CHAPTER XXXVI. FOLK-MIGHT SPEAKETH WITH THE BRIDE.
IT must be told that those footprints which Face-of-god and the Sun-beamhad blessed betwixt jest and earnest had more to do with them than theywotted of. For Folk-might, who had had many thoughts and longings sincehe had seen the Bride again, rose up early about sunrise, and wentout-a-doors, and wandered about the Burg, letting his eyes stray over thegoodly stone houses and their trim gardens, yet noting them little, sincethe Bride was not there.
At last he came to where there was an open place, straight-sided, longerthan it was wide, with a wall on each side of it, over which showed theblossomed boughs of pear and cherry and plum-trees: on either hand beforethe wall was a row of great lindens, now showing their first tendergreen, especially on their lower twigs, where they were sheltered by thewall. At the nether end of this place Folk-might saw a grey stone house,and he went towards it betwixt the lindens, for it seemed right great,and presently was but a score of paces from its door, and as yet therewas no man, carle or queen, stirring about it.
It was a long low house with a very steep roof; but belike the hall wasbuilt over some undercroft, for many steps went up to the door on eitherhand; and the doorway was low, with a straight lintel under its arch.This house, like the House of the Face, seemed ancient and somewhatstrange, and Folk-might could not choose but take note of it. The frontwas all of good ashlar work, but it was carven all over, without heedbeing paid to the joints of the stones, into one picture of a flowerymeadow, with tall trees and bushes in it, and fowl perched in the treesand running through the grass, and sheep and kine and oxen and horsesfeeding down the meadow; and over the door at the top of the stair waswrought a great steer bigger than all the other neat, whose head wasturned toward the sun-rising and uplifted with open mouth, as though hewere lowing aloud. Exceeding fair seemed that house to Folk-might, andas though it were the dwelling of some great kindred.
But he had scarce gone over it with his eyes, and was just about to drawnigher yet to it, when the door at the top of those steps opened, and awoman came out of the house clad in a green kirtle and a gown of brazil,with a golden-hilted sword girt to her side. Folk-might saw at once thatit was the Bride, and drew aback behind one of the trees so that shemight not see him, if she had not already seen him, as it seemed not thatshe had, for she stayed but for a moment on the top of the stair, lookingout down the tree-rows, and then came down the stair and went soberlyalong the road, passing so close to Folk-might that he could see thefashion of her beauty closely, as one looks into the work of some deftestartificer. Then it came suddenly into his head that he would follow herand see whither she was wending. ‘At least,’ said he to himself, ‘if Icome not to speech with her, I shall be nigh unto her, and shall seesomewhat of her beauty.’
So he came out quietly from behind the tree, and followed her softly; andhe was clad in no garment save his kirtle, and bare no weapons to clashand jingle, though he had his helm on his head for lack of a softer hat.He kept her well in sight, and she went straight onward and looked notback. She went by the way whereas he had come, till they were in themain street, wherein as yet was no one afoot; she made her way to theBridge, and passed over it into the meadows; but when she had gone but afew steps, she stayed a little and looked on the ground, and as she didso turned a little toward Folk-might, who had drawn back into the last ofthe refuges over the up-stream buttresses. He saw that there was ahalf-smile on her face, but he could not tell whether she were glad orsorry. A light wind was beginning to blow, that stirred her raiment andraised a lock of hair that had strayed from the golden fillet round abouther head, and she looked most marvellous fair.
Now she looked along the grass that glittered under the beams of thenewly-risen sun, and noted belike how heavy the dew lay on it; and thegrass was high already, for the spring had been hot, and haysel would beearly in the Dale. So she put off her shoes, that were of deerskin andbroidered with golden threads, and turned somewhat from the way, and hungthem up amidst the new green leaves of a hawthorn bush that stood nearby,and so went thwart the meadow somewhat eastward straight from that bush,and her feet shone out like pearls amidst the deep green grass.
Folk-might followed presently, and she stayed not again, nor turned, norbeheld him; he recked not if she had, for then would he have come up withher and hailed her, and he knew that she was no foolish maiden to startat the sight of a man who was the friend of her Folk.
So they went their ways till she came to the strand of the water-meadowbrook aforesaid, and she went through the little ripples of the shallowwithout staying, and on through the tall deep grass of the meadow beyond,to where they met the brook again; for it swept round the meadow in awide curve, and turned back toward itself; so it was some half furlongover from water to water.
She stood a while on the brink of the brook here, which was brim-full andnigh running into the grass, because there was a dam just below theplace; and Folk-might drew nigher to her under cover of the thorn-bushes,and looked at the place about her and beyond her. The meadow beyondstream was very fair and flowery, but not right great; for it was boundedby a grove of ancient chestnut trees, that went on and on toward thesouthern cliffs of the Dale: in front of the chestnut wood stood a brokenrow of black-thorn bushes, now growing green and losing their blossom,and he could see betwixt them that there was a grassy bank running along,as if there had once been a turf-wall and ditch round about the chestnuttrees. For indeed this was the old place of tryst between Gold-mane andthe Bride, whereof the tale hath told before.
The Bride stayed scarce longer than gave him time to note all this; buthe deemed that she was weeping, though he could not rightly see her face;for her shoulders heaved, and she hung her face adown and put up herhands to it. But now she went a little higher up the stream, where thewater was shallower, and waded the stream and went up over the meadow,still weeping, as he deemed, and went between the black-thorn bushes, andsat her down on the grassy bank with her back to the chestnut trees.
Folk-might was ashamed to have seen her weeping, and was half-minded toturn him back again at once; but love constrained him, and he said tohimself, ‘Where shall I see her again privily if I pass by this time andplace?’ So he waited a little till he deemed she might have mastered thepassion of tears, and then came forth from his bush, and went down to thewater and crossed it, and went quietly over the meadow straight towardsher. But he was not half-way across, when she lifted up her face frombetween her hands and beheld the man coming. She neither started norrose up; but straightened herself as she sat, and looked right intoFolk-might’s eyes as he drew near, though the tears were not dry on hercheeks.
Now he stood before her, and said: ‘Hail to the Daughter of a mightyHouse! Mayst thou live happy!’
She answered: ‘Hail to thee also, Guest of our Folk! Hast thou beenwandering about our meadows, and happened on me perchance?’
‘Nay,’ he said; ‘I saw thee come forth from the House of the Steer, and Ifollowed thee hither.’
She reddened a little, and knit her brow, and said:
‘Thou wilt have something to say to me?’
‘I have much to say to thee,’ he said; ‘yet it was sweet to me to beholdthee, even if I might not speak with thee.’
She looked on him with her deep simple eyes, and neither reddened again,nor seemed wroth; then she said:
‘Speak what thou hast in thine heart, and I will hearken without angerwhatsoever it may be; even if thou hast but to tell me of the passingfolly of a mighty man, which in a month or two he will not remember forsorrow or for joy. Sit here beside me, and tell me thy thought.’
So he sat him adown and said: ‘Yea, I have much to say to thee, but it ishard to me to say it. But this I will say: to-day and yesterday make thethird time I have seen thee. The first time thou wert happy and calm,and no shadow of trouble was on thee; the second time thine happy dayswere waning, though thou scarce knewest it; but to-day and yesterday thouart constrained by the bonds o
f grief, and wouldest loosen them if thoumightest.’
She said: ‘What meanest thou? How knowest thou this? How may a strangerpartake in my joy and my sorrow?’
He said: ‘As for yesterday, all the people might see thy grief and knowit. But when I beheld thee the first time, I saw thee that thou wertmore fair and lovely than all other women; and when I was away from thee,the thought of thee and thine image were with me, and I might not putthem away; and oft at such and such a time I wondered and said to myself,what is she doing now? though god wot I was dealing with tangles andtroubles and rough deeds enough. But the second time I beheld thee, whenI had looked to have great joy in the sight of thee, my heart was smittenwith a pang of grief; for I saw thee hanging on the words and the looksof another man, who was light-minded toward thee, and that thou werttroubled with the anguish of doubt and fear. And he knew it not, nor sawit, though I saw it.’
Her face grew troubled, and the tearful passion stirred within her. Butshe held it aback, and said, as anyone might have said it:
‘How wert thou in the Dale, mighty man? We saw thee not.’
He said: ‘I came hither hidden in other semblance than mine own. Butmeddle not therewith; it availeth nought. Let me say this, and do thouhearken to it. I saw thee yesterday in the street, and thou wert as theghost of thine old gladness; although belike thou hast striven withsorrow; for I see thee with a sword by thy side, and we have been toldthat thou, O fairest of women, hast given thyself to the Warrior to behis damsel.’
‘Yea,’ she said, ‘that is sooth.’
He went on: ‘But the face which thou bearedst yesterday against thy will,amidst all the people, that was because thou hadst seen my sister theSun-beam for the first time, and Face-of-god with her, hand clinging tohand, lip longing for lip, desire unsatisfied, but glad with all hope.’
She laid hand upon hand in the lap of her gown, and looked down, and hervoice trembled as she said:
‘Doth it avail to talk of this?’
He said: ‘I know not: it may avail; for I am grieved, and shall be whilstthou art grieved; and it is my wont to strive with my griefs till I amendthem.’
She turned to him with kind eyes and said:
‘O mighty man, canst thou clear away the tangle which besetteth the soulof her whose hope hath bewrayed her? Canst thou make hope grow up in herheart? Friend, I will tell thee that when I wed, I shall wed for thesake of the kindred, hoping for no joy therein. Yea, or if by somechance the desire of man came again into my heart, I should strive withit to rid myself of it, for I should know of it that it was but a wastingfolly, that should but beguile me, and wound me, and depart, leaving meempty of joy and heedless of life.’
He shook his head and said: ‘Even so thou deemest now; but one day itshall be otherwise. Or dost thou love thy sorrow? I tell thee, as itwears thee and wears thee, thou shalt hate it, and strive to shake itoff.’
‘Nay, nay,’ she said; ‘I love it not; for not only it grieveth me, butalso it beateth me down and belittleth me.’
‘Good is that,’ said he. ‘I know how strong thine heart is. Now, wiltthou take mine hand, which is verily the hand of thy friend, and rememberwhat I have told thee of my grief which cannot be sundered from thine?Shall we not talk more concerning this? For surely I shall soon see theeagain, and often; since the Warrior, who loveth me belike, leadeth theeinto fellowship with me. Yea, I tell thee, O friend, that in thatfellowship shalt thou find both the seed of hope, and the sun of desirethat shall quicken it.’
Therewith he arose and stood before her, and held out to her his hand allhardened with the sword-hilt, and she took it, and stood up facing him,and said:
‘This much will I tell thee, O friend; that what I have said to thee thishour, I thought not to have said to any man; or to talk with a man of thegrief that weareth me, or to suffer him to see my tears; and marvellous Ideem it of thee, for all thy might, that thou hast drawn this speech fromout of me, and left me neither angry nor ashamed, in spite of thesetears; and thou whom I have known not, though thou knewest me!
‘But now it were best that thou depart, and get thee home to the House ofthe Face, where I was once so frequent; for I wot that thou hast much todo; and as thou sayest, it will be in warfare that I shall see thee. NowI thank thee for thy words and the thought thou hast had of me, and thepain which thou hast taken to heal my hurt: I thank thee, I thank thee,for as grievous as it is to show one’s hurts even to a friend.’
He said: ‘O Bride, I thank thee for hearkening to my tale; and one dayshall I thank thee much more. Mayest thou fare well in the Field andamidst the Folk!’
Therewith he kissed her hand, and turned away, and went across the meadowand the stream, glad at heart and blithe with everyone; for kindness grewin him as gladness grew.
The Roots of the Mountains Page 37