KRISTIN came home when the spring was at fairest. The Laagen rushed headlong round its bend past the farmstead and the fields; through the tender leaves of the alder thickets its current glittered and sparkled with flashes of silver. ’Twas as though the gleams of light had a voice of their own and joined in the river’s song, for when the evening twilight fell, the waters seemed to go by with a duller roar. But day and night the air above Jörundgaard was filled with the rushing sound, till Kristin thought she could feel the very timbers of the houses quivering like the sound box of a cithern.
Small threads of water shone high up on the fell-sides, that stood wrapped in blue haze day after day. The heat brooded and quivered over the fields; the brown earth of the plough-lands was nigh hidden by the spears of corn; the meadows grew deep with grass, and shimmered like silk where the breaths of wind passed over. Groves and hill sward smelt sweet; and as soon as the sun was down there streamed out all around the strong, cool, sourish breath of sap and growing things—it was as though the earth gave out a long, lightened sigh. Kristin thought, trembling, of the moment when Erlend’s arms released her. Each evening she lay down, sick with longing, and in the mornings she awoke, damp with sweat and tired out with her dreams.
’Twas more than she could understand how the folks at home could forbear to speak ever a word of the one thing that was in her thoughts. But week went by after week, and naught was said of Simon and her broken faith, and none asked what was in her heart. Her father lay much out in the woods, now he had the spring ploughing and sowing off his hands—he went to see his tar burners’ work, and he took hawks and hounds with him and was away many days together. When he was at home, he spoke to his daughter kindly as ever—but it was as though he had little to say to her, and never did he ask her to go with him when he rode out.
Kristin had dreaded to go home to her mother’s chidings; but Ragnfrid said never a word—and this seemed even worse.
Every year when he feasted his friends at St. John’s Mass, it was Lavrans Björgulfsön’s wont to give out among the poor folks of the parish the meat and all sorts of food that had been saved in his household in the last week of the Fast. Those who lived nighest to Jörundgaard would come themselves to fetch away the alms; these poor folks were ever welcomed and feasted, and Lavrans and his guests and all the house servants would gather round them: for some of them were old men who had by heart many sagas and lays. They sat in the hearth-room and whiled the time away with the ale-cup and friendly talk; and in the evening they danced in the courtyard.
This year the Eve of St. John was cloudy and cold; but none was sorry that it was so, for by now the farmers of the Dale had begun to fear a drought. No rain had fallen since St. Halvard’s Wake, and there had been little snow in the mountains; not for thirteen years could folk remember to have seen the river so low at mid-summer.
So Lavrans and his guests were of good cheer when they went down to greet the almsmen in the hearth-room. The poor folks sat round the board eating milk porridge and washing it down with strong ale; and Kristin stood by the table, and waited on the old folk and the sick.
Lavrans greeted his poor guests, and asked if they were content with their fare. Then he went about the board to bid welcome to an old bedesman, who had been brought thither that day for his term at Jörundgaard. The man’s name was Haakon; he had fought under King Haakon the Old, and had been with the King when he took the field for the last time in Scotland. He was the poorest of the poor now, and was all but blind; the farmers of the Dale had offered to set him up in a cottage of his own, but he chose rather to be handed on as bedesman from farm to farm, for everywhere folk welcomed him more like an honoured guest, since he had seen so much of the world and had laid up great store of knowledge.
Lavrans stood by with a hand on his brother’s shoulder; for Aasmund Björgulfsön had come to Jörundgaard on a visit.
He asked Haakon, too, how the food liked him.
“The ale is good, Lavrans Björgulfsön,” said Haakon, “But methinks a jade has cooked our porridge for us to-day. While the cook cuddles, the porridge burns, says the byword; and this porridge is singed.”
“An ill thing indeed,” said Lavrans, “that I should give you singed porridge. But I wot well the old byword doth not always say true, for ’tis my daughter, herself, who cooked the porridge for you.” He laughed, and bade Kristin and Tordis make haste to bring in the trenchers of meat.
Kristin slipped quickly out and made across to the kitchen. Her heart was beating hard—she had caught a glimpse of Aasmund’s face when Haakon was speaking.
That evening she saw her father and his brother walking and talking together in the courtyard long and late. She was dizzy with fear; and it was no better with her the next day when she marked that her father was silent and joyless. But he said no word.
Nor did he say aught after his brother was gone. But Kristin marked well that he spoke less with Haakon than was his wont, and, when their turn for harbouring the old warrior was over, Lavrans made no sign towards keeping him a while longer, but let him move on to the next farm.
For the rest, Lavrans Björgulfsön had reason enough this summer to be moody and downcast, for now all tokens showed that the year would be an exceedingly bad one in all the country round; and the farmers were coming together time and again to take counsel how they should meet the coming winter. As the late summer drew on, it was plain to most, that they must slaughter great part of their cattle or drive them south for sale, and buy corn to feed their people through the winter. The year before had been no good corn year, so that the stocks of old corn were but scanty.
One morning in early autumn Ragnfrid went out with all her three daughters to see to some linen she had lying out on the bleach field. Kristin praised much her mother’s weaving. Then the mother stroked little Ramborg’s hair and said:
“We must save this for your bride-chest, little one.”
“Then, mother,” said Ulvhild, “shall I not have any bride-chest when I go to the nunnery?”
“You know well,” said Ragnfrid, “your dowry will be nowise less than your sisters. But ’twill not be such things as they need that you will need. And then you know full well, too, that you are to bide with your father and me as long as we live—if so be you will.”
“And when you come to the nunnery,” said Kristin, unsteadily, “it may be, Ulvhild, that I shall have been a nun there for many years.”
She looked across at her mother, but Ragnfrid held her peace.
“Had I been such an one that I could marry,” said Ulvhild, “never would I have turned away from Simon—he was so kind, and he was so sorrowful when he said farewell to us all.”
“You know your father bade us not speak of this,” said Ragnfrid—but Kristin broke in defiantly:
“Aye; well I know that ’twas far more sorrow for him parting from you than from me.”
Her mother spoke in anger:
“And little must his pride have been, I wot, had he shown his sorrow before you—you dealt not well and fairly by Simon Andressön, my daughter. Yet did he beg us to use neither threats nor curses with you—”
“Nay,” said Kristin as before, “he thought, maybe, he had cursed me himself so much, there was no need for any other to tell me how vile I was. But I marked not ever that Simon had much care for me, till he saw that I loved another more than him.”
“Go home, children,” said Ragnfrid to the two little ones. She sat herself down on a log that lay by the green, and drew Kristin down beside her.
“You know, surely,” said she then, “that it has ever been held seemly and honourable, that a man should not talk overmuch of love to his betrothed maiden—nor sit with her much alone, nor woo too hotly—”
“Oh!” said Kristin, “much I wonder whether young folk that love one another bear ever in mind what old folk count for seemly, and forget not one time or another all such things.”
“Be you ware, Kristin,” said her mother, “that you forget them not.” She sat a little while in silence: “What I see but too well now is that your father goes in fear that you have set your heart on a man he can never gladly give you to.”
“What did my uncle say?” asked Kristin in a little while.
“Naught said he,” answered her mother, “but that Erlend of Husaby is better of name than of fame. Aye, for he spoke to Aasmund, it seems, to say a good word for him to Lavrans. Small joy was it to your father when he heard this.”
But Kristin sat beaming with gladness. Erlend had spoken to her father’s brother. And she had been vexing her heart because he made no sign!
Then her mother spoke again:
“Yet another thing is: that Aasmund said somewhat of a waif word that went about in Oslo, that folk had seen this Erlend hang about in the by-ways near by the convent, and that you had gone out and spoken with him by the fences there.”
“What then?” asked Kristin.
“Aasmund counselled us, you understand, to take this proffer,” said Ragnfrid. “But at that Lavrans grew more wroth than I can call to mind I saw him ever before. He said that a wooer who tried to come to his daughter by that road should find him in his path, sword in hand. ’Twas little honour enough to us to have dealt as we had with the Dyfrin folk; but were it so that Erlend had lured you out to gad about the ways in the darkness with him, and that while you were dwelling in a cloister of holy nuns, ’twas a full good token you would be better served by far by missing such a husband.”
Kristin crushed her hands together in her lap—the colour came and went in her face. Her mother put an arm about her waist—but the girl shrank away from her, beside herself with the passion of her mood, and cried:
“Let me be, mother! Would you feel, maybe, if my waist hath grown—”
The next moment she was standing up, holding her hand to her cheek—she looked down bewildered at her mother’s flashing eyes. None had ever struck her before since she was a little child.
“Sit down,” said Ragnfrid. “Sit down,” she said again, and the girl was fain to obey. The mother sat a while silent; when she spoke, her voice was shaking:
“I have seen it full well, Kristin—much have you never loved me. I told myself, maybe ’twas that you thought I loved not you so much—not as your father loves you. I bided my time—I thought when the time came that you had borne a child yourself, you would surely understand—
“While yet I was suckling you, even then was it so, that when Lavrans came near us two, you would let go my breast and stretch out towards him, and laugh so that my milk ran over your lips. Lavrans thought ’twas good sport—and God knows I was well content for his sake. I was well content, too, for your sake, that your father laughed and was merry each time he laid eyes on you. I thought my own self ’twas pity of you, you little being, that I could not have done with all that much weeping. I was ever thinking more whether I was to lose you too, than joying that I had you. But God and His Holy Mother know that I loved you no whit less than Lavrans loved.”
The tears were running down over Ragnfrid’s cheeks, but her face was quite calm now, and so too was her voice:
“God knows I never bore him or you a grudge for the love that was between you. Methought ’twas little enough joy I had brought him in the years we had lived together; I was glad that he had joy in you. I thought, too, that had my father, Ivar, been such a father to me—
“There are many things, Kristin, that a mother should have taught her daughter to beware of. But methought there was little need of this with you, who have followed about with your father all these years—you should know, if any know, what right and honour are. That word you spoke but now—think you I could believe you would have the heart to bring on Lavrans such a sorrow—?
“I would say but this to you—my wish is that you may win for husband a man you can love well. But that this may be, you must bear you wisely—let not Lavrans have cause to think that he you have chosen is a breeder of trouble, and one that regards not the peace of women, nor their honour. For to such an one he will never give you—not if it were to save you from open shame. Rather would Lavrans let the steel do judgment between him and the man who had marred your life—”
And with this the mother rose and went from her.