Kristin laughed and went with the Lady. Soon after, Erlend came strolling in after them, drew a stool forward to the hearth, and sat there hindering the women in their work. He caught hold of Kristin every time she came nigh him, as she hurried about her work. At last he drew her down on his knee:
“ ’Tis even as Ulf said, I trow; you are the housewife I need.”
“Aye, aye,” said Aashild, with a vexed laugh. “She will serve your turn well enough. ’Tis she that stakes all in this adventure—you hazard not much.”
“You speak truth,” said Erlend. “But I wot well I have shown I had the will to come to her by the right road. Be not so angry, Moster Aashild.”
“I do well to be angry,” said the lady. “Scarce have you set your house in order, but you must needs guide things so that you have to run from it all again with a woman.”
“You must bear in mind, kinswoman—so hath it ever been, that ’twas not the worst men who fell into trouble for a woman’s sake—all sagas tell us that.”
“Oh, God help us all!” said Aashild. Her face grew young and soft. “That tale have I heard before, Erlend,” she laid her hand on his head and gave his hair a little tug.
At that moment Ulf Haldorsön tore open the door, and shut it quickly behind him:
“Here is come yet another guest, Erlend—the one you are least fain to see, I trow.”
“Is it Lavrans Björgulfsön?” said Erlend, starting up.
“Well if it were,” said the man. “ ’Tis Eline Ormsdatter.”
The door was opened from without; the woman who came in thrust Ulf aside and came forward into the light. Kristin looked at Erlend; at first he seemed to shrivel and shrink together; then he drew himself up, with a dark flush on his face:
“In the devil’s name, where come you from—what would you here?”
Lady Aashild stepped forward and spoke:
“You must come with us to the hall, Eline Ormsdatter. So much manners at least we have in this house, that we welcome not our guests in the kitchen.”
“I look not, Lady Aashild,” said the other, “to be welcomed as a guest by Erlend’s kinsfolk—Asked you from whence I came?—I come from Husaby, as you might know. I bear you greetings from Orm and Margret; they are well.”
Erlend made no answer.
“When I heard that you had had Gissur Arnfinsön raise money for you, and that you were for the south again,” she went on, “I thought ’twas like you would bide a while this time with your kinsfolk in Gudbrandsdal. I knew that you had made suit for the daughter of a neighbour of theirs.”
She looked across at Kristin for the first time, and met the girl’s eyes. Kristin was very pale, but she looked calmly and keenly at the other.
She was stony-calm. She had known it from the moment she heard who was come—this was the thought she had been fleeing from always; this thought it was she had tried to smother under impatience, restlessness and defiance; the whole time she had been striving not to think whether Erlend had freed himself wholly and fully from his former paramour. Now she was overtaken—useless to struggle any more. But she begged not nor beseeched for herself.
She saw that Eline Ormsdatter was fair. She was young no longer; but she was fair—once she must have been exceeding fair. She had thrown back her hood; her head was round as a ball, and hard; the cheekbones stood out—but none the less it was plain to see, once she had been very fair. Her coif covered but the back part of her head; while she was speaking, her hands kept smoothing the waving, bright-gold front-hair beneath the linen. Kristin had never seen a woman with such great eyes; they were dark brown, round and hard; but under the narrow coal-black eyebrows and the long lashes they were strangely beautiful against her golden hair. The skin of her cheeks and lips was chafed and raw from her ride in the cold, but it could not spoil her much; she was too fair for that. The heavy riding-dress covered up her form, but she bore herself in it as does only a woman most proud and secure in the glory of a fair body. She was scarce as tall as Kristin; but she held herself so well that she seemed yet taller than the slender, spare-limbed girl.
“Hath she been with you at Husaby the whole time?” asked Kristin in a low voice.
“I have not been at Husaby,” said Erlend curtly, flushing red again. “I have dwelt at Hestnæs the most of the summer.”
“Here now are the tidings I came to bring you, Erlend,” said Eline. “You need not any longer take shelter with your kinsfolk and try their hospitality for that I am keeping your house. Since this autumn I have been a widow.” Erlend stood motionless.
“It was not I that bade you come to Husaby last year, to keep my house,” said he with effort.
“I heard that all things were going to waste there,” said Eline. “I had so much kindness left for you from old days, Erlend, that methought I should lend a hand to help you—although God knows you have not dealt well with our children or with me.”
“For the children I have done what I could,” said Erlend. “And well you know, ’twas for their sake I suffered you to live on at Husaby. That you profited them or me by it you scarce can think yourself, I trow,” he added, smiling scornfully. “Gissur could guide things well enough without your help.”
“Aye, you have ever had such mighty trust in Gissur,” said Eline,
