Her father was sitting on the farther bench, looking at her.
“We are not to go to Skog this time?” asked Kristin, to break the silence.
“No,” answered Lavrans. “I have had enough for some time with what your mother’s brother made me listen to—because I would not constrain you,” he added, as she looked up at him questioningly.
“And, truly, I would have made you keep your word,” said he a little after, “had it not been that Simon said he would not have an unwilling wife.”
“I have never given my word to Simon,” said Kristin quickly. “You have ever said before, that you would never force me into wedlock—”
“ ’Twould not have been force if I had held you to a bargain that had been published long since and was known to all men,” answered Lavrans. “These two winters past you two have borne the name of handfasted folk, and you have said naught against it, nor shown yourself unwilling, till now your wedding-day was fixed. If you would plead that the business was put off last year, so that you have not yet given Simon your troth, then that I call not upright dealing.”
Kristin stood gazing down into the fire.
“I know not which will seem the worse,” went on her father, “that it be said that you have cast off Simon, or that he has cast off you. Sir Andres sent me word—” Lavrans flushed red as he said it, “—he was wroth with the lad, and bade me crave such amends as I should think fit. I had to say what was true—I know not if aught else had been better—that, should there be amends to make, ’twas rather for us to make them. We are shamed either way.”
“I cannot think there is such great shame,” said Kristin low. “Since Simon and I are of one mind.”
“Of one mind?” repeated Lavrans. “He did not hide from me that he was unhappy, but he said, after you had spoken together, he deemed naught but misfortune could come of it if he held you to the pact.—But now must you tell me how this has come over you.”
“Has Simon said naught?” asked Kristin.
“It seemed as though he thought,” said her father, “that you have given your love to another man. Now must you tell me how this is, Kristin.”
Kristin thought for a little.
“God knows,” said she in a low voice, “I see well, Simon might be good enough for me, and maybe too good. But ’tis true that I came to know another man; and then I knew I would never have one happy hour more in all my life were I to live it out with Simon—not if all the gold in England were his to give—I would rather have the other if he owned no more than a single cow.”
“You look not that I should give you to a serving-man, I trow?” said her father.
“He is as well born as I, and better,” answered Kristin. “I meant but this—he has enough both of lands and goods, but I would rather sleep with him on the bare straw than with another man in a silken bed—”
Her father was silent for a while.
“ ’Tis one thing, Kristin, that I will not force you to take a man that likes you not—though God and St. Olav alone know what you can have against the man I had promised you to. But ’tis another thing whether the man you have set your heart upon is such as I can wed you to. You are young yet, and not over wise—and to cast his eyes upon a maid who is promised to another—’tis not the wont of an upright man—”
“No man can rule himself in that matter,” broke in Kristin.
“Aye, but he can. But so much you can understand, I trow: I will not do such offence to the Dyfrin folk as to betroth you to another the moment you have turned your back on Simon—and least of all to a man who might be more high in rank or richer.—You must say who this man is,” he said after a little.
Kristin pressed her hands together and breathed deeply. Then she said very slowly:
“I cannot, father. Thus it stands, that should I not get this man, then you can take me back to the convent and never take me from it again—I shall not live long there, I trow. But it would not be seemly that I should name his name, ere yet I know he bears as good a will toward me as I have to him. You—you must not force me to say who he is, before—before ’tis seen whether—whether he is minded to make suit for me through his kin.”
Lavrans was a long time silent. He could not but be pleased that his daughter took the matter thus; he said at length:
“So be it, then. ’Tis but reason that you would fain keep back his name, if you know not more of his purposes.”
“Now must you to bed, Kristin,” he said a little after. He came and kissed her:
“You have wrought sorrow and pain to many by this waywardness of yours, my daughter—but this you know, that your good lies next my heart—God help me, ’twould be so, I fear me, whatever you might do—He and His gentle Mother will surely help us, so that this may be turned to the best—Go now, and see that you sleep well.”
After he had lain down, Lavrans thought he heard a little sound of weeping from the bed by the other wall, where his daughter lay. But he made as though he slept. He had not the heart to say to her that he feared the old talk about her and Arne and Bentein would be brought up again now, but it weighed heavily upon him that ’twas but little he could do to save the child’s good name from being besmirched behind his back. And the worst was that he must deem much of the
