The Axe (32 page)

As the evening wore on, there was talk of dancing—they called for the
Kraaka-maal
, the stately old sword-dance. Arnvid admitted that he had known it, and Tora said both she and her sister had learned the steps. Teit cut in, flushed and keen—he knew the
whole
lay, would gladly sing for them. Lady Magnhild laughed and said that if it would amuse the young people to see the old dance once more, she could bear a part—“And you, Bjarne?” She turned to an old knight, the friend of her youth. Then two or three of the older house-folk came forward, somewhat bashfully. It was easy to see that they were eager to essay their youthful exercise once more.

Arnvid said that Teit must lead the dance—he doubtless knew it best—and then Lady Magnhild and Sir Bjarne ought to stand next. But the old people would not have this. The end of it was that
Teit came first in the chain, then Ingunn, and Arnvid with Tora. There were in all seven men with drawn swords and six women.

The dance went right well—Teit was an excellent leader. His bright, full voice was a little sharp, but it could be heard that he was a trained singer. Arnvid’s fine, rich voice supported him well in the lower part, and Sir Bjarne and two of the old house-carls still had very good voices—and they all warmed to it, so well did Teit carry on the lay and the dance. None of the women joined in the song—but thereby the old sword-dance seemed to gain in seriousness and force: it was the weapons that were to the fore, the men’s rhythmical tramp and the rising fire of their singing; the women only glided silently in and out beneath the clashing play of the swords. Ingunn danced as though in a dream—she was tall and limber, had to stoop lower than the other women; and she turned pale and breathed heavily, keeping her eyes half-closed. As she sprang forward under the blades, her loose mantle of hair fluttered out, as though she were rising on heavy wings. One of its strands swept across Teit’s chest and caught in a buckle; it gave her a wrench each time she crossed over, but she did not think of stopping the dance to free herself.

They had danced fifteen or sixteen of the verses when Lady Magnhild gave a loud cry that brought the whole chain to a standstill. The sweat was pouring down her red face—she clutched herself with both hands below the breast—now she could do no more, she cried with a laugh.

Arnvid signed to Teit with a fling of his compact little head; his eyes glistened wildly and he called out something, as he took up the strain, and all the men with him:

the men
would
have the last stanzas, even if they had to skip over ten or twelve verses between—

The men dancers were so wrought up by the game that they glowed with excitement and their voices boomed in chorus:

Then they broke the chain and reeled back to the benches, while the men laid aside their swords and wiped the sweat from their faces, laughing with delight. And the young people who had looked on cried out—so fine it had been! Lady Magnhild held her sides, panting with exhaustion: “Ay, ’tis another sort of dance than the way you hop and jump nowadays—’tis your turn now, Margret; dance one of these sweet love-ballads you young ones like so well:

for they are dainty and sweet as honey, and I trow the old lays must be too rough for such silken dolls as you are!”

The young ones did not wait to be asked twice—most of them had thought rather that the old people kept the floor too long, though ’twas a rare sight to have the old sword-dance for once.

Teit came over to where Ingunn was sitting, crouched against the wall, wrapped in her own lovely hair. The dance had not flushed her, but her face was bedewed with a waxy pallor.

“Nay, I have no more strength to dance. I will sit here and look at you.”

Teit rushed back to the others. He was unwearying and seemed to know everything, both the old lays and these new ballads by the score.

Ingunn paused in the courtyard—she had left the dancing to cross to her grandmother’s house and go to rest.

It must be nearly midnight, she thought; the sky was pale and clear all round the horizon with a white sheen that deepened to yellow in the north. Only upon the ridge on the far side of the bay was there a grey-blue veil of thin clouds, and among them the moon was setting in a trail of moist vapour.

Although the night was so clear, it was darker over the land than was usual at this time of year—meadows and cornfields and groves were still soaked from the storm earlier in the day; a cold, damp mist was rising everywhere. Over the water floated thin wisps of brownish smoke, but all the bonfires had now died down, save one which blazed fiercely on a headland far away and threw its reflection like a narrow, glowing blade upon the steel-blue water.

Teit came out to look for her—she had known he would do so. Without looking back she walked out toward the cornfield that stretched down to the fiord. When she reached the gate and stood pulling up the stakes, he came up with her.

They did not speak as they walked on, she in front and he following, along the narrow path through the tender young corn. At the end of the cornfield ran a burn, and the path followed it through a thicket of alders and osiers down to the manor hard.

Ingunn stopped as soon as she entered the shadow of the foliage. It was so dark in there—she was afraid to go on.

“Ugh—’tis so cold tonight,” she whispered almost inaudibly, shivering a little. She could barely make out the man’s figure in the darkness, but she felt the warm breath of his body as something mild and sweet amid the cold and acrid scent of wet leaves and raw mould. He said not a word, and his silence seemed all at once to loom threateningly and terrifyingly—with a sudden uncontrollable dread she thought she must get him to say something; then the danger would pass.

“That verse you sang in the hall,” she whispered; “of the willow—say it again!”

In a low, clear voice Teit repeated in the darkness:

Ingunn reached up and drew down an armful of the bitter-scented foliage—rain and dew showered over her in the darkness.

“You will spoil your fine clothes,” said Teit. “Are you wet?—let me feel—”

But as his hands lightly brushed her bosom in the dark, she darted quick as lightning under his outstretched arms; with a low scream of fright she rushed along the path—catching up her gown in both hands, she ran as though for her life through the cornfield.

Teit was so surprised at the turn things had taken that it took him a moment to collect himself and follow her. And then she had such a start that he did not catch her up till they were at the gate. From there they could be seen and heard from the yard, where the guests were now passing to seek their quarters. So he stopped and let her go.

He showed a black and offended look when they met next day. Ingunn greeted him almost humbly; she murmured shyly: “I trow we had both lost our wits last night—to think of going down to the lake at midnight.”

“Oh, was it that you thought of?” asked the Icelander.

“And yet there were no more bonfires than we could see from the house. So it had been waste of time to go down to the hard.”

“Nay, I doubt not we could have had more pleasure of each other if we had stayed together within doors,” said Teit bitterly. He bowed and went his way.

T
HEN
there came an afternoon in the autumn—three months after Midsummer Night. Ingunn went through the gate, from which the stakes were now removed, as the cattle had been brought in from the sæter and were grazing freely over all the home fields.

Today the cows were in the meadow below the cornfield—no fairer sight could be seen than these fat sæter-fed beasts glistening in the sun; they were of every hue that cattle can be—and the after-grass was so green and thick that it seemed in a ferment of plenty, with masses of shimmering dog-fennel among the grass. The sky was blue, and blithe little fine-weather clouds drifted
high up; the fiord was blue and reflected the autumnal brightness of the land, the red and yellow woods surrounding the home fields. Farther off stood the dark, blue forests, where each single fir tree stood out by itself, as they stood drinking in light in the strong, cool air.

The glad radiance of the day forced her to shrink beneath her own desperate dread and misery. She dared not fail, when he had trysted her. She was in mortal fear of being alone with him; but she dared do naught else. For if she did not come, he might seek her out up at the homestead and others would hear.

The stubble shone like pale gold on either side of the path—now there was a wide view over the open, reaped fields. His little dun jade was grazing in the coppice by the burn.

Ingunn prayed in her heart, a wordless prayer that was but a groan of her deep distress. As she had prayed that night when he stood outside her door, knocked softly, and called her by name. In the darkness she had knelt at the head of the bed, clasping the carved horse’s head of the bedpost, and called for help, soundlessly within herself, shaking with terror. For if the disaster
had
happened, if she had sunk into the worst that could befall—she would no more, she would not sink yet deeper. But it came over her that he could force her against her will, so that she
must
cross the floor and let him in.

When she guessed that he had gone from her door, she had sobbed from very gratitude. For it seemed that not her own tiny spark of will had held her back, but an invisible power, strong and stern, had filled the darkness between her and the terror at the door. As she huddled exhausted beneath the bedclothes, humbly thankful for her deliverance, she had thought that no punishment for her sin could be so hard that she would not accept it with gratitude, if only she might never more fall into Teit’s power.

And when they met next day and he jested at her sleeping so heavily that he had to go unsolaced from her door, she had answered: “I was awake, I heard you.” She was quite calm, for she was sure that the good powers that had kept her back last night would not suffer him to compel her any more.

When he asked why she had not opened, whether she had not dared, or someone had been within, she made bold to answer: “No; but I would not. And you must not come here any more, Teit. Be good, do not come after me any more!”

“Now, I have never heard the like—be good, you say! The other night-”

“Ay, ay,” she had interrupted him, with a groan of suffering. “ ’Tis ill enough, sin enough—”

“Sin?”
he exclaimed, overwhelmed with astonishment. “Is it
that
you think of!”

She had remembered it then, and she remembered it now as she walked here, and she felt a sort of pity for the lad.
He
could not know how great a sin had been committed when she let herself be his: that she had broken a troth of which she could not even bear to think in this outpost of hell where now she had her dwelling.

Six weeks—six weeks it was already since that day and that night which she had begun to hope, deep down below her conscious thoughts, might be forgotten—some day; she could do penance and be shriven, and then she could let herself forget this matter of Teit. For she had neither seen nor heard anything of him since. Until today he came to Berg—had found himself an errand to Lady Magnhild. And he had made this tryst with her—and she dared do naught but go.

Now she could see the man; he was sitting on a rock within the thicket. And silently she cried within her: “Help me, let him not affright me, so that I do his will again!”

Where he sat was almost the same spot on which they had stood together in the dark on Midsummer Night, when he had repeated the verse about the willow for her. But she did not think of that—it was now a light and airy bower under the fading trees. Sunshine and blue sky reached them through the half-stripped branches; a glitter of light danced on the burn behind the bushes, dewdrops glistened on pale blades of grass and on the coarse weeds that were already touched and browned by the frost. The patch was bright with fallen leaves.

Even the moss-grown rock on which he had been sitting was so fair to see, with the wealth of green cushions clinging to it, that she was in sheer despair at being so alone with her terror and hopelessness in this fair and glorious world.

“Christ save me! What has come to you?” He had leaped up and stood looking at her. Then he made as though he would clasp her to him—she raised her hands with a little blunted gesture, weakly warding him off, as she shrank away. Quickly he set her
on the rock and stood looking at her. “You seem not to have been right merry all these weeks that I have not seen you!—Has anyone got wind of it?” he asked quickly.

Ingunn shook her head. She trembled as she sat.

“ ’Tis best I tell you my good news at once,” he said, smiling a little at her. “I have been at Hamar, Ingunn, and spoken with Master Torgard about the matter. He has promised that he himself will speak for me with your kinsmen—he and Gunnar Bergsson. So I am not so badly off for spokesmen to my suit, how think you?”

She felt as if she had once been carried away by a landslide—and had crawled out, bruised and bleeding. And now this fresh fall came and buried her.