Margaret did not answer him. She was washing the china cups, and she stood at the table with a towel over her arm. Snorro 111 thought her more beautiful than she had been on her wedding day. During her illness, most of her hair had been cut off, and now a small white cap covered her head, the short, pale-brown curls just falling beneath it on her brow and on her neck. A long, dark dress, a white apron, and a white lawn kerchief pinned over her bosom, completed her attire. But no lady in silk or lace ever looked half so womanly. Snorro stood gazing at her, until she said, “Well, then, what hast thou come for?”
With an imploring gesture he offered her Jan’s letter.
She took it in her hand and turned it over, and over, and over. Then, with a troubled face, she handed it back to Snorro.
“No, no, no, read it! Oh, do thou read it! Jan begs thee to read it! No, no, I will not take it back!”
“I dare not read it, Snorro. It is too late—too late. Tell Jan he must not come here. It will make more sorrow for me. If he loves me at all, he will not come. He is not kind to force me to say these words. Tell him I will not, dare not, see him!”
“It is thou that art unkind. He has been 112 shipwrecked, Margaret Vedder; bruised and cut, and nearly tossed to death by the waves. He is broken-hearted about thee. He loves thee, oh, as no woman ever deserved to be loved. He is thy husband. Thou wilt see him, oh yes, thou wilt see him!”
“I will not see him, Snorro. My father hath forbid me. If I see Jan, he will turn me and the child from the house.”
“Let him. Go to thy husband and thy own home.”
“My husband hath no home for me.”
“For thou pulled it to pieces.”