on, saying he would follow immediately.

Ketill waited till their steps had died away, then hurried out to the hall; he knew he was now alone in the house. He took down the coat, and let it fall to the ground, where it might seem to have slipped from the peg. Then he took the letter from the envelope, and laid it unfolded by the coat, as if it had fallen out.

This done, he hurried across to the church. On the way he stopped, felt in his pocket, and beckoning to a lad near, whispered:

“I left my pocket-book on the writing-table in my room. Run in and fetch it for me.”

The boy ran off to obey, and passing through the hall noticed the coat lying on the floor. He stopped to pick it up, and caught sight of the letter. He glanced through it, hardly knowing what he was doing, and finally left everything as he had found it.

When he reached the church with the pocket-book, he was evidently ill at ease; those who remarked it put it down to embarrassment at attracting attention.

Sera Ketill’s sermon was not so effective today as usual. Possibly his delivery was in part responsible. The priest seemed curiously absent; once or twice he even came to a standstill, and had to cast about for words.

It was the custom for none to leave the church till the priest and his family had left. Sera Ketill seemed in a remarkable hurry today. He strode across to the house at once, and quickly.

Coat and letter lay where he had left them, but had evidently been moved. Ketill smiled. He picked up the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and put it back in the pocket. He had barely finished when Ørlygur and Alma entered.

Ørlygur had noticed nothing, but Alma thought it strange to find her husband there in the hall, after he had made such haste to leave the church, doing something with his father’s coat.

Her heart beat fast, and she turned to Ørlygur.

“Another time, father, when you hang your overcoat up like that, be sure there is nothing in the pockets.”

As she spoke, hardly realizing what she had said, at first, the consciousness of her own suspicions of her husband came to her suddenly, and she flushed.

Ørlygur laughed, and answered:

“I don’t think there is anything to be afraid of.”

And he felt in his pockets. “Nothing here but a letter from Ormarr, and any one’s welcome to read that.”

He spoke lightly, but a moment afterwards, recollecting the contents, he turned pale. Alma noticed it, but tried to appear unconcerned.

When Ørlygur had gone, she remained standing, deep in thought.

It dawned upon her that there must be some connection between her husband’s evident nervousness and Ørlygur’s sudden start. What it could be she was unable to imagine.

Outwardly calm, she rejoined her husband.

“Your father showed me a letter he had just received from Ormarr.”

“Did he show it to you?”

Ketill sprang up suddenly, and came towards her, but she appeared not to notice, and went on:

“Ormarr and his wife are getting on nicely. They are in Naples, and expect to be home early in June.”

“Did you read the letter?” asked Ketill, with a careless air.

“No. Ørlygur told me what was in it.”

Alma was watching her husband’s face, and could not fail to mark the smile with which he greeted her last remark. Evidently, he had got hold of the letter himself somehow, and found in it something that Ørlygur would not willingly have known.

With bowed head, she left the room, and went to her bedroom, threw herself on the bed, and burst into tears.

Her husband was a thief—a priest, and a thief.

What a cruel burden was this Heaven had laid upon her. What would this man’s child be? Oh that the Lord would take it before ever it woke to life!

Alma wept long and bitterly, falling at last into a heavy sleep. It lasted but a little while, however, and she awoke in high fever.

She was put to bed, and a doctor sent for. But before he could reach her, the trouble was over—Alma had given her child to the world—stillborn.

When Alma came to herself, she saw her husband bending over the little body, which they would not allow her to see. Ketill’s face showed neither tears nor sorrow.

And she thought to herself: I shall die now. And it will be laid in the earth by my side, with never a kindly look from any human being in this world.

With an effort she managed to raise herself on her elbow and glance down into the cradle where the little body lay. It was all uncovered, on a white sheet, so very small and grey, with little white finger-nails. The sight was like a hot steel in her heart. And with a cry she fell back, unconscious.

For several days Alma lay between life and death, and when at last the crisis was passed, she looked up to find old Kata by her side.

The old woman smiled encouragingly, but would not let her speak.

“Lie still, my dear; the worst is over now.”

A day or two later, when Alma was well enough to sit up in bed a little, she asked:

“How long have I been lying here, Kata?”

“This is the tenth day.”

“Have I been ill so long? And who has been watching besides you?”

“Nay, I’d have none but myself for that. I’ve slept a little now and again.”

Alma grasped the old woman’s wrinkled hand.

“How ever could you, Kata! And how can I ever thank you?”

“No need to try, my dear. ’Tis enough that you’re getting well again.”

“Have I—did I talk in my sleep at all?”

“Nay, nothing to worry about. Said this and that, maybe, but I paid no heed.”

Kata busied herself about the room, avoiding Alma’s eyes. “’Tis no use listening to feverish talk,” she added.

During the long days that followed, while Alma was in bed, Kata told her fairy stories about kings and princes, with some idea of diverting her thoughts. And Alma could not but smile at the old woman’s curious ideas as to the life of royalty; she did not, however, attempt to correct her impressions.

But once, in a pause, Alma broke in suddenly:

“Poor little mite—lying out there in the cold.”

She had learned of the burial of her child some time before.

And she fell to crying softly at the thought.

Old Kata came to the bedside and stroked her hand.

“All’s in God’s hand,” she said. “And all for the best.”

When Alma rose from her bed after six weeks’ illness, she was but a shadow of her former self. Her face was pale, with a yellow tinge, and her figure wasted to a degree painful to see. She was hardly more than a skeleton. Her dark eyes seemed larger, and glowed with a strange, hard light, such as is seen in the still-open eyes of one frozen to death. Her brown hair no longer stood in a luxuriant cluster round her head; much of it had fallen out, leaving hardly enough to cover the scalp and make a pitiful little knot at the back.

She had seen but little of her husband during her illness. Twice daily he had paid her a brief, formal visit; but only a few words were exchanged between them, and neither found any pleasure in seeing the other. He slept in a different part of the house, and they avoided each other as far as possible.

Ketill could not help noticing that his wife shunned him, but, occupied as he was with his own affairs, it affected him hardly at all.

Alma went about the house quietly, as she had always done, with a smile and a kindly word for all. But though none seemed to notice any change in her manner, her greetings were less heartily felt than before. Her heart was dead within her, and something was straining, straining to an intolerable tension, until it seemed impossible to last. Something must happen soon.

She often went out to the little mound where her child lay buried, and would stand for hours looking down at it. Strange, to have a part of oneself lying there under the frozen earth and yet to go about oneself with the warm blood pulsing in one’s veins. It seemed unreal, yet it was reality. Life seemed to have changed altogether.

She was no longer glad that the child had not lived. There had been a time when she had hoped for that very thing, but when her wish was realized, came pangs of conscience that destroyed her relief at its fulfilment. She no longer thought of what her life might have been had the child lived; she forgot that she had ever feared its birth; she had no feeling now but sorrow for its death, and remorse that she had wished for it.

Often old Kata would come to the churchyard to fetch her, gently reproaching her for staying there so long.

“’Tis no good to let all the sad thoughts stay in your mind. There’s life to be lived; you must not go wandering off among the dead so.”

And Alma would answer with a listless smile. One day she asked:

“Do you think, Kata, that there really is any life in the world?”

“Ay, indeed, there is. And if the Lord takes one joy from us, surely He will give something else in its place.”

“I am not complaining,” Alma replied. “I have never complained. But I have seen heavy crosses laid on weak shoulders.”

“They that seem weak can often bear the heaviest burden. ’Tis a sorrowful world, but, after all, ’tis only a moment in eternity. And maybe we’re only here to be tried in the fire, with trouble and affliction, and the ones that suffer most are those God loves the best. As if He was taking special pains with them, so they could be sooner ready to come to Him.”

One day, as Alma and Kata were standing in the churchyard, two ravens flew by. They flew over the church, and old Kata eyed them anxiously, making the sign of the cross.

Then, in a trembling voice, she said:

“They flew over the church. ’Tis a sign that some one’ll be called away before long.” And murmuring so that Alma could scarcely hear, she added: “If it be Thy will, O Lord, I should be taken, then Thy will be done!”

But to herself she thought: “If it should be the young mistress that’s called, then Heaven be praised. I am old and hard, I can wear on for a few years more, but the burden’s over-heavy on her; if the Lord would take her in His mercy.... God’s will be done.”

During the period of Alma’s illness, a certain amount of unrest had made itself apparent in the parish.

First of all, there were rumours abroad. No one could say where they had started, or how; it was impossible to trace anything more than the inevitable “So-and-so said so-and-so.” But the rumours were of a startling character, and it was highly desirable to find out whether they originated from a reliable source or not.

Briefly, the matter was this: it was whispered that Ormarr’s wife had given birth to her child as far back as the beginning of March.

And people made their calculations. The marriage had taken place at the beginning of September the previous year. That made the birth a great deal earlier than it should have been. And yet the child was reported to be strong and well, by no means as if born before its time.

It was mysterious. The good folk searched their memories; they could recall nothing unseemly in Runa’s behaviour as they had known her; far from it. The marriage had been rather sudden, true, but they had found nothing very extraordinary in that. The girl had been waiting for Ormarr, no doubt; no one had ever heard any other man’s name coupled with hers. It was looked on as a pretty example of a maiden’s patient waiting for her chosen lover, and Runa had risen in the general esteem thereby. But now—there were those who began to consider whether they might not have been over-hasty in their conclusions.

It looked as if there were something more behind it. And it was not pleasant to find that one had been deceived.

Nothing had leaked out as to Sera Ketill’s little affair with his foster-sister some months earlier, and no one now thought for a moment of connecting him in any way with the business.

But who could be the father?

Folk racked their brains to find one. Some had their own idea, but it would have required a bold spirit to give it utterance. The name of Ørlygur à Borg rose to the minds of many. He was the only man with whom Runa had been on intimate terms, and for whom she was known to have cherished any affection. That it should have led to such a result none had ever dreamt—who could have believed it?

But there it was. Live and learn—the lesson in this case being a warning against misplaced confidence.

Old Ørlygur had played his part well, and had been trusted farther than he should. No, there was no trusting any these days.

But why had he not married the girl himself?

’Twas simple enough—it was too late, and it would not do to sully the good repute of the family. He would never have survived the reproach had his wife been prematurely confined, and for him to marry a young wife at all—a mere child—was hardly suited to his dignity. So he had taken this way out of it. Sent the girl out of the country with his son, giving them strict orders to remain away long enough to guard against any doubt as to the child being theirs.

He had sacrificed his son, that was all.

Originally, it had been intended that Sera Ketill should inherit the estate. Every one was aware of that. And then one day comes Ormarr—on a visit only—and before you had time to turn round, he had sold his business and got married. It was sudden, to say the least.

And folk went farther.

As far as they knew, Sera Ketill’s marriage had come rather as a surprise to his father. Ah, the old fox! He had reckoned, no doubt, on getting his younger son to take over the paternity together with the estate. Then, by the wildest piece of luck, when Ketill upsets his plans by coming home married already, Ormarr makes all right again by coming back himself.

Ay, the Devil was kind to his own!

It was not long before the parish had put two and two together, and realized that Sera Ketill must have been aware of the whole thing from the first.

Here was the thought that inspired his preaching! Plain to see now the aim of all this Christian zeal. ’Twas the preparation for a struggle that he had known was bound to come; they had been watching it all the winter, never dreaming what lay behind.

And now it was beginning to get exciting. What did Sera Ketill intend to do? Would he break with his family openly? If so, how would it be done?

The church was filled as never before; the listeners carefully analysed the discourse from the pulpit, seeking some clue that fitted in with their ideas, some hint as to what was coming. But they learned nothing.

Sera Ketill, on his part, saw that his plan had succeeded. He could mark the growth of the seed in the faces of his flock from Sunday to Sunday. And deliberately he made his allusions vaguer and more general; now that all would make the proper application of whatever he said, there was no need for himself to deliver any direct attack.

It was a drama, played Sunday after Sunday in the church between father and son—and the onlookers were thrilled with a sense of some terrible end approaching.

Parochial disputes were nothing new, but up to now the people of Borg had always stood united on one side or the other, and their side had invariably won. But this was different; this was civil war—a house divided against itself. And it meant a battle the like of which had never been known in the records of the place.

The only drawback was that there seemed no possibility of doubt as to how it must end—unless some new development occurred meanwhile. Not only had Sera Ketill right on his side, but the Almighty was with him. And, moreover, he had taken the precaution to enlist the entire congregation under his banner.

Altogether, it would need something like a miracle to get that old fox Ørlygur out of the trap. No use for him to gnaw off a pinioned leg or brush—he was gripped round the middle, and there was no escape.

The thought of this great idol’s fall was a thing to make one shudder; even though he were to fall by his own misdeeds, one could hardly help pitying him.

After all, Ørlygur à Borg had always been their friend. None had ever been so ready to help, so open-handed, as he.... But he had always been a proud sort, Ørlygur à Borg, and pride goeth before a fall.

It was rather a conflict between a mortal and the Higher Powers—and they were not so presumptuous as to think of taking any part themselves. He would have to manage by himself—even if it meant ruin and disgrace in the end. However they might feel towards Ørlygur, the general benefactor, they were not disposed to take up arms against the Lord Himself for his sake.

And what said Sera Ketill so insistently: “If thy hand offend thee, cut it off....” Ay, even if that hand were a brother, a near kinsman....

Ay, Sera Ketill knew how to choose his words.

And if he did not venture now to take his father’s part, but stood up and opposed him at whatever cost, it was surely because he realized that God’s commandments must come before all else.

The spirit of hypocrisy made its triumphal progress through the parish.

It was characteristic of the fanatical intolerance which reigned that Ørlygur’s innumerable good deeds were forgotten in the storm of righteous indignation that rose against him. Folk great and small set themselves up in judgment upon their old chieftain and found it easy to discover some selfish motive behind every kindly and generous act of his in the past. Those who owed him most were sternest in their condemnation, and, in default of actual proof, were not afraid of altering facts to support their case. And they quieted conscience by the thought that even if all were not exactly as they put it, there was still evidence enough against Ørlygur to satisfy any reasonable mind. A little touch of colour one way or another made no difference.

The people had chosen; Ørlygur was already worsted and down. Certain of the result, they had declared for the winning side—a fine example of the unstable character of humanity, a weathercock moved by every puff of wind.

Ketill was only waiting for the return of his brother and sister-in-law.

He felt a slight nervousness in the anticipation, though he felt confident in his own mind as to the result of the blow he was prepared to deliver. His plan was complete in all details, all preliminary steps had been taken: he had but to wait for the decisive moment to strike.

But the waiting was monotonous. He had nothing more to do, and his mind in idleness was plagued by distressing thoughts.

If only he had some one to share things with, a companion after his own heart. He was realizing now what it was to be lonely. He even sought the company of his wife, but soon observed that she shunned him as far as possible.

The gulf of silence between them had become almost impassable, and he read enmity and suspicion in her glance.

He had never meant to be unkind to her. Maybe he had been a little neglectful at times—but she ought surely to have realized herself how busy he was, and how hard it was for him to find any time for little attentions.

He had time enough now, and would have been glad to make up for the past, if only by way of finding some comfort himself in his loneliness. His mind was suffering under a growing burden of isolation.

In the daytime he could generally find something to do, but the evenings were long, and the nights often unbearable. He could not sleep, and his nerves soon began to feel the effect of insufficient rest; he had to struggle, too, against haunting thoughts that left him almost physically exhausted.

Sometimes he even considered whether it might not be better to give up the whole scheme. But after all the pains he had taken to prepare it—no, he could not give up now. If he stayed his hand, all would be lost.

His wife seemed lost to him. She was coldly reserved, and utterly unresponsive towards his advances. And his conscience troubled him. He could almost see himself, at times, with her eyes; hear how his own words rang false in her ears. He was a cheat—and what was worse, he had been found out.

Even if he gave up his plans now, it would not help him. He could never win her back again, of that he was sure.

With his father, too, it was equally hopeless. Ørlygur would never trust him again, whatever he might do; and it was not to Ketill’s taste to humble himself to no avail.

No! If he gave up now, he would be utterly alone thenceforward. The people would desert him, for his preaching would no longer have any definite aim; his doctrine would lack its dominant purpose. He would be alone, forsaken by all, without a friend among his flock, his kin, or even in himself; alienated even from his God. A creature to be despised, or pitied; a thing of no account, unworthy either of hatred or affection. Intolerable!

No; if he were to be alone, he would at least have power. If he could not win the trust and affection of his people, he would at least command their obedience and outward respect. No one should have the right to accuse him of weakness.

Such were his conflicting thoughts as the days went on. Ketill was thoroughly wearied of inaction; he longed for the moment when he could act, as a child longs for its birthday. Again and again he pictured to himself the events of that day, conjuring up visions of his triumph; his one desire now was for it to come, and make an end of the waiting.

Also, he began to feel less sure of himself; to fear lest at the critical moment his nerve might fail him.

Once he had declared himself, however, there could be no question of withdrawal; all doubt and wavering would disappear; there he would stand, erect and strong, the victor in a struggle that he had vowed to win or die.

He was not blind to the danger of any weakness on his own part; irresolution would be fatal. But once he could take the decisive step, leaving himself no possibility of retreat, all would be well.

Victory was certain—for he was fighting without mercy, as injustice ever does.

Alma went about in the same dull, listless state as before. She seemed to be living in a world apart from all that went on around her.

She noticed her husband’s restlessness, and that he seemed to be trying to approach her. But she put it down to his weakness and lack of society—a need for companionship of any sort. And as a result, her antipathy increased. She was good enough—in default of all else! But at other times he cared nothing for her. It was not for her sake, not for herself, he sought her. Ketill never realized how his neglect had isolated her in a prison of solitude.

It was impossible to speak to him about the state of things between them; he would only gloss it over with an utter disregard of the truth. And any open insincerity and falsehood on his part would bring matters to a climax; she would be unable to restrain her feelings. What would happen exactly, she did not know; she did not venture to consider the possibility. It seemed impossible that she could ever survive such a revelation.

And yet she had a painful intuition that it would come, and that she would survive it. It was horrible to think that she must go on living after that. Were she but certain that it would kill her, she would gladly do her best to bring matters to a head instead of avoiding and dreading it.

But for the present the wheels of time seemed to have stopped; life was at a standstill.

Even the solitude she sought in her wanderings about the country seemed dreadful to her now. Ice and snow, ice and snow—the outlook was so bleak and desolate that it brought her mind to the verge of insanity.

Her head ached intensely as she looked out over the snow-covered waste; her brain seemed on the point of bursting, she felt herself fighting to retain her mental balance. Once she gave way there would be no recovery.

She would find a dark corner somewhere, and sit down with her head in her hands, rocking to and fro. Snow and barren waste—the sight of it worked on her till she dared not face it.

Then came the sunshine of spring, and she could go out once more. The snow was still there, but there were breaks in its monotonous expanse. And day by day she watched it disappear.

Then at last one day she heard the roar of the stream as it broke through the ice of its winter bondage. She hurried out to look.

The ice had been carried out into the fjord, and lay there, blue and green, rocking gently on the water. Later in the day it lost its freshness, dulled by the sand and mud carried down by the torrent. Streams were pouring everywhere from the heights above, forming small pools here and there where the water spread.

And gradually the earth rose up out of its covering of snow.

The landscape was dark and bare, relieved here and there by white specks—the ptarmigan had not yet changed their winter plumage.

Then the green of spring began to put forth, and birds of passage arrived. The air grew milder, and the song of birds was heard; there was a scent of growth abroad, a promise of harvests to come.

Early blossoms peeped out, braving the frosts with cheerful smiles. Time went on, and the light nights came, when the evening brought but a veil over the day, that was drawn aside again at dawn, when the bright sun rose, passing from a ruddy glow to a fullness of dazzling rays. Butterflies lived their little lives, and sank to earth, to pass through the cycle of nature before they came again. The lambs of last year were mothers now themselves, wise in the vicissitudes of life and saddened by experience.

But the horses, even the older ones, forgot for a moment their mere material needs, and galloped madly about under the influence of the joy-filled air.

Cattle let loose for the first time from their confinement behaved in most undignified fashion; even the astonished calves followed suit and joined in the romp with their elders. Good-natured mothers pretended to let themselves be outdone by their month-old offspring, until some youngster grew overbold, and had to be reminded by what was fitting. Great days, these, for a young calf, a time to play at being a grown-up bull, and making ferocious charges against all and sundry.

All the light-heartedness of spring about her brought at times a smile to Alma’s saddened face. But it was a smile of pity rather than of pleasure. All these young creatures, this life new to the world, had not yet tasted the bitterness of existence upon earth.

So she lived through the spring with the winter of life in her heart, that nothing could melt away once it had set in. No springtide for her, no budding and bloom.

She longed only for peace—in forgetfulness or death.