“ ’Tis not the same,” said Lavrans hotly. “Power and the knightly name lay ready to Erlend’s hand, and he turned his back on them to go a-whoring. But I see, now, you are against me, too. Maybe you think, like Aasmund and Trond, ’tis an honour for me that these great folks would have my daughter for one of their kinsmen—”
Ragnfrid spoke in some heat: “I have told you, I see not that you need be so overnice as to fear that Erlend’s kinsmen should think they stoop in these dealings. But see you not what all things betoken—a gentle and a biddable child to find courage to set herself up against us and turn away Simon Darre—have you not seen that Kristin is nowise herself since she came back from Oslo—see you not she goes around like one bewitched—Will you not understand, she loves this man so sorely, that, if you yield not, a great misfortune may befall?”
“What mean you by that?” asked the father, looking up sharply.
“Many a man greets his son-in-law and knows not of it,” said Ragnfrid.
The man seemed to stiffen where he sat; his face grew slowly white:
“You that are her mother!” he said hoarsely. “Have you—have you seen—such sure tokens—that you dare charge your own daughter—”
“No, no,” said Ragnfrid quickly. “I meant it not as you think. But when things are thus, who can tell what has befallen, or what may befall? I have seen her heart; not one thought hath she left but her love for this man—’twere no marvel if one day she showed us that he is dearer to her than her honour—or her life.”
Lavrans sprang up:
“Oh, you are mad! Can you think such things of our fair, good child? No harm, surely, can have come to her where she was—with the holy nuns. I wot well she is no byre-wench to go clipping behind walls and fences. Think but of it: ’tis not possible she can have seen this man or talked with him so many times—be sure it will pass away; it cannot be aught but a young maid’s fancy. God knows, ’tis a heavy sight enough for me to see her sorrow so; but be sure it must pass by in time.
“Life, you say, and honour—. At home here by my own hearthstone ’twill go hard if I cannot guard my own maiden. Nor do I deem that any maid come of good people and bred up Christianly in shamefastness will be so quick to throw away her honour—nor yet her life. Aye, such things are told of in songs and ballads, sure enough—but methinks ’tis so that when a man or a maid is tempted to do such a deed, they make up a song about it, and ease their hearts thereby—but the deed itself they forbear to do—.
“You yourself,” he said, stopping before his wife: “There was another man you would fain have wed, in those days when we were brought together. How think you it would have gone with you, had your father let you have your will on that score?”
It was Ragnfrid now that was grown deadly pale:
“Jesus, Maria! who hath told—”
“Sigurd of Loptsgaard said somewhat—’twas when we were just come hither to the Dale,” said Lavrans. “But answer me what I asked—Think you your life had been gladder had Ivar given you to that man?”
His wife stood with head bowed low:
“That man,” she said—he could scarce hear the words: “ ’Twas he would not have me.” A throb seemed to pass through her body—she struck out before her with her clenched hand.
The husband laid his hands softly on her shoulders:
“Is it that,” he asked as if overcome, and a deep and sorrowful wonder sounded in his voice; “—is it that—through all these years—have you been sorrowing for him—Ragnfrid?”
She trembled much, but she said nothing.
“Ragnfrid?” he asked again. “Aye, but afterward—when Björgulf was dead—and afterward—when you—when you would have had me be to you as—as I could not be. Were you thinking then of that other?” He spoke low, in fear and bewilderment and pain.
“How can you have such thoughts?” she whispered, on the verge of weeping.
Lavrans pressed his forehead against hers and moved his head gently from side to side.
“I know not. You are so strange—and all you have said tonight. I was afraid, Ragnfrid. Like enough I understand not the hearts of women—”
Ragnfrid smiled palely and laid her arms about his neck.
“God knows, Lavrans—I was a beggar to you, because I loved you more than ’tis good that a human soul should love.—And I hated that other so that I felt the devil joyed in my hate.”
“I have held you dear, my wife,” said Lavrans, kissing her, “aye, with all my heart have I held you dear. You know that, surely? Methought always that we two were happy together—Ragnfrid?”
“You were the best husband to me,” said she with a little sob, and clung close to him.
He pressed her to him strongly:
“Tonight I would fain sleep with you, Ragnfrid. And if you would be to me as you were in old days, I should not be—such a fool—”
The woman seemed to stiffen in his arms—she drew away a little:
“ ’Tis Fast-time.” She spoke low—in a strange, hard voice.
“It is so.” He laughed a little. “You and I, Ragnfrid—we have kept all the fasts, and striven to do God’s bidding in all things. And now almost I could think—maybe we had been happier had we more to repent—”
“Oh, speak not so—you,” she begged wildly, pressing her thin hands to his temples. “You know well I would not you should do aught but what you feel
