Then Jörund said that she was lying, and he had never a thought but that she had inherited the silver from Aasmund of Haugseter. So much was true, that she was this man’s daughter, but she had fallen into evil courses and had run from home. It was only when Jörund had shown Eirik his purchase that his brother-in-law had hinted it might be stolen goods. Thereupon Jörund would keep it no longer, but Eirik offered to buy it of him for the black gelding he was now riding—and there was a great tankard, four smaller cups, and a lump of melted silver. But afterwards, when winter was come, Eirik had said he dared not keep it any longer—since he was now to marry Guttorm’s niece, he thought it safest to restore it to the master of Draumtorp ere the betrothal took place.
Eirik stood inertly leaning his back against the fence. The snow-covered fields across the river sparkled so that it hurt his eyes with the glare of blue and white—and if he looked down, where the river ran dark between its snow-clad banks of clay, he turned giddy. A raging headache had come upon him all at once.
“What said Berse?” asked Eirik.
“Berse—oh, you may well guess. But tell me, Eirik, what manner of man is this brother-in-law of yours, Jörund Rypa?”
“You must have heard of the Rypungs of Gunnarsby. He and I were friends for many years—”
“Are you no longer so? It struck me, when he spoke of how you had no thought of giving me back the silver until there was talk of coming affinity between us—you know, he need not have said that; ’twould have been more natural if he had not said that of his wife’s brother. Unless he purposed thereby to prevent your marriage with Gunhild—?”
Eirik looked at the other a moment.
“It is hard to believe such a thing—” he whispered feebly. Then he straightened his shoulders, shook himself slightly, and flung his cloak about him. “But now I will go and find Berse,” he said briskly.
Guttorm put out a hand as though to detain him. “One thing you cannot fail to see, Eirik—that which we had in mind for you and Gunhild, there can be naught of that now?”
“But you will speak on my behalf, Guttorm,” asked the young man eagerly—“tell Berse you believe I am an honourable man?”
“That I will do, be sure of that. But there is—the other, Eirik. So surely as we believe you to be true men, you and your father and all your kinsmen beside, even so must we fear all the more to be linked in affinity with that one—”
Eirik stared at Guttorm—he had turned white about the mouth like a sick man.
“I will find Berse, for all that,” he said, and began to walk rapidly back toward the street.
But when they came back to their lodging they were told that Berse had ridden away with all his company. And Jörund had left immediately after. It was Torgrim of Rynjul who had taken Eirik’s part, said Karl, Guttorm’s son-in-law; but when Berse utterly refused to believe that Eirik was as innocent as the babe unborn, Torgrim had flown into a rage, saying ’twas an ill thing Berse had been given no wits, for now he had great need of some—and so the old man had swept out of the house in great wrath. Torgrim’s parley with Jörund had ended in the franklin’s seizing a cowhide whip that lay there and striking Jörund across the face with it—
“And would God and Saint Olav had guided my hand so that I had found a spear instead and run him through,” Torgrim bewailed when they spoke of it.
Then he turned his wrath upon Eirik, who had made no answer to this outburst. “You sit there moping like a big-bellied bride-or like an archangel that has had his wings stripped of feathers by the devils! Better be off at once to the friars and beg them to give you back your frock! Then Jörund will have got what he sought!”
Karl whistled—Guttorm looked up sharply.
But Eirik replied calmly: “Whatever may befall—’twill not be in that way that I go back to the convent—if I go.”
It was Torgrim who said they ought to ride away at once—acquaint Olav with the turn of events. “You are an upright man, Guttorm, so you will come with us.” Guttorm promised.
“It had been better if you had asked counsel of your father,” said Guttorm to Eirik as they rode across the ice of the Botnfiord, “or ever you came to this!”
“You who know him,” replied Eirik hotly, “how think you Father would have taken it? ’Twould have been unbearable for us all to live together at Hestviken thereafter. God help my sister and her children now—”
A little way from Draumtorp one of Guttorm’s house-carls met them; he announced that Berse had arrived and demanded speech with the master ere he rode farther on the way to Eiken.
“Let him wait,” said Torgrim, and Guttorm answered that he would return home next day.
It was dark when they came out to Hestviken. As the company rode up to the door of the house, Eirik saw that someone stood up on the lookout rock, black against the last green light on the horizon. As his father came down toward them Eirik was reminded of One who was haled from one judge to another—“I have not strength to bear it, God, my God, help me to have strength!”
It was so dark that they could not see the expression on Olav’s face when he came, but Torgrim had leaped from his horse and ran toward him.
“Has he come home, this Jörund, and what has he said?”
“Not a word that I believe,” Olav answered scornfully. “But come in!”
It was dark in the great room; only a little red eye glowed on the hearth. But then a light appeared in the anteroom—Cecilia Olavsdatter entered, bearing a candlestick with a lighted candle in each hand. Eirik stood by the door, leaning on his sword, still in his travelling-cloak. “This is the worst,” he thought as he saw his sister’s stony face. She set the candles on the table, knelt by the hearth, and began to feed the embers with bark and chips of fir, while Olav greeted Guttorm.
“These men will surely sleep here tonight?” she asked when she had made up the fire; “and will you talk together first or wait till you have supped?”
“In God’s name, let us say out what has to be said,” cried Torgrim.
At a nod from her father she turned to the door. At the same moment Jörund appeared and came forward into the light. He looked around at the new-comers.
“Eirik has mustered a troop, I see—of his friends, young and old. Now we shall hear his tale—and we all know he was ever good at making up a fable to beguile the time, so I look for naught else but that you will believe him, you, Olav, and all his kinsmen. I have no such gift, so I know I shall be the loser—I cannot devise a more likely tale, when the truth sounds unlikely.”
Behind them they heard a crash—Cecilia had barred the door. Now she stepped forward and placed herself by her husband’s side.
“Then ’tis best I begin and tell what I know—since it was I who found the silver, and it was my fault that my brother was mixed up in our affairs.”
Jörund turned upon her furiously. “You witness against your own husband—”
—and Eirik was at his sister’s other side: “Nay, Cecilia—you are not to say anything—”
Cecilia pushed both men away.
“I witness what is true—thereby we are all best served,” she said calmly, “you too, Jörund! But first I beg you all to be silent on this matter, as you hope the angels on the Day of Judgment may be silent on those of your sins which you would be most loath to hear cried aloud at the summoning of souls!”
“We shall do what we can, mistress,” said Guttorm, “that this evil business may be kept close.” The others agreed.
Then she told of the finding of the silver.
Torgrim asked: “Are you certain there was no more in the chest than these three cups?”
“Ay, for I had taken all out—the cloak I sought for lay at the bottom. But now I must go and attend to my duties—you must be both hungry and thirsty, since you have ridden so far today.”
Jörund turned and would have gone out with his wife. Olav said: “Nay, Jörund, wait awhile—we have not yet had our say on this matter.”
Cecilia turned in
the doorway. “Remember, Father, what I have said to you—Jörund was taught full young that he could not depend on his own nearest kinsmen. Ill it is that it has turned out so that he now believes you and Eirik to be among his enemies, and he thought he had something to avenge.”
“And a swingeing vengeance he took!” Torgrim cut in.
“You too, kinsman, may have helped to give my husband the belief that all here wished him ill. ’Tis not easy for a stranger to know how little you mean of all you say when the rage is upon you.”
It was an uncomfortable meal—the men ate and drank all the good things that Cecilia and her maids set before them, in silence for the most part. Olav had scarcely spoken—not a word did he address to Eirik, and Eirik and Jörund sat there silent as stones. Cecilia stayed in the room, going round herself and filling the cups. But when the maids had carried out the meats, and more ale was brought in, the mistress of the house turned to Guttorm:
“I have a boon to ask of you, Guttorm, and a great one it is, but there is none other I can turn to—my kinsman Torgrim would stand me in no good stead. Will you ride with me to Eiken tomorrow? I will speak with Berse himself.”
“Berse is at Draumtorp under my roof, mistress.”
“Then let me ride home with you. Sigmund Baardsson here will do me the kindness to come with us and bring me back.”
“I ride with Guttorm myself tomorrow,” said Olav.
“So much the better—”
“Nay,” said her father; “we cannot take you with us, my daughter. It was never our custom at Hestviken to let women speak for men.”
Eirik stole out a little while after his sister had left the room. He found her in the cook-house—she had just put out the fire and was leaving. Eirik took her in his arms. “Cecilia!”
She stood still for a moment, with her hands on her brother’s shoulders. Then she freed herself.
“I must lock up here, Eirik—’tis time I go in to bed.”
“Can you not sleep—in the upper chamber?” he asked eagerly. “Cecilia—you cannot go in—lie by him tonight!”
“I must,” she replied with a sort of laugh. “You have little sense, all of you. Could you not leave Jörund in peace?” she said hotly. “I know not if I can quiet him, but—Remember, I have three children by him.”
Eirik silently pressed her to him.
“I am not afraid,” said Cecilia in a little dry, frozen voice, and tore herself away.
Torgrim with the two young lads, Torgils and Sigmund, rode homeward next morning, as soon as they had broken their fast. Then Olav sent out word that they were to saddle the horses for Guttorm and him. Eirik brought the men their cloaks and arms. Guttorm went out first; as Olav was following, his son entreated him:
“Father-!”
Olav looked up into the young man’s white, despairing face.
“You must remember, Father—it was not I who cast my eyes upon her—Gunhild. It was you two, you and Berse, you wished it. We knew, both of us, when we met, what was your will-that we should take kindly to each other. Remember that, when you speak to her father—”
Olav shook his head. “What you have in mind, Eirik—can never be.”
“Oh, yes!” He clasped his hands vehemently. “Now all the countryside knows there is to be feasting at Agnes’s mass. Will you gain anything by it, you and he, if you set all the folk talking, when it comes to naught—? Think of that, Father, if you will think of nothing else! Be not too harsh when you speak with Berse—”
“It is a great thing you ask of me, Eirik,” said Olav quietly.
“And we have great things at stake—”
“If I can, I will think about it,” said Olav as before.
“’Tis not much you promise,” muttered Eirik.
“To none other would I promise so much, my son.” Olav went out, and Eirik followed.
Guttorm was already in the saddle. Eirik came forward to hold his father’s horse while he mounted; at that moment Cecilia came out of the door of the women’s house. She was dressed in her dark, fur-trimmed hooded cloak. She carried her infant in her arms, and Kolbein walked by her side, holding his mother’s cloak.
“Will you saddle Brunsvein for me, Eirik?” she asked. “My grey is lame of one hind leg, I saw this morning. I shall but take the children up to Ragna—”
“Nay, Cecilia,” said Olav. “I have told you, you cannot do this.”
“I must, Father. It touches me more nearly than any other of you. If Berse will not listen to you—to me he must, as he is a Christian man—when I plead for my husband and my three young sons.”
Olav stood and looked at his daughter.
Then said Guttorm, as he sat on his horse: “I believe the woman is right. Let your daughter ride with us; I think she knows best.”
“You have not strength enough, Cecilia.” Her father went up close to her. “In this cold. And ’tis not certain we can reach home this evening. It may be I must stay the night at Hestbæk. ’Twill be bad for you with milk in your breast—”
“Oh, yes, I have the strength—” with a fleeting smile she took her children over to Ragna’s house, and Eirik turned into the stable.
As they rode into the forest by the mouth of the stream, Eirik moved toward the women’s house. His heart beat fast at the thought of meeting his brother-in-law; even now it seemed he had no right to judge Jörund’s actions—the man was Cecilia’s husband, and so long as they were all alive, he was one of them.
At that moment he chanced to recall that it was here in this anteroom he had stood with Bothild that evening. He had half forgotten it—the man he had been in those days of madness, when his only wish was to hurt that poor child, had become a stranger to his new self.
Suddenly, like gleam after gleam of summer lightning, there flashed across Eirik’s soul—all the forgiveness and all the gifts he had received in these last years. And even if it were now his lot to forfeit his happiness in this world, that did not diminish the value of what God had done for him: never more could he become as he had been when he persecuted her—he realized in wonder how his raw and immature nature had ripened to hard grain. And as he opened the inner door he felt a burning compassion for Jörund’s perfidy.
The moment he crossed the threshold, Jörund struck at him—Eirik fell back a step, so that the blow fell on the door. In another instant he dashed in, seized his brother-in-law round the waist and arms; he wrenched the sword from him and flung it across the floor. Jörund had been hiding behind the door.
“Stop it now, Jörund—you have done yourself harm enough, man!” The other stood panting and scowling, and for the first time Eirik saw clearly what a change had come over Jörund of late years—he was bloated in both face and body, slack of feature, with eyes closed up, and it seemed he could not look folk in the face. Eirik shuddered—then he crossed the room, picked up the sword and handed it to his brother-in-law. “You have done enough folly—do not make it worse. You were ever too fond of your own life—you can scarce have reflected ere you risked it to be revenged on me. If you think you have cause to seek vengeance, you will hardly pay such a price for it.”
“I forestalled you, for all that,” scoffed Jörund Rypa; “do you think I could not guess what you had in mind? I heard you lurking here outside the door—”
“As you see, I am unarmed—but better sit down.”
Jörund shot a queer, hesitating glance at his brother-in-law. Then he raised his sword threateningly. Eirik smiled faintly and shook his head.
“I could cut you down on the spot—and fly to the woods—”
“That may be. But ’twill be hard to support life in the woods at this season—for one who is a stranger hereabouts. ’Tis not so sure either that you would get so far. Maybe you would not escape from the manor—”
“Am I guarded like a prisoner?” shouted Jörund. Eirik saw that his eyes looked like a hunted rat’s.
“Oh, no. But it might make some noise—the men are outside—”
&nb
sp; Jörund threw away his sword, crossed the room, and flung himself on his bed. He lay leaning on his elbow, staring at Eirik. “What have you come for, then?”
“To tell you,” replied Eirik, “that you will not be rid of me in this way—if that is what you intend. Whatever I do or do not, you must surely see—Father is an old man, Cecilia has no other near kinsman but me. So long as your conduct is such as to make me fear she has no happy life with you, there is small chance I shall go off and be a monk!”
“Cecilia is a whore!” said Jörund viciously.
“Beware of saying that again!” replied Eirik, still calm. “I believe the Evil One has taken away your wits—” No sooner had he said it than he was afraid—Jörund’s look was such that one could believe it to be true.
“I am not Kolbein’s father,” roared Jörund; “I have it from her own lips! I begged her to tell me I was so—not a word did I get out of her in answer!”
“You could scarce expect an honourable woman to answer such a question.” He felt sick with horror and disgust. Then Jörund began to howl like a dog, howled and howled—then broke into sobs and tears, while the words poured bubbling from his month: all had treated him faithlessly, his brothers, their wives, every friend and kinsman he had in the world, Cecilia and Olav and all here—Eirik scarcely understood one word in ten.
“Do you trust none, Jörund?” asked Eirik when the other paused for a moment in his rage.
In answer Jörund gave a yell as if he had been kicked.
“Jörund,” said Eirik impressively, “your wife has gone to beg Berse of Eiken hold his peace about this affair, so that your good name may be saved. She will not find it easy to plead to him—I fear you know that better than any of us. Never a word of complaint has she uttered to us her kinsfolk. You will be well advised to believe what I tell you—in our family we have never been wont to deal in guile or treachery; we may have enough to answer for without that, but we have always had a name for keeping our word—”
Jörund Rypa buried his head in the bedclothes, weeping and gasping for breath. Then, quite suddenly, he began to snore. Eirik was afraid he might be taken sick—tried to turn him so that he lay more comfortably. The eyes in Jörund’s red and swollen face half-opened for a moment, but closed again at once—it was sleep.