"Married me, while loving him," he answered. "That's enough for me, God pity me!"
"Do you believe that?" she said.
"Your concealments, your deceptions, your subterfuges all prove it," he said. "Oh, it is killing me, for it is the truth."
"So you believe that?" she said.
"If I had not written you would now be Jason's wife," he said. "And by this light I see his imprisonment. It was you who accused him of a design upon my life. Why? Because you knew what he had confessed to you. For your own ends you used his oath against him, knowing he could not deny it. And what was your purpose? To put him away. Why? Because he was pursuing you for deserting him. But you made his vow your excuse, and the brave lad said nothing. No, not a word; and yet he might have dishonored you before them all. And when I wished to sign his pardon you tried to prevent me. Was that for my sake? No, but yours. Was it my life you thought to protect? No, but your own secret."
Thus, in the agony of his tortured heart, the hot hard words came from him in a torrent, but before the flood of them was spent, Greeba stepped up to him with flashing eyes, and all the wrath in her heart that comes of outraged love, and cried,
"It is false. It is false, I say. Send for him and he himself will deny it. I can trust him, for he is of a noble soul. Yes, he is a man indeed. I challenge you to send for him. Let him come here. Bring him before me, and he shall judge between us."
"No," said Michael Sunlocks, "I will not send for him. For what you have done he shall suffer."
Then there was a knock at the door, and after a pause the Lagmann entered, with his stoop and uncertain glance. "Excuse me," he said, "will you sign the pardon now, or leave it until the morning?"
"I will not sign it at all," said Michael Sunlocks. But at the next moment he cried: "Wait! after all it is not the man's fault, and he shall not suffer." With that he took the paper out of the law-man's hand and signed it hurriedly. "Here," he said, "see that the man is set free immediately."
The Lagmann looked at both of them out of his nearsighted eyes, coughed slightly, and left the room without a word more.
CHAPTER XII.
The President or the Man
I
When the Fairbrothers left Government House after their dirty work was done, Jacob was well content with himself, but his brothers were still grumbling.
"He didn't seem any ways keen to believe it," Thurstan muttered.
"Leave him alone for that," said Jacob. "Did ye see when I gave him the letter?"
"Shoo! I wouldn't trust but she will persuade him she never writ it," said Thurstan.
"He's got it anyways, and we have nothing to show for it," said Stean.
"And noways powerful grateful either. And where's the fortune that was coming straight to our hand?" said Ross.
"Chut, man, there's nothing for us in his mighty schame," said Thurstan.
"I always said so," said Asher; "and five and thirty pounds of good money thrown into the sea."
"Go on," said Jacob, with a lofty smile, "go on, don't save your breath for your porridge," and he trudged along ahead of his brethren. Presently he stopped, faced about to them, and said, "Boys, you're mighty sure that nothing is coming of this mighty schame," with a look of high disdain at Thurstan.
"Sure as death and the taxman," sneered Thurstan.
"Then there's a boat sailing for Dublin at high water, and I'll give five and thirty pounds apiece to every man of you that likes to go home with her."
At that there was an uneasy scraping of five pairs of feet, and much hum-ing and ha-ing and snuffling.
"Quick, which of you is it to be? Speak out, and don't all speak at once," said Jacob.
Then Asher, with a look of outraged reason, said, "What! and all our time go for nothing, and the land lying fallow for months, and the winter cabbage not down, and the men's wages going on?"
"You won't take it?" said Jacob.
"A paltry five and thirty, why, no," said Asher.
"Then let's have no more of your badgering," said Jacob.
"But, Jacob, tell us where's our account in all this jeel with the girl and the Governor," said Gentleman John.
"Find it out," said Jacob, with a flip of finger and thumb, as he strode on again before his brothers.
"Aw, lave him alone," said Stean. "He's got his schame."
II
Next morning, before the light was yet good, and while the warm vapor was still rising into the chill air from the waters of the fiord, Michael Sunlocks sat at work in the room that served him for office and study. His cheeks were pale, his eyes were heavy, and his whole countenance was haggard. But there was a quiet strength in his slow glance and languid step that seemed to say that in spite of the tired look of age about his young face and lissome figure he was a man of immense energy, power of mind and purpose.
His man Oscar was bustling in and out of the room on many errands. Oscar was a curly-headed youth of twenty, with a happy upward turn of the corners of the mouth, and little twinkling eyes full of a bright fire.
The lad knew that there was something amiss with his master by some queer twist of nature that gave a fillip to his natural cheerfulness.
Michael Sunlocks would send Oscar across the arg to the house of the Speaker, and at the next moment forget that he had done so, touch the bell, walk over to the stove, stir the fire, and when the door opened behind him deliver his order a second time without turning round. It would be the maid who had answered the bell, and she would say, "If you please, your Excellency, Oscar has gone out. You sent him across to the Speaker." And then Michael Sunlocks would bethink himself and say, "True, true; you are quite right."
He would write his letters twice, and sometimes fold them without sealing them; he would read a letter again and again and not grasp its contents. His coffee and toast that had been brought in on a tray lay untouched until both were cold, though they had been set to stand on the top of the stove. He would drop his pen to look vacantly out at the window, and cross the room without an object, and stand abruptly and seem to listen.
The twinkling eyes of young Oscar saw something of this, and when the little English maid stopped the lad in the long passage and questioned him of his master's doings, he said with a mighty knowing smirk that the President was showing no more sense and feeling and gumption that morning than a tortoise within its shell.
Towards noon the Fairbrothers asked for Michael Sunlocks, and were shown into his room. They entered with many bows and scrapes, and much stroking of their forelocks. Michael Sunlocks received them gravely, with an inclination of the head, but no words.
"We make so bold as to come to see you again," said Jacob, "for we've got lands at us lying fallow – the lot of us, bar myself, maybe – and we must be getting back and putting a sight on them."
Michael Sunlocks bowed slightly.
"We've lost a good crop by coming," said Jacob, "and made no charge neither, though it's small thanks you get in this world for doing what's fair and honest."
"Well?" said Michael Sunlocks.
"She never was good to them that was good to her," said Jacob, "and we're taking sorrow to see that we're not the only ones that suffer from her ingratitude."
"Not another word on that head," said Michael Sunlocks. "What do you want?"
"Want? Well, it isn't so mortal kind to say want," said Jacob, with the look of one whose self-respect had been wounded.
"A man may be poor, but a poor man has got feelings," said Asher.
"Poor or rich, I say again, 'What do you want?'" said Michael Sunlocks.
"Only to say that we're going to keep this little thing quiet," said Jacob.
"Aw, quiet, quiet," said the others.
"I must leave that to you," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Aw, and safe, too," said Jacob, "for what for should we be going disgracing our own sister? It isn't natural, and her the wife of the President, too."
"Aw, no, no," said the brethren.
"He won't hear a word against her for all," whispered John to Jacob.
"A girl may be a bit wild, and doing sweethearting before she was married," said Jacob, "but that is no reason why all the world should be agate of her, poor thing; and what's it saying, 'The first slip is always forgotten?'"
"Silence," said Michael Sunlocks, sternly. "If this is what you have come to say, we can cut this meeting short."
"Lord-a-massy," cried Asher. "Is he for showing us the door, too?"
"Who says so?" said Jacob, changing his tone. Then facing about to Michael Sunlocks, he said, "It wouldn't do to be known that the President of Iceland had married a bad woman – would it?"
Michael Sunlocks did not reply, and Jacob answered himself: "No, of course not. So perhaps you'll give me back that letter I lent you yesterday."
"I haven't got it. It is destroyed," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Destroyed!" cried Jacob.
"Make yourself easy about it," said Michael Sunlocks. "It will do no more mischief. It's burnt. I burnt it myself."
"Burnt it?" Jacob exclaimed. "Why, do you know, I set great store by that letter? I wouldn't have lost it for a matter of five hundred pounds."
Michael Sunlocks could bear no more. In an instant the weary look had gone from his face. His eyes flashed with anger; he straightened himself up, and brought his fist down on the table. "Come," he cried, "let us have done with this fencing. You want me to pay you five hundred pounds. Is that it?"
"For the letter – that's it," said Jacob.
"And if I refuse to do so you mean to publish it abroad that I have married a wicked woman?"
"Aw, when did we say so?" said Jacob.
"No matter what you say. You want five hundred pounds?"
"For the letter."
"Answer. You want five hundred pounds?"
"For the letter."
"Then you shall not have one sixpence. Do you think I would pay you for a thing like that? Listen to me. I would give you all the wealth of the world, if I had it, never to have heard your evil news."
"That won't pass, master," said Jacob. "It's easy said now the letter's gone, and no danger left. But five hundred pounds I'll have or I'll not leave Iceland till Iceland knows something more than she knows to-day."
"Say what you like, do what you like," cried Michael Sunlocks; "but if ever you set foot in this house again, I'll clap every man of you in jail for blackmailing."
III
Out again in the chilly dusky air, with the hard snow under foot, the Fairbrothers trudged along. Jacob gloomed as dark as any pitch, and Thurstan's red eyes, like fire of ice, probed him with a burning delight.
"I always said so," Asher whimpered; and then over Jacob's stooping shoulder he whispered, "I'll take half of what you offered me, and leave you to it."
Hearing that Thurstan laughed fiercely, and repeated his hot christenings of two days before – "Numskull! tomfool! blatherskite!" and yet choicer names beside. Jacob bore all and showed no rancor, but trampled along ahead of the others, crestfallen, crushed, and dumb. And, left to themselves for conversation and comfort, his brethren behind compared notes together.
"Strange! He doesn't seem to care what is thought of his wife," said John.
"Aw, what's disgrace to a craythur same as that? Like mother like son," said Ross.
"She had better have married the other one," said Asher, "and I always said so."
"It's self, self, self, with a man like yonder," said Stean.
"Curse him for a selfish brute," said John.
"Aw, an unfeeling monster," said Ross.
And with such heat of anger these generous souls relieved themselves on the name of Michael Sunlocks.
"Boys," said Thurstan, "maybe he has no feeling for the girl, but I'll go bail he has some for himself, and I wouldn't trust but he'd be feeling it mortal keen if he was after getting pulled down from his berth."
"What d'ye mean?" asked all four at once.
"Leave that to myself," said Thurstan, "and maybe since I set foot ashore I've heard tell of schames that's going."
IV
Greeba sat in her room, trying to cheat time of its weary hours by virtue of much questioning of her little English maid, who from time to time brought news of Michael Sunlocks. He had risen very early, as early as mid-morning (six o'clock), and ever since then he had been writing in his office. Oscar had been running here and there for him, first to the Senate, then to the Speaker's, and then to the Bishop's. The tall doorkeeper, stammering Jon, had seen him, being sent for, and the feckless busybody had told him ever such needless stories of the jellies and the soups and the mistress's visit to the poor man in the prison, and however people got wind of things was just puzzling beyond words.
With such cackle and poor company Greeba passed her time, thinking no ill of the pert little maid who dressed up her hair and dressed down her pride as well, for a woman will have any confidante rather than none, and the sweetest and best of women, being estranged from her husband, her true stay and support, will lay hold of the very sorriest staff to lean on. And the strange twist of little natures, that made Oscar perky while his master was melancholy, made the maid jubilant while her mistress wept. She was a dark-haired mite with eyes of the shallow brightness of burnished steel. Her name was Elizabeth. She meant no harm to anyone.
Towards noon the little woman burst into the room with great eagerness, and cried, in a hushed whisper, "The Speaker has come. I am sure that something is going to happen; Oscar says so, too. What is it? What can it be?"
Greeba listened, and carried herself bravely while the maid was near, but when the door had closed upon the chatterer she leaned against the window and cried, hearing nothing but her own weeping and the grief of the half-frozen river that flowed beneath. Then, drying her eyes and summoning what remained of her pride, she left her own room to go to the room of her husband.
V
In his little silk skullcap and spectacles the Lagmann came back, for he was Judge and Speaker in one, and found Michael Sunlocks alone. At a glance he saw that the trouble of the night before had deepened, and that something of great moment was afoot.
"Lagmann," said Michael Sunlocks, "I wish you to summon both Chambers to meet at the Senate House to-morrow night."
"It will be inconvenient," said the Speaker, "for the Committee of Althing has risen, and the members are preparing to go back home."
"That is why I wish them to be summoned at once," said Michael Sunlocks.
"Is the matter of such pressing importance?" asked the Speaker.
"It is; and it admits of no delay," answered Michael Sunlocks.
"May I mention its purport?" said the Speaker.
"Say only that the President has a message for Althing," said Michael Sunlocks.
"At what hour to-morrow night?" asked the Speaker.
"At mid-evening," answered Michael Sunlocks, and then, with the sigh of a weary man, he turned towards the stove.
The Speaker glanced at him with his dim eyes screwed up, pushed back his little skullcap, and ran his forefinger along his bald crown, then shook his head gravely and left the room, saying within himself, "Why this haste? And why the message? Ah, these impetuous souls that rise so high and so fast sometimes go down headlong to the abyss!"
VI
Michael Sunlocks was turning round from the stove when Greeba entered, and for all the womanly courage with which she tried to carry herself before him, he could see that she looked frightened, and that her eyes sought his eyes for mercy and cheer.
"Michael," she cried, "what is it that you are about to do? Tell me. I cannot bear this suspense any longer."
He made her no answer, but sat at his desk and lifted his pen. At that she stamped her foot and cried again —
"Tell me, tell me. I cannot, and I will not bear it."
But he knew, without lifting his head, that with all her brave challenge, and the spark of her defiant eyes, behind her dark lashes a great tear-drop lay somewhere veiled. So he showed no anger, and neither did he reply to her appeal, but made some show of going on with his writing.
And being now so far recovered from her first fear as to look upon his face with eyes that could see it, Greeba realized all that she had but partly guessed from the chatter of her maid, of the sad havoc the night had made with him. At that she could bear up no longer, for before her warm woman's feeling all her little stubborn spirit went down as with a flood, and she flung herself at his feet and cried, "Michael, forgive me; I don't know what I am saying."
But getting no answer to her passionate agony any more than her hot disdain, her pride got the better of her again, and she tried to defend herself with many a simple plea, saying between a sob and a burst of wrath that if she had deceived him, and said what was barely true, it was only from thinking to defend his happiness.
"And why," she cried, "why should I marry you while loving him?"
Then, for the first time, he raised his head and answered her —
"Because of your pride, Greeba – your fatal pride," he said; "your pride that has been your bane since you were a child and you went to London and came back the prouder of your time there. I thought it was gone; but the old leaven works as potently as before, and rises up to choke me. I ought to have known it, Greeba, that your old lightness would lead you to some false dealing yet, and I have none but myself to blame."
Now if he had said this with any heat of anger, or with any rush of tears, she would have known by the sure instinct of womanhood that he loved her still, and was only fighting against love in vain. Then she would have flung herself into his arms with a burst of joy and a cry of "My darling, you are mine, you are mine." But instead of that he spoke the hard words calmly, coldly, and without so much as a sigh, and by that she knew that the heart of his love had been killed within him, and now lay dead before her. So, stung to the quick, she said, "You mean that I deserted Jason because he was poor, and came here to you because you are rich. It is false – cruelly, basely false. You know it is false; or, if you don't, you ought."
"I am far from rich, Greeba," he said, "although to your pride I may seem so, seeing that he whom you left for the sake of the poor glory of my place here was but a friendless sailor lad."
"I tell you it is false," she cried. "I could have loved my husband if he had never had a roof over his head. And yet you tell me that? You that should know me so well! How dare you?" she cried, and by the sudden impulse of her agony, with love struggling against anger, and fire and tears in her eyes together, she lifted up her hand and struck him on the breast.
That blow did more than any tearful plea to melt the icy mistrust that had all night been freezing up his heart, but before he had time to reply Greeba was on her knees before him, praying of him to forgive her, because she did not know what she was doing.
"But, Michael," she said again, "it isn't true. Indeed, indeed, it is not, and it is very, very cruel. Yes, I am proud, very proud, but I am proudest of all of my husband. Proud of him, proud for him – proud that he should be the bravest and noblest gentleman in the world. That is the worst of my pride, Michael – that I want to be proud of him I love. But if that might not have been, and he had been the lowliest man on earth, I could have shared his lot though it had been never so poor and humble, so that I could have had him beside me always."
As he listened to her passionate words there was a fluttering at his throat. "Are you sure of that, Greeba?" he said.
"Only let me prove it to you," she cried, with the challenge of beauty in her beautiful eyes.
"So you shall, Greeba," he said, "for we leave this house to-morrow."
"What?" she cried, rising to her feet.
"Yes," he said, "from to-morrow our condition will be different. So get yourself ready to go away from here."
Then her courageous challenge sank away in an instant.
"Whatever do you mean?" she cried, in great terror.
"If you have married the President you shall live with the man," he answered.
"Oh, Michael, Michael, what are you going to do?" she cried. "To degrade yourself?"
"Even so," he said calmly.
"To punish me?" she cried, "To prove me? To test me?"
"If you can go through with it I shall be happy and content," he answered.
"Are you then to be nothing in Iceland?" she said.
"And what of that?" he asked. "Think of what you have just been saying."
"Then I have come into your life to wreck it," she cried. "Yes, I, I! Michael," she added, more quietly, "I will go away. I would not bring shame and humiliation upon you for all that the world can give. I will leave you."
"That you never shall," said Michael Sunlocks. "We are man and wife now, and as man and wife we shall live together."
"I tell you I will not stay," she cried.
"And I tell you," he replied, "that I am your husband, and you shall give me a wife's obedience."
"Michael, dear Michael," she said, "it is for your own good that I want to leave you, so that the great promise of your life may not be wasted. It is I who am breaking in upon it. And I am nothing. Let me go."
"It is too late, Greeba. As poor man and poor woman we must pass the rest of our life together."
At that she burst into sobs again, blaming her brothers, and telling of their mean mission, and how she resented it, and what revenge of wicked slander they had wreaked upon her.
"You see it is all an error," she cried: "a cruel, cruel error."
"No, Greeba, it is not all an error," he answered. "It is not an error that you deceived me – and lied to me."
At that word her tears fell back, and the fire of her heart was in her eyes in an instant. "You say that, do you?" she cried. "Ah, then, perhaps there has been yet another error than you think of – the error of throwing him away for sake of you. He is noble, and simple, and true. His brave heart is above all suspicion. God pity him, and forgive me!"
Then for the first time that day since the six Fairbrothers had left the house, the calmness of Michael Sunlocks forsook him, and in a stern voice, with a look of fierce passion in his face, he cried, "Let me never, never meet that man. Five years ago I came here to save him, but now if we ever come face to face it will be the hour of his death or mine."