face toward him. And now Eirik was moved by it in quite a new way: the round, white face with the two bright roses in the cheeks, the dark, thoughtful eyes, the fine mouth, which seemed small when she was distressed. Now his only desire was to pat her cheek, to pass his hand tenderly and kindly over the long, white curve of her throat—he felt he wished her well with so warm a heart.
“Is it for my aunt’s sake,” she asked him earnestly, “that you were so—spiteful toward me?”
Eirik seized upon this eagerly. “Yes—but now I cannot understand how I could think you were like Mærta—”
“Even so, my aunt never desired aught else than Olav’s welfare,” said Bothild meekly. “She would ever bid me be mindful of how great were the thanks we owed your father—God must reward him, we cannot. And I too wish him naught but well—I am not greedy of authority, Eirik, but consult Cecilia in all I do.”
Eirik felt a thrill of intense joy and relief. God be thanked for her innocence—she believed no more than that he was bad to her because he was jealous on his sister’s account, or would avenge himself on her for the old ogress, her aunt—beyond that she had no thought. She firmly believed he had only meant to humiliate her.
He had heard sounds of horsemen coming down from Kverndal, and now he thought he must go and see who was coming. So there was no help for it, he had to tear himself away.
The horsemen were already in the court. They were Ragnvald Jonsson, the Sheriff’s young brother from Galaby, and Gaute Sigurdsson, whom folk called Virvir; Eirik had often met them in the two months he had spent at home. He called to Bothild, and she appeared at the corner of the house.
“Heh!” said Ragnvald with a laugh. “So you were not alone! Then our coming is untimely, I fear.”
“Are you sewing that shirt for Eirik, Bothild?” Gaute Virvir rallied her.
And now she hung her head again, and her eyes hovered this way and that. She hurried away, as though she would avoid them.
Ragnvald and the other had come by land, for they had had business up in the church town, and they were not altogether unrefreshed, so Eirik guessed it would be well to settle the matter in hand ere they went to table. The sisters had spread the cloth and laid the table when they returned from the upper chamber, and by that time the guests were hungry and not a little thirsty. While the men ate and drank, the two young maids sat in another part of the room. Ragnvald tried conclusions with Cecilia the whole time, and Cecilia gave him sharp and snappish answers; but Eirik could see that this word-play amused her—he had remarked the same thing before, his sister was ready enough for a wrangle. But Bothild had relapsed into her diffidence and shyness and seemed utterly miserable when Gaute teased her about a certain Einar from Tegneby whom she was supposed to have met in the summer, while staying with Signe Arnesdatter at her daughter’s house. Eirik did not like to hear her teased about another man, and he did not like her looking as though she had a bad conscience.
Ragnvald and Gaute delayed their leave-taking for some while after sundown. Then they would have Eirik and the maids to bear them company a part of the way.
“Nay, I dare not go with you, Ragnvald,” said Cecilia Olavsdatter; “I might meet with the same misfortune as befell Tora Paalsdatter—you jested with her so long that she put out her jaw with yawning. It may be Father and the men will soon come in, I cannot leave the houses. But you, Bothild, might go up to Liv, since Eirik can bring you back.”
So the four set off. Ragnvald and Gaute let their horses walk in front, the three young men chatted together, and Bothild followed a little way behind with her box and her bundle. Dusk was already falling; a thin white mist lay over the pale autumnal fields, and the orange glow in the sky faded and turned to rust-red. A bitter, withered scent hung about the alder
“Is it for my aunt’s sake,” she asked him earnestly, “that you were so—spiteful toward me?”
Eirik seized upon this eagerly. “Yes—but now I cannot understand how I could think you were like Mærta—”
“Even so, my aunt never desired aught else than Olav’s welfare,” said Bothild meekly. “She would ever bid me be mindful of how great were the thanks we owed your father—God must reward him, we cannot. And I too wish him naught but well—I am not greedy of authority, Eirik, but consult Cecilia in all I do.”
Eirik felt a thrill of intense joy and relief. God be thanked for her innocence—she believed no more than that he was bad to her because he was jealous on his sister’s account, or would avenge himself on her for the old ogress, her aunt—beyond that she had no thought. She firmly believed he had only meant to humiliate her.
He had heard sounds of horsemen coming down from Kverndal, and now he thought he must go and see who was coming. So there was no help for it, he had to tear himself away.
The horsemen were already in the court. They were Ragnvald Jonsson, the Sheriff’s young brother from Galaby, and Gaute Sigurdsson, whom folk called Virvir; Eirik had often met them in the two months he had spent at home. He called to Bothild, and she appeared at the corner of the house.
“Heh!” said Ragnvald with a laugh. “So you were not alone! Then our coming is untimely, I fear.”
“Are you sewing that shirt for Eirik, Bothild?” Gaute Virvir rallied her.
And now she hung her head again, and her eyes hovered this way and that. She hurried away, as though she would avoid them.
Ragnvald and the other had come by land, for they had had business up in the church town, and they were not altogether unrefreshed, so Eirik guessed it would be well to settle the matter in hand ere they went to table. The sisters had spread the cloth and laid the table when they returned from the upper chamber, and by that time the guests were hungry and not a little thirsty. While the men ate and drank, the two young maids sat in another part of the room. Ragnvald tried conclusions with Cecilia the whole time, and Cecilia gave him sharp and snappish answers; but Eirik could see that this word-play amused her—he had remarked the same thing before, his sister was ready enough for a wrangle. But Bothild had relapsed into her diffidence and shyness and seemed utterly miserable when Gaute teased her about a certain Einar from Tegneby whom she was supposed to have met in the summer, while staying with Signe Arnesdatter at her daughter’s house. Eirik did not like to hear her teased about another man, and he did not like her looking as though she had a bad conscience.
Ragnvald and Gaute delayed their leave-taking for some while after sundown. Then they would have Eirik and the maids to bear them company a part of the way.
“Nay, I dare not go with you, Ragnvald,” said Cecilia Olavsdatter; “I might meet with the same misfortune as befell Tora Paalsdatter—you jested with her so long that she put out her jaw with yawning. It may be Father and the men will soon come in, I cannot leave the houses. But you, Bothild, might go up to Liv, since Eirik can bring you back.”
So the four set off. Ragnvald and Gaute let their horses walk in front, the three young men chatted together, and Bothild followed a little way behind with her box and her bundle. Dusk was already falling; a thin white mist lay over the pale autumnal fields, and the orange glow in the sky faded and turned to rust-red. A bitter, withered scent hung about the alder
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