Gudrid the Fair: A Tale of the Discovery of America

by Maurice Hewlett

"I never thought so," said Thore.

"And it was not rats that bit it."

"Rats, indeed! Never in the world."

Then she told him the whole story, which he took very good-humouredly. "So that's it, is it? And when I take you to Iceland I suppose you will call him up with that?"

"Not unless I want to see him," she said.

"Not unless I want to see him, you would say?"

"I think you will be as pleased with him as I shall be," said Gudrid. So all went well except for Einar perhaps, whose prospects certainly were not enhanced by being talked about. The stronghold of a lover is to be so deeply hid that he is never talked of.

It was the fact that Gudrid was happy with her blunt blackbeard of a man. He was easy to live with, always much the same, and did not ask for more than he was able to give. He was very thrifty, and taught her to be so, for she was anxious to please. He was never jealous, though Thorstan had a way of coming to the house. At the same time, he told her one night that he wouldn't have him there when he himself was away. He was often from home two and three days together. "It has a bad look," he said. "The neighbours look pityingly at a man. I won't have that. Not that there is any harm in Thorstan. He is the son of a friend of mine, and a very honest young man, though I call him dull. A man ought to be able to talk. I think him hot-tempered, too. He killed a lover of his sister Freydis once, and might as well have left it alone. She could have looked after herself. Besides, we are not so handy with our weapons as our fathers were in Iceland. Life is hard enough in this country without cold steel. Now remember—" and he pinched her cheek—"no men here when I am away."

Certainly she did not love Thore as she believed she had loved Einar the sailor. Thore never made her heart beat, or brought mist over her eyes. But she was happy and proud of her great house and many maids and young men. And she was happy enough to be sorry for Thorstan, who followed her about with a dog's patient eyes, and evidently worshipped her shadow. He told her that he went down to Heriolfsness when he heard that she was promised to Thore. When there he had gone to see Thorberg. What did she tell him? Gudrid wanted to know; but he wouldn't answer. He said, however, that she had told him that he himself had the sight. "I had thought as much," he said, "and now I know that I have."

Gudrid became very much interested, but not enough to dare probe any further. Indeed, she asked him not to tell her what he had seen. Thorstan looked away. "I would not tell you even if I knew anything," he said; "I would die sooner." She felt that she might become very fond of this moody and melancholy Thorstan, as a woman readily will of a man who, through no fault of his own, seems marked out for misfortune. She could not find that he had any faults. While very manly, and of great strength and courage—for he was untiring at hunting, could swim like a seal, and was believed to be afraid of nothing—with all this he was as gentle as a woman. She knew that he was a poet, though he would not sing her any of the verses he made. She thought to herself, "I could make him if I cared"; and the thought gave her joy. She told herself that if ever she loved a man again, as she had once understood love, it would be this man. And upon the heels of that thought came another, which she instantly put away, What and if Thorstan was to be her second husband? She put that out of her mind for Thore's sake—Thore's, who had freed her and made her happy. It was odd that Thore, whom she could never love, had made her happy, while Thorstan whom she could have loved, it was certain, would never do that.