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.