The only men of the order whom Olav knew something of were the Richardsons’ brother, Edvin the painter, and Brother Stevne, who used to come out to Hestviken once a year, in Lent-he had done so ever since he attended Ingunn in her hour of death. Olav did not like Brother Stevne’s appearance: he was a little crook-backed man with a face like a bad fairy; one intuitively expected him to wag his long, flexible nose. But Olav had never heard or seen anything but good of the man.
And as Eirik seemed so fixed in his desire to enter this order, his father was quite willing to give him to the Minorites with a fitting endowment.
Olav gave much thought to the question of Eirik’s birth. But he had never heard of dispensation for bastard birth being denied to any man who was otherwise well suited to be a monk or priest. And he had already burdened his conscience with so much that he might well add this to the load—hold his peace about his secret. This burden had grown into his flesh and into his soul—he felt it was beyond his power to rid himself of it.
Eirik felt his father’s changed attitude toward him as part of his new happiness. Although Olav had not much more to say to his son than usual, Eirik was aware of the new warmth with which he was met whenever he was in the elder man’s company. Most of the sayings and preaching of pious men that Eirik had heard of late years had gone in at one ear and out at the other, but now one thing and another recurred to his memory. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, then shall all other good things be added unto you”—something like this Christ had once said to His disciples, he had heard. Eirik remembered it now. All his life he thought there was one thing he had desired more than all else in the world: to force his father to acknowledge him with loving pride. Now, when he was about to renounce all the good things of this world in order to win heaven, he received as a parting gift that for which he had begged from his childhood’s days.
So it was only the thought of his sister that caused Eirik uneasiness. He said to himself that after all none but his father and sister could have thought of taking this matter of Jörund’s suit so seriously, calling it an affront and a broken promise. For nowadays folk were not so scrupulous about every word spoken at random—he himself had never been so. But now it seemed to him that his father was right—life would be much better if folk were more prone to keep their word.
One day when Olav and Eirik were down on the beach engaged in tarring a boat, and Cecilia had brought them their afternoon meal, her brother said, after she had gone:
“’Twill be lonely for her when I have left.”
“Maybe.” Olav followed the girl with a thoughtful look as she went up the hill.
Eirik said: “That is the only care on my mind, that I must go away before her future is assured.”
“I think you may leave me to deal with that.” Olav’s lips twitched with the little crooked smile that had been so habitual to him of old when answering his son. “For many years we have seen no sign that you troubled yourself about your sister’s welfare.”
“Nay, nay. But I had to see the world first, like other men. And I knew she was safe in your care.”
“Think you that is no longer good enough?”
Eirik paused, pressing the scraping-iron against the boat’s side and looking down.
“You know, Father, you begin to grow old, so—” Eirik stole an embarrassed glance at his father. Olav’s mien was now cold and unfriendly. Nevertheless he went on: “My sister is not so cheerful and easy in her mind as she should be—at her age.”
Olav could not forbear, though he was loath to put the question. “Has she complained—to you?” he asked suspiciously.
It was Aslak he had in his mind. But Eirik answered:
“I think she marvels that she has heard no more of Jörund.”
Olav went savagely at the work he was doing, but said nothing.
“Have you had no message from them?” asked Eirik at last.
“Does she know that Jörund—? If I remember aright, I bade you tell your friend that I enjoined him not to give the child any hint of the matter till it had advanced much farther. I call it unmanly and little consonant with honour if he has spoken to so young a maid ere his kinsmen and I have come to an agreement.”
Olav’s tone was so disdainful that something of Eirik’s old feeling of comradeship with Jörund was awakened.
“Spoken he has not, for sure. But when two young people have a kindness for one another, ’tis not easily hidden, so that the one knows not the other’s mind—”
Olav worked on in silence.
Jörund!” he exclaimed all at once, so gruffly and scornfully that Eirik dared not ask another question when his father relapsed into silence.
It was not one year since Aslak had used the same words—such things could not be hidden. Then he had kept an eye on his daughter, fearing she might regret Aslak too deeply. But he might safely have spared himself that. It was well she had not taken it so sadly but that she could now think of Jörund—so she would surely get over this fresh sorrow. And indeed she was little more than a child.—But, for all that, Olav felt it as a disappointment that his daughter could be so quick to forget.
Eirik wished to sail up to the convent before Easter—he could find no peace in his soul till he was admitted to the monastic life.
It had been Olav’s intention to accompany his son. But he fell sick. He had got an inward hurt in the fight at Frysja bridge; he had taken little heed of it at the time, but ever and anon it showed itself in a bloody flux and vomiting. This time he had to take to his bed. But Eirik could not wait. So he promised to send his father word in good time, when the day was appointed for him to take the habit.
On the morning of his departure he went into the closet to take leave of his father. He knelt beside the bed and asked his father’s blessing.
Olav said: “One thing I will ask of you, Eirik—that you learn the office for the dead and say it each week for your mother’s soul and for your father.”
“That I promise. To the best of my power I shall pray for my mother and for you.”
In a low voice Olav answered: “For your father you must pray. But you are not to utter my name.”
Deeply moved by his father’s humility, Eirik kissed his hand.
Eirik Olavsson was received most affectionately by the Minorites. And so eager was he that he could not wait till after the holy-days; he began at once to seek instruction of the brethren regarding his new life, accompanied them to the choir, and took part in the singing as far as he could.
But in the week after Easter he went to the guardian and said he had a friend of whom he would take leave before he renounced the world. And he wished to ride thither at once; then perhaps there might still be time for him to take the habit on St. Eirik’s Day,6 as had been proposed.
Eirik had become convinced that his sister’s agitation, on the night when he had talked to her, must be due to a feeling of love for Jörund. And now at any rate he would see whether he could render his beloved sister a service before he took his vows—in any case he would try to find out how the land lay.
At Gunnarsby he was well received, but Jörund was somewhat reserved. But when Eirik told him that he was to enter a convent and had come hither to bid his friend good-bye, both Jörund and his brothers seemed mightily surprised.
Two nights before Eirik was to leave, he and Jörund went out together to find a haunt of wood grouse. As they walked through the wood Jörund Rypa said to his friend:
“Howbeit, Eirik, it seems to me you should wait awhile and prove yourself ere you give up Hestviken and all the good things of this world.”
He could hear by Eirik’s voice that he was smiling in the darkness. “Why so? What should it avail, think you, that I proved myself, when I know this has not come from myself? You would not have me let Him wait who has called me?”
“This too you must lay aside,” said Jörund as if in jest, nudging the bow that Eirik carried. “You were always a keen hunter, Eirik.”
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“I change it for a bow that shoots higher.”
“Ay, so it is, no doubt. But will you not wait till we have time to speak with your father of that matter you know of—put in a word for me with Olav and Cecilia?”
Eirik could scarcely conceal his joy. And now Jörund said he had been uneasy the whole winter with longing for Cecilia. But he had waited because there had been a talk that Steinar and Brynhild should move to Norderheim, and he would rather the young Cecilia were spared having to dwell under the same roof with Brynhild, who was a shrew. But now that matter was in order.
Eirik nevertheless held to his purpose and left at the time he had appointed with the guardian. He gave Jörund a brooch to take to Cecilia as a token.
6 May 18.
8
OLAV AUDUNSSON had barely risen from his bed after his sickness when the brothers from Gunnarsby came riding to visit him.
Olav received them well. He did not think his guests would notice that he was still unwell and could take little food—and his spirit was also weary within him: he found it hard to come to a decision as to what answer he should make, when the strangers set forth their errand.
In his anger with this Jörund Rypa, who had first lured him into giving a half-promise and then allowed three quarters of a year to go by without making a sign, Olav had thought: nay, he did not like the fellow, he did not trust him farther than he could see him; Cecilia might find ten husbands that were better than Jörund. But now these Rypungs had come, and he could not deny that they were courtly and well-born men. Aake, the eldest, was married to Lucia Toresdatter from Leikvin, and Steinar to Brynhild Bergsdatter from Hof in Lautin—so it was difficult for him to find any pretext, if he was to reject Jörund’s suit. He had no other reason than his unwillingness to say yes.
So he sent a message privily to Baard of Skikkjustad and made a tryst with him at a place within his forest, not far from the manor.
Baard came and repeated all that he knew of the Gunnarsby folk.
The old oaks showed their tiny new leaves, reddish brown against the mild blue sky, and the grass sprouted up through the pale crust of withered leaves wherever the sun could reach it. Around the great embedded rocks that gathered its rays bloomed greater clusters of violets. Olav had stretched himself on the ground, and Baard, who sat watching his friend, thought he looked as if he might well be fey. He was grey and sunken in the face, his eyes as pale as milk and water, and yellow in the whites, the fine silvery sheen of his hair and stubbly beard was as it were tarnished. Then said Baard:
“You know, kinsman, Torgrim and I will protect Cecilia and her estate as well as we are able, if it should happen that she were left alone. But now all you possess will be hers, since Eirik is to enter a convent. And, after all, a husband takes better care of an estate than any other—”
Olav nodded.
He knew it. However good may be the intentions of a child’s guardians, an estate fares best in the hands of an owner. If Jörund got Cecilia to wife, they would move out to Hestviken as soon as he died or grew too old to have sole charge; already there dwelt two married sons at Gunnarsby. Without a doubt it was the rumour that the son and heir was to become a monk that had induced the brothers to bring forward their suit at this time. But since the two young people had conceived a love for each other so long ago as last summer, as Eirik said, then Jörund would scarcely love her less now, when he was to get the manor with her. And all the Rypungs had the name of being active and prudent husbandmen, said Baard.
Olav himself had thought the child might be left alone before they were aware of it; he had been very low this spring. True, Cecilia would be in good hands with Baard and Signe, and, young as she was, she had good sense enough. But nevertheless her father was ridden by a kind of anxiety—what was it she might take after—her mother, and himself, God mend him—
“Then you advise me to it, I perceive,” said Olav in a low voice.
“Mm—not that either,” replied Baard. “But as matters stand now, with Eirik away, I will not dissuade you from it either, Olav!”
So when Aake Kolbeinsson brought forward the brothers’ errand, Olav listened to him graciously and showed himself well disposed. The final agreement was that the betrothal feast should be held at Hestviken on the eve of St. Columba, and the bride should be brought to Gunnarsby four days before St. Laurence.7
Olav Audunsson had not been inside the church of the Minorite convent since the building was finished.
It was a bright and fresh May morning, and spring had come early this year, so that the wild cherry stood in full bloom by the roadside as Olav went up the hill from the wharf to the convent. He was early abroad—the bells were only beginning to ring in the steeple as he stepped upon the green before the church. Their sonorous pealing right above his head sent a cold thrill down his back.
Within the church the sunlight entered the windows aslant like broad beams, in which the dust-motes danced. Olav threw a rapid glance around him, but it was not at all as he remembered the Franciscans’ church—from that evening—dark and cold and desolate, still in disorder from the building, with the gaping chancel arch and black night beyond. Now the choir was flooded with light of many colours; the windows were already filled with stained glass; images were painted on the whitewash of the walls, and the high altar was very richly and handsomely adorned. Behind it, farther up the choir, he had a glimpse of the brown-frocked brethren standing in their stalls, they were already at their prayers.
By the wall to the left of the arch, where he remembered the strangely living crucifix had been placed, were now two small side altars with tapestries on the wall behind them. It was no doubt the same crucifix that now stood on the rood-beam, but it had a different look by daylight.
The church was still almost empty, so Olav seated himself on the bench near the door to wait for the time of mass. Idly he looked about him—’twas true, as folk said, the barefoot friars’ church was now a fair one. Above him the bells were calling, and the guests flowed in, more and more of them. His own party came, Baard in his bravest array, Anki and Tore in the new clothes he had given them for the journey to town. They knelt awhile; when they rose Olav went forward with them toward the choir arch. Signe and Una were already kneeling at the head of the women’s side, with Cecilia between them. The young girl was closely veiled. The church began to fill—it always drew many folk when a novice was to take the habit.
A monk came in with the long candlestick and lighted the tapers on the altar, and most of those who stood at the upper end of the nave knelt down. Olav felt ill at ease standing up, the mark of all eyes, so he too knelt and covered his face with a corner of his cloak. The soft coolness of the silk felt unfamiliar, for of late years he had not often worn his festival attire.
From habit he began to mumble the prayers, because he found himself on his knees—he always did so when custom and good manners demanded that he should seem to be praying. At the same time there was a sort of purpose in it: he passed for a pious Christian, and he wished to pass for one. He would keep his apostasy hidden as a secret of his heart; openly he would not be numbered with those who scorned or defied God. It was not their victory or success he desired; even as he was, he knew that he desired Christ’s victory and honour—as a leader, outlawed in a foreign land, may secretly rejoice over the victories of his countrymen, secretly hope for the success of the banner under which he himself may never fight again.
But he knew too that these words which flowed from his lips were like seed-corn in which the germinating power had been killed, and he scattered them abroad nevertheless, because he did not wish his neighbours to know of his poverty.
But now, when he called to mind that next winter he would be alone at Hestviken, he could no longer steel himself against the soundlessness and emptiness within by the thought that he was working for others, all those whose welfare depended on his effort. It would be a gain to Cecilia, Olav saw that well enough, if her husband could take over with
out delay all that she was to bring him. And Eirik was gone, and Bothild was gone—
Then he would be left alone with his own soul, as a captive in the deepest dungeon is left alone with the corpse of his fellow prisoner.
Olav felt that these thoughts had brought him into a whirlpool; with desperate rapidity he was being sucked under. A sort of dizziness at the vision of the loneliness that would now prevail at Hestviken; then a stillness, as though he had sunk to the bottom of a sea, a clear and motionless abyss of darkness, and then the certainty that even in this abyss he was not alone. When everything on which he had been able to fix his thoughts was plucked out of his reach, he would again be alone with the Living One Himself, from whom he had sought to fly away and hide.
God, my God, hast Thou pursued me up into the sky and down into the depths of the sea? Once he had found himself face to face with God under the vault of pale-blue winter night—when he lost the other half of his life. Now, when he was losing all that he had tried to put in her place, he was forced to feel that God’s eyes were looking upon him as though out of a forest of weed in the dark depths of the sea.
What if the seed-corn he had thought dead were not dead after all, what if the murdered child stirred on its bed of withered leaves and awakened?
Olav knew not whether there were more of terror or of hope in it; but in the vision that again overwhelmed him he saw that he had never been afraid to bear terror and pains when he believed he could save a life from being wasted or ruined. The only thing he had always been afraid of was to see a life brought to destruction, rot away. And with marvellous clearness he saw on a sudden that the same instinct that had forced him to take care of all who came in his way would now force him to be mindful of his own soul. That a man should love his even Christian as himself he had always heard and seen to be right, and the more one could follow that precept, the better. But as when a painted window is lighted up by the sun, so that one can distinguish the images in it, so did he perceive in a flash the meaning of God’s command, clear and straightforward, that a man must also love himself.