“You will never forget me?” said Arne, smiling. “And I will forget you ere you forget me? — you are naught but a child, Kristin.”
“You are not so old either,” she replied.
“I am as old as Simon Darre,” said he again. “And we bear helm and shield as well as the Dyfrin folk; but my folks have not had fortune with them —”
He had dried his hands on the grass tufts; and now he took Kristin’s ankle and pressed his cheek to the foot which showed from under her dress. She would have drawn away her foot, but Arne said:
“Your mother is at Laugarbru, and Lavrans has ridden forth — from the houses none can see us where we sit. Surely you can let me speak this once of what is in my heart.”
Kristin answered:
“We have known all our days, both you and I, that ’twas bootless for us to set our hearts on each other.”
“May I lay my head in your lap?” said Arne, and as she did not answer, he laid his head down and twined an arm about her waist. With his other hand he pulled at the plaits of her hair.
“How will you like it,” he asked in a little, “when Simon lies in your lap thus, and plays with your hair?”
Kristin did not answer. It seemed as though a heaviness fell upon her of a sudden — Arne’s words and Arne’s head on her knee — it seemed to her as though a door opened into a room, where many dark passages led into a greater darkness; sad, and heavy at heart, she faltered and would not look inside.
“Wedded folk do not use to do so,” said she of a sudden, quickly, as if eased of a weight. She tried to see Simon’s fat, round face looking up into hers as Arne was looking now; she heard his voice — and she could not keep from laughing:
“I trow Simon will never lie on the ground to play with my shoes — not he!”
“No, for he can play with you in his bed,” said Arne. His voice made her feel sick and powerless all at once. She tried to push his head from off her lap, but he pressed it against her knees, and said softly:
“But I would play with your shoes and your hair and your fingers, and follow you out and in the livelong day, Kristin, were you ever so much my wife and slept in my arms each single night.”
He half sat up, put his arm round her shoulder and gazed into her eyes.
“Tis not well done of you to talk thus to me,” said Kristin bashfully, in a low voice.
“No,” said Arne. He rose and stood before her. “But tell me one thing — would you not rather it were I — ?”
“Oh! I would rather” — she sat still awhile — “I would rather not have any man — not yet —”
Arne did not move, but said:
“Would you rather be given to the cloister then, as ’tis to be with Ulvhild, and be a maid all your days?”
Kristin pressed her folded hands down into her lap. A strange, sweet trembling seized her — and with a sudden shudder she seemed to understand how much her little sister was to be pitied — her eyes filled with tears of sorrow for Ulvhild’s sake. “Kristin!” said Arne, in a low voice.
At that moment a loud scream came from Ulvhild. Her crutch had caught between the stones, and she had fallen. Arne and Kristin ran to her, and Arne lifted her up into her sister’s arms. She had cut her mouth, and much blood was flowing from the hurt.
Kristin sat down with her in the smithy door, and Arne fetched water in a wooden bowl. Together they set to washing and wiping her face. She had rubbed the skin off her knees, too. Kristin bent tenderly over the small, thin legs.
Ulvhild’s wailing soon grew less, but she wept silently and bitterly as children do who are used to suffering pain. Kristin held her head to her bosom and rocked her gently.
Then the bell began to ring for vespers up at Olav’s Church.
Arne spoke to Kristin, but she sat bent over her sister as though she neither heard nor marked him, so that at last he grew afraid and asked if she thought there was danger in the hurt. Kristin shook her head, but looked not at him.
Soon after she got up and went towards the farmstead, bearing Ulvhild in her arms. Arne followed, silent and troubled — Kristin seemed so deep in thought, and her face was set and hard. As she walked, the bell went on ringing out over the meadows and the dale; it was still ringing as she went into the house.
She laid Ulvhild in the bed which the sisters had shared ever since Kristin had grown too big to sleep by her father and mother. She slipped her shoes off and lay down beside the little one — lay and listened for the ringing of the bell long after it was hushed and the child slept.
It had come to her as the bell began to ring, while she sat with Ulvhild’s little bleeding face in her hands, that maybe it was a sign to her. If she should go to the convent in her sister’s stead — if she should vow herself to the service of God and the Virgin Mary — might not God give the child health and strength again?
She thought of Brother Edvin’s word: that nowadays ’twas only marred and crippled children and those for whom good husbands could not be found that their fathers and mothers gave to God. She knew her father and mother were godly folks — yet had she never heard aught else but that she should wed — but when they understood that Ulvhild would be sickly all her days, they planned for her straightway that she should go to the cloister.…
And she had no mind to go herself— she strove against the thought that God would do a miracle for Ulvhild if she herself turned nun. She hung on Sira Eirik’s word that in these days not many miracle come to pass. And yet she felt this evening it was as Brother Edvin said: had a man but faith enough, his faith might work miracles. But she had no mind to have that faith herself, she did not love God and His Mother, and the Saints so much, did not even wish to love them so — she loved the world and longed for the world.
Kristin pressed her lips down into Ulvhild’s soft, silken hair. The child slept soundly, and the elder sister sat up restlessly, but lay down again. Her heart bled with sorrow and shame, but she knew she did not wish to believe in signs and wonders, for she would not give up her heritage of health and beauty and love.
So she tried to comfort herself with the thought, that her father and mother would not be willing she should do such a thing. Nor would they think it could avail. Then, too, she was promised already, and she was sure they would not give up Simon, of whom they were so fond. She felt it a betrayal of herself that they were so proud of this son-in-law; of a sudden she thought with dislike of Simon’s round, red face and small laughing eyes — of his jaunty-gait — he bounced like a ball, it came to her all at once; of his bantering talk, that made her feel awkward and foolish. ’Twas no such glory either to get him, and move with him just down to Formo. Still she would rather have him than be sent to a convent. But, ah! the world beyond the hills, the King’s palace and the earls and knights Lady Aashild talked of — and a comely man with sorrowful eyes who would follow her in and out and never grow weary. She thought of Arne that summer day when he lay on his side and slept with his brown, glossy hair outspread among the heather— she had loved him then as though he were her brother. It was not well done of him to have spoken to her so, when he knew they could never belong to one another.…
Word came from Laugarbru that her mother would stay there overnight. Kristin got up to undress and go to rest. She began to unlace her dress — then she put her shoes on again, threw her cloak about her and went out.
The night sky stretched clear and green above the hill-crests. It was near time for the moon to rise, and where it was yet nid behind the fell, sailed some small clouds their lower edges shining like silver; the sky grew brighter and brighter, like metal under gathering drops of dew.
She ran up between the fences, over the road, and up the slope toward the church. It stood there, as though asleep, dark and shut, but she went up to the cross which stood near by to mark the place where St. Olav once rested as he fled before his enemies.
Kristin knelt down upon the stone and laid her folded hands upon the base of the cross: “Holy Cross, strongest of
masts, fairest of trees, bridge for the sick to the fair shores of health —”
At the words of the prayer, it was as if her longing widened out and faded little by little like rings on a pool. The single thoughts that troubled her smoothed themselves out one after the other, her mind grew calmer, more tender, and there came upon her a gentle, vague sadness in place of her distress.
She lay kneeling there and drank in all the sounds of the night. The wind sighed strangely, the rushing sound of the river came from beyond the wood by the church, the beck ran near by right across the road — and all about, far and near, in the dark, she half saw and heard small rills of running and dripping water. The river gleamed white down below in the valley. The moon crept up in a little nick in the hills — the dewy leaves and stones sparkled faintly, and the newly tarred timber of the belfry shone dull and dark by the churchyard gate. Then the moon was hid once more where the mountain ridge rose higher, and now many more white and shining clouds floated in the sky.
She heard a horse coming at a slow pace from higher up the road, and the sound of men’s voices speaking low and even. She had no fear of folk here close at home where she knew every one — so she felt quite safe.
Her father’s dogs rushed at her, turned and dashed back into the wood, then turned back and leaped upon her again. Her father shouted a greeting as he came out from among the birches. He was leading Guldsveinen by the bridle; a brace or two of birds hung dangling from the saddle, and Lavrans bore a hooded hawk upon his left wrist. He had with him a tall, bent man in a monk’s frock, and even before Kristin had seen his face she knew it was Brother Edvin. She went to meet them, wondering no more than if it had been a dream — she only smiled when Lavrans asked whether she knew their guest again.
Lavrans had chanced upon him up by the Rost bridge, and had coaxed him home with him to spend the night. But Brother Edvin would have it, they must let him lie in an outhouse: “For I’m grown so lousy,” said he, “you cannot put me in the good beds.”
And for all Lavrans talked and begged, the monk held out; nay, at first he would have it they should give him his food out in the courtyard. But at last they got him into the hall with them, and Kristin made up the fire in the fireplace in the corner and set candles on the board, while a serving-maid brought in meat and drink.
The monk seated himself on the beggars’ bench by the door, and would have naught but cold porridge and water for his supper. Neither would he have aught of Lavrans’ proffer to have a bath made ready for him, and have his clothes well washed.
Brother Edvin fidgeted and scratched himself, and laughed all over his lean, old face.
“Nay, nay,” said he, “these things bite into my proud hide better than either whips or the Gardian’s words. I have been sitting under a rock up here among the fells all summer — they gave me leave to go out into the wilderness to fast and pray, and there I sat and thought: now was I like a holy hermit indeed; and the poor folk away in Setnadal came up with food for me, and thought here they saw, in very truth, a godly and clean-living monk. Brother Edvin, they said, were there many such monks as you, we would be better men fast enough; but when we see priests and bishops and monks biting and fighting like young swine in a trough.… Ay, I told them it was unchristian-like to talk so — but I liked to hear it well enough, and I sang and I prayed till the mountain rang again. Now will it be wholesome for me to feel the lice biting and fighting upon my skin, and to hear the good housewives, who would have all clean and seemly in their houses, cry out: ‘That dirty pig of a monk can lie out in the barn well enough now ’tis summer.’ I am for northwards now to Nidaros for St. Olav’s vigil, and ’twill be well for me to mark that folk are none too fain to come nigh me —”
Ulvhild woke, and Lavrans went and lifted her up and wrapped her in his cloak:
“Here is the child I spoke of, dear Father. Lay your hands upon her and pray to God for her as you prayed for the boy away north in Meldal who we heard got his health again —”
The monk lifted Ulvhild’s chin gently and looked into her face. And then he raised one of her hands and kissed it.
“Pray rather, you and your wife, Lavrans Björgulfsön, that you be not tempted to try and bend God’s will concerning this child. Our Lord Jesus Himself has set these small feet upon the path which will lead her most surely to the home of peace — I see it by your eyes, you blessed Ulvhild, you have your intercessors in our second home.”
“The boy in Meldal got well, I have heard,” said Lavrans, in a low voice.
“He was a poor widow’s only child, and there was none but the parish to feed or clothe him when his mother should be gone. And yet the woman prayed only that God might give her a fearless heart so that she might have faith He would bring that to pass which would be best for the lad. Naught else did I do but join in that prayer of hers.”
“ ’Tis hard for her mother and for me to rest content with this,” answered Lavrans heavily. “The more that she is so fair and so good.”
“Have you seen the child at Lidstad, south in the Dale?” asked the monk. “Would you rather your daughter had been like that?”
Lavrans shuddered and pressed the child close to him.
“Think you not,” said Brother Edvin again, “that in God’s eyes we are all children He has cause to grieve for, crippled as we are with sin? And yet we deem not we are so badly off in this world.”
He went to the picture of the Virgin Mary upon the wall, and all knelt down while he said the evening prayer. It seemed to them that Brother Edvin had given them good comfort.
But, none the less, after he had gone from the room to seek his place of rest, Astrid, the head serving-wench, swept with care all parts of the floor where the monk had stood, and cast the sweepings at once into the fire.
Next morning Kristin rose early, took milk-porridge and wheat-cakes in a goodly dish of flame-grained birchwood — for she knew that the monk never touched meat — and herself bore the food out to him. But few of the folk were yet about in the houses.
Brother Edvin stood upon the bridge of the cow-house, ready for the road with staff and scrip; with a smile he thanked Kristin for her pains, and sat himself down on the grass and ate, while Kristin sat at his feet.
Her little white dog came running up, the little bells on his collar tinkling. She took him into her lap, and Brother Edvin snapped his fingers at him, threw small bits of wheat-cake into his mouth, and praised him mightily the while.
“ ’Tis a breed Queen Euphemia brought to the country,” said he. “You are passing fine here on Jörundgaard now, both in great things and small.”
Kristin flushed with pleasure. She knew already the dog was of a fine breed, and she was proud of having it; no one else in the parish had a lapdog. But she had not known it was of the same kind as the Queen’s pet dogs.
“Simon Andressön sent him to me,” said she, and pressed it to her, while it licked her face. “His name is Kortelin.”
She had thought to speak to the monk about her trouble, and to pray for his counsel. But she had no longer any wish to let her mind dwell on the thoughts of the past evening. Brother Edvin was sure God would turn all things to the best for Ulvhild. And it was good of Simon to send her such a gift before even their betrothal was fixed. Arne she would not think of — he had not borne himself as he should towards her, she thought.
Brother Edvin took his staff and scrip, and bade Kristin greet those within the house — he would not stay till folk were up, but go while the day was yet cool. She went with him up past the church and a little way into the wood.
When they parted he wished her God’s peace, and blessed her.
“Give me a word, like the word you gave to Ulvhild, dear Father,” begged Kristin, as she stood with his hand in hers.
The monk rubbed his naked foot, knotted with gout, in the wet grass:
“Then would I bid you, daughter, that you lay to heart how God cares for folks’ good here in the Dale. Little rain falls here, but He ha
s given you water from the fells, and the dew freshens meadow and field each night. Thank God for the good gifts He has given you, and murmur not if you seem to miss aught you think might well be added to you. You have bonny yellow hair; see you fret not because it does not curl. Have you not heard of the old wife who sat and wept for that she had only a small bite of swine’s flesh to give to her seven little ones for Christmas cheer? Pat at the moment St. Olav came riding by, and he stretched out his hand over the meat and prayed that God might give the poor little ravens their fill. But when the woman saw a whole pig’s carcase lying upon the board, she wept that she had not pots and platters enow!”
Kristin ran homewards, with Kortelin dancing at her heels, snapping at the hem of her dress, and barking and ringing all his little silver bells.
6
ARNE stayed at home at Finsbrekken the last days before he was to set out for Hamar; his mother and sisters were making ready his clothes.
The day before he was to ride southward, he came to Jörundgaard to bid farewell. And he made a chance to whisper to Kristin: would she meet him on the road south of Laugarbru next evening?
“I would so fain we two should be alone the last time we are together,” said he. “Does it seem such a great thing that I ask? — after all, we were brought up together like brother and sister,” he said, when Kristin hung doubtful a little before making reply.
So she promised to come, if she could slip away from home.
It snowed next morning, but through the day it turned to rain, and soon roads and fields were a sea of grey mud. Wreaths of mist hung and drifted along the lower hillsides; now and then they sank yet lower and gathered into white rollers along the roots of the hills; and then the thick rain-clouds closed in again.
Sir Eirik came over to help Lavrans draw up some deeds. They went down to the hearth-room, for in such weather it was pleasanter there than in the great hall, where the fireplace filled the room with smoke. Ragnfrid was at Laugarbru, where Ramborg was now getting better of a fever she had caught early in the autumn.