Only to Jason was the happy place a Gethsemane, and standing in the thick of the crowd, on a grave with a sunken roof, under the shadow of the Cathedral, he listened with a dull ear to the buzz of talk between two old gossips behind him. He noticed that they were women with prominent eyeballs, which produced a dreamy, serious, half-stupid, half-humorous look, like that of the dogs in the picture that sit in the judgment-seat.
"She's English," said one. "No, Irish. No, Manx—whatever that means. Anyway, she's foreign, and can't speak a word that anybody can understand. So Mother Helda says, and she's a worthy woman, you know, and cleans the floors at the Palace."
"But they say she's a sweet lady for all that," said the other; and just then a young student at their back pushed his laughing face between their shoulders and said,
"Who? Old Mother Helda?"
"Mother Helda be bothered. The lady. And her father has been wrecked in coming to her wedding, too! Poor old man, what a pity! The Governor sent my son Oscar with twenty of Loega's men to Stappen to look for me. That was a fortnight ago. I expect him back soon."
"They might have waited until he came. Why didn't they?"
"Oscar?" said the laughing face between them.
"The father, goose. Poor lady, how lonely she must feel! But then the old Bishop is so good to everybody."
"Well, he deserves a good wife."
"The old Bishop?" said the student, shaking his sides.
"The young Governor, I'm talking of; and don't be so quick in snapping folks up, Jon Arnason. He's the best Governor we ever had. And what a change from the last one. Why, he doesn't mind speaking to anyone. Just think, only yesterday he stopped me and said, 'Good morning;' he said, 'your son won't be long away now,' quite humble and homelike."
"Well, God bless him—and her too, foreign or not—and may they live long——"
"And have a good dozen," added the laughing voice behind them.
And then all three laughed together.
By this time the organ which had been silent for a littlewhile, had burst forth afresh, and though its strains were loud and jubilant, yet to Jason they seemed to tell the story of his sorrow and all the trouble of his days. He tried not to listen, and to pass the moments in idly watching the swaying throng, whose heads beneath his own rose and fell like a broken sea. But his mindwouldbe active, and the broad swell of the music floated into his soul and consumed it. "Can it be possible," he thought, "that I intend to smite him down when he comes through that doorway by her side? And yet I love her—and he is my brother."
Still the organ rang out over graveyard and people, and only by an effort of will could Jason hold back his tears. "Man! man!" he cried in his heart, "call it by its true name—not judgment, but murder. Yes, murder for jealous love, murder for love despised!"
A new and awful light had then illumined his gloomy mind, and his face betokened his sufferings, for, though no tears fell down his hard cheeks, his eyes were bloodshot. In complete self-forgetfulness he pressed forward, until his way was stopped by a little iron cross that stood at the head of a grave. "My mother's," he thought. "No, hers is next."
The organ broke into yet another strain at that moment—a proud, triumphant peal of song, which in the frenzy of Jason's mind seemed either to reach up to heaven's gate or to go down to the brink of hell. There was a movement among the people, a buzz of voices, a hush, and a whispered cry, "They are coming, they are coming!"
"God bless them," said one.
"Heaven protect them," said another.
And every blessing fell on Jason like a curse. "Murder let it be," he thought, and turned his eyes where other eyes were looking. Then passing under the broad arch, stepping out of the blue shadow into the white sunshine, all radiant in her grace and lovely sweetness, meek and tender, with tears in her soft brown eyes—it was she, it was she; it was Greeba—Greeba—Greeba.
Jason felt his strength exhausted. A strange dizziness seized him. He looked down to avoid the light. His eyes fell on the iron cross before him, and he read the name graven upon it.The name was his own.
Then everything seemed to whirl around him. He remembered no more, save a shuffling of feet, a dull hum overhis head, like the noise of water in the ears of a drowning man, and a sense of being lifted and carried.
But another consciousness came to him, and it was very sweet, though uncertain. He was floating up—up—up to where the mountains were green, and the sea was tranquil, and the trees made music in the quiet air. And Greeba was there, and she was laying her cool hand on his hot forehead, and he was looking at the troubled heaving of her round bosom. "Aren't you very proud of yourself, Jason?" she was whispering softly, and then he was clasping the beautiful girl in his arms and kissing her, and she was springing away, blushing deeply, and he was holding down his head, and laughing in his heart.
"Lie still, love; lie you still," fell on his ear, and he opened his eyes. He was in his own room at the little cottage of the caretakers. The old woman was bending over him, and bathing his forehead with one hand, while with the other hand she was holding her apron to her eyes.
"He's coming round nicely, praise the Lord," she said, cheerily.
"I remember," said Jason, in a weak voice. "Did I faint?"
"Faint, love?" said the good soul, putting her deaf ear close to his lips. "Why, it's fever, love; brain fever."
"What time is it?" said Jason.
"Time, love? Lord help us, what does the boy want with the time? But it's just the way with all of them. Mid-evening, love."
"What day is it—Sunday?"
"Sunday, love? No, but Tuesday. It was on Sunday you fell senseless, poor boy."
"Where was that?"
"Where? Why, where but in the Cathedral yard, just at the very minute the weddiners were coming out at the door."
And hearing this Jason's face broke into a smile like sunshine, and he uttered a loud cry of relief. "Thank God. Oh, thank God."
But while an angel of hope seemed to bring him good tidings of a great peril averted, and even as a prayer gushed from his torn heart, he remembered the vision of his delirium, and knew that he was forever a bereaved and broken man. At that his face, which had been red as his hair, grew pale as ashes, and a low cunning came over him, andhe wondered if he had betrayed himself in his unconsciousness.
"Have I been delirious?" he asked.
"Delirious, love? Oh, no, love, no; only distraught a little and cursing sometimes, the Saints preserve us," said the old landlady in her shrill treble.
Jason remembered that the old woman was deaf, and gathering that she alone had nursed him, and that no one else had seen him since his attack, except her deaf husband and a druggist from the High Street who had bled him, he smiled and was satisfied.
"Lord bless me, how he mends," said the hearty old woman, and she gave him the look of an affectionate dog.
"And now, good soul, I am hungry and must make up for all this fasting," said Jason.
"Ay, ay, and that you must, lad," said the old woman, and off she went to cook him something to eat.
But his talk of hunger had been no more than a device to get rid of her, for he knew that the kind creature would try to restrain him from rising. So when she was gone he stumbled to his feet, feeling very weak and dazed, and with infinite struggle and sweat tugged on his clothes—for they had been taken off—and staggered out into the streets.
It was night, and the clouds hung low as if snow might be coming, but the town seemed very light, as with bonfires round about it and rockets shot into the air, and very noisy, too, as with guns fired and music played, so that Jason's watery eyes felt dazzled, and his singing ears were stunned. But he walked on, hardly knowing which way he was going, and hearing only as sounds at sea the voices that called to him from the doors of the drinking-shops, until he came out at the bridge to the Thingvellir road. And there, in the sombre darkness, he was overtaken by the three Danes who had spoken to him before.
"So your courage failed you at the last moment—I watched you and saw how it was. Ah, don't be afraid, we are your friends, and you are one of us. Let us play at hide-and-seek no longer."
"They say he is going down the fiord in search of his wife's father. Take care he does not slip away. Old Jorgen is coming back. Good-night."
So saying, without once turning their faces towards Jason's face, they strode past him with an indifferent air.Then Jason became conscious that Government House was ablaze with lights, that some of its windows were half down, that sounds of music and dancing came from within, and that on the grass plat in front, which was lit by torches men and women in gay costumes were strolling to and fro, in pairs.
And turning from the bridge towards the house he saw a man go by on horseback in the direction of the sea, and remembered in a dull way that just there and at that hour he had seen Michael Sunlocks ride past him in the dusk.
What happened thereafter he never rightly knew, only that in a distempered dream he was standing with others outside the rails about Government House while the snow began to fall through the darkness, that he saw the dancers circling across the lighted windows and heard the music of the flutes and violins above the steady chime of the sea, that he knew this merry-making to be a festival of her marriage whom he loved with a love beyond that of his immortal soul, that the shame of his condition pained him, and the pain of it maddened him, the madness of it swept away his consciousness, and that when he came to himself he had forced his way into the house, thinking to meet his enemy face to face, and was in a room alone with Greeba, who was cowering before him with a white face of dismay.
"Jason," she was saying, "why are you here?"
"Why areyouhere?" he asked.
"Why have you followed me?" she cried.
"Why have you followedhim?"
"What have you come for?"
"Isthiswhatyouhave come for?"
"Jason," she cried again, "I wronged you, that is true, but you forgave me. I asked you to choose for me, and if you had said 'stay,' I should have stayed. But you released me, you know you did. You gave me up to him, and now he is my husband."
"But this man is Michael Sunlocks," said Jason.
"Didn't you know that before?" said Greeba. "Ah, then, I know what you have come for. You have recalled your forgiveness, and have come to punish me for deserting you. But spare me! Oh, spare me! Not for my own sake, but his; for I am his wife now and he loves me very dearly. No, no, not that, but only spare me, Jason," she cried, and crouched at his feet.
"I would not harm a hair of your head, Greeba," he said.
"Then what have you come for?" she said.
"This man is a son of Stephen Orry," he said.
"Then it is for him," she cried, and leaped to her feet. "Ah, now I understand. I have not forgotten the night in Port-y-Vullin."
"Doesheknow of that?" said Jason.
"No."
"Does he know I am here?"
"No."
"Does he know we have met?"
"No."
"Let me see him!"
"Why do you ask to see him?"
"Let me see him."
"But why?" she stammered. "Why see him? It is I who have wronged you."
"That's why I want to see him," said Jason.
She uttered a cry of terror and staggered back. There was an ominous silence, in which it passed through Greeba's mind that all that was happening then had happened before. She could hear Jason's labored breathing and the dull thud of the music through the walls.
"Jason," she cried, "What harm has he ever done you? I alone am guilty before you. If your vengeance must fall on anyone let it fall on me."
"Where is he?" said Jason.
"He is gone," said Greeba.
"Gone?"
"Yes, to find my poor father. The dear old man was wrecked in coming here, and my husband sent men to find him, but they blundered and came back empty-handed, and not a half an hour ago he went off himself."
"Was he riding?" said Jason; but without waiting for an answer he made towards the door.
"Wait! Where are you going?" cried Greeba.
Swift as lightning the thought had flashed though her mind, "What if he should follow him!"
Now the door to the room was a heavy, double-hung door of antique build, and at the next instant she had leaped to it and shot the heavy woodenbarthat bolted it.
At that he laid one powerful hand on the bar itself, and wrenched it outward across the leverage of its iron loops, and it cracked and broke, and fell to the ground in splinters.
Then her strong excitement lent the brave girl strength, and her fear for her husband gave her courage, and crying, "Stop, for heaven's sake stop," she put her back to the door, tore up the sleeve of her dress, and thrust her bare right arm through the loops where the bar had been.
"Now," she cried, "you must break my arm after it."
"God forbid," said Jason, and he fell back for a moment at that sight. But, recovering himself, he said, "Greeba, I would not touch your beautiful arm to hurt it; no, not for all the wealth of the world. But I must go, so let me pass."
Still her terror was centred on the thought of Jason's vengeance.
"Jason," she cried, "he is my husband. Only think—my husband."
"Let me pass," said Jason.
"Jason," she cried again, "my husband is everything to me, and I am all in all to him."
"Let me pass," said Jason.
"You intend to follow him. You are seeking him to kill him."
"Let me pass."
"Deny it."
"Let me pass."
"Never," she cried. "Killmeif you will, but until you have done so you shall not pass this door. Kill me!"
"Not for my soul's salvation!" said Jason.
"Then give up your wicked purpose. Give it up, give it up."
"Only whenheshall have given up his life."
"Then I warn you, I will show you no pity, for you have shown none to me."
At that she screamed for help, and presently the faint music ceased, and there was a noise of hurrying feet. Jason stood a moment listening; then he looked towards the window, and saw that it was of one frame, and had no sash that opened. At the next instant he had doubled his arms across his face and dashed through glass and bars.
A minute afterwards the room was full of men and women, and Jason was brought back into it, pale, sprinkled with snow and blood-stained.
"I charge that man with threatening the life of my husband," Greeba cried.
Then it seemed as if twenty strong hands laid hold ofJason at once. But no force was needed, for he stood quiet and silent, and looked like a man who had walked in his sleep, and been suddenly awakened by the sound of Greeba's voice. One glance he gave her of great suffering and proud defiance, and then, guarded on either hand, passed out of the place like a captured lion.
There was short shrift for Red Jason. He was tried by the court nearest the spot, and that was the criminal court over which the Bishop in his civil capacity presided, with nine of his neighbors on the bench beside him. From this court an appeal was possible to the Court of the Quarter, and again from the Quarter Court to the High Court of Althing; but appeal in this case there was none, for there was no defence. And because Icelandic law did not allow of the imprisonment of a criminal until after he had been sentenced, an inquest was called forthwith, lest Jason should escape or compass the crime he had attempted. So the Court of Inquiry sat the same night in the wooden shed that served both for Senate and House of Justice.
The snow was now falling heavily, and the hour was late, but the courthouse was thronged. It was a little place—a plain box, bare, featureless, and chill, with walls, roof and seats of wood, and floor of hard earth. Four short benches were raised, step above step, against the farthest side, and on the highest of these the Bishop sat, with three of his colleagues on each of the three rows beneath him. The prisoner stood on a broad stool to the right, and the witnesses on a like stool to the left. A wooden bar crossed the room about midway, and in the open space between that and the door the spectators were crowded together. The place was lighted by candles, and some were fixed to the walls, others were held by ushers on the end of long sticks, and a few were hung to the roof rafters by hemp ropes tied about their middle. The floor ran like a stream, and the atmosphere was full of the vapor of the snow that was melting on the people's clothes. Nothing could be ruder than the courthouse, but the Court that sat there observed a rule of procedure that was almost an idolatry of form.
The prisoner was called by the name of Jason, son of Stephen Orry, and having answered in a voice so hollow that it seemed to come out of the earth beneath him, he rose to his place. His attitude was dull and impassive, and he seemed hardly to see the restless crowd that murmured at sight of him. His tall figure stooped, there was a cloud on his strong brow, and a slow fire in his bloodshot eyes, and his red hair, long as a woman's, hung in disordered masses down his worn cheeks to his shoulders. The Bishop, a venerable prelate of great age, looked at him and thought, "That man's heart is dead within him."
The spokesman of the Court was amiddle-agedman, who was short, had little piercing eyes, a square brush of iron-gray hair that stood erect across the top of his corded forehead, and a crisp, clear utterance, like the crackle of a horse's hoofs on the frost.
Jason was charged with an attempt to take the life of Michael Sunlocks, first President of the second Republic. He did not plead and had no defence, and the witnesses against him spoke only in answer to the leading questions of the judges.
The first of the witnesses was Greeba herself, and her evidence, given in English, was required to be interpreted. All her brave strength was now gone. She trembled visibly. Her eyes were down, her head was bent, her face was half-hidden by the hood of a cloak she wore, and her tones were barely audible. She had little to say. The prisoner had forced his way into Government House, and there, to her own face, had threatened to take the life of her husband. In plain words he had done so, and then made show of going in pursuit of her husband that he might carry out his design.
"Wait," said the Bishop, "your husband was not present?"
"No," said Greeba.
"There was, therefore, no direct violence?"
"None."
"And the whole sum of the prisoner's offence, so far as you know of it, lies in the use of the words that you have repeated?"
"Yes."
Then, turning to the spokesman of the Court, the old Bishop said—
"There has been no overt act. This is not an attempt,but a threat to take life. And this is not a crime by the law of this, or any other Christian country."
"Your pardon, my lord," said the little man, in his crisp tones. "I will show that the prisoner is guilty of the essential part of murder itself. Murder, my lord," he added, "is not merely to compass the destruction of a life, for there is homicide, by misadventure, there is justifiable homicide, and there are the rights, long recognized by Icelandic law, of the avengers of blood. Murder is to kill in secrecy and after long-harbored malice, and now my lord, I shall show that the prisoner has lain in wait to slay the President of the Republic."
At that Greeba stood down, and other witnesses followed her. Nearly everyone had been summoned with whom Jason had exchanged words since he landed eight days before. There was the lean student who had told him of the drill at the Latin school, the little tailor who had explained the work at the jail, the stuttering doorkeeper at the senate-house, and one of the masons at the fort. Much was made of the fainting in the Cathedral yard, on the Sunday morning, and out of the deaf landlady, the Cathedral caretaker, some startling disclosures seemed to be drawn.
"Still," said the old Bishop, "I see no overt act."
"Good gracious, my lord," said the little spokesman, "are we to wait until the knife itself has been reddened?"
"God forbid!" said the old Bishop.
Then came two witnesses to prove motive. The first of them was the tipsy comrade of former days, who had drawn Jason into the drinking-shop. He could say of his own knowledge that Jason was jealous of the new Governor. The two were brothers in a sort of way. So people said, and so Jason had told him. They had the same father, but different mothers. Jason's mother had been the daughter of the old Governor, who turned his back on her at her marriage. At her death he relented, and tried to find Jason, but could not, and then took up with Michael Sunlocks. People said that was the beginning of the new President's fortune. At all events Jason thought he had been supplanted, was very wroth, and swore he would be revenged.
The second of the two witnesses pointed to a very different motive. He was one of the three Danes who had twice spoken to Jason—the elderly man with the meek and quiet manner. Though himself loyal to the Icelandic Republiche had been much thrown among its enemies. Jason was one of them; he came here as a spy direct from Copenhagen, and his constant associates were Thomsen, an old, white-headed man living in the High Street, and Polvesen, a young and sallow man, who kept one of the stores facing the sea. With these two Jason had been heard by him to plan the assassination of the President.
At this evidence there was a deep murmur among the people, and it was seen that Greeba had risen again to her feet. Her heart burned and stormed within her. She tried to speak but could not. At the same moment Jason turned his bloodshot eyes in her direction, and then her limbs gave way under her, and she sank back with a moan. The Court misread her emotion, and she was removed. Jason's red eyes followed her constantly.
"This is a case for the Warning, not for punishment," said the Bishop. "It is plainly written in our old Law Book that if a man threaten to slay another man he shall be warned of the gravity of the crime he contemplates and of the penalty attaching to it."
"Gracious heavens, my lord," cried the little spokesman, "what reason have we to assume that this prisoner is ignorant of either? With a life to guard that is prized by friends and precious to the State shall we let this man go free who had sworn before witnesses to destroy it?"
"God forefend!" said the Bishop.
It was lawful to question the prisoner, and so he was questioned.
"Is it true that you have been lying in wait to kill the President?" asked the spokesman.
But Jason made no answer.
"Is it true that you have done so from a desire for personal vengeance?"
No answer.
"Or from political motives?"
No answer.
"Or both?"
Still no answer.
Then the spokesman turned back to the Court. "The stubborn persistence of the prisoner is easy to understand," he said, and smiled.
"Wait," said the old Bishop, and he turned towards Jason.
"Have you any valid plea?"
But Jason gave no sign.
"Listen," said the Bishop. "Though the man who compasses the destruction of a single life is as though he had destroyed a world, for the posterity of him who is dead might have filled a world, yet have all laws of men since the Pentateuch recognized certain conditions that limit the gravity of the crime. If the man who is slain has himself slain the near kindred of his slayer, though the law of Iceland would no longer hold him guiltless, as in the ancient times when evil for evil was the rule and sentence, neither would it punish him as a murderer, who must eat the bread and drink the water of misery all his days. Now what is true of murder must be true of intent to murder, and though I am loth to believe it possible in this instance, honoring and loving as we all do that good man whom you are charged with lying in wait to kill, yet in my duty must I ask you the question—Has Michael Sunlocks spilled blood of your blood, and is it as a redeemer of blood that you go about to slay him?"
There was a dead hush in the little crowded courthouse as Jason lifted his heavy, bloodshot eyes to the Bishop's face and answered, in a weary voice, "I have nothing to say."
Then an aged Lutheran priest, who had sat within the rail, with a snuffbox in his hand and a red print handkerchief across his knee, hobbled up to the witness stool and tendered evidence. He could throw light on the prisoner's hatred of the President, if it was true that the President was a son of Stephen Orry. He knew the prisoner, and had named him in his baptism. He had known the prisoner's mother also, and had sat with her at her death. It was quite true that she was a daughter of the late Governor, and had been badly treated by her father. But she had been yet more badly treated by her husband, who married again while she was still alive, and had another son by the other wife. On her deathbed she had heard of this, and told the prisoner, who then and there, this witness being present, made an awful vow of vengeance upon his father and his father's son.
The old priest was heard in silence, and his words sent a quiver through the courthouse. Even Jason, who had shown no interest save when Greeba was removed, lifted up his bloodshot eyes again and listened.
And the Bishop, visibly moved, turned to the Court andsaid, "Let us put this prisoner back to be tried by the High Court and the Lagmann."
"What, my lord!" cried the little spokesman, with a lofty look, "and set him at liberty in the meantime, to carry out the crime he threatens?"
"Heaven forbid!" said the Bishop.
"Remember, until he has been condemned we have no power to hold him," said the spokesman.
The Bishop turned to an usher and said, "Bring me the Statute Book," and the great tome was brought. The Bishop opened it and again turned to the prisoner. "The Almighty," said he, "created one man at the beginning to teach us that all men are brethren, and the law of our old country provides that when two have had disputes and pursued each other on account of hatred, even as brethren they shall make peace before their neighbors. Now listen to the words I shall read to you, and be ready to say if you will swear to them."
Then a great silence fell upon the people, while in solemn tones the old Bishop read the Peace Oath.
"Ye two shall be set at one and live friendly together, at meat and at drink, in the Althing and at meetings, at kirk prayers and in King's palace; and in whatever place else men meet together, there shall ye be so set at one, as if this quarrel had never come between you. Ye shall share knife and meat together, and all things besides, as friends and not as enemies."
The Bishop paused and looked over his spectacles at Jason, who stood as before, with the cloud on his brow and the slow fire in his deep eyes, but with no sign of feeling or interest.
"Will you promise to swear to this, when he shall have returned who should swear to it with you?" said the Bishop.
Then all eyes turned towards Jason, and there came across his face at that moment the look of a bated dog.
"No," he growled.
The spokesman shifted in his seat and the people grew restless.
"Listen again," said the Bishop, and his long white beard shook and his solemn voice rose to a shrill cry as he twisted back to the book and read:—
"But if one of you be so mad that he breaks this truce thus made, and slays after pledges have been made and hisblade has reddened, he shall be an outlaw, accursed and driven away, so far as men drive wolves farthest away. He shall be banished of God and all good Christian men, as far as Christian men seek churches, as mothers bring forth sons, son calls mother, flames blaze up, mankind kindle fire, earth is green, sun shines, and snow covers the ground; he shall flee from kirk and Christian men, God's house and mankind, and from every home save hell."
Then there was a pause and a great hush, and the Bishop lifted his eyes from the book, and said—
"Will you swear to it?"
Again all eyes turned towards Jason, and again his face, which had been impassive, took the look of a bated dog.
"No, no, no!" he cried in a loud voice, and then the great silence was broken by deep murmurs.
"It is useless," said the spokesman. "Warnings and peace oaths, though still valid, are the machinery of another age. This prisoner is not ignorant of the gravity of the crime he contemplates, nor yet of the penalty attaching to it."
There was an audible murmur of assent from the people.
"That's true," said one. "It's the truest word spoken to-night," said another. "The old man is all for mercy," said a third. "It isn't safe," said a fourth. And there was other whispering, and much nodding of heads and shuffling of feet.
Encouraged by these comments the little spokesman added—
"In any other country at this age of the world a man who tacitly admitted a design to take life would be promptly clapped into prison."
"Ay, ay," the people muttered, but the Bishop drew himself up and said, "In any other country a criminal who showed no fear of the death that hung over him would be straightway consigned to a madhouse."
"We have no madhouse in this island, my lord," said the little spokesman, "save theSulpherMines, and there he must go."
"Wait," said the Bishop, and once again he turned to the prisoner. "If this Court should agree to ship you out of Iceland will you promise never more to return to it?"
For the third time all eyes were turned on Jason, but he did not seem to hear the Bishop's question.
"Will you promise?" said the Bishop again.
"No," said Jason.
"Dangerous trifling," said the spokesman. "When you seize a mad dog you strangle it."
"Ay, ay," cried many voices at once, and great excitement prevailed.
The old Bishop drew back with a sigh of relief. He loved Michael Sunlocks and had been eager to save him. He pitied Greeba, and for her sake also had been anxious to protect her husband. But from the moment he saw Jason and thought, "That man's heart is dead within him," his love had struggled with his sense of duty. As the trial went on he had remembered Jason and recalled his bitter history, and seized with a strong sympathy he had strained every nerve to keep back his punishment. He had done all he could do, he had nothing to reproach himself with, and full of a deep and secret joy at the certainty of the safety of Sunlocks, he now fell back that the law might take its course.
The Court was counted out, and then the Bishop turned for the last time to Jason, and delivered judgment. "The sentence of this Court," he said "is that you be removed from here to theSulpherMines, and be kept there six months certain, and as long thereafter as you refuse to take the Oath of Peace pledging yourself forever, as long as you live or the world endures, to be at one with your enemy as brothers before all men living."
Now Greeba alone knew the truth about Jason. When she had fled from Mann without word or warning it had not been out of fear of him, but of her brothers. Her meeting with Michael Sunlocks, her short stay with the good old Bishop Petersen, her marriage and the festival that followed, had passed her by like a dream. Then came the first short parting with Sunlocks when he had said, "I must leave you for a fortnight, for the men I sent in search of your father have blundered and returned without him." She had cried a little at that, and he had kissed her, and made a brave show of his courage, though she could see the tears in his own big shining eyes. But it was all a dream, a sweet and happy dream, and only by the coming of Jason had the dream been broken.
Then followed her terror, her plea, her fear for her husband's life, her defiance of Jason, and the charge she made against him.
And the first burst of her passion over, she had thought to herself, "My husband is safe, but Jason will now tell all and I shall be a lost and ruined woman," for nothing had she yet said to Michael Sunlocks concerning the man who had wooed and won and released her during the long years of his silence and her trouble. "He will hear the story now," she thought, "and not from my lips but from Jason's."
Being then so far immersed she could not but go on, and so she had allowed herself to be led to the courthouse. No one there had thought to ask her if she had known anything of Jason before that day, and she on her part had said nothing of knowing him. But when Jason had looked at her with eyes of reproach that seemed to go through her soul, he seemed to be saying, "This is but half the truth. Dare you not tell the rest?"
Then listening to the lying of other witnesses, and looking up at Jason's face, so full of pain, and seeing how silent he was under cruel perjury, she remembered that this man's worst crime had been his love of her, and so she staggered to her feet to confess everything.
When she came to herself after that, she was back in her own home—her new home, the home of her happy dream, her husband's home and hers, and there her first fear returned to her. "He will tell all," she thought, "and evil tongues will make it worse, and shame will fall upon my husband, and I shall be lost, lost, lost."
She waited with feverish impatience for the coming of the Bishop to tell her the result of the trial, and at length he came.
"What have they done with him?" she cried; and he told her.
"What defence did he make?" she asked.
"None," said the Bishop.
"What did he say?" she asked again.
"Not a word but 'No,'" said the Bishop.
Then she drew a long breath of immense relief, and at the next instant she reproached herself. How little of soul she had been! And how great of heart had been Jason! He could have wrecked her life with a word, but he had held his peace. She had sent him to prison, and rather than smite he had suffered himself to be smitten. She felt herself small and mean.
And the Bishop, having, as he thought, banished Greeba'sterror, hobbled to the door, for now the hour was very late, and the snow was still falling.
"The poor soul will do your good husband no mischief now. Poor lad! poor lad! After all, he is more fit for a madhouse than for a prison. Good-night, my child, good-night."
And so the good old man went his way.
It was intended that Jason should start for the Sulphur Mines on the following day, and he was lodged over night in a little house of detention that stood on the south of the High Street. But the snow continued to fall the whole night through, and in the morning the roads were impassable. Then it was decided to postpone the long journey until the storm should have passed, the frost set in, and the desolate white wastes to be crossed become hard and firm. It was now Wednesday of the second week in October—the Gore-month—and the people were already settling down to the long rest of the Icelandic winter. The merchants began to sleep the livelong day in their deserted stores in the cheapstead, and the bonders, who had come up with the last of their stock, to drink and doze in the taverns. All that day the snow fell in fine dust like flour, until, white as it was, the air grew dark with it. At the late dawn of the next day the snow was still falling, and a violent gale had then risen. Another and another and yet another day went by, and still the snow fell and the gale continued. For two days there was no daylight, and only at noon through the giddy air a fiery glow burned for an hour along the southern sky and then went out. Nothing could be seen of fell or fiord, and nothing could be heard save the baying of the hounds at night and the roar of the sea at all times, for the wind made no noise in the soft snow, but drove it along in sheets like silent ghosts.
Never before had Greeba seen anything so terrible; and still more fearful than the great snow itself was the anxiety it brought her. Where was Michael Sunlocks? Where was her father? There was only one other whose condition troubled her, and she knew too well where he was—he was lying in the dark cell of the dark house in the High Street.
While the storm lasted allReykjaviklay asleep, and Greeba could do nothing. But one morning when she awoke and turned to the window, as was her wont, to learn if the weary snow was still falling, she could see nothingat first for the coating of ice and hoar frost that covered the glass. But the snow had ceased, the wind had fallen, the air was clear and the light was coming. The buildings of the town, from the Cathedral to the hovels of the fishing quarter, looked like snow mounds in the desert; the black waste of lava was gone; the black beach was gone; the black jokulls were gone; the black headland was gone that had stretched like a giant hand of many fingers into the black fiord; but height above height, and length beyond length, as far as from sea to sky, and from sea to sea, the world lay lifeless and silent and white around her.
Then, the town being once more awake, Greeba had news of Jason. It came through a little English maid, whom Sunlocks had found for her, from Oscar, the young man who had gone out in search of her father and returned without him. Jason was ill. Five days he had eaten nothing, and nothing had he drunk except water. He was in a fever—a brain fever—and it was now known for certain that he was the man who had fainted outside the Cathedral on the marriage morning, that he had been ill ever since then, and that the druggist of the High Street had bled him.
With these tidings Greeba hurried away to the Bishop.
"The poor man has brain fever," she said. "He was ill when he made the threat, and when he recovers he will regret it; I am sure he will—I know he will. Set him at liberty, for mercy's sake," she cried; and she trembled as she spoke,lestin the fervor of her plea the Bishop should read her secret.
But he only shook his head and looked tenderly down at her, and said very gently, though every word went to her heart like a stab—
"Ah, it is like a good woman to plead for one who has injured her. But no, my child, no; it may not be. Poor lad, no one now can do anything for him save the President himself; and he is not likely to liberate a man who lies in wait to kill him."
"Heislikely," thought Greeba, and straightway she conceived of a plan. She would go to Jason in his prison. Yes, she herself would go to him, and prevail with him to put away all thoughts of vengeance and be at peace with her husband. Then she would wait for the return of Michael Sunlocks, and plead with that dear heart that could deny her nothing, to grant her Jason's pardon. Thusit would come about that she, who had stood between these two to separate them, would at length stand between them to bring them together.
So thinking, and crying a little, like a true woman, at the prospect of so much joy, she waited for Jason's recovery that she might carry her purpose into effect. Meantime she contrived to send him jellies and soups, such as might tempt the appetite of a sick man. She thought she sent them secretly, but with less than a woman's wit she employed a woman on her errand. This person was the little English maid, and she handed over the duty to Oscar, who was her sweetheart. Oscar talked openly of what he was doing, and thus all Reykjavik knew that the tender-hearted young wife of the Governor held communications of some sort with the man whom she had sent to jail.
Then one day, on hearing that Jason was better, though neither was he so well as to travel nor was the snow hard enough to walk upon, Greeba stole across to the prison in the dark of the afternoon, saying nothing to anyone of her mission or intention.
The stuttering doorkeeper of the Senate was the jailor, and he betrayed great concern when Greeba asked to see his prisoner, showing by his ghastly looks, for his words would not come, that it would be rash on her part, after helping so much towards Jason's imprisonment, to trust herself in his presence.
"But what have I to fear?" she thought; and with a brave smile, she pushed her way through.
She found Jason in a square box built of heavy piles, laid horizontally both for walls and roof, dark and damp and muggy, lighted in the day by a hole in the wood not larger than a man's hand, and in the night by a sputtering candle hung from the rafters. He sat on a stool; his face was worn, his head was close-cropped to relieve the heat of his brain, and on the table by his side lay all his red hair, as long as his mother's was when it fell to the shears of the Jew on the wharf.
He gave no sign when Greeba entered, though he knew she was there, but sat with his face down and one hand on the table.
"Jason," she said, "I am ashamed. It is I who have brought you to this. Forgive me! forgive me! But my husband's life was in danger, and what was I to do?"
Still he gave no sign.
"Jason," she said again, "you have heaped coals of fire on my head; for I have done nothing but injure you, and though you might have done as much for me you never have."
At that the fingers of his hand on the table grasped the edge of it convulsively.
"But, Jason," she said, "all is not lost yet. No, for I can save you still. Listen. You shall give me your promise to make peace with my husband, and when my husband returns he will grant me your pardon. Oh, yes, I know he will, for he is tender-hearted, and he will forgive you; yes, he will forgive you——"
"My curse on him and his forgiveness," cried Jason, rising suddenly and bringing down his fist on the table. "Who is he that he should forgive me? It has not been for his sake that I have been silent, with the devil at my side urging me to speak. And for all thatyouhave made me to sufferheshall yet pay double. Let it go on; let him send me away; let him bury me at his mines. But I shall live to find him yet. Something tells me that I shall not die until I have met with that man face to face."
And Greeba went back home with these mad words ringing in her ears. "It is useless to try," she thought, "I have done all I can. My husband is before everything. I shall say nothing to him now."
None the less she cried very bitterly, and was still crying when at bedtime her little English maid came up to her and chattered of the news of the day. It seemed that some Danish store-keepers on the cheapstead had lately been arrested as spies, brought to trial, and condemned.
When Greeba awoke next morning, after a restless night, while the town still lay asleep, and only the croak of the ravens from the rocks above the fiord broke the silence of the late dawn, she heard the hollow tread of many footsteps on the frozen snow of the Thingvellir road, and peering out through the window, which was coated with hoar frost, she saw a melancholy procession. Three men, sparsely clad in thin tunics, snow stockings and skin caps, walked heavily in file, chained together hand to hand and leg to leg, with four armed warders, closely muffled to the ears, riding leisurely beside them. They were prisoners bound for the sulphur mines of Krisuvik. The first of them was Jason, and he swung along with his long stride and his shorn head thrown back and his pallid face held up. The other twowere old Thomsen and young Polvesen, the Danish store-keepers.
It was more than Greeba could bear to look upon that sight, for it brought back the memory of that other sight on that other morning, when Jason came leaping down to her from the mountains, over gorse and cushag and hedge and ditch. So she turned her head away and covered her eyes with her hands. And then one—two—three—four—the heavy footsteps went on over the snow.
The next thing she knew was that her English maid was in her bedroom, saying, "Some strangers in the kitchen are asking for you. They are Englishmen, and have just come ashore, and they call themselves your brothers."
Now when the Fairbrothers concluded that they could never give rest to their tender consciences until they had done right by their poor sister Greeba they set themselves straightway to consider the ways and means. Ballacraine they must sell in order that its proceeds might be taken to Greeba as her share and interest; but Ballacraine belonged to Jacob, and another provision would forthwith need to be made for him. So after much arguing and some nagging across the hearth of the kitchen at Lague it was decided that each of Jacob's five brothers should mortgage his farm to one-sixth its value, and that the gross sum of their five-sixths should be Jacob's for his share. This arrangement would have the disadvantage of leaving Jacob without land, but he showed a magnanimous spirit in that relation. "Don't trouble about me," said he, "it's sweet and nice to do a kindness to your own brothers."
And four of his brethren applauded that sentiment, but Thurstan curled up his red nose and thought, "Aw, yes, ofcoorse, a powerful big boiler of brotherly love the little miser keeps going under his weskit."
And having so decided they further concluded to see the crops off the ground, and then lose no time in carrying out their design. "Let's wait for the melya," said Asher, meaning the harvest-home, "and then off for Marky theLord." The person who went by this name was one Mark Skillicorn, an advocate, of Ramsey, who combined the functions of pettifogger with those of money-lender and auctioneer. Marky the Lord was old, and plausible and facetious. He was a distant relative of the Fairbrothers by the side of their mother's French family; and it was a strange chain of circumstances that no big farmer ever got into trouble but he became a client of Marky the Lord's, that no client of Marky the Lord's did not in the end go altogether to the bad, and that poor Marky the Lord never had a client who did not die in his debt. Nevertheless Marky the Lord grew richer as his losses grew heavier, and more facetious as his years increased. Oh, he was a funny dog, was Marky the Lord; but there was just one dog on the island a shade or two funnier still, and that was Jacob Fairbrother. This thrifty soul had for many a year kept a nest of private savings, and even in the days when he and his brethren went down to make a poor mouth before their father at Castletown he had money secretly lent out on the conscientious interest of only three per cent. above the legal rate.
And thus it chanced that when Ballacraine was advertised in big letters on every barn door in the north of Mann, Jacob Fairbrother went down to Marky the Lord, and made a private bargain to buy it in again. So when the day of the sale came, and Marky the Lord strode over the fields with some thirty men—farmers, miners, advocates, and parsons—at his heels, and then drew up on the roadside by the "Hibernian," and there mounted the till-board of a cart for the final reckoning, little Jacob was too much moved to be present, though his brothers were there, all glooming around on the outside of the group, with their hands in their breeches pockets.
Ballacraine was knocked down cheap to somebody that nobody knew, and then came the work of the mortgages; so once again Jacob went off to Marky the Lord, and bargained to be made mortgagor, though no one was to be a whit the wiser. And ten per cent. he was to get from each of his five brothers for the use of the money which next day came back to his own hands.
Thus far all was straight dealing, but with the approach of the time to go to Iceland the complications grew thick. Jacob had so husbanded his money that while seeming to spend he still possessed it, and now he was troubled toknow where to lodge that portion of it which he should not want in Iceland and might find it unsafe to take there. And while he was in the throes of his uncertainty his brothers—all save John—were in the travail of their own big conception.
Now Asher, Stean, Ross and Thurstan, having each made up his mind that he would go to Iceland also, had to consider how to get there, for their late bargaining had left them all penniless. The proceeds of the sale of Ballacraine were lodged with Jacob for Greeba, and Jacob also held as his own what had come to each man from his mortgage. So thinking that Jacob must have more than he could want, they approached him one by one, confidentially and slyly. And wondrous were the lies they told him, for they dare not confess that their sole need of money was to go to Iceland after him, and watch him that he did not cheat them when Greeba sent them all their fortunes in return for their brotherly love of her.
Thus Asher took Jacob aside and whispered, "I'mmorthalhard pressed for a matter of five and thirty pound, boy—just five and thirty, for draining and fencing. I make bold to think you'll lend me the like of it, and six per cent. I'll be paying reg'lar."
"Ah, I can't do it, Asher," said Jacob, "for old Marky the Lord has stripped me."
Then came Stean, plucking a bit of ling and looking careless, and he said, "I've got a fine thing on now. I can buy a yoke of ploughing oxen for thirty pound. Only thirty, and a dead bargain. Can you lend me the brass? But whisht's the word, for Ross is sneaking after them."
"Very sorry, Stean," said Jacob, "but Ross has been here before you, and I've just lent him the money."
Ross himself came next, and said, "I borrowed five-and-twenty pound from Stean a bit back, and he's not above threatening to sell me up for a dirty little debt like that. Maybe ye'd tide me over the trouble and say nothing to Stean."
"Make your mind easy, Ross," said Jacob, "Stean told me himself, and I've paid him all you owe him."
So these two went their ways and thereafter eyed each other threateningly, but neither dare explode, for both had their secret fear. And last of all came Thurstan, made well drunk for the better support of his courage, and he maudled and cried, "What d'ye think? Poor Ballabeg is dead—himthat used to play the fiddle at church—and the old parson wants me to take Ballabeg's place up in the gallery-loft. Says I'd be wonderful good at the viol-bass. I wouldn't mind doing it neither, only it costs such a power of money, a viol-bass does—twenty pound maybe."
"Well, what of that?" said Jacob, interrupting him, "the parson says he'll lend you the money. He told me so himself."
With such shrewd answers did Jacob escape from the danger of lending to his brothers, whom he could not trust. But he lost no time in going down to Marky the Lord and offering his money to be lent out on interest with good security. Knowing nothing of this, Asher, Stean, Ross, and Thurstan each in his turn stole down to Marky the Lord to borrow the sum he needed. And Marky the Lord kept his own worthy counsel, and showed no unwise eagerness. First he said to Jacob, "I can lend out your money on good security."
"Who to?" said Jacob.
"That I've given my word not to tell. What interest do you want?"
"Not less than twelve per cent." said the temperate Jacob.
"I'll get it," said Marky the Lord, and Jacob went away with a sly smile.
Then said Marky the Lord to each of the borrowers in turn, "I can find you the money."
"Whose is it?" asked Asher, who came the first.
"That I've sworn not to tell," said Marky the Lord.
"What interest?"
"Only four per cent. to my friend."
"Well, and that's reasonable, and he's a right honest, well-meaning man, whoever he is," said Asher.
"That he is, friend," said Marky the Lord, "but as he had not got the money himself he had to borrow it of an acquaintance, and pay ten per cent. for the convenience."
"So he wants fourteen per cent.!" cried Asher. "Shoo! Lord save us! Oh, the grasping miser. It's outrageous. I'll not pay it—the Nightman fly away with me if I do."
"You need be under no uneasiness about that," said Marky the Lord, "for I've three other borrowers ready to take the money the moment you say you won't."
"Hand it out," said Asher, and away he went, fuming.
Then Stean, Ross, and Thurstan followed, one by one,and each behaved as Asher had done before him. When the transaction was complete, and the time had come to set sail for Iceland, many and wonderful were the shifts of the four who had formed the secret design to conceal their busy preparations. But when all was complete, and berths taken, all six in the same vessel, Jacob and Gentleman John rode round the farms of Lague to bid a touching farewell to their brethren.
"Good-bye, Thurstan," said Jacob, sitting on the cross-board of the cart. "We've had arguments in our time, and fallen on some rough harm in the course of them, but we'll meet for peace and quietness in heaven some day."
"We'll meet before that," thought Thurstan.
And when Jacob and John were gone on towards Ramsey,Thurstanmounted the till-board of his own cart, and followed. Meantime Asher, Stean, and Ross were on their journey, and because they did not cross on the road they came face to face for the first time, all six together, each lugging his kit of clothes behind him, on the deck of the ship that was to take them to Iceland. Then Jacob's pale face grew livid.
"What does this mean?" he cried.
"It means that we can't trust you," said Thurstan.
"None of you?" said Jacob.
"None of us, seemingly," said Thurstan, glancing round into the confused faces about him.
"What! Not your own brother?" said Jacob.
"'Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin,' as the saying is," said Thurstan, with a sneer.
"'Poor once, poor forever,' as the saying is," mocked Jacob. "Last week you hadn't twenty pound to buy your viol-bass to play in the gallery loft."
Stean laughed at that, and Jacob turned hotly upon him. "Andyouhadn't thirty pound to buy your yoke of oxen that Ross was sneaking after."
Then Ross made a loud guffaw, and Jacob faced about to him. "And maybeyou'vepaid back your dirty five-and-twenty pound that Stean threatened to sell you up for?"
Then Stean glowered hard at Ross, and Ross looked black at Stean, and Asher almost burst his sides with laughter.
"And you, too, my dear eldest brother," said Jacob, bitterly, "you have the advantage of me in years but not in wisdom. You thought, like the rest of them, to get the money out of me, to help you to follow me and watch me.So that was it, was it? But I was too much for you, my dear brother, and you had to go elsewhere for your draining and ditching."
"So I had, bad cess to you," said Asher; "and fourteen per cent. I had to pay for the shabby loan I got."
At that Stean and Ross and Thurstan pricked up their ears.
"And didyoupay fourteen per cent.?" said Stean.
"I did, bad cess to Marky the Lord, and the grasping old miser behind him, whoever he is."
And now it was Jacob's turn to look amazed.
"Wait," he said; "I don't like the look of you."
"Then shut your eyes," said Thurstan.
"Did Marky the Lord lend you the money?" asked Jacob of Asher.
"Ay, he did," said Asher.
"Andyou, too, said Jacob?" turning stiffly to Stean.
"Ay," saidStean.
"Andyou?" said Jacob, facing towards Ross.
"I darn say no," said Ross.
"Andyou, as well?" said Jacob, confronting Thurstan.
"Why not?" said Thurstan.
"The blockhead!" cried Jacob, "The scoundrel! It wasmymoney—mine—mine, I tell you, and he might as well have pitched it into the sea."
Then the four men began to double their fists.
"Wait!" said Asher. "Are you the grasping young miser that asked fourteen per cent.!"
"He is, clear enough," said Stean.
"Well," said Thurstan, "I really think—look you, boys, I really do think, but I speak under correction—I really think, all things considered, this Jacob is a damned rascal."
"I may have the advantage of him in years," said Asher, doubling up his sleeves, "but if I can't——"
"Go to the devil," said Jacob, and he went below, boiling hot with rage.
It was idle to keep up the quarrel, for very soon all six were out on the high seas, bound to each other's company at bed and board, and doomed to pass the better part of a fortnight together. So before they came to Iceland they were good friends, after their fashion, though that was perhaps the fashion of cat and mouse, and being landed at Reykjavik they were once more in their old relations, with Jacob as purse-bearer and spokesman.
"And now listen," said that thrifty person. "What's it saying? 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' We've got our bird in the hand, haven't we?"
"So we have," said Asher; "six hundred golden pounds that Ballacraine fetched at the sale."
"Just so," said Jacob; "and before we part with it let us make sure about the two in the bush."
With that intention they started inquiries, as best they could; touching the position of Michael Sunlocks, his salary and influence. And in spite of the difficulties of language they heard and saw enough to satisfy them. Old Iceland was awakening from a bad dream of three bad centuries and setting to work with a will to become a power among the States; the young President, Michael Sunlocks, was the restorer and protector of her liberties; fame and honor were before him, and before all who laid a hand to his plough. This was what they heard in many jargons on every side.
"It's all right," whispered Jacob, "and now for the girl."
They had landed late in the day of Greeba's visit to Red Jason at the little house of detention, and had heard of her marriage, of its festivities, and of the attempt on the life of the President. But though they knew that Jason was no longer in Mann they were too much immersed in their own vast schemes to put two and two together, until next morning they came upon the sad procession bound for the Sulphur Mines, and saw that Jason was one of the prisoners. They were then on their way to Government House, and Jacob said with a wink, "Boys, that's worth remembering. When did it do any harm to have two strings to your bow?"
The others laughed at that, and John nudged Thurstan and said, "Isn't he a boy!" And Thurstan grunted and trudged on.
When they arrived at the kitchen door of the house they asked for Greeba by her new name, and after some inarticulate fencing with a fat Icelandic cook, the little English maid was brought down to them.
"Leave her to me," whispered Jacob, and straightway he tackled her.
Could they see the mistress? What about? Well, it was a bit of a private matter, but no disrespect to herself, miss. Aw, yes, they were Englishmen—that's to say a sort of Englishmen—being Manxmen. Would the mistress know them? Ay, go bail on that. Eh, boys? Ha! ha!Fact was they were her brothers, miss. Yes, her brothers, all six of them, and longing mortal to clap eyes again on their sweet little sister.
And after that Master Jacob addressed himself adroitly to an important question, and got most gratifying replies. Oh, yes, the President loved his young wife beyond words; worshipped the very ground she walked on, as they say. And, oh, yes, she had great, great influence with him, and he would do anything in the wide world to please her.
"That'll do," whispered Jacob over his shoulder, as the little maid tripped away to inform her mistress. "I'll give that girl a shilling when she comes again," he added.
"And give her another for me," said Stean.
"And me," said Asher.
"Seeing that I've no land at home now I wouldn't mind staying here when you all go back," said Jacob.
"I'll sell you mine, Jacob," said Thurstan.
The maid returned to ask them to follow, and they went after her, stroking their lank hair smooth on their foreheads, and studying the remains of the snow on their boots. When they came to the door of the room where they were to meet with Greeba, Jacob whispered to the little maid, "I'll give you a crown when I come out again." Then he twisted his face over his shoulder and said: "Do as I do; d'ye hear?"
"Isn'the a boy?" chuckled Gentleman John.
Then into the room they passed, one by one, all six in file. Greeba was standing by a table, erect, quivering, with flashing eyes, and the old trembling on both sides her heart. Jacob and John instantly went down on one knee before her, and their four lumbering brethren behind made shift to do the same.
"So we have found you at last, thank God," said Jacob, in a mighty burst of fervor.
"Thank God, thank God," the others echoed.
"Ah, Greeba," said Jacob, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, "why ever did you gowaywithout warning, and leave us all so racked with suspense? You little knew how you grieved us, seeming to slight our love and kindness towards you——"
"Stop," said Greeba. "I know too well what your love and kindness have been to me. Why have you come?"
"Don't say that," said Jacob, sadly, "for see what we have made free to fetch you—six hundred pound," he added, lugging a bag and a roll of paper out of his pocket.
"Six hundred golden pounds," repeated the others.
"It's your share of Lague—your full share, Greeba, woman," said Jacob, deliberately, "and every penny of it is yours. So take it, and may it bring you a blessing, Greeba. And don't think unkind of us because we have held it back until now, for we kept it from you for your own good, seeing plain there was someone harking after you for sake of what you had, and fearing your good money would thereby fall into evil hands, and you be made poor and penniless."
"Ay, ay," muttered the others; "that Jason—that Red Jason."
"But he's gone now, and serve him right," said Jacob, "and you're wedded to the right man, praise God."
So saying he shambled to his feet, and his brothers did likewise.
But Greeba stood without moving, and said through her compressed lips, "How did you know that I was here?"
"The letter, the letter," Asher blurted out, and Jacob gave him a side-long look, and then said:
"Ye see, dear, it was this way. When you were gone, and we didn't know where to look for you, and were sore grieved to think you'd maybe left us in anger, not rightly seeing our drift towards you, we could do nothing but sit about and fret for you. And one day we were turning over some things in a box, just to bring back the memory of you, when what should we find but a letter writ to you by the good man himself."
"Ay, Sunlocks—Michael Sunlocks," said Stean.
"And a right good man he is, beyond gainsay; and he knows how to go through life, and I always said it," said Asher.
And Jacob continued, "So said I; 'Boys,' I said, 'now we know where she is, and that by this time she must have married the man she ought, let's do the right by her and sell Ballacraine, and take her the money and give her joy.'"
"So you did, so you did," said John.
"And we sold it dirt cheap, too," said Jacob, "but you're not the loser; no, for here is a full seventh of all Lague straight to your hand."
"Give me the money," said Greeba.
"And there it is, dear," said Jacob, fumbling the notes and the gold to count them, while his brethren, much gratified by this sign of Greeba's complacency, began to stretch their legs from the easy chairs about them.
"Ay, and a pretty penny it has cost us to fetch it," said John. "We've had to pinch ourselves to do it, I can tell you."
"How much has it cost you?" said Greeba.
"No matter of that," interrupted Jacob, with a lofty sweep of the hand.
"Let me pay you back what you have spent in coming," said Greeba.
"Not a pound of it," said Jacob. "What's a matter of forty or fifty pounds to any of us, compared to doing what's right by our own flesh and blood?"
"Let me pay you," said Greeba, turning to Asher, and Asher was for holding out his hand, but Jacob, coming behind him, tugged at his coat, and so he drew back and said,
"Aw, no, child, no; I couldn't touch it for my life."
"Thenyou," said Greeba to Thurstan, and Thurstan looked as hungry as a hungry gull at the bait that was offered him, but just then Jacob was coughing most lamentably. So with a wry face, that was all colors at once, Thurstan answered, "Aw, Greeba, woman, do you really think a poor man has got no feelings? Don't press it, woman. You'll hurt me."
Recking nothing of these refusals Greeba tried each of the others in turn, and getting the same answer from all, she wheeled about, saying, "Very well, be it so," and quickly locked the money in the drawer of a cabinet. This done, she said sharply, "Now, you can go."