Guest the One-Eyed

“Very well, then.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Drunk? No, I wasn’t drunk. But do let’s talk of something else. It’s no good discussing this any more. It’s done, and can’t be undone. I am going back home—to Iceland. There’s a boat leaving tomorrow. Take off your coat, won’t you—you’re going to stay now? Mix yourself a drink, man, do.”

“No, thank you.” Blad spoke coldly, flinging out his words, and pacing the floor excitedly.

“Have I hurt you too? I can’t think how I could have done that. Surely you can’t feel hurt at my being what I am, and doing what I can’t help doing? I asked you to stay just now, because I thought you were my friend. If you are no longer my friend, then you had better go.”

“Really, I almost fancy you would like to turn me out now because I decline to drink with you to Grahl’s happy decease. By Heaven, you do not deserve that I should stay.”

“Oh, you damned fool—who’s talking about what I deserve!”

Blad stopped suddenly, as if paralysed by the word. Then in a voice heavy with emotion, he said:

“Ormarr—that was the first ugly word I have ever heard you use. And it was said to me—to me!”

“To you—yes. But you made me angry, you know. Up to then, I was only miserable—and so hopelessly tired. And here you are reproaching me for things I could not help. And really, you know, when you are so utterly foolish as to measure me by your standards, I can’t call you anything else. I don’t repent what I did tonight. How can a man repent things that happen—things over which he had no control whatever? But I do repent—or at least, I am sorry—for what happened before—for what brought it all about. Grahl was my friend and benefactor—and yet I cannot feel any grief at his death. I simply can’t think at all at the present moment; haven’t a single atom of emotion in me. I’m just a wilderness. Oh, if you knew what I am suffering now—death would be welcome; a relief. There’s just one thing that grows and grows in me now—the need to go back, to go home.”

“And your father—what will he say, do you think?”

“My father? I don’t know. I wonder what he will say. It will be a big disappointment to him, this. How could I ever have done it? I don’t understand myself now—it all seems so ridiculous; to lose control of oneself like that.”

Blad started.

“Then—then you didn’t do it on purpose?”

“Good heavens, no! Did you—could you think that of me? I suppose you fancied it was a new sort of advertising trick—well, why not?”

“Ormarr—forgive me. But you were so cool about it all—I never thought....”

“All right, never mind. We won’t worry about it any more. I’m dead tired. Stay here tonight, won’t you? I’m not going to bed; no good trying to sleep. Stay and see me off; the boat goes at nine. Thanks, that’s good of you. Get some sleep, if you can, yourself. There’s a lot of things I’ll want you to do for me while I’m away. Send me—no ... no, I won’t have any of these things here. You can take them over—keep what you care about and sell the rest. I want to forget these years—as far as I can. Though I’ve learned much in the time—and paid dearly for it. Now I am going home—going home to Iceland, and then ... what next, I wonder?”

It was a bright wintry day when Ormarr, watching from the captain’s bridge, saw his native land rise snow-clad from the blue-green sea against a high, clear sky. The captain noticed that the fur-clad man who had been up on the bridge since early that morning to get the first glimpse of land, seemed strangely moved at the sight of it. Well, it was none of his business....

Never before had Ormarr seen Iceland rising thus out of the sea; he had but a dim notion of the grandeur of the sight. Unconsciously, he had always thought of Iceland in the green of spring or summer, and had looked forward to seeing it so on his return. Being winter, of course, there would be snow. But he had never thought to see it all so white and clean and brilliant as now.

A vague joy filled him as he looked; he felt that his soul was come of the race of those great mountains, as of a line of kings.

Iceland—his country! Like a cathedral, a consecrated pile of granite, pure and holy in the seas of the far north. And the snow—how he loved it! And the rocks, the hills and valleys ... the brooks and streams, sleeping their winter sleep now, under the ice. And fire too, the marvellous, merciless fire, smouldering quietly in its lava bed, yet strong enough to melt the ice of a hundred years in less than a minute and hurl it in huge floods of boiling water and redhot rocks and lava down the mountain-side, through the valleys, out into the sea. What did it care for men, or their goods or their lives! All had to die. And better to die by fire or ice than on a bed of sickness. Far better to die young in some mighty upheaval than to drag palsied bones through a dreary wilderness of old age.

Ormarr smoothed his brow.

Why think of dying now? He was still young, and fit for action. Yet if Mother Iceland should think fit to crush him to his death in her embrace, well, he was ready. Well for him, perhaps, to find death on her icebound, fiery heart, if the road of life proved too wearisome.

Strange thoughts—was he mad, after all? He was thinking now as he had done so often when a child. But his dreams had changed. Then, Iceland had been the starting-point of his imaginings; it had been as a weight at his heel, keeping him in bondage, holding him back from all that he thought made life worth living. Now it was changed—now all his dreams turned towards it, centred round it—Iceland now was his home. Home? No, he had no home anywhere on earth. Yet he felt drawn towards it none the less; longing for his country....

But what was this—Iceland—hovering above him, looking down at him—would she no longer receive him? Was he her child no more? Had the world worn away the marks by which his mother had known him?

Foolishness—his brain was running wild. And yet—how was it with him, after all? Was it not true that he was unworthy of love—a failure, self-condemned?

Iceland, towering in shining armour, in glittering floes and spotless mantle of snow. And one coming to her from the outer world, with the dirt of alien countries on his feet, and the pain and weariness of the world in his heart. Her sacred places were no longer open to him now; closed, locked; the keys hidden far away, not there. Perhaps in the place whence he had come, perhaps far distant, on some other continent. Or hidden, maybe, on the other side of life.

Iceland! As he watched the land rise from the cold blue waves, he felt that he, who once had been her child, was no longer worthy to be so. He had sinned in coming back at all. And he vowed in his heart to set out once more in quest of the key that might unlock its holy places to him once more. Whatever happened, he must go away again. And if he could not find what he sought, then there could be no return. Only let him first breathe the air here for a little while, tread the soil that had been his father’s—men who had never shamed their native land.

Again he smoothed his forehead—the movement had become a habit with him whenever he wished to check or change a train of thought. And he laughed harshly.

“Well, Ormarr Ørlygsson, my friend and brother,” he thought to himself, “this time you are certainly mad ... mad beyond cure ... caught in the act—hysteria pure and simple.”

He sighed deeply—there was an ache at his heart.

“What is it?” he thought. “If I go on like this ... if I let my thoughts and fancies play at will like this, I shall end as a lunatic: lose all control over myself, and be shut up somewhere—a pleasant prospect! Or at best, be allowed to go about at home in a living death: a beast with instincts and no soul, on the place I was born to rule. And father—to see his son an object of pity or contempt.... No: I must get away now, before something happens. Better perhaps not to land at all, but go on round the coast, and back with the steamer to Copenhagen.

“Well, we shall see. Most likely it would be the wisest thing to do. On the other hand, it would be cruel to father....

“Wait and see. Let me at least feel the soil of my own country under my feet: touch the snow, drink its water, and breathe its air—satisfy myself that it is not a vision merely, no fairy tale, but a reality.”

At the first port Ormarr went ashore. He felt happy as a child, and laughed and joked with the crew. And when the boat neared the pier, he waved his hand to the crowd there, though he did not know a soul among them. They shrank back a little at the gay familiarity on the part of a stranger—but Ormarr did not care.

He set out on foot to explore the neighbourhood, a poor enough place it was. It was only with an effort that he restrained himself from walking up to the windows of the little houses and looking in, or knocking at the doors, just to breathe the atmosphere of a home in his own country.

On an open space some boys were racing about playing snowballs. This was too much for Ormarr; before he knew it, he was in the thick of the fight, and in a moment he had all the lads on top of him. With shouts and laughter they pelted him from all sides, and ended by fairly burying him in the loose snow.

The boys stood around laughing heartily when at last, gasping for breath, he emerged; this was a first-rate playmate that had suddenly appeared from nowhere. Eager queries were hurled at him.

A tall, freckled peasant lad came up and asked his name, others equally inquisitive put their questions without giving him time to reply to the first. Was he from the steamer just come in? Where had he come from? From Copenhagen? What had he been doing there? Was he going on with the steamer again? If so, he would have to hurry; the second whistle had already gone.

And the whole crowd followed him down to the harbour, two of the smaller boys taking each a hand. When he gave them some small coin, they decided that he must be the new Governor at the very least, and felt some tremors at the disrespectful manner in which they had treated such a personage.

As the boat rowed off to the steamer, they stood on the pier waving their caps, and stayed there, waving and shouting as the vessel moved off.

Ormarr felt unspeakably grateful for this welcome from his country—a welcome of smiles, and snow, and youth; the glowing warmth that was in its element amid the biting cold. He felt himself akin to these lads, with their hands and faces warm and wet from perspiration and melting snow; who rolled about in the snowdrifts despite their clothing, braved the cold and the roughness of the elements, enjoying themselves in the depth of an arctic winter as well as in any tropical summer heat. They had no idea of modern precautions against climate.

There they stood, waving to him, acknowledging him as one of their own, never dreaming that he had been about to drift away into an artificial life that nursed the frailties of the body regardless of health, until the body became a thing to loathe, unless the soul itself were cynically hardened.

This was the moment for action, the time to pull oneself together and decide; here was the way to follow—follow it!

But first of all, to find the right way.

Ormarr felt now that he could go back to his father. Could tell him all, confess that he had chosen a wrong path, a way whereby his body might have passed unscathed, but his soul never—it was never meant that the two should be divided. He must rest and think for a while and find a new road.

Once more Ormarr had climbed to the bridge, and remained there till the steamer touched at the next port. It would be a couple of days before he could reach home.

The day wore away, and night came down, but it was still quite light. The moon was high, right over the land, its white glow hovering over the landscape and giving it an air of unreality, like a spell that held all things in the bonds of sleep. The ship itself, chained to a silver beam, was the captive of this enchanted country, for all that it kept on its course; sooner or later, it seemed, the time would come when it must crash on a rocky coast.

Ormarr turned from the moon, forgetting the base designs which he had just attributed to its dull red bridge of rays. He looked at the stars—and suddenly he remembered the summer nights at home, when he had lain out among the hay in the fields, unable to draw his eyes from the twinkling golden points of light.

The northern lights flickered and faded, and showed up anew; like fiery clouds, appearing suddenly on one horizon, to vanish in a flaming trail behind another. Ormarr loved them—their restlessness, their capricious, fantastic shapes, the play of mood through every imaginable shade of colour—it was a silent musical display of heavenly fire.

Next day, the captain and Ormarr were alone on the bridge. Each was occupied with his own thoughts, and both were gazing towards the shore.

The captain broke the silence.

“See there, Hr. Ørlygsson—that ring of mist there round the peak. Now, mist, I should say, is white as a rule, but looking at it there, against the snow, it looks just grey.”

Ormarr made some brief reply; he was studying the face of the little Danish captain.

The latter spoke again:

“I don’t know if you know this part of the country at all. When we round that point just ahead, you will see one of the strangest fjords all round the coast, though that’s saying a good deal. Rocks sticking up out of the sea, sharp as needles some of them, and some all tumbled about in groups; some look like houses, and there are a few that make gateways, as it were, real arches, that you can take a ship through if you like.”

“Then we shall be in very soon, I suppose—and up to time for once.”

The little Dane drew himself up stiffly, glanced coldly at Ormarr, and said:

“Begging your pardon, sir, my ship is always up to time.”

“Why, then, it is I who must ask your pardon, Captain Jantzen.”

“Always excepting pack ice and being hung up by a gale,” added the captain in a milder tone. “Otherwise, I admit you’re right about being up to time generally—my ship’s an exception, that’s all. I put it plainly to the owners: either give me a time-table that I can keep to, or find another skipper. It’s a point of honour with me, as you might say. As a matter of fact, there was another Iceland boat once came into port on the day fixed—only it was just a month late.”

The captain laughed at his own jest, and Ormarr joined in. Then Captain Jantzen went on:

“Really, you know, it is a shame that there should be such a wretched service of steamers in these waters. There are several companies, I know, but they simply agree that there’s no sense in competition, so they keep up freights, and run their ships as they please. You may often have to wait weeks for a boat, and then find the sailing’s cancelled for some reason or other. Yes, there’s a chance for a man with energy and capital, that’s certain.”

Ormarr started at the other’s words; it was as if a mist faded from before his eyes; here before him was a chance to redeem himself.

He turned to the captain and looked at him searchingly; a good man, by the look of him, and with determination in his face. Suddenly he noticed that the man lacked one finger on his left hand—strange, Abel Grahl too had lost a finger. The coincidence seemed to form a bond between himself and the captain. Fate, perhaps—why not?

He shook his head, smiling at himself for the superstition. Nevertheless, he asked the captain:

“Ever taken a turn with Fate, Captain Jantzen?”

The captain smiled, a mirthless smile that might have been a setting of his teeth.

“I should think so,” he said, with an air of definite certainty, as if answering question about a harbour he knew blindfolded. “And if you haven’t, I’ll give you a bit of advice: take it by the horns straight away; don’t wait on the defensive, attack at once. There’s this about it: when luck favours a man, and he’s sound enough not to get spoiled by it at once, sure enough, Fate will try to get a foot on his neck.”

He stretched out his left hand towards Ormarr, showing the index finger missing, and went on:

“It cost me that. I was a deck hand on a fishing-boat at the time, though I knew the sea, and had many a rough turn with it, and saved more than one from drowning. And that’s a thing the sea won’t forgive. One day I was alone on the foredeck, getting the anchor ready, when there was a hitch in the cable. And then a thing happened that I’ve never known before or since—my feet slipped sheer away from under me, as if some one had pulled them. I came down headlong, and the anchor tore away to the bottom of the sea, taking me with it. My finger was caught between two links of the cable—there was no getting it free. I thought to myself, ‘Not this time, anyway,’ and managed to get at my knife, and hacked it off. It didn’t seem to hurt much while I was in the water—but when I came up—the men—believe me or not, as you will, but they started back when they saw my face. I hurried down below—I had a sort of feeling what it was. And I tell you, sir, there was the mark of death in my face when I looked; the mark Fate puts on a man before handing him over. And it was twenty-four hours before it passed off.”

Captain Jantzen laughed.

“Since then, Fate’s left me alone. Maybe she never found out how I’d cheated her. And if she has forgotten, why, maybe I shall live to be an old man after all.” And as if repenting his levity, the little captain became serious once more.

“All the same, it’s not right to joke about that sort of thing.”

Ormarr had listened with interest to the captain’s story. When he had finished, he was silent for a moment, then asked:

“How long have you been captain of ‘Bjørnen,’ Captain Jantzen?”

“Why, it’ll be twelve years this spring.” And in a tone of some resignation he went on:

“It’s not likely I’ll have her for another dozen years. Though I’d like to. She’s a fine boat, and somehow we sort of belong to one another. But the owner’s getting on now, and his health’s not what it might be. And no sons. I fancy the other shareholders are not quite pleased with things as it is.”

Ormarr walked up to the captain, and looking straight at him, asked abruptly:

“What about buying them out?”

Jantzen started, and looked inquiringly at Ormarr.

“I mean it.”

“Well—yes, I dare say. It’s a limited company. The biggest shareholder is the owner—and if any one were to buy up all the other shares on the quiet, well, there’s no saying....”

Ormarr and the captain seemed suddenly to have become remarkably intimate with each other—so, at least, it seemed to the others on board.

They remained for a long time in the captain’s cabin, bending over a map of Iceland, discussing routes, tariffs, and traffic in a half-whisper. They talked of nothing but how many vessels and what size would be needed if one company were to take over the whole of the goods and passenger traffic between Iceland-Denmark, Iceland-Norway, and Iceland-Great Britain.

It was late when Ormarr shook hands with the captain and went to his bunk, with the parting words:

“Then the first thing you have to do is to buy up all the shares on the market. After that, get the old man to sell his holding—but to me and no one else!”

The following morning, Ørlygur à Borg was standing on the borders of his land, deep in thought. He had dreamed a strange dream the night before, and was trying hard to remember the details. One thing only stood out plainly in his memory. He had been standing on this very spot, a little hill just outside Borg, one day towards the end of summer. And there he had fought—with what, he could not say. But it was against something stronger than himself, something which would overpower him unless Ormarr, his son, came to his aid. Then suddenly he had seen a viking ship rounding the point, steering straight up the fjord. The sight of the vessel gave him new strength; he knew that Ormarr was coming to help him, and the ship was sailing faster than any he had ever seen.... Here the dream had ended abruptly.

Ørlygur stood on the hill, trying hard to recall more of the vision. As if to aid his memory, he looked out in the direction of the fjord....

A steamer was rounding the point.

Ørlygur à Borg lost no time; he ran to the stables, and saddled his horse. He was about to saddle another in addition, but checked himself—possibly it was only an important message. Anyhow, instead of mounting, he had a sleigh brought out, and drove off towards the snow-covered valley at full speed, reaching the trading station just before “Bjørnen” came in.

Ormarr was not a little surprised to find his father among the crowd of people gathered on the shore. Most of those present had recognized Ormarr where he stood on the bridge, and there was a general surprise at his appearance. No one had expected him. Only his father seemed to regard his homecoming as natural, and showed no sign of astonishment.

Ormarr was in high spirits and full of pleasant anticipation; he shook hands right and left. Ørlygur found it hard to conceal his emotion at the meeting.

Ormarr introduced Captain Jantzen to his father, but the latter spoke only a few words to the captain; he seemed intent on getting home without delay, where he could have his son to himself.

Before taking his seat in the sleigh, Ormarr took the captain aside:

“Remember,” he said, “you must get everything ready beforehand. First of all, a detailed scheme and tariff rates, for our calculations. I shall be here all winter. After that, I am going to England and France, to get the money. I shall get it, never fear. Anyhow, I shall see you next summer in Copenhagen. And then we can set to work in earnest. Be ready for a struggle when the time comes—it will take some doing, but we can do it. Au revoir.”

On the way out to Borg, the horse was allowed to choose its own pace; father and son were too engrossed in their talk to trouble about anything else.

Ørlygur could not quite understand his son’s attitude towards music and fame—possibly because Ormarr himself was loth to lay bare all the trouble of his mind. Moreover, he felt a different man already, far healthier in mind and body, after the last few days, as if separated by a wide gulf from the Ormarr who had left Copenhagen after the scandal at the Concert Hall, a broken man, to seek rest and idleness in his own country.

Ørlygur could not altogether grasp his son’s changed attitude towards the question of his musical career, which had cost ten years of his life and several thousand pounds. But he thoroughly understood and approved of his new plan for a better and cheaper and more reliable service of steamers between Iceland and abroad.

Ormarr pointed out the advantage of having an independent national steamship service, and Ørlygur at once perceived the possibilities of the scheme for furthering the development of Iceland commerce and industry. The idea of excluding other countries from participating here appealed to him, and gained his entire support for the scheme. The very thought thrilled the old chieftain’s heart. Ay, they deserved no better, those slack-minded, selfish traders—they would only be reaping the results of their own shortcomings. They should no longer be allowed to monopolize trade, send up prices, make unreasonable profits, and do what they liked generally. There would be an end of their ill-found, ramshackle vessels, coming and going at their own convenience without the slightest regard for the public or their own advertised times. It was war—and he rejoiced at it. No question but that the people of Borg must win in the end.

As they were nearing home, Ormarr said:

“I am going to stay here this winter, father, before I set out again—Heaven knows how long it may be before I come back after that. I should like to live to enjoy one more spring here in Iceland. But after that, I must go abroad; work, work. It will take best part of the summer, I reckon, to raise the money—it will need a lot of money.”

Ørlygur gazed thoughtfully at the landscape, and answered:

“Well, well—I suppose you are right.”

For a while no sound was heard but the beat of the horse’s hoofs and the creaking of the sleigh. Then Ørlygur said in a half-whisper:

“But—we have some money here, you know, ourselves.”

Ormarr looked at his father keenly, and after a moment’s thought he said:

“Look here, father, I will tell you what I have thought of doing about the money part of the business. I want to get the money without offering shares. It will be difficult, I dare say. But I must be independent here; I cannot bear to be bound by considerations of credit, or other men’s interests, and that sort of thing. It would spoil the whole thing. The business must be my property; I will not have a thing that can be ruined by others after I have built it up. But if I should be unable to get the capital in the way I want it—why, then, I may come to you. Provided, of course, I can be sure of running no risk in the investment. I owe you too much already.—My inheritance, you say? I have not come into the property yet. But suppose we put it that way; that I owe so much to the estate. Anyhow, I owe it; it is money that must be paid, if things do not go altogether against us. For the present, I must fall back on you. But I shall not want much—nothing like what I have been drawing up to now. And I am proud that you are willing to help me, when I know I must have disappointed you by what I have done up to now.”

“I trust you, Ormarr,” his father said. “I do not quite understand, but I feel sure you were obliged to act as you did. The rest does not concern me. I know that you are honest and sincere, and I know that your aim now is not a selfish one.”

For a time no more was said; both men seemed anxious to let it appear that their minds were occupied with anything rather than with each other. But for all his apparent calmness, Ormarr was overwhelmed with gratitude to his father; to the fate that had given him such a father; given him Borg for his inheritance, and suffered him to be born a son of this little nation. Ørlygur, on his part, concealed beneath an expression of indifference a feeling of pride and love for his son.

As the sleigh drove up in front of the house, all the servants came out to welcome Ormarr, with a heartiness that showed plainly enough for all their quiet manner. A tall girl of about thirteen, with lovely flaxen hair flowing loose about her shoulders, appeared; this was Gudrun, a daughter of Pall à Seyru, now adopted by Ørlygur. Ketill was nowhere to be seen; Ormarr asked where his brother was.

Ørlygur smiled.

“Have you forgotten already? I wrote you in my last letter that I had sent him to the school at Rejkjavik. He wants to enter the Church, I understand. And I have been thinking that it would not be a bad idea later on, if he took over the living here. If, then, you decide to live abroad, as seems likely, and give up the estate here, then he could manage that as well. For the present, I have my health and strength, and hope to look after it myself for many years. We shall see.”

Of Ormarr’s stay at Borg that winter there is little to be said. Every Sunday the people of the parish came up to hear him play the violin. He was delighted to play to them, and touched at their grateful, almost devotional, reception of his playing.

Spring came. The snow melted, and the rivers sent floods of muddy water and blue ice towards the sea. A great unrest came over Ormarr, and he left earlier than he had planned. So, after all, he missed the soft purity of the Iceland spring, the beautiful white nights with the glow of light on the fields and ridges pearled with dew. He missed the sight of the butterflies fluttering in gaudy flocks, and the birds among the little hillocks where their nests lay hid.

He had already felt the grip of spring at his heart when he saw the wild swans and other fowl heading for the still frozen heights farther inland, driving their wedges through the air, and crying aloud in joy of life. And that same viking spirit which had driven his fathers before him came on him now and drove him abroad in haste.

As he left Iceland for the second time, his father stood on the pier with moist eyes. Ørlygur remained there, watching till nothing was to be seen of the vessel but a few grey wisps of smoke. Then he tore himself away, mounted his horse, and rode home, deep in thought.

If his blessing carried any weight, then surely matters would go well with his son.

He slept but ill that night; he was sorry he had not prevailed upon Ormarr to accept the money from him. It would have saved much trouble, and, at any rate, a certain amount of time.

If only Ormarr had come to him, rather than procure the funds he needed from others, and upon doubtful terms....

The cold, pure light of an autumn morning found the electric lamps still burning in a villa by the Sound. It was the residence of Ormarr Ørlygsson, company director, a man well known in the business world, and bearer of sundry decorations.

The light shone through the rose-coloured curtains of the French windows opening on to a verandah facing the sea. The room was large; the arrangement marked its owner as a bachelor. It served as office, sitting-room, and study. The wall opposite the window was occupied entirely by shelves filled with books: works of reference and lighter literature. The other walls, each with a heavily curtained door, were hung with paintings, all representing Icelandic landscapes. In one corner was a heavy piece of bronze statuary, likewise Icelandic, “The Outlaw.” The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet.

Ormarr sat at the big writing-table, his head buried in his hands. Lights burned in a crystal globe above his head, and in a reading-lamp at his elbow. The glow from the green shade of the latter, blending with the light of day, created a weird effect.

Ormarr had been sitting at his desk the whole night, going through piles of accounts and business papers.

For some time he sat thus, motionless. When at last he looked up, it was plain that thirteen years of work as a business man had left their mark on him. His face was thinner; his dark, rough hair was longer than was customary among men on the bourse, and the fact gave a touch of independence to his otherwise faultless appearance.

His expression was changed; the large, dark eyes were restless—a dreamy, far-away look alternating rapidly with a glance of keen alertness. When alone, his look varied continually with his varying moods, but in the presence of others he kept rigid control over his features; the severest scrutiny could detect nothing of the workings of his mind. Two deep furrows slanted down on either side the mouth, completing the impression of resolute firmness combined with melancholy resignation and bitterness.

As he looked round the room, his eyes betrayed the trouble in his mind. He glanced deliberately at each of the things around him, works of art and furnishings, as if in farewell, dwelling now and then on some single item as if trying to fix it in his mind.

Gradually he began to realize that his first impression of the previous day was correct—he was a stranger in his own place. And he shuddered at the thought. Unconsciously he picked up the cable he had received the day before, smoothed it out before him, and read it over with bitter, scornful eyes.

“What a fool I have been!” he muttered. “I might have known....” And he laughed—a choking, unnatural laugh, and rose slowly to his feet. Languidly he drew back the curtain, opened the window, and stepped out on to the verandah.

Leaning on the railing, he looked out over the shore, with the troubled sea and the Swedish coast beyond. The view had calmed him often, but there was no rest in it now; he looked at it all impatiently, no longer able to find any comfort in visions.

All was changed now.

His clothes irked him; his hands were soiled with dust from the papers he had been busied with; a general sense of bodily discomfort pervaded him. And as if to escape from his emotional self, he left the room hurriedly; a bath and a change of clothes would be something at least....

The housekeeper received her master’s orders to serve lunch on the verandah with some surprise. It was a way of hers to appear mildly surprised at things and today there certainly seemed some reason for astonishment: for thirteen years her master had never been at home to a meal at that hour of the day—why was he not at the office as usual? Ormarr’s manner, however, forebade all questioning, and she did not venture to ask if anything were wrong.

Ormarr went to the telephone, and rung up the office, speaking coolly enough.

“That you Busck? Good morning. Captain Jantzen there? Morning, Captain.... No, nothing wrong, but something has happened. Yes ... listen! You must hand over ‘Bjornen’ to the first mate this voyage.... What? Lose half an hour? Can’t be helped; I want you here. Come out here at once, please, but first get the chief clerk to tell you what I want done about the shares, and do as he says. Then out here to me as quick as you can. I’ll tell you all about it when you arrive. Right—good-bye.”

A few minutes later the telephone bell rang. Ormarr took up the receiver with a gesture of annoyance, but on recognizing the speaker’s voice, his manner changed.

“Yes—yes. Morning, Ketill. Ill? No, not a bit. Are you both there? Well, come out and have lunch with me instead. Don’t know what we’ve got in the house, but come anyway. Eh? No, not a bit. I have been rather busy—up all night.... No, never can sleep in the daytime. Right, then. Au revoir.”

Ketill, now getting on for thirty, was already in orders, and was to be presented to the living of Hof in Hofsfjordur in the autumn, Sera Daniel being about to retire on account of age.

The original plan had been that Ketill should have spent a few days only in Copenhagen when going abroad in the spring, on his way to Switzerland and Italy, returning via England. But Ketill, who had preferred staying at an hotel rather than at his brother’s, had soon found friends, largely owing to his brother’s introductions. One of the acquaintances thus made was that of a banker, Vivild, whose daughter Alma had quickly captured Ketill’s heart.

His tour of Europe, then, came to consist of but a few short trips, with Copenhagen as his headquarters. Ormarr had been surprised at this, but his brother gave him no enlightenment as to the attraction which drew him constantly back to the capital. Until one fine day Ketill announced his engagement and forthcoming marriage.

Ormarr had always looked on Alma as a tender plant, that could never be transplanted and live; the news surprised him. But he made no comment. Without realizing it himself, he had been deeply in love with dainty, sweet-natured Alma, but for no other reason apparently than a sense of his own unworthiness, had said no word of it to her. And here was his brother, holding the blossom himself, and tantalizingly inviting him to admire its sweetness.

The part of brother-in-law was by no means a pleasant prospect to Ormarr, but he reconciled himself to the thought.

Ketill—Sera Ketill, as we should now call him—was young and good-looking, with a pleasant and genial bearing. At times Ormarr could not help feeling that there was something a trifle insincere in his brother’s geniality. Still, Ketill was a nice enough fellow to all outward seeming, albeit a trifle stouter of build than need be.

There was never any exchange of confidence between the two brothers; they knew, indeed, but little of each other. Ormarr was conscious of an involuntary dislike of Ketill; he tried in vain to subdue the feeling; it remained unaltered. Ketill, on the other hand, appeared not to notice any lack of brotherly love and sympathy. Neither of the two men realized that Ketill’s nature not only did not invite, but rendered impossible any real confidence.

The first to notice this, albeit but vaguely to begin with, was Alma. The discovery troubled her a little, but she let it pass.

From all appearances, the union was a promising one, and the wedding was looked forward to by both parties with equal anticipation. The ceremony was to take place on the day before Ketill’s entering upon his new dignity, and the bride was to accompany him to their new home.

Alma and Ketill arrived at Ormarr’s house half an hour after Ketill had rung up. Alma promptly went out to assist the housekeeper with the lunch.

The brothers, standing by the writing-table in the sitting-room, lit their cigarettes. Sera Ketill looked with unconcealed scrutiny at his brother’s face, and with his usual affectation of heartiness said at once:

“Well, if you’re not ill, you look precious near it. What’s gone wrong now? Business?”

“That’s as you like to take it.”

“What do you mean by that? Nothing important, I suppose.”

“Important?—well, in a way, it is.” Ormarr passed the wire across to his brother, who read it through.

“Well, what does it mean?”

“It means that since yesterday I am—a millionaire.”

“The devil you are—Heaven forgive me! Well, you are in luck. How did you manage it? Can’t you tell a fellow how it’s done? A millionaire!... Well, I’m.... Lord forgive me! It’s all right, I suppose?”

“Yes, it’s right enough.”

“Well.... And What are you going to do now? Extend the business ... new routes?... If you take my advice, you’ll be a bit careful. Buy up the land in Iceland—that’s a sound investment. Buy up Hofsfjordur.... What a lucky devil!... Lord forgive me!... But what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, anyhow, you can do things in earnest now. Monopolize the trade of Iceland. You control the traffic already; the people know you, and trust you—that’s worth a lot in itself. They’re not an easy lot to win—that way, but once you’ve got them ... if you manage things properly, you’re all right there. Ormarr, you’re in luck. Look at me now—in orders. And even if I get the estate.... The old man—father, I mean—he’s getting childish already. Gives things away—money, live stock, food—you never saw. And he’s struck off all outstanding debts the peasants owed him—it’s whittling down the power of Borg to nothing. And we ought to have kept it up. Ever since you paid back the money you had from him—it wasn’t quite fair to me, you know, his letting you have all that—but anyhow, since you paid him back, he seems to think he’s a millionaire, and can throw money about as he likes. Well, well, I’m fixed up now, I suppose. But you—millionaire, what are you going to do now?”

“I’ll tell you.... No, it’s no use trying to explain....”

“Yes, yes, go on. What is it? New speculations? I’m interested in that sort of thing; go on.”

“No, it’s not speculation. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Don’t you believe it! When things turn out like they have done here. To tell the truth—I’ve been thinking of a little flutter on my own account. Old man Vivild’s put me on to a good thing ... but it seems you know the trick of it, so....”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t. Stick to Vivild if you’re going in for that sort of thing. He’s a sound man, and a clever one.”

“Well, well, as you please. But I can’t get over it.... A millionaire!... the dev—— Lord forgive me!”

After lunch the three sat together in a corner of the garden—Ketill and Alma side by side on a bench, Ormarr a little apart.

The conversation flagged somewhat; a few desultory attempts fell flat.

Suddenly Ormarr realized that his brother’s manner was different when Alma was present. He had noticed something before ... a curious abrupt change of mood, from lively jocularity to a sort of dreamy, thoughtful silence. But it had never occurred to him that it was Alma that brought about the change. Could it be a mask? In any case, the mask, if mask it were, suited him a great deal better than his normal appearance.

And as he watched them, Alma with her brown hair and bright dark eyes and Ketill with his heavy face and priestly air of calm, a feeling of resentment rose in him against his brother.

“I love coming out here,” said Alma suddenly. “It’s so different to the atmosphere at home—business.... Ugh.”

Ketill smiled. But Ormarr laughed and said:

“I should have thought one would feel more at home in the atmosphere one grew up in. But, as a matter of fact, you are wrong about the atmosphere here—it is all business really, and nothing else.”

“Father says you are not really a business man. And I think he is right.”

“The facts would seem to prove your father wrong, Froken Vivild.”

“He says you are—extraordinary. And that you’ve a lucky sense.”

“Maybe. It comes to the same thing. I fancy success in business is largely a matter of luck. Do you know what has helped me most all along? Well, before I started in business, I was well known, in a way, from my efforts in another direction. Not to put too fine a point on it—people believed me mad. And, consequently, everything I set out to do was regarded as more madness. It was the best thing that could have been—and I’m very much obliged to the people who thought so....”

A little later, Ormarr saw his guests to the gate, and stood watching them as they left, arm in arm.

“A lovely creature,” he thought. “The graceful way she walks.... But a child, no more. And he—I wonder how he will treat her. I’m afraid she will have a hard time of it with him. Perhaps when all’s said and done, she would have been better off with me.”

He stood watching the dainty figure as it receded, noting the graceful curves, and the mass of brown hair under the wide-brimmed hat.

“A dream,” he mused. “One of life’s lovely dreams....”

He closed the gate and walked up towards the house.

“No one to stop it ... life must run its course. I dare not interfere—I may be wrong. And—in my case, it is too late now.”

An hour later, Captain Jantzen was sitting in Ormarr’s room, in his usual place, an arm-chair at one end of the writing-table.

Ormarr passed across a box of cigars, and rang for wine.

Captain Jantzen was obviously ill at ease.

“Well, sir,” he asked, “good news, I hope?”

“No, Jantzen; bad news.” Ormarr hunted out the telegram he had shown Ketill, and passed it over. Jantzen read it through hurriedly, and glanced up quickly at Ormarr.

“If I remember rightly, we’re on the right side here.”

“That is so.”

“Why, then—we are safe. This gives us a free hand now—we can cover all outstanding loans, we can out-distance all competition.”

“Yes—and it puts me out of the game, Jantzen.”

“How? I don’t understand....”

“No, I’m afraid you’d hardly understand....”

“Well, sir, I confess as much. But there must surely be something behind this—I don’t see....”

“Only that victory has put me out of action, that is all. Ever since I started this thing, it has only been the difficulty of carrying it through that kept me to it. Now that is disposed of, I collapse. I can’t live in that fruitful sort of country where you’ve only to plough and change your crops now and again—I can’t work at a thing that runs by itself. It’s not only that it doesn’t interest me; I haven’t the power of self-deception it requires. I’m perfectly aware of that. I feel at the moment like a bow that has been strung and drawn to its limit, and shot its bolt where it should. I’ve no use for repetition. And, take my word for it, if luck has favoured me up to now—in business, I mean—it would surely fail me after this. Once before in my life I have suffered the defeat of victory. And then, I chanced on you—it was Fate that led me to a new task; and with it, at the end, a new victory—a new defeat. True, the result has been somewhat different this time. But it comes to the same thing. I have done with the task—or it has done with me.”

Jantzen watched the speaker’s face intently; he remembered the pale features of a younger man, who had stood with tears in his eyes, on the bridge of his vessel, at the first sight of Iceland from the sea. It was a face he had come to love—so strong it could be at times, and at times so weak.

And a deep despondency, such as he had only known in lonely watches far at sea by night, filled his heart.

Ormarr was absolutely calm and unmoved to all appearances; he seemed to have no regrets. He emptied his glass and nodded to Jantzen.

“There’s no harm done, that I can see. What do you say to taking over the management yourself, Jantzen?”

“Impossible. I could never look after a business like that—I’m not built for it.”

“Nonsense, Captain. Don’t tell me you couldn’t run a line of steamers. The idea! I suppose the truth of it is you’re unwilling to give up your ship.”

“That’s true. I’ve captained ‘Bjørnen’ now for five-and-twenty years.”

“But the business is more important than a single vessel. Let’s stick to the matter in hand—the business itself. I can no longer manage it myself. And you are the only man I can trust to take over. You must take it over. As for ‘Bjørnen’—we can easily find another man. But if the business itself were now to pass into the hands of strangers, all our work will have been in vain; we should, in fact, have done more harm than good.—I suppose you will say that it is my duty to carry on. That’s reasonable enough—as long as the course you propose is possible. But it is not possible any longer. It is simply this: I can control myself only to a limited degree; that you may take for a simple fact. And the limit is reached. What I am to do now I do not know. First of all, I shall go home—it is long since I was there. Anything in the shape of rest, or interruption, is dangerous to me, and that is why I have not been home to see my father for thirteen years. But something tells me that he needs me now, though I have no idea in what way I can be of use. Never mind. I am subject to my instincts; to defy them would be a crime against myself—perhaps against a higher power. We are both of us somewhat superstitious, you and I. Anyhow, to come to the point. You, Captain Jantzen, will now acquire this business by purchase.”

“Purchase? Now you are joking. I might perhaps manage the business, if there’s no other way....”

“That won’t do. You must buy it outright. As to terms, I shall be your only creditor, and you won’t find me a hard one to deal with.”

“But—by that arrangement, the management—the business itself—will be in Danish hands.”

“Where did you learn your trade, Captain? On the coasts of Iceland—working for a people not your own. And you will admit that you have more than a little sympathy with that little island and its people, obstinate though they may be at times. Also, it would be a good thing for my countrymen to realize that they need not always look upon the Danes as enemies.”

Ormarr took up his glass. “Well, here’s to the venture!”

Captain Jantzen’s hand trembled slightly, and he spilt a few red drops on the costly carpet as he drank.

“Since you will have it so, why, let it be. But I’m sorry about ‘Bjørnen.’”