VI
Helga, though she had only lived for twelve winters, knew already a good deal of life. She knew what it was to be anxious for one whom she loved. Long before she was conscious of her love for Leif, she suffered all a lover's anxiety. Leif took her thoughts with him wherever he went and travelled. And she could never feel secure about him. She could, on the other hand, be sure that if she had not seen him for the space of a day, not to speak of the occasions when he was absent many days, that during that interval he had been once, or probably many times, near the border of the next world, and that it was at any rate only due to the incredible luck which always followed him that he came home with whole limbs.
She knew, in fact, the long days and still longer nights of waiting and anxiety. She knew what it was to lie awake most of the night and see terrible sights. She turned restlessly on her bed, and neither dared to close her eyes nor to stare into the darkness, because everywhere she encountered the figure of him she loved, either dead or dying. She had learnt to prize two things which a woman, who must generally miss and be anxious for him she loves, cannot live without—dreaming and work. She knew how small occupations shorten the day, and the relief won by showing love to animals, being kind to them, and lavishing kind words upon them, and she experienced the joy it gives to be loved by dumb creatures. It was known to her, also, how the way is made easy to the land of dreams, where the hours fly quickly, by busying one's hands with needle and thread. When she sat making something ornamental for herself or small gifts for him, there were moments when she seemed to triumph over distance, and felt her friend so near that she suddenly let her hands sink, looked up, and was quite surprised that he was not standing behind her. Was it because she did not look up quickly enough? Just before, he had been standing there! Helga, with her twelve short winters, knew also happiness. There was the happiness of seeing Leif come home radiant, and hearing his dear, glad voice tell of great adventures. Leif always came across great adventures, so that his tongue nearly ran away with him. There was the joy of noticing that his eye always sought her first, and really only her. It was a joy that he never found rest when near her, except at her side, and that he could only be quiet and lose himself in dreams when she held his hand. It was a joy finally to see him forget everything, even herself, when he had some purpose in his head, or was bent upon going to some other place. Even the pain at seeing herself thus forgotten was mingled with the deepest feelings of joy. For that was just Leif's way. He came so near her by leaving her. She loved him exactly as he was, regardless of limits and without consideration. Because he was one of those whom no bond holds, it was such a happy thing to know that he was hers, when he only remembered it—hers and no one else's.
And, besides, she knew that she could not cease to love him. She was so completely convinced that though in knightly bravery and unbounded courage he might, perhaps, have an equal, he could not have a superior. It was impossible for her to cease loving him.
Yes, Helga knew happiness. She knew what it was to love, and to feel herself beloved. She knew by experience how absence deepens and intensifies affection. She felt how her latent longing slowly grew, and was prepared to burst all bonds. She possessed in full measure woman's pure and unbounded devotion. Matured early as she was, Helga often reflected on the relation between Leif and her brother, Ingolf, which caused her distress. She was fond of her brother. Ingolf, though fundamentally different from Leif, was such that if she once had to leave him in order to follow Leif, she would not make Leif so complete and happy as she ungrudgingly wished him to be. Therefore the great difference in their characters caused her perpetual anxiety—an anxiety which flamed up anew whenever Leif and Ingolf became angry with each other, or even a little at variance. In her heart she accused them alternately—Ingolf, when his phlegmatic character irritated Leif; and Leif, when, by his hastiness and teasing, he provoked Ingolf. Neither Leif nor Ingolf had any suspicion of Helga's deep distress each time a trivial misunderstanding divided them for a short time. For Helga concealed her anxiety, and fought her battle in silence.
She was always on the watch for the fluctuations in their temperaments. She could always perceive when they had been at variance, even when they had been reconciled and had forgotten what had occurred, before they met her. When anything concerned them, she was as sensitive as a feather in the wind. And she did not cease till she had examined the cause of their disagreement to the minutest detail, and cleared away the remnants of ill-humour which might still remain in one or both of their minds. They felt sometimes that it was a little tiresome, being called to account in this way. But they reconciled themselves to it, because both were so fond of her, and because she was wise, quiet, and impartial. They did not guess at all that she fought for her future happiness with a heart torn by anxiety, that her calm had been won by a severe struggle, that her seeming cool, wise impartiality was a screen behind which she concealed herself.
Helga was the only one who, to a certain extent, discovered the real circumstances connected with their journey over the heath. She was also the only one who discovered that they had separated, and separated in anger. Finally, she was the only one who obtained a truthful account of the slaughter of the horse.
Originally it was by no means their intention that she should find out anything of the matter. When Ingolf and Leif had slept uninterruptedly for twenty-four hours after their return from Gaulum, they woke the second night, towards morning, hungry and depressed, and began to examine the situation. They hastily agreed only to say that they had ridden over the heath, and up there had been obliged to kill their only horse, and for the rest to maintain an obstinate silence. If Orn and Rodmar were in the mood to punish them, they must submit; and, for the rest, ride out the storm as well as they could.