XIVIn the house of sorrow God closes the hearts of little children so that they may not break. Little Elin had been bright and happy the whole evening through. She was a merry little sprite whose laughter--like the rippling of a sunny stream--set everybody else laughing. Old Maria was at a loss to say which of her parents she resembled most. When the child laughed, Maria said: "There's a deal of the father in the little one," and when she listened and looked up sideways Maria thought there was a deal of the mother, too.Anna put her to bed, and while she was being undressed her little tongue went like a shuttle. Existence had gone rapidly since she arrived, and she was full of stories: how she had gone to the chasm with Maria to pluck blueberries, and two big, black ravens, sitting on a crag, had looked down at her and croaked; how she had gone to the cow-house with Eric to see the cows milked, and Gudrun (to her infinite glee) had squirted some of the milk at her; and, above all, how all alone she had found a pet lamb and it was brown, because it had lost its mother, and lived in the elt-house, because its father had run away from it, and how it put its cold nose against her face and said, "Bah!" and its name was "Maggie.""Maggie shall come and waken you in the morning, darling," said Anna."Shall she come in here, gran'ma?""Yes, dear," said Anna, and then the sunny stream of the child's laughter rippled through the room."But now it's late, and good little girls must be as quiet as mice.""Yes, gran'ma"--in a breathless whisper."This is to be your own little bedroom always, dearest, and gran'ma has made it nice, so that it may do for you when you grow up.""Yes, gran'ma"--another breathless whisper."That is the wardrobe for your clothes, and this is your little chest of drawers, and that--up there on the wall--that is your mamma's guitar and you will learn to play it some day.""Yes, gran'ma"--the whisper was growing a little weary."The next room is the guest-room, and Uncle Magnus always sleeps there, except when there are strangers, so if you knock in the night he is sure to hear you.""Yea, gran'ma"--the whisper was getting slow and weary."Gran'ma wants you to be such a good girl to Uncle Magnus. He loved your dear, sweet mother so much. Oh, so much, but he lost her----""Same as Maggie's mother?"--there was a sudden burst of wakefulness."Maggie's mother was only a sheep, darling.""Oh!""But now God has given you to Uncle Magnus to make up to him for everything, so you must be as good as good to him.""Yes, gran'ma"--the whisper was becoming faint."When you grow up to be a big, big girl, and grandma isn't here, you must love him and comfort him just the same as if he had been your own father.""Ye--es, gran'ma.""And if anybody ever comes and wants to take you away from him, you mustn't go--you must always stay with Uncle Magnus.""Ye--es, gran'----""That's a good girl! And now climb up into bed, and grandma will kiss you and tuck you in for the night.""And will Maggie come in the morning?""Yes, dearest.""Good night, gran'ma.""Good night, my own darling.""Goo--nigh--gran'--ma."PART VI"One moment in annihilation's wasteOne moment of the Well of Life to taste,--The stars are setting and the caravanDraws to the Dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!"IThe Danish mail-steamer "Laura," outward bound on her midwinter trip from Copenhagen to Leith, and from Leith to Iceland, carried two saloon passengers only.One of these, a comfortable, elderly person of ample proportions, dressed in the warmest Icelandic vadmal, was an Iceland merchant returning from Edinburgh with a hundred tons of British produce. This was Jon Oddsson, formerly radical champion in politics, and now conservative leader in trade.The other passenger was a tall, spare man apparently about fifty years of age, with large and luminous but weary eyes, long pale cheeks deeply scored with lines of thought, and a pointed beard that was beginning to be tinged with grey. This was Christian Christiansson, now ten years older than when he returned from the Riviera to London, and so changed in every feature by the strange characters which work and sorrow inscribe on a man's face with the stern hand of Time, that few or none would have recognized him.In the interval Christian Christiansson had carried out his plans and realized his expectations. Buried in the depths of London as a man dying on shipboard is buried in the vast grave of the sea, he had lived long as one who was dead, but his hour had struck at last. For five years he had been one of the most popular of living composers. His operas, founded on the Sagas of his own country, had made Iceland familiar to people everywhere; his works had been represented in every capital; his tunes had been played in every street, and it was almost as if he had breathed over Europe and set the air to song.Meantime he had been faithful to the pledge he had made with himself. His name was a household word, but it was no more than a name, and his identity had never been revealed. No temptation had prevailed with him to disclose it, and the few who knew his secret had found it to their interest to maintain the mystery. And now he was returning to his own country rich and famous--rich as the man who strikes ore from the rock and finds it pouring down on him in an avalanche of gold, but famous only as the "hidden folk" are famous, the good fairies who leave food and drink at the doors of poor men and then steal away before they awake in the dawn.How changed the old world was when he emerged at length into the light of open day! The telegram he sent from London, asking for a berth to be reserved for him, had almost paralyzed the captain with excitement and delight. It was the same old Captain Zimsen, who in former days had given him the best room when he was in favor, and the worst when he was in disgrace. The moment he set foot on the ship, lying in dock at Leith, the time-serving old salt had been there--hat in hand--to lead him to his private cabin."Do me the honor to occupy my stateroom, sir, and if there is anything you could wish--any little dainty for the table----""You are very good, very obliging.""Don't mention it, sir. It is a pleasure, a privilege, to do anything in my power for the most distinguished Icelander of modern times. Do they know you are coming, Mr. Christiansson?""Not yet, Captain.""What a pity! What a reception they would have given you! But they will, they will!"If the world was changed, the man was changed also. The buoyancy of youth was gone, and over the old captivating gaiety of manner and expression, a sad gravity, had fallen, as if a lilac-tree, still bright with blossom, had been borne down by snow. But after two days at sea his spirits rose, and he felt like a slave who had been emancipated, like a prisoner set free.It was fifteen years since he had left his own country, but he was returning to it at last, as he had always hoped and intended to do. He had left it in disgrace, he was going back to it in honor; he had left it in poverty, he was going back to it with wealth. He was going back as the prodigal, yet not, like the prodigal, empty-handed and ashamed, but able to make amends, and to wipe the tears from all eyes.Would it be wrong to permit himself to be known? If the people of Iceland, more observant than this old captain, identified in Christian Christiansson the Oscar Stephenson who was thought to be dead, would it be false to the pledge he had made with himself to submit to their recognition? Fifteen years he had lived in obscurity--was it not enough for penance and pardon? Were not the doors of his dungeon even yet broken open? Could he not believe that he was delivered from the body of the death he had lived in? He had lived, he had died--might he not live again?IIDuring the ten years in which he had been as a dead man all channels of communication had been closed to him, and except for information casually gathered, he had little or no knowledge of what had occurred in Iceland. And now, finding himself for the first time face to face with men who had been in constant touch with his people, he had a hundred questions which he yearned to ask: "Is my mother alive? Is she well? And my little daughter--has God been good to me and let her live, or is all my labor wasted?"But he was afraid to learn the truth too suddenly, so he waited and watched and listened for answers to the questions he dared not ask. Meantime he tried to amuse himself with the curiosity of the captain and his fellow-passengers, who were clearly at a loss to know who he was, where he was born, and what family of the Christianssons he came from. It was a perilous pleasure, a dizzy joy, to listen to the names of his family and to hear himself discussed; and sometimes, in mortal shame of the subterfuges to which his disguise condemned him, he could hardly resist an impulse to blurt out the truth of his identity, and sometimes he had to leap up from his place in the smoking-room and fly."You've not been home very lately, Mr. Christiansson?" said the captain, who was smoking his long pipe after mid-day dinner while the ship swung along in open sea."Not very lately, Captain," said Christiansson."You'll see changes, then," said the merchant."No doubt, no doubt!""The new Constitution has worked wonders for Iceland, sir.""Worked wonders, has it?""The barter trade has gone, the cash business is established everywhere, and as for the fishing, it's another industry, sir.""Another industry, is it?""Judge for yourself, sir. Instead of the old open boats we have sixty smacks, manned by twenty men apiece, and going as far as six days out and home again.""Then the people were right, after all, who used to say the old trade was doomed and the water was to be the wealth of Iceland?""They were that, sir," said the merchant, inflating his chest and pulling down his waistcoat. "Everybody has benefited by the change, and I shouldn't be surprised if you find your own people better off than when you left them--that is to say, if they are still alive.""If they're still alive," said Christian Christiansson, dropping both voice and eyes."By the way, were you at home in Governor Stephen's time, Mr. Christiansson?" asked the captain."Well, yes, Captain, yes, I was at home then," said Christian Christiansson, with a momentary faltering in his voice."In that case you must have seen the beginning of the end. The old Governor tried to resist the change, and lived with a sword over his head all his latter days, poor devil.""A wise old man, though, wasn't he?" said Christian Christiansson--he could scarcely trust himself to speak. "Wise?" said the merchant, with a curl of the lip. "No man is wise who will not be warned, and he had warning enough. But it was his sons who settled him."Christian Christiansson looked up with a start. "Ah, yes, of course, his sons, he had two sons, I remember. What became of them?""One of them is living at Thingvellir still.""Living still, is he?""If you call it living--up to his ears in debt.""In debt, you say?""Always has been, always will be. As for the other one--Olaf, Eric--what was his name, now?""Was it Oscar?" said Christian Christiansson, with a catch in his throat."Oscar it was--what a memory you must have, sir! Oscar Stephenson! He used to think he could do a little in your line, sir, but he was here to-day and there to-morrow, and he never did anything in his life except put an end to it. You would hear what happened--it all came out in the newspapers.""Died abroad, didn't he?""Shot himself in a gambling hell, sir.""The young rascal!" said the captain, taking his pipe out of his mouth to laugh. "Itook it out of him though. The last time he crossed from Iceland I made him sleep in the hold.""Serve him right, the scoundrel," said the merchant."A scoundrel, was he?""He used to beat his poor young wife black and blue, sir."Beat his wife, you say?""She died of his ill-usage, anyway. He killed his father, too. The night he went away he broke open the Governor's safe and carried off everything.""Broke open the Governor's safe?""That's so--the old man died a pauper.""Died a pauper?""Left nothing behind him, so it comes to the same thing. Every stick in the house had to be sold to the new Minister.""But is this true?""True enough, sir. Everything came out at the general election. The Governor and the old Factor were rival candidates, and they told us the family secrets.""And is this all they say at home of Oscar Stephenson?""All? Not a tenth of it.""Then his very name must be hated in Iceland?""Hated? Execrated, sir. Not that anybody cares about the old Governor; he is dead and gone with the rotten system he tried to support, but as for his son, nobody can say bad enough about him.""So that if he had lived and come back alive----""He would have been hounded out of the country, sir.""Just so, just so," said Christian Christiansson, and rising with a startling gesture he stumbled back to his stateroom.The merchant looked after him uneasily. "Who the deuce can he be, I wonder!""I wonder!" said the captain, pulling at his extinguished pipe.It was impossible! The odium attaching to the name of Oscar Stephenson made it impossible that Christian Christiansson could ever reveal his identity. He had thought that the dust of death might cover his transgressions, but rumor and report had kept them alive and magnified them. Even the effort of his family to conceal the truth about his offenses had given birth to falsehood and fostered slander.The people of Iceland must never know that Christian Christiansson was Oscar Stephenson. If they suspected, he must use means to deepen his disguise; if they questioned, he must deny.What else had he expected? In thinking he could ever allow himself to be known in his true name and character, what secret craving of pride and vanity had he been cherishing unawares? His errand to Iceland was one of penance and atonement--at the bottom of his heart he had been looking to it as the top and high-tide of his career, the flush and crown of his success, as the hour of triumph when he was to justify the friends who had loved him, and to put to rout the enemies who had hated him, and to come off with flying colors at the last. If so, he was rightly punished. Oscar Stephenson was dead, and nothing and nobody could bring him to life again.IIIChristian Christiansson became more reserved as the vessel approached its destination. Every mile of the voyage was full of memories, and the sweetest were the bitterest, the happiest were the hardest to bear. He was standing in the bow when he caught his first glimpse of Iceland, glimmering white and blue like a sheeted ghost in the distance where its glaciers rose out of the sea. And then, thinking of the enchanted hopes of the days when he had first seen, it so, and how many of them now were dead under ashes, he would have broken down badly but for the captain, who came up behind him and said in his cheery croak:"There it is, sir! There's your country! That's the place you've made them all hear about!"Christian Christiansson returned to his cabin immediately, and he was not seen on deck again until the following morning, when the "Laura" was steaming up the fiord. And then the merchant, in his shore-going hat and overcoat, began to point out the sights to him as to a stranger."There's the old town, sir. Bigger, I'll be bound, than when you saw it last. That's the new shipyard on the right, and that's the leper hospital on the left. This is Engey, the island with the eider duck--famous place for young folks courting, sir. That's the old cathedral in the middle, and that's Government House to the left of it. They're nearly hidden by the new warehouses now--I built them myself, sir."The "Laura" cast anchor under the town, amid a fleet of smacks and coal-hulks, and remembering how he had stood there last, Christian Christiansson's emotion would have mastered him again but for the bustle that was going on around--the orders of the captain from the bridge, the shouts of the sailors who were lowering the ladder, and the cries of the men who had come out in small boats and were clambering up to the deck.Christian Christiansson knew most of the boatmen, though some were old who had been middle-aged, and some were middle-aged who had been young, and some were bearded who had been boys. But none of them recognized Christian Christiansson, as they tipped their hats to him and pushed past to the officers of the ship."Good morning, mate! Good morning, Captain! What passengers this time?""Only one, besides Jon Oddsson, but he's a host in himself--Christian Christiansson!""What! The great Christian Christiansson?"In less than three minutes half the small boats were scurrying away to carry the news to the town, while the owners of the other half were scrambling for Christiansson's luggage to have the honor of taking it ashore."Easy on, my lads," shouted the captain. "Mr. Christiansson will go with me in the ship's boat, and don't you forget it."It was a full half-hour before this could come to pass, for Christian Christiansson had first to drink the captain's health and the ship's luck in the chart-room. When at length they were going ashore, with portmanteaus piled up in the bow of the boat and the captain chattering in the stern, it was almost more than Christian Christiansson could do to control himself under the memory of the dark night on which he went the other way, with no one to see him off except his mother, who sat by his side and held his hand as if she could never part with it.When the boat drew up alongside, the jetty was packed with people, and as Christian Christiansson stepped ashore, with the air of a man trying to escape from observation but conscious of being under the full fire of it, a little fat fussy person with asthmatical breathing--Christiansson knew him instantly--bowed deeply and began to read something from a sheet of foolscap paper.It was an effusive address, drawn up hastily by the Chairman of the Town Board, in the name of the inhabitants, beginning, "Illustrious fellow-countryman," and going on to hail Christiansson as one who had "revived the ancient spirit and glory of a thousand years ago."Agitated and ashamed, hardly daring to speak lest the sound of his voice should betray him, Christian Christiansson replied with a few commonplaces, and then, amid a whispered chorus of "Modest!" "The modesty of greatness, sir," he tried to push his way toward the hotel.He had not made many paces before he was confronted by a young man in the uniform, hat, and cloak of a Government Secretary, who parted the crowd and said, in the breathless gasps of one who had been running:"The Minister's compliments, sir, and will you do him the honor to become his guest at Government House?"Christian Christiansson tried to excuse himself, but every eye was on him, and seeing that he could not escape without the danger of exposing himself to suspicion, he yielded and allowed himself to be led away.The little journey to Government House was like the progress to a Calvary. Every step was sown with memories--memories of the pleasures, the passions, the darling joys, the sorrows and the tragedies of the past--but while they seemed to strike up at him out of the very stones of the street, he had to nod and smile as the Secretary, walking by his side, rattled along with explanations and descriptions of the places they passed on their way."This is our principal thoroughfare, Mr. Christiansson. That is our chief hotel, and this is our national bank. The large building flying the Iceland falcon is our parliament hall. That is our old cathedral, sir, and this--this is Government House."Suffocated with shame, choking with a sense of duplicity, and trembling with the fear of detection, Christian Christiansson continued to say, "Yes" and "Is that so?" until he reached the porch of his old home. And then, remembering how and when he had passed out of it last--alone, at night, disgraced and with his father's door closed against him--it was almost as much as he could do to restrain an impulse to turn about and fly. But just at that moment his father's door opened quickly, and there on the threshold another man, in the uniform of the Governor, stood waiting with outstretched hand to welcome him.The palpitation of Christian Christiansson's heart was almost choking him. What wild harlequinade of real life was this, that he who had been so nearly flung out of Iceland should be received back to it with open arms? What mad game of blind-man's buff were the powers of destiny playing with him? It was not for nothing that he had taken the name of Christian Christiansson. What invisible wings of Fate had been over him when he did so? And were they plumed to honor or to dishonor, to reward or to punishment, to joy or to sorrow, to life or to death?IVThe Sheriff made Minister was the same man still. He received Christian Christiansson with suavest politeness but without a trace of recognition."Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to Iceland! My wife is in the drawing-room--she will be delighted to see you. We may go this way--this way through my bureau--do me the honor to follow me. Don't knock against the stove--strangers do sometimes. A ramshackle old house, sir, for which my predecessor was responsible--I'm building a better in another part of the town. You've not yet dined? How fortunate! In these high latitudes we keep up primitive customs, Mr. Christiansson. We dine in the middle of the day, and you are just in the nick of time. I was holding a meeting of my executive when the news of your arrival reached me, and I took the liberty to invite one or two of my colleagues. This is the drawing-room--have the goodness to step inside."Muttering monosyllables only in reply to the Minister's explanations, Christian Christiansson followed him through the house that was as familiar as the palm of his hand until he came face to face with his hostess and the friends who had been invited to meet him.The hostess was an acquaintance of his school-days, grown middle-aged and matronly, and the friends were the Rector of the Latin School, looking elderly and iron-grey, and the Bishop, looking white and old. They received him with the utmost cordiality, but, like the Minister, without a sign of recognition.Christian Christiansson bowed but scarcely spoke. He was no longer in fear of discovery, for now he knew that unless he wished it otherwise he could pass through Iceland unknown; but standing there in the old home, with the traces of his boyhood about him, his heart swelled and his throat thickened, and it was as much as he could do to control himself.After a moment a servant announced dinner, and the Minister led the way to the dining-room. It was the same old room, with the same furniture, and hardly altered in any particular. But it was full of ghosts in the eyes of him who entered it again. In one rapid glance Christian Christiansson took in everything--the chair his father used to sit in, his mother's place, Magnus's, and Thora's. And remembering that all these were gone; that everything connected with his own people had faded away; that the old house was inhabited by others now, and nothing remained except himself and he had neither part nor lot in it, the palpitation of his heart nearly choked him again, and he sat at the table like a guilty thing.But if Christian Christiansson was silent the Minister talked incessantly."You will find that Iceland knows all about you, Mr. Christiansson--all about you! Speaking for myself I may say that in addition to the ordinary channels of intelligence I have some private sources of information. My son--you know my son, I think?"Christian Christiansson bowed."My son has kept me constantly informed, so you will find me abreast of all your movements. Certainly, I take it amiss that he did not warn me of your coming--but perhaps he didn't know. He didn't? I thought as much. Not that he would have told me if you had wished it concealed. Neils is discretion itself, sir--discretion itself. For instance I could never persuade him to tell me who you were. I tempted him--I confess I tempted him. But no! 'Business is business, father,' he would say, and I was forced to be content.""Iceland is honored that you show yourself first in your own country, sir," said the Rector."Indeed it is, Rector, and Mr. Christiansson will find that his fame is no empty bubble here.""There isn't a student who doesn't sing your songs, sir," said the Rector."Nor a girl of fourteen in a farmhouse who doesn't play your music," said the Minister's wife."Wonderful!" said the Minister himself. "It's perfectly wonderful! But I always say the musician is the international artist. Other artists--the poets for example--require their translators, but the musician needs no go-between. He uses the one universal language, and when he speaks the whole world may hear. What a gift! What a thing it must be to be among the great composers! Perhaps it has its penalties, though. What does the poet say? They learn in suffering what they teach in song. What a thought that is! I wonder if it's true? I wonder if every great song, every great symphony, every great opera is born of the suffering--the actual real life suffering, and perhaps in some cases the sin and sorrow--of the man who created it! What should you say, Mr. Christiansson?""God knows," said Christiansson, and after that there was silence for a moment."Poor Stephen!" said the Bishop suddenly, and then everybody raised his face from the table."I was thinking," said the Bishop, "that if sin and sorrow, added to the gift of genius, go to the making of great music, somebody was born in this very house who should have left immortal works behind him."Christian Christiansson had looked up with the rest, and now the Minister leaned across to him and said in an undertone, "A sad story, sir--a son of my predecessor who made shipwreck of his life, poor fellow.""You mean Oscar Stephenson?""Yes, indeed. But can it be possible that you knew him?""We talked of him on the steamer.""Ah, of course, certainly! And then he was a kind of humble confrère of yours, and conducted at Covent Garden. What a tragedy! What a scandal! When the dreadful news came from Nice everybody here felt ashamed. Such a well-known Iceland name, and the son of a former Governor! It was almost as if Iceland had been dishonored in the eyes of the world, sir. So different, so entirely different, from the effects, the glorious effects of your own magnificent achievements."Christian Christiansson was quivering from heart to eyelids, but the same mysterious impulse that compels the lamb to confront the dog forced him to go on."His mother is alive, isn't she?" he said."Anna? Yes! She's alive--that's nearly all you can say about her."Christian Christiansson's voice deepened and shook. "Is she sick?" he asked."Sick in fortune at all events. When the old Governor died she went to live with her other son at Thingvellir, and he is in trouble again, poor creature.""In debt, isn't he?""Yes, he is in debt to the Bank for the interest and principal of some money which his father borrowed on mortgage to keep his brother out of prison.""And what is the Bank going to do with him?""Sell him up immediately."Christian Christiansson sank into silent reverie again, and when the conversation at the table had taken another turn, he said unexpectedly:"He left a child behind him, didn't he?""Who, sir? Oh, Oscar Stephenson? He did--a girl.""She's living, too, isn't she?""She is, sir--that is to say, for all I know to the contrary. Rector, Oscar's little daughter is still alive, is she not?""Alive and well and hearty," said the Rector.Christian Christiansson's eyes brightened visibly. "That's good news, at all events," he said.The altered tone startled everybody, and nobody spoke for a little while. Then the Minister said:"It is really very good of you to take an interest in the family of your poor dead confrère, and if I'd had the least idea you wished to hear more about them it would have been so easy--I might have invited the banker.""I'll see him to-morrow," said Christian Christiansson, and then, breaking through his reserve, he talked for the next half-hour on other subjects.He talked well and the company were delighted, for there was no one to know that his vivacity was nervousness and his laughter something like shame. When the dinner was at an end the Bishop, who had fixed his eyes constantly on Christian Christiansson, rose and held out his hand to him."It has been a great happiness to have seen you, Mr. Christiansson," he said, "and I trust we may meet again. I know nothing of music, sir, but I rejoice to see that the noble musician is only another name for the noble man, and I pray God to bless you body and soul."Christian Christiansson could not trust himself to reply, for the Bishop's praise added a new bitterness to his remorse, so he stooped over the old man's hand and kissed it.The Bishop was pleased and touched. "How charming he is! How perfectly charming!" he said, as he put on his overcoat in the porch. "He reminds me of some one I've met somewhere.""Me, too," said the Rector."Those beautiful manners, that captivating smile, and that voice that goes through and through you!""Does he resemble--or is it only because we have been talking at table----""You mean poor young----""Yes.""Ah me!" said the Bishop as he opened the door. "What brave things he might have done if Heaven had willed it!""He might have been another Christian Christiansson by this time," said the Rector."Poor Stephen!" said the Bishop."Poor Anna!" said the Rector, and the two old friends went heavily down the path.Meantime the man they were talking of, though they did not know it, was going through an agony of self-reproach. The duplicity of winning his way to the love and esteem of his people under the cover of a false name was suffocating him. It was necessary, it was inevitable, it was a part of the conduct that was forced upon him by the errand that had brought him home, but if they who welcomed him in the ignorance of their enthusiasm could know who he was, how their hearts would turn from him; how their sympathy would change to loathing and their admiration to contempt!The evening was one of prolonged suffering to Christian Christiansson, for everything that happened in that house, every trivial object that met his eye, seemed charged with the power to torture him. As soon as he could, he excused himself, and asked to be shown to his room.They showed him to the bedroom that had been occupied by Thora!That was the last drop in his cup. He felt like a man who had stumbled into a hidden grave, and he wanted to say, "Give me any room in the house except this." But he dared not speak, lest his slightest word should betray him.When the door was closed, he flung himself in the armchair before the stove, and then one after one, as by flashes of lightning, he saw over again the scenes of his life with which that room was associated. He thought of his wedding night, when with a fluttering heart he came on tiptoe into the cosy nest of his bridal chamber, and heard Thora's tremulous breathing behind the curtains of the bed. He thought of the joyous morning when her pale face shone like sunshine, and the air of the room was full of auroral radiance, because a child was born to them. He thought of the dark day when he found her lying dead, and of the heavy hour when he took his last look at her, and buried his compositions in her coffin.Oh, miserable mummery! Oh, broken and senseless vow! Yet not senseless either, save to his own violated intention, for now he knew why he had taken the name of Christian Christiansson. In the blind spasm of his accusing conscience he had thought it was merely in order to deny himself the fame which his works were to win for him, but the inscrutable and ironical powers of Destiny had sterner purposes than that.It was in order that, being dead as Oscar Stephenson, he should yet return to Iceland; in order that he should see the accumulated consequences of his conduct; in order that he should follow, as if with bare feet on the hot ground of a geyser, the footsteps and the funeral of his youth; in order that the living might torture him with gratitude, and the dead with memories; in order that God's right hand of Justice should fall on him as it had never fallen before, and everything he had done should be paid for.This was why he had taken the name and won the fame of Christian Christiansson. And the martyrdom of his new life was beginning.VAs soon as the Bank opened in the morning Christian Christiansson called on the manager, and was received with extravagant politeness."I must take the liberty to introduce myself," he began."Quite unnecessary," said the banker with a bow, "all the world--I say all the world, sir, has been introduced to you.""You would receive a letter from my banker in London----""We did--it came with the mail that was brought by the 'Laura.'""I think it asks you to honor my signature up to two hundred thousand crowns.""That is the amount, sir--two hundred thousand. And if you wish to draw any of it immediately----""I do," said Christian Christiansson, and taking a large pocket-book from his breast-pocket he drew out a cheque-book and took up a pen."Mr. Palsson," he said--the banker started at the mention of his name, then bowed and smiled--"I was much touched by a case of distress which the Minister spoke of at dinner yesterday, and I could wish to be of some assistance.""You are very generous, Mr. Christiansson, and if I can be of the slightest use to you--I say if I can be of the slightest use, sir, pray be good enough to command me.""It was the case of the family of the late Governor--I understand that they are in debt to the Bank and that the Bank is in the act of distraining.""Unhappily true, sir, but the Bank has been very indulgent--I say the Bank has been very indulgent--it was impossible to hold back longer.""I think that the debt is for interest on a mortgage on the Inn-farm at Thingvellir, and that the money was borrowed by the father of the present owner?""That is so, sir, but the interest is long in arrears, and the mortgage--I say the mortgage itself, sir, is the reverse of a good security.""Mr. Palsson," said Christian Christiansson, "if I were to pay you the interest out of my own pocket would that stop the proceedings?"The banker's breath seemed to be arrested. "You are very good, sir," he said after a moment. "But the interest is large; you can hardly be prepared for the amount of it.""What is the amount of it?" asked Christian Christiansson."Eight thousand crowns at least, sir--I say at least eight thousand. And in any case I should be unable to receive it. Things have gone too far. The deed of execution has been served, the advertisements of the auction have been published, and the whole matter is now in the hands of the Sheriff.""When is the auction to take place?""Let me see," said the banker, consulting a newspaper, "this is the last day of the year, the auction is advertised for to-morrow, sir.""Did you say to-morrow?" said Christian Christiansson, rising suddenly."To-morrow at nine in the morning, sir."Christian Christiansson resumed his seat and sat for some moments nibbling the top of the pen. Then he said:"Mr. Palsson, I have been many years abroad, but I seem to remember that when landed property has to be sold by the law in Iceland three auctions are necessary--two at the office of the Sheriff, and the third on the estate itself.""That is so, sir, but unfortunately this is the third--the two others have taken place already.""So the Inn-farm must go to the hammer in any case?""It must go to the hammer in any case.""You think there is no help for it?""I am sure, sir--I say I am sure there is no help for it.""Ah, well--if it must be, it must be," said Christian Christiansson, and then, as by an after-thought, dipping the pen in the ink, "The interest is eight thousand crowns, you say?""At least eight thousand, sir. With legal and other expenses probably ten--I say probably ten.""And the principal is----""The principal is one hundred thousand, sir.""Poor souls, poor souls!" said Christian Christiansson. He began to write his cheque, but the banker went on talking."I am sorry for the mother, sir--I say I am sorry for the mother. She belongs to a generation which is rapidly passing away, but there are still many in the town who remember her. A good, motherly soul, sir--it is a pity misfortune should fall so fast on her in the evening of her days---- Blotting paper?""Thank you.""I am sorry for the son, too--I am very sorry for the son. An Ishmael, sir--always was and always will be--but he seems to have had a terrible time of it. To tell the truth the farm was frightfully over-mortgaged at the beginning, and if he had thrown it up fifteen years ago it might have been better for himself and the Bank and everybody. Apparently he wished to hold on to it for the sake of the family, and to give the poor wretch his due he has made a splendid fight for it--I say he has made a splendid fight for it."Christian Christiansson had written his cheque and was tearing it out of the cheque-book."Then, as you say, sir, the mortgage was not made by himself, and everybody knows the conditions under which the first debt was contracted. Ah, if that scapegrace brother could only be here to-day! When a man does wrong he seems to think the consequences of his crime will end with his own action, but they are like snowballs rolling in the snow--I say they are like---- Two hundred thousand crowns, sir?"Christian Christiansson had handed his cheque to the banker, and the banker, fixing his eye-glasses, was reading the amount of it."Do you really mean that you wish to draw the whole sum at once, Mr. Christiansson?""If you please," said Christian Christiansson.The banker began to laugh. "Certainly we have no highwaymen in Iceland, sir--I say we have no highwaymen--but unless the money is wanted for immediate purposes----""It is wanted for immediate purposes, Mr. Palsson.""In that case, of course--certainly--may I ask you to wait a little?"It took half-an-hour to find the money for Christian Christiansson's cheque, and when it came it was in three banknotes of fifty thousand each, signed specially by the Minister, and fifty other notes of a thousand. Christiansson put the whole of them in his pocket-book, and they filled it to its utmost capacity."I've given you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Palsson.""It has been a pleasure, sir--I say it has been a pleasure. I only regret that I was unable to help you in that other matter. If you had come to me two days ago I should have sent a messenger to the Sheriff, and perhaps he----""Who is the Sheriff in that case, Mr. Palsson?""The Sheriff of Ames, sir. He lives at Borg.""How far is that from Thingvellir?""Only some thirty to forty miles, sir.""About as far as from here to there?""About the same, sir, but in this country of no roads and no railways that is sometimes a long day's journey.""Just so! Good day, and thank you, Mr. Palsson!""Good day to you, Mr. Christiansson," said the banker, and looking after him he thought, "What does he want with two hundred thousand crowns at once, I wonder? And why--I say why did he wish to pay the interest for Magnus Stephenson?""Thank God I've come in time!" thought Christian Christiansson.And going out of the Bank he told himself, with a thrill of hope and joy, that the inscrutable powers of Destiny, which seemed to have made him the plaything of chance and error, could not be wholly evil if they had brought him back to Iceland at the moment of his people's greatest peril, that he might succor and save them at their utmost need.
XIV
In the house of sorrow God closes the hearts of little children so that they may not break. Little Elin had been bright and happy the whole evening through. She was a merry little sprite whose laughter--like the rippling of a sunny stream--set everybody else laughing. Old Maria was at a loss to say which of her parents she resembled most. When the child laughed, Maria said: "There's a deal of the father in the little one," and when she listened and looked up sideways Maria thought there was a deal of the mother, too.
Anna put her to bed, and while she was being undressed her little tongue went like a shuttle. Existence had gone rapidly since she arrived, and she was full of stories: how she had gone to the chasm with Maria to pluck blueberries, and two big, black ravens, sitting on a crag, had looked down at her and croaked; how she had gone to the cow-house with Eric to see the cows milked, and Gudrun (to her infinite glee) had squirted some of the milk at her; and, above all, how all alone she had found a pet lamb and it was brown, because it had lost its mother, and lived in the elt-house, because its father had run away from it, and how it put its cold nose against her face and said, "Bah!" and its name was "Maggie."
"Maggie shall come and waken you in the morning, darling," said Anna.
"Shall she come in here, gran'ma?"
"Yes, dear," said Anna, and then the sunny stream of the child's laughter rippled through the room.
"But now it's late, and good little girls must be as quiet as mice."
"Yes, gran'ma"--in a breathless whisper.
"This is to be your own little bedroom always, dearest, and gran'ma has made it nice, so that it may do for you when you grow up."
"Yes, gran'ma"--another breathless whisper.
"That is the wardrobe for your clothes, and this is your little chest of drawers, and that--up there on the wall--that is your mamma's guitar and you will learn to play it some day."
"Yes, gran'ma"--the whisper was growing a little weary.
"The next room is the guest-room, and Uncle Magnus always sleeps there, except when there are strangers, so if you knock in the night he is sure to hear you."
"Yea, gran'ma"--the whisper was getting slow and weary.
"Gran'ma wants you to be such a good girl to Uncle Magnus. He loved your dear, sweet mother so much. Oh, so much, but he lost her----"
"Same as Maggie's mother?"--there was a sudden burst of wakefulness.
"Maggie's mother was only a sheep, darling."
"Oh!"
"But now God has given you to Uncle Magnus to make up to him for everything, so you must be as good as good to him."
"Yes, gran'ma"--the whisper was becoming faint.
"When you grow up to be a big, big girl, and grandma isn't here, you must love him and comfort him just the same as if he had been your own father."
"Ye--es, gran'ma."
"And if anybody ever comes and wants to take you away from him, you mustn't go--you must always stay with Uncle Magnus."
"Ye--es, gran'----"
"That's a good girl! And now climb up into bed, and grandma will kiss you and tuck you in for the night."
"And will Maggie come in the morning?"
"Yes, dearest."
"Good night, gran'ma."
"Good night, my own darling."
"Goo--nigh--gran'--ma."
PART VI
"One moment in annihilation's wasteOne moment of the Well of Life to taste,--The stars are setting and the caravanDraws to the Dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!"
"One moment in annihilation's wasteOne moment of the Well of Life to taste,--The stars are setting and the caravanDraws to the Dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!"
"One moment in annihilation's waste
One moment of the Well of Life to taste,--
The stars are setting and the caravan
Draws to the Dawn of Nothing--Oh, make haste!"
I
The Danish mail-steamer "Laura," outward bound on her midwinter trip from Copenhagen to Leith, and from Leith to Iceland, carried two saloon passengers only.
One of these, a comfortable, elderly person of ample proportions, dressed in the warmest Icelandic vadmal, was an Iceland merchant returning from Edinburgh with a hundred tons of British produce. This was Jon Oddsson, formerly radical champion in politics, and now conservative leader in trade.
The other passenger was a tall, spare man apparently about fifty years of age, with large and luminous but weary eyes, long pale cheeks deeply scored with lines of thought, and a pointed beard that was beginning to be tinged with grey. This was Christian Christiansson, now ten years older than when he returned from the Riviera to London, and so changed in every feature by the strange characters which work and sorrow inscribe on a man's face with the stern hand of Time, that few or none would have recognized him.
In the interval Christian Christiansson had carried out his plans and realized his expectations. Buried in the depths of London as a man dying on shipboard is buried in the vast grave of the sea, he had lived long as one who was dead, but his hour had struck at last. For five years he had been one of the most popular of living composers. His operas, founded on the Sagas of his own country, had made Iceland familiar to people everywhere; his works had been represented in every capital; his tunes had been played in every street, and it was almost as if he had breathed over Europe and set the air to song.
Meantime he had been faithful to the pledge he had made with himself. His name was a household word, but it was no more than a name, and his identity had never been revealed. No temptation had prevailed with him to disclose it, and the few who knew his secret had found it to their interest to maintain the mystery. And now he was returning to his own country rich and famous--rich as the man who strikes ore from the rock and finds it pouring down on him in an avalanche of gold, but famous only as the "hidden folk" are famous, the good fairies who leave food and drink at the doors of poor men and then steal away before they awake in the dawn.
How changed the old world was when he emerged at length into the light of open day! The telegram he sent from London, asking for a berth to be reserved for him, had almost paralyzed the captain with excitement and delight. It was the same old Captain Zimsen, who in former days had given him the best room when he was in favor, and the worst when he was in disgrace. The moment he set foot on the ship, lying in dock at Leith, the time-serving old salt had been there--hat in hand--to lead him to his private cabin.
"Do me the honor to occupy my stateroom, sir, and if there is anything you could wish--any little dainty for the table----"
"You are very good, very obliging."
"Don't mention it, sir. It is a pleasure, a privilege, to do anything in my power for the most distinguished Icelander of modern times. Do they know you are coming, Mr. Christiansson?"
"Not yet, Captain."
"What a pity! What a reception they would have given you! But they will, they will!"
If the world was changed, the man was changed also. The buoyancy of youth was gone, and over the old captivating gaiety of manner and expression, a sad gravity, had fallen, as if a lilac-tree, still bright with blossom, had been borne down by snow. But after two days at sea his spirits rose, and he felt like a slave who had been emancipated, like a prisoner set free.
It was fifteen years since he had left his own country, but he was returning to it at last, as he had always hoped and intended to do. He had left it in disgrace, he was going back to it in honor; he had left it in poverty, he was going back to it with wealth. He was going back as the prodigal, yet not, like the prodigal, empty-handed and ashamed, but able to make amends, and to wipe the tears from all eyes.
Would it be wrong to permit himself to be known? If the people of Iceland, more observant than this old captain, identified in Christian Christiansson the Oscar Stephenson who was thought to be dead, would it be false to the pledge he had made with himself to submit to their recognition? Fifteen years he had lived in obscurity--was it not enough for penance and pardon? Were not the doors of his dungeon even yet broken open? Could he not believe that he was delivered from the body of the death he had lived in? He had lived, he had died--might he not live again?
II
During the ten years in which he had been as a dead man all channels of communication had been closed to him, and except for information casually gathered, he had little or no knowledge of what had occurred in Iceland. And now, finding himself for the first time face to face with men who had been in constant touch with his people, he had a hundred questions which he yearned to ask: "Is my mother alive? Is she well? And my little daughter--has God been good to me and let her live, or is all my labor wasted?"
But he was afraid to learn the truth too suddenly, so he waited and watched and listened for answers to the questions he dared not ask. Meantime he tried to amuse himself with the curiosity of the captain and his fellow-passengers, who were clearly at a loss to know who he was, where he was born, and what family of the Christianssons he came from. It was a perilous pleasure, a dizzy joy, to listen to the names of his family and to hear himself discussed; and sometimes, in mortal shame of the subterfuges to which his disguise condemned him, he could hardly resist an impulse to blurt out the truth of his identity, and sometimes he had to leap up from his place in the smoking-room and fly.
"You've not been home very lately, Mr. Christiansson?" said the captain, who was smoking his long pipe after mid-day dinner while the ship swung along in open sea.
"Not very lately, Captain," said Christiansson.
"You'll see changes, then," said the merchant.
"No doubt, no doubt!"
"The new Constitution has worked wonders for Iceland, sir."
"Worked wonders, has it?"
"The barter trade has gone, the cash business is established everywhere, and as for the fishing, it's another industry, sir."
"Another industry, is it?"
"Judge for yourself, sir. Instead of the old open boats we have sixty smacks, manned by twenty men apiece, and going as far as six days out and home again."
"Then the people were right, after all, who used to say the old trade was doomed and the water was to be the wealth of Iceland?"
"They were that, sir," said the merchant, inflating his chest and pulling down his waistcoat. "Everybody has benefited by the change, and I shouldn't be surprised if you find your own people better off than when you left them--that is to say, if they are still alive."
"If they're still alive," said Christian Christiansson, dropping both voice and eyes.
"By the way, were you at home in Governor Stephen's time, Mr. Christiansson?" asked the captain.
"Well, yes, Captain, yes, I was at home then," said Christian Christiansson, with a momentary faltering in his voice.
"In that case you must have seen the beginning of the end. The old Governor tried to resist the change, and lived with a sword over his head all his latter days, poor devil."
"A wise old man, though, wasn't he?" said Christian Christiansson--he could scarcely trust himself to speak. "Wise?" said the merchant, with a curl of the lip. "No man is wise who will not be warned, and he had warning enough. But it was his sons who settled him."
Christian Christiansson looked up with a start. "Ah, yes, of course, his sons, he had two sons, I remember. What became of them?"
"One of them is living at Thingvellir still."
"Living still, is he?"
"If you call it living--up to his ears in debt."
"In debt, you say?"
"Always has been, always will be. As for the other one--Olaf, Eric--what was his name, now?"
"Was it Oscar?" said Christian Christiansson, with a catch in his throat.
"Oscar it was--what a memory you must have, sir! Oscar Stephenson! He used to think he could do a little in your line, sir, but he was here to-day and there to-morrow, and he never did anything in his life except put an end to it. You would hear what happened--it all came out in the newspapers."
"Died abroad, didn't he?"
"Shot himself in a gambling hell, sir."
"The young rascal!" said the captain, taking his pipe out of his mouth to laugh. "Itook it out of him though. The last time he crossed from Iceland I made him sleep in the hold."
"Serve him right, the scoundrel," said the merchant.
"A scoundrel, was he?"
"He used to beat his poor young wife black and blue, sir.
"Beat his wife, you say?"
"She died of his ill-usage, anyway. He killed his father, too. The night he went away he broke open the Governor's safe and carried off everything."
"Broke open the Governor's safe?"
"That's so--the old man died a pauper."
"Died a pauper?"
"Left nothing behind him, so it comes to the same thing. Every stick in the house had to be sold to the new Minister."
"But is this true?"
"True enough, sir. Everything came out at the general election. The Governor and the old Factor were rival candidates, and they told us the family secrets."
"And is this all they say at home of Oscar Stephenson?"
"All? Not a tenth of it."
"Then his very name must be hated in Iceland?"
"Hated? Execrated, sir. Not that anybody cares about the old Governor; he is dead and gone with the rotten system he tried to support, but as for his son, nobody can say bad enough about him."
"So that if he had lived and come back alive----"
"He would have been hounded out of the country, sir."
"Just so, just so," said Christian Christiansson, and rising with a startling gesture he stumbled back to his stateroom.
The merchant looked after him uneasily. "Who the deuce can he be, I wonder!"
"I wonder!" said the captain, pulling at his extinguished pipe.
It was impossible! The odium attaching to the name of Oscar Stephenson made it impossible that Christian Christiansson could ever reveal his identity. He had thought that the dust of death might cover his transgressions, but rumor and report had kept them alive and magnified them. Even the effort of his family to conceal the truth about his offenses had given birth to falsehood and fostered slander.
The people of Iceland must never know that Christian Christiansson was Oscar Stephenson. If they suspected, he must use means to deepen his disguise; if they questioned, he must deny.
What else had he expected? In thinking he could ever allow himself to be known in his true name and character, what secret craving of pride and vanity had he been cherishing unawares? His errand to Iceland was one of penance and atonement--at the bottom of his heart he had been looking to it as the top and high-tide of his career, the flush and crown of his success, as the hour of triumph when he was to justify the friends who had loved him, and to put to rout the enemies who had hated him, and to come off with flying colors at the last. If so, he was rightly punished. Oscar Stephenson was dead, and nothing and nobody could bring him to life again.
III
Christian Christiansson became more reserved as the vessel approached its destination. Every mile of the voyage was full of memories, and the sweetest were the bitterest, the happiest were the hardest to bear. He was standing in the bow when he caught his first glimpse of Iceland, glimmering white and blue like a sheeted ghost in the distance where its glaciers rose out of the sea. And then, thinking of the enchanted hopes of the days when he had first seen, it so, and how many of them now were dead under ashes, he would have broken down badly but for the captain, who came up behind him and said in his cheery croak:
"There it is, sir! There's your country! That's the place you've made them all hear about!"
Christian Christiansson returned to his cabin immediately, and he was not seen on deck again until the following morning, when the "Laura" was steaming up the fiord. And then the merchant, in his shore-going hat and overcoat, began to point out the sights to him as to a stranger.
"There's the old town, sir. Bigger, I'll be bound, than when you saw it last. That's the new shipyard on the right, and that's the leper hospital on the left. This is Engey, the island with the eider duck--famous place for young folks courting, sir. That's the old cathedral in the middle, and that's Government House to the left of it. They're nearly hidden by the new warehouses now--I built them myself, sir."
The "Laura" cast anchor under the town, amid a fleet of smacks and coal-hulks, and remembering how he had stood there last, Christian Christiansson's emotion would have mastered him again but for the bustle that was going on around--the orders of the captain from the bridge, the shouts of the sailors who were lowering the ladder, and the cries of the men who had come out in small boats and were clambering up to the deck.
Christian Christiansson knew most of the boatmen, though some were old who had been middle-aged, and some were middle-aged who had been young, and some were bearded who had been boys. But none of them recognized Christian Christiansson, as they tipped their hats to him and pushed past to the officers of the ship.
"Good morning, mate! Good morning, Captain! What passengers this time?"
"Only one, besides Jon Oddsson, but he's a host in himself--Christian Christiansson!"
"What! The great Christian Christiansson?"
In less than three minutes half the small boats were scurrying away to carry the news to the town, while the owners of the other half were scrambling for Christiansson's luggage to have the honor of taking it ashore.
"Easy on, my lads," shouted the captain. "Mr. Christiansson will go with me in the ship's boat, and don't you forget it."
It was a full half-hour before this could come to pass, for Christian Christiansson had first to drink the captain's health and the ship's luck in the chart-room. When at length they were going ashore, with portmanteaus piled up in the bow of the boat and the captain chattering in the stern, it was almost more than Christian Christiansson could do to control himself under the memory of the dark night on which he went the other way, with no one to see him off except his mother, who sat by his side and held his hand as if she could never part with it.
When the boat drew up alongside, the jetty was packed with people, and as Christian Christiansson stepped ashore, with the air of a man trying to escape from observation but conscious of being under the full fire of it, a little fat fussy person with asthmatical breathing--Christiansson knew him instantly--bowed deeply and began to read something from a sheet of foolscap paper.
It was an effusive address, drawn up hastily by the Chairman of the Town Board, in the name of the inhabitants, beginning, "Illustrious fellow-countryman," and going on to hail Christiansson as one who had "revived the ancient spirit and glory of a thousand years ago."
Agitated and ashamed, hardly daring to speak lest the sound of his voice should betray him, Christian Christiansson replied with a few commonplaces, and then, amid a whispered chorus of "Modest!" "The modesty of greatness, sir," he tried to push his way toward the hotel.
He had not made many paces before he was confronted by a young man in the uniform, hat, and cloak of a Government Secretary, who parted the crowd and said, in the breathless gasps of one who had been running:
"The Minister's compliments, sir, and will you do him the honor to become his guest at Government House?"
Christian Christiansson tried to excuse himself, but every eye was on him, and seeing that he could not escape without the danger of exposing himself to suspicion, he yielded and allowed himself to be led away.
The little journey to Government House was like the progress to a Calvary. Every step was sown with memories--memories of the pleasures, the passions, the darling joys, the sorrows and the tragedies of the past--but while they seemed to strike up at him out of the very stones of the street, he had to nod and smile as the Secretary, walking by his side, rattled along with explanations and descriptions of the places they passed on their way.
"This is our principal thoroughfare, Mr. Christiansson. That is our chief hotel, and this is our national bank. The large building flying the Iceland falcon is our parliament hall. That is our old cathedral, sir, and this--this is Government House."
Suffocated with shame, choking with a sense of duplicity, and trembling with the fear of detection, Christian Christiansson continued to say, "Yes" and "Is that so?" until he reached the porch of his old home. And then, remembering how and when he had passed out of it last--alone, at night, disgraced and with his father's door closed against him--it was almost as much as he could do to restrain an impulse to turn about and fly. But just at that moment his father's door opened quickly, and there on the threshold another man, in the uniform of the Governor, stood waiting with outstretched hand to welcome him.
The palpitation of Christian Christiansson's heart was almost choking him. What wild harlequinade of real life was this, that he who had been so nearly flung out of Iceland should be received back to it with open arms? What mad game of blind-man's buff were the powers of destiny playing with him? It was not for nothing that he had taken the name of Christian Christiansson. What invisible wings of Fate had been over him when he did so? And were they plumed to honor or to dishonor, to reward or to punishment, to joy or to sorrow, to life or to death?
IV
The Sheriff made Minister was the same man still. He received Christian Christiansson with suavest politeness but without a trace of recognition.
"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to Iceland! My wife is in the drawing-room--she will be delighted to see you. We may go this way--this way through my bureau--do me the honor to follow me. Don't knock against the stove--strangers do sometimes. A ramshackle old house, sir, for which my predecessor was responsible--I'm building a better in another part of the town. You've not yet dined? How fortunate! In these high latitudes we keep up primitive customs, Mr. Christiansson. We dine in the middle of the day, and you are just in the nick of time. I was holding a meeting of my executive when the news of your arrival reached me, and I took the liberty to invite one or two of my colleagues. This is the drawing-room--have the goodness to step inside."
Muttering monosyllables only in reply to the Minister's explanations, Christian Christiansson followed him through the house that was as familiar as the palm of his hand until he came face to face with his hostess and the friends who had been invited to meet him.
The hostess was an acquaintance of his school-days, grown middle-aged and matronly, and the friends were the Rector of the Latin School, looking elderly and iron-grey, and the Bishop, looking white and old. They received him with the utmost cordiality, but, like the Minister, without a sign of recognition.
Christian Christiansson bowed but scarcely spoke. He was no longer in fear of discovery, for now he knew that unless he wished it otherwise he could pass through Iceland unknown; but standing there in the old home, with the traces of his boyhood about him, his heart swelled and his throat thickened, and it was as much as he could do to control himself.
After a moment a servant announced dinner, and the Minister led the way to the dining-room. It was the same old room, with the same furniture, and hardly altered in any particular. But it was full of ghosts in the eyes of him who entered it again. In one rapid glance Christian Christiansson took in everything--the chair his father used to sit in, his mother's place, Magnus's, and Thora's. And remembering that all these were gone; that everything connected with his own people had faded away; that the old house was inhabited by others now, and nothing remained except himself and he had neither part nor lot in it, the palpitation of his heart nearly choked him again, and he sat at the table like a guilty thing.
But if Christian Christiansson was silent the Minister talked incessantly.
"You will find that Iceland knows all about you, Mr. Christiansson--all about you! Speaking for myself I may say that in addition to the ordinary channels of intelligence I have some private sources of information. My son--you know my son, I think?"
Christian Christiansson bowed.
"My son has kept me constantly informed, so you will find me abreast of all your movements. Certainly, I take it amiss that he did not warn me of your coming--but perhaps he didn't know. He didn't? I thought as much. Not that he would have told me if you had wished it concealed. Neils is discretion itself, sir--discretion itself. For instance I could never persuade him to tell me who you were. I tempted him--I confess I tempted him. But no! 'Business is business, father,' he would say, and I was forced to be content."
"Iceland is honored that you show yourself first in your own country, sir," said the Rector.
"Indeed it is, Rector, and Mr. Christiansson will find that his fame is no empty bubble here."
"There isn't a student who doesn't sing your songs, sir," said the Rector.
"Nor a girl of fourteen in a farmhouse who doesn't play your music," said the Minister's wife.
"Wonderful!" said the Minister himself. "It's perfectly wonderful! But I always say the musician is the international artist. Other artists--the poets for example--require their translators, but the musician needs no go-between. He uses the one universal language, and when he speaks the whole world may hear. What a gift! What a thing it must be to be among the great composers! Perhaps it has its penalties, though. What does the poet say? They learn in suffering what they teach in song. What a thought that is! I wonder if it's true? I wonder if every great song, every great symphony, every great opera is born of the suffering--the actual real life suffering, and perhaps in some cases the sin and sorrow--of the man who created it! What should you say, Mr. Christiansson?"
"God knows," said Christiansson, and after that there was silence for a moment.
"Poor Stephen!" said the Bishop suddenly, and then everybody raised his face from the table.
"I was thinking," said the Bishop, "that if sin and sorrow, added to the gift of genius, go to the making of great music, somebody was born in this very house who should have left immortal works behind him."
Christian Christiansson had looked up with the rest, and now the Minister leaned across to him and said in an undertone, "A sad story, sir--a son of my predecessor who made shipwreck of his life, poor fellow."
"You mean Oscar Stephenson?"
"Yes, indeed. But can it be possible that you knew him?"
"We talked of him on the steamer."
"Ah, of course, certainly! And then he was a kind of humble confrère of yours, and conducted at Covent Garden. What a tragedy! What a scandal! When the dreadful news came from Nice everybody here felt ashamed. Such a well-known Iceland name, and the son of a former Governor! It was almost as if Iceland had been dishonored in the eyes of the world, sir. So different, so entirely different, from the effects, the glorious effects of your own magnificent achievements."
Christian Christiansson was quivering from heart to eyelids, but the same mysterious impulse that compels the lamb to confront the dog forced him to go on.
"His mother is alive, isn't she?" he said.
"Anna? Yes! She's alive--that's nearly all you can say about her."
Christian Christiansson's voice deepened and shook. "Is she sick?" he asked.
"Sick in fortune at all events. When the old Governor died she went to live with her other son at Thingvellir, and he is in trouble again, poor creature."
"In debt, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is in debt to the Bank for the interest and principal of some money which his father borrowed on mortgage to keep his brother out of prison."
"And what is the Bank going to do with him?"
"Sell him up immediately."
Christian Christiansson sank into silent reverie again, and when the conversation at the table had taken another turn, he said unexpectedly:
"He left a child behind him, didn't he?"
"Who, sir? Oh, Oscar Stephenson? He did--a girl."
"She's living, too, isn't she?"
"She is, sir--that is to say, for all I know to the contrary. Rector, Oscar's little daughter is still alive, is she not?"
"Alive and well and hearty," said the Rector.
Christian Christiansson's eyes brightened visibly. "That's good news, at all events," he said.
The altered tone startled everybody, and nobody spoke for a little while. Then the Minister said:
"It is really very good of you to take an interest in the family of your poor dead confrère, and if I'd had the least idea you wished to hear more about them it would have been so easy--I might have invited the banker."
"I'll see him to-morrow," said Christian Christiansson, and then, breaking through his reserve, he talked for the next half-hour on other subjects.
He talked well and the company were delighted, for there was no one to know that his vivacity was nervousness and his laughter something like shame. When the dinner was at an end the Bishop, who had fixed his eyes constantly on Christian Christiansson, rose and held out his hand to him.
"It has been a great happiness to have seen you, Mr. Christiansson," he said, "and I trust we may meet again. I know nothing of music, sir, but I rejoice to see that the noble musician is only another name for the noble man, and I pray God to bless you body and soul."
Christian Christiansson could not trust himself to reply, for the Bishop's praise added a new bitterness to his remorse, so he stooped over the old man's hand and kissed it.
The Bishop was pleased and touched. "How charming he is! How perfectly charming!" he said, as he put on his overcoat in the porch. "He reminds me of some one I've met somewhere."
"Me, too," said the Rector.
"Those beautiful manners, that captivating smile, and that voice that goes through and through you!"
"Does he resemble--or is it only because we have been talking at table----"
"You mean poor young----"
"Yes."
"Ah me!" said the Bishop as he opened the door. "What brave things he might have done if Heaven had willed it!"
"He might have been another Christian Christiansson by this time," said the Rector.
"Poor Stephen!" said the Bishop.
"Poor Anna!" said the Rector, and the two old friends went heavily down the path.
Meantime the man they were talking of, though they did not know it, was going through an agony of self-reproach. The duplicity of winning his way to the love and esteem of his people under the cover of a false name was suffocating him. It was necessary, it was inevitable, it was a part of the conduct that was forced upon him by the errand that had brought him home, but if they who welcomed him in the ignorance of their enthusiasm could know who he was, how their hearts would turn from him; how their sympathy would change to loathing and their admiration to contempt!
The evening was one of prolonged suffering to Christian Christiansson, for everything that happened in that house, every trivial object that met his eye, seemed charged with the power to torture him. As soon as he could, he excused himself, and asked to be shown to his room.
They showed him to the bedroom that had been occupied by Thora!
That was the last drop in his cup. He felt like a man who had stumbled into a hidden grave, and he wanted to say, "Give me any room in the house except this." But he dared not speak, lest his slightest word should betray him.
When the door was closed, he flung himself in the armchair before the stove, and then one after one, as by flashes of lightning, he saw over again the scenes of his life with which that room was associated. He thought of his wedding night, when with a fluttering heart he came on tiptoe into the cosy nest of his bridal chamber, and heard Thora's tremulous breathing behind the curtains of the bed. He thought of the joyous morning when her pale face shone like sunshine, and the air of the room was full of auroral radiance, because a child was born to them. He thought of the dark day when he found her lying dead, and of the heavy hour when he took his last look at her, and buried his compositions in her coffin.
Oh, miserable mummery! Oh, broken and senseless vow! Yet not senseless either, save to his own violated intention, for now he knew why he had taken the name of Christian Christiansson. In the blind spasm of his accusing conscience he had thought it was merely in order to deny himself the fame which his works were to win for him, but the inscrutable and ironical powers of Destiny had sterner purposes than that.
It was in order that, being dead as Oscar Stephenson, he should yet return to Iceland; in order that he should see the accumulated consequences of his conduct; in order that he should follow, as if with bare feet on the hot ground of a geyser, the footsteps and the funeral of his youth; in order that the living might torture him with gratitude, and the dead with memories; in order that God's right hand of Justice should fall on him as it had never fallen before, and everything he had done should be paid for.
This was why he had taken the name and won the fame of Christian Christiansson. And the martyrdom of his new life was beginning.
V
As soon as the Bank opened in the morning Christian Christiansson called on the manager, and was received with extravagant politeness.
"I must take the liberty to introduce myself," he began.
"Quite unnecessary," said the banker with a bow, "all the world--I say all the world, sir, has been introduced to you."
"You would receive a letter from my banker in London----"
"We did--it came with the mail that was brought by the 'Laura.'"
"I think it asks you to honor my signature up to two hundred thousand crowns."
"That is the amount, sir--two hundred thousand. And if you wish to draw any of it immediately----"
"I do," said Christian Christiansson, and taking a large pocket-book from his breast-pocket he drew out a cheque-book and took up a pen.
"Mr. Palsson," he said--the banker started at the mention of his name, then bowed and smiled--"I was much touched by a case of distress which the Minister spoke of at dinner yesterday, and I could wish to be of some assistance."
"You are very generous, Mr. Christiansson, and if I can be of the slightest use to you--I say if I can be of the slightest use, sir, pray be good enough to command me."
"It was the case of the family of the late Governor--I understand that they are in debt to the Bank and that the Bank is in the act of distraining."
"Unhappily true, sir, but the Bank has been very indulgent--I say the Bank has been very indulgent--it was impossible to hold back longer."
"I think that the debt is for interest on a mortgage on the Inn-farm at Thingvellir, and that the money was borrowed by the father of the present owner?"
"That is so, sir, but the interest is long in arrears, and the mortgage--I say the mortgage itself, sir, is the reverse of a good security."
"Mr. Palsson," said Christian Christiansson, "if I were to pay you the interest out of my own pocket would that stop the proceedings?"
The banker's breath seemed to be arrested. "You are very good, sir," he said after a moment. "But the interest is large; you can hardly be prepared for the amount of it."
"What is the amount of it?" asked Christian Christiansson.
"Eight thousand crowns at least, sir--I say at least eight thousand. And in any case I should be unable to receive it. Things have gone too far. The deed of execution has been served, the advertisements of the auction have been published, and the whole matter is now in the hands of the Sheriff."
"When is the auction to take place?"
"Let me see," said the banker, consulting a newspaper, "this is the last day of the year, the auction is advertised for to-morrow, sir."
"Did you say to-morrow?" said Christian Christiansson, rising suddenly.
"To-morrow at nine in the morning, sir."
Christian Christiansson resumed his seat and sat for some moments nibbling the top of the pen. Then he said:
"Mr. Palsson, I have been many years abroad, but I seem to remember that when landed property has to be sold by the law in Iceland three auctions are necessary--two at the office of the Sheriff, and the third on the estate itself."
"That is so, sir, but unfortunately this is the third--the two others have taken place already."
"So the Inn-farm must go to the hammer in any case?"
"It must go to the hammer in any case."
"You think there is no help for it?"
"I am sure, sir--I say I am sure there is no help for it."
"Ah, well--if it must be, it must be," said Christian Christiansson, and then, as by an after-thought, dipping the pen in the ink, "The interest is eight thousand crowns, you say?"
"At least eight thousand, sir. With legal and other expenses probably ten--I say probably ten."
"And the principal is----"
"The principal is one hundred thousand, sir."
"Poor souls, poor souls!" said Christian Christiansson. He began to write his cheque, but the banker went on talking.
"I am sorry for the mother, sir--I say I am sorry for the mother. She belongs to a generation which is rapidly passing away, but there are still many in the town who remember her. A good, motherly soul, sir--it is a pity misfortune should fall so fast on her in the evening of her days---- Blotting paper?"
"Thank you."
"I am sorry for the son, too--I am very sorry for the son. An Ishmael, sir--always was and always will be--but he seems to have had a terrible time of it. To tell the truth the farm was frightfully over-mortgaged at the beginning, and if he had thrown it up fifteen years ago it might have been better for himself and the Bank and everybody. Apparently he wished to hold on to it for the sake of the family, and to give the poor wretch his due he has made a splendid fight for it--I say he has made a splendid fight for it."
Christian Christiansson had written his cheque and was tearing it out of the cheque-book.
"Then, as you say, sir, the mortgage was not made by himself, and everybody knows the conditions under which the first debt was contracted. Ah, if that scapegrace brother could only be here to-day! When a man does wrong he seems to think the consequences of his crime will end with his own action, but they are like snowballs rolling in the snow--I say they are like---- Two hundred thousand crowns, sir?"
Christian Christiansson had handed his cheque to the banker, and the banker, fixing his eye-glasses, was reading the amount of it.
"Do you really mean that you wish to draw the whole sum at once, Mr. Christiansson?"
"If you please," said Christian Christiansson.
The banker began to laugh. "Certainly we have no highwaymen in Iceland, sir--I say we have no highwaymen--but unless the money is wanted for immediate purposes----"
"It is wanted for immediate purposes, Mr. Palsson."
"In that case, of course--certainly--may I ask you to wait a little?"
It took half-an-hour to find the money for Christian Christiansson's cheque, and when it came it was in three banknotes of fifty thousand each, signed specially by the Minister, and fifty other notes of a thousand. Christiansson put the whole of them in his pocket-book, and they filled it to its utmost capacity.
"I've given you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Palsson."
"It has been a pleasure, sir--I say it has been a pleasure. I only regret that I was unable to help you in that other matter. If you had come to me two days ago I should have sent a messenger to the Sheriff, and perhaps he----"
"Who is the Sheriff in that case, Mr. Palsson?"
"The Sheriff of Ames, sir. He lives at Borg."
"How far is that from Thingvellir?"
"Only some thirty to forty miles, sir."
"About as far as from here to there?"
"About the same, sir, but in this country of no roads and no railways that is sometimes a long day's journey."
"Just so! Good day, and thank you, Mr. Palsson!"
"Good day to you, Mr. Christiansson," said the banker, and looking after him he thought, "What does he want with two hundred thousand crowns at once, I wonder? And why--I say why did he wish to pay the interest for Magnus Stephenson?"
"Thank God I've come in time!" thought Christian Christiansson.
And going out of the Bank he told himself, with a thrill of hope and joy, that the inscrutable powers of Destiny, which seemed to have made him the plaything of chance and error, could not be wholly evil if they had brought him back to Iceland at the moment of his people's greatest peril, that he might succor and save them at their utmost need.