"Go?" they cried, looking up from their seats in bewilderment.
"Yes," she said, "before my husband returns."
"Before he returns?" said Jacob. "Why, Greeba, we wish to see him."
"You had better not wait," said Greeba. "He might remember what you appear to forget."
"Why," said Jacob, with every accent of incredulity, "and isn't he our brother, so to say, brought up in the house of our own father?"
"And he knows what you did for our poor father, who wouldn't lie shipwrecked now but for your heartless cruelties," said Greeba.
"Greeba, lass, Greeba, lass," Jacob protested, "don't say he wouldn't take kind to the own brothers of his own wife."
"He also knows what you did for her," said Greeba, "and the sorry plight you brought her to."
"What!" cried Jacob, "you never mean to say you are going to show an ungrateful spirit, Greeba, after all we've brought you?"
"Small thanks to you for that, after defrauding me so long," said Greeba.
"What! Keeping you from marrying that cheating knave?" cried Jacob.
"You kept me from nothing but my just rights," said Greeba. "Now go—go."
Her words fell on them like swords that smote them hip and thigh, and like sheep they huddled together with looks of amazement and fear.
"Why, Greeba, you don't mean to turn us out of the house," said Jacob.
"And if I do," said Greeba, "it is no more than you did for our dear old father, but less; for that house was his, while this is mine, and you ought to be ashamed to show your wicked faces inside its doors."
"Oh, the outrageous little atomy," cried Asher.
"This is the thanks you get for crossing the seas to pay people what there was never no call to give them," said Stean.
"Oh, bad cess to it all," cried Ross, "I'll take what it cost me to come, and get away straight. Give it me, and I'm off."
"No," said Greeba, "I'll have no half measures. You refused what I offered you, and now you shall have nothing."
"Och, the sly slut—the crafty young minx," cried Ross, "to get a hold of the money first."
"Hush, boys, leave it to me," said Jacob. "Greeba," he said, in a voice of deep sorrow, "I never should have believed it of you—you that was always so kind and loving to strangers, not to speak of your own kith and kin——"
"Stop that," cried Greeba, lifting her head proudly, her eyes flashing, and the woman all over aflame. "Do you think I don't see through your paltry schemes? You defrauded me when I was poor and at your mercy, and now when you think I am rich, and could do you a service, you come to me on your knees. But I spurn you, you mean, grovelling men, you that impoverished my father and then turned your backs upon him, you that plotted against myhusband and would now lick the dust under his feet. Get out of my house, and never darken my doors again. Come here no more, I tell you, or I will disown you. Go—go!"
And just as sheep they had huddled together, so as sheep she swept them out before her. They trooped away through the kitchen and past the little English maid, but their eyes were down and they did not see her.
"Did ye give her that crown piece?" asked Thurstan, looking into Jacob's eyes. But Jacob said nothing—he only swore a little.
"The numskull!" muttered Thurstan. "The tomfool! The booby! The mooncalf! The jobbernowl! I was a fool to join his crackbrained scheme."
"I always said it would come to nothing," said Asher, "and we've thrown away five and thirty pound apiece, and fourteen per cent. for the honor of doing it."
"It's his money, though—the grinding young miser—and may he whistle till he gets it," said Thurstan.
"Oh, yes, you're a pretty pack of wise asses, you are," said Jacob, bitterly. "Money thrown away, is it? You've never been so near to your fortune in your life."
"How is that?" asked the other five at once.
"How is it that Red Jason has gone to prison? For threatening Michael Sunlocks? Very likely," said Jacob, with a curl of the lip.
"What then?" said John.
"For threatening herself," said Jacob. "She has lied about it."
"And what if she has? Where's our account in that?" said Asher.
"Where? Why, with her husband," said Jacob, and four distinct whistles answered him.
"You go bail Michael Sunlocks knows less than we know," Jacob added, "and maybe we might tell him something that would be worth a trifle."
"What's that?" asked John.
"That she loved Red Jason, and ought to have married him," said Jacob; "but threw him up after they had been sweethearting together, because he was poor, and then came to Iceland and married Michael Sunlocks because he was rich."
"Chut! Numskull again! He'd never believe you," said Thurstan.
"Would he not?" said Jacob, "then maybe he would believe his own eyes. Look there," and he drew a letter out of his pocket.
It was the abandoned letter that Greeba wrote to Jason.
"Isn'the a boy!" chuckled Gentleman John.
Two days longer they stayed at Reykjavik, and rambled idly about the town, much observed by the Icelanders and Danes for their monkey jackets of blue Manx cloth, and great sea boots up to their thighs. Early on the afternoon of the second day they sighted, from the new embankment where they stood and watched the masons, a ship coming up the fiord from the Smoky Point. It was a brig, with square sails set, and as she neared the port she ran up a flag to the masthead. The flag was the Icelandic flag, the banner of the Vikings, the white falcon on the blue ground, and the Fairbrothers noticed that at the next moment it was answered by a like flag on the flag-staff of Government House.
"He's coming, he's yonder," said Jacob, flapping his hands under his armpits to warm them.
In a few minutes they saw that there was a flutter over the smooth surface of the life of the town, and that small groups of people were trooping down to the jetty. Half an hour later the brig ran into harbor, dropped anchor below the lava reef, and sent its small boat ashore. Three men sat in the boat; the two sailors who rowed, and a gentleman who sat on the seat between them. The gentleman was young, flaxen-haired, tall, slight, with a strong yet winsome face, and clad in a squirrel-skin coat and close-fitting squirrel-skin cap. When the boat grounded by the jetty he leapt ashore with a light spring, smiled and nodded to the many who touched their hats to him, hailed others with a hearty word, and then swung into the saddle of a horse that stood waiting for him, and rode away at an eager trot in the direction of Government House.
It was Michael Sunlocks.
When the men whom Michael Sunlocks sent into the interior after Adam Fairbrother and his shipwrecked companyreturned to him empty-handed, he perceived that they had gone astray by crossing a great fiord lying far east of Hekla when they should have followed the course of it down to the sea. So, counting the time that had been wasted, he concluded to take ship to a point of the southern coast in the latitude of the Westmann Islands, thinking to meet old Adam somewhere by the fiord's mouth. The storm delayed him, and he reached the fiord too late; but he came upon some good news of Adam there: that, all well, though sore beset by the hard weather, and enfeebled by the misfortunes that had befallen them, the little band of ship-broken men had, three days before his own coming, passed up the western bank of the fiord on foot, going slowly and heavily laden, but under the safe charge of a guide from Stappen.
Greatly cheered in heart at these good tidings Michael Sunlocks had ordered a quick return, for it was unsafe, and perhaps impossible, to follow up through the narrow chasms of the fiord in a ship under sail. On getting back to Reykjavik he intended to take ponies across country in the direction of Thingvellir, hoping to come upon old Adam and his people before they reached the lake or the great chasm on the western side of the valley, known as the Chasm of All Men.
And thinking, amid the flutter of joyful emotions, that on the overland journey he would surely take Greeba with him, for he could never bear to be so long parted from her again, all his heart went back to her in sweet visions as his ship sped over the sea. Her beauty, her gentleness, her boldness, her playful spirits, and all her simple loving ways came flowing over him wave after wave, and then in one great swelling flood. And in the night watches, looking over the dark waters, and hearing nothing but their deep moan, he could scarce believe his fortune, being so far away from the sight of her light figure, and from the hearing of her sweet voice, that she was his—his love, his wife, his darling. A hundred tender names he would call her then, having no ear to hear him but the melancholy waves, no tongue to echo him but the wailing wind, and no eye to look upon him but the eye of night.
And many a time on that homeward voyage, while the sails bellowed out to the fair breeze that was carrying him to her, he asked himself however he had been able to live so long without her, and whether he could live without her now if evil chance plunged his great happiness into greatergrief. Thinking so, he recalled the day of her coming, and the message he got from the ship in the harbor saying she had come before her time, and how he had hastened down, and into the boat, and across the bay, and aboard, with a secret trembling lest the years might have so changed her as to take something from her beauty, or her sweetness, or her goodness, or yet the bounding playfulness that was half the true girl's charm. But, oh, the delicious undeceiving of that day, when, coming face to face with her again, he saw the rosy tint in her cheek and the little delicate dimple sucked into it when she smiled, and the light footstep, and the grace of motion, and the swelling throat, and the heaving bosom and the quivering lids over the most glorious eyes that ever shone upon this earth! So, at least, it had seemed to him then, and still it seemed so as his ship sailed home.
At Smoky Point they lay off an hour or two to take in letters for the capital, and there intelligence had come aboard of the arrest, trial, and condemnation of Jason for his design and attempt upon the life of the President. Michael Sunlocks had been greatly startled and deeply moved by the news, and called on the master to weigh the anchor without more delay than was necessary, because he had now a double reason for wishing to be back in Reykjavik.
And being at length landed there he galloped up to Government House, bounded indoors with the thought of his soul speaking out of his eyes, and found Greeba there and every one of his sweetest visions realized. All his hundred tender, foolish, delicious names he called her over again, but with better ears to hear them, while he enfolded her in his arms, with both her own about his neck, and her beautiful head nestling close over his heart, and her fluttering breast against his breast.
"Dearest," he whispered, "my darling, love of my life, however could I leave you so long?"
"Michael," she whispered back, "if you say any more I shall be crying."
But the words were half smothered by sobs, for she was crying already. Seeing this, he sheered off on another tack, telling her of his mission in search of her father, and that if he had not brought the good man back, at least he had brought good news of him, and saying that they were both to start to-morrow for Thingvellir with the certaintyof meeting him and bringing him home with great rejoicings.
"And now, my love, I have a world of things to attend to before I can go," said Michael Sunlocks, "and you have to prepare for two days in the saddle over the snow."
Greeba had been smiling through the big drops that floated in her eyes, but she grew solemn again, and said—
"Ah, Michael, you cannot think what trouble we have all had while you have been away."
"I know it—I know all," said Michael Sunlocks, "so say no more about it, but away to your room, my darling."
With that he rang a hand-bell that stood on the table, and Oscar, his servant, answered the call.
"Go across to the jail," he said, "and tell Jon that his prisoner is not to be removed until he has had orders from me."
"What prisoner, your Excellency?" said Oscar.
"The prisoner known as Jason," said Michael Sunlocks.
"He's gone, your Excellency," cried Oscar.
"Gone?"
"I mean to the Sulphur Mines, your Excellency."
"When was he sent?"
"Yesterday morning, at daybreak, your Excellency."
Michael Sunlocks sat at a table and wrote a few lines, and handed them to his man, saying, "Then take this to the Lagmann, and say I shall wait here until he comes."
While this was going forward Greeba had been standing by the door with a troubled look, and when Oscar was gone from the room she returned to her husband's side, and said, with great gravity, "Michael, what are you going to do with that man?"
But Michael Sunlocks only waved his hand, and said, "Nay, now, darling, you shall not trouble about this matter any more. It is my affair, and it is for me to see to it."
"But he has threatened your life," cried Greeba.
"Now, love, what did I say?" said Michael Sunlocks, with uplifted finger and a pretence at reproof. "You've fretted over this foolish thing too long; so think no more about it, and go to your room."
She turned to obey.
"And, darling," he cried in another voice, as she was slowly going, "that I may seem to have you with me all the same, just sing something, and I shall hear you while I work. Will you? There!" he cried, and laughed beforeshe had time to answer. "See what a goose you have made of me!"
She came back, and for reply she kissed his forehead, and he put his lips to her lovely hand. Then, with a great lump in her throat, and the big drops rolling from her eyes to her cheeks, she left him to the work she sorely feared.
And being alone, and the candles lighted and the blinds drawn down, for night had now fallen in, he sat at the table to read the mass of letters that had gathered in his absence. There was no communication of any kind from the Government at Copenhagen, and satisfying himself on this point, and thinking for the fiftieth time that surely Denmark intended, as she ought, to leave the people of world-old Iceland to govern themselves, he turned with a sigh of relief to the strange, bewildering, humorous, pathetic hodge-podge of petitions, complaints, requests, demands and threats that came from every quarter of the island itself. And while he laughed and looked grave, and muttered, and made louder exclamations over these, as one by one they passed under his eye, suddenly the notes of a harpsichord, followed shortly by the sweeter notes of a sweet voice, came to him from another room, and with the tip of his pen to his lips, he dropped back in his chair to listen.
"My own song," he thought, and his eyelids quivered.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine.Oh, leave a kiss within the cup,And I'll not ask for wine;The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar supI would not change for thine."
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine.Oh, leave a kiss within the cup,And I'll not ask for wine;The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar supI would not change for thine."
It was Greeba singing to him as he had bidden her.
"God bless her," he thought again in the silence that followed.
Ah, little did he think as he listened to her song that the eyes of the singer were wet, and that her heart was eating itself out with fears.
"What have I done to deserve such happiness?" he asked himself. But just as it happens that at the moment when our passionate joy becomes conscious of itself we find some dark misgivings creep over us of evil about to befall, so the bounding gladsomeness of Michael Sunlocks wasfollowed by a chill dread that he tried to put aside and could not.
It was at that moment that the Lagmann entered the room. He was very tall and slight, and had a large head that drooped like daffodil. His dress was poor, he was short-sighted, growing elderly, and silent of manner. Nothing in his appearance or bearing would have suggested that he had any pride of his place as Judge of the island. He was a bookworm, a student, a scholar, and learned in the old sagas and eddas.
"Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks, with simple deference. "I have sent for you on a subject of some moment to myself."
"Name it!" said the Judge.
"During my absence a man has been tried and condemned by the Bishop's court for threatening my life," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Jason, the son of Stephen Orry and Rachel, daughter of the late Governor-General Jorgensen," said the Judge.
"That is he, and I want you to give me an opinion respecting him," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Gladly," said the Judge.
"He was sent to the Sulphur Mines," said Michael Sunlocks.
"For six months, certain," said the Judge.
"Can we recall him, and have him tried afresh by the Court of the Quarter or the High Court of Justice?" said Michael Sunlocks.
"Too late for that," said the Judge. "A higher court, if it had condemned at all, might certainly have given him a longer punishment, but his sentence of six months is coupled with a condition that he shall hereafter take an oath of peace towards you. So have no fear of him."
"I have none at all," said Michael Sunlocks, "as my next question will show."
"What is it?" said the Judge.
"Can I pardon him?" said Michael Sunlocks.
For a moment the Lagmann was startled out of his placid manner, but recovering his composure he answered, "Yes, a President has sovereign powers of pardon."
"Then, Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks, "will you see the needful papers drawn for my signature?"
"Surely," said the Judge. "But, first, will you pardonme?" he added, with a shadow of a smile.
"Say what you please, Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks.
"It is possible that you do not yet know the nature of the evidence given at the trial," said the Judge.
"I think I do," said Michael Sunlocks.
"That this man claims to be your half-brother?"
"Heismy brother."
"That he thinks you have stood in his place?"
"Ihavestood in his place."
"That he is jealous of you, and in his madness has vowed to slay you?"
"His jealousy is natural, and his vow I do not dread."
The cold-mannered Lagmann paused a moment, wiped his short-sighted eyes with his red print handkerchief, and then said in a husky voice, "This is very noble of you. I'll go at once for the document."
He had only just gone from the room when Greeba returned to it. She had tried too long to conquer her agitation and could not, and now with wide eyes and a look of fear in them she hastened back to her husband the moment the Lagmann had left him.
"Michael," she cried, "what has the Lagmann gone for?"
"For a form of pardon," he answered.
"Pardon for that man?" she asked.
"Even so," he said, "and I have promised to sign it."
"Oh, Michael, my love—my dear, kind Michael!" she cried, in a pitiful voice of entreaty, "don't do it, don't I pray of you—don't bring that man back."
"Why, Greeba, what is this?" said Michael Sunlocks. "What is it troubles my little woman?"
"Dear Michael," she cried once more, "for your own sake think again before you sign that pardon."
"Ah, I see," said he, "my darling has been all unstrung by this ugly business. Yes, and now I remember what they told me down at Smoky Point. It was my love herself that gave the poor lad up to justice. That was very brave of my darling; for her husband, bless her dear heart, was before all the world to her. Ah, yes, I know that all her love is mine, her love is first and last with her as with all warm natures. But she must not fear for me. No, she must not worry, but go back, like a dear soul, and leave this matter to me."
"Michael, my dear, noble Michael, I have something to say; will you not hear me?"
"No, no, no," he answered.
"Not for a moment? I have set my heart on telling you."
"Not for one little moment. But if you have set your heart on anything else, then, my darling, just think of it double, whatever it is, and it is yours already."
"But why may I not speak of this pardon?"
"Because, though I have never yet set eyes upon this poor man I know more about him than my darling can ever know, and because it is natural that her sweet little heart, that is as brave as a lion for herself but as timid as a fawn for me, should exaggerate my peril. So now, no more words about it, but go, go."
She was about to obey when the maid came to say that dinner was ready. And then with a little shout of joy Michael Sunlocks threw down his papers, encircled his arm about Greeba's waist, and drew her along laughing, with her smiles fighting their way through her tears.
During the dinner he talked constantly of the dangers and trials and amusing mischances of his voyage, laughing at them all now they were over, and laughing at Greeba, too, for the woeful face with which she heard of them. And when they rose from the table he called on her for another song, and she sat at the harpsichord and sang, though something was swelling in her throat and often her heart was in her mouth. But hereckednothing of this, and only laughed when her sweet voice failed her, and filled up the breaks with his own rich tones.
In the midst of the singing the maid came in and said something which Michael Sunlocks did not catch, for it was drowned to his ear by the gladsome uproar that he himself was making; but Greeba heard it and stopped playing, and presently the Lagmann entered the room.
"A good thing is no worse for being done betimes," said the Judge, "so here is the pardon ready to your hand for signature."
And with that he handed a paper to Michael Sunlocks, who said with cheer, "You're right, Lagmann, you're right; and my wife will give you a glass of wine while I write you my name."
"A cup of coffee, if you are taking it," said the Judge, with a bow to Greeba, who saw nothing of it, for her eyes were following her husband.
"Michael," she said, "I beseech you not to sign thatpaper. Only give way to me this once; I have never asked you before, and I will never ask you again. I am in earnest, Michael dear, and if you will not yield to me for your own sake, yield to me for mine."
"How is this? How grave we are!" said Michael Sunlocks, pausing with pen in hand.
"I know I have no right to meddle in such matters, but, dear Michael, don't sign that pardon—don't bring that man back. I beseech you, I beg of you."
"This is very strange," said Michael Sunlocks.
"It is also very simple," said the Judge, bringing his red handkerchief up to his dim eyes again.
"What!" said Michael Sunlocks. "Greeba, you do not know this man—this Jason?"
Greeba hesitated a moment, and glanced at the Lagmann.
"You don't know him?" repeated Michael Sunlocks.
She was sorely tempted, and she fell. "For my husband's sake," she thought, and then with a prayer for pardon she lifted her head and said falteringly, "No, no—why no, of course not."
Michael Sunlocks was satisfied. "'Why no, of course not,'" he echoed, laughing a little, and then he dipped his quill in the ink-horn.
"But I beseech you again, do not bring that man back," she cried.
There was a painful pause, and, to cover it, the Lagmann said, "Your husband is a brave-hearted man, who does not know the name of fear."
And then Michael Sunlocks said, "I will ask your pardon, Lagmann, while I step into the next room with my wife. I have something to tell her. Come, Greeba, come. I'll leave the document with you for the present, Lagmann," he added over his shoulder as he passed out. Greeba walked beside him with downcast eyes, like a guilty thing condemned.
"Now, love," he said, when they were alone, "it is sweet and beautiful of you to think so much of me, but there is something that you do not know, and I ought to tell you. Maybe I hinted at it in my letter, but there has never been a chance to explain. Have you heard that this Jason is my brother?"
"Yes," said Greeba, faintly.
"It is true," said Michael Sunlocks. "And you knowthat when I first came to Iceland it was not to join the Latin school, but on an errand of mercy?"
"Yes," said Greeba.
"Well, the first of my duties was to find Jason's mother, and the next, was to find Jason himself."
"Jason!" cried Greeba.
"Yes, it was my father who sent me, for they had suffered much through his great fault, God forgive him! and I was to succor them in their distress. You know what followed?"
"Yes," said Greeba, softly.
"I came too late for the mother; the good woman was in her grave. I could not light upon her son, and lent an ear to the idle story that he was dead also. My search ceased, my zeal flagged, and, putting aside the solemn promise I made my father, I went on with my own affairs. But I never believed that he was dead, and I felt I should live to meet with him yet."
"Oh! oh!" cried Greeba.
"And many a time since my conscience has reproached me with a mission unfulfilled; and, awakening from many a dream of the hour and the place wherein I pledged my word to him that died trusting me, loving me, doting on me—heaven pity him, bad man though he was—as never a son was loved by a father before, it has not appeased me to say to myself, 'Michael, while you are here, given up to your ambitions, he is there amid the perils and hardships of the sea, and he is your brother, and the only kinsman left to you in the wide world.'"
Greeba was sobbing by this time.
"And now, my darling, you know all, and why I wish to sign this pardon. Could I ever know a moment's happiness with my brother slaving like a beast at yonder mines? What if he is jealous of me, and if his jealousy had driven him to madness! There is a sense in which he is right. But, whether right or wrong, mad or sane, he shall not be punished for my sake. So, dearest love, my darling, dry your beautiful eyes, and let me ease my conscience the only way I may, for I have no fear, and my wife must have none."
"Sunlocks," said Greeba, "you have made me ashamed. I am no fit wife for a man like you. I am too little-hearted. Oh, why did I ever come? Why? Why?" And she wept as if her heart would break. He comforted her with tenderprotests, enfolding her in his arms and caressing her lovely head.
"Tell me," he whispered, "nay, there, hide your face in my breast. There, there, tell me now—tell me all."
"Sunlocks," she said, drawing back, "I have lied to you."
"Lied?"
"When I told you I had not known Jason I told you what was false."
"Then you have known him?"
"Yes, I knew him in the Isle of Man."
"The Isle of Man?"
"He lived there nearly five years."
"All the time he was away?"
"Yes, he landed the night you sailed. You crossed him on the sea."
"Greeba, why did he go there? Yet how should you know?"
"I do know, Michael—it was to fulfil his vow—his vow that the old priest spoke of in court—his wicked vow of vengeance."
"On my father?"
"On your father and on you."
"God in heaven!" cried Michael Sunlocks, with great awe. "And that very night my father was saved from his own son by death."
"It was he who saved your father from the sea."
"Wait," said Michael Sunlocks; "did you know of this vow before you accused him of an attempt upon me?"
Greeba caught her breath, and answered, "Yes."
"Did you know of it while you were still in the Isle of Man?"
"Yes," she answered again, more faintly.
"Did he tell you?"
"Yes, and he bound me by a promise never to speak of it, but I could not keep it from my own husband."
"That's strange," said Michael Sunlocks, with a look of pain. "To share a secret like that with you was very strange," he added.
Greeba was flurried, and said again, too bewildered to see which way her words were tending, "And he gave me his promise in return to put aside his sinful purpose."
"That's still stranger," said Michael Sunlocks. "Greeba," he added, in another tone, "why should you say you did not know Jason?"
"Because the Lagmann was with us."
"But why, my girl? Why?"
"Lest evil rumors might dishonor my husband."
"But where was the dishonor to me in my wife knowing this poor lad, Greeba?"
At that she hesitated a moment, and then in a tone of gentle reproof she said, nestling close to him and caressing his sleeve, "Michael, why do you ask such questions?"
But he did not turn aside for that, but looked searchingly into her face, and said, "He was nothing to you, was he?"
She hesitated again, and then tried to laugh, "Why, what should he be to me?" she said.
He did not flinch, but repeated, "He was nothing to you then?"
"Nobody save my husband has ever been anything to me," she said, with a caress.
"He was nothing to you—no?"
"No," she answered, throwing back her head.
Just then the English maid came to say that the six big Englishmen who had been there before were in the kitchen again, and asking to see her master, not her mistress, this time. In an instant Greeba's little burst of disdain was spent, and she was all humility and entreaty.
"Don't go to them," she cried. "Don't listen to them."
"Who are they?" he asked.
"My brothers. I have not had time to tell you, but I will tell you now."
She put her arms about his neck as if to hold him.
"What have they come for?"
"To tell you some falsehood, and so revenge themselves on me. I know it, I feel it. Ah, a woman's instinct is sure. But, dear Michael, you will not receive them. Refuse, and I will tell you such a story. And you will laugh——"
"Let me go, Greeba," he said, unloosing the grip of her tightening arms, and the next moment he was gone from the room. Then all the spirit of the woman arose in Greeba, and, throwing aside her vague fears, she resolved, as only a woman could, in the cruel hour when a dear heart seemed to be slipping away from her, that, come what would, she should hold to her husband at all hazards, and that whatever her brothers might say against her, let it be true or false, if it threatened to separate her from him, she must deny it.What matter about the truth? Her love was before everything. And who was to disprove her word? Jason alone could do so, and his tongue was sealed forever in a silence as deep as the grave's.
Michael Sunlocks went out of the room like a man in a dream: an ugly dream, a dream of darkening terrors undefined. He came back to it like one who has awakened to find that his dream has come true. Within one hour his face seemed to have grown old. He stooped, he stumbled on the floor, his limbs shook under him, he was a broken and sorrowful man. At sight of him Greeba could scarcely restrain an impulse to scream. She ran to him, and cried, "Michael, husband, what have they told you?"
At first he looked stupidly into her quivering face, and then glancing down at a paper he held in one hand he made an effort to conceal it behind him. She was too quick for him, and cried, "What is it? Show it me."
"It's nothing," he said; "nothing, love, nothing——"
"What have they told you?" she said again, "tell me—tell me."
"They say that you loved Jason," he answered with a great effort.
"It's a lie," she cried stoutly.
"They say that you were to marry him."
She tried to answer as stoutly as before, "And that's a lie, too," but the words stuck in her throat.
"Oh! God," he cried, and turned away from her.
There was a stove in the room, and he stepped up to it, opened the iron door, and thrust the paper into the crackling fire.
"What is that you are burning?" she cried. And in another moment, before he knew what she was doing, she had run to the stove, pulled back with her bare hands the hot door that he was closing with the tongs, thrust her arm into the fire, and brought out the paper. It was in flames, and she rolled it in her palms until little but its charred remains lay in her scorched fingers. But she saw what it had been—her own abandoned letter to Red Jason. Then, slowly looking up, she turned back to her husband, pale, a fearful chill creeping over her, and he had thrown himself down on a chair by the table and hidden his face in his arms.
It was a pitiful and moving sight. To see that man, so full of hope and love and simple happy trust a little hourago, lie there with bent head and buried eyes, and hands clasped together convulsively, because the idol he had set up for himself lay broken before him, because the love wherein he lived lay dead; and to see that woman, so beautiful, and in heart so true, though dogged by the malice of evil chance, though weak as a true woman may be, stand over him with whitening lips and not a word to utter—to see this was to say, "What devil of hell weaves the web of circumstance in this world of God?"
Then, with a cry of love and pain in one, she flung herself on her knees beside him, and enfolded him in her arms. "Michael," she said, "my love, my darling, my dear kind husband, forgive me, and let me confess everything. It is true that I was to have married Jason, but it is not true that I loved him. I esteemed him, for he is of a manly, noble soul, and after the departure of my father and the death of my mother, and amid the cruelties of my brothers and your own long, long silence, I thought to reward him for his great fidelity. But I loved you, you only, only you, dear Michael, and when your letter reached me at last I asked him to release me that I might come to you, and he did so, and I came. This is the truth, dear Michael, as sure as we shall meet before God some day."
Michael Sunlocks lifted his face and said, "Why did you not tell me this long ago, Greeba, and not now when it is dragged from you?"
She did not answer him, for to be met with such a question after a plea so abject, stung her to the quick. "Do you not believe I've told you the truth?" she asked.
"God knows; I know not what to believe," he answered.
"Do you rather trust my brothers, who have deceived you?" she said.
"So, heaven help me! has my wife, whom I have loved so dear."
At that she drew herself up. "Michael," she said, "what lie have these men told you? Don't keep it from me. What have I done?"
"Married me, while loving him," he answered. "That's enough for me, God pity me!"
"Do you believe that?" she said.
"Your concealments, your deceptions, your subterfuges all prove it," he said. "Oh, it is killing me, for it is the truth."
"So you believe that?" she said.
"If I had not written you would now be Jason's wife," he said. "And by this light I see his imprisonment. It was you who accused him of a design upon my life. Why? Because you knew what he had confessed to you. For your own ends you used his oath against him, knowing he could not deny it. And what was your purpose? To put him away. Why? Because he was pursuing you for deserting him. But you made his vow your excuse, and the brave lad said nothing. No, not a word; and yet he might have dishonored you before them all. And when I wished to sign his pardon you tried to prevent me. Was that for my sake? No, but yours. Was it my life you thought to protect? No, but your own secret."
Thus, in the agony of his tortured heart, the hot hard words came from him in a torrent, but before the flood of them was spent, Greeba stepped up to him with flashing eyes, and all the wrath in her heart that comes of outraged love, and cried,
"It is false. It is false, I say. Send for him and he himself will deny it. I can trust him, for he is of a noble soul. Yes, he is a man indeed. I challenge you to send for him. Let him come here. Bring him before me, and he shall judge between us."
"No," said Michael Sunlocks, "I will not send for him. For whatyouhave doneheshall suffer."
Then there was a knock at the door, and after a pause the Lagmann entered, with his stoop and uncertain glance. "Excuse me," he said, "will you sign the pardon now, or leave it until the morning?"
"I will not sign it at all," said Michael Sunlocks. But at the next moment he cried: "Wait! after all it is not the man's fault, and he shall not suffer." With that he took the paper out of the law-man's hand and signed it hurriedly. "Here," he said, "see that the man is set free immediately."
The Lagmann looked at both of them out of his nearsighted eyes, coughed slightly, and left the room without a word more.
When the Fairbrothers left Government House after their dirty work was done, Jacob was well content with himself, but his brothers were still grumbling.
"He didn't seem any ways keen to believe it," Thurstan muttered.
"Leave him alone for that," said Jacob. "Did ye see when I gave him the letter?"
"Shoo! I wouldn't trust but she will persuade him she never writ it," said Thurstan.
"He's got it anyways, and we have nothing to show for it," said Stean.
"And noways powerful grateful either. And where's the fortune that was coming straight to our hand?" said Ross.
"Chut, man, there's nothing for us in his mighty schame," said Thurstan.
"I always said so," said Asher; "and five and thirty pounds of good money thrown into the sea."
"Go on," said Jacob, with a lofty smile, "go on, don't save your breath for your porridge," and he trudged along ahead of his brethren. Presently he stopped, faced about to them, and said, "Boys, you're mighty sure that nothing is coming of this mighty schame," with a look of high disdain at Thurstan.
"Sure as death and the taxman," sneered Thurstan.
"Then there's a boat sailing for Dublin at high water, and I'll give five and thirty pounds apiece to every man of you that likes to go home with her."
At that there was an uneasy scraping of five pairs of feet, and much hum-ing and ha-ing and snuffling.
"Quick, which of you is it to be? Speak out, and don't all speak at once," said Jacob.
Then Asher, with a look of outraged reason, said,"What! and all our time go for nothing, and the land lying fallow for months, and the winter cabbage not down, and the men's wages going on?"
"You won't take it?" said Jacob.
"A paltry five and thirty, why, no," said Asher.
"Then let's have no more of your badgering," said Jacob.
"But, Jacob, tell us where's our account in all this jeel with the girl and the Governor," said Gentleman John.
"Find it out," said Jacob, with a flip of finger and thumb, as he strode on again before his brothers.
"Aw, lave him alone," said Stean. "He's got his schame."
Next morning, before the light was yet good, and while the warm vapor was still rising into the chill air from the waters of the fiord, Michael Sunlocks sat at work in the room that served him for office and study. His cheeks were pale, his eyes were heavy, and his whole countenance was haggard. But there was a quiet strength in his slow glance and languid step that seemed to say that in spite of the tired look of age about his young face and lissome figure he was a man of immense energy, power of mind and purpose.
His man Oscar was bustling in and out of the room on many errands. Oscar was a curly-headed youth of twenty, with a happy upward turn of the corners of the mouth, and little twinkling eyes full of a bright fire.
The lad knew that there was something amiss with his master by some queer twist of nature that gave a fillip to his natural cheerfulness.
Michael Sunlocks would send Oscar across the arg to the house of the Speaker, and at the next moment forget that he had done so, touch the bell, walk over to the stove, stir the fire, and when the door opened behind him deliver his order a second time without turning round. It would be the maid who had answered the bell, and she would say, "If you please, your Excellency, Oscar has gone out. You sent him across to the Speaker." And then Michael Sunlocks would bethink himself and say, "True, true; you are quite right."
He would write his letters twice, and sometimes foldthem without sealing them; he would read a letter again and again and not grasp its contents. His coffee and toast that had been brought in on a tray lay untouched until both were cold, though they had been set to stand on the top of the stove. He would drop his pen to look vacantly out at the window, and cross the room without an object, and stand abruptly and seem to listen.
The twinkling eyes of young Oscar saw something of this, and when the little English maid stopped the lad in the long passage and questioned him of his master's doings, he said with a mighty knowing smirk that the President was showing no more sense and feeling and gumption that morning than a tortoise within its shell.
Towards noon the Fairbrothers asked for Michael Sunlocks, and were shown into his room. They entered with many bows and scrapes, and much stroking of their forelocks. Michael Sunlocks received them gravely, with an inclination of the head, but no words.
"We make so bold as to come to see you again," said Jacob, "for we've got lands at us lying fallow—the lot of us, bar myself, maybe—and we must be getting back and putting a sight on them."
Michael Sunlocks bowed slightly.
"We've lost a good crop by coming," said Jacob, "and made no charge neither, though it's small thanks you get in this world for doing what's fair and honest."
"Well?" said Michael Sunlocks.
"She never was good to them that was good to her," said Jacob, "and we're taking sorrow to see that we're not the only ones that suffer from her ingratitude."
"Not another word on that head," said Michael Sunlocks. "What do you want?"
"Want? Well, it isn't so mortal kind to saywant," said Jacob, with the look of one whose self-respect had been wounded.
"A man may be poor, but a poor man has got feelings," said Asher.
"Poor or rich, I say again, 'What do you want?'" said Michael Sunlocks.
"Only to say that we're going to keep this little thing quiet," said Jacob.
"Aw, quiet, quiet," said the others.
"I must leave that to you," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Aw, and safe, too," said Jacob, "for what for shouldwe be going disgracing our own sister? It isn't natural, and her the wife of the President, too."
"Aw, no, no," said the brethren.
"He won't hear a word against her for all," whispered John to Jacob.
"A girl may be a bit wild, and doing sweethearting before she was married," said Jacob, "but that is no reason why all the world should be agate of her, poor thing; and what's it saying, 'The first slip is always forgotten?'"
"Silence," said Michael Sunlocks, sternly. "If this is what you have come to say, we can cut this meeting short."
"Lord-a-massy," cried Asher. "Is he for showing us the door, too?"
"Who says so?" said Jacob, changing his tone. Then facing about to Michael Sunlocks, he said, "It wouldn't do to be known that the President of Iceland had married a bad woman—would it?"
Michael Sunlocks did not reply, and Jacob answered himself: "No, of course not. So perhaps you'll give me back that letter I lent you yesterday."
"I haven't got it. It is destroyed," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Destroyed!" cried Jacob.
"Make yourself easy about it," said Michael Sunlocks. "It will do no more mischief. It's burnt. I burnt it myself."
"Burnt it?" Jacob exclaimed. "Why, do you know, I set great store by that letter? I wouldn't have lost it for a matter of five hundred pounds."
Michael Sunlocks could bear no more. In an instant the weary look had gone from his face. His eyes flashed with anger; he straightened himself up, and brought his fist down on the table. "Come," he cried, "let us have done with this fencing. You want me to pay you five hundred pounds. Is that it?"
"For the letter—that's it," said Jacob.
"And if I refuse to do so you mean to publish it abroad that I have married a wicked woman?"
"Aw, when did we say so?" said Jacob.
"No matter what you say. You want five hundred pounds?"
"For the letter."
"Answer. You want five hundred pounds?"
"For the letter."
"Then you shall not have one sixpence. Do you think I would pay you for a thing like that? Listen to me. I would give you all the wealth of the world, if I had it, never to have heard your evil news."
"That won't pass, master," said Jacob. "It's easy said now the letter's gone, and no danger left. But five hundred pounds I'll have or I'll not leave Iceland till Iceland knows something more than she knows to-day."
"Say what you like, do what you like," cried Michael Sunlocks; "but if ever you set foot in this house again, I'll clap every man of you in jail for blackmailing."
Out again in the chilly dusky air, with the hard snow under foot, the Fairbrothers trudged along. Jacob gloomed as dark as any pitch, and Thurstan's red eyes, like fire of ice, probed him with a burning delight.
"I always said so," Asher whimpered; and then over Jacob's stooping shoulder he whispered, "I'll take half of what you offered me, and leave you to it."
Hearing that Thurstan laughed fiercely, and repeated his hot christenings of two days before—"Numskull! tomfool! blatherskite!" and yet choicer names beside. Jacob bore all and showed no rancor, but trampled along ahead of the others, crestfallen, crushed, and dumb. And, left to themselves for conversation and comfort, his brethren behind compared notes together.
"Strange! He doesn't seem to care what is thought of his wife," said John.
"Aw, what's disgrace to a craythur same as that? Like mother like son," said Ross.
"She had better have married the other one," said Asher, "and I always said so."
"It's self, self, self, with a man like yonder," said Stean.
"Curse him for a selfish brute," said John.
"Aw, an unfeeling monster," said Ross.
And with such heat of anger these generous souls relieved themselves on the name of Michael Sunlocks.
"Boys," said Thurstan, "maybe he has no feeling for the girl, but I'll go bail he has some for himself, and I wouldn't trust but he'd be feeling it mortal keen if he was after getting pulled down from his berth."
"What d'ye mean?" asked all four at once.
"Leave that to myself," said Thurstan, "and maybe since I set foot ashore I've heard tell of schames that's going."
Greeba sat in her room, trying to cheat time of its weary hours by virtue of much questioning of her little English maid, who from time to time brought news of Michael Sunlocks. He had risen very early, as early as mid-morning (six o'clock), and ever since then he had been writing in his office. Oscar had been running here and there for him, first to the Senate, then to the Speaker's, and then to the Bishop's. The tall doorkeeper, stammering Jon, had seen him, being sent for, and the feckless busybody had told him ever such needless stories of the jellies and the soups and the mistress's visit to the poor man in the prison, and however people got wind of things was just puzzling beyond words.
With such cackle and poor company Greeba passed her time, thinking no ill of the pert little maid who dressed up her hair and dressed down her pride as well, for a woman will have any confidante rather than none, and the sweetest and best of women, being estranged from her husband, her true stay and support, will lay hold of the very sorriest staff to lean on. And the strange twist of little natures, that made Oscar perky while his master was melancholy, made the maid jubilant while her mistress wept. She was a dark-haired mite with eyes of the shallow brightness of burnished steel. Her name was Elizabeth. She meant no harm to anyone.
Towards noon the little woman burst into the room with great eagerness, and cried, in a hushed whisper, "The Speaker has come. I am sure that something is going to happen; Oscar says so, too. What is it? What can it be?"
Greeba listened, and carried herself bravely while the maid was near, but when the door had closed upon the chatterer she leaned against the window and cried, hearing nothing but her own weeping and the grief of the half-frozen river that flowed beneath. Then, drying her eyes and summoning what remained of her pride, she left her own room to go to the room of her husband.
In his little silk skullcap and spectacles the Lagmann came back, for he was Judge and Speaker in one, and found Michael Sunlocks alone. At a glance he saw that the trouble of the night before had deepened, and that something of great moment was afoot.
"Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks, "I wish you to summon both Chambers to meet at the Senate House to-morrow night."
"It will be inconvenient," said the Speaker, "for the Committee of Althing has risen, and the members are preparing to go back home."
"That is why I wish them to be summoned at once," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Is the matter of such pressing importance?" asked the Speaker.
"It is; and it admits of no delay," answered Michael Sunlocks.
"May I mention its purport?" said the Speaker.
"Say only that the President has a message for Althing," said Michael Sunlocks.
"At what hour to-morrow night?" asked the Speaker.
"At mid-evening," answered Michael Sunlocks, and then, with the sigh of a weary man, he turned towards the stove.
The Speaker glanced at him with his dim eyes screwed up, pushed back his little skullcap, and ran his forefinger along his bald crown, then shook his head gravely and left the room, saying within himself, "Why this haste? And why the message? Ah, these impetuous souls that rise so high and so fast sometimes go down headlong to the abyss!"
Michael Sunlocks was turning round from the stove when Greeba entered, and for all the womanly courage with which she tried to carry herself before him, he could see that she looked frightened, and that her eyes sought his eyes for mercy and cheer.
"Michael," she cried, "what is it that you are about to do? Tell me. I cannot bear this suspense any longer."
He made her no answer, but sat at his desk and lifted his pen. At that she stamped her foot and cried again—
"Tell me, tell me. I cannot, and I will not bear it."
But he knew, without lifting his head, that with all her brave challenge, and the spark of her defiant eyes, behind her dark lashes a great tear-drop lay somewhere veiled. So he showed no anger, and neither did he reply to her appeal, but made some show of going on with his writing.
And being now so far recovered from her first fear as to look upon his face with eyes that could see it, Greeba realized all that she had but partly guessed from the chatter of her maid, of the sad havoc the night had made with him. At that she could bear up no longer, for before her warm woman's feeling all her little stubborn spirit went down as with a flood, and she flung herself at his feet and cried, "Michael, forgive me; I don't know what I am saying."
But getting no answer to her passionate agony any more than her hot disdain, her pride got the better of her again, and she tried to defend herself with many a simple plea, saying between a sob and a burst of wrath that if she had deceived him, and said what was barely true, it was only from thinking to defend his happiness.
"And why," she cried, "why should I marry you while loving him?"
Then, for the first time, he raised his head and answered her—
"Because of your pride, Greeba—your fatal pride," he said; "your pride that has been your bane since you were a child and you went to London and came back the prouder of your time there. I thought it was gone; but the old leaven works as potently as before, and rises up to choke me. I ought to have known it, Greeba, that your old lightness would lead you to some false dealing yet, and I have none but myself to blame."
Now if he had said this with any heat of anger, or with any rush of tears, she would have known by the sure instinct of womanhood that he loved her still, and was only fighting against love in vain. Then she would have flung herself into his arms with a burst of joy and a cry of "My darling, you are mine, you are mine." But instead of that he spoke the hard words calmly, coldly, and without so much as a sigh, and by that she knew that the heart of his love had been killed within him, and now lay dead before her. So, stung to the quick, she said, "You meanthat I deserted Jason because he was poor, and came here to you because you are rich. It is false—cruelly, basely false. You know it is false; or, if you don't, you ought."
"I am far from rich, Greeba," he said, "although to your pride I may seem so, seeing that he whom you left for the sake of the poor glory of my place here was but a friendless sailor lad."
"I tell you it is false," she cried. "I could have loved my husband if he had never had a roof over his head. And yet you tell me that? You that should know me so well! How dare you?" she cried, and by the sudden impulse of her agony, with love struggling against anger, and fire and tears in her eyes together, she lifted up her hand and struck him on the breast.
That blow did more than any tearful plea to melt the icy mistrust that had all night been freezing up his heart, but before he had time to reply Greeba was on her knees before him, praying of him to forgive her, because she did not know what she was doing.
"But, Michael," she said again, "it isn't true. Indeed, indeed, it is not, and it is very, very cruel. Yes, I am proud, very proud, but I am proudest of all of my husband. Proud of him, proud for him—proud that he should be the bravest and noblest gentleman in the world. That is the worst of my pride, Michael—that I want to be proud of him I love. But if that might not have been, and he had been the lowliest man on earth, I could have shared his lot though it had been never so poor and humble, so that I could have had him beside me always."
As he listened to her passionate words there was a fluttering at his throat. "Are you sure of that, Greeba?" he said.
"Only let me prove it to you," she cried, with the challenge of beauty in her beautiful eyes.
"So you shall, Greeba," he said, "for we leave this house to-morrow."
"What?" she cried, rising to her feet.
"Yes," he said, "from to-morrow our condition will be different. So get yourself ready to go away from here."
Then her courageous challenge sank away in an instant.
"Whatever do you mean?" she cried, in great terror.
"If you have married the President you shall live with the man," he answered.
"Oh, Michael, Michael, what are you going to do?" she cried. "To degrade yourself?"
"Even so," he said calmly.
"To punish me?" she cried, "To prove me? To test me?"
"If you can go through with it I shall be happy and content," he answered.
"Are you then to be nothing in Iceland?" she said.
"And what of that?" he asked. "Think of what you have just been saying."
"Then I have come into your life to wreck it," she cried. "Yes, I, I! Michael," she added, more quietly, "I will go away. I would not bring shame and humiliation upon you for all that the world can give. I will leave you."
"That you never shall," said Michael Sunlocks. "We are man and wife now, and as man and wife we shall live together."
"I tell you I will not stay," she cried.
"And I tell you," he replied, "that I am your husband, and you shall give me a wife's obedience."
"Michael, dear Michael," she said, "it is for your own good that I want to leave you, so that the great promise of your life may not be wasted. It is I who am breaking in upon it. And I am nothing. Let me go."
"It is too late, Greeba. As poor man and poor woman we must pass the rest of our life together."
At that she burst into sobs again, blaming her brothers, and telling of their mean mission, and how she resented it, and what revenge of wicked slander they had wreaked upon her.
"You see it is all an error," she cried: "a cruel, cruel error."
"No, Greeba, it is not all an error," he answered. "It is not an error that you deceived me—and lied to me."
At that word her tears fell back, and the fire of her heart was in her eyes in an instant. "You say that, do you?" she cried. "Ah, then, perhaps there has been yet another error than you think of—the error of throwing him away for sake of you. He is noble, and simple, and true. His brave heart is above all suspicion. God pity him, and forgive me!"
Then for the first time that day since the six Fairbrothers had left the house, the calmness of Michael Sunlocks forsook him, and in a stern voice, with a look of fierce passion in his face, he cried, "Let me never, never meet that man. Five years ago I came here to save him, but now if we ever come face to face it will be the hour of his death or mine."
When the Fairbrothers, in the first days after their coming to Iceland, started inquiries touching the position and influence of Michael Sunlocks, thinking thereby to make sure of their birds in the bush before parting with their bird in the hand, they frequented a little drinking-shop in the Cheapstead where sailors of many nations congregated, Danes, Icelanders, Norwegians, English, and Irish. Hearing there what satisfied their expectations, their pride began to swell, and as often as Michael Sunlocks was named with honor they blew up their breasts like bantams and said he was their brother, so to speak, and had been brought up in the same house with them since he was a slip of a brat of two or three. And if any who heard them glanced them over with doubtful eyes they straightway broke into facetious stories concerning the boyhood of Sunlocks, showing all their wondrous kindness to him as big brothers towards a little one.
Now these trifling events were of grave consequence to the fortunes of the Fairbrothers, and the fate of Michael Sunlocks, at two great moments. The first of the two was when Thurstan broke into open rebellion against Jacob. Then, with a sense of his wise brother'spitiableblunderheadedness, the astute Thurstan went off to the same drinking-shop to console himself with drink, and there he was addressed, when he was well and comfortably drunk, by a plausible person who spoke an unknown tongue. The end of that conference was nevertheless an idea firmly settled in Thurstan's mind that if he could not get money out of Michael Sunlocks he could at least get satisfaction.
This was the matter that Thurstan darkly hinted at when Jacob, being utterly discomfited, had to leave all further schemes to his brethren. So that day he returned to his rendezvous, met the plausible person again, and later in the evening sought out his brothers and said, "Didn't I tell ye toleaveto me?"
"What's going doing?" said four voices at once.
"Plucking him down, the upstart, that's what's going doing," said Thurstan.
Then to five pairs of eager ears it slowly leaked out that a Danish ship lay in the harbor with a mysterious cargo of great casks, supposed to contain tallow; that after discharging their contents these casks were to be filled with shark's oil; that waiting the time to fill them they were to be stored (as all other warehouses were full of bonder's stock) in the little cell of detention under the senate-house; and, finally and most opportunely, that a meeting of Althing had been summoned on special business for the next night following, and that Michael Sunlocks was to be present.
The Fairbrothers heard all this with eyes that showed how well they understood it and keenly gloated over it. And late the same night the cargo of great casks was unshipped at the jetty, wheeled up to the senate-house and lodged there, carefully, silently, one by one. Thurstan helping, a few stragglers looking on, the stammering doorkeeper, long Jon, not anywhere visible, and no one else in the little sleepy town a whit the wiser. This being done, Thurstan went back to his lodging with the content of a soul at ease, saying to himself, "As I say, if we don't get anything else, we'll get satisfaction; and if we get what's promised I've a safe place to put it until the trouble's over and we can clear away, and that's the little crib under the turret of the cathedral church."
Then the worthy man lay down to sleep.
Before Thurstan was awake next morning Reykjavik was all astir. It had become known that a special sitting of Althing had been summoned for that night, and because nothing was known much was said concerning the business afoot. People gathered in groups where the snow of the heavy drifts had been banked up at the street corners, and gossiped and guessed. Such little work as the great winter left to any man was done in haste or not at all, that men might meet in the stores, the drinking-shops, and on the Cheapstead and ask, "Why?" "Wherefore?" and "What does it mean?" That some event of great moment was pending seemed to be the common opinion everywhere, though what ground it rested on no one knew, for no one knew anything. Only on one point was the feeling moregeneral, or nearer right; that the President himself was at the root and centre of whatever was coming.
Before nightfall this vague sentiment, which ever hovers, like a dark cloud over a nation when a storm is near to breaking upon it, had filled every house in the capital, so that when the hour was come for the gathering of Althing the streets were thronged. Tow-headed children in goatskin caps ran here and there, women stood at the doors of houses, young girls leaned out of windows in spite of the cold, sailors and fishermen with pipes between their lips and their hands deep in their pockets lounged in grave silence outside the taverns, and old men stood under the open lamps by the street corners and chewed and snuffed to keep themselves warm.
In the neighborhood of the wooden senate-house on the High Street the throng was densest, and such of the members as came afoot had to crush their ways to the door. All the space within that had beenallottedto the public was filled as soon as stammering Jon opened the side door. When no more room was left the side door was closed again and locked, and it was afterwards remembered, when people had time to put their heads together, that long Jon was there and then seen to pass the key of this side door to one of the six English strangers who had lately come to the town. That stranger was Thurstan Fairbrother.
The time of waiting before the proceedings commenced was passed by those within the Senate House in snuff-taking and sneezing and coughing, and a low buzz of conversation, full of solemn conjecture.