"Why couldn't I leave things as they were?" she asked herself, but she was startled out of the selfishness of her love by a great crisis that came soon afterwards.
Now Michael Sunlocks had been allowed but little intercourse with the world during the two and a half years of his imprisonment since the day of his recapture at the Mount of Laws. While in the prison at Reykjavik he had heard the pitiful story of that day; who his old yoke-fellow had been, what he had done and said, and how at last, when his brave scheme had tottered to ruin, he had gone out of the ken and knowledge of all men. Since Sunlocks came to Grimsey he had written once to Adam Fairbrother, asking tenderly after the old man's own condition, earnestly after Greeba's material welfare, and with deep affectionate solicitude for the last tidings of Jason. His letter never reached its destination, for the Governor of Iceland was the postmaster as well. And Adam on his part had written twice to Michael Sunlocks, once from Copenhagen where (when Greeba had left for Grimsey) he had gone by help of her money from Reykjavik, thinking to see the King of Denmark in his own person; and once from London, whereto he had followed on when that bold design had failed him. But Adam's letters shared the fate of the letter of Sunlocks, and thus through two long years no news of the world without had broken the silence of that lonely home on the rock of the Arctic seas.
But during that time there had been three unwritten communications from Jorgen Jorgensen. The first cameafter some six months in the shape of a Danish sloop of war, which took up its moorings in the roadstead outside; the second after a year, in the shape of aflagstaffand flag which were to be used twice a day for signalling to the ship that the prisoner was still in safe custody; the third after two years, in the shape of a huge lock and key, to be placed on some room in which the prisoner was henceforward to be confined. These three communications, marking in their contrary way the progress of old Adam's persistent suit, first in Denmark and then in England, were followed after a while by a fourth. This was a message from the Governor at Reykjavik to the old priest at Grimsey, that, as he valued his livelihood and life he was to keep close guard and watch over his prisoner, and, if need be, to warn him that a worse fate might come to him at any time.
Now, the evil hour when this final message came was just upon the good time when the apothecary from Husavik brought the joyful tidings that Sunlocks might recover his sight, and the blow was the heavier for the hope that had gone before it. All Grimsey shared both, for the fisherfolk had grown to like the pale stranger who, though so simple in speech and manner, had been a great man in some way that they scarcely knew—having no one to tell them, being so far out of the world—but had fallen upon humiliation and deep dishonor. Michael Sunlocks himself took the blow with composure, saying it was plainly his destiny and of a piece with the rest of his fate, wherein no good thing had ever come to him without an evil one coming on the back of it. The tender heart of the old priest was thrown into wild commotion, for Sunlocks had become, during the two years of their life together, as a son to him, a son that was as a father also, a stay and guardian, before whom his weakness—that of intemperance—stood rebuked.
But the trouble of old Sir Sigfus was as nothing to that of Greeba. In the message of the Governor she saw death, instant death, death without word or warning, and every hour of her life thereafter was beset with terrors. It was the month of February; and if the snow fell from the mossy eaves in heavy thuds, she thought it was the muffled tread of the guards who were to come for her husband; and if the ice-floes that swept down from Greenland cracked on the coast of Grimsey, she heard the shot that was to end his life. When Sunlocks talked of destiny she cried, and whenthe priest railed at Jorgen Jorgensen (having his own reason to hate him) she cursed the name of the tyrant. But all the while she had to cry without tears and curse only in the dark silence of her heart, though she was near to betraying herself a hundred times a day.
"Oh, it is cruel," she thought, "very, very cruel. Is this what I have waited for all this weary, weary time?"
And though so lately her love had fought with her pity to prove that it was best for both of them that Sunlocks should remain blind, she found it another disaster now, in the dear inconsistency of womanhood, that he should die on the eve of regaining his sight.
"He will never see his boy," she thought, "never, never, never now."
Yet she could hardly believe it true that the cruel chance could befall. What good would the death of Sunlocks do to anyone? What evil did it bring to any creature that he was alive on that rock at the farthest ends of the earth and sea? Blind, too, and helpless, degraded from his high place, his young life wrecked, and his noble gifts wasted! There must have been some mistake. She would go out to the ship and ask if it was not so.
And with such wild thoughts she hurried off to the little village at the edge of the bay. There she stood a long hour by the fisherman's jetty, looking wistfully out to where the sloop of war lay, like a big wooden tub, between gloomy sea and gloomy sky, and her spirit failed her, and though she had borrowed a boat she could go no further.
"They might laugh at me, and make a jest of me," she thought, "for I cannot tell them that I am his wife."
With that, she went her way back as she came, crying on the good powers above to tell her what to do next, and where to look for help. And entering in at the porch of her own apartments, which stood aside from the body of the house, she heard voices within, and stopped to listen. At first she thought they were the voices of her child and her husband; but though one of them was that of little Michael, the other was too deep, too strong, too sad for the voice of Sunlocks.
"And so your name is Michael, my brave boy. Michael! Michael!" said the voice, and it was strange and yet familiar. "And how like you are to your mother, too! How like! How very like!" And the voice seemed to break in the speaker's throat.
Greeba grew dizzy, and stumbled forward. And, as she entered the house, a man rose from the settle, put little Michael to the ground, and faced about to her. The man was Jason.
What had happened in the great world during the two years in which Michael Sunlocks had been out of it is very simple and easily told. Old Adam Fairbrother had failed at London as he had failed at Copenhagen, and all the good that had come of his efforts had ended in evil. It was then that accident helped him in his despair.
The relations of England and Denmark had long been doubtful, for France seemed to be stepping between them. Napoleon was getting together a combination of powers against England, and in order to coerce Denmark into using her navy—a small but efficient one—on the side of the alliance, he threatened to send a force overland. He counted without the resources of Nelson, who, with no more ado than setting sail, got across to Copenhagen, took possession of every ship of war that lay in Danish waters, and brought them home to England in a troop.
When Adam heard of this he saw his opportunity in a moment, and hurrying away to Nelson at Spithead he asked if among the Danish ships that had been captured there was a sloop of war that had lain near two years off the island of Grimsey. Nelson answered, No, but that if there was such a vessel still at liberty he was not of a mind to leave it to harass him. So Adam told why the sloop was there, and Nelson, waiting for no further instructions, despatched an English man-of-war, with Adam aboard of her, to do for the last of the Danish fleet what had been done for the body of it, and at the same time to recover the English prisoner whom she had been sent to watch.
Before anything was known of this final step of Nelson, his former proceeding had made a great noise throughout Europe, where it was loudly condemned as against the law of nations, by the rascals who found themselves outwitted.When the report reached Reykjavik, Jorgen Jorgensen saw nothing that could come of it but instant war between Denmark and England, and nothing that could come of war with England but disaster to Denmark, for he knew the English navy of old. So to make doubly sure of his own position in a tumult wherein little things would of a certainty be seized up with great ones, he conceived the idea of putting Michael Sunlocks out of the way, and thus settling one harassing complication. Then losing no time he made ready a despatch to the officer in command of the sloop of war off Grimsey, ordering him to send a company of men ashore immediately to execute the prisoner lying in charge of the priest of the island.
Now this despatch, whereof the contents became known throughout Reykjavik in less time than Jorgen took to write and seal it, had to be carried to Grimsey by two of his bodyguard. But the men were Danes, and as they did not know the way across the Bursting-sand desert, an Iceland guide had to be found for them. To this end the two taverns of the town were beaten up for a man, who at that season—it was winter, and the snow lay thick over the lava streams and the sand—would adventure so far from home.
And now it was just at this time, after two-and-a-half years in which no man had seen him or heard of him, that Jason returned to Reykjavik. Scarce anyone knew him. He was the wreck of himself, a worn, torn, pitiful, broken ruin of a man. People lifted both hands at sight of him, but he showed no self-pity. Day after day, night after night, he frequented the taverns. He drank as he had never before been known to drink; he laughed as he had never been heard to laugh; he sang as he had never been heard to sing, and to all outward appearance he was nothing now but a shameless, graceless, disorderly, abandoned profligate.
Jorgen Jorgensen heard that Jason had returned, and ordered his people to fetch him to Government House. They did so, and Jorgen and Jason stood face to face. Jorgen looked at Jason as one who would say, "Dare you forget the two men whose lives you have taken?" And Jason looked back at Jorgen as one who would answer, "Dare you remember that I spared your own life?" Then, without a word to Jason, old Jorgen turned to his people and said, "Take him away." So Jason went back to his dissipations, and thereafter no man said yea or nay to him.
But when he heard of the despatch, he was sobered by it in a moment, and when the guards came on their search for a guide to the tavern where he was, he leapt to his feet and said, "I'll go."
"You won't pass, my lad," said one of the Danes, "for you would be dead drunk before you crossed the Basket Slope Hill."
"Would I?" said Jason, moodily, "who knows?" And with that he shambled out. But in his heart he cried, "The hour has come at last! Thank God! Thank God!"
Before he was missed he had gone from Reykjavik, and made his way to the desert with his face towards Grimsey.
The next day the guards found their guide and set out on their journey.
The day after that a Danish captain arrived at Reykjavik from Copenhagen, and reported to Jorgen Jorgensen that off the Westmann Islands he had sighted a British man-of-war, making for the northern shores of Iceland. This news put Jorgen into extreme agitation, for he guessed at its meaning in an instant. As surely as the war ship was afloat she was bound for Grimsey, to capture the sloop that lay there, and as surely as England knew of the sloop, she also knew of the prisoner whom it was sent to watch. British sea-captains, from Drake downwards, had been a race of pirates and cut-throats, and if the captain of this ship, on landing at Grimsey, found Michael Sunlocks dead, he would follow on to Reykjavik and never take rest until he had strung up the Governor and his people to the nearest yardarm.
So thinking in the wild turmoil of his hot old head, wherein everything he had thought before was turned topsy-turvy, Jorgen Jorgensen decided to countermand his order for the execution of Sunlocks. But his despatch was then a day gone on its way. Iceland guides were a tribe of lazy vagabonds, not a man or boy about his person was to be trusted, and so Jorgen concluded that nothing would serve but that he should set out after the guards himself. Perhaps he would find them at Thingvellir, perhaps he would cross them on the desert, but at least he would overtake them before they took boat at Husavik. Twelve hours a day he would ride, old as he was, if only these skulking Iceland giants could be made to ride after him.
Thus were four several companies at the same time on their way to Grimsey: the English man-of-war from Spitheadto take possession of the Danish sloop; the guards of the Governor to order the execution of Michael Sunlocks; Jorgen Jorgensen to countermand the order; and Red Jason on his own errand known to no man.
The first to reach was Jason.
When Jason set little Michael from his knee to the floor, and rose to his feet as Greeba entered, he was dirty, bedraggled, and unkempt; his face was jaded and old-looking, his skin shoes were splashed with snow, and torn, and his feet were bleeding; his neck was bare, and his sheepskin coat was hanging to his back only by the woollen scarf that was tied about his waist. Partly from shock at this change, and partly from a confused memory of other scenes—the marriage festival at Government House, the night trial in the little chamber of the Senate, the jail, the mines, and the Mount of Laws—Greeba staggered at sight of Jason and would have cried aloud and fallen. But he caught her in his arms in a moment, and whispered her in a low voice at her ear to be silent, for that he had something to say that must be heard by no one beside herself.
She recovered herself instantly, drew back as if his touch had stung her, and asked with a look of dread if he had known she was there.
"Yes," he answered.
"Where have you come from?"
"Reykjavik."
She glanced down at his bleeding feet, and said, "on foot?"
"On foot," he answered.
"When did you leave?"
"Five days ago."
"Then you have walked night and day across the desert?"
"Night and day."
"Alone?"
"Yes, alone."
She had become more eager at every question, and now she cried, "What has happened? What is going to happen? Do not keep it from me. I can bear it, for I have borne many things. Tell me why have you come?"
"To save your husband," said Jason. "Hush! Listen!"
And then he told her, with many gentle protests against her ghastly looks of fear, of the guards that were coming with the order for the execution of Michael Sunlocks. Hearing that, she waited for no more, but fell to a great outburst of weeping. And until her bout was spent he stood silent and helpless beside her, with a strong man's pains at sight of a woman's tears.
"How she loves him!" he thought, and again and again the word rang in the empty place of his heart.
But when she had recovered herself he smiled as well as he was able for the great drops that still rolled down his own haggard face, and protested once more that there was nothing to fear, for he himself had come to forestall the danger, and things were not yet so far past help but there was still a way to compass it.
"What way?" she asked.
"The way of escape," he answered.
"Impossible," she said. "There is a war ship outside, and every path to the shore is watched."
He laughed at that, and said that if every goat track were guarded, yet would he make his way to the sea. And as for the war ship outside, there was a boat within the harbor, the same that he had come by, a Shetland smack that had made pretence to put in for haddock, and would sail at any moment that he gave it warning.
She listened eagerly, and, though she saw but little likelihood of escape, she clutched at the chance of it.
"When will you make the attempt?" she asked.
"Two hours before dawn to-morrow," he answered.
"Why so late?"
"Because the nights are moonlight."
"I'll be ready," she whispered.
"Make the child ready, also," he said.
"Indeed, yes," she whispered.
"Say nothing to anyone, and if anyone questions you, answer as little as you may. Whatever you hear, whatever you see, whatever I may do or pretend to do, speak not a word, give not a sign, change not a feature. Do you promise?"
"Yes," she whispered, "yes, yes."
And then suddenly a new thought smote her.
"But, Jason," she said, with her eyes aside, and her fingers running through the hair of little Michael, "but, Jason," she faltered, "you will not betray me?"
"Betray you?" he said, and laughed a little.
"Because," she added quietly, "though I am here, my husband does not know me for his wife. He is blind, and cannot see me, and for my own reasons I have never spoken to him since I came."
"You have never spoken to him?" said Jason.
"Never."
"And how long have you lived in this house?"
"Two years."
Then Jason remembered what Sunlocks had told him at the mines, and in another moment he had read Greeba's secret by the light of his own.
"I understand," he said, sadly, "I think I understand."
She caught the look of sorrow in his eyes, and said, "But, Jason, what of yourself?"
At that he laughed again, and tried to carry himself off with a brave gayety.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"AtAkureyri, Husavik, Reykjavik, the desert—everywhere, nowhere," he answered.
"What have you been doing?"
"Drinking, gaming, going to the devil—everything, nothing."
And at that he laughed once more, loudly and noisily, forgetting his own warning.
"Jason," said Greeba, "I wronged you once, and you have done nothing since but heap coals of fire on my head."
"No, no; you never wronged me," he said. "I was a fool—that was all. I made myself think that I cared for you. But it's all over now."
"Jason," she said again, "it was notaltogethermy fault. My husband was everything to me; but another woman might have loved you and made you happy."
"Ay, ay," he said, "another woman, another woman."
"Somewhere or other she waits for you," said Greeba. "Depend on that."
"Ay, somewhere or other," he said.
"So don't lose heart, Jason," she said; "don't lose heart."
"I don't," he said, "not I;" and yet again he laughed. But, growing serious in a moment, he said, "And did you leave home and kindred and come out to this desolate place only that you might live under the same roof with your husband?"
"My home was his home," said Greeba, "my kindred his kindred, and where he was there had I to be."
"And have you waited through these two long years," he said, "for the day and the hour when you might reveal yourself to him?"
"I could have waited for my husband," said Greeba, "through twice the seven long years that Jacob waited for Rachel."
He paused a moment, and then said, "No, no, I don't lose heart. Somewhere or other, somewhere or other—that's the way of it." Then he laughed louder than ever, and every hollow note of his voice went through Greeba like a knife. But in the empty chamber of his heart he was crying in his despair, "My God! how she loves him! How she loves him!"
Half-an-hour later, when the winter's day was done, and the candles had been lighted, Greeba went in to the priest, where he sat in his room alone, to say that a stranger was asking to see him.
"Bring the stranger in," said the priest, putting down his spectacles on his open book, and then Jason entered.
"Sir Sigfus," said Jason, "your good name has been known to me ever since the days when my poor mother mentioned it with gratitude and tears."
"Your mother?" said the priest; "who was she?"
"Rachel Jorgen's daughter, wife of Stephen Orry."
"Then you must be Jason."
"Yes, your reverence."
"My lad, my good lad," cried the priest, and with a look of joy he rose and laid hold of both Jason's hands. "I have heard of you. I hear of you every day, for your brother is with me. Come, let us go to him. Let us go to him. Come!"
"Wait," said Jason. "First let me deliver you a message concerning him."
The old priest's radiant face fell instantly to a deep sadness. "A message?" he said. "You have never come from Jorgen Jorgensen?"
"No."
"From whom, then?"
"My brother's wife," said Jason.
"His wife?"
"Has he never spoken of her?"
"Yes, but as one who had injured him, and bitterly and cruelly wronged and betrayed him."
"That may be so, your reverence," said Jason, "but who can be hard on the penitent and the dying?"
"Is she dying?" said the priest.
Jason dropped his head. "She sends for his forgiveness," he said. "She cannot die without it."
"Poor soul, poor soul!" said the priest.
"Whatever her faults, he cannot deny her that little mercy," said Jason.
"God forbid it!" said the priest.
"She is alone in her misery, with none to help and none to pity her," said Jason.
"Where is she?" said the priest.
"At Husavik," said Jason.
"But what is her message to me?"
"That you should allow her husband to come to her."
The old priest lifted his hands in helpless bewilderment, but Jason gave him no time to speak.
"Only for a day," said Jason, quickly, "only for one day, an hour, one little hour. Wait, your reverence, do not say no. Think, only think! The poor woman is alone. Let her sins be what they may, she is penitent. She is calling for her husband. She is calling on you to send him. It is her last request—her last prayer. Grant it, and heaven will bless you."
The poor old priest was cruelly distressed.
"My good lad," he cried, "it is impossible. There is a ship outside to watch us. Twice a day I have to signal with the flag that the prisoner is safe, and twice a day the bell of the vessel answers me. It is impossible, I say, impossible, impossible! It cannot be done. There is no way."
"Leave it to me, and I will find a way," said Jason.
But the old priest only wrung his hands, and cried, "I dare not; I must not; it is more than my place is worth."
"He will come back," said Jason.
"Only last week," said the priest, "I had a message from Reykjavik which foreshadowed his death. He knows it, we all know it."
"But he will come back," said Jason, again.
"My good lad, how can you say so? Where have youlived to think it possible? Once free of the place where the shadow of death hangs over him, what man alive would return to it."
"He will come back," said Jason, firmly; "I know he will, I swear he will."
"No, no," said the old man. "I'm only a simple old priest, buried alive these thirty years, or nearly, on this lonely island of the frozen seas, but I know better than that. It isn't in human nature, my good lad, and no man that breathes can do it. Then think of me, think of me!"
"I do think of you," said Jason, "and to show you how sure I am that he will come back, I will make you an offer."
"What is it?" said the priest.
"To stand as your bondman while he is away," said Jason.
"What! Do you know what you are saying?" cried the priest.
"Yes," said Jason, "for I came to say it."
"Do you know," said the priest, "that any day, at any hour, the sailors from yonder ship may come to execute my poor prisoner?"
"I do. But what of that?" said Jason. "Have they ever been here before?"
"Never," said the priest.
"Do they know your prisoner from another man?"
"No."
"Then where is your risk?" said Jason.
"My risk? Mine?" cried the priest, with the great drops bursting from his eyes, "I was thinking of yours. My lad, my good lad, you have made me ashamed. If you dare risk your life, I dare risk my place, and I'll do it; I'll do it."
"God bless you!" said Jason.
"And now let us go to him," said the priest. "He is in yonder room, poor soul. When the order came from Reykjavik that I was to keep close guard and watch on him, nothing would satisfy him but that I should turn the key on him. That was out of fear for me. He is as brave as a lion, and as gentle as a lamb. Come, the sooner he hears his wife's message the better for all of us. It will be a sad blow to him, badly as she treated him. But come!"
So saying, the old priest was fumbling his deep pockets for a key, and shuffling along, candle in hand, towards adoor at the end of a low passage, when Jason laid hold of his arm and said in a whisper, "Wait! It isn't fair that I should let you go farther in this matter. You should be ignorant of what we are doing until it is done."
"As you will," said the priest.
"Can you trust me?" said Jason.
"That I can."
"Then give me the key."
The old man gave it.
"When do you make your next signal?"
"At daybreak to-morrow."
"And when does the bell on the ship answer it?"
"Immediately."
"Go to your room, your reverence," said Jason, "and never stir out of it until you hear the ship's bell in the morning. Then come here, and you will find me waiting on this spot to return this key to you. But first answer me again, Do you trust me?"
"I do," said the old priest.
"You believe I will keep to my bargain, come what may?"
"I believe you will keep to it."
"And so I will, as sure as God's above me."
Jason opened the door and entered the room. It was quite dark, save for a dull red fire of dry moss that burned on the hearth in one corner. By this little fire Michael Sunlocks sat, with only his sad face visible in the gloom. His long thin hands were clasped about one knee which was half-raised; his noble head was held down, and his flaxen hair fell across his cheeks to his shoulders.
He had heard the key turn in the lock, and said quietly, "Is that you, Sir Sigfus?"
"No," said Jason.
"Who is it?" said Sunlocks.
"A friend," said Jason.
Sunlocks twisted about as though his blind eyes could see. "Whose voice was that?" he said, with a tremor in his own.
"A brother's," said Jason.
Sunlocks rose to his feet. "Jason?" he cried,
"Yes, Jason."
"Come to me! Come! Where are you? Let me touch you," cried Sunlocks, stretching out both his hands.
Then they fell into each other's arms, and laughed and wept for joy. After a while Jason said,—
"Sunlocks, I have brought you a message."
"Not from her, Jason?—no."
"No, not from her—from dear old Adam Fairbrother," said Jason.
"Were is he?"
"At Husavik."
"Why did you not bring him with you?"
"He could not come."
"Jason, is he ill?"
"He has crossed the desert to see you, but he can go no further."
"Jason, tell me, is he dying?"
"The good old man is calling on you night and day, 'Sunlocks!' he is crying. 'Sunlocks! my boy, my son. Sunlocks! Sunlocks!'"
"My dear father, my other father, God bless him!"
"He says he has crossed the seas to find you, and cannot die without seeing you again. And though he knows you are here, yet in his pain and trouble he forgets it, and cries, 'Come to me, my son, my Sunlocks.'"
"Now, this is the hardest lot of all," said Sunlocks, and he cast himself down on his chair. "Oh, these blind eyes! Oh, this cruel prison! Oh, for one day of freedom! Only one day, one poor simple day!"
And so he wept, and bemoaned his bitter fate.
Jason stood over him with many pains and misgivings at sight of the distress he had created. And if the eye of heaven saw Jason there, surely the suffering in his face atoned for the lie on his tongue.
"Hush, Sunlocks, hush!" he said, in a tremulous whisper. "You can have the day you wish for; and if you cannot see, there are others to lead you. Yes, it is true, it is true, for I have settled it. It is all arranged, and you are to leave this place to-morrow."
Hearing this, Michael Sunlocks made first a cry of delight, and then said after a moment, "But what of this poor old priest?"
"He is a good man, and willing to let you go," said Jason.
"But he has had warning that I may be wanted at anytime," said Sunlocks, "and though his house is a prison, he has made it a home, and I would not do him a wrong to save my life."
"He knows that," said Jason, "and he says that you will come back to him though death itself should be waiting to receive you."
"He is right," said Sunlocks; "and no disaster save this one could take me from him to his peril. The good old soul! Come, let me thank him." And with that he was making for the door.
But Jason stepped between, and said, "Nay, it isn't fair to the good priest that we should make him a party to our enterprise. I have told him all that he need know, and he is content. Now, let him be ignorant of what we are doing until it is done. Then if anything happens it will appear that you have escaped."
"But I am coming back," said Sunlocks.
"Yes, yes," said Jason, "but listen. To-morrow morning, two hours before daybreak, you will go down to the bay. There is a small boat lying by the little jetty, and a fishing smack at anchor about a biscuit-throw farther out. The good woman who ishousekeeperhere will lead you——"
"Why she?" interrupted Sunlocks.
Jason paused, and said, "Have you anything against her?"
"No indeed," said Sunlocks. "A good, true woman. One who lately lost her husband, and at the same time all the cheer and hope of life. Simple and sweet, and silent, and with a voice that recalls another who was once very near and dear to me."
"Is she not so still?" said Jason.
"God knows. I scarce can tell. Sometimes I think she is dearer to me than ever, and now that I am blind I seem to see her near me always. It is only a dream, a foolish dream."
"But what if the dream came true?" said Jason.
"That cannot be," said Sunlocks. "Yet where is she? What has become of her? Is she with her father? What is she doing?"
"You shall soon know now," said Jason. "Only ask to-morrow and this good woman will take you to her."
"But why not you yourself, Jason?" said Sunlocks.
"Because I am to stay here until you return," said Jason.
"What?" cried Sunlocks. "You are to stay here?"
"Yes," said Jason.
"As bondman to the law instead of me? Is that it? Speak!" cried Sunlocks.
"And why not?" said Jason, calmly.
There was silence for a moment. Sunlocks felt about with his helpless hands until he touched Jason and then he fell sobbing upon his neck.
"Jason, Jason," he cried, "this is more than a brother's love. Ah, you do not know the risk you would run; but I know it, and I must not keep it from you. Any day, any hour, a despatch may come to the ship outside to order that I should be shot. Suppose I were to go to the dear soul who calls for me, and the despatch came in my absence—where would you be then?"
"I should be here," said Jason, simply.
"My lad, my brave lad," cried Sunlocks, "what are you saying? If you cannot think for yourself, then think for me. If what I have said were to occur, should I ever know another moment's happiness? No, never, never, though I regained my sight, as they say I may, and my place and my friends—all save one—and lived a hundred years."
Jason started at that thought, but there was no one to look upon his face under the force of it, and he wriggled with it and threw it off.
"But you will come back," he said. "If the despatch comes while you are away, I will say that you are coming, and you will come."
"I may never come back," said Sunlocks. "Only think, my lad. This is winter, and we are on the verge of the Arctic seas, with five and thirty miles of water dividing us from the mainland. He would be a bold man who would count for a day on whether in which a little fishing smack could live. And a storm might come up and keep me back."
"The same storm that would keep you back," said Jason, "would keep back the despatch. But why hunt after these chances? Have you any reason to fear that the despatch will come to-day, or to-morrow, or the next day? No, you have none. Then go, and for form's sake—just that, no more, no less—let me wait here until you return."
There was another moment's silence, and then Sunlocks said, "Is that the condition of my going?"
"Yes," said Jason.
"Did this old priest impose it?" asked Sunlocks.
Jason hesitated a moment, and answered, "Yes."
"Then I won't go," said Sunlocks, stoutly.
"If you don't," said Jason, "you will break poor old Adam's heart, for I myself will tell him that you might have come to him, and would not."
"Will you tell him why I would not?" said Sunlocks.
"No," said Jason.
There was a pause, and then Jason said, very tenderly, "Will you go, Sunlocks?"
And Sunlocks answered, "Yes."
Jason slept on the form over against the narrow wooden bed of Michael Sunlocks. He lay down at midnight, and awoke four hours later. Then he stepped to the door and looked out. The night was calm and beautiful; the moon was shining, and the little world of Grimsey slept white and quiet under its coverlet of snow. Snow on the roof, snow in the valley, snow on the mountains so clear against the sky and the stars; no wind, no breeze, no sound on earth and in air save the steady chime of the sea below.
It was too early yet, and Jason went back into the house. He did not lie down again lest he should oversleep himself, but sat on his form and waited. All was silent in the home of the priest. Jason could hear nothing but the steady breathing of Sunlocks as he slept.
After awhile it began to snow, and then the moon went out, and the night became very dark.
"Now is the time," thought Jason, and after hanging a sheepskin over the little skin-covered window, he lit a candle and awakened Sunlocks.
Sunlocks rose and dressed himself without much speaking, and sometimes he sighed like adown-heartedman. But Jason rattled on with idle talk, and kindled a fire and made some coffee. And when this was done he stumbled his way through the long passages of the Iceland house until he came upon Greeba's room, and there he knocked softly, and she answered him.
She was ready, for she had not been to bed, and about her shoulders and across her breast was a sling of sheepskin, wherein she meant to carry her little Michael as he slept.
"All is ready," he whispered. "He sayshemay recover his sight. Can it be true?"
"Yes, the apothecary from Husavik said so," she answered.
"Then have no fear. Tell him who you are, for he loves you still."
And, hearing that, Greeba began to cry for joy, and to thank God that the days of her waiting were over at last.
"Two years I have lived alone," she said, "in the solitude of a loveless life and the death of a heartless home. My love has been silent all this weary, weary time, but it is to be silent no longer. At last! At last! My hour has come at last! My husband will forgive me for the deception I have practiced upon him. How can he hate me for loving him to all lengths and ends of love? Oh, that the blessed spirit that counts the throbbings of the heart would but count my life from to-day—to-day, to-day, to-day—wiping out all that is past, and leaving only the white page of what is to come."
Then from crying she fell to laughing, as softly and as gently, as if her heart grudged her voice the joy of it. She was like a child who is to wear a new feather on the morrow, and is counting the minutes until that morrow comes, too impatient to rest, and afraid to sleep lest she should awake too late. And Jason stood aside and heard both her weeping and her laughter.
He went back to Sunlocks, and found him yet more sad than before.
"Only to think," said Sunlocks, "that you, whom I thought my worst enemy, you that once followed me to slay me, should be the man of all men to risk your life for me."
"Yes, life is a fine lottery, isn't it?" said Jason, and he laughed.
"How the Almighty God tears our little passions to tatters," said Sunlocks, "and works His own ends in spite of them."
When all was ready, Jason blew out the candle, and led Sunlocks to the porch. Greeba was there, with little Michael breathing softly from the sling at her breast.
Jason opened the door. "It's very dark," he whispered, "and it is still two hours before the dawn. Sunlocks, if you had your sight already, you could not see one step before you. So give your hand to this good woman, and whatever happens hereafter never, never let it go."
And with that he joined their hands.
"Does she know my way?" said Sunlocks.
"She knows the way for both of you," said Jason. "Andnow go. Down at the jetty you will find two men waiting for you. Stop! Have you any money?"
"Yes," said Greeba.
"Give some to the men," said Jason. "Good-bye. I promised them a hundred kroner. Good-bye! Tell them to drop down the bay as silently as they can. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!"
"Come," said Greeba, and she drew at the hand of Sunlocks.
"Good-bye! Good-bye!" said Jason.
But Sunlocks held back a moment, and then in a voice that faltered and broke he said, "Jason—kiss me."
At the next moment they were gone into the darkness and the falling snow—Sunlocks and Greeba, hand in hand, and their child asleep at its mother's bosom.
Jason stood a long hour at the open door, and listened. He heard the footsteps die away; he heard the creak of the crazy wooden jetty; he heard the light plash of the oars as the boat moved off; he heard the clank of the chain as the anchor was lifted; he heard the oars again as the little smack moved down the bay, and not another sound came to his ear through the silence of the night.
He looked across the headland to where the sloop of war lay outside, and he saw her lights, and their two white waterways, like pillars of silver, over the sea. All was quiet about her.
Still he stood and listened until the last faint sound of the oars had gone. By this time a woolly light had begun to creep over the mountain tops, and a light breeze came down from them.
"It is the dawn," thought Jason. "They are safe."
He went back into the house, pulled down the sheepskin from the window, and lit the candle again. After a search he found paper and pens and wax in a cupboard and sat down to write. His hand was hard, he had never been to school, and he could barely form the letters and spell the words. This was what he wrote:
"Whatever you hear, fear not for me. I have escaped, and am safe. But don't expect to see me. I can never rejoin you, for I dare not be seen. And you are going back to your beautiful island, but dear old Iceland is the only place for me. Greeba, good-bye; I shall never lose heart. Sunlocks, she has loved you, you only, all the days of her life. Good-bye. I am well and happy. God bless you both."
Having written and sealed this letter, he marked it with a cross for superscription, touched it with his lips, laid it back on the table and put a key on top of it. Then he rested his head on his hands, and for some minutes afterwards he was lost to himself in thought. "They would tell him to lie down," he thought, "and now he must be asleep. When he awakes he will be out at sea, far out, and all sail set. Before long he will find that he has been betrayed, and demand to be brought back. But they will not heed his anger, for she will have talked with them. Next week or the week after they will put in at Shetlands, and there he will get my letter. Then his face will brighten with joy, and he will cry, 'To home! To Home!' And then—even then—why not?—his sight will come back to him, and he will open his eyes and find his dream come true, and her own dear face looking up at him. At that he will cry, 'Greeba, Greeba, my Greeba,' and she will fall into his arms and he will pluck her to his breast. Then the wind will come sweeping down from the North Sea, and belly out the sail until it sings and the ropes crack and the blocks creak. And the good ship will fly along the waters like a bird to the home of the sun. Home! Home! England! England, and the little green island of her sea!"
"God bless them both," he said aloud, in a voice like a sob, but he leapt to his feet, unable to bear the flow of his thoughts. He put back the paper and pens into the cupboard, and while he was doing so he came upon a bottle of brenni-vin. He took it out and laughed, and drew the cork to take a draught. But he put it down on the table untouched. "Not yet," he said to himself, and then he stepped to the door and opened it.
The snow had ceased to fall and the day was breaking. Great shivering waifs of vapor crept along the mountain sides, and the valley was veiled in mist. But the sea was clear and peaceful, and the sloop of war lay on its dark bosom as before.
"Now for the signal," thought Jason.
In less than a minute afterwards the flag was floating from the flag-staff, and Jason stood waiting for the ship's answer. It came in due course, a clear-toned bell that rang out over the quiet waters and echoed across the land.
"It's done," thought Jason, and he went back into the house. Lifting up the brenni-vin, he took a long draught of it, and laughed as he did so. Then a longer draught, andlaughed yet louder. Still another draught, and another, and another, until the bottle was emptied, and he flung it on the floor.
After that he picked up the key and the letter, and shambled out into the passage, laughing as he went.
"Where are you now, old mole?" he shouted, and again he shouted, until the little house rang with his thick voice and his peals of wild laughter.
The old priest came out of his room in his nightshirt with a lighted candle in his hand.
"God bless me, what's this?" said the old man.
"What's this? Why, your bondman, your bondman, and the key, the key," shouted Jason, and he laughed once more. "Did you think you would never see it again? Did you think I would run away and leave you? Not I, old mole, not I."
"Has he gone?" said the priest, glancing fearfully into the room.
"Gone? Why, yes, of course he has gone," laughed Jason. "They have both gone."
"Both!" said the priest, looking up inquiringly, and at sight of his face Jason laughed louder than ever.
"So you didn't see it, old mole?"
"See what?"
"That she was his wife?"
"His wife? Who?"
"Why, your housekeeper, as you called her."
"God bless my soul! And when are they coming back?"
"They are never coming back."
"Never?"
"I have taken care that they never can."
"Dear me! dear me! What does it all mean?"
"It means that the despatch is on its way from Reykjavik, and will be here to-day. Ha! ha! ha!"
"To-day? God save us! And do you intend—no, it cannot be—and yet—doyou intend to die instead of him?"
"Well, and what of that? It's nothing to you, is it? And as for myself, there are old scores against me, and if death had not come to me soon, I should have gone to it."
"I'll not stand by and witness it."
"You will, you shall, you must. And listen—here is a letter. It is for him. Address it to her by the first ship to the Shetlands. The Thora, Shetlands—that will do.And now bring me some more of your brenni-vin, you good old soul, for I am going to take a sleep at last—a long sleep—a long, long sleep at last."
"God pity you! God help you! God bless you!"
"Ay, ay, pray to your God. ButI'llnot pray to him. He doesn't make His world for wretches like me. I'm a pagan, am I? So be it! Good-night, you dear old mole! Good-night! I'll keep to my bargain, never fear. Good-night. Never mind your brenni-vin, I'll sleep without it. Good-night! Good-night!"
Saying this, amid broken peals of unearthly laughter, Jason reeled back into the room, and clashed the door after him. The old priest, left alone in the passage, dropped the foolish candle, and wrung his hands. Then he listened at the door a moment. The unearthly laughter ceased and a burst of weeping followed it.
It was on the day after that the evil work was done. The despatch had arrived, a day's warning had been given, and four sailors, armed with muskets, had come ashore.
It was early morning, and not a soul in Grimsey who had known Michael Sunlocks was there to see. Only Sir Sigfus knew the secret, and he dare not speak. To save Jason from the death that waited for him would be to put himself in Jason's place.
The sailors drew up in a line on a piece of flat ground in front of the house whereon the snow was trodden hard. Jason came out looking strong and content. His step was firm, and his face was defiant. Fate had dogged him all his days. Only in one place, only in one hour, could he meet and beat it. This was that place, and this was that hour. He was solemn enough at last.
By his side the old priest walked, with his white head bent and his nervous hands clasped together. He was mumbling the prayers for the dying in a voice that trembled and broke. The morning was clear and cold, and all the world around was white and peaceful.
Jason took up his stand, and folded his arms behind him. As he did so the sun broke through the clouds and lit up his uplifted face and his long red hair like blood.
The sailors fired and he fell. He took their shots into his heart, the biggest heart for good or ill that ever beat in the breast of man.
Within an hour there was a great commotion on that quiet spot. Jorgen Jorgensen had come, but come too late. One glance told him everything. His order had been executed, but Sunlocks was gone and Jason was dead. Where were his miserable fears now? Where was his petty hate? Both his enemies had escaped him, and his little soul shrivelled up at sight of the wreck of their mighty passions.
"What does this mean?" he asked, looking stupidly around him.
And the old priest, transformed in one instant from the poor, timid thing he had been, turned upon him with the courage of a lion.
"It means," he said, face to face with him, "that I am a wretched coward and you are a damned tyrant."
While they stood together so, the report of a cannon came from the bay. It was a loud detonation, that seemed to heave the sea and shake the island. Jorgen knew what it meant. It meant that the English man-of-war had come.
The Danish sloop struck her colors, and Adam Fairbrother came ashore. He heard what had happened, and gathered with the others where Jason lay with his calm face towards the sky. And going down on his knees he whispered into the deaf ear, "My brave lad, your troubled life is over, your stormy soul is in its rest. Sleep on, sleep well, sleep in peace. God will not forget you."
Then rising to his feet he looked around and said, "If any man thinks that this world is not founded in justice, let him come here and see: There stands the man who is called the Governor of Iceland, and here lies his only kinsman in all the wide wilderness of men. The one is alive, the other is dead; the one is living in power and plenty, the other died like a hunted beast. But which do you choose to be: The man who has the world at his feet or the man who lies at the feet of the world?"
Jorgen Jorgensen only dropped his head while old Adam's lash fell over him. And turning upon him with heat of voice, old Adam cried, "Away with you! Go back to the place of your power. There is no one now to take it from you. But carry this word with you for your warning: Heap up your gold like the mire of the streets,grown mighty and powerful beyond any man living, and when all is done you shall be an execration and a curse and a reproach, and the poorest outcast on life's highway shall cry with me, 'Any fate, oh, merciful heaven, but not that! not that!' Away with you, away! Take your wicked feet away, for this is holy ground!"
And Jorgen Jorgensen turned about on the instant and went off hurriedly, with his face to the earth, like a whipped dog.
They buried Jason in a piece of untouched ground over against the little wooden church. Sir Sigfus dug the grave with his own hands. It was a bed of solid lava, and in that pit of old fire they laid that young heart of flame. The sky was blue, and the sun shone on the snow so white and beautiful. It had been a dark midnight when Jason came into the world, but it was a glorious morning when he went out of it.
The good priest learning the truth from old Adam, that Jason had loved Greeba, bethought him of a way to remember the dead man's life secret at the last. He got twelve Iceland maidens and taught them an English hymn. They could not understand the words of it, but they learned to sing them to an English tune. And, clad in white, they stood round the grave of Jason, and sang these words in the tongue he loved the best: