“_Cold are the counsels of women_”
—Northern saying.
Blinded by the change from the hall’s unbroken shade to the court-yard’s
untempered light, Randvar lingered on the threshold. As upon helpless
prey, the unsparing sunshine of the spring morning fastened on him and
pointed out that his leather tunic had been dragged open at the throat
and his sleeves torn out at the shoulders, that his face was haggard and
his eyes bloodshot. The thralls, hurrying to and from the buildings with
fresh water and clean straw, laughed indulgently as they glanced at him,
and murmured one to another: “Behold a man who drank deep last night!”
No more than if he had been wine-deadened was he conscious of their
comments or their presence. He had drunk of misery as of a heady liquor,
and like a drunkard’s thirst for water was his longing for the presence
of the woman he loved. Seeking her—conscious only of his need of her—he
made his way across the glaring stretch of the court-yard, through the
dim length of the women’s hall, to the shrine of her alcove bower.
Before he reached it, its open door gave him view of tapestried walls in
whose dusky east a mirror of silver-gilt hung like a rising sun, of
white-robed tirewomen moving now and again across it, of the girl who
stood before it while they finished dressing her, her exquisite head
agleam against the dark hangings like a jewel in its casket. His sense
of beauty stirred through his heaviness, and quickened song-makers’
fancies in his mind.
“The web of her hair glows as the dragon’s treasure glowed in the gloom
of his den.... As a pearl from a setting of red gold shines her face
from her tresses.... As rare as a jewel is Brynhild the Proud ... as
unbending ... as untender....”
Into his longing crept something akin to wistfulness. He stood gazing at
her in silence as—encountering his eyes in the mirror—she raised her
head with a motion of surprise. He wondered why she did not turn when he
advanced, but remained regarding his reflection and spoke as to the man
in the bright oval.
“Has Freya’s son lost sight of my dignity, as well as of his own, that
he comes in disorder into my presence?”
“Disorder?” he repeated, looking for the first time at his reflection.
An instant he stood abashed before it, so did it jar upon the stately
harmony; then the grim scene that had brought him to that condition came
back and dwarfed everything else. With a gesture of passionate scorn, he
turned from the mirror.
“Jarl’s sister, if ever it happen to you to reach the sap of the Tree of
Life, such things as clothes will seem less important than cobwebs
blowing from its branches!” he said, and whirling on his heel, he turned
and stood in the door, staring away with unseeing eyes.
Yrsa the Lovely, fastening a velvet pouch to her mistress’s girdle of
filigree, let it fall with a soft thud; but that was all the sound there
was in the room until the Jarl’s sister began to speak coldly to the
other maids:
“I want to wear the silver neck-chain—No, not that one—the one to match
this girdle. Yes, that. And, Nanna, I wish you would bring me the
kerchiefs,—all that have a silver fringe.” As light footsteps answered
her, and the rustle of silk, she gave other low-voiced orders.
Gradually, the calm routine brought the Songsmith back into touch with
the world about him. Staring away over the whirring wheels, he told
himself that it must look to her as though he had come unsobered from a
night’s carousal,—that it was even better she should think so than guess
the true reason for his dulled wits. Girding up his patience for this
new trial, he turned back wearily.
“It is fair and right, Jarl’s sister, that I should have blame for
showing you aught but the bright side of my manners, which are tarnished
enough at best. I will take my leave now, and come back only when the
wine-clouds have cleared from my mind.” He was crossing the threshold
when her outstretched hand stayed him.
“I would rather you would remain, if you have nothing against it,” she
said, then spoke over her shoulder to the kneeling tirewomen, who were
making the arrangement of her train an excuse for lingering. “Maidens,
you have done enough work on those folds. Go out now to your
spinning,—excepting only Yrsa. Foster-sister, do you take your quill
embroidery to that stool under the window, yonder.”
When she had seen them obey her, she turned back to her lover a face
whose expression he could not understand.
“I will begin by saying outright that you need not try to hide the truth
under the pretence that it is wine instead of trouble which ails you. I
should know better than that even if Thorgrim’s son had not taken pains
to let me hear how you were likely to pass the night.”
In his mind he repeated the name of Thorgrim’s son, at first
wonderingly, then vengefully; but aloud he said nothing, only continued
to look at her in haggard suspense.
A moment her high pride wavered, her beautiful mouth seeming to struggle
against tenderness. Coming up to him, she touched her fingers lightly to
his rent sleeves, his torn collar, the furrow between his dark brows.
“It is seen that Helvin went even further, after Olaf left! Do you think
that his being my brother holds me back from hating him?”
Two emotions the song-maker suddenly knew,—relief that the whole truth
was still unknown to her, and a desire to delay those caressing fingers.
Capturing them, he held them against his cheek while he asked her what
had been said to make her think the Jarl was behaving badly towards him.
At that, her mouth surrendered to indignation.
“Enough was said—and more! I liked it well to have Olaf fetch such
news,—Olaf, whom I cast off in your favor! And he brought it around so
artfully that I could not stop him until it was out. He said that
because you had lingered that little while in the lane, Helvin dared to
upbraid you, to threaten you—Now, I will not put it into words! He said
that the Jarl spoke to you as a man dare not speak to his thrall, lest
the slave turn,—and that you did not turn!” She plucked her hands from
his hold, drew herself away from him. “He said that you took it
submissively—that when he came away, you were on your knees!”
No longer was she pearl-pale, but crimson with the blood of her scourged
pride. An instant her passion reacted on him, so that his face reflected
her flush. He muttered that Thorgrim’s son went heavily into debt for a
creature that had only one life with which to pay. Then the emotion
passed, too slight really to stir his heaviness.
“Yes, I submitted to him,—” he said, “as a well man puts up with the
fretfulness of a sick one. Would you have a whole man contend against a
cripple? For that is what Helvin is when he speaks temper-trying words,
a man crippled in his mind. What difference does it make? since you must
know that cowardice could have nothing to do with my behavior. I can
think of much pleasanter things to speak of.”
Again a certain wistfulness came into his eyes, and he drew nearer to
her.
“Let me feel that I have a peace land in your heart, though all other
ports are war-bound. If I were in a death-swoon, the sound of your voice
would trickle into my ears like cordial and spread healing through me.
Give me of its balm now—of your smile—your love.”
Another step he made towards her—then stopped short. For it was not as a
minister of healing she faced him, but as a Valkyria of battle, armored
in pride. Like spears she threw her words at him.
“As soon would I that you were a coward as a churl! Churl’s blood—Rolf’s
blood—that must be what it is! Freya’s stock would have struck the words
from his lips though he were thrice a jarl. Now better be a coward than
a clod, too base to know it when you are insulted.”
This time the color that rose to his face remained there, a darkling
shade. From under lowering lids he stood looking at her.
“If you would not have me show churl’s blood by losing temper with you,”
he said presently, “I ask you to stop talking about this happening. So
soon as Helvin got himself in hand again, he made atonement; and that is
an end to the matter. What lies on you, who say you love me, is to have
faith in my manfulness. And I ask you, moreover, to remember that you
are fretting a churl who has already been galled to the quick.”
She greeted the warning as a Valkyria might greet a sign that her
opponent is aroused. In her governed voice was the thrill of a trumpet.
“Lose your temper, then, as fast as you may,—and so find your pride!
Half-way, I think it is good-nature that makes you bend to him; and
half-way, gratefulness for the favors you have taken from him; though
you have long known what my wish is, that you should never look to any
one else than to me when you stand in need of anything.”
Her satin-shod foot stirred with an angry impulse. “A fine atonement
that is given in secret, while he chose that time when you were under
the eyes of your enemy to put shame upon you! Can you not understand,
Rolf’s son, that you drag me down in your disgrace, since I have done
you the honor to promise to wed you? If you have no pride for
yourself—for Freya’s name—make some for me, that it be not told around
that the man I hold highest in honor is a man Starkad’s son uses like a
thrall!”
The Songsmith opened his compressed lips wide enough to let a question
through: “Is this a sample of the honor you hold me in?”
“It is the kindest treatment you will ever receive from me until you
have wiped out this stain,” she told him.
Then because he did not reply to her, but folding his arms across his
breast, turned as though to leave her, she blazed out at him:
“The end of this shall be that you take your choice of two things!
Either you go to him and renounce his service, or else you go from me
and renounce the hope that I shall ever call you husband.”
He answered her then, his arms outflung like stones from a volcano’s
crest, though his voice only deepened.
“May my tongue wither if ever I ask to call myself your thrall! A bad
bargain would that be to throw off a man’s rule to be commanded by a
woman! Not though she be as fair as you, and I love her as I love you! I
have sworn an oath to Helvin Jarl to stand by him as by a brother, and
never shall you egg me on to break it. If your lover’s love is not
enough, and you must have his freedom also, seek out a lesser man for
your favor; for as God lives, my pride that you have scorned—be it
king-born or churl-born—will never stoop to your rule!”
With the last word, the door closed behind him.