“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 bedside—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, where 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 of 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.
“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.
“—I ride north tomorrow early,” said he, and then he took her hand in farewell, while the sister who kept the door looked on.
Simon Darre walked downward 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 Lavrans’ mind
