Lady Magnhild took it in this way, that she demanded a full confession of how it had come about—then it was for her to see if some means could be found of keeping it hid.
She asked who was the father, but when Ingunn told her, Lady Magnhild sat for a long while perfectly speechless. This was so utterly beyond all she had ever believed possible that she could only think it must be so—the poor thing was something wanting. Ingunn had to give an account of all there had been between her and Teit—she gave short and broken answers to Lady Magnhild’s rigorous questions. It was six months since she had seen him—no, he knew nothing of how it was with her—she expected the child in six weeks-It was wiser to let the bird fly, thought Lady Magnhild. And there must surely be some means of keeping the girl hidden here in Aasa’s house for the rest of her time; it could be said that she was sick—there were not many who asked after Ingunn; it was a lucky chance that she had lived so much in the shade all these years. Her aunt strictly forbade her to move beyond the door during the hours when the folk of the house were out of bed. Dalla would have to live with her for the present, and when her time came, they would send for Tora.
Ingunn lay still and let her weariness overcome her. It was almost good to be alive—her feet had grown warm between the bedclothes, and sleep poured over her like sweet tepid water. Halfdazed she heard Lady Magnhild discussing with herself how they might best smuggle out the child as soon as it was born.
When she awoke, she guessed it must be late in the evening; the fire on the hearth was almost burned out, but not yet raked over. Dalla sat on a stool beside it, nodding and spinning. Outside, a storm was rising—Ingunn heard the wind on the corners of the house, and just then something wooden clattered against the wall outside. She was still sunk in placid ease.
“Dalla,” she said after a while. The old woman did not hear.
“Dalla,” she repeated a little later. “Cannot you go out and see what it is that knocks so against the wall—see if you can move it—”
Dalla rose and came up to the bed. “So you are yet proud and grand enough to send folks on errands for you, lazy-bones! I am here to herd you, but not to run and do your bidding—shame on you, paltry jade!”
Lady Magnhild looked in on her niece for a moment once or twice each day; she gave Ingunn no more angry words—said very little to her at all. One day, however, she told Ingunn that she had found a foster-mother for the child—the wife of a cottar who lived in a clearing in the woods far to the north. It was settled that Lady Magnhild should send for her at once when Ingunn’s birth-pangs came on; then they could get it out of the way as soon as it was born. Ingunn said nothing to this, and Lady Magnhild guessed it must be as she thought—the girl was only half-witted.
Then she was left alone with Dalla, day and night. She crouched, still as a mouse; if she did but move or breathe heavily, she feared Dalla would fall upon her with scorn and abuse, all the foulest and most cruel words she could think of.
Dalla and Grim had never been thralls in the way that folk in old time were as their masters’ cattle. But in many places it had made very little difference between free-born and serf-born that the latter now had rights under the law. And least of all where it was a question of the descendants of the ancient noble families and their married servants who were the offspring of the old thrall stock of the house. It could never occur to such a master or mistress to part with such a couple, were they never so troublesome or incapable or sick or infirm; nor had it ever been the custom in these families to sell their thralls: an unusually good-looking or promising thrall child might be given away to a young relative or a godchild, and a thrall who gave far more trouble than service, or who was guilty of a misdeed, disappeared.—And even now the serf-born serving-folk hardly ever thought of anything but staying and earning their livelihood where they were born—in the inland districts. The honour of their master’s house was their honour, its happiness and prosperity were theirs; they followed it in good and evil fortune, and the subject they threshed out again and again among themselves was the life of their masters in hall and chamber and bower, every scrap of it they could seize upon.
Aasa Magnusdatter had had Grim and Dalla with her since all three were children, and when she sent them to Steinfinn, it was as a gift from mother to son. Steinfinn’s lot had been theirs, and since Aasa thought that his misfortunes were due to his marriage, they conceived a hatred for his wife, though they dared not show it. Although Ingunn by no means took after her mother, she had come in for a share of their ill will—without very much reason. But Olav and Tora had been their favourites among the children; these two were calm and considerate in their behaviour to the old bailiff and his sister—Ingunn was thoughtless and flighty, and they decried her yet more in order to exalt the others. And besides this, Dalla had been violently jealous all these years, that Ingunn and not she should have the care of Lady Aasa, and she saw the grandmother’s fondness for the girl. And now that Ingunn had brought this unheard-of shame upon the Steinfinnssons and proved false to Olav, and had been handed over to Dalla, perfectly helpless and without the power of defending herself, the thrall woman took her revenge, according to her lights.
In the crudest and cruellest language she spoke at length of all the things of which Ingunn was only dimly aware—of Teit and of Olav—till the young woman was scalded with shame and wished the floor would open and hide her in the earth. Whether Ingunn sat or stood or walked, Dalla fell upon her with mockery for being so ugly. And then the old woman tried as well as she could to scare Ingunn out of her wits with talk of what awaited her when she should be laid on the floor; she predicted her the hardest of childbirths and said she could see it in her that she was to die.
Ingunn had always known that Dalla disliked her and counted her a fool, but she had never paid much attention to that. And it came as an altogether unlooked-for blow that the old thrall woman should apply herself to torturing her with such untiring malignity. Ingunn could guess no other reason for it but that she herself must be so disgraced and besmirched and abominable that those who had to be with her were minded to trample on her, as one tramples on a loathsome reptile.
So she gave up all thought of peace or preservation. That she might die was the best she dared hope. If only she might be free of this strange creature—for which she could still feel nothing but terror and hatred—she had no wish in the world but to be allowed to die.
Ten days passed in this way. Late in the evening they were sitting, each in her corner, Ingunn and Dalla, when someone came to the door. Dalla started up. “None comes in here!”
“Oh yes, I come in,” said the man who stepped across the threshold; it was Arnvid.
Ingunn got up and went to meet him; she laid her arm about his neck and leaned forward to him—he was the only one she knew of on earth who would be good to her, even now. Then she felt him draw back a little and loosen the hold of her hands on his neck—and this sank into her, deeper than Dalla’s abuse. Even Arnvid abhorred her—was she as befouled as that? The next moment Arnvid stroked her cheek, took her hand, and made her sit by him on the little settle by the fire.
“Go out with you, Dalla,” he said to the old woman. “The Fiend himself must have put it into Magnhild’s head to send that half-crazy witch to help you.—Or do you like to have her here perhaps?”
“Oh, no,” she said weakly. And little by little Arnvid got from her something of Dalla’s conduct—though it was not much that Ingunn could bring herself to mention. He took her hand and laid it on his knee. “Never fear—I trow you will be plagued with her no more!”
But there was so little that he could bring himself to say. He wished that she herself would tell him how Olav had taken this, and whether she knew what the man would do, or where he was now, or what was to become of herself; but it was impossible for him to speak of it first.
So Olav’s name was never spoken between them, though Arnvid sat there a pretty long time. As he was going, he said: “ ’Tis an ill thing
, Ingunn—I cannot help you. But you must try to send me word as soon as there comes a time when a man can be of use to you. I would fain have a word to say when they take counsel how you and the child shall be bestowed.” “There is no man can help me.”
“Nay, that is true enough. You must put yourself in God’s hands, Ingunn—then you know all will be well in the end.”
“Ay, I know that. And you can say it. But ’tis not you that are in this case.” She squeezed his hand in her distress. “I cannot sleep at night—and I have such dreadful thirst. And I dare not get up and drink for fear of Dalla—”
“Nay, nay,” said Arnvid softly. “There is none of us that has known what it feels like to hang upon a cross. But that robber, he knew—and he hung there rightfully. And you know yourself what he did—”
Awhile after Arnvid had gone out, Lady Magnhild came and rebuked Dalla sharply. She bade her remember that Ingunn was Steinfinn’s daughter, whether she had done wrong or not, and she was not to be troubled with unseemly prating from a serving-woman. And when Ingunn was in bed, Dalla came in with a great bowl full of whey and water and set it down on the footstool beside the bed with a smack, so that the drink splashed over. But in the course of the night, when Ingunn wanted to drink, she got a mouthful of refuse—it tasted like straw and sweepings from the floor.
Arnvid came in to see her next day, before he left, but they had not much to say to each other.
Ivar had come to Berg in Arnvid’s company, but he did not go to see his niece. Ingunn did not know whether he was so angry with her that he would not look at her, or whether any had asked him to stay away so as to spare her.
Arnvid reached the convent of the preaching friars in the middle of the day and learned at once from the porter that Olav was there—he had come more than a week ago. He did not lie in the guesthouse, but in a little house that the new Prior had had built in the kale-yard—he had bethought him that men and women ought not to be lodged together in the hostel, but that the women must stay outside the convent walls. But the women would not lie there, separated from their company and close to the graveyard. Moreover the house was badly built, and draughty in winter, and instead of a hearth Sir Bjarne had had a stove built in the corner by the door, but it gave no heat, and the smoke from it would not draw out through the louver.
It was cold under the shadow of the church and chapter-house, and the thin coat of ice crunched with the jingling of his spurs as Arnvid walked through the garden. Here the snow had now thawed enough to leave the rows of peas and beans standing out as black banks with pale rotting stalks above. The women’s house abutted on the churchyard fence; it was darkened by some big old trees even now, when they were bare.
The house had no anteroom; Arnvid walked straight in. Olav was sitting on his bed with his legs hanging over the side and his neck resting against the wall. Arnvid saw with a shock how changed his friend was. His ashen hair seemed faded, because his whole complexion was now the same, a greyish yellow, and it was so long since he had shaved that the lower part of his face seemed flooded—Olav was blighted and haggard all over. The fresh timber walls were still yellow, and there was some smoke in the room, but only a few embers glowed in the stove—and Arnvid felt that he had come into a place where all was wan and frozen.
Neither man noticed that they forgot their greetings.
“Have you come?” asked Olav.
“Yes—” said Arnvid stupidly. Then he remembered to say—as Olav knew it had been his intention the whole time—he had come to see Finn, his son, who was a pupil in the school. After that it occurred to him that he must tell Olav how they had fared with Haftor Kolbeinsson.
“How fared you, then?” asked Olav.
Oh, Haftor had been well pleased with the money—
“How long were you at Berg?” Olav gave a little frozen laugh. “I can see you have been there.”
“I lay there last night.”
“And how goes it there?”
“As you may well conceive,” said Arnvid curtly.
Olav said no more. Arnvid sat down, and they were both silent. After a while a lay brother came in with bread and ale for the new-comer. Arnvid drank, but could not eat. The monk stayed for a few moments, chatting with Arnvid—Olav only sat and glared. And when the brother was gone, the silence fell between them again.
At last Arnvid pulled himself together. “What will you do about the atonement now, Olav? Will you give me and Ivar authority to act for you, when the matter is to be concluded? For you will have no mind to come north yourself and meet Haftor this summer?”
“I cannot see how I am to escape it,” replied Olav. “She cannot journey alone over the half of Norway and home to me. There might be a danger that the next bantling was on the way before she reached her journey’s end—” he smiled maliciously. “Oh nay, it were safer that I take her in hand myself; so soon as may be.”
After a pause Arnvid asked, in a low and tremulous voice: “What do you mean by that?”
Olav laughed.
“Do you think of taking her to you after this?” asked Arnvid softly.
“You must know that, I suppose, you who are half-trained for a priest,” said Olav bitterly. “That I cannot part from her.”
“No,” replied Arnvid quietly. “But I was not sure whether you saw that yourself. But, you know, none can force you take her into your house and live with her after this.”
“I must have someone to live with, I trow, like the rest,” said Olav in the same bitter tone. “I have lived among strangers from my seventh year. ’Tis not too soon to have a house and home of my own. But, you know, ’tis more than I had reckoned for, that she should bring into the household a brat ready-made—”
“Magnhild has provided already for the fostering of the child,” said Arnvid softly. “It will be set out to nurse the same day it sees the light.”
“Nay. I will not be shackled with any dealings in these parts. I will have nothing to do with anyone from here. Neither she nor I shall set our foot here in the north when once we have come away from it. In the devil’s name, has my wife turned whore, I must be able to take her bastard into the bargain—” He ground his teeth.
“She is in such shame and distress now, Olav,” pleaded Arnvid.
“Ay—we must smart, I wis, both one and the other, for the favours she allowed that vagabond Icelander of hers—”
“Never have I seen a child so wretched and cast down. Remember, Olav, when you had to leave her and fly the country—she was in an ill way even then, Ingunn. Weak she has always been, had little strength or wit to choose wisely for herself—”
“I know that well enough. It is not that I have ever thought her shrewd or firm of mind. But still this is a hard thing for a man to have to stomach.—Have they—” his voice suddenly failed him—“have they been very harsh with her? Know you that?”
“Nay, they have not. But it needs not much to break her. You know that yourself.”
Olav made no reply. He leaned forward, with his hands hanging over his knees, and stared at the floor. After a while Arnvid said: “At Berg, I ween, there is none but thought you would put her away.”
Olav sat as before. Arnvid dared not bring out what he had at heart. Then suddenly Olav himself spoke: “I said to her that I should come back—to Ingunn. Half a heathen she has been all her days, but I thought she had guessed so much—that we are bound together, while we are in life—”
Arnvid said: “When they wished to give her to Gudmund Jonsson, you know that would have been a right good match for her—but then she spoke as though she understood full well.”
“Ha! But now, when she herself has broken her troth, she expects that I too shall go back on all I have spoken before God and men—?”
“She expects she is to die, I believe.”
“Ay, that were the easiest way out, for both her and me.”
Arnvid did not answer.
Then Olav asked: “I promised you once—that I would never fail y
our kinswoman. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
At last Arnvid broke the silence: “Ought they not to know it, Ivar and Magnhild—that you will take her in spite of all?”
He received no answer; and spoke again: “Will you consent that I tell them what you will do?”
“I can tell them myself what I will do,” answered Olav shortly. “I forgot some of my things there too,” he added, as though to soften it.
Arnvid said nothing. He thought that, in the mood Olav was in now, it was uncertain that they would have much comfort of him when he came to Berg. But he deemed he had no right to meddle with the affair further than he had done.
In the course of the afternoon, when Olav was ready for the road, he asked Arnvid: “When had you thought of going home again?”
Arnvid said he had not thought of that yet.
Olav did not look at the other, and he spoke as though he were ashamed and had difficulty in getting the words out: “I would rather we did not see each other again—before the atonement feast. When I come back from Berg, I would rather not—” he clenched his fists and ground his teeth sharply—“I cannot bear the sight of anyone who knows of this!”
Arnvid turned crimson in the face, but he swallowed the insult and answered coolly: “As you will.—Should you change your mind, you know the way to Miklebö.”
Olav gave Arnvid his hand, but would not meet the other’s eyes. “Ay—thanks for that—’tis not that I am ungrateful—”
“Nay, nay—You go south now, to Hestviken?” he asked nevertheless.
“No, I have thought to stay here—for a time. Haply I ought to find out if I am to prepare a home-coming feast or not—” he tried to laugh. “If she is not to live, there is no need—”
Ingunn sat crouching in the corner by the bed, and it was so dark both indoors and out that she could not distinguish who it was that came in, but she thought it was Dalla, who had finished in the byre. But the figure did not move, after closing the door behind it—and a terrible fear seized her, though she could not guess what it was that had come in; her heart flew up into her throat and throbbed like a sledge-hammer if anyone spoke to her. She struggled to quell her loud breathing and drew back into her corner, still as a mouse.