Eirik whispered: “You—or I. They say that, from the way you spoke of her, they could only deem you to have chosen her to be mistress here at Hestviken one day.”
Again Olav looked up. Still he made no answer, but Eirik saw the changing expression in the elder man’s ravaged face—surprise, or pain, or both.
“Father—is it true—was it your purpose that Bothild and I should possess this house in common?”
“It may be,” Olav said in a low voice, “I had purposed something of the sort. That it would be for the good of the manor-after my time—that you took a wife whom I knew to be well fitted and not idle, when the time came for you to be master—”
“Had we but known that!” Eirik smote his hands together, clasped them. “Had we but known that! But we both thought you would never hear of such a thing—since she was a poor orphan, without kinsfolk, without a foot of land—’twas vain to think of it—”
Olav leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands hang down.
“Then you spoke of this?” he asked at last, quietly, without looking up.
“We spoke of it that last evening, on the way home from Rundmyr.”
“Ah, well,” sighed Olav after a long pause. “But she had been sick ere that. So God alone knows how it would have turned out.”
They sat in silence for a while.
“’Tis not easy either, for a woman,” said Olav in a low and earnest voice, “if she be weak in health—to have the charge of a great house like this, to take part in her husband’s cares and counsels, to bear maybe one child after another, though she be weary and sick. I saw that with your mother, Eirik—her lot was a hard one here—”
Eirik rose and stood before his father. “That may be, Father. But now I have lost all desire to deal with the things of this world. So now I mean to betake myself to a convent.”
Olav raised his head—stared at the young man in astonishment.
Eirik said: “I feel, Father, this is a heavy blow to you. You have but one son to be your heir, and he is to be a monk. But you must not oppose me in this!”
“Oppose you—But it comes unlooked for.”
At that moment Eirik was aware that it had come unlooked for upon himself. He had not thought of it until the instant he uttered the words. But then God Himself must have put them in his mouth.
“After the holy days I had purposed to go in to Oslo, to speak with the guardian.”
“Is it to them you will go—to the begging friars?”
Eirik nodded.
“Do others know of this—do they await you at the convent?”
Eirik shook his head.
“Then you must give me time—to think the matter over,” said Olav.
Eirik nodded. They said no more to each other, and soon after Cecilia came in with the maids.
No sooner had Olav gone into the closet than Eirik threw himself down before the crucifix. His state of mind was that of a man who has lost his way in bogs and wastes and suddenly comes upon a firm path—and he prayed as a man astray hurries toward the haunts of men. It seemed to him almost a miracle—never before in all his days had he thought for a single instant of entering a convent—and the longer he prayed, the more clearly he seemed to see the path before him and the lighter it grew about him.
He did not think even now of what the words meant, any more than he did when he repeated them morning and evening and every time he entered a church. But they bore his soul up like a stream, and he floated upon it on and on toward new scenes.
Little had he learned of the Christian religion, and of that little he no longer remembered much. But as he now tried to call forth what he had once known—of our Lord’s life and death, the story of Mary, the words of the Prophets and the songs of David, the prayers of the mass—he felt as though he had come into a noble gallery where massive, fairly carven chests and coffers stood in every corner. He himself was now the young heir, who had entered for the first time with the keys in his hand. Full of impatient zeal, he was scarce able to await the hour when he might unlock and possess and handle all the hidden treasures of the faith.
Perhaps it would be his lot to be made a priest—he was no slower at learning than other men, so he must be able to achieve this. Eirik had a vision of a man standing before an altar; garbed in fine linen and gold embroidery he lifted up his hands to receive heaven’s deepest mystery, incomprehensibly united with Christ Himself in the miracle of the mass. It was as though the angel of the Lord had seized him by the hair, raised him out of his wonted world, placed him there—as he remembered to have heard of one of the wise men of the Jews: he went out into the fields with his porridge-bowl to bring food to his mowers, when the angel of the Lord came, seized him by the hair, and carried him away to Babylon.
They would be astonished, the brethren of Konungahella, when they heard that Eirik Olavsson had entered their order—little had either they or he dreamed that one day he would be a barefoot friar! Now he recalled that this had also come to him as an inspiration, without his having to think or choose—to the Minorites of Oslo he was to go. And in this too he was satisfied with God’s choice. He had always made his confession to the Minorites, both in Oslo and in Konungahella—folk said they prayed far more for their penitents than did the secular priests. Though he had seldom made up his mind to be shriven more than once a year, before Easter—he had dealt unwarily with his soul, he saw that now. But he had always liked these brethren, and looked forward to seeing their joy when he came and asked to be admitted to their company.
Olav lay awake. And as he strove to see clearly in the welter of thoughts to which his son’s words had given rise, he heard the hurried whispering stream of words—Pater, Ave, Credo, Laudate Dominum. The young voice rose and fell, the words ran faster or slower, as the stream ebbed and flowed in Eirik’s mind.
The lad had lighted a candle when he went to his prayers. It was so placed that Olav could not see it from where he lay, but beyond the open door the room swam in a soft golden light.
Olav’s heart was oppressed. Yet he said to himself that it was a great godsend if Eirik so utterly unexpectedly and of his own accord had now found a call for the monastic life. A godsend for the lad himself, a godsend for Cecilia. And he would be freed from the rankling thought of the bastard heir whom he had falsely brought into his kindred.
Great as was the injustice he had committed in giving out another man’s child for his own, had he not done so, but let the boy stay where his mother had hidden him away in the wilds—then indeed Eirik’s lot would never have been other than that of a poor man’s child. That too would have been an injustice—on her part. Now he would be a servant of God—and he might bring the convent a rich dower; if he wished to bestow on it the whole of his mother’s inheritance, Olav would not oppose it. Then that sin would be undone. And this child of her misfortune would be made a life dedicated to the glory of God and many men’s profit; for in times such as these, when so many seemed indifferent, uncharitable, and froward in their attitude to God, it was good and salutary to see a young man of Eirik’s condition give up all for the sake of the kingdom of heaven. And now he might be an aid to his mother, maybe. Perhaps to him too—
Nevertheless his father’s heart was heavy.
He could not rid himself of the thought of what Eirik had said of a marriage with Bothild. An unwise match it would have been—Olav was not sure whether he would have consented to it. But he could not help thinking of the grief of the two young people—of all the nights he had watched beside his foster-daughter. Had the child had this sorrow upon her as she lay there? It almost made him wish they had spoken to him. And yet the sickness must have had a good hold on her—’twould only have been the misery of Ingunn over again. And Eirik had been vouchsafed a better lot. It was better as it was. But, but, but—Often as he had thought it would be better if Eirik never returned to Hestviken—intensely as the lad’s ways had often irritated him, rousing him a thousand times to wrath, contem
pt, perplexity in his dealings with this strange bird he had taken into his nest—there had been so much else blended with these feelings while he had under his protection the offspring of that disaster which had wrecked his own and Ingunn’s lives. He had taken charge of Eirik since the lad was a child, had cared for him as he grew up into a man. And now that he was to relinquish his charge, it was as though the young man had been his own son.
The voice within was hushed, but the candle was still burning—and now and again he heard a sound of snoring. Olav got up and looked into the room. Eirik was still on his knees, sunk forward on a chest with his head buried in his arms. The lighted candle stood just by his elbow. It might easily have been overturned into the straw.
His father took hold of Eirik and aroused him as gently as he could. Barely half-awake, his dreamy eyes heavy with sleep, Eirik undressed without a sound, lay down on his bed, and fell asleep at once. Like a child he had been, as in a deep torpor he obediently did as his father told him.
Olav blew out the light, pinched the wick between wet fingers, and stole quietly back to the closet. Lying awake in the dark, he resumed the contest with his unreasoning heart.
7
ONE evening in the following week, as Eirik was at his prayers—and now it seemed to him an immemorial custom that when the rest of the household had gone to rest he abandoned himself every night to hours of praying—he was aroused by a sharp whisper:
“Eirik—?”
He turned. Halfway down the ladder that led to the room above the closet and anteroom the white form of his sister appeared.
Eirik broke off abruptly with “In nomine—” and crossed himself,as though throwing a cloak about him. Then he sprang up and went to her.
“Do I keep you awake, Cecilia?”
“Yes—I am afraid you will fall asleep and forget the candle. You have done so many times—and yesternight I had to come down and put it out, for Father was asleep too.”
The girl was shivering with cold in her thin nightdress. Eirik stood before her, looking up at her bright form: he thought she was like an angel, and he bowed his head forward, breathing affectionately on the bare toes, red with cold, that protruded below the long ample garment, clinging to the step of the ladder.
“Go up now, Cecilia, and lie down,” he said gaily. And there came upon him a desire to speak with his sister of all the new thoughts that filled him. “Then I will come up to you anon.”
He slipped in under her coverlet, crooked an arm around the head of the bed, and began, in an eager voice:
“Now you shall hear news that will surprise you, Cecilia—I am to go into a monastery.”
“Ay, that I have heard.”
Eirik checked himself, taken aback.
“You have heard it! Has father told you?”
“No, Ragna told me.”
Ragna, the dairy-woman. Ah yes, he had chanced to mention it to her too. It dawned on Eirik that he had already mentioned it to not a few. But Ragna had always shown him kindness, and so he had said to her that when he was a monk he would pray specially for her eldest child, the sick girl. Ragna’s three children had all been such good friends with Eirik last summer.
“Ah—” said Eirik. “Have you never thought the like, Cecilia-have you never been minded to become a nun and serve Mary maid?”
“No,” said Cecilia. It sounded like a lock shutting with a snap, and Eirik was silenced.
“Nay, nay,” he said meekly after a moment, “nor did this thought come to me of myself—’twas sent me by God’s mercy.”
“This came upon you rather suddenly?” asked Cecilia with hesitation.
“Yes,” replied Eirik gleefully. “Like a knock at the door by night and a voice calling on me to rise and go out. Like you, I had never thought upon such things before. And so it may be with you too, sister.”
“I know not,” said Cecilia quietly. “I cannot think it. But ’twill be stilled here now,” she whispered, and all at once her voice sounded pitifully small and weak. “First I lost Bothild—and now you are going from us—”
Eirik lay still, struck by his sister’s words. He had almost forgotten their summer in all that had followed after; he seemed to have travelled a long way from the memory of Bothild in these last days. But now he called to mind how she had been wont to sleep by Cecilia’s side, where he was now lying. All his memories, suddenly released, filled him with melancholy beyond bounds. He could not utter a word.
“Are you weeping?” he asked at last, as Cecilia did not break the silence either.
“No,” replied his sister as curtly as before.
Ay, now Bothild slept under the sod, and his feet were set upon a path that led far away from all this. But Cecilia, she would be left here, lonely as a bird when all its fellows have flown, alone with her sad and silent father.
“Have you heard no more of Jörund this winter?” it occurred to him to ask.
“We have not.” He could hear by her voice that she was in a ferment.
“That is strange. He let me suppose he would be here some time this winter.”
Cecilia gave a start; she turned abruptly to the wall. Eirik noticed that the girl was trembling. He raised himself on his elbow, leaning over his sister.
“What ails you?” he asked anxiously.
“Nothing ails me,” she whispered, half choking. “I do not ask how it is with Jörund Kolbeinsson. I have not set my mind on him.”
Eirik said doubtfully: “I cannot make this out. You speak as if you were angry with him.”
“Angry?” She flung herself round again, facing her brother. “Maybe I am. For I am not wont to hear such speech from a man as Jörund used to me. And I gave him such answer that he—that he—I am unused to put up with a slight.”
“Now you must tell me how this is,” Eirik begged her quietly.
“Nay, I know not—maybe it counts for little among folk nowadays, and ’tis only I, a home-bred maid, who deem that the word of a noble damsel is worth so high a price. But he came to me in the women’s house, the evening before he was to ride away. And then he said—ay, he let me know that he would come back together with his kinsmen and sue for me. Then he asked if this was against my will. To that I said no. He also asked leave to kiss me,” she whispered almost inaudibly. “Again I did not refuse him. God knows I would rather have been left unkissed. God knows I had not set my mind on him. But his speech was such that I could but think it was Father’s wish—and yours. And so I would not set myself against it. At that time I thought so well of Jörund that I believed he might be better than most others. Since I can clearly see that Father is little minded to let me have a say in my own marriage. But Jörund, I ween, counts a word and a kiss for little worth.”
With a sudden impulse Eirik bent over his sister and kissed her on her lips. Then he lay down quietly again.
“Maybe Jörund could not decide for himself,” he said, finding an excuse on the spur of the moment. “Maybe his kinsmen had already treated of another marriage for him, without his knowing it.”
“Then he should not have spoken,” replied Cecilia angrily—“if he knew not whether he were bought or sold.”
“That may be so. But—ay, he spoke to me of this matter as though it lay very near his heart—that he got you to wife, I mean. But you know, he had to go home and consult his brothers—”
“Then do they think we are not good enough for Jörund?”
Eirik did not know what to say. His sister had reason to be angry. And now he seemed to remember speaking of this to Jörund, and Jörund had promised him not to say anything of the matter to Cecilia before he came as a suitor. But he could guess that Jörund might easily forget that promise, Cecilia being so fair and sweet. So he took her hand, laid it on his breast, and stroked it, while he fell back upon the first excuse he had tried to offer for his friend:
“They must have designed another marriage for him, without his knowing it.”
Cecilia did not answer. Eirik lay patting he
r hand—but now he found he was getting very sleepy. She must be already asleep. Once more Eirik bent over her, cautiously kissed his young sister, then stole out of the bed and down. He was already on the ladder when the chilly little voice asked in the darkness above:
“You will say no more prayers tonight, will you?”
“No,” replied Eirik feelingly; “now I will go to rest.”
“Then you will put out the light?”
Eirik did so. He lay in bed feeling angry with Jörund for having shown his sister and all of them so little respect. But at the same time he had in some sort conceived an aversion for the thought of giving Cecilia to Jörund. This one week of his conversion had altered his view of many things. He now thought of his whole life since he had run away from home with repugnance, nay, with sorrow. He repented his sins, that was well enough—but beyond that he wished, now that his life was to be consecrated to God, that it had been less defiled.
But Jörund, to whom no such call had come—of him no man could require that he should be better than other men. And Jörund was no worse. But Cecilia—she was so good.
Olav had not meant very much by it when he hinted that he had no very great esteem for the order of the Minorites. He had grown somewhat tired of them, like many other folk in the neighbourhood, in Sira Hallbjörn’s time—because the priest constantly had them at his house. The Grey Friars had long been at strife with the cathedral chapter and the priests of Oslo, but it was not certain that the brethren had been chiefly to blame for the quarrel. And there had been some ugly talk of one of the Minorites and Eldrid Bersesdatter of the Ness—but there had always been ugly talk about Eldrid, ever since her father gave the reluctant maid to old Harald Jonsson, though no one could give clear proof of it; she was barren as the sole of an old shoe. She was moreover the daughter of a nephew of old Sira Benedikt and a second cousin of the daughters of Arne, but her kinsfolk never spoke of her; she had quite dropped out of good company. The young friar, Brother Gunnar, who had been too often with her at the Ness, had been sent out of the countrv, to a school of learning, it was said.
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