The Axe (27 page)

It was, as she thought, Gudmund Jonsson. He asked: “Had you lain down already? I wonder if I could say a word to you tonight. There is some haste in it, you can guess.”

“Ay, you may come in. We cannot stand here in the cold—”

“But lay you down,” he said as he came in and saw how thinly clad she was. “Maybe you will let me lie here by the bedpost, so that we may talk better?”

At first they talked a little of the weather and of Haakon Gautsson, who now seemed minded to settle at Frettastein, and so Haftor would go home to his father’s. Ingunn liked Gudmund’s voice and his quiet, pleasant manner. And besides, she could not help liking to lie here in the dark, chatting with a wooer, in cosy comfort. It was so long since anyone had sought her out or cared to talk to her for her own sake. In spite of her having to tell him that his wooing was useless, it was some reparation that a man of Gudmund’s condition should have cast his eyes upon her, although her own kinsmen had declared her a worthless woman.

“Ay, there was a thing I wished to ask you,” said her guest at last. “Were you in earnest in that you said this evening?”

“I was in earnest.”

“Ay, then it is best I tell you,” said Gudmund, “my father and mother would fain have me married this year, and we have agreed to ask Ivar Toresson for you.”

Ingunn was silent. Gudmund began again: “But if I ask my father to seek elsewhere, he will do so. If it is so that you mean all that you said this evening?”

As he still got no answer, he said: “For you must know, if we once ask Ivar or Kolbein, we shall not get nay. But if you like it not, I will make it so that you shall not be troubled with the matter any more.”

Ingunn said: “I cannot understand, Gudmund, how you and
your kinsfolk should think of such a one as I—seeing what a good match you have the right to expect. You must know all that is said of me.”

“Yes. But we must not be too strict or too hard. Your kinsmen would admit you to full inheritance with your brothers and sister if this match could be made between us two—and for myself I think you look well—and are right comely—”

Ingunn made no haste to reply. It was so good to be able to lie thus talking with such a pleasing young man, to feel the warmth of his presence and his living breath against her cheek in the dark. There had so long been a cold, empty space about her. Then she said very gently: “Now you know my mind—I cannot let myself be married to
any
man but to him who owns me. But for that, you must know, I would prize aright the good fortune which you would offer me.”

“Ah,” said Gudmund. “Think you not, Ingunn, that we two might have agreed well together?”

“Indeed I think so. The woman would needs be a troll who could not live happily with you. But now you must see that I am not free—”

“Nay, nay,” said Gudmund with a sigh. “Then I will take care that you have no more torment for our sake. I would fain have had you. But now I wis I shall have another.”

They lay chatting awhile yet, but at last Gudmund thought it time he was away, and Ingunn said it might be so. She followed him to the door to bar it after him, and they parted with a clasp of the hand. Ingunn felt strangely warmed and exhilarated as she came back and went to bed for good. Tonight she would be able to sleep so well—

In Lent Ingunn was allowed to ride into the town, that she might make her confession to Brother Vegard—he had been her father confessor since the day she was confirmed, at the age of eight, until Arnvid took her with him to Miklebö.

It was no easy matter for her to tell the monk all about her difficulties. Until now she had always been able in confessing to give each sin its name: she had prayed without reflecting, had answered her parents discourteously, been angry with Tora or the maids, taken things without leave, spoken untruthfully—and then this last sin with Olav. Now she felt that it was mostly thoughts she
had to speak about—and she herself found it hard to grasp them and put them into words. There was especially this thought, that she was afraid she might let herself be scared or threatened into breaking the troth she had given Olav Audunsson under God’s eyes.

Brother Vegard said she had done right in refusing to let herself be given to any other man, so long as she had not received true tidings of Olav’s death. The monk had judged her and Olav’s self-will far more strictly than the Bishop; but he too said they were bound to each other, so long as both were alive. But she must pray to God to save her from such thoughts as that she would take her own life; that was a deadly sin, no less than if she let herself be forced into a marriage without being a widow. And he cautioned her, in serious terms, against thinking too much, as she had said, of life with Olav and of the children she was to have by him. Such thoughts could only serve to weaken her will, to provoke lasciviousness and defiance of her kinsmen—and she must have learned by now that she and Olav had themselves brought about their misfortunes by their fond self-indulence and by their disobedience toward those whom God had set over them in their youth. It would be far better now that she should aim at the virtue of patience, bear her fate as the chastisement of a loving father, apply herself to a life of prayer, almsgiving, and ministering affection toward her kinsfolk, so long as they did not ask her to obey them in what was sinful. Finally Brother Vegard said that he believed it would be better for her if she could be admitted to a convent of nuns and dwell there as a pious widow while waiting to hear whether Olav could come home to his native land and take her to himself, if it were God’s will that such happiness should be theirs. If she received certain tidings of his death, then she could choose whether she would return to the world or whether she would take the veil, devote herself to prayer for the souls of Olav and her parents and for all souls that had been led astray by self-will and by over-great love of the pomps and joys of this world. The monk offered himself to speak with her kinsfolk of this, and himself to conduct her to a convent, if she had a mind to it.

But Ingunn was frightened; she feared that if once she were inside a convent, it would not be easy for her to slip out—although Brother Vegard said that, so long as Olav lived, she could not take
the veil without his consent. So Ingunn replied that her grandmother was old and weak and needed her, and Brother Vegard then agreed with her that so long as Aasa Magnusdatter had need of her, she must stay with her grandmother.

When she came back to Berg after Easter, Haakon and Tora had left with all their train; it had been settled that they were to live at Frettastein. The place was very quiet after them. With the old women one day was so much like another that for that matter Ingunn might as well have been living in a convent.

And then she could not resist it—after a while she took up again her imaginary life with husband and children in a dream-manor that she called Hestviken. But now and again they came up in her, those feelings which Gudmund Jonsson’s wooing had called to life—fear, but with it a sort of satisfaction. So after all she had not misbehaved herself so badly but that a rich and well-born young man could think of wooing her. And she dreamed of handsome and mighty suitors whom her uncles would seek to force on her—and she showed her courage and her firm will, and no torments and humiliations they could think of would prevail against her fidelity to Olav Audunsson.

A
T
B
ERG
one day passed like another. Time flew so fast that Ingunn could not guess what became of it. But when she saw how much had happened in the others’ lives, how everything about them grew and spread, she felt a sting of anxiety—was it so long ago already!

Tora came down from Frettastein and brought both the children with her. Steinfinn romped high and low like a whirlwind—he was big and forward for his age, two years and a half. His little sister could already push herself along the floor till she reached a bench, when she would catch hold of it and stand on her feet. Tora insisted that Ingunn must come with her to Frettastein. Ingunn had such a way with children—and as Tora expected her third before Olav’s Mass,
she thought it no more than reasonable
that her sister should come to live with her and help to bring up all these children. But Ingunn said her grandmother could not manage without her. In her heart she thought she had no wish to see Frettastein again—unless she came there together with Olav.

She did not know where he was now. The only time she had heard news of him was last summer, when Arnvid was a guest at Berg. Asbjörn All-fat, the priest, had returned to Norway the same spring—he had followed Bishop Torfinn in his exile, accompanied him to Rome, and been with him when he died, in Flanders. On his way home Asbjörn had sought out Olav in Denmark; he was then with his mother’s brother and was well. Asbjörn had afterwards become a parish priest somewhere in the Trondheim district. On his journey up through Österdal he had looked in on Arnvid at Miklebö and brought him greetings from his friend.

Arnvid had Steinar with him to give pleasure to Ingunn. But the boy had grown so big that she could not play with him as of old. His father said to Steinar that Ingunn had once rescued him from being burned up. But this did not seem to make much impression on the child.

Ingunn took him out in a boat on the lake—they were to fish. She paddled about near the shore, without the strength to row the heavy boat any distance, and Steinar had never been in a boat before. But they had a great deal of fun in this way, though their fishing did not come to much.

Gudmund Jonsson was married long ago and had a son by his wife. He came to Berg now and then and borrowed a boat there, when he had to go to his grandfather’s on the other side of the bay.

There was only herself about the place, day in, day out, with the two old women, and now she was already twenty winters old. Fade away, Uncle Ivar had said that time—vaguely she knew that she was fairer than she had ever been. The shut-in life with her grandmother had paled her cheeks, but her skin was as clear as a flower. And she was no longer so thin; her flesh had grown firmer—and she did not hold herself so loosely and stoopingly. She had learned to walk gracefully, and she carried her tall, slender figure with a soft and supple charm of her own. On the rare occasions when she mixed among people, she felt that many men had their
eyes on her; she noticed this, though she never returned their gaze, but always moved quietly, with eyes modestly lowered and a gentle melancholy in her look.

One evening, when some strangers had been at Berg on some business with Lady Magnhild, one of the men forced his way into the room after she had gone to bed. He was far gone in drink. Ingunn got him out again; old Aasa had not so much as noticed that anyone had come in. The man turned almost sober as he slunk out—like a whipped dog under the lash of her icy, low-voiced anger.

But when she had got the fellow out of doors, she collapsed altogether—she trembled and her teeth chattered with fright. And what frightened her most was—she herself had felt so strangely—though he could not have noticed anything, of that she were sure. While she was defending herself against him, cool and collected, far too angry and outraged to be afraid, she had felt deep down within herself, as it were, a temptation to let go, to give up.—She was so tired, so tired—it seemed to her all at once that she had been defending herself for years. She was tired of waiting.—Olav should have been here—he should have been here
now!
She did not get a wink of sleep that night; shaken and miserable she lay sobbing and weeping, buried beneath the bedclothes; it seemed to her she could no longer bear this life.—But next day, when this man came to make his excuses, she received his stuttering speech with a few words of gentle dignity, looking him straight in the face; the glance of her great dark eyes was so full of sorrowful scorn that the man crept rather than walked away from her.

Olav—she now knew nothing more of him. And oftener and oftener she lay weeping till far into the night, tortured by disquietude and longing and a dull dread: how long would it be—! She pressed his sheath-knife with both hands against her bosom. The blade was still as bright as ever. And that was all she had to cling to.

Then came a Sunday, toward the end of summer. Only Ingunn had gone to mass from Berg, together with some of the servants. She was on horseback; old Grim walked by her side, leading the dun. They came into the courtyard, the old man was just about to
help her off her horse—when she saw a young, fair-haired man stooping his head as he came out of the low door of Magnhild’s house. It seemed a strangely long and stubborn moment before she recognized the man—it was Olav.

He came to meet her, and in the first flash Ingunn thought everything turned queerly grey and lustreless—as when one has been lying on the ground face-downward on a scorching summer day, and then opens one’s eyes and looks around: the sunshine and the whole world seem to have faded and all the colours are much paler than one expected.

She had always remembered Olav as much taller, bigger in every way. And handsomer—she remembered his fair colour as something radiant.

He came up, lifted her out of the saddle, and set her on the ground. Then they took hands in greeting, walked side by side toward the house; neither said anything.

Ivar Toresson appeared in the doorway; he greeted Ingunn with a great smile: “Are you pleased now, Ingunn—with the guest I have brought to the house this time?”

Ingunn’s whole face awoke—she turned pink right down to her neck, a radiant smile broke out in her eyes and on her lips. “Have you two come
together?”
She looked from her uncle to Olav. Then he too smiled—the quiet brightening that she knew so intimately: the pale, handsome mouth moved gently, the lips were not even parted; he dropped his eyelids slightly, and under the long, silky white lashes his glance was blue and happy.