VIThe morning was heavy and cheerless. Dark woolly clouds were rolling over the mountains, a cold wind was coming up from the east, and the voice of the North Sea was loud and shrill."We shall have snow before the year's out, sir," said one of a group of fishermen who were stamping their feet and beating their arms at the bottom of the Bank steps."No time to lose!" thought Christian Christiansson. "I must send for horses immediately and start off without delay."But before going to Thingvellir there was something to do in Reykjavik, and that was the most important thing of all--by some excuse or subterfuge he had to see his child as a first step toward claiming and recovering her. She had been ten years at the farm, but he thought she was still at the Factor's, and he bent his steps in that direction.Of the Factor himself he knew no more than he had been able to glean at breakfast without betraying a particular interest--that he was still alive, that enough had been saved out of the wreck of his fortunes to enable him to keep his house, and that he lived the life of a misanthrope, blaming the whole world for his misfortunes and all the trouble of his days.Christian Christiansson might have walked to the Factor's blindfold, but the house itself when he came in front of it seemed strangely unfamiliar. The once bright little villa looked like a witless man who has lost his place in the world and all hope and all respect for himself. The white paint of the walls was cracked and dirty, the windows were smeared with the salt which is borne on the breath of the sea, the garden was wild, and the cobbled path was overgrown with grass.It was hardly like a house a young girl might live in, but after he had rung the bell he listened for a light step in the hall. The door was opened by a withered old woman in white ringlets, with her gown tucked up in front. It was Aunt Margret, but the little old maid, once so pert and dainty, had the neglected and frightened look of a cat in an empty house, left behind and forgotten.Her face was the first he had yet seen of the faces of his own people, and so hard did he find it to play his part that he had mentioned her name before he was aware of it, and she had started perceptibly, as if at the sound of a familiar voice."Is your brother at home, Margret Neilsen?" he asked."He is always at home," she answered, "but he never receives anybody now. Who shall I say wishes to see him?""Say that Christian Christiansson would like to speak to him."Aunt Margret, who was not wearing her spectacles, seemed to listen for a moment as to a voice that came to her from afar, and then she asked him into the house.As he passed through the hall he listened, in his turn, for the silvery voice he wished to hear, but he heard nothing save the sound of his own footsteps, for the house echoed like a vault. The sense of change made him forget for a moment the object of his visit, and when he stepped into the sitting-room and found the familiar room so different from what he remembered it, so bare, so bleak, so stamped with the seal of poverty (with its scrap of worn carpet on the floor and its two broken firebricks in the cold stove), he felt as if the ironical powers that controlled his fate had brought him there not to see his child but only to torture him.After a moment the Factor came in with the old fire in his eyes and the old spirit in his step, but wearing a threadbare skull-cap over a threadbare suit that had once been black, and looking like a grey rock in a green place when the sun has gone from it, leaving it grim and hoary."I heard of your arrival, Mr. Christiansson," he said, "and I suppose I ought to thank you for your call, but I am an old man who has lived past his day, and I can't think why you wished to see me."Christian Christiansson had his subterfuge ready. "Coming from London," he said, "I thought I might be able to tell you something of your daughter.""Helga? You know my daughter Helga?""I used to know her, but our ways have parted, and we have met only once in ten years. Nevertheless I know all about her, and can tell you what has happened.""What has happened, sir?""She has become a great singer.""A singer, has she?""A great opera-singer.""Then she's rich, I suppose?""In the way of being so, perhaps, but famous at all events, and a favorite all over Europe."The Factor was silent for a moment, leaning on his stick; then he said:"Well, that will suit her mother, I daresay. As for me I don't think it matters. It's ten years since Helga Neilsen left Iceland, and I've never seen the scribe of a line from her since. If she's rich I'm poor and she doesn't care anything about it. What I call a daughter is one who remembers her father when he is old and past work and the world has got its heel on him. I had a daughter like that once, but they killed her between them--they killed her between them, I say."The old man's voice was breaking, and thinking to comfort him Christian Christiansson said, hardly knowing what he was saying:"I heard of your trouble, Mr. Neilsen.""When did you hear of it? Helga couldn't have told you. She had too much to do with her sister's death to talk of it. Did you, perhaps--in those days you speak of--did you know my daughter's husband?""Yes," said Christian Christiansson, for in that heart-quelling moment there seemed to be no escape from it."Then you knew a scoundrel, sir," said the Factor.Christian Christiansson dared not flinch, though the Factor's lash had cut him to the bone. With a throttled utterance he tried to plead for charity. "Oscar Stephenson never ceased to reproach himself for his share in Thora's death or to mourn----""It's a pretty way to mourn for one daughter to corrupt another," said the Factor."Corrupt?""What else was it? He hadn't been a year in London before he persuaded Helga to follow him.""Mr. Neilsen, I have no right to speak for the man we are talking of, but Helga is your daughter, and if it is any comfort to you I tell you that you are wrong--I know you are wrong----""Howdo you know--he lived in the same house, didn't he?""Nevertheless I--I believe in my heart that whatever his failures of duty to your daughter Thora while she was alive, when she was dead he reverenced her memory too much to----""Was it reverencing her memory to sell the right to violate her grave, and then waste the money at the gaming-tables?"The perspiration was breaking out on Christian Christiansson's forehead and he had forgotten the object of his errand, when the door opened and he looked up in the expectation of seeing Elin. It was only Aunt Margret again, but now washed and oiled, and wearing her spectacles.Christian Christiansson placed a chair for the childless woman, and began to talk about the child."The man we are speaking of had his faults, God knows, but if you had heard him talk about you, sir, and your sister and his daughter--especially his little daughter----""He talked about his daughter, did he?""Constantly--he seemed to be always thinking of her.""He never did anything else, then. He left me to bring her up and never sent a penny toward her support.""He was poor himself perhaps--indeed I know he was poor.""Then what about the letters he wrote to his mother, bragging of his business and the fine friends he was making?"Christian Christiansson dropped his head."And when my own business was broken up, did he offer to relieve me of my burden?""That was afterward, Oscar--you are confusing the dates," said Aunt Margret."Hold your tongue, Margret Neilsen--I know what I'm saying. No, sir, when the ingrate at Government House made me a bankrupt and I didn't know if I should have a roof to cover me, it was the father's brother who had to take the child off my hands.""Magnus?""Magnus Stephenson, and he had his mother to provide for already.""Then Elin is at Thingvellir! And Magnus has been bringing her up all these years! How good of him! And now he is a broken man himself, poor fellow!""Serve him right if he is," said the Factor. "I've no pity for him either--he was the beginning of all the trouble.""But when a brave man who has borne other people's burdens----""A brave fool, you mean, sir. Fortune comes to every man once, sir, and it came to him, but he wouldn't have it. Look at this room, sir. You may not believe it, but I used to have four assistants eating and drinking with me here, and Magnus Stephenson was one of them. He had good ideas in those days, and if he had stayed with me we should have kept out the free traders, and he would have been the first man in the west of Iceland by this time. I gave him every chance, too. I was willing to make him my partner and marry him to my daughter Thora. But no, grasp all lose all, he insulted my girl and turned up his nose at my contract. And now he's down, but he's not done yet. What gets wet on a fool gets dry on a knave, and Magnus Stephenson will be worse than a bankrupt before we've heard the end of him.""Mr. Neilsen," said Christian Christiansson, who was breathing heavily, "you are wrong again, and you ought to know it.""Who says I am wrong, sir? And what am I wrong in?""You are wrong in thinking that when Magnus Stephenson refused to marry your daughter Thora he did so from selfishness.""If it wasn't selfishness, sir, what was it?""It was unselfishness--sublime unselfishness.""So?""Thora had found that she loved his brother Oscar, and to make her happy Magnus was willing to give her up to him. But the contract was made, and you had built all your hopes on it, so to save your daughter from your displeasure he allowed it to appear that he refused her, although he loved her dearly and his heart was breaking."The Factor rose to his feet with a wild lustre in his eyes. "But is this true?" he said."It is God's truth, sir.""Who did you have it from?""From one who should have told you himself fifteen years ago but dared not."The Factor turned rigidly to his sister. "Margret Neilsen, do you hear what he is saying?"Aunt Margret, who was breathing audibly, merely bowed her head."I don't know what to say to you, sir. If what you tell me is true I've been hating the wrong man for half a life-time. And yet people talk of Providence!""God veils His face from us, Factor. We are only His little children. He has His own plans and purposes.""Good Lord! sir," said the Factor in a husky croak, "what purpose can there be in blinding a man for fifteen years and letting him break up all his friendships?"He was walking to and fro to calm his nerves under the shock as of a moral earthquake."If I have been wrong about Magnus I may have been wrong about Oscar, also. I got frightened when he signed my name, so I helped to send him out of Iceland. And now he is dead!"Christian Christiansson's head was down--his throat was surging."His father is dead, too. We quarrelled about our children, and now it seems it all began with a blunder! He was my friend for fifty years, and I've never had another. There's no such thing as making an old friend in your old age, sir, and when your friends are gone the world gets lonely. Perhaps I was hard on Oscar, too. He was my godson. I liked the boy in spite of everything, and he always came to see the old man the minute he set foot in Iceland."Christian Christiansson wanted to throw off all disguise and cry, "And I'm here again, godfather," but he could not and dared not speak. He rose to go, and the Factor took him to the door."I'll come again before I leave the country," he said at the last moment, "and then perhaps I'll have something to say to you."When the Factor returned to the sitting-room, looking like the same grey rock but with clouds enveloping it, Aunt Margret, who had scarcely moved, said in the frightened voice of one who has seen a ghost:"Do you know who that was?""What do you mean?""That was Oscar Stephenson.""Margret Neilson, you are mad. Oscar Stephenson is dead.""Then he came to life again. That is Oscar Stephenson as sure as I'm a living woman!"VIIChristian Christiansson left the Factor's house glowing with excitement. Oh, for the hour when he could lay aside the armor of duplicity! When he could say to his own people, "I am Oscar Stephenson. Let the world think me Christian Christiansson, but at least you must know me for who I am."It was necessary and inevitable that he should reveal himself to his own family! How else could he carry out the plan he had formed of buying the farm at the auction to-morrow morning and giving it back to his brother? And how, except by right of blood, by right of parentage, could he claim the child and take her away with him when he returned to England?In this mood he went back to Government House and announced his intention of going on to Thingvellir."Thingvellir!" said the Minister. "It's only natural, sir, that you should wish to see our great historic meeting-place, the scene of so many of our Sagas. But why go there to-day? It isn't every day the old town is alive, but this is the last of the year, you know, and before midnight we shall have many interesting ceremonies. Why not stay until to-morrow, and then I shall be happy to go with you?""I have a particular reason for wishing to go to-day," said Christian Christiansson."That's a pity, and our townspeople will be wofully disappointed. To tell you the truth, I've done nothing all morning but receive deputations asking me to offer you a public banquet. Every class of the community is excited, and the students are talking of a torchlight procession.""That settles it, Mr. Finsen, I must go now in any case.""You are too modest, Mr. Christiansson. But perhaps you don't know the way. And then look at the clouds--a snowstorm is coming.""I know every inch of the way, and the snowstorm, if it is not too heavy, will only add to my pleasure.""If it is not too heavy! Believe me, there's nothing in the world more miserable than being caught in a blinding snowstorm on the Moss Fell Heath. But if you must you must, sir, and if you have a particular reason for going it is not for me to keep you back.""It is late, Mr. Finsen, and the days are short--I must get off immediately.""I'll send for ponies without delay, sir. You'll want two--one for yourself, the other for your pony-boy. You'll be back in a few days, I trust, so you'll leave your baggage behind you."The pony-boy with the ponies came round at noon, and by that time, the report of Christiansson's departure having passed through the town, a number of the townspeople had gathered at the gate to see him off. Among them were Palsson the banker, Oddsson the merchant, Zimsen the captain, Jonsson the chairman of the Town Board, and (most surprising of all) the Factor.There was a tingling atmosphere of unsatisfied curiosity in the little crowd, for rumor of the two hundred thousand crowns had passed from lip to lip, and people were asking who the stranger was, who his father had been, and what he could want with so much money. When Christian Christiansson, in his long blue ulster and close-fitting fur cap, came out of the house, and parted from his host and hostess at the porch, he seemed to be in high spirits, for he saluted everybody at the gate, and mentioned most of the company by name.This intensified the curiosity, and amid a running fire of chaff and laughter the bolder ones began to probe with questions."You'll put up at the Inn-farm to-night, Mr. Christiansson?""No doubt, Mr. Jonsson, no doubt.""But there's to be an auction there in the morning, you know--I say there's to be an auction in the morning, so you'll be turned out to-morrow.""Unless," said the captain, with a wink in his weather eye, "unless Mr. Christiansson buys up the old place and turns farmer and innkeeper.""And why not, Captain Zimsen, why not?""Hard work early and late, sir.""Well, no man ever won the day by snoring."Christian Christiansson had swung to the saddle, when the Factor came up to him with his rheumy eyes shining, and said:"Don't be surprised if I follow you to Thingvellir. Life is short, and before I die I have something to say to Magnus Stephenson.""We talked of him on the ship, sir, didn't we--him and his rascally young brother?" said the merchant."We did," said Christian Christiansson, and then at the last moment, the pony-boy being mounted, and everything ready, a spirit of recklessness came over him, and he added, "But you made one mistake, Mr. Oddsson.""And what was that, Mr. Christiansson?""You said Oscar Stephenson had never done anything in his life, except putting an end to it, but he did one thing once, I remember. He stood for parliament when I was at home, and gave a dreadful drubbing to the dunderhead who opposed him. Good-bye!"When he was gone it was the same is if a spell had been broken. Something in his last word, something in his laugh, and something in the lifting of his cap as he cantered up the road, had struck a vague consciousness of his identity into the gossips at the gate. For a moment they stared into each other's face in blank bewilderment and then the merchant said:"Who the deuce can he be then?""Shall I tell you who my sister says he is?" said the Factor."Who?""Oscar Stephenson himself."It fell in their midst like a thunderbolt."Well, that would explain something,--I say that would explain something," said the banker, and he told the story of Magnus Stephenson's interest.Within half-an-hour the word had gone through the town with the rush and rattle of the holme wind. Christian Christiansson was Oscar Stephenson! Almost in as many words he had said so himself, and there could not be a doubt about it!That night at the Artisans' Institute there were a hundred stories of Oscar Stephenson. Some of them were good, and they were told with tears; but some were bad, yet they were received with peals of laughter. In the smoking-room of the hotel the students sang Oscar's songs until the lamps went out, and then they bellowed them through the darkness in a dozen different keys, while the windows rattled with the vibration of their lusty voices.Meantime a group of sedater citizens had taken their surmise to the Minister, and he had said with his shy smile:"We cannot uncover his nakedness, you know, but we can go on with the arrangements for the banquet, and so tempt him to reveal himself."They went on with them immediately. The banquet was to be at the Templars' Hall the night after the stranger's return to Reykjavik. The Minister was to propose, "Christian Christiansson, Iceland's favorite son and heir!" Then the students were to sing Oscar Stephenson's patriotic hymn, "Isafold! my Isafold! great land of frost and fire." And after the guest had spoken the cathedral choir were to give Christian Christiansson's stirring anthem, "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord, who shall rise up in His holy place? Even he who has clean hands and a pure heart, and hath not lifted up his mind with vanity!"Everything else was forgotten! The odium attaching for ten years to Oscar Stephenson's name was gone! The dishonor which Death itself could not kill had disappeared before the blinding light of genius, the glittering shrine of success!VIIIMeantime the man himself was on his way to Thingvellir. The clouds might be low, but his heart was high; the sea might break on the black beach with a monotonous moan, but his whole being sang a song of hope. A wild activity of thoughts, imagination, feelings, and impulses possessed him, and for the first time since he returned to Iceland he was entirely happy.God had permitted him to come in time to save his people from being made houseless and homeless! He had sinned and he had suffered, but the sacred duty of atonement was not to be denied him! The Inn-farm, which had been mortgaged to save him from the grip of the law, was to be given back unburdened to his brother! Two hundred thousand crowns were in his breast pocket, and they were to buy the old place at the auction to-morrow morning!As he cantered up the road that led out of the town his soul careered like a leaf in autumn under a bottom wind of hope and joy. He saw himself arriving at the farm in the dusk of the evening and meeting his mother and Magnus and his daughter Elin. He heard himself saying, "Mother, don't you know me? I am Oscar, and I have come back to make amends." And next day, when the auction would be over, the Sheriff gone and everybody crying for happiness, he saw himself taking Elin between his knees--Elin with the eyes of Thora, yet with his own face looking at him as in a glass--and saying, "You are to come with me now, my dearest, and if you have gone short of anything as a child I will make it up to you as a woman!"The pony-boy caught the contagion of his high spirits, and as they cantered along he sang snatches of the Elf-song:"Dance by night and dance by day,Life and time will pass away,Love alone will last alway."He was a tall lad of eighteen who must have resembled his mother, for he had the pink and white face of a girl. They had passed the hot springs and the Ellida river, and risen to the heights of the first hill on their journey before the sunshine of the boy's spirits began to be overcast. Then as they rested their ponies and tightened the girths, he said in a frightened whisper:"Do you hear it, sir?""Hear what?" said Christian Christiansson."The Peak," said the boy, pointing to a rock of rugged outline that stood on the topmost line of the mountain to their right, with a dark cloud, that was like a great monster of the air, poised above it."What about it, my boy?""The storm and the Peak are friends, sir, for they always talk together before the wind comes down. When people hear them talking they tremble, because they know the storm is coming.""Let us get on then," said Christian Christiansson.In half-an-hour they had come to the bleak and barren country of the Red Hill, the Red Lake, and the Deep Tarn with its dark waters and gloomy shore, and by that time the great cloud which had been poised above the Peak was broken into many parts, and each part seemed to be fighting the others in the sky, for there were volleys of sound like thunder."Hadn't we better stop at the farm at Middale, sir?" said the boy.But Christian Christiansson thought of his mother, of Magnus, of Elin, and of the auction to-morrow morning, and he determined to push on.They were on the edge of the Moss Fell Heath when the snow began to fall. It fell at first in big flakes like dead butterflies, for there was yet no wind on the ground, although the clouds were still scurrying across the sky and the noise overhead was deafening.Christian Christiansson remembered what the Minister had said, that of all the miseries of life the worst was to be caught in a snowstorm on this desolate moor, and for one moment he asked himself if he ought not to go back to Middale and wait there until the storm had passed. But at the next instant he told himself that the devilish powers which had dogged his steps since he landed in Iceland were trying to keep him back from the good work he meant to do, so he must go on in any case."You're not afraid, my lad?""Not to say afraid," faltered the boy."Let us gallop, then."The Heath itself when they came to it was a white wilderness within the embracement of black rocks and mountains. They were only able to find the road by following the beacons, which were like white-headed sentinels in single file, with their backs to the storm, going on and on over the wide waste.The sense of desolation was appalling, and a voice seemed to say, "Go back while there is time to do so." But again Christian Christiansson thought of his mother, of Magnus, of Elin, and of the auction to-morrow morning, and he urged his horse through the deepening snow.They had not gone much farther when the wind came down and hurled itself in their faces. The snowflakes were pelted and slung at them like splinters of flint. It seemed as if every flake would cut through their skin. Then the cold became intense. Ice gathered over their eyes, and at every other minute they had to stop to break it away.Finally the darkness descended upon them, the deadly, implacable darkness of the wind and snow. A wild torrent of whirling snowflakes swept over the moor and concealed them from each other. It became so dark that they could only see a few yards on either side, and they had to cry out at intervals in order to keep together.They were now in the mighty grip of the storm and could no longer think of going back. The wind hissed and howled and wept; the snow pelted and cut. There was no shelter of rock or tree or bush on any side; there was nothing about or above them but the wide wilderness and the thickening darkness.Christian Christiansson was sorry for the boy, but thus far his own spirits had risen with every fresh phase of the tempest. He had a sense of fighting a fierce duel with the elements. At the other end of his journey were his mother and Magnus and Elin, and if he could reach them before morning he would be able to succor and save them. It was a race as for life, for the lives of his nearest and dearest, against the wild wantonness of elemental powers. Nature herself, with more than her usual heartlessness toward man, was at devilish war with his effort to save his people. But he would conquer her! Let it snow or blow or hail or thunder, he would reach home in time for the auction!The ponies were the first to fail. The one that Christian Christiansson rode was a strong mare of mature age, but the boy's was a young one, newly broken, and it seemed to be suffocating in the snow and the wind. After a time it turned its head from the storm and refused to go forward, and then the boy had to alight and walk in front of it and tug it along by the bridle. In a little while it stopped altogether and slid down on its side, and could with difficulty be raised to its feet again."He's only four, and this is his first journey," said the boy in a whimpering tone, as he laid the lash on the pony's back.Then the boy himself began to give in. He wore bag gloves (with two thumbs but no fingers), and in tugging at the bridle he lost one of them. As a consequence his bare hand got frost-bitten and was soon quite powerless. In walking before the horse his clothes had frozen stiff, and he was hardly able to put one foot before the other. His voice became weaker and his speech more broken, and when his companion called back to him he could scarcely send forward his reply. At last in a faint voice he cried:"Come and fetch me, sir--I have no strength left."A little later he became delirious, talked of his mother, and tried to strip off his clothes as if he were going to bed.Christian Christiansson experienced deep anguish of mind at the thought of the sufferings he had inflicted upon the lad, but he lifted him to the saddle with his back to the horse's head, and comforted him as well as he could in his awful situation."Courage, my boy, courage! The House of Rest cannot be far off. We'll shelter there. The storm will pass."A vision of the little house of basaltic rocks, which he had entered with Helga, had been floating through his mind like a dream of the Calenture. How long it took him to get there and with what desperate exertions he never knew, but walking in front of the young pony and leading the mare beside him, he reached the little house at last.As soon as they were under cover, the boy dropped to his knees, and, with a gibbering accent, as if speaking through half-frozen lips, he began to repeat the Greed, "I believe in God the Father Almighty." He thought he was saying his prayers.The House of Rest was badly provided, but it had hay for the horses, and they began to munch it immediately. There was no lamp, and when the door was shut to keep out the driving snow, the place was in pitch darkness.After a while the air became warm with the breath of the ponies, and the men's clothes melted. This made them very cold, and they had to beat their arms under their armpits to keep their bodies from shivering and their teeth from chattering. Then the atmosphere grew hot, for the ponies began to sweat, and the boy stripped off his outer garments, and lay down with the young horse, boy and horse side by side, as if they had been human companions.Christian Christiansson threw himself upon the wooden platform prepared for travelers, and listened to the storm outside. The wind was howling and hissing around the corners of the house, and he had the sense of the snow becoming deeper and deeper about it. If the storm continued the little place might be buried before long, and then it would be difficult or impossible to cut a way out.His heart fell low. He began to feel appalled by the awfulness of his position. The devilish elements were beating him. He was only half way on his journey, and if he could not make the rest of it before morning, his mother and Magnus and little Elin would be homeless. Yet the storm showed no sign of abating; the ponies were spent, the boy was done, and it seemed impossible to go on.Suddenly a new thought came to him and he raised himself and cried:"My boy, my boy! do you know the road from Borg to Thingvellir?""Yes, sir," said the boy's drowsy voice in the darkness."What sort of road is it?""Awful, sir.""Worse than this?""Ten times worse--over the Hengel mountain and past the boiling pits, sir.""Thank God!" said Christian Christiansson, and he lay down again with content, telling himself that the same storm that was keeping him back must keep back the Sheriff, and therefore there could be no auction to-morrow morning.The storm still hissed and howled and wept in the wild wilderness outside, but the tempest had now lost its terrors. The boy and the young pony had fallen asleep and were breathing heavily, the mare was munching the last of the hay, and Christian Christiansson, with his heart at ease and a sense of safety, had settled himself for the night and was dropping off into unconsciousness when there came a thud on the roof of the little house.He started up and listened, and again he heard the thud-thud over his head. The mare also heard the strange sounds, and ceasing to eat she came across to him, as if in fear, and laid her head upon his legs. It was not at first that he realized that the sounds were human footsteps and that somebody was walking on the roof, but as soon as he did so he cried out to know who was there, and a voice that was like a voice out of a grave answered, "Let me in."He removed the saddles with which he had barricaded the door and opened it. There was then another doorway of the snow that had fallen since he entered, but in a little while he had cut it away with the spade that hung on the wall for that purpose. At the next moment a man crossed the threshold--a man and a horse.IX"Oh, God! What a night," said the stranger. He seemed to be scared and awe-stricken by the uproar he had come out of.When Christian Christiansson had closed and barricaded the door afresh the darkness seemed denser than ever."Have you any matches?" he asked."No--yes--that is to say, I'm afraid they're damp," said the stranger. He struck one and it spluttered out."Take care then. A boy is lying asleep on the floor. Bring your horse this way.""Thanks! How lucky I heard you! I had lost the road, and was wondering what hollow ground I was walking on when you shouted from below. It nearly frightened my life out."It was a young voice; the stranger was clearly a young man, probably a young farmer. They talked together in the darkness, neither being able to see the other's face."Who are you, my lad?" asked Christian Christiansson."I am Eric Arnasson. I come from Thingvellir. Who are you, sir?""I am a traveler, and I'm on my way there.""Going to the sale, I suppose?""Yes.""Then I have just come from the house you are bound for.""Are you a farm-servant at the Inn-farm?""Used to be, but the hands are all gone now. I was the last to leave, sir.""Where are Gudrun and Jon Vidalin?""Farming Korastead these ten years sir.""And Asher?""He has gone too. We thinned down fast when the master got into trouble. I was with him from the time I was a little chap, but he paid me off this afternoon.""Where's old Maria?""Dead long ago.""Is there nobody left then?""Nobody but the master and his old mother and his young daughter.""Daughter?""Well, everybody calls her so, but she's only his niece.""Is there nobody else in the house to-night?""Not a soul that I know of. And they will not be there another night, I suppose.""But the sale can not take place to-morrow, my lad. The Sheriff will never be able to get there to-day. He has to come from Borg, and the road over the mountain is even wilder than this.""The Sheriff is there now, sir.""Now?""I left him in the kitchen when I came away, making a list of the house property, and he was to sleep at the Parsonage."Christian Christiansson's hair seemed to rise from his head. There was no escape from the terrible journey. He must go on in spite of the storm. His limbs felt like lead, and when he tried to move them he could only do so with a tremendous effort. But he shook off his torpor and began to saddle his mare."What do you think is the time, my lad?""I don't know, my watch has stopped. And then I have no light either. It must be seven o'clock at least. But you're not thinking of going on to-night, sir?""I must.""You'll never get to Thingvellir, sir. It was bad enough for me with my back to the storm, but it will be ten times worse for you with your face to it. You'll be lost. Your friends will see no more of you.""Good night! Take the boy back to Reykjavik in the morning."Out on the snowfield again Christian Christiansson was conscious of nothing but a headlong impulse to go on. The saddle was damp, and he had a sensation of riding in cold water; the snow was deeper than before, and sometimes his horse stumbled up to its girths; the darkness was now the darkness of night, and it was with difficulty that he could follow the line of the beacons; the wind hurled itself against his body, the snow slung itself against his face, but still he strained along, for a new and inspiring thought had come to him.The Almighty was fighting on his side in his fierce war with the elements! The devilish powers of Nature had been trying to keep him back from saving his people, and when he reached the House of Rest they had lulled him into a false repose, but God had sent the farm-servant to warn him that his dear ones were still in danger, and that if he stayed there until morning he would arrive at his journey's end too late! Thinking so, his heart grew strong, for he felt himself in the immediate presence of Him who was greater than the greatest tempest.But after some two hours had passed the sacred fire of this theory began to fail him. He was growing faint, and the beatings of his heart were suffocating; he was also losing his way in the deepening snow, and when his mare stumbled into the drifts he was scarcely strong enough to drag her out of them. Then, before he was aware of it, the voices of Nature were speaking to him again."Why did you leave the House of Rest? The Sheriff may be at the farm, but no buyers can get there to-night, and without people to bid there can be no auction."Just as this thought came to him he saw a red speck gleaming through the darkness, and he turned his horse's head in the direction of the light. It proved to be in the window of a farm-house, and finding the door he shouted, and presently a man came out to him."I've lost my way," he cried, over the wailing of the wind. "Tell me, please, what place this is?""This is Korastead," the man cried back, and then a woman came into the hall-way and stood behind him. The man was Jon Vidalin and the woman was Gudrun, but neither of them knew him."Where were you going, sir?" said Jon."To the auction at Thingvellir.""You are not so far out of your road, then. Bear to the right until you cross the river, and then follow the stones until you come to the Chasm."Christian Christiansson hesitated. "I'm tired, having ridden from Reykjavik, and it doesn't seem much good going farther. Nobody else will be fool enough to travel in weather like this, and without people to bid there can be no auction. So if you can give me shelter and a shake-down----""You are welcome to the shelter, sir, but if you want the place you had better go on and get there.""Why so?""Because it's a Sheriff's sale, and he'll sell in any case.""How can he sell if there's nobody to buy?""He'll bid for somebody himself, sir, and we all know who that is.""Who?""Somebody at Government House who has wanted the farm these fifteen years.""So you think the Sheriff will hold the auction to-morrow morning whether anybody is there or not?""Sure to, sir. The fewer there are to bid the better he'll be pleased, and the bigger the Minister's bargain.""I must go on then, I suppose," said Christian Christiansson."Come in and melt yourself first," said Jon. "The wind is going down--it will be quiet presently."A few minutes later Christian Christiansson was drinking hot coffee in the elt-house, while Jon and Gudrun talked of the family at the Inn-farm."We were servants with the family for ten years, so we know them well, sir," said Jon."Poor old Anna!" said Gudrun. "She would be welcome to anything I have, but with the boys growing up we haven't a bed to spare in the badstofa."'"There's an adopted daughter, isn't there?""There is, sir, and anybody would be glad to have her for a helper, but the master won't hear of letting her go. 'Elin shall be servant to nobody,' he says.""It isn't Magnus Stephenson's fault if misfortune has overtaken him," said Jon. "He has the strength of Samson and has done the work of six men.""How does he bear his troubles?""Badly," said Gudrun. "He never goes to church now or reads the prayers at home either.""Yes," said Jon, "he has lost his religion, poor fellow, and when a man loses that he loses everything, you know.""People are afraid of him," said Gudrun. "He looks like a man with no luck, and he is always beating his arms about him and driving away the good spirits that walk by a man's side.""And what do people say is the cause of the change in him?""The Bank and bad times," said Jon."And a bad brother," said Gudrun. "His brother is dead and the old mistress has made a saint of him, but she daren't mention his name before Magnus, or he gets up and goes out of the house.""Does he hate him so much then?""There was a time when I believe in my heart he would have killed him," said Jon.Christian Christiansson started up and prepared to go on to Thingvellir, although his half-frozen limbs would scarcely cross the saddle or his swollen fingers hold the reins. Again his heart had fallen low, and the hope with which he had begun his journey--the hope of a joyful reunion at the end of it--was now gone.The intensity of Magnus's feeling made it impossible that he should reveal himself to his people. If he rode up to the door and said, "I am Oscar, the report of my death was false, and I have come back rich and prosperous," what would Magnus say? He would say, "Your father is dead, your wife is in her grave, your mother and your child have gone through poverty and perhaps want, and all the consequence of your transgressions--do you think that your miserable money will make amends?" And then his brother would fling him back into the road.Not to-night could he make himself known--not to-night at all events! Perhaps to-morrow, when the sale would be over and the Sheriff gone, and he had smoothed the way and made sure of his welcome! But now he must go to the Inn like any other traveler who had come there to be present at the auction and to bid for the estate.Seeing his course clear in this way, his heart rose again and he pushed on with a better will. The storm had subsided, and when he came to the sudden mouth of the Almanagja the wind dropped altogether, and it was almost as if some vast volcano in the sky had poured its lava over the earth in snow.The Chasm itself was full of memories--memories of the day of his triumph, the day of his disgrace--but icicles hung from where the flags of the nations had floated, and drifts of snow, like mighty mushrooms, were lying in the holes where the tents had been. He remembered the witch who had said "Beware of your brother," and he thought of the white face that had broken in upon the dancing. In the breathless calm the sky came out and it spanned the brant walls like a majestical roof studded with stars, but he stumbled in the darkness on to the frozen surface of the drowning pool, and almost rode up to the spot where he had sat with Helga.At the bridge that crossed the frozen waterfall he caught his first sight of the lighted windows of the Inn-farm, and then his heart seemed to stand still. His mother, his brother, and his little daughter were there, and he had been ten years preparing to join them, but now that he was so near, he could hardly bring himself to go on.Would his mother recognize him--she who had read his features first and known him from the cradle up? He was afraid she would, and then, in the tumult of his tossing heart, he was afraid she would not. Nobody in Iceland had known him hitherto, and now he was aware that he was leas like himself than ever, for, seeing his face in a glass as he came out of Korastead, he saw that his lips were swollen and his eyes bloodshot with the heavy labor of that awful day.He had crunched through the broken ice of the river below the bridge and reached the silent snow of the pathway to the farm, when the door opened and two men came out of the house. "The Sheriff and the Pastor," he thought. He drew rein and they did not hear him, but when they had taken the path to the Parsonage, the dogs inside began to bark.The palpitation of his heart was almost choking him, and it would have taken little to make him turn about and fly. How long he stood there--whether five minutes or ten--he never rightly knew. A hundred thoughts, more wild than the whirling snow, were tossing within his brain. But thinking at length that Almighty God who had brought him through the perils of that fearful day--defeating the designs of the devil and of the elements, and driving him before His mighty will as before a greater hurricane--could not have led him there at last to any end save a good one, he urged his horse to the foot of the steps and raised his whip to the window.
VI
The morning was heavy and cheerless. Dark woolly clouds were rolling over the mountains, a cold wind was coming up from the east, and the voice of the North Sea was loud and shrill.
"We shall have snow before the year's out, sir," said one of a group of fishermen who were stamping their feet and beating their arms at the bottom of the Bank steps.
"No time to lose!" thought Christian Christiansson. "I must send for horses immediately and start off without delay."
But before going to Thingvellir there was something to do in Reykjavik, and that was the most important thing of all--by some excuse or subterfuge he had to see his child as a first step toward claiming and recovering her. She had been ten years at the farm, but he thought she was still at the Factor's, and he bent his steps in that direction.
Of the Factor himself he knew no more than he had been able to glean at breakfast without betraying a particular interest--that he was still alive, that enough had been saved out of the wreck of his fortunes to enable him to keep his house, and that he lived the life of a misanthrope, blaming the whole world for his misfortunes and all the trouble of his days.
Christian Christiansson might have walked to the Factor's blindfold, but the house itself when he came in front of it seemed strangely unfamiliar. The once bright little villa looked like a witless man who has lost his place in the world and all hope and all respect for himself. The white paint of the walls was cracked and dirty, the windows were smeared with the salt which is borne on the breath of the sea, the garden was wild, and the cobbled path was overgrown with grass.
It was hardly like a house a young girl might live in, but after he had rung the bell he listened for a light step in the hall. The door was opened by a withered old woman in white ringlets, with her gown tucked up in front. It was Aunt Margret, but the little old maid, once so pert and dainty, had the neglected and frightened look of a cat in an empty house, left behind and forgotten.
Her face was the first he had yet seen of the faces of his own people, and so hard did he find it to play his part that he had mentioned her name before he was aware of it, and she had started perceptibly, as if at the sound of a familiar voice.
"Is your brother at home, Margret Neilsen?" he asked.
"He is always at home," she answered, "but he never receives anybody now. Who shall I say wishes to see him?"
"Say that Christian Christiansson would like to speak to him."
Aunt Margret, who was not wearing her spectacles, seemed to listen for a moment as to a voice that came to her from afar, and then she asked him into the house.
As he passed through the hall he listened, in his turn, for the silvery voice he wished to hear, but he heard nothing save the sound of his own footsteps, for the house echoed like a vault. The sense of change made him forget for a moment the object of his visit, and when he stepped into the sitting-room and found the familiar room so different from what he remembered it, so bare, so bleak, so stamped with the seal of poverty (with its scrap of worn carpet on the floor and its two broken firebricks in the cold stove), he felt as if the ironical powers that controlled his fate had brought him there not to see his child but only to torture him.
After a moment the Factor came in with the old fire in his eyes and the old spirit in his step, but wearing a threadbare skull-cap over a threadbare suit that had once been black, and looking like a grey rock in a green place when the sun has gone from it, leaving it grim and hoary.
"I heard of your arrival, Mr. Christiansson," he said, "and I suppose I ought to thank you for your call, but I am an old man who has lived past his day, and I can't think why you wished to see me."
Christian Christiansson had his subterfuge ready. "Coming from London," he said, "I thought I might be able to tell you something of your daughter."
"Helga? You know my daughter Helga?"
"I used to know her, but our ways have parted, and we have met only once in ten years. Nevertheless I know all about her, and can tell you what has happened."
"What has happened, sir?"
"She has become a great singer."
"A singer, has she?"
"A great opera-singer."
"Then she's rich, I suppose?"
"In the way of being so, perhaps, but famous at all events, and a favorite all over Europe."
The Factor was silent for a moment, leaning on his stick; then he said:
"Well, that will suit her mother, I daresay. As for me I don't think it matters. It's ten years since Helga Neilsen left Iceland, and I've never seen the scribe of a line from her since. If she's rich I'm poor and she doesn't care anything about it. What I call a daughter is one who remembers her father when he is old and past work and the world has got its heel on him. I had a daughter like that once, but they killed her between them--they killed her between them, I say."
The old man's voice was breaking, and thinking to comfort him Christian Christiansson said, hardly knowing what he was saying:
"I heard of your trouble, Mr. Neilsen."
"When did you hear of it? Helga couldn't have told you. She had too much to do with her sister's death to talk of it. Did you, perhaps--in those days you speak of--did you know my daughter's husband?"
"Yes," said Christian Christiansson, for in that heart-quelling moment there seemed to be no escape from it.
"Then you knew a scoundrel, sir," said the Factor.
Christian Christiansson dared not flinch, though the Factor's lash had cut him to the bone. With a throttled utterance he tried to plead for charity. "Oscar Stephenson never ceased to reproach himself for his share in Thora's death or to mourn----"
"It's a pretty way to mourn for one daughter to corrupt another," said the Factor.
"Corrupt?"
"What else was it? He hadn't been a year in London before he persuaded Helga to follow him."
"Mr. Neilsen, I have no right to speak for the man we are talking of, but Helga is your daughter, and if it is any comfort to you I tell you that you are wrong--I know you are wrong----"
"Howdo you know--he lived in the same house, didn't he?"
"Nevertheless I--I believe in my heart that whatever his failures of duty to your daughter Thora while she was alive, when she was dead he reverenced her memory too much to----"
"Was it reverencing her memory to sell the right to violate her grave, and then waste the money at the gaming-tables?"
The perspiration was breaking out on Christian Christiansson's forehead and he had forgotten the object of his errand, when the door opened and he looked up in the expectation of seeing Elin. It was only Aunt Margret again, but now washed and oiled, and wearing her spectacles.
Christian Christiansson placed a chair for the childless woman, and began to talk about the child.
"The man we are speaking of had his faults, God knows, but if you had heard him talk about you, sir, and your sister and his daughter--especially his little daughter----"
"He talked about his daughter, did he?"
"Constantly--he seemed to be always thinking of her."
"He never did anything else, then. He left me to bring her up and never sent a penny toward her support."
"He was poor himself perhaps--indeed I know he was poor."
"Then what about the letters he wrote to his mother, bragging of his business and the fine friends he was making?"
Christian Christiansson dropped his head.
"And when my own business was broken up, did he offer to relieve me of my burden?"
"That was afterward, Oscar--you are confusing the dates," said Aunt Margret.
"Hold your tongue, Margret Neilsen--I know what I'm saying. No, sir, when the ingrate at Government House made me a bankrupt and I didn't know if I should have a roof to cover me, it was the father's brother who had to take the child off my hands."
"Magnus?"
"Magnus Stephenson, and he had his mother to provide for already."
"Then Elin is at Thingvellir! And Magnus has been bringing her up all these years! How good of him! And now he is a broken man himself, poor fellow!"
"Serve him right if he is," said the Factor. "I've no pity for him either--he was the beginning of all the trouble."
"But when a brave man who has borne other people's burdens----"
"A brave fool, you mean, sir. Fortune comes to every man once, sir, and it came to him, but he wouldn't have it. Look at this room, sir. You may not believe it, but I used to have four assistants eating and drinking with me here, and Magnus Stephenson was one of them. He had good ideas in those days, and if he had stayed with me we should have kept out the free traders, and he would have been the first man in the west of Iceland by this time. I gave him every chance, too. I was willing to make him my partner and marry him to my daughter Thora. But no, grasp all lose all, he insulted my girl and turned up his nose at my contract. And now he's down, but he's not done yet. What gets wet on a fool gets dry on a knave, and Magnus Stephenson will be worse than a bankrupt before we've heard the end of him."
"Mr. Neilsen," said Christian Christiansson, who was breathing heavily, "you are wrong again, and you ought to know it."
"Who says I am wrong, sir? And what am I wrong in?"
"You are wrong in thinking that when Magnus Stephenson refused to marry your daughter Thora he did so from selfishness."
"If it wasn't selfishness, sir, what was it?"
"It was unselfishness--sublime unselfishness."
"So?"
"Thora had found that she loved his brother Oscar, and to make her happy Magnus was willing to give her up to him. But the contract was made, and you had built all your hopes on it, so to save your daughter from your displeasure he allowed it to appear that he refused her, although he loved her dearly and his heart was breaking."
The Factor rose to his feet with a wild lustre in his eyes. "But is this true?" he said.
"It is God's truth, sir."
"Who did you have it from?"
"From one who should have told you himself fifteen years ago but dared not."
The Factor turned rigidly to his sister. "Margret Neilsen, do you hear what he is saying?"
Aunt Margret, who was breathing audibly, merely bowed her head.
"I don't know what to say to you, sir. If what you tell me is true I've been hating the wrong man for half a life-time. And yet people talk of Providence!"
"God veils His face from us, Factor. We are only His little children. He has His own plans and purposes."
"Good Lord! sir," said the Factor in a husky croak, "what purpose can there be in blinding a man for fifteen years and letting him break up all his friendships?"
He was walking to and fro to calm his nerves under the shock as of a moral earthquake.
"If I have been wrong about Magnus I may have been wrong about Oscar, also. I got frightened when he signed my name, so I helped to send him out of Iceland. And now he is dead!"
Christian Christiansson's head was down--his throat was surging.
"His father is dead, too. We quarrelled about our children, and now it seems it all began with a blunder! He was my friend for fifty years, and I've never had another. There's no such thing as making an old friend in your old age, sir, and when your friends are gone the world gets lonely. Perhaps I was hard on Oscar, too. He was my godson. I liked the boy in spite of everything, and he always came to see the old man the minute he set foot in Iceland."
Christian Christiansson wanted to throw off all disguise and cry, "And I'm here again, godfather," but he could not and dared not speak. He rose to go, and the Factor took him to the door.
"I'll come again before I leave the country," he said at the last moment, "and then perhaps I'll have something to say to you."
When the Factor returned to the sitting-room, looking like the same grey rock but with clouds enveloping it, Aunt Margret, who had scarcely moved, said in the frightened voice of one who has seen a ghost:
"Do you know who that was?"
"What do you mean?"
"That was Oscar Stephenson."
"Margret Neilson, you are mad. Oscar Stephenson is dead."
"Then he came to life again. That is Oscar Stephenson as sure as I'm a living woman!"
VII
Christian Christiansson left the Factor's house glowing with excitement. Oh, for the hour when he could lay aside the armor of duplicity! When he could say to his own people, "I am Oscar Stephenson. Let the world think me Christian Christiansson, but at least you must know me for who I am."
It was necessary and inevitable that he should reveal himself to his own family! How else could he carry out the plan he had formed of buying the farm at the auction to-morrow morning and giving it back to his brother? And how, except by right of blood, by right of parentage, could he claim the child and take her away with him when he returned to England?
In this mood he went back to Government House and announced his intention of going on to Thingvellir.
"Thingvellir!" said the Minister. "It's only natural, sir, that you should wish to see our great historic meeting-place, the scene of so many of our Sagas. But why go there to-day? It isn't every day the old town is alive, but this is the last of the year, you know, and before midnight we shall have many interesting ceremonies. Why not stay until to-morrow, and then I shall be happy to go with you?"
"I have a particular reason for wishing to go to-day," said Christian Christiansson.
"That's a pity, and our townspeople will be wofully disappointed. To tell you the truth, I've done nothing all morning but receive deputations asking me to offer you a public banquet. Every class of the community is excited, and the students are talking of a torchlight procession."
"That settles it, Mr. Finsen, I must go now in any case."
"You are too modest, Mr. Christiansson. But perhaps you don't know the way. And then look at the clouds--a snowstorm is coming."
"I know every inch of the way, and the snowstorm, if it is not too heavy, will only add to my pleasure."
"If it is not too heavy! Believe me, there's nothing in the world more miserable than being caught in a blinding snowstorm on the Moss Fell Heath. But if you must you must, sir, and if you have a particular reason for going it is not for me to keep you back."
"It is late, Mr. Finsen, and the days are short--I must get off immediately."
"I'll send for ponies without delay, sir. You'll want two--one for yourself, the other for your pony-boy. You'll be back in a few days, I trust, so you'll leave your baggage behind you."
The pony-boy with the ponies came round at noon, and by that time, the report of Christiansson's departure having passed through the town, a number of the townspeople had gathered at the gate to see him off. Among them were Palsson the banker, Oddsson the merchant, Zimsen the captain, Jonsson the chairman of the Town Board, and (most surprising of all) the Factor.
There was a tingling atmosphere of unsatisfied curiosity in the little crowd, for rumor of the two hundred thousand crowns had passed from lip to lip, and people were asking who the stranger was, who his father had been, and what he could want with so much money. When Christian Christiansson, in his long blue ulster and close-fitting fur cap, came out of the house, and parted from his host and hostess at the porch, he seemed to be in high spirits, for he saluted everybody at the gate, and mentioned most of the company by name.
This intensified the curiosity, and amid a running fire of chaff and laughter the bolder ones began to probe with questions.
"You'll put up at the Inn-farm to-night, Mr. Christiansson?"
"No doubt, Mr. Jonsson, no doubt."
"But there's to be an auction there in the morning, you know--I say there's to be an auction in the morning, so you'll be turned out to-morrow."
"Unless," said the captain, with a wink in his weather eye, "unless Mr. Christiansson buys up the old place and turns farmer and innkeeper."
"And why not, Captain Zimsen, why not?"
"Hard work early and late, sir."
"Well, no man ever won the day by snoring."
Christian Christiansson had swung to the saddle, when the Factor came up to him with his rheumy eyes shining, and said:
"Don't be surprised if I follow you to Thingvellir. Life is short, and before I die I have something to say to Magnus Stephenson."
"We talked of him on the ship, sir, didn't we--him and his rascally young brother?" said the merchant.
"We did," said Christian Christiansson, and then at the last moment, the pony-boy being mounted, and everything ready, a spirit of recklessness came over him, and he added, "But you made one mistake, Mr. Oddsson."
"And what was that, Mr. Christiansson?"
"You said Oscar Stephenson had never done anything in his life, except putting an end to it, but he did one thing once, I remember. He stood for parliament when I was at home, and gave a dreadful drubbing to the dunderhead who opposed him. Good-bye!"
When he was gone it was the same is if a spell had been broken. Something in his last word, something in his laugh, and something in the lifting of his cap as he cantered up the road, had struck a vague consciousness of his identity into the gossips at the gate. For a moment they stared into each other's face in blank bewilderment and then the merchant said:
"Who the deuce can he be then?"
"Shall I tell you who my sister says he is?" said the Factor.
"Who?"
"Oscar Stephenson himself."
It fell in their midst like a thunderbolt.
"Well, that would explain something,--I say that would explain something," said the banker, and he told the story of Magnus Stephenson's interest.
Within half-an-hour the word had gone through the town with the rush and rattle of the holme wind. Christian Christiansson was Oscar Stephenson! Almost in as many words he had said so himself, and there could not be a doubt about it!
That night at the Artisans' Institute there were a hundred stories of Oscar Stephenson. Some of them were good, and they were told with tears; but some were bad, yet they were received with peals of laughter. In the smoking-room of the hotel the students sang Oscar's songs until the lamps went out, and then they bellowed them through the darkness in a dozen different keys, while the windows rattled with the vibration of their lusty voices.
Meantime a group of sedater citizens had taken their surmise to the Minister, and he had said with his shy smile:
"We cannot uncover his nakedness, you know, but we can go on with the arrangements for the banquet, and so tempt him to reveal himself."
They went on with them immediately. The banquet was to be at the Templars' Hall the night after the stranger's return to Reykjavik. The Minister was to propose, "Christian Christiansson, Iceland's favorite son and heir!" Then the students were to sing Oscar Stephenson's patriotic hymn, "Isafold! my Isafold! great land of frost and fire." And after the guest had spoken the cathedral choir were to give Christian Christiansson's stirring anthem, "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord, who shall rise up in His holy place? Even he who has clean hands and a pure heart, and hath not lifted up his mind with vanity!"
Everything else was forgotten! The odium attaching for ten years to Oscar Stephenson's name was gone! The dishonor which Death itself could not kill had disappeared before the blinding light of genius, the glittering shrine of success!
VIII
Meantime the man himself was on his way to Thingvellir. The clouds might be low, but his heart was high; the sea might break on the black beach with a monotonous moan, but his whole being sang a song of hope. A wild activity of thoughts, imagination, feelings, and impulses possessed him, and for the first time since he returned to Iceland he was entirely happy.
God had permitted him to come in time to save his people from being made houseless and homeless! He had sinned and he had suffered, but the sacred duty of atonement was not to be denied him! The Inn-farm, which had been mortgaged to save him from the grip of the law, was to be given back unburdened to his brother! Two hundred thousand crowns were in his breast pocket, and they were to buy the old place at the auction to-morrow morning!
As he cantered up the road that led out of the town his soul careered like a leaf in autumn under a bottom wind of hope and joy. He saw himself arriving at the farm in the dusk of the evening and meeting his mother and Magnus and his daughter Elin. He heard himself saying, "Mother, don't you know me? I am Oscar, and I have come back to make amends." And next day, when the auction would be over, the Sheriff gone and everybody crying for happiness, he saw himself taking Elin between his knees--Elin with the eyes of Thora, yet with his own face looking at him as in a glass--and saying, "You are to come with me now, my dearest, and if you have gone short of anything as a child I will make it up to you as a woman!"
The pony-boy caught the contagion of his high spirits, and as they cantered along he sang snatches of the Elf-song:
"Dance by night and dance by day,Life and time will pass away,Love alone will last alway."
"Dance by night and dance by day,Life and time will pass away,Love alone will last alway."
"Dance by night and dance by day,
Life and time will pass away,
Love alone will last alway."
He was a tall lad of eighteen who must have resembled his mother, for he had the pink and white face of a girl. They had passed the hot springs and the Ellida river, and risen to the heights of the first hill on their journey before the sunshine of the boy's spirits began to be overcast. Then as they rested their ponies and tightened the girths, he said in a frightened whisper:
"Do you hear it, sir?"
"Hear what?" said Christian Christiansson.
"The Peak," said the boy, pointing to a rock of rugged outline that stood on the topmost line of the mountain to their right, with a dark cloud, that was like a great monster of the air, poised above it.
"What about it, my boy?"
"The storm and the Peak are friends, sir, for they always talk together before the wind comes down. When people hear them talking they tremble, because they know the storm is coming."
"Let us get on then," said Christian Christiansson.
In half-an-hour they had come to the bleak and barren country of the Red Hill, the Red Lake, and the Deep Tarn with its dark waters and gloomy shore, and by that time the great cloud which had been poised above the Peak was broken into many parts, and each part seemed to be fighting the others in the sky, for there were volleys of sound like thunder.
"Hadn't we better stop at the farm at Middale, sir?" said the boy.
But Christian Christiansson thought of his mother, of Magnus, of Elin, and of the auction to-morrow morning, and he determined to push on.
They were on the edge of the Moss Fell Heath when the snow began to fall. It fell at first in big flakes like dead butterflies, for there was yet no wind on the ground, although the clouds were still scurrying across the sky and the noise overhead was deafening.
Christian Christiansson remembered what the Minister had said, that of all the miseries of life the worst was to be caught in a snowstorm on this desolate moor, and for one moment he asked himself if he ought not to go back to Middale and wait there until the storm had passed. But at the next instant he told himself that the devilish powers which had dogged his steps since he landed in Iceland were trying to keep him back from the good work he meant to do, so he must go on in any case.
"You're not afraid, my lad?"
"Not to say afraid," faltered the boy.
"Let us gallop, then."
The Heath itself when they came to it was a white wilderness within the embracement of black rocks and mountains. They were only able to find the road by following the beacons, which were like white-headed sentinels in single file, with their backs to the storm, going on and on over the wide waste.
The sense of desolation was appalling, and a voice seemed to say, "Go back while there is time to do so." But again Christian Christiansson thought of his mother, of Magnus, of Elin, and of the auction to-morrow morning, and he urged his horse through the deepening snow.
They had not gone much farther when the wind came down and hurled itself in their faces. The snowflakes were pelted and slung at them like splinters of flint. It seemed as if every flake would cut through their skin. Then the cold became intense. Ice gathered over their eyes, and at every other minute they had to stop to break it away.
Finally the darkness descended upon them, the deadly, implacable darkness of the wind and snow. A wild torrent of whirling snowflakes swept over the moor and concealed them from each other. It became so dark that they could only see a few yards on either side, and they had to cry out at intervals in order to keep together.
They were now in the mighty grip of the storm and could no longer think of going back. The wind hissed and howled and wept; the snow pelted and cut. There was no shelter of rock or tree or bush on any side; there was nothing about or above them but the wide wilderness and the thickening darkness.
Christian Christiansson was sorry for the boy, but thus far his own spirits had risen with every fresh phase of the tempest. He had a sense of fighting a fierce duel with the elements. At the other end of his journey were his mother and Magnus and Elin, and if he could reach them before morning he would be able to succor and save them. It was a race as for life, for the lives of his nearest and dearest, against the wild wantonness of elemental powers. Nature herself, with more than her usual heartlessness toward man, was at devilish war with his effort to save his people. But he would conquer her! Let it snow or blow or hail or thunder, he would reach home in time for the auction!
The ponies were the first to fail. The one that Christian Christiansson rode was a strong mare of mature age, but the boy's was a young one, newly broken, and it seemed to be suffocating in the snow and the wind. After a time it turned its head from the storm and refused to go forward, and then the boy had to alight and walk in front of it and tug it along by the bridle. In a little while it stopped altogether and slid down on its side, and could with difficulty be raised to its feet again.
"He's only four, and this is his first journey," said the boy in a whimpering tone, as he laid the lash on the pony's back.
Then the boy himself began to give in. He wore bag gloves (with two thumbs but no fingers), and in tugging at the bridle he lost one of them. As a consequence his bare hand got frost-bitten and was soon quite powerless. In walking before the horse his clothes had frozen stiff, and he was hardly able to put one foot before the other. His voice became weaker and his speech more broken, and when his companion called back to him he could scarcely send forward his reply. At last in a faint voice he cried:
"Come and fetch me, sir--I have no strength left."
A little later he became delirious, talked of his mother, and tried to strip off his clothes as if he were going to bed.
Christian Christiansson experienced deep anguish of mind at the thought of the sufferings he had inflicted upon the lad, but he lifted him to the saddle with his back to the horse's head, and comforted him as well as he could in his awful situation.
"Courage, my boy, courage! The House of Rest cannot be far off. We'll shelter there. The storm will pass."
A vision of the little house of basaltic rocks, which he had entered with Helga, had been floating through his mind like a dream of the Calenture. How long it took him to get there and with what desperate exertions he never knew, but walking in front of the young pony and leading the mare beside him, he reached the little house at last.
As soon as they were under cover, the boy dropped to his knees, and, with a gibbering accent, as if speaking through half-frozen lips, he began to repeat the Greed, "I believe in God the Father Almighty." He thought he was saying his prayers.
The House of Rest was badly provided, but it had hay for the horses, and they began to munch it immediately. There was no lamp, and when the door was shut to keep out the driving snow, the place was in pitch darkness.
After a while the air became warm with the breath of the ponies, and the men's clothes melted. This made them very cold, and they had to beat their arms under their armpits to keep their bodies from shivering and their teeth from chattering. Then the atmosphere grew hot, for the ponies began to sweat, and the boy stripped off his outer garments, and lay down with the young horse, boy and horse side by side, as if they had been human companions.
Christian Christiansson threw himself upon the wooden platform prepared for travelers, and listened to the storm outside. The wind was howling and hissing around the corners of the house, and he had the sense of the snow becoming deeper and deeper about it. If the storm continued the little place might be buried before long, and then it would be difficult or impossible to cut a way out.
His heart fell low. He began to feel appalled by the awfulness of his position. The devilish elements were beating him. He was only half way on his journey, and if he could not make the rest of it before morning, his mother and Magnus and little Elin would be homeless. Yet the storm showed no sign of abating; the ponies were spent, the boy was done, and it seemed impossible to go on.
Suddenly a new thought came to him and he raised himself and cried:
"My boy, my boy! do you know the road from Borg to Thingvellir?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy's drowsy voice in the darkness.
"What sort of road is it?"
"Awful, sir."
"Worse than this?"
"Ten times worse--over the Hengel mountain and past the boiling pits, sir."
"Thank God!" said Christian Christiansson, and he lay down again with content, telling himself that the same storm that was keeping him back must keep back the Sheriff, and therefore there could be no auction to-morrow morning.
The storm still hissed and howled and wept in the wild wilderness outside, but the tempest had now lost its terrors. The boy and the young pony had fallen asleep and were breathing heavily, the mare was munching the last of the hay, and Christian Christiansson, with his heart at ease and a sense of safety, had settled himself for the night and was dropping off into unconsciousness when there came a thud on the roof of the little house.
He started up and listened, and again he heard the thud-thud over his head. The mare also heard the strange sounds, and ceasing to eat she came across to him, as if in fear, and laid her head upon his legs. It was not at first that he realized that the sounds were human footsteps and that somebody was walking on the roof, but as soon as he did so he cried out to know who was there, and a voice that was like a voice out of a grave answered, "Let me in."
He removed the saddles with which he had barricaded the door and opened it. There was then another doorway of the snow that had fallen since he entered, but in a little while he had cut it away with the spade that hung on the wall for that purpose. At the next moment a man crossed the threshold--a man and a horse.
IX
"Oh, God! What a night," said the stranger. He seemed to be scared and awe-stricken by the uproar he had come out of.
When Christian Christiansson had closed and barricaded the door afresh the darkness seemed denser than ever.
"Have you any matches?" he asked.
"No--yes--that is to say, I'm afraid they're damp," said the stranger. He struck one and it spluttered out.
"Take care then. A boy is lying asleep on the floor. Bring your horse this way."
"Thanks! How lucky I heard you! I had lost the road, and was wondering what hollow ground I was walking on when you shouted from below. It nearly frightened my life out."
It was a young voice; the stranger was clearly a young man, probably a young farmer. They talked together in the darkness, neither being able to see the other's face.
"Who are you, my lad?" asked Christian Christiansson.
"I am Eric Arnasson. I come from Thingvellir. Who are you, sir?"
"I am a traveler, and I'm on my way there."
"Going to the sale, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Then I have just come from the house you are bound for."
"Are you a farm-servant at the Inn-farm?"
"Used to be, but the hands are all gone now. I was the last to leave, sir."
"Where are Gudrun and Jon Vidalin?"
"Farming Korastead these ten years sir."
"And Asher?"
"He has gone too. We thinned down fast when the master got into trouble. I was with him from the time I was a little chap, but he paid me off this afternoon."
"Where's old Maria?"
"Dead long ago."
"Is there nobody left then?"
"Nobody but the master and his old mother and his young daughter."
"Daughter?"
"Well, everybody calls her so, but she's only his niece."
"Is there nobody else in the house to-night?"
"Not a soul that I know of. And they will not be there another night, I suppose."
"But the sale can not take place to-morrow, my lad. The Sheriff will never be able to get there to-day. He has to come from Borg, and the road over the mountain is even wilder than this."
"The Sheriff is there now, sir."
"Now?"
"I left him in the kitchen when I came away, making a list of the house property, and he was to sleep at the Parsonage."
Christian Christiansson's hair seemed to rise from his head. There was no escape from the terrible journey. He must go on in spite of the storm. His limbs felt like lead, and when he tried to move them he could only do so with a tremendous effort. But he shook off his torpor and began to saddle his mare.
"What do you think is the time, my lad?"
"I don't know, my watch has stopped. And then I have no light either. It must be seven o'clock at least. But you're not thinking of going on to-night, sir?"
"I must."
"You'll never get to Thingvellir, sir. It was bad enough for me with my back to the storm, but it will be ten times worse for you with your face to it. You'll be lost. Your friends will see no more of you."
"Good night! Take the boy back to Reykjavik in the morning."
Out on the snowfield again Christian Christiansson was conscious of nothing but a headlong impulse to go on. The saddle was damp, and he had a sensation of riding in cold water; the snow was deeper than before, and sometimes his horse stumbled up to its girths; the darkness was now the darkness of night, and it was with difficulty that he could follow the line of the beacons; the wind hurled itself against his body, the snow slung itself against his face, but still he strained along, for a new and inspiring thought had come to him.
The Almighty was fighting on his side in his fierce war with the elements! The devilish powers of Nature had been trying to keep him back from saving his people, and when he reached the House of Rest they had lulled him into a false repose, but God had sent the farm-servant to warn him that his dear ones were still in danger, and that if he stayed there until morning he would arrive at his journey's end too late! Thinking so, his heart grew strong, for he felt himself in the immediate presence of Him who was greater than the greatest tempest.
But after some two hours had passed the sacred fire of this theory began to fail him. He was growing faint, and the beatings of his heart were suffocating; he was also losing his way in the deepening snow, and when his mare stumbled into the drifts he was scarcely strong enough to drag her out of them. Then, before he was aware of it, the voices of Nature were speaking to him again.
"Why did you leave the House of Rest? The Sheriff may be at the farm, but no buyers can get there to-night, and without people to bid there can be no auction."
Just as this thought came to him he saw a red speck gleaming through the darkness, and he turned his horse's head in the direction of the light. It proved to be in the window of a farm-house, and finding the door he shouted, and presently a man came out to him.
"I've lost my way," he cried, over the wailing of the wind. "Tell me, please, what place this is?"
"This is Korastead," the man cried back, and then a woman came into the hall-way and stood behind him. The man was Jon Vidalin and the woman was Gudrun, but neither of them knew him.
"Where were you going, sir?" said Jon.
"To the auction at Thingvellir."
"You are not so far out of your road, then. Bear to the right until you cross the river, and then follow the stones until you come to the Chasm."
Christian Christiansson hesitated. "I'm tired, having ridden from Reykjavik, and it doesn't seem much good going farther. Nobody else will be fool enough to travel in weather like this, and without people to bid there can be no auction. So if you can give me shelter and a shake-down----"
"You are welcome to the shelter, sir, but if you want the place you had better go on and get there."
"Why so?"
"Because it's a Sheriff's sale, and he'll sell in any case."
"How can he sell if there's nobody to buy?"
"He'll bid for somebody himself, sir, and we all know who that is."
"Who?"
"Somebody at Government House who has wanted the farm these fifteen years."
"So you think the Sheriff will hold the auction to-morrow morning whether anybody is there or not?"
"Sure to, sir. The fewer there are to bid the better he'll be pleased, and the bigger the Minister's bargain."
"I must go on then, I suppose," said Christian Christiansson.
"Come in and melt yourself first," said Jon. "The wind is going down--it will be quiet presently."
A few minutes later Christian Christiansson was drinking hot coffee in the elt-house, while Jon and Gudrun talked of the family at the Inn-farm.
"We were servants with the family for ten years, so we know them well, sir," said Jon.
"Poor old Anna!" said Gudrun. "She would be welcome to anything I have, but with the boys growing up we haven't a bed to spare in the badstofa."'
"There's an adopted daughter, isn't there?"
"There is, sir, and anybody would be glad to have her for a helper, but the master won't hear of letting her go. 'Elin shall be servant to nobody,' he says."
"It isn't Magnus Stephenson's fault if misfortune has overtaken him," said Jon. "He has the strength of Samson and has done the work of six men."
"How does he bear his troubles?"
"Badly," said Gudrun. "He never goes to church now or reads the prayers at home either."
"Yes," said Jon, "he has lost his religion, poor fellow, and when a man loses that he loses everything, you know."
"People are afraid of him," said Gudrun. "He looks like a man with no luck, and he is always beating his arms about him and driving away the good spirits that walk by a man's side."
"And what do people say is the cause of the change in him?"
"The Bank and bad times," said Jon.
"And a bad brother," said Gudrun. "His brother is dead and the old mistress has made a saint of him, but she daren't mention his name before Magnus, or he gets up and goes out of the house."
"Does he hate him so much then?"
"There was a time when I believe in my heart he would have killed him," said Jon.
Christian Christiansson started up and prepared to go on to Thingvellir, although his half-frozen limbs would scarcely cross the saddle or his swollen fingers hold the reins. Again his heart had fallen low, and the hope with which he had begun his journey--the hope of a joyful reunion at the end of it--was now gone.
The intensity of Magnus's feeling made it impossible that he should reveal himself to his people. If he rode up to the door and said, "I am Oscar, the report of my death was false, and I have come back rich and prosperous," what would Magnus say? He would say, "Your father is dead, your wife is in her grave, your mother and your child have gone through poverty and perhaps want, and all the consequence of your transgressions--do you think that your miserable money will make amends?" And then his brother would fling him back into the road.
Not to-night could he make himself known--not to-night at all events! Perhaps to-morrow, when the sale would be over and the Sheriff gone, and he had smoothed the way and made sure of his welcome! But now he must go to the Inn like any other traveler who had come there to be present at the auction and to bid for the estate.
Seeing his course clear in this way, his heart rose again and he pushed on with a better will. The storm had subsided, and when he came to the sudden mouth of the Almanagja the wind dropped altogether, and it was almost as if some vast volcano in the sky had poured its lava over the earth in snow.
The Chasm itself was full of memories--memories of the day of his triumph, the day of his disgrace--but icicles hung from where the flags of the nations had floated, and drifts of snow, like mighty mushrooms, were lying in the holes where the tents had been. He remembered the witch who had said "Beware of your brother," and he thought of the white face that had broken in upon the dancing. In the breathless calm the sky came out and it spanned the brant walls like a majestical roof studded with stars, but he stumbled in the darkness on to the frozen surface of the drowning pool, and almost rode up to the spot where he had sat with Helga.
At the bridge that crossed the frozen waterfall he caught his first sight of the lighted windows of the Inn-farm, and then his heart seemed to stand still. His mother, his brother, and his little daughter were there, and he had been ten years preparing to join them, but now that he was so near, he could hardly bring himself to go on.
Would his mother recognize him--she who had read his features first and known him from the cradle up? He was afraid she would, and then, in the tumult of his tossing heart, he was afraid she would not. Nobody in Iceland had known him hitherto, and now he was aware that he was leas like himself than ever, for, seeing his face in a glass as he came out of Korastead, he saw that his lips were swollen and his eyes bloodshot with the heavy labor of that awful day.
He had crunched through the broken ice of the river below the bridge and reached the silent snow of the pathway to the farm, when the door opened and two men came out of the house. "The Sheriff and the Pastor," he thought. He drew rein and they did not hear him, but when they had taken the path to the Parsonage, the dogs inside began to bark.
The palpitation of his heart was almost choking him, and it would have taken little to make him turn about and fly. How long he stood there--whether five minutes or ten--he never rightly knew. A hundred thoughts, more wild than the whirling snow, were tossing within his brain. But thinking at length that Almighty God who had brought him through the perils of that fearful day--defeating the designs of the devil and of the elements, and driving him before His mighty will as before a greater hurricane--could not have led him there at last to any end save a good one, he urged his horse to the foot of the steps and raised his whip to the window.