“Well, then, since thy father keeps thy tocher from me, I must borrow of my own kin.”
“As for that, my father hath been better to 34 thee than thou deservest. Why didst thou lie to me concerning Snorro? He has had no fever. No, indeed!”
“A man must ask his wife whether he can speak truth to her, or not. Thou can not bear it. Very well, then, I must lie to thee.”
“Yet, be sure, I will tell the truth to thee, Jan Vedder. Thou hast been at Ragon Torr’s, singing with a light woman, and drinking with—”
“With my own kin. I advise thee to say nothing against them. As for Suneva, there is no tongue in Lerwick but thine will speak evil of her—she is a good girl, and she hath a kind heart. And now, then, who told thee I was at Torr’s?”
He asked the question repeatedly, and instead of answering it, Margaret began to justify herself. “Have I not been to thee a good wife? Has not thy house been kept well, and thy meals ever good and ready for thee? Has any thing, great or little, gone to waste?”
“Thou hast been too good. It had been better if thou had been less perfect; then I could have spoken to thee of my great wish, 35 and thou would have said, as others say, ‘Jan, it would be a joy to see thee at the main-mast, or casting the ling-lines, or running into harbor before the storm, with every sail set, as though thou had stolen ship and lading.’ Thou would not want me to chaffer with old women about geese-feathers and bird-eggs. Speak no more. I am heavy with sleep.”
And he could sleep! That was such an aggravation of his offense. She turned sometimes and looked at his handsome flushed face, but otherwise she sat hour after hour silent and almost motionless, her hands clasped upon her knee, her heart anticipative of wrong, and with a perverse industry considering sorrows that had not as yet even called to her. Alas! alas! the unhappy can never persuade themselves that “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”