CHAPTER VIII
While Bagga was thus busy with her daydreams, Guest the One-eyed was deep in earnest talk with her mother, who confided to him the story of her life—the story of her heart.
She was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, and had been married against her will, though with no great resistance on her part, to the son of a rich landowner. The man she really loved was a young labourer on her father’s place. No one knew of it, and the man himself had but a vague idea; she could not say if he returned the feeling or not. After some six months of married life, Fate—or the well-laid plans of her lover himself—brought him to work on her husband’s farm. And now began a time of sore trial for her. The young man had become aware of her inclination, and made his advances boldly. So successfully did he play the part of broken-hearted lover that she fell a victim to his persuasion. So much Guest the One-eyed was able to gather from the widow’s own confession; she did not spare herself in the recital.
She had already borne a son—her husband’s child. Immediately after having given way to her lover, she had endeavoured to persuade him to go with her, take her away from the place; she could not stay with her husband as things were. But the lover was quite content to leave all as it was; indeed, it was evident that he preferred to have her there. Then she saw through him, realized the true nature of his feelings towards her, and confessed everything to her husband. The latter had, after a violent scene, at last agreed to forgive her, and treated her kindly. But she was determined to leave him, and went off to live alone, making no claim on him or on her father for her subsistence.
It was nineteen years ago now. At first, she had earned her living where and how she could—cleaning fish or washing wool. Then the child came, and she found it impossible to obtain work anywhere. Finally, she had settled down at Borg, where she had stayed three years. In spite of the kindness with which she was treated by Ormarr and Runa, however, she found herself regarded with suspicion. With her small savings, and some help from Ormarr, she had just been able to rent and stock her little holding, and had lived there now with her daughter for nearly fourteen years.
Now, life was pleasant enough, she said. And Guest the One-eyed understood that she had grown so accustomed to hard work and scanty fare that she would have found it hard now to change to another mode of life. But she looked to her daughter’s upbringing with motherly care, and her great anxiety was the girl’s future. How would it be with her when she went out into the world? Would she be able to live down her mother’s past? Would God in His mercy spare her the consequences of her mother’s sin?
That it was a sin she understood now; now, for the first time, she realized how unpardonable her act had been. The consequences might yet be visited upon her child. And her conscience made her suffer; she feared at times that the agony of her remorse would drive her to madness. She was on the edge of an abyss; only by the utmost effort could she preserve her self-control.
Guest the One-eyed had heard many secrets; listened to the story of many lives. And in his long years of life he had learned to sift the facts of a case, to find out truth as much from what was left unspoken as from what was said. The widow’s life stood out clearly to his mind’s eye in all its detail.
They sat in silence for a while.
“And the girl’s father,” asked Guest at last—“is he still living near?”
“No,” answered the widow, and her lips tightened. “He went away across the seas soon after I left the place. Afraid, maybe, that there might be trouble, and thought it best to be out of the way.”
Again there was a pause.
Then said Guest the One-eyed quietly, “You are troubled at heart by the thought that the sins of the fathers are to be visited upon the children. Do not let that weigh too heavily upon you now. There are those who suffer so deeply for their own sins that they atone for them in life, and more. You are one of these. I am not speaking empty words to you for comfort’s sake, but the truth. You can trust me. God has granted me the power to give my fellow-men in need the knowledge of remission of their sins, as far as may be in knowledge of the truth. I have sinned, and my debt is not yet paid—but my sin was greater than yours or that of any other I have met. But the Lord God is merciful, and I believe that He will grant me peace at last. At last, in death. And when that comes, I can say with truth that my life, by God’s grace, has been a happy one.”
The woman looked at him, with the same dull hopelessness in her eyes.
“How can you know that I have sufficiently atoned for my sin—you, who have known me only since yesterday, and heard no more than I have told you?”
Guest the One-eyed smiled, and a strange look of far-seeing wisdom lit up his heavy face.
“I believe that the Lord has sent me to you for your comfort in need—that the Lord has given me, and to no other, a sign to make you sure. I am no prophet, and I do not profess to tell what will or will not come. But—shall I tell you a secret? Promise me, first, that you will not act in any way to bring about that which shall come in God’s good time.”
The woman grasped his hand and nodded. Her eyes were fixed intently on his face, as if striving to read his words ere they were spoken.
“Your daughter will be the happiest woman in this land. She is loved by the purest soul I have ever looked into through human eyes.” He turned away for a moment, and murmured, as if to himself: “I thank Thee, Lord, for Thy great mercy.” Then, addressing the widow again, he went on: “And she, on her part, returns his love with all her innocent heart.”
The woman’s face darkened.
“Impossible,” she said. “There is no young man she knows here at all. I do not believe she has ever spoken to one.”
“Remember your promise, and trust me now. The girl is in her heart—and in the book of Fate—betrothed and wedded to the one I speak of. Give time, and see.”
“If I could believe you now....”
“You can—you must. It is long since these lips framed a lie—never in the life of Guest the One-eyed have they spoken falsely.”
The widow looked at him earnestly, doubt and hope struggling in her mind. Guest the One-eyed leaned towards her, his face deathly pale, and whispered:
“He of whom I speak—he, too, was born as the fruit of a sin—but a sin that is, or will be soon, I trust, atoned for.”
The woman was weeping now, but they were tears of relief rather than despair. “I cannot fathom it all,” she murmured. “But I believe you.”
Guest the One-eyed smiled sadly, and cast a grateful glance to heaven.
Later in the day, Guest the One-eyed became feverish, and the pain in his shoulder became acute. He could not hide the fact that he was suffering, and the widow wished him to go to bed at once and remain there for the present. But he obstinately refused even to stay in the house.
“I have farther yet to go,” he said, with his sad, kindly smile.
As he was leaving, he asked suddenly:
“Was there not once a priest here, Sera Ketill?”
The widow looked up at him in surprise. Then she cast down her eyes and frowned.
“His name is accursed in this house,” she said—“as are all those who have deceived under the mask of love.”
The man paled at her words. For a moment he seemed stunned. Then, taking up his sack and staff, he limped from the room.
The woman hurried after him.
“Are you ill?” she asked.
“No. I am going now.”
“But—you have not said good-bye!”
“Forgive me,” said Guest the One-eyed. “But you have said that which struck me to the heart.”
The woman looked at him blankly. Then, giving up all attempt at finding out the mystery, she asked:
“Will you not leave some good word after you?—some word to help?”
Guest the One-eyed looked at her. Then he said:
“Let your heart be open to Love and closed to Hatred; and let your lips be quick to bless, but slow to curse.”
“God be with you,” said the woman, her voice quivering on the verge of tears. “God’s blessing go with you where you may go.”
And, turning hurriedly to hide her shame and emotion, she re-entered the house.
Guest the One-eyed limped painfully along beside the stream. Suddenly he remembered the girl, whom he had forgotten in the trouble of his soul, and turned to seek her. But at that moment she came running towards him.
The girl stopped, breathless, and looked at him reproachfully. “Would you have gone without a word to me?” she asked.
“I had just remembered,” he said softly. “But for a moment my soul was not my own.”
She took his sack and put her arm in his.
“I will go with you as far as I may,” she said.