Produced by Al Haines GUDRID THE FAIR A Tale of the Discovery of America BY MAURICE HEWLETT Author of "The Forest Lovers," "The Life and Death of Richard Yea and Nay," "Love and Lucy," etc. NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1918 Copyright, 1918, By Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. PREFACE This tale is founded upon two sagas, which have been translated literally and without attempt to accord their discrepancies by York Powell and Vigfussen in their invaluable _Origines Icelandicae_. As well as those versions I have had another authority to help me, in Laing's _Sea-Kings of Norway_. I have blent the two accounts into one, and put forward the result with this word of explanation, which I hope will justify me in the treatment I have given them. I don't forget that a "saga" is history, and that these sagas in particular furnish an account of the first discovery of America, no less a thing. Nevertheless, while I have been scrupulous in leaving the related facts as I found them, I have not hesitated to dwell upon the humanity in the tales, and to develop that as seemed fitting. I don't think that I have put anything into the relation which is not implied in the few words accorded me by the text. I believe that everything I give Gudrid and Freydis, Karlsefne and Leif and Eric Red to say or to do can be made out from hints, which I have made it my business to interpret. Character makes plot in life as well as in fiction, and a novelist is not worthy of his hire who can't weave a tale out of one or two people to whom he has been able to give life. All romantic invention proceeds from people or from atmosphere. Therefore, while I have shown, I hope, due respect to the exploration of America, I admit that my tale turns essentially upon the explorers of it. My business as a writer of tales has been to explore them rather than Wineland the Good. I have been more interested in Gudrid's husbands and babies than I had need to be as an historian. I am sure the tale is none the worse for it--and anyhow I can't help it. If I read of a woman called Gudrid, and a handsome woman at that, I am bound to know pretty soon what colour her hair was, and how she twisted it up. If I hear that she had three husbands and outlived them all I cannot rest until I know how she liked them, how they treated her; what feelings she had, what feelings they had. So I get to know them as well as I know her--and so it goes on. Wineland does not fail of getting discovered, but meantime some new people have been born into the world who do the business of discovering while doing their own human business of love and marriage and childbirth. All this, I say, is implicit in the saga-history. So it is, but it has to be looked for. The saga listeners, I gather, took character very much for granted, as probably Homer's audience did. Odysseus was full of wiles, Achilles was terrible, Paris "a woman-haunting cheat," Gunnar of Lithend a poet and born fighter, Nial a sage, and so on. The poet gave them more than that, of course. Poetry apart, he did not disdain psychology. There is plenty psychology in both _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_--less in the sagas, but still it is there. And when you come to know the persons of these great inventions there is as much psychology as any one can need, or may choose to put there--as much as there is in _Hamlet_, as much as there is in _La Guerre et La Paix_. In Kormak's Saga, for instance, which I put forward some years ago as _A Lover's Tale_, is there no psychology? It is no way out of it to put down Kormak's tergiversations to sorcery. I doubt if that was good enough for the men who first heard the tale; it is certainly no good to us. In the strange barbaric recesses of the tale of Gunnar Helming and Frey's wife, what are we to make of it all unless we reckon with the states of poor Sigrid's soul, married to a gog-eyed wooden god? How came Halgerd to betray Gunnar to his foes, how came Nial to be burned in his bed? Can one read _Laxdale_ and not desire to read through it into the proud heart of Gudrun? And having once begun with them one could go on, I believe, until the hearts of all those fine, straight-dealing people were as plain to us as those of our superfine, sophisticated moderns. For Nature is still our mother and mistress, no less now than she ever was--and that's a good thing for the story-reader as well as for the story-teller. Out of the Saga of Thorgils, which is a tale of Greenland's exploration, I hope that I drew a portrait of a good Icelander. Out of Eric's Saga and Karlsefne's Saga combined I believe there is a no less faithful picture of a good Icelandish woman. Gudrid was wise as well as fair, if I have read her truly; she was a good woman, wife and mother. The discovery of Wineland is to my own feelings quite beside the mark where she is involved; but I have put it all in, and wish there had been more of it. Psychology and romantic imagination will not help us much there. We want the facts, and they fail us. All that can be made out is that Karlsefne sailed up the Hudson. His Scraelings were Esquimaux. But who was the black-kirtled woman who appeared to Gudrid and gave herself the same name? And where was the Maggoty Sea? And what goaded Freydis to her dreadful deeds? I admire Freydis myself; I think she was a _femme incomprise_. I have taken pains with Freydis, though personally I had rather been Gudrid's fourth husband than Freydis's first. I am not afraid of the accusation of vulgarising the classics. It is good that they should be loved, and if simplification and amplification humanise them I can stand the charge with philosophy. Of all classics known to me the sagas are the most unapproachable in their naked strength. Their frugality freezes the soul; they are laconic to baldness. I admire strength with anybody, but the starkness of the sagas shocks me. When Nial lies down by his old wife's side with the timbers roaring and crackling over his head, and Skarphedin, his son, says, "Our father goes early to bed, but that was to be expected, as he is an old man," Professor Ker, exulting in his strength, finds it admirable. I say it is inadequate, and not justified to us by what else the saga tells us of the speaker. I am sure that Skarphedin had more to say, or that if he had not the poet could have expressed him better. It recalls the humorous callousness of our soldiers, which, nakedly rendered, is often shocking. This is, however, not really the point. Terseness may be dramatic--it often is, as in "Cover her face--mine eyes dazzle--She died young"--but in narrative it may check instead of provoke the imagination. But if it provoke, is it not reasonable to let the imagination go to work upon it? If Skarphedin indeed took his father's death in that manner, is one not justified in going to work with Skarphedin, to find out what manner of man he was who could so express himself in supreme crisis? I trace a great deal of our soldiers' crude jesting at death to their Scandinavian blood; and nothing more intensely and painfully interesting has ever been given to the imagination to work upon than their conduct in the face of horror and sin of late, so dauntless, so blithe and so grim as it is. Where heroism has been so shown on all sides of us in these three dreadful years, it is no longer possible to pick and choose heroic nations. One might otherwise have said that no such heroes were ever given to the world as the heroes of Iceland. That they are not accepted as such on all hands is no fault of the literature which presents them; for that literature, like all great art, makes demands upon its readers. It hands over the key, but if the lock is stiff it will not give you oil for the wards. That you must find for yourself. Oil for the wards is all I can pretend to here; and if I may say that I have humanised a tale of endurance, and clothed demigods and shadows in flesh and blood, I shall feel that I have done useful work, and bear charges of vulgarisation with a philosophy which assures me that the two terms are much of a muchness. The great gestures, the large-scale maps, the grand manner are for history and epic, but genre for the novel--and what _genre_ is so momentous to it as the human? Let Homer describe the wrath of Achilles and the passion of Hektor and Andromache. The novelist will want to know what Briseïs felt when she was handed from hero to hero, will pore upon the matronly charity of Theano, the agony of the two young men Achilles slew by Skamander, and find the psychology of these pawns in the great game as enthralling as that of the high movers. I confess that to me Gudrid, the many times a wife and the always sweet and reserved, is more absorbing a tale than the discovery of Wineland. I like the two running Scots better than their country, would barter all Greenland for the tale of the winter sickness in Thorstan Black's house. So much apology I feel moved to offer for having put down Exploration from the chief place in the tale, and put up a wife and mother. As for the verse--Gudrid's Wardlock chant is adapted from the Lay of Swipday and Merglad in _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_, I, 92 _seq_., and Thorstan's Song of Helgi and Sigrun is a partial version of that epic (_ibid_. 131). GUDRID THE FAIR I Thorbeorn was old when this tale begins. His face was lean, his beard was grey, he stooped somewhat in the saddle. But he had a fiery mind, a high spirit, and was so rich, or believed so, that men said he could buy off Death more likely than any other man, seeing he would neither fail of hardihood nor money. By this time, old age apart, he had done very well for himself, having not only buried a wife, but married another; having not only seen three sons out into the world and become a grandfather twice over; but having had also, by his second wife, whose name was Hollweg, a daughter, and an estate of Bathbrink which could be hers by and by, if he so pleased. This daughter was by name Gudrid, and by all men's consent Gudrid the Fair. Iceland has always been famous for handsome women; but three are chiefly commemorated as "the Fair." The first is Gudrun, who was daughter of Oswif; but she was now old. The second is Stangerd, daughter of Thorkel of Tongue, and at this time the wife of Battle-Berse of Sowerby in the north-west parts. This Gudrid, Thorbeorn's daughter, is the third, and was, at the moment, of marriageable age, being full fifteen years old. She was a tall girl, well and beautifully made, with carriage so graceful and look so courteous that men used to stop in the road and gaze after her as she walked. Her hair was very nearly black, and made a plait which she could easily sit upon. She was no talker, but had the best of manners, whereby it happened that those who talked with her were eloquent and believed that she had been so. She had a beautiful voice and notable skill in singing. Men heard her songs, and rushed out into the dark emulous of desperate work, and the sooner the better, to deserve well of her. Thorbeorn was very proud of her; but it had been her mother's work to have her carefully trained. If she had lived this tale might not have been written; but she did not. She died a year before it begins, and left her old husband to a peck of troubles. Thorbeorn was the last man to cope with trouble. He was too proud, too vain, and too idle--too proud to confide, too vain to accept, too idle to repair. He had always kept a great table and had a hall full of guests. He had them still, though he had not the money to pay for them. He borrowed on his property, and borrowed again to repay the first loans; he had ventures at sea, which failed him. He might have had help from his sons, but would not ask them. When Gudrid was fifteen years old these things vexed him sadly; but what vexed him more was that young men came to Bathbrink to see if they could get speech with her; and that some of them put forward friends with proposals to marry her. So far he had refused to treat with any. "It is not to be thought of," he generally said; sometimes, "It is very unsuitable"; and once, "I am greatly offended." Not that he did not fully intend to have her married--rather it was that he had a rooted belief in the greatness of his family and in the girl's merits, and could find none of the suitors at all equal to them. He was one of those men who rather wish to believe in themselves than do it. He was always on the look-out for flaws upon his mettle. He thought that Gudrid was unapproachable, and when he found that she was not, fretted to make her so. But Gudrid herself was not at all unapproachable. She liked the company of her equals in age, and saw no reason why young men should not be anxious to talk to her, or why, if they hung about with the generality at the lower end of the hall, they should not be invited to the fire. With the girls in the bower she talked freely of courtships, and of young men. Thorbeorn would have been cut to the heart to hear her. It might have been better for him to have such a wound than the wound which actually he did receive. He was riding home late one autumn evening. The weather was still mild and warm. Nearing home, he turned his horse on to the turf and walked him, with the reins hanging loose. Presently he was aware of two figures together under a clump of trees. One of them he saw at once for Gudrid. The other was a man, he knew not whom. Immediately hot water sprang into his eyes and veiled their sight, but he saw enough to guess more. The pair were taking leave of each other. Their hands were clasped, their arms at length. They were far apart, the man talking, Gudrid listening. Then presently the strain on the arms relaxed, their clasped hands fell; they were near together. Gudrid, he saw, hung her head--and then, suddenly, the man put his other arm about her neck, and drew her to him and kissed her cheek. At that she broke away and ran towards the house. The man, looking after her for a little, then vaulted the turf wall and ran down the hillside towards the river, making great skips and jumps over the tussocks and boulders, as if he were as happy as a man could be. That was what Thorbeorn saw in the autumn dusk. He went home in a dreadful state of mind, and could hardly bear to be served supper by his desecrated daughter. To think that those soft cheeks had been profaned by a strange youth, that those grave young eyes had looked kindly upon another than himself, that that fair hand had clasped another's in kindness--all this seemed to him horrible. He thought her a hypocrite; he thought himself insulted. Yet even he had to admit that the kiss was sudden, and she evidently surprised and (since she ran away at once) probably frightened. He judged that she was a novice at such work, but for all that was very much afraid that she took kindly to it. He spent a great part of the night thinking it over, and before he went to sleep had made up his mind. Early in the morning he was out and about; before the day-meal he sent for Gudrid. She came, singing to herself, fresh as a rose and as fair. She asked his pleasure--and he had not the heart to tell her his displeasure. What he did say was this: "Put your gear together as soon as you can. I am taking you to Erne Pillar, where you will be put in fostership with Orme." Gudrid looked up startled, and saw in her father's eyes what she had not seen before. Her own eyes fell, she coloured up, turned and went away, to do as she was told. It may be said at once that she had done very little harm, and none knowingly. The young man, who was one of the several who came to the house, was the son of a neighbour, a man of repute. Gudrid favoured him no more than any of the others, but it had so happened that he had been there that afternoon, talking with the girls, and that Gudrid had walked with him as far as the trees on his way home. He had protracted the farewells, and had snatched a kiss; she had been frightened and run away. That might have happened to anybody--but she knew now that Arnkel had had no business at the house when her father was not there. That could not be denied. She went soberly about her preparations, and the girls were full of pity. They talked it over and over, but there was nothing to be done. Her bundles and bales were corded upon the sumpter's back. She embraced and kissed her housemates. There were wet cheeks and trembling lips involved, but they were not hers. Then she was put up before her father, and away she went. As for young Arnkel, he no more comes into the tale than he had stayed in Gudrid's mind. II Orme was a friend of Thorbeorn's, and a prosperous man. He lived at Erne Pillar, which is below Snaefellness, and near the sea. There was a haven there and a town. Moreover it was a Christian settlement, with a church and a priest. Most of the houses and land there belonged to Orme, who lived in a good house of his own with his wife Halldis. They had no children, which was a grief to them. Thorbeorn brought Gudrid to the house, and had a good reception from the goodman and his wife. "Take her with you, good wife, into your bower," he said, "while I have a word with Orme. He will tell you all about it, or I will. It is good for me to be sure that it makes no matter which of us tells you." Halldis said, it was easy to see that Gudrid was not making a short stay, and took her with her through the house into the bower. There, it was not long before she knew all that Thorbeorn or Orme could have to say, and may be more still. Meantime, Thorbeorn, after much unnecessary havers, said to Orme: "The matter is this, neighbour. I ask you and the goodwife to take Gudrid here in fostership. It will suit me in every way, and I hope you will agree to it." Orme said that it would suit him too very well. "Nothing the mistress would like better than to see herself reflected in a young pair of eyes." Thorbeorn accepted that as a matter of course; but presently he asked whether they saw much company at Erne Pillar. Not such a deal of company, Orme said. Now and again a ship came in, and there was a bustle, with men coming and going, cheapening the goods. "Nothing to you at Bathbrink, I daresay," he added. "They tell me that you keep a great house up there--as is fitting you should." "I have to remember what is expected of me," Thorbeorn said, and felt that he was no nearer what he wanted to say than he had been. "Gudrid is young," he said, beginning again. "She's a beauty, it's evident," Orme said briskly, and instantly Thorbeorn felt himself bristling down the backbone. "She is sought after on all hands--but not by any who is to my liking. I hope that Halldis will look after her well." "She will look after her like one of her own," said Orme. Thorbeorn had rather he had said more than that. He could not understand that Orme did not see what was at stake, and yet could not enlighten him further. The good wife then came springing in. "She will be happy, and so shall we be," she said. "I have a roomy heart, too long empty, woe's me. She will soon be singing about the house, and then we old folks will fall to it. It will be like a nest of linnets. She will scour our rusty pipes for us. Excellent!" Thorbeorn was put out that they seemed to think it pure pleasure to have his daughter on their hands instead of great responsibility and a call to duty. "Well," he said, "you have helped me with a serious trouble. I leave her to you with confidence. Where is she now? For I must be going." "She is with the girls in the wash-house," said Halldis. "All chattering together like starlings on a thatch. All talking at once, and none listening. Do you wish her fetched?" "No," said Thorbeorn, waving his hand. "She will do better where she is." He felt the impossibility of saying what he wished. Then he took his way homewards, and the couple looked at each other. "A love affair," Halldis said. "It looks like it," said Orme. "And there will be love affairs. She's a paragon." "That remains to be seen," Halldis said. "She's a beauty at least. But a baby as yet. Wait till she's cut her teeth." "I hope she won't cut them here," said Orme; but his wife said briskly, "Better here than there." Halldis could see through Thorbeorn and pity his barren pride. Gudrid was happy at Erne Pillar, and soon very much at home. She had found her voice at once, and now she began to find herself. Her discoveries were made in the appreciative eyes of her foster-parents, for that is the first place in which we get our notion of ourselves. The portrait encouraged her. She became interesting to herself. Then there were the neighbours, often in and out of the house, but always under the heedful eyes of the good wife. Then there were the ships. Last there were the priest, and his little church. All the people at Erne Pillar had been christened, as had Thorbeorn himself been; but there was a great difference when you had a priest and a church. The priest at Erne Pillar was a serious priest. He said Mass every day, and expected you, or some of you, to be there. Now Thorbeorn, Christian though he were, had never been to Mass in his life. His Christianity consisted in turning his back on Frey. Frey had been the chief God at Bathbrink and in all the country round. Thorbeorn had been Frey's priest at one time, but now would have nothing to say to him; and as for Gudrid, she had never known anything herself about Frey or the other gods, but had been sprinkled as soon as she could be carried down to Erne Pillar. That, so far, had been the utmost of her Christianity. But she had heard plenty of talk about the old gods; and now she was to hear more about them, and something of the new gods too. Orme and Halldis had both been heathens and knew a deal about Frey and Redbeard, as they called Thor. Orme was not interested in religion at all; but Halldis was. Halldis kept well with the priest, but on certain nights of the year--on the night they called The Mother Night, for instance--she was restless, and used to go to the door and stand there looking out at the moonlight, as if she would be off with the others if she dared. That, too, was what plenty other women at Erne Pillar were doing; but none of them went. The priest saw to it. Halldis taught Gudrid numberless songs--charms, incantations, love spells, and long, terrible tales about Valkyrs and their human lovers. The girl came to understand that love might become a tearing, wringing business, and marriage a tame road for life to take. Halldis's songs were seldom about marriage, but always about love. The two only came together in the same song when it was a case of a giant with a woman for his wife, or a Valkyr with a man for her husband. These cases, it seems, had often occurred. They were exciting and ended in tears--but not often in marriage as well. She went to Mass first of all with Halldis, but afterwards, as often as not, she went alone. Halldis had plenty to do at home. If she kept to what was of obligation she thought she did very well. But Gudrid liked the quiet and darkness; she used to stare at the lights till they multiplied themselves and danced like shooting stars. She liked the murmur of the words, and the mysterious movements and shiftings of the priest. When he lifted up the Host, she bowed her head, and used to hear her heart beating. She supposed that something was happening overhead, and used to listen for the rushing sound of wings. This was a constantly renewed excitement; it never failed her when she was well--and that was always. The priest, who was a serious priest, and came from the south, was interested in Gudrid, and wanted her to confess and communicate; but she would not. "No, I couldn't do that," she said, "without asking my foster-mother." "Ask her, then, my daughter," said the priest. "But she would have to ask my father," said Gudrid, "who would not allow it." "But your father is a Christian, surely?" said the priest. "Certainly he is a Christian. He went into the river to be one." "Then he will order you to do your duty." Gudrid shook her head. "No, no. He would not like it at all." The priest spoke to Halldis about it, and scared her. "It is not the custom here," she said, "but I will ask Orme." The priest himself asked Orme, who rubbed his chin. "One thing at a time is a good rule," he said. "We in Iceland are not much given to private talks between men and women. Husband and wife is all very well. And Thorbeorn is a peculiar man. I recommend you to wait for a little. These are early days for new customs." The priest was vexed. He did not care to be called a man. III The second summer after Gudrid came to Erne Pillar a fine ship came in from Norway with a full cargo. She came in late in the evening, and everybody was on the shore to see her. Orme knew whose she was and all about her. She was Einar's ship, he said, and overdue. In the morning she would discharge her cargo in his warehouse, "and then," he said to Gudrid, "there will be matters for you to see to, which will last you a good while. Fine cloth, Einar always brings, and embroidered lengths from Russia. We shall have you going as gay as a kingfisher about the ways." Nothing was done that night except that Orme was rowed out to the ship and stayed drinking with the master till late. But in the morning, when Gudrid went to Mass, she saw men bringing up the cargo from the quay; and when she came back from Mass, there, at the door of Orme's warehouse, was Orme himself talking to a stranger who had foreign clothes on him, a gold chain round his loins, from which hung a goodly knife in a sheath, and rings in his ears. Gudrid, being well brought up, looked neither to the right nor left, but dipped her head to her foster-father as she went by. She had on her sea-blue gown, and a blue silk handkerchief knotted in her hair. The handkerchief was there in obedience to the priest, who had told her she must not come to church bare-headed, even in the summer-time. The morning being fresh, her cheeks were a-flower with roses. Orme greeted her with a happy word as she sped by him, but Einar, who was the stranger present, the master of the ship, looked after her, and presently said, "Tell me, who is that beautiful person?" Orme told him who she was and of what stock. Einar's colour was high. "She is a prize for a good man indeed," he said. "And many and many a man has tried after her, beyond doubt?" "Many and many a man," said Orme; "you are right there. But she is not for the first comer, nor yet for the second. I won't answer for herself, if herself had anything to say in it--which isn't likely. But for her father the Franklin, I will say as much as this, that he's a great man, and knows it, though not so well to do as he was. And he will be hard to come at in the matter of Gudrid." Einar said no more about her just then, but turned to his affairs and was busy all day long. Then, at supper-time, Orme took him home to his house, where he was to stay so long as his occasions kept him in the country. Halldis made him very welcome, and then Gudrid came into the hall, and he had a greeting for her. He was young and fresh-coloured, and showed fine white teeth when he smiled, which was often. He produced his bales, presents for Halldis and Orme; and presently, while they were all pulling over the things, he held up a jointed girdle of wrought silver with crystals set in every square of it. This he offered to Gudrid. "For you, lady, if you will accept of it," he said. Gudrid drew back and blushed. Then she looked at Halldis. "Oh, may I?" she asked. Halldis, who had her hands full of scarlet cloth, looked at the glittering thing. "It is too good to refuse," she said. "And why should you refuse it?" "You will make me proud and contented if you will take it," Einar said. "It will be a kind action on your part." "Einar speaks well," said Orme. "Put it about you, Gudrid." Gudrid put the belt round her waist and fastened it. "That's a good fit," said Halldis. "It might have been made for you." Einar was still looking at Gudrid, and smiling all the time. "Does it please you, lady?" he said. "It is beautiful," said Gudrid. "It ought to be," Einar said. Then she thanked him fairly, and turned and ran away to show herself to the maids in the bower. Einar was very thoughtful for a time; but brightened up when Gudrid and the girls brought in the meal, and served it. He told tales of his voyages and entertained the company. A very good tale he told of a friend of his called Biorn--Biorn Heriolfsson--who was a ship-man like himself, and had come home to Iceland two winters back expecting to find his father at home. But his father in the meantime had up-stick with everything and gone off to Greenland after Eric Red. That put Biorn out, because he was a man who liked old customs. It had always been his way to spend the winters at home with his father, and now here was his father flitted to Greenland. So Biorn stood on the deck of his ship, very much put out. "Shall we break bulk?" somebody asked him. "No," says Biorn, "you will not do that. Let me think." When he had thought he told the ship's company that he was minded to go to Greenland after his father, and they agreed to make the voyage. He fastened down his cargo again, refitted, and away. But it was one thing to resolve upon Greenland, and another thing to hit it off. He had not sailed those seas before, and falling in with bad weather, was driven out of his course; and then--to make matters worse--there came down upon him with a northerly wind a thick blanket of white fog in which he could get no hint of his whereabouts and drifted upon a strong current, fairly smothered up. He knew no more where he was than Einar himself could tell them; he lost count of days and nights, but estimated that he was three weeks at sea before the fog lifted and he saw the stars. In the morning the sun rose fair out of the sea, and he got a bearing. More than that, he saw before him--like a low bank of cloud--a strange coast lying on his starboard bow. He could not tell where he wag got to, or what land that might be, but was sure it was not Greenland. The land lay low, and was dark with woods. The shore was sandy, with hummocks of blown sand upon it, covered with grass; the surf very heavy. He coasted that country for two days and nights with a good wind off-shore, but would not try for a landing anywhere, being set upon Greenland and sure that he was not there. Other lands he saw, and a great island covered with snow, and ice-mountains rising sheer out of the sea--but still he kept on his course. After that he had a spell of heavy weather with green seas over him constantly; and last of all he saw another land, on his port bow, which he said was Greenland. A great ness ran out far into the sea, which he made with safety, and found smooth water, a town, an anchorage, and a man in a boat fishing. Biorn drew alongside, feeling for his anchorage, and laughed to himself when the man looked up from his fishing and presently raised his hand and sawed the air once or twice. "Hail to you, father," said Biorn. "I thought you would be coming along," said his father. "You have hit me off to a nicety." Biorn said, "I don't know about the nicety of it. I have been seven weeks at sea since I left Iceland, and no man alive knows where I have been--least of all myself." "Be careful of my lines," said his father. "I am in the way to catch monsters, and have pots down and out all round me." At that Biorn threw his head up and laughed till he cried. "A scurvy on your monster pots," he said. "Here am I come from beating round the watery world to seek you, and you think only of pots." Gudrid was thrilled to hear of the new lands; but Orme, who knew Heriolf, Biorn's father, was tickled to death with the old man's quirks. "That is Heriolf all over," he said. "And to say that such a man could get on with Eric Red. Greenland is not wide enough to hold those two." But Gudrid held Einar with the most beautiful pair of eyes in Iceland. "And what country was it that Biorn found first?" she asked. Einar said, "I can't tell you. He must have drifted south of Greenland, south and by west. I believe that he crossed the western ocean, which no man has ever yet done. It is a notable deed--but a thousand pities that he made no landing." But Gudrid still gazed at him, and into him. "And will you not go yourself, and seek out that new country?" Einar said, "I have often thought of it. It would be a fine adventure. But just now I have another adventure in my mind, which may delay me. "And what adventure is that?" Einar said, "I cannot tell you at the moment. It is not a settled thing by any means." Halldis looked at Orme, and Orme nodded his head. After that Einar saw much of Gudrid, and used to tell her tales of the sea. He was busy, of course, most of the day, but found time in the evenings; and in the mornings, too, he had the habit of going to church at Mass-time and kneeling behind her. She was pleased to find him there, and the first time showed it plainly. After that she was more than pleased, but careful not to show it. They used to walk home together, and sometimes did not go the straight road, but went round by the frith and looked at Einar's ship lying out at her moorings, swaying with the tide. One day, looking at the ship there, Gudrid asked him again what his adventure was, and whether anything was settled. No, he said, nothing was settled; but he hoped it might be settled soon. "It does not depend altogether upon me," he said. "My mind was made up at once." "But," said Gudrid, "if that adventure were settled and done with, would you not then think of seeking the new country which Biorn saw?" "Well, I might do that," Einar replied. "But a man tires of the sea after a time, and I have had plenty of it. I am very well off, you must know. I might set up my house-pillars, and find me a wife." "But you would not do that?" "Ah," said Einar, "but I am sure that I would." She kept her gaze for the tide in the frith, feeling it would be indiscreet to say more. A little later on he told her what the adventure was on which his heart was set, and when she had heard it she gave him her hand. But she told him that it did not rest with her--as he knew very well it did not. They sat together on the brae in the sun, and her hand remained in his keeping. Presently she said, "If my father says that we may, we will go out to find the new country together." "We will go where you will," said Einar. "It will be all one to me." Again she thought, with her face set towards the sea. Then she turned suddenly and put her arms round his neck. IV Einar spoke to Orme about the affair, and Orme put on a scared look, though he had been expecting something of the kind. "You will find Thorbeorn hard to deal with," he said. Einar replied, "Hard or not, I intend to come at him, for I love Gudrid, and she loves me. She is worth fighting for, being as good as she is fair." "She is so," said Orme; "but, to tell you the truth, I don't know how you will set about it." "I shall ask you to be my friend in it," Einar said. "He will listen to you sooner than any one." Orme put his head on one side. "I don't care much about your errand. You will get me into hot water with Thorbeorn. Don't I tell you that he is a great man, an old settler and what-not? He knows his forefathers back to Baldur the Beautiful." "You are telling me what I know already," said Einar, who was rather red, and showed a frown. "My own birth is no such thing. My father was a freedman. Well, I couldn't help that." "If I am telling you stale news, neighbour," said Orme, "it is only that you may see what I have to tell Thorbeorn." "Yes, yes, I know," Einar said. "He is a man of rank, and I no such thing. I grant it. But I have money, do you see? I am well off both in ships and credit; my name stands well in the world. And I am young, and he is old. I think I could be useful to Thorbeorn, if he would allow it--and I need not tell you I set no bounds in reason upon what I would put down for the sake of the match." "Well," said Orme, "I will go and see him." Gudrid could hear nothing of this until the morning; but then Einar told her what he had arranged with Orme. She now considered herself as pledged to Einar, though she was nothing of the kind. Loyalty to him persuaded her of it, and he found that very sweet, and was touched. They sat close together on the brae; she allowed him her hand, and rested her cheek on his shoulder. Einar, who was an honest young man, began to fear that he was doing wrong to allow it. But he could not resist a word or two for himself. He told her of his birth, saying that his father, Thorgar, of Thorgar's Fell, had been a freedman, but had done well since. "It is right you should know these things," he said. Gudrid said that it was nothing to her; but Einar warned her that it might be much to her father. He went on: "To you perhaps it is enough that I love you dearly--and to me it is enough. But who knows? Maybe I shall not have the right to talk to you after to-morrow or next day. Now I wish to say this to you, that I shall never look at another woman, and will bind myself to you if you will accept it of me." She sat erect at that and looked gravely at him. "You ought not to bind yourself," she said, "since I cannot." "You cannot. I know that," he said. "But I both can and will." Thereupon he brought out a handful of money from his breast and chose a gold coin of thin soft gold, with the head of a ragged old king on it. He told her where it came from, and how he had had it from a dead man after a battle in the mouth of a great river in Russia. Then he bit it in the middle with his teeth, and indented it fairly. He bent it to and fro until it was broken in half; and next he bored a hole in each portion, and gave one to Gudrid. "Now I have tokened myself to you, my love," he said. "Do you wear that upon a chain which I will give you presently, and remember when you look at it, or take it in your hands, that I wear the fellow. If ever you want me, you have only to let that half-moon of gold come into Orme's hands, and sooner or later you will see me again. And so let it be between us from henceforward if you will." She took the coin, and closed her hand upon it until he should give her the chain, but having it, she could not be to him as she had been before. She sat up straight and looked at the sea. Her hand was free for him; but he did not take it, and she felt sure he would not. A constraint fell upon them; neither could find anything to say. Fate was between them. So it was until Orme came back with his news. He had nothing good to report. Thorbeorn had heard him with impatience, and as soon as he had ended put himself into a rage. His thin neck stiffened, his faded eyes showed fire. "Do you offer for my daughter on behalf of a thrall's son? Well for him he put you forward instead of a smaller man. But I take it ill coming from you whom I have always treated as a friend." Orme had excused himself on the score of Einar's merits--for which he could answer, he said--and well-being. "He has two ships at sea in the Norway trade. His credit stands high on each side the water. There's many a worse man than he well married--and he loves your Gudrid beyond price. There is nothing he will not put down for her." But that had wounded Thorbeorn in his most sensitive part. He knew that he was ruined and could not bear that other men should know it also. "It is hard that his money should tempt you to insult a poor man," he said. "I am what I am, and that is a man not so poor but he can keep his honour clear. You must think me poor indeed in other things than goods when you ask me to trade my own flesh and blood. Let me hear no more of it for fear I may get angry. It is the case, I see, that I rate my daughter's marriage more highly than you seem able to conceive of. I made a great mistake when I left her in your charge precisely to avoid what you have brought upon me. Now she shall come home, where she can be valued at the worth of her name and person. That is what I have to say to you, Orme." With that he had looked Orme straight in the face, and there had been no more to urge. Einar heard it from Orme, but it was Halldis who told Gudrid the news. Gudrid received it in silence, but put her hand up and laid it over the token which fluttered in her bosom. "My pretty one," said Halldis, "I blame myself." "No, no," Gudrid said, "you must not do that. Nobody is at fault." But Halldis thought Einar had been much to blame. She would have comforted Gudrid and made much of her if she had been able--but Gudrid would not have that. She served the table as before, and sat by Halldis afterwards while the men talked and passed the mead about. She was pale and silent, but did not give way, nor leave them till her usual time. When she was in her bed she sobbed, and buried her hot face in the bolster; but even then she did not cry. She was always impatient of deeds which led nowhere--and crying is a great deed. In the morning they parted. "I shall sail as soon as may be now," he told her. "Iceland will be hateful to me if it hold us two apart." "Maybe you will seek out the new country," she said, with a bleak smile. "Maybe," he said. "But it may be you who see it first." She shook her head sadly. "We do foolishly when we talk of my fate," she said, and then there was a silence which was like a winter fog. She broke it by throwing herself into his arms. "Listen," she said with passion, "listen. They will give me to another man, but I shall be yours all the while. They might give me to two men, one on the heels of another, but it would be nothing. Do you believe it? You must believe it, you must." "I believe it," said Einar; "but it is dreadful to talk about." "No, it is not dreadful, because I tell you it is nothing," she said. "You are free to do what you will, and you offer me yourself. I did not like to accept it, because I thought I could give you nothing. But now I know I can. Tell me that you believe me, and then I must go." He told her as he kissed her that he believed her--but it was not true. He did not believe her because he could not. Then they parted. She went back to Orme's house, and he went his way along the shore of the frith. V Gudrid did not see Einar again. Kettle, the reeve of Bathbrink, came down to fetch her away, and by now she was behind him on his pad, while Einar was far into the fells. He did not return until late, and then he told Orme that he should sail with the first tide. "Whither will you go?" He said that he must go back to Norway
{'title': 'Gudrid the Fair: A Tale of the Discovery of America by Maurice Hewlett', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}