“Ay, so far as I understood, that was his wish.”
Then he was left alone with her. Ingunn lay with closed eyes. Arnvid stroked her under the roots of the hair, wiped away the perspiration. “Olav bade me stay here till he himself can come and fetch you.”
“Why so?” she asked in fear.
“Oh, you know—” he hesitated. “Folk are a little more wary of what they say when there is a danger their talk may reach a man—”
Beads of perspiration came out on Ingunn’s forehead. She whispered almost inaudibly: “Arnvid—is there no way out—for Olav—so that he may be free—?”
“Nay.—Nor has he given any sign,” Arnvid added, “that he wished it.”
“If we besought—the Archbishop—on our knees—promised to do penance—?”
“His Bishop could give him leave to live apart from you—if Olav would ask it of him. That he will fetch you home and live with you—this he does of his own free will. But no man can sunder the bond there is between you, so that Olav could freely take another wife—not even the Pope in Romaborg, as I believe.”
“Not even if I went into a nunnery?” she asked, trembling.
“So far as I know, you must have Olav’s consent to that. And he would not be free to marry again. But to be a pious nun I trow you are the least fitted of women, my poor Ingunn.
“Then you must remember what Olav himself said to me. It was he who once staked all upon the judgment of Holy Church in the question whether you two were husband and wife or not. He himself called for Bishop Torfinn’s decree, whether your living together were binding wedlock according to God’s law and not fornication—and Lord Torfinn said yes to that. Strict as this Bishop was wont to be toward ravishers and all who violated the honour of women, he claimed on Olav’s behalf that this man should be suffered to do penance and make atonement with Einar’s kinsmen.—Do you understand—Olav cannot depart from his own word, nor will he either, he says.
“Nay, here I talk on, forgetting that you are still weak. Be easy now, Ingunn—remember what manner of man Olav is. Stubborn and headstrong; when he wills a thing he must have it. But you must have heard the saying, trusty as a troll—”
But it could not be seen in Ingunn that she had plucked up heart. The other women were mightily consoled when they knew for certain that Olav Audunsson would make no ado, but would take to himself the wife he had once claimed in so boastful and headstrong a fashion—and bear with her ill conduct in the meantime. Ingunn’s kinsmen, Ivar, her brothers, and Haakon, when they heard of the whole matter, said that Olav had injured them all so deeply, by first taking the bride to himself, then summoning her guardians before the Bishop’s court, and finally by killing Einar when he called him to account—that it was no more than justice if he held his peace, cloaked Ingunn’s shame, and did what he could to put a good end to a bad business. Moreover, Hestviken was far away. And even if folk in the south got to know that his wife had had a child by another man before Olav Audunsson married her, he would not be worse wed than many another good and worthy man. No man in his native district need know more than that, unless they themselves were foolish enough to let it come out that she had already been bound to Olav before she had the child, in such a way that some priests in any case would say the boy was begotten in adultery.
This was pointed out to Ingunn by Ivar and Magnhild. She listened to them, palefaced, and dark about the eyes; Arnvid saw that she was greatly disturbed by what they said.
“What say you to this, Arnvid?” she asked one day when Ivar and Haakon had been sitting with her, discussing their view of the case. She now left her bed in the daytime.
“I say,” replied Arnvid quietly, “God knows ’tis an ill thing it should be so—but you must see yourself, there is some truth in it—”
“You say that—you who call yourself Olav’s friend!” she burst out angrily.
“That I am—and I thought I had shown it more than once,” replied Arnvid. “And I will not deny that I have my part of the blame for the bad turn all this has taken. I counselled Olav unwisely, perhaps—I was too young and lacking in wisdom—and I should not have stayed in the guest-house that evening, when Einar picked a quarrel with us. But I shall do my friend no good, nor will you either, if we hide our heads under our wings and refuse to see that the Steinfinnssons too have some right on their side!”
But Ingunn burst into tears. “Not even you wish Olav better than this! None of you count his honour of any worth, none but I–”
“Nay,” said Arnvid—“and now he must lie in the bed you have made for him.”
Ingunn’s weeping stopped suddenly—she raised her head and looked at the man.
“Ah well, Ingunn—I should not have said it. But I have been stretched upon the rack of this case of yours so long now—” he said wearily.
“But what you said was true.”
The child lay in the bed screaming; Ingunn went and took it up. Arnvid noticed again what he had seen before—though she handled the little one tenderly and seemed to be fond of him, she always seemed to touch her child rather reluctantly, and she was very clumsy when she had to tend the boy herself. Eirik indeed always screamed and was restless and fretful in his mother’s arms; she could only quiet him with the breast for a very little while. Tora said this was because Ingunn was depressed and uneasy, so that she had little milk for him; Eirik was always hungry.
This time too he had soon finished sucking, and then he lay grimacing as he pulled at the empty breast. Ingunn gave a little sigh; then she fastened her clothes, stood up, and began to walk up and down the room, carrying the child. Arnvid sat looking at them.
“Will you accept it, Ingunn,” he asked, “if I offer to foster the child? I will bring up your son in my house and be to him as I have been to my own sons.”
Ingunn did not reply at once; then she said: “You would be a faithful kinsman to the boy, I know that. You had the right to expect that I should thank you for the friendship you have shown me all these years, better than I do.—But should I die, you must—you must take care of Eirik—then ’twill be easier for me in my last hour.”
“You must not speak of such things now,” said Arnvid, trying to smile. “You who are just up and out of danger.”
When Eirik was six weeks old, the woman came with whom Lady Magnhild had bargained early in the spring—that she should receive and foster a child that would be born in secret at Berg. Now the rumours about Ingunn had got abroad nevertheless. So many different things were said as to who might be the father-but most people thought it was that Icelander who had been so often at Berg last summer—now he was gone, doubtless run away for fear of the woman’s rich kinsmen. Now the foster-mother, Hallveig was her name, came one evening to Berg to ask what had become of the child—she had heard no more of the matter.
Before Lady Magnhild had thought of what she should say, Ingunn came forward and said she was the mother of the child, and Hallveig should take it with her when she went home the next day. Hallveig looked at Eirik and said he was a fine child; while waiting for her food, she took him up and laid him to her breast.
The mother stood over them and looked on while Eirik took a full draught—it must have been the first time in his young life that he had drunk his fill. Then Ingunn took the child and carried it away to her bed; but the woman was shown into another house, where she was to sleep. It was intended that she should ride home betimes next morning, before folk were about upon the farms.
The sisters were left alone in Aasa’s house, and Tora lighted the holy candle, which they still burned every night. Ingunn sat on the edge of the bed with her back turned to the child; Eirik lay against the wall, cooing cheerfully.
“Ingunn—do not this thing,” said Tora seriously. “Do not send your child away like this. It is a sin to do such a deed, unless you are forced to it.”
Ingunn said nothing.
“He is smiling—” said Tora with emotion, beaming at the boy. “Look at your son, Ingun
n—he can smile now—he is so sweet, so sweet—”
“Ay, I have seen,” said Ingunn. “Many times he has smiled of late.”
“I cannot understand that you will—that you can do this.”
“Cannot you see that I will not bring this child of mine under Olav’s roof—ask him to foster this brat that a vagabond clerk has left behind—”
“Shame on you for speaking thus of your own child!” exclaimed Tora, revolted.
“I am ashamed.”
“Ingunn—be sure you will regret it as long as you live if you do this thing, sell your child into the hands of strangers—”
“I have now brought myself into such a plight that I can never cease to regret.”
Tora answered hotly: “You speak truly, and on that score there is none on earth can help you. With Olav you have played right falsely, there is none of us but thinks that—and your shame falls heavier on him than on the rest of us. But if you will be false to your child too—the guiltless young being that you have housed forty long weeks under your own heart—I tell you, sister, I cannot believe that even Mary, Mother of God, will pray for mercy on the mother who betrays her own son—”
“Beware, sister,” said Tora once more. “You have wronged us all, and Olav worst. There is only left this boy, him you have not yet failed!”
No more was said between the sisters. They went to bed. Ingunn took the boy with her. She lay with her lips pressed against the silky, moist skin of the child’s forehead and heard her sister’s words ring and ring again within her. Even as Eirik’s little head lay now against her throat, lay Jesus Christ against His mother’s bosom in the image in church. What did He think of the mothers who flung a little boy from them? “And He called a little child unto Him and set him in the midst of them—” On the wall of the church in Hamar there was a painting where He hung nailed to the cross between two thieves, but beside Him stood His mother: fainting with sorrow and weariness she watched by her Son in His last agony, as she watched over His first sleep in the world of men. Nay, she saw it now—she dared not pray to Mary’s Son for forgiveness of her sins unless she stopped here. She dared not pray Christ’s mother to intercede for her with her Son if she held fast to her purpose and betrayed her boy.
“Ingunn,” whispered Tora, weeping. “I spoke not so harshly to you because I wished you ill. But it will be worse than all the rest if you forsake your child.”
Ingunn’s voice was as hoarse as her sister’s as she answered: “I know it. I have seen that you are fond of Eirik. You must try—when I am gone, you must—you must look after Eirik as well as you can.”
“I will—as much as I dare—for Haakon,” said Tora.
None of the three slept much that night, and just as they had fallen into a doze toward morning, Lady Magnhild came and woke them. The woman was ready to start.
Tora watched her sister as she wrapped the child—“I do not believe she will dare to do it,” was her hope. Then Lady Magnhild began again with her talk that Olav had transgressed so deeply against them all that it could not be called sheer injustice if he had to suffer Ingunn to take her child south with her. They need not have it at Hestviken; Olav could very well have it fostered outside.
Then Ingunn seemed hard and resolved as she carried the child out and gave it to Hallveig and watched her and the little boy who accompanied her ride away with it.
At breakfast-time it appeared that Ingunn had left the house. Arnvid and Tora ran out to search for her—she was walking hither and thither in the field behind the barn, and, beg as they might, they could not get her to go in with them. Tora and Magnhild were quite bewildered—it was dangerous for a married woman to go out in this way, before she had been churched—and what were they to say of a mother in Ingunn’s case? Arnvid thought they must send for Brother Vegard, for Ingunn ought to obtain absolution and make her peace with God and the Church before Olav came back, so that they might go together to mass, when he had received her with her kinsmen’s consent. He himself promised to stay with Ingunn and keep watch over her until he could get her to come in.
Once they came right up to the birch grove north of the manor. Arnvid followed close on the woman’s heels—not a word could he find to comfort her. He was as tired as a drudge and hungry; the afternoon was far spent, but when he begged her to use her wits and come in with him, he did not get so much as a word in answer; he might just as well have spoken to a stone.
Then she went up to a birch tree, laid her arm against its trunk, and ground her forehead on the bark, uttering groans like those of an animal. Arnvid prayed aloud for God to help him. He guessed she must be half mad.
At last they reached a little knoll, where they sat side by side in silence. All at once she tore open her dress and squeezed her breast so that the milk spouted in a thin jet onto the warm rock, where it dried into little shiny spots.
Arnvid jumped up, caught her round the waist, and set her on her feet, shook her this way and that. “Now you must behave yourself, Ingunn—”
As soon as he took his hand from her, she let herself fall at full length; he raised her again. “Now you must come in with me—or else I’ll take and beat you!”
Then her tears came—she hung in the man’s arms and wept impassively. Arnvid kept her head buried against his shoulder and rocked her this way and that. She sobbed till she could sob no more. Then she wept silently, with streaming tears, and now Arnvid could fasten her clothing over the bosom; after that she allowed herself to be half led, half dragged home, till he could hand her over to the women.
Late in the evening Arnvid sat out in the courtyard talking to Grim and Dalla—when Ingunn came out of her door. As soon as she saw the old people, she halted in fear. Arnvid rose and went up to her. Dalla went in, but Grim stood where he was, and as Ingunn came past him by Arnvid’s side, he raised his hairy old face and spat at her, so that the spittle trickled down on his bushy beard. When Arnvid took hold of him and pushed him away, he made some nasty gestures and muttered all the coarsest names the thralls of old had for loose women as he turned after his sister and left the yard.
Arnvid took Ingunn by the arm and drew her indoors. “You cannot look for aught else,” he said, half in anger and half consoling her, “than to suffer such things while you are here. It will be easier for you when you come away, where folk know not so much of you. But go in now—you have tempted fate more than enough in running out today, and now the sun is going down.”
“Stay a little while,” begged Ingunn. “My head is burning soit is so good and cool here.”
It was rather dark for the time of year; clouds were spreading over the whole sky, and in the north the sunset turned them to gold. A rosy light came over the valleys, and the bay reflected the glory of the clouds.
Ingunn whispered: “Speak to me, Arnvid.—Can you not tell me something of Olav?”
Arnvid shrugged, as though impatiently.
“I would but hear you speak his name,” she said plaintively.
“Methinks you must have heard it often enough these last weeks,” replied Arnvid with annoyance. “I am sick of all this long ago-”
“I meant it not so,” she begged quietly. “Not of how useful a man he might be to us and such things. Arnvid—can you not speak to me of Olav—you who love him? For you are his friend-?”
But Arnvid would not say a word. It occurred to him that now he had allowed himself to be tormented year in, year out by these two; he had done so many things that were like cutting into his own flesh and turning the knife in the wound. He would do no more.—“Come in now—”
Tora met them and thought that she and her sister might well sleep in Magnhild’s house tonight. It was so cheerless in the other house, now the child was gone.
When they were about to go to rest, Ingunn asked her sister to sleep with Lady Magnhild in the chamber: “I am afraid I shall get but little sleep tonight, and sleeplessness is catching, you know.”
There were two bedsteads in the room. Arnvi
d slept in one, and Ingunn lay down in the other.
For a long time she lay waiting for Arnvid to fall asleep. The hours passed; she felt that he was still awake, but they did not speak.
Now and again she tried to say a Paternoster or an Ave, but her thoughts roved hither and thither and she could seldom repeat a prayer to the end. She said them for Olav and for Eirik; she herself must be beyond prayers, since she had determined to cast herself into perdition with her full knowledge and will. But since she had to do it, perhaps she would not be given the very hardest punishment in hell—even there she thought it must be an alleviation to know that when she cut the bond between them and plunged into the depth, she left Olav a free man.
She could not feel that she was even afraid. She seemed worn out at last—hardened. She did not even desire to see Olav again or her child. Tomorrow Brother Vegard would come, they had told her; but she would not see him. She would not look upward, and she would not look forward, and she recognized the justice of her perdition, since she refused to receive anything that was necessary to her soul’s salvation. Repentance, prayer, work, and the further pilgrimage of life, seeing and speaking to those with whom she must dwell, if she should try to live on—the thought of all this was repulsive to her. Even the thought of God was repulsive to her now. To look downward, to be alone and surrounded by darkness—that was her choice. And she saw her own soul, bare and dark as a rock scorched by the fire, and she herself had set fire to and burned up all that was in her of living fuel. It was all over with her.
Nevertheless she said another Paternoster for Olav—“Make it so that he may forget me.” And an Ave Maria for Eirik—“Now he has a mother in me no longer.”
At last Arnvid began to snore. Ingunn waited awhile, till she thought he was sound asleep. Then she crept up and into her clothes and stole out.
It was the darkest hour. Behind the manor a wing of cloud rested upon the ridge and seemed to cast its shadow over the country. The woods surrounding the farm were steeped in gloom—a thin grey vapour floated over the corn and gathered about the clumps of trees, effacing their outlines. But higher up, the sky was clear and white and was palely reflected in the bay; on the heights beyond the lake there was already a gleam of the coming dawn above the woods.