He looked down at her white, terror-stricken face and it made him angry. “You ought to think of it, Ingunn—you are not so young either: you have entered on the second score of years. And your suitors have not worn down the grass of your kinsmen’s courts lately, I have heard—” he looked away, a little ashamed of his own words.
“Teit—I cannot!” She twisted her hands violently in her lap. “There is another—another to whom I have given my troth—long years ago—”
“I marvel whether he would deem you have kept it well, if he knew all,” said Teit dryly. “ ’Tis not I would be content with such a troth if ’twere my betrothed that gambolled with a strange man and jested with him so freely—as you have shown me that you liked the game we two have played last summer. Nay, the troll trounce me if I would—not even if you had kept back that which you parted with the first day we chanced to be alone in the house!”
Ingunn put her hand to her face as though he had struck her. “Teit—’twas against my will!”
“Nay—I know that!” He gave a sneering laugh.
“I did not believe—I could not think you would do such a thing.”
“Nay, how could you?”
“You were so young—you are younger than I am; I thought it was but wanton frolic, for you were so young a boy—”
“Ay, that was it.”
“I resisted—and tried to defend myself—”
Teit gave a little laugh. “Ay, ’tis the way with most of you—but I am not so young but that I have learned this—that nothing makes you women so angry and so scornful of a young and innocent lad as when he lets himself be checked by such—resistance!”
Ingunn stared at him, stiff with horror.
“Ay, had you been a pure young maid—never have I shamed a young maid, I am not like that. But you cannot ask me to believe you did not know full well how the dance would end that you led me the whole summer long?”
Ingunn continued to stare—slowly a blush crept over her grey face.
“I may tell you,” said Teit coolly, “so much have I heard of you that I know of that man who served in your father’s home—with whom you had a bastard when you were but fourteen—”
“He was no serving-man. And never have I had a child.” Then she bowed low; with her arms clasping her knees and her head hidden in them she began to weep very softly.
Teit smiled doubtfully as he stood looking down at the weeping girl.
“I know not if ’tis he you wait for—to come back and marry you? Or if you have had others since—However that may be, he seems not to kill himself with haste, this friend of yours—I greatly fear, Ingunn, ’tis of no use you stay for him. For if you did that, there might easily come too many between you.”
She sat as before, weeping silently and in bitter pain. Teit said, more gently: “Better take me, Ingunn, whom you have in your hand. I shall be—I shall be a good husband to you, if only you will put off this—flightiness of yours—and be steady and sane from this day. I—I am fond of you,” he stammered awkwardly, stroking her bowed head lightly. “In spite of all—”
Ingunn shook his hand from her head.
“Weep not so, Ingunn. I have no thought of deceiving you!”
She raised her head and gazed fixedly before her. It would be idle, she guessed, to try to tell him the truth of what he had heard. Such must indeed be the talk hereabouts, where none knew Olav, and few had known her as other than a worthless woman, the shame of her race, whom her kinsfolk had thrust aside in disgrace.
She had not strength to speak of it either.—But this new thing that had befallen her with Teit—she thought she must tell him how it had been brought about. So she broke silence: “I know well that this is a punishment for my sin—I knew I sinned grievously when I would not forgive Kolbein, my father’s brother—I rejoiced when he was dead, and I thought of him with hatred and lust of vengeance; I refused to go with the others to his funeral feast. He it was who was the chief cause that I was parted from one to whom I was promised in childhood and would have taken before all. Not one prayer would I say for Kolbein’s soul, though I guessed he might need all the prayers that—When they said the De profundis at even, I went out of the room. And I refused to go north with the others to his burial.
“God have mercy on me. I knew well that it is sinful to hate an enemy after he has been called to judgment. Then you came—and I was fain to think of other things—I was happy. And when you would bear me company up in the weaving-loft—I had no other thought but that you were a boy—and as it was with me then, I had most mind to play and romp with you, for I would think no more of the dead man; and when we took to throwing the wool from the sacks at each other—But I never thought, nay, I never thought, that if you were uncourtly and said lewd words—I thought ’twas only that you were so young and wanton—”
Teit stood looking down at her with the same doubtful little smile.
“Well—let that be so. I got you first against your will. But afterwards—at night?”
Ingunn dropped her head, hopelessly. Of that she could say nothing—she was scarce able to unravel it to herself.
She had lain awake hour after hour, crushed by dismay and shame. And nevertheless it was as though she could not bring herself to see that it was true—that now she was lost and branded with shame. For already it seemed but as the memory of a dream or an intoxication, her own wild merriment of the afternoon in the wool-loft. And that Teit had caught her—but all the time his image appeared to her as she had brought herself to see it after Midsummer Night, when next day she had been angry with herself for her foolish fear of him: for he was but a boy, a likable, clever, lively boy, who had brought her nothing but pleasure; a little wanton of speech, but then he was so young—And yet she knew, as she lay there, that now she had brought disaster upon herself even to death and perdition, and now she was an adulteress.
At last she had fallen asleep. And she was awakened by Teit taking her in his arms. She had not thought to bar the door—they never did so when they slept in the loft in summer. She no longer remembered clearly why she had not tried to be rid of him. Perhaps she had thought it would make her shame yet deeper if she now said she would have no more to do with him who had already possessed her—that she was loath to see him again and hated him. And when he himself came and she heard his bright young voice, she may have thought that after all she did not hate him so terribly—he was so simple-hearted and had no inkling of what he had brought upon her. For he knew nothing of her being bound to another, married in the sight of God.
Only next morning, when she looked at her misfortune in the clear light of day, was it borne in upon her that she must escape from this at once—must not let herself be dragged yet deeper. She felt that she herself had no power to do anything, of her own strength she could not break with him. But she had cried for help in her bitter woe—“Whatever may become of me, I shall not complain, if only I be saved from further sin—”
Teit stood looking at her. And as she still kept silence, he held out his hand to her. “Better not to quarrel, Ingunn. Let us try to agree and be friends.”
“Yes. But I will not marry you. Teit—you must tell these friends of yours they are not to bring forward your suit—”
“That I will not do. And if your kinsmen say yes?”
“Still I must say no.”
Teit paused for a moment. She saw his rage seething in the young man. “And what if I do as you wish—cease my wooing and come here no more? And if your kinsfolk should see for themselves, in a little while, that you have strayed again into your old bad ways?”
“Still I would not marry you.”
“You must not be too sure of finding me and catching me again, if you should need me this winter. I have offered once to do rightly by you, and you met me with scorn and cruel words.”
“I shall not need you.”
“Are you so sure of that?”
“Yes. Before I would send for you—I would cast myself into the fi
ord.”
“Ay, ay. That will be your doing and not mine—your sin and not mine. Since you seem to think we have no more to say—?”
Ingunn nodded in silence. Teit paused a moment—then turned on his heel, leaped across the burn, and ran after his pony.
She was standing in the same place as he came riding up the path. He pulled up beside her.
“Ingunn—” he pleaded.
She looked him straight in the face—and, beside himself with rage and agitation, he leaned forward and struck her with all his force below the ear, making her reel. “A wicked wretch you are, a cursed, fickle bitch!” His voice was broken by sobs. “And may you have such reward as you deserve for the false game you played with me!”
He struck his heels into the pony’s sides, and the little jade broke into a trot—for a few paces. But where the hill began, it fell into its usual amble.
Ingunn stood watching the rider—she held her hand to her flaming cheek—but she was no longer angry with Teit for this. With a strange and painful clearness she saw that Teit could but think her what he had called her. And it added to her sorrow—even now she could remember that she had liked him. And she pitied him, for he was so young.
She would have to go home now, she thought. But she felt she must break down at the thought of the house above—nowhere could she turn without being reminded of this boy.
And yet she could not resist the rising thought at the back of her mind—in a few months it would all be easier for her. When she was no longer forced to think of—and a sudden pang of fear came over her like a hot wave. Though there was little likelihood of that—But would to God Teit had said nothing of it—she had dreaded it enough already. Sick as she now was, with grief and anxiety, she nevertheless knew that, when so much time had gone by that she might be quite sure she was safe from that, then she would not suffer so terribly. Then she would not feel, as now, that her whole life had been ruined by this disaster and this sin.
Old Mistress Aasa failed greatly during the autumn, and Ingunn tended her lovingly and untiringly. Lady Magnhild marvelled at the girl: for all these years she had seen her niece dragging herself about like a sleepwalker, doing only what she could not avoid, and that little as slowly as might be. Now it seemed that Ingunn had waked up; her aunt saw that she could work when she chose—she was by no means so incapable when she took herself in hand. Now and again the thought occurred to Lady Magnhild: perhaps the poor thing was afraid of what might become of her when the old lady was gone; her unwonted diligence was a prayer to them not to look on her too ungraciously when the grandmother no longer needed her care. Perhaps they had not been friendly enough to the poor, frail child.
Ingunn snatched at everything she could find to occupy her. When her hands were not full with the sick old woman, she applied herself to any work she could find—anything that might help her to keep her thoughts from the one thing to which they constantly flew back in spite of herself; she waited in breathless tension for her fear to be proved groundless.
All the thoughts with which she had played for years—of life with Olav at Hestviken, of Olav coming to take her away, of their children—it was like the touch of the angel’s flaming sword merely to approach the memory of these dreams. She could scarce keep herself from wailing aloud.
She threw herself upon all such tasks as demanded thought—and told upon the body. She would not give in, if she felt sick this autumn—for she was not near so ailing as she had been the first days at Miklebö.
It had always been the way with her, that when she had been badly frightened, she felt giddy and had violent qualms afterwards. She had only to think of the day they drove over the rocks in the sledge, she and Olav. It was Yuletide, not long before they were grown up; they had taken it into their heads that they would go to mass in the parish church, and so they drove off in the dark winter morning, though none of the others at Frettastein would go to church that day—a strong south wind was blowing, with rain and mild weather. She remembered so clearly the long-drawn, dizzying fear that seemed to descend on her whole body and dissolve it as she felt the sledge swerve and slide backwards over the smooth ice-bound rocks—it came across the horse’s quarters, as he struggled to keep his feet, striking sparks and splintering the ice, but was carried away and thrown down—Olav, who had jumped off to support the sledge, was flung headlong and fell on the frozen ground; and then she knew no more. But when she came to herself again, she was on her knees in the soft snowdrift, hanging over Olav’s arm and retching till she thought her whole inside would be turned out, and Olav with his free hand was pressing lumps of snow and ice to the back of her head, which she had struck against the rock. This time too it was only fear that ailed her.
On the eighth day of Yule she sat alone with her grandmother—the others had gone to a feast. She had laid plenty of fuel on the hearth, for her feet were so cold. The flickering gleam of the fire lent a semblance of life to the sleeping face of the old woman in the bed—dead-white and wrinkled as it was. By the pale light of winter days Ingunn had often thought it already as peaceful as the face of a corpse.
“Grandmother, do not die!” she wailed below her breath. Her grandmother and she had been companions so long that they had drifted into a backwater of their own, while the life of other folk ran past outside. And she had come to love her grandmother in the end, unspeakably, she thought—it was as though she herself had found support, her only support, in the old woman, as she led her faltering steps, dressed her, and fed her. And now it would soon be all over—if only she could have laid herself down beside the aged woman. Sometimes she had dared to hope that this would be the end—she would be permitted to die here in her dim corner screened by her grandmother’s protection—before anyone had guessed.
But now she would soon be dead. And then she would have to go out among the others. And she would be haunted by the terror that one day someone would see it in her.
But it was not certain, it was not certain even yet. It was only the fear of it that drove and forced the blood in her body: she had felt such violent shocks in her heart as almost to make her swoon. At times there was a sudden throbbing in the veins of her throat, and her pulses seemed to race through her head behind the ears. And that feeling she had had yestereven—and in the night—and today again, time after time, deep in her right side—like a sudden blow or thrust—haply it was but the blood hammering in a vein.
For even if there had been anything, ’twas not possible it had quickened, the way she had starved and laced herself tight.
The week went by, and more than once Lady Magnhild said to Ingunn that she must spare herself somewhat—the unwonted hard work must be too much for her in the end. Ingunn made but little reply and continued to tend her grandmother; but the active fit seemed to have left her again. She had slipped back into herself, as it were.
She felt as though the soul within her had sunk to the bottom of a thick darkness, in which it fought a blind struggle with the sinister foreign being that she housed. Day and night it lay tossing and would have room for itself and burst her aching body. At times she felt she could bear no more—she was in such pain all over that she could scarcely see—for not even at night did she dare to relax the bandages that caused her such intolerable torment. But she could not give up—she must get it to stop, to move no more.
There was one memory that constantly floated before her at this time; once, when she and her sister were children, Tora’s cat had caught a bird which Olav had brought her that she might tame it. The cat had just kittened, and so she stole two of its young, ran down to the pond, and held them under water. She had expected them to die as soon as they went under. But it was incredible how long the little beasts kept on wriggling in her hands and struggling for their lives, while little air-bubbles came up all the time. At last she thought they were dead—but no, there was another jerk. Then she took them out, ran back with them, and laid them down by their mother. But by that time they were indeed lifeless.
At last, six weeks after Yule, Aasa Magnusdatter died, and her children, Ivar and Magnhild, made a great funeral feast for her.
The last seven days and nights of her grandmother’s life Ingunn had only slept in snatches, lying down in her clothes. And when the corpse was borne out, all she asked was to be allowed to rest. She crept into her bed; now she slept and now she lay staring before her, with no power to think of the future by which she was faced.
But when the feast came, she had to get up and busy herself among the guests. No one wondered at her looking like a ghost of herself in her dark-blue mourning gown, wrapped in her long, black veil. Her face was grey and yellow, her skin lay stretched and shiny over the bones, her eyes were wide and dark and tired—and the men and women, her kinsfolk, came up and said kind words of praise to her, almost all of them. Lady Magnhild had spoken of her faithfulness to the dead woman during all these years.
Both Master Torgard, the cantor, and the Sheriff of Reyne were among the funeral guests. And at once it flashed upon Ingunn—Teit! She had almost forgotten him. It was as though she could not make out the connection between him and her misfortune—even now, when she called him to mind, it was only as an acquaintance she had liked at one time, but then some ugly thing had befallen them, so that she scarce cared to think of him again.
But now the thought came to her: what had he said to his spokesmen when he withdrew his suit? If he had exposed her to them—ah, then she would indeed be lost. She must try to find out whether they knew aught. She felt like a worn-out, poor man’s jade that had toiled in harness under a grievous load till she was almost broken-winded, and now was to bear yet more.
The Axe Page 26
