BOOK TWO (continued 3)

“That will I never do at your bidding, Simon Andressön,” 206said Erlend angrily; the blood rushed into his face again.

“Nay—do you it to set right the wrong you have done so young a maid,” answered Simon, unmoved, “’twill be better so for Kristin.”

Kristin gave a loud cry, in pain at Erlend’s pain. She stamped upon the floor:

“Go, then, Simon, go—what have you to do with our affairs?”

“I told you but now,” said Simon. “You must bear with me till your father has loosed you and me from each other.”

Kristin broke down utterly:

“Go, go, I will follow straightway—. Jesus! why do you torture me so, Simon—you know you deem not yourself I am worthy that you should trouble about me—”

“’Tis not for your sake I do it,” answered Simon. “Erlend—will you not tell her to go with me?”

Erlend’s face quivered. He touched her on the shoulder:

“You must go, Kristin. Simon Darre and I will speak of this at another time—”

Kristin got up obediently and fastened her cloak about her. Her shoes stood by the bed-side—She remembered them, but she could not put them on under Simon’s eyes.

Outside, the fog had come down again. Kristin flew along, with head bent and hands clutched tight in the folds of her cloak. Her throat was bursting with tears—wildly she longed for some place where she could be alone, and sob and sob. The worst, the worst was still before her; but she had proved a new thing this evening, and she writhed under it—she had proved how it felt to see the man to whom she had given herself humbled.

Simon was at her elbow as she hurried through the lanes, over the common lands and across the open places, 207where the houses had vanished and there was naught but fog to be seen. Once when she stumbled over something, he caught her arm and kept her from falling:

“No need to run so fast,” said he. “Folk are staring after us.—How you are trembling!” he said more gently. Kristin held her peace and walked on.

She slipped in the mud of the street, her feet were wet through and icy cold—the hose she had on were leather, but they were thin; she felt they were giving way, and the mud was oozing through to her naked feet.

They came to the bridge over the convent beck, and went more slowly up the slopes on the other side.

“Kristin,” said Simon of a sudden, “your father must never come to know of this.”

“How knew you that I was—there?” asked Kristin.

“I came to speak with you,” answered Simon shortly. “Then they told me of this man of your uncle’s coming. I knew Aasmund was in Hadeland. You two are not over cunning at making up tales—Heard you what I said but now?”

“Aye,” said Kristin.—“It was I who sent word to Erlend that we should meet at Fluga’s house; I knew the woman—”

“Then shame upon you! But, oh, you could not know what she is—and he—Do you hear,” said Simon harshly, “if so be it can be hidden, you must hide from Lavrans what you have thrown away. And if you cannot hide it, then you must strive to spare him the worst of the shame.”

“You are ever so marvellous careful for my father,” said Kristin, trembling. She strove to speak defiantly, but her voice was ready to break with sobs.

Simon walked on a little. Then he stopped—she caught a glimpse of his face, as they stood there alone together in the midst of the fog. He had never looked like this before.

208“I have seen it well, each time I was at your home,” said he, “how little you understood, you his women-folk, what a man Lavrans is. Knows not how to rule you, says yonder Trond Gjesling—and ’twere like he should trouble himself with such work—he who was born to rule over men. He was made for a leader, aye, and one whom men would have followed—gladly. These are no times for such men as he—my father knew him at Baagahus—But, as things are, he has lived his life up there in the Dale, as he were little else but a farmer—He was married off all too young—and your mother, with her heavy mood, was not the one to make it lighter for him to live that life. So it is that he has many friends—but think you there is one who is his fellow—His sons were taken from him—’twas you, his daughters, who were to build up his race after him—must he live now to see the day when one is without health and the other without honour—”

Kristin pressed her hands tightly over her heart—she felt she must hold it in to make herself as hard as she had need to be.

“Why say you this?” she whispered after a time. “It cannot be that you would ever wish to wed me now—”

“That—would I—not,” said Simon unsteadily. “God help me, Kristin—I think of you that evening in the loft-room at Finsbrekken.—But may the foul fiend fly away with me living the day I trust a maiden’s eyes again!

“—Promise me, that you will not see Erlend before your father comes,” said he when they stood at the gate.

“That will I not promise,” answered Kristin.

“Then he shall promise,” said Simon.

“I will not see him,” said Kristin quickly.

“The little dog I sent you once,” said Simon before they parted, “him you can let your sisters have—they are grown so fond of him—if you mislike not too much to see him in the house.

209“—I ride north to-morrow early,” said he, and then he took her hand in farewell, while the sister who kept the door looked on.

Simon Darre walked downwards towards the town. He flung out a clenched fist as he strode along, talked half aloud, and swore out into the fog. He swore to himself that he grieved not over her. Kristin—’twas as though he had deemed a thing pure gold—and when he saw it close at hand, it was naught but brass and tin. White as a snow flake had she knelt and thrust her hand into the flame—that was last year; this year she was drinking wine with an outcast ribald in Fluga’s loft-room—The devil, no! ’Twas for Lavrans Björgulfsön he grieved, sitting up there on Jörundgaard believing—full surely never had it come into Lavran’s mind that he could be so betrayed by his own. And now he himself was to bear the tidings, and help to lie to that man—it was for this that his heart burned with sorrow and wrath.

Kristin had not meant to keep her promise to Simon Darre, but, as it befell, she spoke but a few words with Erlend—one evening up on the road.

She stood and held his hand, strangely meek, while he spoke of what had befallen in Brynhild’s loft-room at their last meeting. With Simon Andressön he would talk another time. “Had we fought there, ’twould have been all over the town,” said Erlend hotly. “And that he too knew full well—this Simon.”

Kristin saw how this thing had galled him. She too, had thought of it unceasingly ever since—there was no hiding the truth, Erlend came out of this business with even less honour than she herself. And she felt that now indeed they were one flesh—that she must answer for all he did, even though she might mislike his deeds, and that 210she would feel it in her own flesh when so much as Erlend’s skin was scratched.

Three weeks later Lavrans Björgulfsön came to Oslo to fetch his daughter.

Kristin was afraid, and she was sore of heart as she went to the parlour to meet her father. What first struck her, when she saw him standing there speaking to Sister Potentia, was that he did not look as she remembered him. Maybe he was but little changed since they parted a year ago—but she had seen him all her years at home as the young lusty, comely man she had been so proud to have for father when she was little. Each winter and each summer that passed over their heads up there at home, had doubtless marked him with the marks of growing age, as they had unfolded her into a full-grown young woman—but she had not seen it. She had not seen that his hair was fading here and there and had taken on a tinge of rusty red near the temples—as yellow hair does when ’tis turning grey. His cheeks had shrunken and grown longer so that the muscles ran in harder lines down to the mouth; his youthful white and red had faded to one weather-beaten shade. His back was not bowed—but yet his shoulder-blades had an unaccustomed curve beneath his cloak. His step was light and firm, as he came toward her with outstretched hand, but yet ’twas not the old brisk and supple motion. Doubtless all these things had been there last year, only she had not seen them. Perhaps there had been added a little touch—of sadness—which made her see them now. She burst into weeping.

Lavrans put his arm about her shoulder and laid his hand against her cheek.

“Come, come, be still now, child,” he said gently.

“Are you angry with me, father?” she asked low.

“Surely you must know that I am,” he answered—but he went on stroking her cheek. “Yet so much, too, you 211sure must know, that you have no need to be afraid of me,” said he sadly. “Nay, now you must be still, Kristin: are you not ashamed to bear you in such childish wise.”—For she was weeping so that she had to seat herself upon the bench. “We will not speak of these things here, where folk go out and in,” said he, and he sat himself down by her side and took her hand. “Will you not ask after your mother then—and your sisters—?”

“What does my mother say of this?” asked his daughter.

“Oh, that you can have no need to ask—but we will not talk of it now,” he said again. “Else she is well—” and he set to telling this and that of the happenings at home on the farm, till Kristin grew quieter little by little.

But it seemed to her that the strain did but grow worse because her father said naught of her breach of troth. He gave her money to deal out among the poor of the convent and to make gifts to her fellow-pupils, he himself gave rich gifts to the cloister and the Sisters; and no one in Nonneseter knew aught else than that Kristin was now to go home for her betrothal and her wedding. They both ate the last meal at Lady Groa’s board in the Abbess’s room, and the Lady spoke of Kristin with high praise.

But all this came to an end at last. She had said her last farewell to the Sisters and her friends at the convent gate; Lavrans led her to her horse and lifted her into the saddle. ’Twas so strange to ride with her father and the men from Jörundgaard down to the bridge, along this road, down which she had stolen in the dark; wonderful, too, it seemed to ride through the streets of Oslo freely and in honour. She thought of their splendid wedding train, that Erlend had talked of so often—her heart grew heavy; ’twould have been easier had he carried her away with him. There was yet such a long time before her in which she must live one life in secret and another 212openly before folks. But then her eye fell on her father’s grave, ageing face, and she tried to think, that after all Erlend was right.

There were a few other travellers in the inn. At eventide they all supped together in a little hearth-room, where there were two beds only; Lavrans and Kristin were to sleep there, for they were the first in rank among the guests. Therefore, when the night drew on a little, the others bade them a friendly good-night as they broke up and went to seek their sleeping places. Kristin thought how it was she who had stolen to Brynhild Fluga’s loft-room to Erlend’s arms—sick with sorrow and with fear that she might never more be his, she thought: no, there was no place for her any more amongst these others.

Her father was sitting on the further bench, looking at her.

“We are not to go to Skog this time?” asked Kristin, to break the silence.

“No,” answered Lavrans. “I have had enough for some time with what your mother’s brother made me listen to—because I would not constrain you,” he added, as she looked up at him questioningly.

“And, truly, I would have made you keep your word,” said he a little after, “had it not been that Simon said, he would not have an unwilling wife.”

“I have never given my word to Simon,” said Kristin quickly. “You have ever said before, that you would never force me into wedlock—”

“’Twould not have been force if I had held you to a bargain that had been published long since and was known to all men,” answered Lavrans. “These two winters past you two have borne the name of handfasted folk, and you have said naught against it, nor shown yourself unwilling, till now your wedding-day was fixed. If you would plead that the business was put off last year, so that you 213have not yet given Simon your troth; then that I call not upright dealing.”

Kristin stood gazing down into the fire.

“I know not which will seem the worse,” went on her father, “that it be said that you have cast off Simon, or that he has cast you off. Sir Andres sent me word—” Lavrans flushed red as he said it, “—he was wroth with the lad, and bade me crave such amends as I should think fit. I had to say what was true—I know not if aught else had been better—that, should there be amends to make, ’twas rather for us to make them. We are shamed either way.”

“I cannot think there is such great shame,” said Kristin low. “Since Simon and I are of one mind.”

“Of one mind?” repeated Lavrans. “He did not hide from me that he was unhappy, but he said, after you had spoken together, he deemed naught but misfortune could come of it if he held you to the pact.—But now must you tell me how this has come over you.”

“Has Simon said naught?” asked Kristin.

“It seemed as though he thought,” said her father, “that you have given your love to another man—Now must you tell me how this is, Kristin.”

Kristin thought for a little.

“God knows,” said she in a low voice, “I see well, Simon might be good enough for me, and maybe too good. But ’tis true that I came to know another man; and then I knew I would never have one happy hour more in all my life, were I to live it out with Simon—not if all the gold in England were his to give—I would rather have the other if he owned no more than a single cow—”

“You look not that I should give you to a serving-man, I trow?” said her father.

“He is as well born as I, and better,” answered Kristin. “I meant but this—he has enough both of lands 214and goods, but I would rather sleep with him on the bare straw than with another man in a silken bed—”

Her father was silent for a while.

“’Tis one thing, Kristin, that I will not force you to take a man that likes you not—though God and St. Olav alone know what you can have against the man I had promised you to. But ’tis another thing whether the man you have set your heart upon is such as I can wed you to. You’re young yet, and not over wise—and to cast his eyes upon a maid who is promised to another—’tis not the wont of an upright man—”

“No man can rule himself in that matter,” broke in Kristin.

“Aye, but he can. But so much you can understand, I trow: I will not do such offence to the Dyfrin folk as to betroth you to another the moment you have turned your back on Simon—and least of all to a man who might be more high in rank or richer—You must say who this man is,” he said after a little.

Kristin pressed her hands together and breathed deeply. Then she said very slowly:

“I cannot, father. Thus it stands, that should I not get this man, then you can take me back to the convent and never take me from it again—I shall not live long there, I trow. But it would not be seemly that I should name his name, ere yet I know he bears as good a will toward me as I have to him. You—you must not force me to say who he is, before—before ’tis seen whether—whether he is minded to make suit for me through his kin.”

Lavrans was a long time silent. He could not but be pleased that his daughter took the matter thus; he said at length:

“So be it then. ’Tis but reason that you would fain keep back his name, if you know not more of his purposes.”

215“Now must you to bed, Kristin,” he said a little after. He came and kissed her:

“You have wrought sorrow and pain to many by this waywardness of yours, my daughter—but this you know, that your good lies next my heart—God help me, ’twould be so, I fear me, whatever you might do—He and His gentle Mother will surely help us, so that this may be turned to the best—Go now, and see that you sleep well.”

After he had lain down, Lavrans thought he heard a little sound of weeping from the bed by the other wall, where his daughter lay. But he made as though he slept. He had not the heart to say to her that he feared the old talk about her and Arne and Bentein would be brought up again now, but it weighed heavily upon him that ’twas but little he could do to save the child’s good name from being besmirched behind his back. And the worst was that he must deem much of the mischief had been wrought by her own thoughtlessness.

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