“I can understand that you do not quite like the idea. But Ørlygur is on friendly terms with the doctor, and always looks in there whenever he goes in to the station. And if the knowledge that the woman he loves is in the doctor’s house, and the doctor’s own advances, do not spur him to act on his own behalf, then the case must be worse than I had thought. I do not think there is any risk, really.”
The widow sighed. She did not quite like the idea of Bagga being made use of in this fashion, and perhaps exposed to danger. But Ormarr reassured her.
“With God’s help, all will go well,” she said at last, and gave her consent.
Ormarr had no difficulty in arranging details, and it was settled that Bagga should take over her duties in the doctor’s house next day.
The widow and her daughter rode home that evening in silence. Each was occupied with her own thoughts, and would not have found it easy to share them with the other.
The horses knew their way, and, despite the darkness, the journey was accomplished rapidly and without mishap. The animals seemed to know that the quicker they went, the sooner they would be able to rest.
Mother and daughter exchanged only a few trivial remarks as they unsaddled and turned the horses loose. They did not even trouble to light up, but went straight to bed.
They had lain in silence for some time, when Bagga’s voice came suddenly out of the dark:
The widow was at a loss for an answer, and, to escape the question, pretended to be asleep.
Bagga fell to weeping softly. It seemed all so senseless and cruel—why should she leave home when she had no wish to go? Who could say if these strangers with whom she was to live would be kind to her or not? It hurt her to leave home at all—but her mother willed it so.
Worse than this was the thought that Ørlygur seemed changed. There was something in his look and manner which told her she was not the same in his eyes that she had been when last they had met—when he had given her the lamb. Her conscience had been uneasy on that day of the funeral—it was the funeral of her good friend, Guest the One-eyed; and yet she had been glad, thinking only that she would be sure to see Ørlygur again. She had hoped, too, that he would speak to her—perhaps even take her hand. But he had only given her a hasty greeting, and his handshake had been disappointing. She had been careful herself to leave without bidding him farewell; she could not bear to take his hand again in that strange way. Was it because there were others present that he had been so strange? Or had he ceased to love her? If he could only know how she suffered, for all her brave attempts to seem unconcerned, then surely he would at least have given her one such look as that which had drawn them together at the first. But perhaps it was only sorrow at his bereavement that had made him look so unlike himself; perhaps next time they met all would be well again. Oh, it was wrong of her to be bitter and think the worst; God might well punish her for that. And she had sinned in going to the funeral with any other thought than that of mourning the loss of Guest the One-eyed.