Were I not my mother’s daughter, I would say you were right. But you are like that mother; one by one have you cast out your daughters to the wolves. The eldest went first. Five years ago Merete[[16]] went forth from Östråt; now she dwells in Bergen, and is Vinzents Lunge’s[[17]] wife. But think you she is happy as the Danish noble’s lady? Vinzents Lunge is mighty, well-nigh as a king; Merete has damsels and squires, silken robes and lofty halls; but the day has no sunshine for her, and the night no rest; for she has never loved him. He came hither and he wooed her, for she was the greatest heiress in Norway, and ’twas then needful for him to gain a footing in the land. I know it; I know it well! Merete bowed to your will; she went with the stranger lord.—But what has it cost her? More tears than a mother should wish to answer for at the day of reckoning!
Lady Inger.
I know my reckoning, and I fear it not.
Elina.
Your reckoning ends not here. Where is Lucia, your second child?
Lady Inger.
Ask God, who took her.
Elina.
’Tis you I ask; ’tis you must answer for her young life. She was glad as a bird in spring when she sailed from Östråt to be Merete’s guest. A year passed, and she stood in this room once more; but her cheeks were white, and death had gnawed deep into her breast. Ah, I startle you, my mother! You thought the ugly secret was buried with her;—but she told me all. A courtly knight had won her heart. He would have wedded her. You knew that her honour was at stake; yet your will never bent—and your child had to die. You see, I know all!
Lady Inger.