She wondered a little to mark that, glad as Erlend was to be with her, it seemed to rankle in his mind that she could devise such a plan.
“’Twas no good day for you when you came to know me,” said he one evening. “Now have you learnt to follow the ways of deceit.”
“You ought not to blame me,” answered Kristin sadly.
“’Tis not you I blame,” said Erlend quickly with a shamed look.
“I had not thought myself,” went on Kristin, “that ’twould come so easy to me to lie. But one can do what one must do.”
“Nay, ’tis not so at all times,” said Erlend as before. “Mind you not last winter, when you could not bring yourself to tell your betrothed that you would not have him?”
To this Kristin answered naught, but only stroked his face.
She never felt so strongly how dear Erlend was to her, as when he said things like this that made her grieve or wonder. She was glad when she could take upon herself the blame for all that was shameful and wrong in their love. Had she found courage to speak to Simon as she should have done, they might have been a long way now on the road to have all put in order. Erlend had done all he could when he had spoken of their wedding to his kinsmen. She said this to herself when the days in the convent grew long and evil—Erlend had wished to make all things right and good again. With little tender smiles she thought of him as he drew a picture of their wedding for her,—she should ride to church in silks and velvet, she should be led to the bridal bed with the high golden crown on her flowing hair—“your lovely, lovely hair,” he said, drawing her plaits through his hand.
“Yet can it not be the same to you as though I had never been yours,” said Kristin musingly, once when he talked thus.
Then he clasped her to him wildly: