Guest the One-Eyed

The widow and her daughter rode home that evening in silence. Each was occupied with her own thoughts, and would not have found it easy to share them with the other.

The horses knew their way, and, despite the darkness, the journey was accomplished rapidly and without mishap. The animals seemed to know that the quicker they went, the sooner they would be able to rest.

Mother and daughter exchanged only a few trivial remarks as they unsaddled and turned the horses loose. They did not even trouble to light up, but went straight to bed.

They had lain in silence for some time, when Bagga’s voice came suddenly out of the dark:

“Mother, why must I leave home?”

The widow was at a loss for an answer, and, to escape the question, pretended to be asleep.

Bagga fell to weeping softly. It seemed all so senseless and cruel—why should she leave home when she had no wish to go? Who could say if these strangers with whom she was to live would be kind to her or not? It hurt her to leave home at all—but her mother willed it so.

Worse than this was the thought that Ørlygur seemed changed. There was something in his look and manner which told her she was not the same in his eyes that she had been when last they had met—when he had given her the lamb. Her conscience had been uneasy on that day of the funeral—it was the funeral of her good friend, Guest the One-eyed; and yet she had been glad, thinking only that she would be sure to see Ørlygur again. She had hoped, too, that he would speak to her—perhaps even take her hand. But he had only given her a hasty greeting, and his handshake had been disappointing. She had been careful herself to leave without bidding him farewell; she could not bear to take his hand again in that strange way. Was it because there were others present that he had been so strange? Or had he ceased to love her? If he could only know how she suffered, for all her brave attempts to seem unconcerned, then surely he would at least have given her one such look as that which had drawn them together at the first. But perhaps it was only sorrow at his bereavement that had made him look so unlike himself; perhaps next time they met all would be well again. Oh, it was wrong of her to be bitter and think the worst; God might well punish her for that. And she had sinned in going to the funeral with any other thought than that of mourning the loss of Guest the One-eyed.

So Bagga argued with herself, and made up her mind at last that if she bore her trials bravely, then God might again be merciful and grant her again the joy of feeling that she and Ørlygur were united in heart.

She ceased to weep. Her pure and innocent heart had found consolation in her simple thoughts. All would surely be well again. And as her mind dwelt on the remembrance of her lover, she ceased to see him as he had been today, and saw only Ørlygur as she had known him—the picture she had treasured in her heart.

At last all conscious thought faded away; she only saw him—saw his face, his figure; the smile that had made her so happy, and the look in his eyes that she loved. They went with her into dreams, and daylight found her with a serene and happy smile. And when her mother came to wake her, there was such quiet and innocent peace in the girl’s face that the old woman’s anxious look changed to a tearful smile as she whispered to herself:

“Surely she can come to no harm. The Lord would never let her suffer.”

And, dressing quietly, lest she should wake her, the widow stole out to her work.

On waking, Bagga noticed at once that her mother was already up. She got out of bed herself, and, without making any attempt to dress, sat down on the bed to think. Today she was to leave home. At first she half hoped it was all a dream, but in a moment she realized that it was the sad truth. And the question which had risen to her mind the night before came to her now again: Why should she go? Hitherto, her mother had never said anything about her going away from home; on the contrary, she had always felt that her mother would have been sorry to lose her. And then to decide on this so suddenly.... There must be some reason for it all—something they had not told her. She was to go as housekeeper to the doctor, a man she had never liked. From her first sight of him she had felt an instinctive aversion to him. His looks, his friendly advances, repelled her. But if her mother thought it best, that must be enough. And if her mother did not wish to tell her the reason for so thinking, there was no more to be said.

She would not ask.

Going out, she found her mother had just finished making the coffee. They talked with some restraint; it seemed awkward even to talk of little everyday things now. The widow was evidently distressed herself, and Bagga was on the verge of tears. From her manner, the mother judged that Bagga had determined not to ask the reason of her being sent away from home. This was as well, since it saved her the necessity of answering awkward questions; but, on the other hand, it puzzled her to think why her daughter should have refrained from asking.

The few necessary preparations for the journey were soon made, and a man came up to the house with the horse Bagga was to ride.

It was noticeable that at parting the widow carefully impressed upon her daughter not to hesitate in telling her all that happened—to let her know at once, if need be.

“It will be lonely here when you have gone, child,” she said.

Bagga burst into tears, but strove bravely to recover herself. The two women embraced, and the widow walked beside the horse until they came to the stream. Here they stopped, and bade each other farewell tenderly.

“God be with you,” said the mother earnestly. “Trust in Him, and keep yourself pure in soul and body. And, should it please Him to call me to Himself, remember that there is one beside myself who loves you.”

Bagga blushed at her words, and warm joy filled her heart. Then, with a parting kiss, she touched her horse and rode across the stream.

The widow stood for some minutes waving to her. And when Bagga turned to look once more, before passing over the last ridge of hills that would shut out the sight of her home, her mother stood there still, a grey, forsaken figure on the autumn landscape. The sight went to her heart.

Ørlygur had left the churchyard with a smile on his face after his unfriendly remark to the priest about Borgarfjall and silly sheep. But the smile soon vanished.

“That was childish of me,” he reflected. “Whatever made me say it, I wonder? And now I suppose I shall have to scramble up there one day, and very likely break my neck. No need to do it really, of course. But, then, that would be rather mean again. I seem to be getting that way of late.”

Suddenly he perceived the doctor standing before him.

“Two and two are four,” said the latter, with a gleam of kindly mischief in his eyes.

Ørlygur looked up at him uncomprehendingly.

“Don’t be offended,” said the doctor. “But really, you know, any one could see that a man walking about with such a scowl on his face was not sorrowing for the dead. Looks much more as if he were busy with some mathematical problem or other.”

Ørlygur tried to smile.

“How would you like to make the ascent of Borgarfjall?” he asked jestingly.

The doctor looked out over the valley, measuring distances with his eye.

“Shouldn’t care about it, to tell the truth,” he answered. “But if I had to, well, I should provide myself with a bottle of whisky, and empty it. Then, when the ground began to move a bit, I should just wait till the part where I stood—or lay—came uppermost, and the top of Borgarfjall under; it would be easy enough to just give a heave and roll down to it. Otherwise, I think I should wait till after death.”

“But you don’t believe in any life after death,” said Ørlygur, smiling.

The doctor’s manner changed abruptly. “I don’t know,” he said seriously. “Don’t know what I do believe.” Then, returning to his former mischievous tone, he went on: “Anyhow, I fancy whisky is a freethinker. And I sometimes feel the spirit moving me.”

Ørlygur was smiling no longer. “What is it like to get drunk?” he asked.

The doctor looked at him searchingly, then laughed aloud.

“Well, it makes you somewhat foolhardy as a rule,” he said. “And light-hearted, light-headed, and all the rest of it. Afterwards, it’s apt to be the other way—heavy, you know, especially about the head. You’ve a charming frankness, by the way, young man, when it comes to asking delicate questions.”

“Why should I not?” said Ørlygur quickly. “Would you prefer me to pretend I didn’t know you drank?”

The doctor was somewhat taken aback. “No,” he said; “I shouldn’t. Your straightforwardness is one of your best qualities. You don’t care for whisky, I know. But come over one day and get drunk on it—it will probably save you, at any rate for some time, from any risk of going that way yourself.”

“I didn’t feel any wish to try,” said Ørlygur. “It just occurred to me, that was all.”

They walked up and down in silence, Ørlygur looking straight before him, the doctor watching him covertly the while.

“Most likely a woman,” he thought to himself. “In trouble of some sort, that’s clear. And—funny thing, now I come to think of it, we’ve never heard anything about his being taken with any one up till now. Anyhow, why he should be troubled about anything in that line, I can’t make out. She must be a fool who wouldn’t have him and gladly. Hearts are a nuisance.”

He murmured the last words half aloud, and sighed.

Ørlygur glanced at him. “What is it?” he asked.

“Eh? Only my heart, I said. It’s the whisky’s done it, you know. And I was thinking of the time when I hadn’t yet given it the chance to get in and spoil things.”

The doctor looked him fixedly in the eyes. Ørlygur stopped, met his gaze, then both lowered their eyes and walked on. After a little, the doctor spoke again, looking straight ahead of him.

“You’re one of the few people I ever trouble to think of,” he said. “Because I have an idea that you’ve some sort of friendly feeling for me. Heaven only knows why you should. Consequently, the least I can do for you is—not to warn you, but just to point out to you the rocks that upset my little voyage; then you can go round or steer headlong into them, just as you please.”

He changed suddenly to a lighter tone. “I’m no hand at serious talk. And you’re looking just now as if you’d just entered Holy orders. I think I’ll go and find some one more amusing to talk to.”

He offered his hand, and the grip he gave belied his words. Ørlygur understood that the other had gone in order to leave him to himself. And he was grateful.

For a while he walked about by himself. Then, noticing that the others were saddling up, he found his horse, and rode with the party, but in silence, keeping to himself. He noticed the priest among the party, and fancied he marked an unfriendly look in his face. But it did not trouble him. On reaching home, he let his horse go loose, and wandered about by himself, leaving Ormarr and Runa to entertain their guests.

All that afternoon he wandered restlessly about, either keeping to himself or going from group to group, exchanging brief remarks occasionally with some, answering others with a word or so, often without being properly aware of what had been said. All saw that he was troubled and distrait.

He saw that Bagga was among the guests, but she was not alone, and he made no attempt to speak to her. And yet, time and again when he lost sight of her for a moment, he could not rest till he had found her again. It was a consolation to look at her, to see that she was there.

When the widow and her daughter rode away, Ørlygur took care to be at hand when the horses were saddled. He hoped Bagga would come up and speak to him. But she pretended not to notice him, though he was sure she must have seen him.

At that, his misery overcame him, and he went to bed without saying good-night to any one. But he could not sleep. He heard the others come up to bed, and could hear their regular breathing through the thin partition between the rooms. The idea of sleep irritated him. What was sleep?—a giving up of the mind to nothingness. A thing unworthy of human beings. Surely it was the outcome of indifference, idleness, an evil habit that had grown through generations—a kind of hereditary vice.

He lay long restless, letting his thoughts come and go.

Then he became aware of a strange sound somewhere in the house. Music—somewhere a melody seemed filtering through the air, calling his thoughts back from their wanderings.

It must be Ormarr playing. Ørlygur dressed softly and stole out of the room. As he neared the door of the room where he had watched the night before with the dead, the sound grew clearer—it was there Ormarr had chosen to play.

He stood still and listened.

He did not know the melody, but its indescribable softness and melancholy soothed his mind. If Ormarr were playing for his own consolation, he was also comforting another and bringing peace to a troubled heart. Ørlygur listened, letting the music work upon his mind. And gradually he forgot himself entirely; that which had been himself disappeared, and there was something else—there was life, a precious thing. It was worth living for, only to feel this enthralment of the moment; to realize this harmonious blending of joy and sorrow, of life and death blending, as it were, into a golden mist, and melting into eternity.

The last notes died away. Ørlygur crept back to his room, and slept.

When Ørlygur awoke next morning he felt ill at ease. The sense of mental balance he had gained from the music of the night before seemed far off, and he had difficulty in recalling it.

But at the same time the feeling of utter despair that he had felt, especially after his vain attempt to speak at the graveside, had left him.

“Strange,” he murmured. “But the promise—it seems now as if it no longer existed, after I failed to utter it then.”

And he smiled bitterly.

“Was I really so weak?” he thought.

He dressed and went out. The sky was overcast, and the landscape, now deprived of the brightness of the sun, looked dead and gloomy, as if waiting only for the white wrappings of the snow to sink into the long frozen sleep of winter.

For the first time, Ørlygur felt the approach of winter as something threatening and to be feared. And involuntarily his thoughts turned to the spring that lay beyond. His heart beat fast as he pictured to himself the joy that comes with spring—the joy of seeing green things spring up out of the earth, the poor little blossoms of the rocky hills, the flight of white and many-coloured butterflies, the light nights, and the clear, smooth water of lakes set free from their murky covering of ice. He longed for the spring to come, and longed to share his joy in it with another.

His love for Bagga welled up in him like a spring torrent triumphant over the grip of winter, carrying all before it. It was this feeling which had been slumbering beneath his faint-hearted thoughts, and now it rose and swept all else from his mind.

“Why did I not speak to her yesterday?” he asked himself, in bitter self-reproach. “Why did I not go to her when she stood there weeping by the grave? What madness was it that made me greet her as if she had been a stranger? And she saw it—saw I was changed, and that was why she would not bid me farewell. If only I have not hurt her beyond healing! How can I ever explain—how can I tell her of this mysterious power that has overwhelmed me until now? She would not understand it all—and if I do not tell her all, she will see that I am keeping something back. It may be that I have ruined everything—that she can never love me now. How could I ever dream of carrying on my father’s work? It was an impulse sent from hell, and changeable and weak as I am, I let it take possession of me. I, who am so little able to control myself that I answered with boyish rudeness when the priest spoke to me—he meant well enough, no doubt. I can see myself that I am but a fool—how much more a fool should I appear to others if I were to go out attempting to teach others the way to peace.”

Again his thoughts turned to Bagga. He was filled with a sudden desire to go and see her, now, at once. Yet he did not move. Something seemed to hold him back.

He hated himself for his irresolution and want of firmness. But there was something he felt he must do before he sought her; what it was, he knew not.

His gaze wandered, as if seeking a solution. And suddenly his eyes rested on Borgarfjall.

“That was it!” he said to himself. “I told the priest.... But it was only in jest....”

He stood thinking.

“Perhaps the priest will remind me of it some day. Or tell others—and I shall be looked on as a braggart. I could never bear it. Bagga might try to stop me if I made the attempt, but if she heard I had vowed to do it and drawn back she would never think the same of me again. It would pain her; she would feel ashamed. And that must never be.”

He decided to act at once. He would climb Borgarfjall the next day. And the idea of danger crossed his mind; perhaps he would never see her again.

But the mere possibility of this was unendurable—never to see her again. It was too dreadful to be a possibility at all. No; it could not be but that he would come back safely to her after all.

And the more he thought, the more he felt certain of success. Here at last was something real to grapple with, something material, and he felt more confident in himself. No more fighting in the dark against thoughts and fancies, but a trial of physical strength and endurance.

That it was but a caricature of his former lofty project never once occurred to him—he would hardly have understood it in that light. His nature was one that craved real hardships to encounter; he was not of the stuff to fight with figments of the brain.

He would do it. He would start tomorrow. And, meanwhile, how was he to pass the rest of today?

Suddenly he thought of the doctor. A talk with him would be good medicine to shake off idle fancies. Yes, he would ride over and see the doctor.

And this time he saddled his horse without a trace of hesitation, and rode off to the trading station.

The doctor was in unusually good spirits when Ørlygur arrived.

He had good reason to be pleased with himself; not only had he found a housekeeper in place of the last, who had left him without notice, but he had found the most beautiful girl in the parish to succeed her.

And if ever there was a man who knew how to appreciate good looks in his housekeeper, it was Jon Hallsson, the doctor.

Ørlygur was unaware of the direct cause of his friend’s good humour, and when the doctor invited him to stay and sample the new housekeeper’s cooking, he accepted without ever dreaming—and without asking—who the new housekeeper might be. The doctor was always changing his folk, and Ørlygur was not interested in the subject.

“If you’ve come to try my whisky, why, you couldn’t have chosen a better time,” said the doctor gaily. “I’m just in the humour for a bout today—after dinner, that is.”

Ørlygur shook his head.

“I have given up the whisky idea,” he said, with a laugh. “Not only because I don’t really care for it, but it throws one off one’s balance too easily. No; I have found something else.”

“Oh? And what may that be?”

“Mountaineering.”

The doctor laughed. “I prefer the whisky,” he said. “It elevates the mind without moving the body, and the fall is thus less painful.”

“No need to fall at all,” suggested Ørlygur.

“If you are still thinking of going up Borgarfjall, I should say there’s every chance of it,” returned the other.

“I am,” said Ørlygur. “I am going up tomorrow, to build that cairn.”

The doctor looked at him.

“Surely you are not serious?” he said.

“Indeed, I am,” answered Ørlygur. And with a smile he added: “I want to get up and look about a little—see something of the world.”

“If only you don’t find yourself seeing something of another world—one that your friend the priest seems to know such a lot about.”

In vain the doctor pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the project. Ørlygur was accustomed to mountain-climbing, and was obstinate. He must and would make the ascent.

“Must,” repeated the doctor. “What nonsense!”

“It is simply this—if I don’t do it, I shall have made a fool of myself in the eyes of that priest. I don’t know how you would like that as an alternative.”

“Oh, if that’s the case, I’ve nothing more to say. I’d rather drink off a bottle of sulphuric acid at once than let that fool crow over me.”

“Well, then, that’s enough,” said Ørlygur. “Let’s talk of something else. I came over this evening because I wanted livening up a little.”

“Very nice of you, I’m sure, to credit me with any ability that way. Suppose we try something to eat for a start.”

They went into the dining-room and sat down. A moment later the door from the kitchen was opened, and Snebiorg entered with a soup tureen on a tray. At sight of Ørlygur she stopped, and hesitated. Then she looked down and blushed, but came forward and set down the soup on the table. Ørlygur had risen, but said nothing. All the merriment had vanished from his face, leaving him serious and astonished. The doctor was looking at the girl, and did not perceive the change which had come over his guest.

“My new housekeeper,” he said, still without looking at Ørlygur. “A beauty, isn’t she? And if my nose doesn’t deceive me, she knows how to cook.” And he stroked her arm.

“How dare you touch me!” cried the girl, and, flushing more hotly than before, she left the room.

“Ah, a bit stand-offish, it seems,” said the doctor complacently. “But none the worse for that.” And he turned towards his guest.

He caught but one glimpse of Ørlygur’s furious face; next moment a violent blow under the jaw sent him headlong to the floor.

He rose slowly, staring in profound astonishment, felt himself as if to ascertain what damage had been done, and then appeared perfectly calm once more.

“Good thing I was sitting down,” he said, with a touch of humour. “Not so far to fall, anyway. Handy with your fists, young man, I must say. Well, no reason to let the soup get cold. So you’re taken with her, too—why, so much the better, then we’re agreed. And seeing we’ve no difference of opinion on that head, I can’t see why you find it necessary to knock me down. I’m not a fighting man myself—very nice to watch, of course, when you’re not in it yourself, but otherwise.... Why couldn’t you tell me how matters stood? Your girl, not to be touched, and so on. Much nicer, you know, between friends, than landing out suddenly like that. Anyhow, I don’t mind admitting that the—er—hint was direct enough. Enough for me, at any rate. Peaceable character, you know, and not as young as I used to be. I’m not particularly scrupulous as to rights of property in that sort of goods generally, but seeing it’s you, and we’re friends in a way—no more to be said. And since you’re determined on breaking your neck tomorrow, I daresay you’ll forgive me for hoping you may succeed. If I were in your place, I’d let a dozen priests think and say what they pleased, as long as I kept the girl, rather than go ramping off trying to cut out eagles and all the fowls of the air by clambering up to places never meant to be reached without wings—unless she asked you to, of course. If she asked me, I’d do it ten times over and reckon it cheap at that. I suppose it’s a secret, though, or your respected foster-father would hardly have arranged for his daughter-in-law to come here as housekeeper. Her mother wouldn’t have let her, I know.”

“Snebiorg and I are engaged,” answered Ørlygur calmly. “It is a secret, that is true, known only to ourselves, and now, of course, to you....” Ørlygur was surprised to find himself lying with such ease. “But I hope you will keep it to yourself now you do know.”

“My dear fellow”—the doctor stroked his chin reflectively—“you’ve no call to be anxious—not in the least. I’m not likely to gossip about a thing like that. But, Lord, if you knew how sincerely I hope you may break your neck tomorrow.”

“I shan’t bear you any grudge for that,” answered Ørlygur, in the same light tone. “But I’m very much afraid you’ll be disappointed. I never felt fitter in my life.”

“I’ve no doubt as to your fitness,” answered the doctor, “after the practical illustration you gave me just now. But as to getting up there—as long as there’s no sign of wings sprouting out from your shoulder-blades, I would suggest that you’re a fool to try it, all the same.”

Ørlygur shook his head.

“Well, well, it’s your own affair.”

They had finished dinner, and as they rose from the table, Ørlygur, according to custom, offered his hand to his host. The doctor grasped it heartily.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said, and went out into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

Snebiorg was in the kitchen; she had not appeared in the dining-room after the soup.

“I want to ask your pardon,” he said frankly. “I promise you it shall not occur again. Until this moment I had no idea that you were a friend of Ørlygur à Borg. He is a good friend of mine, and I hope you also will regard me as a friend.”

Snebiorg looked at him at first with some distrust; she had never liked the man. But there was a certain shyness in his manner now, and a kindly tenderness in his eyes, altogether different from his former attitude towards her. And she could not but feel he was sincere.

She made no answer, but he noticed the altered look in her face, and, greatly relieved, he went back to Ørlygur and led him to the sitting-room.

“I’ve been out to beg pardon,” he said, offering a box of cigars. “She’ll be as safe here with me now as with her mother. And if you think it’s only because you knocked me down just now, you’re wrong.”

Ørlygur looked at him doubtfully.

“I know what you’re thinking of,” the doctor went on. “My promise wouldn’t count for much when I’ve been drinking, eh? But there’s just a bit of my heart that the whisky hasn’t altogether spoiled as yet.”

He glanced up at a large picture of his dead wife on the wall. There were other portraits of her about the room. And his eyes were moist.

Ørlygur was moved, and held out his hand.

Then the whisky was brought out, but Ørlygur declined; the doctor poured out a glass for himself. They sat for a while in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.

Ørlygur could not get over his astonishment at meeting Snebiorg in the doctor’s house, and in particular at the news that it was Ormarr who had arranged for her to come. It troubled him, also, that her mother had been willing to let her come at all.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him—here, perhaps, was the solution of it all.

“Trying to make me jealous—that must be it. And not a bad idea. If I had any doubt in my own mind before, this has certainly made an end.”

He glanced at his host, wondering whether he, too, was in the plot. The doctor seemed to perceive that he was being scrutinized.

“Ørlygur,” he said, in a strangely quiet voice, “I wonder what ever made you care about me at all? I’ve had a feeling ever since I’ve known you that you had a sort of liking for me. But, how you ever could, I can’t imagine.”

Ørlygur looked at him a moment, and then glanced away.

“If you want to know,” he said, “it’s not for any one reason in particular, but several. To begin with, you’re alway the same to rich and poor.... Indeed, I’ve heard that you often treat poor people for nothing, and give them medicines into the bargain.”

“That’s nothing,” said the doctor, waving his hand carelessly.

“And, then, you stay in a poor place like this, instead of finding somewhere where you could make a better position.”

“Mere selfishness on my part,” said the doctor. “My wife lived here; it was here I met her—here we lived for the one short year we had together.... Yes, I daresay it may seem almost blasphemous for me to talk like that, seeing what every one knows about my life generally. But it’s true, all the same. That’s why I stay on here.”

Ørlygur sat looking straight before him. “It’s just those trifles—and that one thing you call selfishness that made me like you,” he said softly.

Both were silent. Then the doctor reached out for his glass, and emptied it. And, without appearing to address Ørlygur directly, he went on:

“Sitting here by myself, I often think how queerly fate weaves her threads. Something’s happening every moment—things happening that matter to some one or other. Only, I’m outside it all; just sit here and look on. Like the carcase of a fly that the spider Life has left hung up in a corner of the web.”

He poured out a fresh glass, and laughed.

“Sit here drinking whisky and never move. Never get any farther. I won’t say my life’s been worse than many others in the way of troubles. I may feel so at times, but it’s just weakness on my part. Here I have a comfortable room to sit in, an arm-chair, and something to drink. And there’s many that are out in the cold. Possibly I may be as lonely and unhappy as they. But at least I can live in something like material comfort. I’m not starving, for instance. Altogether, I must be a poor sort of fellow not to be more content than I am, and go steady, instead of sinking deeper and deeper into drink. Sometimes I’ve thought of committing suicide. But when I go over the pros and cons, it seems better to go on living. I don’t expect death to bring me anything better. And I suppose I’m doing a certain amount of good while I’m alive. Though, on the other hand, I do some harm. Heaven knows why—my nature, I suppose.”

He looked up suddenly.

“Getting dark,” he said.

Twilight had fallen; already it was hard to distinguish objects in the room. The two men saw each other’s faces only as pale spots in the dark. The doctor rose to light the lamp.

Ørlygur rose also.

“Don’t trouble. I’m going home now,” he said. “I shall have to be up early tomorrow.”

The doctor followed him out to his horse, that was loose in the enclosure. Ørlygur saddled up, and took his leave; there was a curious, thoughtful expression on his face. A moment after, he dismounted again, and, handing the reins to the doctor, who was waiting to see him ride off, he went into the kitchen, where a light was burning.

He closed the door after him as he entered, and looked into Bagga’s eyes, that were red and swollen with tears.

“How did you come here?” he asked in a low voice.

“I don’t know,” answered Bagga calmly. “Mother said I was to come. And I would not disobey her.”

“I have told the doctor we are engaged,” he said, in the same low tones.

She nodded, as if agreeing it was the natural thing to do.

Then Ørlygur’s heart was filled with an endless joy, and a proud yet gentle smile lit his face. He opened his arms and drew her to him. For a moment they stood there, held close in each other’s arms. Then Ørlygur looked into her eyes and said:

“I am going up to the top of Borgarfjall, to build a cairn there. And then I shall come and fetch you.”

She nodded again, with the same expression of quiet understanding. Then their lips met in a long kiss. Ørlygur felt his head grow dizzy, and it was not till he found himself galloping away on his horse that he recovered.

“If I fail tomorrow,” he thought to himself, “I am a scoundrel. But I must build that cairn.”

And after a while he murmured half aloud, with an air almost of disappointment:

“She didn’t seem in the least impressed—took it as if it were nothing at all.”

Jon Hallsson was standing deep in thought when Ørlygur dashed out of the kitchen, snatched the reins out of his hands, and galloped off without a word or look in farewell.

“He’s in a hurry to go off and break his neck,” he thought, and added: “I wonder he doesn’t give up that mad idea. With a girl like that....”

Then he went indoors, hoping that he might remain undisturbed that night.

When Jon Hallsson had settled down to drink in the evening, he did not like to be called out. But his drinking had never interfered with his work; some people even went so far as to say that they would rather have him slightly drunk than perfectly sober. Strangely enough, despite his weakness in respect of drink and women, he had never lost the respect of those about him. He was a clever doctor, and kind to the poor; he talked straight out, like a man—at times a little too much so. And so people liked him. After all, it was no concern of theirs how he lived or what he made of his life. There was only one man who detested him, and that was the priest. But the latter was not so popular among his flock that he could venture to give vent to his feelings beyond an occasional remark.

Jon Hallsson was from another part of the country, but had held his present post for fifteen years. When he had first come to the place, he had been unmarried, and the district at Hofsfjordur was regarded as merely a stepping-stone to a better. He was looked on by his colleagues as a man who would certainly rise in his profession.

Shortly after his arrival, he had married a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood. She died in childbirth within the year, and the child immediately after.

The blow had crushed him utterly, leaving only a shadow of his former self. He filled the house with pictures of his dead wife, and dwelt on them, clinging to memories as a stricken bird to its nest. But his physical cravings would not be denied. And he was not strong enough to master them. Little by little he gave way, and though at times he realized that he was sinking, he had not power to check himself. Other young men in his profession rose beyond him, while he grew more and more hopeless of ever advancing at all. He was like a pebble in the river of life; once it had come to a stop, the stream flowed over and past it, wearing away every projecting corner that could give a hold, until gradually it became surrounded by other stones, and the way for further progress was blocked and it sank down to insignificance in the lowest of the mass.

Jon Hallsson lit the lamp and sat down to drink. He could hear Snebiorg busy in the dining-room, and in a little while she came in to tell him that his tea was ready.

“Thanks,” he said, and did not move. As she went to the door, he added: “You need not wait to clear away the things. Go to bed when you like. Good-night.”

For a long time he sat in silence. Then, as was his way when he had been drinking for some time, he began talking to himself. It was as if the silence became unendurable.

“Nonni,” he said, using the pet name by which his wife had always called him—“Nonni, my boy, it’s time for bed. Getting late, and the lamp will want filling soon. And you don’t like sitting in the dark, do you? And the oil’s down in the cellar, and you’d go headlong to the bottom if you tried them. Much as you can do to stand on your legs now. But there’s a candle....”

He emptied his glass and filled it again.

“My friend, you drink like a fish. Drink a lot too much. No earthly need for that last glass. Too much whisky ’s a bad thing anyway. And there’s no need to empty the bottle each time. There’s a deal left now, but if I’m not mistaken you’ll finish it before you turn in tonight. And then, my boy, you will be drunk. And do all sorts of mad things. But kindly remember—the door where that girl sleeps is not to be touched. Not even touch the handle. No.”

He rose with difficulty and took down a large photograph of his wife.

“Best to do it now,” he said. “While you’ve some sense left. There’s a hammer in the surgery.”

He stumbled out of the room, and nailed up the picture of his wife on the door at the foot of the stairs that led to Snebiorg’s room.

“Ragna,” he said, “keep guard over that door for me, will you? You know what I am when I’ve had too much. Do all sorts of mad things. But mustn’t go up there. Not up there—no. You guard the door, Ragna. Yes.”

Then he stumbled back to his arm-chair and his glass.

“There you are, my boy; now you can carry on for a bit. Couldn’t get to sleep now anyhow. Not eleven yet. And there’s lots of things to think of yet.”

He took a long drink and laughed.

“Fount of youth—serves up the same old thoughts as if they were new. Night after night—chewing the cud of old thoughts. Nonni, my boy, you’re a ruminating animal. Sad, isn’t it? Well, what does it matter? Heaps of people do the same. Chew the cud of their sorrows and joys, and their trifles, and their love—yes, ha ha, love, of course. Nice word for something else.... There, now you’re being a beast. And if you are, you needn’t make out all the world’s the same. You knew something about love yourself, once ... blubbering, Nonni—whisky going to your eyes, what? Dry up, do; it won’t make things any better. Can’t stand one bottle—you’re getting out of form. Well, well, here’s the last glass for tonight. Not too much soda this time—stiff one to make you sleep. Only think, if one could drop off to sleep and out of it all. Well, well, that’ll come too before long, never fear. Nuisance that you can’t take a light with you when you go. Nasty to wake up in the dark when you’re dead. What nonsense—you don’t wake up when you’re dead.... Anyhow, it’s nothing to be afraid of, Nonni, my boy. Well, off we go—walk steady, now. Those stairs ... but we weren’t going up those stairs.... And why not, I should like to know? Fine girl there waiting ... and the other young fool, he’ll break his neck ... finest girl I’ve set eyes on for many a long day.”

He staggered from the room, and out to the staircase door, where his wife’s picture hung.

“What the—good Lord, it’s Ragna! I’m sorry, Ragna—first time you’ve.... Oh, I remember now. Well, well, there’s no going that way. No, I shouldn’t have ... no.... Good-night, Ragna.”

He turned towards his own room next to the surgery. “That’s right, Nonni, boy—that’s the way. Leave the girl alone. Heart? Never mind your heart—nothing to do with the heart really, you know. Not that sort of thing.... This way, boy. That’s right.”

He went into his own room, and stumbled into bed. For a long time he lay awake, muttering to himself. At last, when the candle had burnt down and the room was in darkness, he gradually lapsed into sleep.