The wind was blowing, sharp and brisk. Lavrans pulled up the hood of Kristin’s cloak which had blown back around her shoulders, smoothing out the corners of her linen wimple with his fingertips.
“It seems to me your cheeks have grown so pale and thin back home on my manor,” he said. “Haven’t we taken good care of you, Kristin?”
“Yes, you have. That’s not why . . .”
“And it’s a wearisome journey for you with all the children,” said her father.
“Yes, well . . . It’s not because of those five that I have pale cheeks.” She gave him a fleeting smile, and when her father cast a startled and inquiring glance at her, she nodded and smiled again.
Lavrans looked away, but after a moment he said, “If I understand rightly how matters stand, then perhaps it will be some time before you return to Gudbrandsdal?”
“Well, we won’t let eight years pass this time,” she said in the same tone of voice. Then she caught a glimpse of his face. “Father! Oh, Father!”
“Hush, hush, my daughter.” Involuntarily he gripped her arm to stop her as she tried to throw her arms around him. “No, Kristin.”
He took her hand firmly in his and set off walking beside her. They had come some distance away from the buildings and were now wandering along a small path through the yellow birch forest, paying no attention to where they were going. Lavrans jumped over a little creek cutting across the path, and then turned around to offer his daughter a helping hand.
She saw, even from that slight movement, that he was no longer agile or spry. She had noticed before but refused to acknowledge it. He no longer sprang in and out of the saddle as nimbly as he once had; he didn’t race up the stairs or lift heavy things as easily as he had in the past. He carried his body more rigidly and carefully—as if he bore some slumbering pain within and was moving quietly so as not to arouse it. His blood pulsed visibly in the veins of his neck when he came home after riding his horse. Sometimes she noticed a swelling or puffiness under his eyes. She remembered one morning when she came into the main house, and he was lying on the bed, half-dressed, with his bare legs draped over the footboard; her mother was kneeling in front of him, rubbing his ankles.
“If you’re going to grieve for every man who is felled by age, then you’ll have much to cry about, child,” Lavrans said in a calm and quiet voice. “You have big sons yourself now, Kristin. It shouldn’t surprise you to see that your father will soon be an old man. Whenever we parted in my younger days, we didn’t know any better back then than we do now, whether we’re destined to meet again here on this earth. And I might live for a long time yet; it must be as God wills, Kristin.”
“Are you ill, Father?” she asked in a toneless voice.
“Certain frailties always come with age,” her father replied lightly.
“You’re not old, Father. You’re only fifty-two.”
“My own father didn’t live this long. Come and sit down here with me.”
There was a sort of grass-covered shelf beneath the rock face which leaned out over the stream. Lavrans unfastened his cape, folded it up, and pulled his daughter down to sit beside him. The creek gurgled and trickled over the stones in front of them, rocking a willow branch that was lying in the water. Lavrans sat with his eyes fixed on the blue-and-white mountain far beyond the autumn-tinged plateau.
“You’re cold, Father,” said Kristin. “Take my cloak.” She undid the clasp, and then he pulled a corner of the cloak around his shoulders, so it covered both of them. He slipped his arm around her waist.
“You must know, my Kristin, that it’s an unwise person who weeps at another’s passing. Christ will protect you better than I—no doubt you have heard this said. I put all my faith in God’s mercy. It’s not for long that friends are parted. Although at times it may seem so to you now, while you’re young. But you have your children and your husband. When you reach my age, then you’ll think it’s been no time at all since you saw those of us who have departed, and you’ll be surprised when you count the winters that have passed to see how many there have been. It seems to me now that it wasn’t long ago that I was a boy myself—and yet it’s been so many years since you were that little blonde maiden who followed me everywhere I went. You followed your father so lovingly. May God reward you, my Kristin, for all the joy you have given me.”
“Yes, but if He should reward me as I rewarded you . . .” Then she sank to her knees in front of her father, took his wrists, and kissed his hands, hiding her face in them. “Oh, Father, my dear father. No sooner wasIagrown maiden than I rewarded your love by causing you the most bitter sorrow.”