  The landscape has high, bold mountains, above which are just passing the remnants of a storm. The valley is narrow and continually winding. Coursing through it is a turbulent stream, on one side of which there is a road. At some distance up the slopes farms are spread; the buildings are mostly low and unpainted, yet numerous; heaps of mown hay and fields of half ripe grain are dotted about. When the last curve of the valley is left behind the fjord becomes visible. It lies sparkling beneath an uplifting fog. So completely is it shut in by mountains that it looks like a lake. Along the road there jogs at the customary trot a horse with a cariole-skyds. The traveler turned to look after a tall woman in a waterproof cloak who had just walked past. He had caught a glimpse of a delicately-outlined face, beneath a hood which was drawn over the brow; now he saw the owner standing with her forefinger in her mouth, staring. As he was somewhat persistent in his gaze, she blushed. "I will step in just as soon as I put up the horse," called out the skyds-girl. They drove on. "Who was that, my dear?" asked the traveler. "She is the wife of the saddler down at yonder point," was the reply. In a little while they had advanced far enough to gain a view of the fjord and the first houses on the point. The skyds-girl reined in the horse and jumped down from the trunk. She first attended to the animal's appearance, and then busied herself with her own toilet. It "She had such a singular look,"—he pointed over his shoulders. The girl fixed her eyes on him, and she began to hum. Presently she interrupted herself with,— "Do you remember the land-slide you passed a few miles above here?" "I passed so many land-slides." She smiled. "Yes; but the one I mean is on the other side of a church." "It was an old land-slide?" "Yes; it happened long ago. But that is where once lay the gard belonging to her family. It was swept away when she was eight or nine years old. Her parents, brothers and sisters, and every living thing on the gard, perished. She alone was saved. The land-slide bore her across the stream, and she was found by the people who hastened to the spot,—she was insensible." The traveler became absorbed in thought. The girl looked up. She waited some time, but their eyes did not meet. So she resumed her seat on the trunk, and they drove on. The valley widened somewhat in the vicinity of the point; farms were spread over the plain: to the right lay the church with the churchyard around it; a little farther on the point itself, a small town, with a large number of houses, most of which were but one story high and were either painted white and red or not painted at all; along the fjord ran the wharf. A steamer was just smoking there; farther down, by the mouth of the river, might be seen a couple of old brigs taking in their cargoes. The church was new, and showed an attempt at imitating the old Norse wooden church architecture. The traveler must have had some knowledge of this, for he stopped, gazed a while at the exterior, then alighted, went through the gateway, and into the church; both gate and door stood open. He was scarcely inside of the building when the bells began to ring; through the opening he saw a bridal procession coming up from the little town. As he took his departure the procession was close by Their male friends lagged behind, in gray, brown, and black felt hats, and long frock coats, pea-jackets, or round-abouts. Most of them had a lock of hair drawn in front of the ear, and those who had beards wore them to cover the entire chin. The visages were hard, the mouths usually coarse; most of them had tobacco stains about the corners of their mouths, and some had cheeks distended with tobacco-quids. Involuntarily the traveler thought of her in the waterproof cloak. Her history was that of the landscape. Her refined, unawakened face hung as full of yearning as the mountains of showers; everything that met his eye, both landscape and people, became a frame for her. As he approached the road, the skyds-girl hastened to the wayside where the horse was grazing. While she was tugging at the reins "Are you betrothed?" asked the stranger, smiling. "He who is to have me has no eyes yet," she replied, in the words of a proverb. "Then, I suppose, you are longing to get beyond your present position," said he, adding: "Is it to America?" She was surprised; that query was evidently well aimed. "Is it in order that you may more speedily earn your traveling expenses that you have gone into the skyds line? Do you get plenty of fees? Hey?" Now she colored. Without uttering a word in reply, she promptly took her seat on the trunk with her back to the stranger, before he had stepped into the cariole. Soon they had neared the white-painted hotels which were situated on either side of the street close by the entrance to the little town. In front of one of these they paused. By the balustrade above stood a group of carriers, chiefly young fellows; they had most likely been watching the bridal procession and were now waiting for steamer-bound travelers. The stranger alighted and went in, while the girl "I agree with you, RÖnnaug, you ought to be off to America as soon as possible." He now handed her two specie dollars as her fee. "This is my mite for your fund," said he, gravely. She regarded him with wide-open eyes and open mouth, took the money, returned thanks, and then put up both hands to stroke back her hair, for it had again fallen out of place. While thus engaged she dropped some of the coins she held in one half-closed hand. She stooped to pick them up, and as she did so some of the hooks in her boddice gave way. This loosened her kerchief and one end fell out, for a knot in one corner contained something heavy. While It was the traveler's lot to see her once more; for as he passed down to the steamer, later in the day, she was standing with her back turned toward the street, at a door over which hung a sign-board bearing the inscription: "Skarlie, Saddler." As he drew nearer he beheld Magnhild in the inner passage. She had not yet removed her waterproof cloak, although the rain had long since ceased. Even the hood was still drawn over her head. Magnhild was the first to espy the stranger, and she drew farther back into the house; RÖnnaug turned, and then she too moved into the passage. That evening RÖnnaug's steamer ticket was bought; for the sum was complete. Magnhild did not undress after RÖnnaug had gone home late in the evening. She sat in a large arm-chair in the little low room, or restlessly paced the floor. And once, with her heavy head pressed against the window pane, she said half aloud,— "Then she must be destined to something."
She had heard these words before. The first time it was in the churchyard that blustering winter day her fourteen relatives were buried,—all whom she had loved, both parents and grandparents, and brothers and sisters. In fancy she saw the scene again! The wind had here and there swept away the snow, the pickets of the fence stood out in sharp prominence, huge rocks loomed up like the heads of monsters whose bodies were covered by the snow-drifts. The wind whistled behind the little group of mourners through the open church porch whose blinds had been taken out, and down from the old wooden belfry came the clanging toll of the bell, like one cry of anguish after another. The people that were gathered together were blue with the cold; they wore mittens and their garments were closely buttoned up. The priest appeared in sea-boots and had on a skin suit beneath his gown; his hands also were eased in large mittens, and he vigorously fought the "This poor child," said he, "remained standing on her feet, and with her little sled in her hand she was borne downward and across the frozen stream,—the sole being the Lord saw fit to save. To what is she destined?" She rode home with the priest, sitting on his lap. He had commended her to the care of the parish, and took her home with him "for the present," in order to set a good example. She nestled up to his fur overcoat, with her small cold hands inside of his huge mittens, beside his soft, plump hands. And all the while she kept thinking: "What am I destined to, I wonder?" She presumed that her mind would become clear on this point when she got into the house. But nothing met her eye here she had not seen before until she entered the inner room, where a piano which some one was just playing in the highest degree attracted her. But for that very reason she forgot the thought she had brought in with her. In this household there were two daughters, heavy-looking girls, with small round heads and long, thick braids of light hair. They had recently been provided with a governess, a pale, The mistress of the house was sitting by, engaged with her embroidery. She now glanced up at Magnhild and said, "With pleasure," then bent over her work again. She was a person of medium size, neither thin nor stout, and had a small head with fair hair. The priest, who was heavy and corpulent, came down-stairs after removing his gown; he was smoking, and as he crossed the floor, he said, "There comes a man with fish," and passed out of the room again. The youngest girl once more attacked her scales. Magnhild did not know whether she "Are you hungry?" asked he. The child made no reply. He had lived long enough among the peasants to know that her silence meant "yes," and so taking her by the hand he led her to the table, where room was silently made for her. In the afternoon she went coasting with the little girls, and then joined them in their studies and had a lesson in Bible history with them; after this she partook of the afternoon lunch with them, and then played with them until they were called to supper, which they all ate at the same table. She slept that night on a She had no clothes except those she had on; but the governess made over an old dress for her; some articles of old linen belonging to one of the little girls were given to her, and a pair of their mother's boots. The lounge she had slept on was removed from the dining-room, because it occupied the space needed for some shoemakers who were to "see the household well shod." It was placed in the kitchen, but was in the way there; then in the bed-room of the maid-servants, but there the door continually struck against it; finally it was carried up to the nursery. Thus it was that Magnhild came to eat, work, and sleep with the priest's daughters; and as new clothes were never made for her she naturally fell to wearing theirs. Quite as much by chance she began to play the piano. It was discovered that she had more talent for music than the daughters of the house, so it was thought best that she should learn, in order to help them. Moreover, she grew tall, and developed a fine voice for singing. The governess took great pains in teaching her to sing by note; she did The fact was that about this time there spread, like an epidemic among the people, the idea that skill in manual industries should be cultivated among the peasants, and propagators of the new doctrine appeared also in this parish. Magnhild was chosen as the first pupil; she was thought to have the most "dexterity." The first thing taught was basket-making, then double spinning, then weaving, especially of the more artistic kinds, and after this embroidery, etc., etc. She learned all these things very rapidly, that is to say, she learned zealously as long as she was gaining an insight into each; further development did not interest her. But as she was henceforth expected to teach others, grown The mistress of the house made her daily regulation visits to the kitchen, cellar, and stables, the rest of the time she embroidered; the whole house was covered with embroidery. She might be taken for a fat spider, with a little round head, spinning its web over chairs, tables, beds, sledges, and carts. Her voice was rarely heard; she was seldom addressed by any one. The priest was much older than his wife. His face was characterized by its small proportion of nose, chin, and eyes, and its very large share of all else belonging to it. He had fared badly at his examination, and had been compelled to support himself by teaching until, when he was advancing in years, he had married one of his former pupils, a lady with quite a nice property. Then he betook himself to seeking a clerical appointment, "the one thing in which he had shown perseverance," as he was himself in the habit of playfully remarking. The governess always sat in the same chair in which Magnhild had seen her the first day, took the same walk to the church and back each day, and never failed to be ready for her duties on the stroke of the clock. She gradually increased in weight until she became excessively stout; she continued to wear her neck bare and her sleeves open, furthermore to speak in the same husky voice, which no effort on her part had ever yet been able to clear. The priest's daughters became stout and heavy like their father, although they had small round heads like their mother. Magnhild and they lived as friends, in other words, they slept in the same room, and worked, played, and ate together. There were never any ideas afloat in this parish. If any chanced to find their way there from without they got no farther than the priest's study. The priest was not communicative. At the utmost he read aloud to his family some new or old novel that he had found diverting. The kitchen door slowly opened and a large bald head, with a snub nose and smiling countenance, was thrust in. A short leg in very wide trousers was next introduced, and this was followed by a crooked and consequently still shorter one. The whole figure stooped as it turned on the crooked leg to shut the door. The intruder thus presented to the party the back of the before mentioned large head, with its narrow rim of hair, a pair of square-built shoulders, and an extraordinarily large seat, only half covered by a pea-jacket. Again he turned in a slanting posture toward the assembled party, and once more presented his smiling countenance with its snub-nose. The young girls bowed low over their work, a suppressed titter arose first from one piece of sewing and then from another. "Is this the saddler?" asked the priest, rising to his feet. "Yes," was the reply, as the new-comer limped forward, holding out a hand so astonishingly large and with such broad round finger tips that the priest was forced to look at it as "Aha!" observed the saddler, "there is enough to make one laugh in that book." "Have you read it?" asked the priest. "Yes; when I was in America. I read most of the English writers; indeed, I have them all in my house now," he answered, and proceeded to give an account of the cheap popular editions that could be obtained in America. The laughter of young girls is not easily subdued; it was still ready to bubble over when, after the saddler was furnished with a pipe, the reading was resumed. Now to be sure there was a pretext. After a while the priest grew tired and wanted to close the book, but the saddler offered to continue the reading for him, and was allowed to do so. He read in a dry, quiet manner, and with such an unfamiliar pronunciation of the names of the personages and localities introduced that the humor of the text became irresistible; even the priest joined in the laughter which no one now attempted to At that time she was fifteen, in her sixteenth year. The next day the girls passed every free moment in the dining-room, which had now been transformed into a work-shop. The saddler told them of a sojourn of several years in America, and of travels in England and Germany; he talked without interrupting his work and with a frequent intermingling of jests. His narratives were accompanied by the incessant tittering of his listeners. They were scarcely aware themselves how they gradually ceased laughing at him and laughed instead at the witty things he said; neither did they observe until later how much they learned from him. He was so greatly missed by the girls when he left that more than half of their time together was occupied in conversation about him; this lasted for many days after he was gone, and never wholly ceased. While singing hymns one Sunday they had first noticed that Skarlie had a fine voice. Thenceforth he was obliged to sing for them constantly. These foreign melodies of his fluttering thither from a fuller, richer life, freer conditions, larger ideas than their own, clung to Magnhild's fancy the entire summer. They were the first pictures which had awakened actual yearning within her breast. It may also be said that for the first time she comprehended what song was. As she was singing her interminable scales one day, before beginning her studies in singing from note, she came to a full realization of the fact that this song without melody was to her like wings beating against a cage: it fluttered up and down against walls, windows, doors, in perpetual and fruitless longing, aye, until at last it sank like the cobwebs, over everything in the room. She could sit alone out of doors with his songs. While she was humming them, the forest hues dissolved into one picture; and that she had never discovered The second thing which had made so deep an impression on her, and which was blended with all the rest, was Skarlie's story of how he had become lame. In America, when he was a young man, he had undertaken to carry a boy twelve years old from a burning house; he had fallen with the boy beneath the ruins. Both were extricated, Skarlie with a crushed limb, the boy unscathed. That boy was now one of the most noted men of America. It was his lot to be saved, "he was destined to something." This reminder again! The thought of her own fate had heretofore been shrouded in the wintry mantle of the churchyard, amid frost, weeping, and harsh clanging of bells; it had been something sombre. Now it flitted onward to large cities beyond the seas, among ships, burning houses, songs, and great destinies. From this time forth she dreamed of what she was destined to be as something far distant and great.
Late in the autumn all three girls were confirmed. This was such a matter of course to them all that their thoughts were chiefly busied with what they should wear on the day of the ceremony. Magnhild, who had never yet had a garment cut out and made expressly for herself, wondered whether an outfit would now be prepared for her. No. The younger girls were furnished with new silk dresses; an old black dress that had become too tight for the priest's wife was made over for Magnhild. It was too short both in the waist and in the skirt; but Magnhild scarcely noticed this. She was provided by the governess with a little colored silk neckerchief and a silver brooch; she borrowed the every-day shawl of the mistress of the house; a pair of gloves were loaned her by the governess. Her inner preparations were not much more extensive than the outer ones. The day glided tranquilly by without any special emotion. Religious sentiments at the Her little brothers and sisters appeared before her, one fair, bright face after another. Her mother came too; and her melancholy eye dwelt lingeringly on Magnhild; even the lines about the mouth were visible. The fine psalm-singing of her mother's gentle voice floated around Magnhild now. There had been sung in church that day one of the hymns her mother used to sing. Once more, too, her father sat on the bench, bowed over the silver work in which he was a master. A book or a newspaper lay at his side; he paused in his work now and then, stole a glance at the page before him, or turned a leaf. His long, delicately cut face inclined occasionally toward the family sitting-room and its inmates. The aged grandparents formed part of the home circle. The saddler's ballads came floating toward her, bringing a sense of want with their obscure dream images. And there drifted past her a motley throng of those half-comprehended songs and the anecdotes upon which she had often placed false interpretations, until, exhausted by the thoughts, emotions, and yearnings of the day, with an aching void within and a dull feeling of resignation, she feel asleep. In the evening RÖnnaug, with whom they had become acquainted during the confirmation instructions, made her appearance; she was out at service in the neighborhood and had a holiday in honor of the occasion. She brought with her a whole budget of gossip concerning the love affairs of the parish, and the inexperienced girls sat with wondering eyes Hereafter RÖnnaug often dropped in of an evening when her work was done. They all took delight in her wild exuberance of spirits. She was as hearty and as plump as a young foal; she could scarcely keep the clothes on her back because she was all the time tearing them to tatters, and she had never-ceasing trouble with her hair, which would keep falling over her face because she never had it done up properly. When she laughed, and that was nearly all the time, she tossed back her head, and through two rows of pearly teeth, white as those of a beast of prey, could be seen far down her throat. In the autumn Skarlie came again. There was a difference between the reception now given him and the former one. The three girls surrounded his sledge, they carried in his luggage, notwithstanding his laughing resistance, their laughter accompanied him as he stood in the passage taking off his furs. Questions without number were showered like Magnhild had never viewed her surroundings with critical eyes; she would now laugh heartily with Skarlie over the priest's last sermon, or his indolent life; now over the spider-like activity of the mistress of the house, because it was all described so comically. At the "fat repose" of the governess, even at the "yellow, round heads" of her young friends, Magnhild could now laugh; for the humor with which everything was delineated was so surprisingly original; she did not perceive that this jesting was by degrees undermining the very ground she stood upon. The quite usual amusement in the country of teasing a young girl about being in love The following summer the priest's daughters went to the city for increased opportunities of culture. The governess remained "for the present" at the parsonage. The saddler came once more in the autumn to complete his work. Magnhild was now, of course, more frequently alone with him than before. He was merrier than ever. One joke that was often repeated by him was about journeying round the world with "his young wife." They met with an immense number of traveling adventures, and they saw many remarkable sights, all of which were so accurately described by Skarlie that they attained the value of actual experiences. But the most ludicrous picture he drew represented the two tramping through the country: Skarlie limping on before with a traveling satchel, Magnhild following in a waterproof cloak and with an umbrella in her hand, grumbling at the heat, dust, and thirst, weary and heartily disgusted with him It would be impossible to describe the countenance of the priest when the saddler appeared in his study one evening, and taking a seat in front of him asked, after a few cordial, pleasant remarks by way of introduction, whether the priest would object to his marrying Magnhild. The priest was lying on the sofa smoking; his pipe dropped from his mouth, his hand sank with it, his fat face relaxed until it resembled a dough-like mass, in which the eyes peeped forth as wholly devoid of thought as two raisins; suddenly he gave a start that set a quantity of springs beneath him to creaking and grating, and the book that lay upside down on his knee fell. The saddler picked up the volume smiling, and turned over the leaves. The priest had risen to his feet. "What does Magnhild have to say to this?" asked he. The saddler looked up with a smile. "Of course I should not have asked if she were not likely to give her consent," said he. "To be sure I do not know what is to become of the girl." Once more the saddler raised his eyes from the book whose leaves he was turning over, and now laying it aside, he remarked:— "It is, you know, rather a sort of adoption than a marriage. Down yonder at my house she can develop into whatever she pleases." The priest looked at him, took a puff at his pipe, paced the floor, and puffed again. "Aye, to be sure! You are, I believe, a wealthy man?" "Well, if not precisely wealthy, I am sufficiently well provided to get married." Here Skarlie laughed. But there was something in his laugh, something which did not quite please the priest. Still less did he like the tone of indifference with which Skarlie seemed to treat the whole affair. Least of all did he like being so taken by surprise. "I must speak with my wife about this," said he, and groaned. "That I must," he added decidedly, "and with Magnhild," came as an afterthought. A little while later, the priest's wife was sitting where the saddler had sat. Both hands lay idly open on her lap, while her eyes followed her spouse as he steamed back and forth. "Well, what do you think?" he urged, pausing in front of her. Receiving no reply, he moved on again. "He is far too old," she finally said. "And surely very sly," added the priest, and then pausing again in front of his wife, he whispered: "No one really knows where he comes from, or why he chooses to settle here. He might have a fine workshop in a large city—wealthy, and a smart dog!" The priest did not use the choicest language in his daily discourse. "To think she should allow herself to be so beguiled!" whispered the wife. "Beguiled! Just the word—beguiled!" repeated the priest, snapping his fingers. "Beguiled!" and off he went in a cloud of smoke. "I am so sorry for her," remarked the wife, and the words were accompanied by a few tears. This touched the priest, and he said: "See Ere long Magnhild stood within the precincts of the study, wondering what could be wanted of her. The priest was the first to speak:— "Is it really true, Magnhild, that you have agreed to be the wife of this fellow, the saddler?" The priest often used the general term "fellow" instead of a proper name. Magnhild's face became suffused with blushes; in her whole life she could never have been so red before. Both the priest and his wife interpreted this as a confession. "Why do you not come to us with such things?" asked the priest, in a vexed tone. "It is very strange you should act so, Magnhild," said the mistress of the house,—and she wept. Magnhild was simply appalled. "Do you really mean to have him?" asked the priest, pausing resolutely in front of her. Now Magnhild had never been accustomed to being addressed in a confidential tone. When questioned thus closely she had not the courage to give a frank statement of all that had occurred between her and Skarlie, telling, how this talk of marriage had commenced as a jest, Well now, the priest did not mean to torment her. What was done could not be undone. He was very sorry for her, and in the goodness of his heart merely wanted to help her lay a solid foundation to her choice. Skarlie was a man of considerable means, he said, and she a poor girl; she certainly could not expect a better match, so far as that went. True, Skarlie was old; but then he had himself said that he designed rather a sort of adoption than a marriage; his only object was Magnhild's happiness. But all this was more than Magnhild could bear to listen to, and so she rushed from the room. In the passage she fell to crying as though her heart would break; she was obliged to go up to the dark garret in order to avoid attracting attention, and there her grief gradually assumed definite shape. It was not because the saddler wanted her that she was in such distress; it was because the priest and his wife did not want her. When the governess was informed of the affair she differed entirely from the mistress of the house, who could not comprehend Magnhild, for the governess could comprehend the young girl perfectly. Skarlie was a man of fine mind and very witty. He was rich, jovial, rather homely, to be sure, but that was not of such great consequence down at the Point. And she adopted this tone in talking with Magnhild when she finally succeeded in getting hold of her. Magnhild was red with weeping, and burst into a fresh flood of tears; yet not a word did she say. Somewhat curtly the priest now informed the saddler that as the matter was settled he might as well proceed with the preparations. The saddler desired this himself; moreover, he was now quite through with his work. Eagerly as he strove for an opportunity to speak with Magnhild, he even failed to catch a glimpse of her. He was therefore forced to take his departure without having an interview with her. During the days which followed Magnhild neither appeared in the sitting-room nor at table. No one attempted to seek her and talk One day the members of the household were surprised by the arrival through the mail of a letter and large package for Magnhild. The letter read as follows:—
Magnhild had taken refuge in the garret, with both the letter and the large package. She had plunged forthwith into the letter, and emerging from its perusal perplexed and frightened, she tore open the package and found many full suits of everything pertaining to feminine Now she had courage to speak! She sprang down-stairs to the priest's wife, and throwing her arms about her neck, whispered, "Forgive me!" thrust the letter into her hand, and disappeared. The priest's wife did not understand Magnhild's "Forgive me!" but she saw that the young girl was crying and in great excitement. She took the letter and read it. It was peculiar in form, she thought; yet its meaning was plain enough: it indicated a sensible, elderly man's prudent forethought, and deserved credit. An old housewife and mother could not be otherwise than pleased with this, and she carried the letter to the priest. It impressed him in the same way; and he began to think the girl might be happy with this singular man. The mistress of the house searched everywhere for Magnhild, in order to tell her that both the priest and herself were of the opinion that Skarlie's conduct promised well. She learned that Magnhild was in the garret, and so throwing a shawl round her (for it was cold) she went up-stairs. She met the governess on the way and took her with her. Magnhild was not visible; they saw A little later there arrived a chest containing her dresses and many other articles. Magnhild allowed it to stand untouched, but the governess, who so well understood this bashfulness, attended to having it opened. She and the priest's wife drew forth the contents piece by piece, and not long afterwards Magnhild was This picture of herself floated before her for many days. Fearing to disturb it she avoided the mirror. Once more she became absorbed in the old dreams, those which bore her across the sea to something strange and great. But the marriage? At such moments she thrust it from her as though it were a steamer's plank, to be drawn ashore after serving its purpose. How was this possible? Aye, how many times in the years that followed did she not pause and reflect! But it always remained alike incomprehensible to her. She could neither be persuaded to put on one Skarlie was in high spirits; the fact was both the priest and his wife took pains to make amends for Magnhild's lack of courtesy, and he reciprocated in the most winning manner. The governess declared him to be decidedly amiable. The next evening Magnhild sat in the dining-room arranging some articles belonging to the industrial school that must now be sent back. She was alone, and Skarlie entered softly and smiling, and slowly closing the door behind him took a seat at her side. He talked for some time on indifferent subjects, so that she began to breathe freely again; she even ventured at last to look down on him as he sat bent over smoking. Her eyes rested on the bald head, the bushy brows, and the extreme end of the snub-nose, then on his enormous hands and their very singular-looking nails; the latter were deeply set in the flesh, which everywhere, therefore in front also, encompassed them like a thick round frame. Under the "Aye, aye, Magnhild!" said he, laying it on both of hers. This gave her a shock, and in a moment she was like one paralyzed. She could not stir, could not grasp a single thought except that she was in the clutches of a great lobster. His head drew nearer, the eyes too were those of a lobster; they stung. This she had never before observed, and she sprang hastily to her feet. He retained his seat. Without looking back Magnhild began to busy herself where she stood with another lot of the industrial work. Therefore she did not leave the room, but a little while later Skarlie did. The governess decked her in her bridal finery the next day; the mistress of the house too came to look on. This gave her great pleasure, she said. Magnhild let everything be done for her without stirring, without uttering a word and without shedding a tear. Magnhild did not look at the bridegroom. The priest touched on tender chords; his wife shed tears, and so too did the governess; but Magnhild's icy coldness chilled both him and them. The discourse was brief and dealt chiefly in mere generalities. It was followed by congratulations, and a painful silence; even the saddler had lost his smile. It was a relief when they were summoned to dinner. During the repast the priest, desiring to propose a toast, began: "Dear Magnhild! I trust you have no fault to find with us,"—he got no farther, for here Magnhild burst into such convulsive weeping that the priest's wife, the governess, aye, even the priest himself became deeply affected, and there arose a long and painful silence. Finally, however, the priest managed to add: "Think of us!" But these words were followed by the same heart-rending weeping as before, so that no toast was drunk. While they were at dessert one of the young girls approached the bride and whispered a few words in her ear. RÖnnaug was outside and wished to say farewell; she had been waiting ever since the company had gone to table and could stay no longer. RÖnnaug was standing on the back porch, benumbed with the cold; she did not wish to intrude, she said. She examined the bride's dress, thought it extraordinarily fine, and drawing off one mitten stroked it with the back of her hand. "Yes, I dare say he is rich," said she, "but if they had given me a gown of silver I would not"—and she added a few words which cannot be repeated here, and for which Magnhild, her face flaming, administered a good sound box on the ear. The kerchief softened the blow somewhat, but it was seriously meant. Magnhild returned to the dining-room and sat down, not in her place at the bridegroom's side, but on a chair by the window; she did not wish anything more, she said. It was of no avail that she was entreated to sit with the others at least until they had finished; she said she could not. "All these I lay at your feet!" There burst forth a peal of laughter in which even Magnhild was forced to join. The whole bridal party gathered about the things which were spread over the carpet, and every one was loud in praise. It was evidently not displeasing to Magnhild either, in the face of a winter journey,—for which she had been promised the loan of a variety of wraps,—to have such presents lavished upon her. In a few moments more Magnhild was attired in her blue dress, and she was enough of a child or rather woman to be diverted by the change. Shortly afterwards the new traveling wraps were donned, piece by piece, amid the liveliest interest of all, which reached its height when Magnhild was drawn before the mirror to see for herself how she looked. The horse had been driven round, and Skarlie just now Her eyes wandered listlessly over the snow-covered heap of ruins on the site of her childhood's home; it seemed as though there were that within herself which was shrouded in snow and desolation. The weather was cold. The valley grew narrower, the road led through a dense wood. One solitary star was visible. Skarlie had been cutting figures in the snow with his whip; he now pointed the latter toward the star and began to hum, finally to sing. The melody he had chosen was that of one of the ballads of the Scottish highlands. Like a melancholy bird, it flitted from one snow-laden fir-tree to another. Magnhild inquired its meaning, and this proved to be in harmony Once started, he continued, and gradually broke into such merry anecdotes that Magnhild was astonished when they stopped to rest; astonished that she had been able to laugh, and that they had driven nearly fourteen miles. Skarlie helped her out of the sledge and ushered her into the inn, but he himself went directly out again to feed the horse. A stylish looking young lady sat by the hearth in the guest-room warming herself, scattered over the benches around were her traveling-wraps; they were of such fine material and costly fur that Magnhild grew curious and felt obliged to touch them. The traveling-suit the lady wore, so far as material and style was concerned, made the same impression on Magnhild as she might have gained from a zoÖlogical specimen from another quarter of the globe. The lady's face possessed youth and a gentle melancholy; she was fair and had languishing eyes and a slightly-curved nose. Her hair, too, was done up in an unfamiliar style. Pacing the floor was a slender young man; his traveling boots stood by the hearth and his feet were cased in small morocco slippers, lined "Are you Skarlie's young wife?" inquired the hostess, quite an old woman, who had placed a chair by the hearth for Magnhild. Before Magnhild could reply, Skarlie came in with some things from the sledge. The bald head, half protruding from the shaggy furs, the deer-skin shoes, sprawling like monstrous roots over the floor, attracted the wondering gaze of the young lady. "Is this your wife?" repeated the hostess. "Yes, this is my wife," was the cheerful reply, as Skarlie limped forward. The young man fixed his eyes on Magnhild. She felt herself growing fiery red beneath his gaze. There was an expression entirely new to her in his face. Was it scorn? The lady, too, now looked at her, and at the same moment the hostess begged Magnhild to take a seat by the fire. But the latter preferred remaining in the dark, on a bench in the farthest corner. It was fully ten o'clock when the Point was reached, but every light there had been extinguished, even in the house in front of which the sledge stopped. An old woman, awakened by the jingling of the bells, came to the street A strong smell of leather filled the passage; for the work-room and shop were to the left. The loathsome odor prevented Magnhild from replying. They entered a room to the right. Here Magnhild hastily removed her traveling-wraps;—she felt faint. Without casting a glance about her, or speaking to the woman who was watching her from behind the light, she then crossed the floor and opened a door she had espied on coming into the room. She first held the light in, then stepped in herself and closed the door after her. The woman heard a rumbling within and went to the door. There she discovered that one of the beds was being moved. Directly afterward Magnhild reappeared with the candle. The light revealed a flushed face. She looked resolute. She now told the woman she had no need of her services. The saddler did not come in for some time; for he had been seeing to the horse, which he had borrowed for the journey. The light was still on the table. There was no one up. Two years had passed since that evening, and the greater part of a third. Magnhild was quite as thoroughly accustomed to the new daily routine as she had been to the old. The priest visited her three or four times a year; he slept in the room over the workshop usually occupied by Skarlie when he was at home. During the day the priest visited at the captain's, or the custom-house officer's, or at the home of the chief of police. His coming was called the "priestly visitation." There was chess-playing in the day-time and cards in the evening. The priest's wife and young lady daughters had also been seen at the Point a few times. In the lading-town there was scarcely any one with whom Magnhild associated. Skarlie and she had taken one trip to Bergen. Whatever might there have happened or not happened, they never undertook another, either to Bergen or elsewhere. Directly after she came there, RÖnnaug had appeared at the Point, and had hired out at the nearest "skyds" (post-station), in order to earn money speedily for the purchase of a ticket to America. She was determined to live no longer the life of an outcast here, she said. Magnhild took charge of RÖnnaug's money for her, and was alarmed to note how rapidly it increased, for she had her own thoughts about the matter. Now the ticket was bought, Magnhild would be entirely alone. Many were the thoughts called forth by the fact that the journey across the sea to new and perhaps great experiences should be so easy for one person and not for another. After Magnhild had been to school, she saw the same pale man, with the box behind him, standing before the door of her house. He was accompanied by the landlord of one of the hotels. Skarlie had fitted up the rooms above the sitting-room and bed-chamber for the accommodation of travelers when the hotels were full. The pale stranger was an invalid who wished to live quietly. Magnhild had not thought of letting the rooms to permanent guests and thus assuming a certain responsibility. She stood irresolute. The stranger now drew nearer to her. Such eyes she had never beheld, nor so refined and spiritual a face. With strange power of fascination those wondrous eyes were fixed on her. There was, as it were, two expressions combined in Now the stranger's countenance changed; it grew observant. Magnhild felt this, roused herself, blushed, gave some answer and walked away. What did she say? Was it "Yes" or "No"? The landlord followed her. She had said "Yes!" She was obliged to go up-stairs and see whether everything was in readiness for a guest; she did not rely very implicitly on her own habits of order. There was great confusion when the piano was carried up; it took time, too, to move the bed, sofa, and other articles of furniture to make room for the instrument. But all this came to an end at last, and quiet once more prevailed. The pale stranger must be tired. Soon there was not a step, not a sound, overhead. There is a difference between the silence which is full and that which is empty. Magnhild dared not stir. She waited, listened. Would the tones of the piano soon fall upon her ear? The stranger was a composer, so the landlord had said, and Magnhild thought, Through her content there darted the question, "Will Skarlie be pleased with what you have done? Is there not danger of injury to the new sofa and the bed too? The stranger is an invalid, no one can tell"—She sprang to her feet, sought pen, ink, and paper, and for the first time in her life wrote a letter to Skarlie. It took her more than an hour to complete it. This is what she wrote:—
She had crossed out the words: "Now I shall have an opportunity to hear some music." The heading of the letter had caused her some trouble; she finally decided to use none. "Your wife," she had written above the signature, but had drawn her pen through it. Thus fashioned, the letter was copied and sent. She felt easier after this, and again sat still and waited. She saw the stranger's dinner carried up to him; she ate a little herself and fell asleep,—she had scarcely had any sleep the previous night. She awoke; there was yet no sounds of music above. Again she fell asleep, and dreamed that the distance between the mountain peaks had been spanned by a bridge. She told herself that this was the bridge at Cologne, a lithograph of which hung on the wall near the bed-chamber. Nevertheless it extended across the valley from one lofty mountain to the other, supported by trestle-work from the depths below. The longer she gazed the finer, more Magnhild did not stir. The tones flowed forth with extreme richness; there was a bright, gentle grace over the music. Magnhild sat listening until it seemed as though these melodious tones were being showered down upon head, hands, and lap. A benediction was being bestowed upon her humble home, the world of tears within was filled with light. She pushed her chair farther back into the corner, and as she sat there she felt that she had been found Long after the music had ceased,—the crowd was gone, the musician still,—Magnhild sat motionless. Life had meaning; she, too, might gain access to a rich world of beauty. As there was now song within, so one day there should be singing around about her. When she came to undress for the night she required both sitting-room and bed-chamber for the purpose, and more than half an hour; for the first time in her life she laid down to rest with a feeling that she had something to rise for in the morning. She listened to the footsteps of her guest above; they were lighter than those of other people; his contact with the furniture, too, was cautious. His eyes, with their kindly glow of good-will, and the fathomless depths beyond this, were the last objects she saw distinctly. Indescribable days followed. Magnhild went regularly to her lessons, but lost no time in getting home again, where she was received by music and found the house surrounded by listeners. She believed that in music lay her vocation; but she felt no inclination to make any kind of a beginning. There was enough to satisfy her in her guest's playing, in his very proximity. At school she took an interest in each scholar she had never experienced before; she even fell into the habit of chatting with the sailor's wife who did the work of her house. There daily unfolded a new blossom within her soul; she was as meek as a woman in the transition period, which she had never known. Books she had heard read aloud, or read herself at the parsonage, rose up before her as something new. Forms she had not noticed before stood out in bold relief,—they became invested with flesh, blood, and motion. Incidents in real life, as well as in books, floated past like a cloud, suddenly became dissolved and gave distinct pictures. She awoke, as an Oriental maiden is awakened, when her time comes, by song beneath her window and by the gleam of a turban.
One morning as Magnhild, after making her toilet, went into the sitting-room, humming softly to herself and in joyous mood, to open the window facing the street, she saw a lady standing at the open window of the house opposite. It was a low cottage, surrounded by a garden, and belonged to a government officer who had moved away. Vines were trained about the windows of the house partially covering them, and the lady was engaged in arranging one of the sprays that was in the way. Her head was encircled with ringlets, which were rather black than brown. Her eyes sparkled, her brow was low but broad, her eyebrows were straight, her nose was also straight but quite large and round, her lips were full, her head was so beautifully poised on her shoulders that Magnhild could not help noticing it. The open sleeves had fallen back during the work with the vines, displaying her arms. Magnhild was unable to withdraw her eyes. When the lady Magnhild became embarrassed, and drew back. Just then a child approached the lady, who stooped and kissed it. The child also had ringlets, but they were fair; the face was the mother's, and yet it was not the mother's, it was the coloring which misled, for the child was blonde. The little one climbed upon a chair and looked out. The mother caught hold of the vine again, but kept her eyes fixed on Magnhild, and her expression was a most singular one. Magnhild put on her hat; it was time for her to go to school; but that look caused her to go out of the back door and return by the same way, when she came home an hour later. He was playing. Magnhild paused for a while in her little garden and hearkened, until finally she felt that she must go in to see what effect this music had upon the beautiful lady. She went into her kitchen and then cautiously entered her sitting-room, shielding herself from observation. No; there was no beautiful lady at the window opposite. A sense of relief passed over Magnhild, and she went forward. She was obliged to move some "Do not be frightened!" was the laughing greeting, uttered in tones of coaxing entreaty for pardon, that surpassed in sweetness anything of the kind Magnhild had ever heard. "You will allow me to come in; will you not?" And before Magnhild could answer, the lady was already entering the house. The next moment she stood face to face with Magnhild, tall and beautiful. An unknown perfume hovered about her as she flitted through the room, now speaking of the lithographs on the wall, now of the valley, the mountains, or the customs of the people. The voice, the perfume, the walk, the eyes, indeed the very material and fashion of her dress, especially its bold intermingling of colors, took captive the senses. From the instant she entered the room it belonged to her; if she smelled a flower, or made an observation concerning it, forthwith that flower blossomed anew; for what her eyes rested upon attained precisely the value she gave it. Steps were heard above. The lady paused. "Yes, I know; he met me last evening at the wharf." Magnhild opened her eyes very wide. The lady drew nearer. "My husband and he are very good friends," said she. She turned away humming, and cast a glance at the clock in the corner between the bed-room wall and the window. "Why, is it so late by your time here?" She drew out her own watch. "We are to walk to-day at eleven o'clock. You must go with us; will you not? You can show us the prettiest places in the wood behind the church and up the mountain slopes." Magnhild promptly answered, "Yes." "Listen: do you know what? I will run up-stairs and say that you are going with us, and then we will go at once—at once!" She gave Magnhild's hand a gentle pressure, opened the door and sped swiftly up the stairs. Magnhild remained behind—and she was very pale. There was a whirling, a raging within, a fall. But there was no explosion. On the contrary, Magnhild must have stood motionless for a long time. She heard some one take hold of the door-knob at last, and involuntarily she pressed both hands to her heart. Then she felt an impulse to fly; but the little fair curly head of the child, with its innocent, earnest eyes, now appeared in the opening of the door. "Is mamma here?" the little one asked, cautiously. "She is up-stairs," replied Magnhild, and the sound of her own voice, the very purport of the words she uttered, caused the tears to rise in her eyes and compelled her to turn her face away. The child had drawn back its head and closed the door. Magnhild had no time to become clear in her own mind about what had occurred; for the child speedily came down-stairs again and into her room. "Mamma is coming; she said I must wait here. Why are you crying?" But Magnhild was not crying now. She made no reply, however, to the child, who presently exclaimed: "Now mamma is coming." Magnhild heard the lady's step on the stair, and escaped into her bedroom. She heard the The lady advanced farther into the room. She placed one hand on Magnhild's waist, the other on her shoulder. Magnhild was forced to raise her eyes once more and met a grieved smile. This smile was also so kind, so firm, and therefore so persuasive, that Magnhild permitted herself to be drawn forward, and presently she was kissed—softly at first, as though she were merely fanned by a gentle breath, while that unknown perfume which always accompanied the lady encompassed them both, and the rustle of the silk dress was like a low whisper; then vehemently, while the lady's bosom heaved and her breath was deeply drawn as from some life-sorrow. After this, utter silence and then a whispered: "Come now!" She went on in advance, leading Magnhild by the hand. Magnhild was a mere child in experience. With The lady began a search in one of the trunks, from which she rose with a white lace neckerchief in her hand, saying: "This will suit you better than the one you have on, for that is not at all becoming," and taking off the one Magnhild wore, she tied on the other in a graceful bow, and Magnhild felt herself that it harmonized well with her red dress. "But how have you your hair? You have an oval face and your hair done up in that way? No"—and before Magnhild could offer any resistance she was pressed down into a chair. "Now I shall"—and the lady commenced undoing the hair. Magnhild started up, fiery red and frightened, and said something which was met with a firm: "Certainly not!" It seemed as though a strong will emanated from the lady's words, arms, fingers. Magnhild's hair was unfastened, spread out, brushed, then drawn loosely over the head and done up in a low knot. "Now see!" and the mirror was held up before Magnhild. "Pray, do not be so bashful! We are going to have such a nice time together;" and once more her attention was full of that sweetness the like of which Magnhild had never known. "Run over now after your hat and we will start!" Magnhild did as she was bid. But no sooner was she alone than a sense of oppression, a troubled anxiety, wrung her heart, and the lady seemed detestable, officious; even her kindness was distorted into a lack of moderation; Magnhild failed to find the exact word to express what distressed her. "Well? Are you not coming?" These words were uttered by the lady, who in a jaunty hat, with waving plume, beamed in And Magnhild obeyed. The little girl attached herself to Magnhild. "I am going with you," said she. Magnhild failed to notice this, because she had just heard steps on the stairs. Tande, the composer, was coming to join them. "How your hand trembles!" cried the little one. A hasty glance from the lady sent the hot blood coursing up to Magnhild's neck, cheeks, temples—yet another from Tande, who stood on the door-steps, not wholly free from embarrassment, and who now bowed. "Are we going up in the wood?" asked the little girl, clinging tightly to Magnhild's hand. "Yes," replied the lady; "is there not a path across the fields behind the house?" "Yes, there is." "Then let us go that way." They went into the house again, and passed out of the back door, through the garden, across the fields. The wood lay to the left of the church, and entirely covered the plain and the tower mountain slopes. Magnhild and the "What is your name?" asked the little girl. "Magnhild." "How funny, for my name is Magda, and that is almost the same." Presently she said: "Have you ever seen papa in uniform?" No, Magnhild never had. "He is coming here soon, papa is, and I will ask him to put it on." The little girl continued to prattle about her papa, whom she evidently loved beyond all else upon earth. Sometimes Magnhild heard what she was saying, sometimes she did not hear. The pair walking behind spoke so low that Magnhild could not distinguish a single word they were saying although they were quite near. Once she gave a hasty glance back and observed that the lady's expression was troubled, Tande's grave. They reached the wood. "Just see! here at the very edge of the wood is the most charming spot in the world!" exclaimed the lady, and now she was radiant again, as though she had never known other than the most jubilant mood. "Let us sit down here!" and as she spoke she threw herself down with a little burst of delight and a The little one sprang directly to her feet again, for her mother wanted flowers, grass, ferns, and moss, and began to bind them at once into nosegays when they were brought to her. It was evidently not the first time Magda had made collections of the kind for her mother, for the child knew every plant by name, and came running up to the group with exclamations of delight whenever she found anything her mother had not yet noticed but which she knew to be a favorite of hers. Various topics were brought forward, some of which, although not all, were dwelt upon by Tande, who had stretched himself out on the grass and seemed inclined to rest; but from the moment an affair of recent occurrence was mentioned, concerning a wife who had forsaken her husband, and had eventually been cast off by her lover, he took zealous part, severely censuring the lover, for whom Fru Bang made many excuses. It was absurd, she said, to feign an affection which no longer existed. But at least it was possible to act from a sense of duty, Tande insisted. Ah, to duty they had bid farewell, the lady remarked softly, as she Further conversation incidentally revealed that Fru Bang had been in the habit of mingling in the first circles of the land; that she had traveled extensively, and evidently had means to live where and how she pleased. And yet here she sat, full of thoughtful care for Magnhild, for Tande, for the child. She had a kindly word for everything that was mentioned; her fancy invested the most trifling remark with worth, just as she made the blades of grass she was putting into her nosegay appear to advantage, and managed so that not one of them was lost. Tande's long pale face, with its marvelously beautiful smile, and the soft hair falling caressingly, as it were, about it, had gradually become animated. The glowing, richly-tinted woman at his side was part of the world in which he lived and composed. The spot on which they sat was surrounded by birch and aspen. The fir was not yet able to gain the mastery over these, although its scions had already put in an appearance. While such were the case grass and flowers would flourish—but no longer.
Magnhild awoke the next day, not to joyous memories such as she had cherished every morning during the past few weeks. There was something to which she must now rise that terrified her, and, moreover, grieved her. Nevertheless it attracted her. What should she pass through this day? She had slept late. As she stepped into the sitting-room, she saw Fru Bang at the open window opposite, and was at once greeted with a bow and a wave of the hand. Then a hat was held up and turned round. Very soon Magnhild was so completely under the spell of the lady's kind-hearted cordiality, beauty, and vivacity that her school hour was nearly forgotten. She was met by a universal outcry when she appeared at the school with her hair done up in a new style, and wearing a new hat and a white lace neckerchief over her red dress! Magnhild had already felt embarrassed at the change, and now her The weather was fine as on the preceding day. A little excursion was therefore decided on for the afternoon. In the forenoon Tande played. All the windows in the neighborhood were open, and Fru Bang sat in hers and wept. Passers-by stared at her; but she heeded them not. There was something passionately intense and at times full of anguish in his playing to-day. Magnhild had never before heard him give vent to such a mood. Perhaps he, too, felt it to be a strange bewilderment; for rousing himself he now conjured up a wealth of bright, glittering bits of imagery which blended into the sunshine without and the buzzing of the insects. This dewy summer day became all at once teeming with discoveries; in the street, now parched and dry, the particles of dust glittered, over the meadows quivered the varied tints of green where the aftermath had sprung up, and of yellow and brown where it had not yet made its appearance. There was everywhere an intermingling of gold, red, brown, and green in the play of the forest hues. The On the excursion that afternoon it again fell to Magnhild's lot to take the lead with the child; the other two came whispering after them. They found to-day a new tarrying-place, a short distance farther up the mountain than where they had assembled the previous day;—the lady had been weeping; Tande was silent, but he appeared even more spiritual than usual. The conversation this time centred in the fjord scenery of Norway, and the depressing influence it must necessarily have on the mind to be so completely shut in by mountains. The various barriers in the spiritual life of the people were named; old prejudices, established customs, "See, there she is sitting with her forefinger in her mouth again," laughed the lady; this greatly startled Magnhild, and created a fresh flow of merriment. A little while after this Magnhild permitted her hair to be decked by Magda with flowers and grass. She hummed softly to herself all the while, a habit she had acquired during the days when she was practicing reading notes at the parsonage. This time her irregular song took higher flights than usual, inasmuch as thoughts filled it, just as the wind inflates a sail. The higher she sang, the stronger her voice became, until Magda exclaimed:— "There comes mamma." Magnhild was silent at once. True enough there came the lady, and directly following her Tande. "Why, my child, do you sing?" In the course of the day they had fallen into the habit of using the familiar "du;" that is, Fru Bang used it, but Magnhild could not do so. "That is the highest, clearest soprano I have Magnhild sprang to her feet, so hastily that there fell a shower of flowers and grass to the ground, at the same time putting up her hands to remove Magda's adornments from her hair, which called forth a bitter complaint from the little girl. Tande's words, appearance, and the look he now fastened on her had embarrassed Magnhild, and Fru Bang displayed most kindly tact in endeavoring, as it were, to shield her young friend. It was not long before they were on their way home,—and they went at once to Tande's room to try Magnhild's voice. Fru Bang stood holding her hand. Magnhild sang the scale, and every note was so firm and true that Tande paused and looked up at her. She was then obliged to admit that she had sung before. A feeling of happiness gradually took possession of her; for she was appreciated, there could be no mistake about it. And when a little two-part song was brought forward and Magnhild proved able to sing the soprano at sight, and then a second one was tried and a Fru Bang had a fine alto; her voice was not so cultivated as it was sympathetic; nor was it strong, but for this reason it was all the better suited to Magnhild's voice, for although the latter doubtless was stronger, Magnhild had never been accustomed to letting out its full strength, nor did she do so now. As they gradually became more acquainted with the songs, Tande kept adding to the richness and fullness of the piano—the accompaniments. The street had become crowded with people; such music had never been heard before in the little town. It was evident that a swarm of new ideas were let loose upon those heads. The thoughts and words of the ensuing evening were no doubt more refined than usual. Upon the children there surely dawned a foreboding of foreign lands. A drizzling rain was falling, the crests of the lofty mountains on both sides of the valley and surrounding the fjord were veiled, but towered up all the higher in fancy. The glorious forest hues, the placid surface of the fjord, now darkened by the rain, the fresh The silence of the multitude without harmonized with the mood of those within. When the singing at length ended, Tande said that he must devote an hour each day to instructing Magnhild how to use her voice, so that she could make further progress alone when he and Fru Bang were gone. Moreover, they must continue the duet singing, for this was improving to the taste. Fru Bang added that something might be made of that voice. Tande's eyes followed Magnhild so searchingly that she was glad when it was time to take leave. She forgot some music she had brought with her, and turning went back after it. Tande was standing by the door. "Thanks for your visit!" he whispered, and smiled. This made her stumble on the threshold, and overwhelmed with confusion, she came near making a misstep at the head of the stairs. She entered her sitting-room in great embarrassment. Fru Bang, who was still there waiting to say "Good-night!" looked at her earnestly. It was some time before she spoke, and then the At no very remote period there had been an evening which Magnhild had thought the happiest of her life. But this— When steps were again heard above she trembled in every fibre of her body. She could see Tande's expression, as he raised his eyes while playing. The diamond, cutting brilliant circles of light over the keys of the piano, the blue-veined hands, the long hair which was continually falling forward, the fine gray suit the musician wore, his silent demeanor,—all dissolved into the melodies and harmonies, and with them became blended his whispered "Thanks for your visit!" At the cottage across the street it was dark. Magnhild did not seek her couch until midnight, and then not to sleep; nor did he who was above sleep; on the contrary, just as Magnhild had retired he began to play. He struck up a melancholy, simple melody, in the form of a soprano solo at first, and finally bursting into what sounded like a chorus of female voices; his harmonization was exquisitely pure. Without At school the next morning Magnhild was accosted with many questions concerning the preceding evening; among other things whether she had really taken part in the singing, what they had sung, about the other two, and whether they would sing often. The questions filled her with joy: a great secret, her secret, was in its innermost depths. She felt conscious of strange elasticity. She had never made such haste home before. She was looking forward to singing with him again in the forenoon! And she did sing. Tande sent word down by the sailor's wife that he expected her at twelve o'clock. A little before this hour she heard once more that melancholy, pure composition of yesterday. Tande met her without a word. He merely bowed and went straight to the piano and then turned his head as before to bid her draw nearer. She sang scales, he gave suggestions From her lesson she crossed the street to the lady. Fru Bang sat, or rather reclined, on the sofa, with an open book on her lap, and with Magda, to whom she was talking, in front of her. She was grave, or rather sorrowful; she looked up at Magnhild, but went on talking with the child, as though no one had entered. Magnhild remained standing, considerably disappointed. Then the lady pushed aside the child and looked up again. "Come nearer!" said she, feebly, and made a motion with the hand that Magnhild did not understand. "Sit down there on the footstool, I mean." Magnhild obeyed. "You have been with him?" Her fingers loosened Magnhild's hair as she spoke. "The knot is not quite right,"—then with a little caress, "You are a sweet child!" She sat up now, looked Magnhild full in the eyes, gently raising her friend's head as she did so. "I have resolved to make you pretty, prettier than myself. Do you see what I have bought for you to-day?" "This is for you, it will be becoming." "But, dear lady!" "Hush! Not a word, my friend! I am not happy unless I can do something of the kind—and, in this case, I have my own reasons into the bargain." Her large, wondrous eyes seemed to float away in dreams. "There, that will do!" said she, and rose hastily. "Now we will dine together; but first we must have a short stroll, and in the afternoon a long stroll, and then we will have some singing and afterwards a delightful siesta; that is what he likes!" But neither short nor long stroll was accomplished, for it rained. So the lady busied herself with cutting out Magnhild's dress; it was to be made in the neighborhood after Fru Bang's own pattern. They sang together, and even longer than on the preceding day. A supply of songs for two voices was telegraphed for; a few days later the package arrived. During the days which followed most of the songs were gone through with the utmost accuracy. Every day Magnhild Wonderful days these were! Song followed upon song, and these three were continually together, chiefly at the lady's, where they most frequently both dined and supped. One day Fru Bang would be in the most radiant mood, the next tormented with headache, and then she would have a black, red, and brown kerchief tied like a turban, about her head, and would sit or recline on the sofa, in languid revery. As they were thus assembled together one day, and Magda stood at the window, the little one said,— "There goes a man into your house, Magnhild: he is lame." Magnhild sprang up, very red. "What is it?" asked Fru Bang, who was lying on the sofa with a headache, and had been talking in a whisper with Tande. "Oh! it is"—Magnhild was searching for her hat; she found it and withdrew. From the open window she heard the child say: "A lame, ugly man, who"— Skarlie was working this year on the sea-coast. A foreign ship had been wrecked there His surprise on entering his house was not small. Everything in order! And the room filled with a pleasant perfume. Magnhild came—it was a lady who stood before him. Her whole countenance was changed. It had opened out like a flower, and the soft, fair hair floating about neck and drooping shoulders threw a lustre over head and form. She paused on the threshold, her hand on the door-knob. Skarlie had seated himself in the broad chair in the corner, and was wiping the perspiration from his bald head. As soon as his first astonishment was over, he said: "Good-day!" No reply. But Magnhild came in now, and closed the door after her. "How fine it looks here," said he. "Is it your lodger"— He puckered up his lips, his eyes grew small. Magnhild looked at him coldly. He continued more good-naturedly, "Did he make your new dress, too?" Now she laughed. "How are you getting on?" she asked, presently. "I am nearly through." He had acquired the comfortable air of a man who is conscious of doing well in the world. "It is warm here," said he; the sun had just burst forth after a long rain, and was scorching, as it can be only in September. He stretched out his legs, as far as the crooked one permitted, and lay back, letting his large hands hang down over the arms of the chair, exact pictures of the web-feet of some sea-monster. "Why are you staring at me?" asked he, with his most comical grimace. Magnhild turned with a searching glance toward the window. The room had become filled at once with the peculiar saddler odor which attended Skarlie: Magnhild was about to open the window, but thinking better of it stepped back again. "Where is your lodger?" "He is across the street." "Are there lodgers there, too?" "Yes, a Fru Bang with her daughter." "So they are the people you associate with?" He rose, took off his coat, and also laid aside his vest and cravat. Then he filled his cutty with tobacco, lighted it, and sat down again, this time with an elbow resting on one arm of the chair and smoking. With a roguish smile he contemplated his other half. "And so you are going to be a lady, Magnhild?" She did not answer. "Aye!—Well, I suppose I shall have to begin to make a gentleman of myself." She turned toward him with an amused countenance. His chest, thickly covered with dark red hair, was bare, for his shirt was open; his face was sunburned, his bald head white. "The deuce! how you stare at me! I am not nearly as good-looking as your lodger, I can well believe. Hey?" "Will you have something to eat?" asked she. "I dined on the steamer." "But to drink?" She went out after a bottle of beer, and placed it with a glass on the table beside him. He poured out the beer and drank, looking across the street as he did so. Magnhild grew fiery red; for she too saw Fru Bang standing at the window, staring at the half-disrobed Skarlie. She fled into her chamber, thence into the garden, and there seated herself. She had only been there a few minutes when she heard first the chamber, then the kitchen door open, and finally the garden door was opened by her husband. "Magnhild!" he called. "Yes, there she is." Little Magda's light curly head was now thrust out, and turned round on every side until Magnhild was seen, and then the child came slowly toward her. Skarlie had gone back into the house. "I was sent to ask if you were not coming over to take dinner with us." "Give greetings and thanks; I cannot come—now." The child bestowed on her a mute look of inquiry, then asked: "Why can you not? Is it because that man has come?" "Yes." "Who is he?" It was in Magnhild's mind to say, "He is "Why are you crying, Magnhild?" This was said so sweetly: it chimed in with the memory of the whole bright world which was once more closed, that Magnhild clasped its little representative in her arms, and bowing over the curly head burst into tears. Finally, she whispered,— "Do not question me any more, little Magda; but go home now, this way, through the garden gate, and tell mamma that I cannot come any more." Magda obeyed, but she looked over her shoulder several times as she walked away. Magnhild removed all traces of tears, and went out to make some purchases; for her larder was nearly empty. When she returned home, and passed through the sitting-room, Skarlie was still in his chair; he had been taking a little nap; now he yawned and began to fill his cutty. "Did you tell me the lady across the street was married?" "Yes." "I do not know." "I saw them kissing each other," said he. Magnhild grew very pale and then red. "I have never seen anything of the kind." "No, of course not; they did not suppose that I saw them either," said he, and began to light his cutty. Magnhild could have struck him. She went directly to the kitchen, but could not avoid coming back again. Skarlie greeted her with,— "It is no wonder they make much of you, for you serve as a screen." She had brought in a cloth to spread the table, and she flung it right at his laughing face. He caught it, however, and laughed all the louder, until the tears started in his eyes; he could not restrain his laughter. Magnhild had run back into the kitchen, and she stood in front of the butter, cheese, and milk she had ready to carry into the adjoining room,—stood there and wept. The door opened, and Skarlie came limping in. "I have spread the cloth," said he, not yet free from laughter, "for that, I presume, was what you wanted: eh?" and now he took up one by one the articles that stood before Magnhild, Half an hour later the two sat opposite each other at their early evening meal. Not a word more about those across the street. Skarlie commenced telling of his work on the steamer, but broke off abruptly, for Tande began to play. Skarlie had taste for music. It was a restless, almost defiant strain that was heard; but how it brightened the atmosphere. And it ended with the little melody that always transported Magnhild to the home of her parents, with the fair heads of her little brothers and sisters round about. Skarlie evidently listened with pleasure, and when the playing ceased, he praised it in extravagant terms. Then Magnhild told him that she was singing with Tande; that he thought she had a good voice. She did not get beyond this; for the playing began anew. When it had ceased again, Skarlie said,— "See here, Magnhild! Let that man give you all the instruction he will; for he is a master—and with the rest you need not meddle." Magnhild thoroughly aired the room after him, opening all the windows as soon as he was gone. She paced the room in the dark for a long while ere she laid herself down to sleep. The next morning she stole out of the back door to school, and returned the same way. She found the whole school in a state of rejoicing over the news Skarlie had just brought, that a quantity of hand-work for which he had undertaken to find purchasers in town had been sold to unusually great advantage. He had doubtless told her this in the course of the morning, but she had been so absorbed in her own affairs that it had made no impression on her. Scarcely was this theme exhausted when one of the young girls (there were both children and grown people in attendance at this hour) expressed her surprise at Magnhild's appearance, which was so different from that of the preceding days. The pupils inquired if anything was amiss. Magnhild did not wear the dress, either, that was so becoming to her, that is, the one given to her by the lady. It As she came down-stairs she saw Skarlie and Fru Bang standing by the lady's door, in close conversation; they were both laughing. Magnhild stole in unperceived and continued to watch them. There was a changeful play of expression in the countenances of both, and herein they were alike; but here, too, the resemblance ceased, for Skarlie had never looked so ugly as he did now in the presence of this beautiful woman. Moreover, the smooth, glossy hat he wore completely covered his forehead, giving his face a contracted The lady was all vivacity; it flashed from her as she tossed back her head and set all her ringlets in fluttering motion, or shifted her foot, accompanying the act with a swaying movement of the upper part of the body, or with a wave of her hand aided in the utterance of some thought, or indicated another with an eager gesture. The hasty, assured glances the two exchanged gave the impression of combat. It seemed as though they would never get through. Were they interested in each other? Or in the mere act of disputing? Or in the subject they were discussing? Had not Tande come down-stairs, their interview would scarcely have drawn to a conclusion that forenoon. But as he approached with a bow Skarlie limped away, still laughing, and the other two went into the lady's house, she continuing to laugh heartily. "A deuce of a woman!" said Skarlie, all excitement. "Upon my word she could very easily turn a man's head." And while he was scraping the ashes from his cutty, he added: "If she were not so kind-hearted Magnhild stood waiting for more. He glanced at her twice, while he was filling his cutty from his leathern pouch; he looked pretty much as one who thought: "Shall I say it or not?" She knew the look and moved away. But perhaps this very action of hers gave the victory to his taunting impulse. "She saw that there was light last night up over my workshop. I really thought she was going to ask whether"— Magnhild was already in the kitchen. At noon a wagon drove up to the door; Skarlie was obliged to go out into the country to buy meat for his workmen down on the sea-coast. As soon as he was gone, the lady came running across the street. It was now as it ever had been. Scarcely did she stand in the room, shedding around her sweet smile, than every bad thought concerning her crept away abashed, and with inward craving for pardon, Magnhild yielded to the cordial friendliness with which the lady threw her arms about her, and kissed her and drew her head down caressingly on her shoulder. This time there was not a word spoken, but Magnhild felt the same sympathy Suddenly her cheek and neck were fanned by the lady's warm breath. "My friend," was softly whispered into her ear, "my sweet, pure little friend! You are leading a wild beast with your child hands." The words, the warm breath which, as it were, infused magic into them, sent a tremor through Magnhild's frame. The tears rolled down her cheeks and fell on her hand. The lady saw this and whispered: "Do not fear. You have in your singing an enchanted ring which you only need turn when you wish yourself away! Do not cry!" And turning Magnhild round, she folded her in her arms again. "This afternoon the weather is fine; this afternoon we will all be together in the wood and in the house, and we will sing and laugh. Ah! there are not many more days left to us!" These last words stabbed Magnhild to the heart. Autumn was nigh at hand, and soon she would be alone again.
They were up-stairs in the afternoon, standing by the piano singing, when they heard Skarlie come home and go into the sitting-room below. Without making any remarks about this, they went on singing. They sang at last by candle-light, with the windows still open. When Magnhild came down-stairs Skarlie too had his windows open; he was sitting in the arm-chair in the corner. He rose now and closed the windows; Magnhild drew down the curtains, and in the mean time Skarlie struck a light. While they were still in the dark, he began to express his admiration of the singing to which he had been listening. He praised Magnhild's voice as well as the lady's alto, and of his wife's soprano he repeated his praise. "It is as pure—as you are yourself, my child," said he. He was holding a match to the candle as he spoke, and he appeared almost good-looking, so calm and serious was his shrewd countenance. But ere long there came the play of "While you were singing her husband, the captain of engineers, arrived." Magnhild thought he was jesting, but Skarlie added: "He sat in the window opposite listening." Here he laughed. This so alarmed Magnhild that she was unable to sleep until late that night. For the first time it occurred to her that Fru Bang's husband might be repulsive to her, and she considered the lady's conduct from this point of view. What if those two people really loved each other? Suppose it were her own case? She found herself blushing furiously; for at once Tande's image rose distinctly before her. When she awoke the next morning she involuntarily listened. Had the tempest already broken loose? Hurriedly putting on her clothes she went into the sitting-room, where Skarlie was preparing to start off again. A portion of the articles he was to have taken with him had not yet arrived; he was obliged to go with what he had and come again in a few days. He took a friendly leave of Magnhild. She accompanied him as far as the school. Scarcely had she returned home than she saw a man with red beard and light hair come Then nothing more, for now the door was softly closed. So filled with anxiety was she that she listened for the least unusual sound overhead; but she heard only the steps now of one, now of both. Soon the door opened, she heard voices, but no contention. All three came down-stairs and went out into the street where the lady stood waiting for them, in her most brilliant toilet, and with the smile of her holiday mood. Tande greeted her, she cordially held out her hand. Then the whole four walked past the house-door, and turned into the garden way to take the usual path across the fields to the wood and the mountains. At first, they sauntered slowly along in a group; later, the father went on in advance with the child, who seemed desirous to lead the way, and the lady In the afternoon Magda came over with her papa. He greeted Magnhild with a smile and apologized for coming; his little daughter had insisted on his paying his compliments to her friend, he said. Magnhild asked him to take a seat, but he did not do so at once. He looked at her flowers, talked about them with an air of understanding such as she had never heard before, and begged to be allowed to send her some new plants upon whose proper care he enlarged. "It is really little Magda who will send them," said he, turning with a smile toward Magnhild. This time she was conscious that he was shyly observing her. He looked at the pictures on the wall, the bridge at Cologne, the Falls of Niagara, the White House at Washington, the Caravan in the Desert, and "Judith," by Horace Vernet; examined also some photographs of unknown, often uncouth-looking men and women, some of them in foreign costumes. "Your husband has been a traveler," said he, and his eyes glided from the portraits back to "Judith," while he stood stroking his beard. "Nearly three years," she replied, and colored. "You must put on your uniform so that Magnhild can see you in it," said the little girl; she had posted herself between her father's knees, now toying with his shirt studs, now with his beard. He smiled; certain wrinkles about the eyes and mouth became more apparent when he smiled, and bore witness of sorrow. Musingly he stroked the little one's hair; she nestled her head up against him, so lovingly, so trustingly. He awoke at last from his revery, cast a shy, wondering look at Magnhild, stroked his beard, and said,— "It is very beautiful here." "When will you send Magnhild the flowers you spoke of?" interrupted the little girl. "As soon as I get back to town," said he, caressing the child. "Papa is building a fort," explained Magda, not without pride. "Papa is building at home, too," she added. "Papa is all the time building, and now we have a tower to our house, and all the rooms are so pretty. You just ought to see." He became absorbed again in thought. Just then Tande began to play overhead. This brought life to the countenance of Magda's father, a wondering, shy look stole over it, and bowing his head he began to stroke his little daughter's hair. "He plays extraordinarily well," he remarked, and rose to his feet. The next day the captain left. He might perhaps return later to meet the general of engineers, with whom he had to make a tour of inspection. The life of those left behind glided now into its accustomed channels. One evening Magnhild appeared at Fru Bang's with a very carelessly arranged toilet. As soon as the lady noticed this she gave Magnhild a hint, and herself covered her retreat. "Yes, my child, you may well say that I am good to you, for you are killing me!" Magnhild quickly tore herself away. She sought no explanation with words, she was by far too much startled; but her eyes, the expression of her face, her attitude, spoke for her. The door was opened, and Magnhild fell from surprise to painful embarrassment. Tande had, meanwhile, turned toward Magda, humming softly, as though he observed nothing; he amused himself by playing with the little one. Later he talked with Magnhild about her singing, which he told her she must by no means drop again. If arrangements could be made for her to live in the city,—and that could so easily be brought about,—he would not only help her himself, but procure for her better aid than his. Fru Bang was coming and going, giving directions about the evening meal. The maid "You are less attentive to me than to her," laughed the lady, who was much more soiled than Magnhild. He looked up. "Yes, I know you better than her," he answered, and went on wiping. Fru Bang grew ashen gray. "Hans!" she exclaimed, and burst into tears. Then she hastened into the next room. Magnhild understood this as little as what had previously occurred. Indeed, it was not until months had elapsed that one day, as she was wandering alone through the wintry slush of a country road, with her thoughts a thousand miles away from the lady and the whole scene, she suddenly stood still: the full meaning of Fru Bang's behavior rushed over her. Tande had risen to his feet, for Magnhild had Not long afterward she heard Tande, too, come home. The next forenoon she sang with him; he appeared quite as usual. In the afternoon she met the lady by chance in the street, and she made sundry criticisms on Magnhild's improvising, which she had heard, a little while before, through the open window; at the same time she straightened Magnhild's hat, which was not put on exactly right. Skarlie came home again. He told Magnhild There was a person on the steamer, he said, who knew about Fru Bang's relations with Tande and spoke of them. Magnhild had strong suspicions that Skarlie himself was that person; for after he had been home the last time she had heard allusions to these relations from Tande's woman-servant, the sailor's wife, and several others. "The captain is good-natured," said Skarlie; "he considers himself unworthy to be loved by so much soul and brilliancy. He was, therefore, rejoiced that his wife had at last found an equal." "You seem delighted," Magnhild replied, "you appear more disgusting than you"—She was just going to Fru Bang's, and withdrew without deigning to complete the sentence. She was to accompany Magda to an exhibition to be given by an old Swedish juggler, with his wife and child, on the square some distance behind the house. When Magnhild came in, the lady met her all dressed; she was going to the show, too. The explanation of this speedily followed; that is to say, Tande appeared to accompany them. He reported that the general had arrived. The old juggler was already in his place, where, with the aid of his wife, he was preparing for the show. He bore a ludicrous resemblance to Skarlie, was bald, had a snub-nose, was large and strong-looking, and his face was not devoid of humor. Scarcely had Magnhild made this discovery than she heard Magda whisper to her mother,— "Mamma, he looks just like Magnhild's husband." The lady smiled. At the same moment the old juggler stepped up to them. Among the reserved places was one "especially reserved," a bench, that is, with a back to it. The old man was quite hoarse, and his language, so far as it could be comprehended, was such a droll mixture of Swedish and Norwegian, that those nearest laughed; and the clown-like courtesy of his manner also created a laugh, even among those at a distance. But so soon as the laugh began Tande stepped back a few paces. The The old juggler had a wife much younger than himself, a black-haired, hollow-eyed, sorrowfully thin person, who had the general appearance of having been unfortunate. There soon came skipping out of the tent a little lad with curly hair, sprightly eyes, and an air of refinement over face and form which he did not get from his mother, still less from the old clown. He was dressed as a jester, but was evidently anything else. He paused at his mother's side and asked her some question. He spoke in French. The lady, who was annoyed by Tande's foolish shyness, addressed the boy in his native tongue. The little fellow came forward, but merely to pause at a short distance and stand viewing her with an expression of dignified inquiry. This amused her, and taking out her purse she handed him quite a large coin. "Merci, Madame!" said he, making a low bow. "Kiss the lady's hand!" commanded the old man. The boy obeyed, with shy haste. Then he ran back to the tent, whence was heard the barking of dogs. Suddenly there arose a commotion in the But there seemed to be no seat vacant except on the front bench. So to the front bench she went, to the great sport of the multitude; for she was well known. She was no other than "Machine Martha." Two years before she had come to the Point with a child and a large and a small sewing-machine, with which she supported herself, for she was capable. She had deserted her husband with an itinerant tradesman, who dealt, among other things, in sewing-machines. He had deceived her. Since then she had fallen into wretched habits of drunkenness, and had become thoroughly degraded. Her face was rough and her hair disheveled. Nevertheless, she still seemed to have sufficient energy left to raise a storm. She seated herself directly beside the lady, who shrank away, for Martha smelled strongly of beer. The old juggler had noticed the involuntary movement the lady made. He was on hand at once, and, in a hoarse, rough voice, ordered Martha to take another place. As she was watching her Magnhild descried Skarlie. At his side Martha paused. Soon she came forward again. "I will sit there, I tell you," said she, and resuming her seat she placed the child on the bench beside her. The old juggler left his preparations. He had grown angry. "You cursed"—here he must have remembered the fine company he was in, for he continued: "It costs money to sit here." He spoke Swedish. "Here is a mark!" said the woman, holding out the coin as she spoke. "Very well," said he, hoarsely; "but sit on another bench. Will the ladies and gentlemen please move closer together?" he begged of those on the nearest benches. Whether his directions were followed or not, Martha did not stir. "The devil a bit will I move," said she. "Let her stay where she is," whispered the lady. "Not for any sum," replied the gallant old man. "These seats are reserved for the highest aristocracy," and he took hold of the child. But now Martha sprang up like one possessed. The crowd burst into stormy shouts of laughter, and encouraged thereby, she continued: "Highest aristocracy? Pshaw! She is a—she, as well as I." The word shall remain unwritten; but Martha looked significantly at the lady. A volley of laughter, and then, as at the word of command, the silence of the grave. The lady had started up, proud and beautiful. She looked around for her escort. She wished to leave. Tande was standing not very far off, with a couple of travelers, who had begged to be presented to the well-known composer. The lady's flaming eyes met his. He gazed back at her intently. Every one was looking at him. But no one could penetrate his gaze, any farther than they could have penetrated a polished steel ball. And yet, however unfathomable those eyes, there was one thing they said plainly enough: "Madame, I know you not!" And his refined, arched brow, his delicately-chiseled nose, his tightly-compressed lips, his hollow cheeks, aye, the glittering diamond studs in his shirt, the aristocratic elegance of his attire, all said, "Touch me not!" Over his eyes were drawn veil after veil. Again the lady turned toward him a look, as brief as a flash of lightning. What indignation, what a great cry of anguish, what a swarm of memories, what pride, what contempt, did she not hurl at him. Magnhild received the quivering remains as she turned to her to—aye, what should she do now? Her face suddenly betrayed the most piteous forlornness, and at the same time a touching appeal, as that of a child. The tears rolled down her cheeks. Magnhild, entering completely into her mood, impulsively held out her hand. The lady grasped it and pressed it so vehemently that Magnhild had to exercise all her self-control not to scream aloud. The poor, wounded, repulsed woman gathered together all her inward strength through this outward expenditure of force, and thus she became uplifted. For at the same time she smiled. And lo! across that part of the square where the tight rope was stretched and where spectators were forbidden to intrude, there The lady sparkled with wit, sprightliness, beauty. But every now and then she would seize Magnhild's hand, and press it with remorseless energy. She strengthened herself in the reality of the moment. The bodily pain this caused Magnhild corresponded with the spiritual pain she experienced. She heard the adjutant at her side and Magda cry out in wonder. She, too, now saw several balls glittering in the air, and she saw a large one weighed by Magnhild well knew that all was now over: but would the end come as soon as the next morning? A loud outcry, coming chiefly from the voices of boys, cut through her pain. The old man had thrown the large ball into the air with both hands, and then quite a small ball, and continued to keep them in rapid motion for some time. To Magnhild the small ball represented herself; and the large one—? It was not in order to search for an adequate symbol, nor did she apply it, but everything became symbolic. The perpetual glitter of the balls in the air represented to her the icy glance which had just made her tremble. "The old man is extraordinarily strong," said the adjutant. "I once saw a man in Venice with another man standing on his shoulders, who stooped and raised a third, and he worked his way up and stood on the second man's shoulders, and then, only think, they drew up a fourth, who managed to stand on the shoulders "Were I to die at this moment," the lady was saying on the other side, "and the soul could forget everything here and have imparted to it a new series of wonderful problems, infinite vistas, so that enraptured discovery after discovery might be made—what could there be more glorious?" "My imagination does not carry me so far," came in the general's firm voice. "I am ready to stake my life that to live and die in the fulfillment of one's duty is the greatest happiness a healthily organized human being can feel. The rest is, after all, of little consequence." Here Magnhild received a feverish pressure of the hand. "Applaud, ladies and gentlemen, applaud," said the clown, hoarsely and good-naturedly. This raised a laugh, but no one stirred. "Why do not the dogs come out?" asked Magda, who heard the animals impatiently barking in the tent. About the mountain peaks clouds crisped and curled; a gust of wind betokened a change in the weather; the fjord darkened under the influence of a swiftly rising squall. There was It began to grow cold. The people in the background felt hushed and gloomy. Now the clown's wife came forward; she was to go on the tight rope. The haggard, faded beauty wore a dress cut very low in the neck, and with short sleeves. The lady shivered as she looked at her, complained of cold feet, and rose. The general, the adjutant, and consequently Magnhild also, did the same; Magda alone, with looks of entreaty, kept her seat; she was waiting for the dogs. A single glance from her mother sufficed; she got up without a word. They passed out the same way the officers had come in; not one of them looked back. The lady laughed her most ringing laugh; its pleasant tones rolled back over the assembled multitude. Every one gazed after her. The general walked rapidly, so that her light, easy movements appeared well at his side. The general's height invested hers with a peculiar charm; his stiff, martial bearing and figure heightened the effect of her pliant grace. The contrasts of color in her attire, the feather in her hat, an impression from her laughter, affected one man in the audience as he might have been affected by withdrawing music. Tande returned late. Magnhild heard him walking back and forth, back and forth, more rapidly than ever before. Those light steps kept repeating: "Touch me not!" at last in rhythm; the glitter of the diamond studs, the aristocratic elegance of the attire, the deep reserve of the countenance, haunted her. The lady's anguish groaned beneath these footsteps. What must not she be enduring? "That amidst the thunder and lightning of her suffering she should think of me," thought Magnhild, "would be unnatural." In the first moment of terror she had sought refuge with her young friend, as beneath a sheltering roof, but immediately afterward all was, of course, forgotten. Some one came into the hall. Was it a message from the lady? No, it was Skarlie. Magnhild well knew his triple time step. He gave her a searching glance as he entered. "It is about time for me to be off," said he. He was all friendliness, and began to gather together his things. "No, but for the meat I ordered and had to go without the last time; it came a little while ago." She said no more, and Skarlie was soon ready. "Good-by, until I come again!" said he. He had taken up his things, and now stood looking at her. "Skarlie," said she, "was it you who gave Machine Martha that mark?" He blinked at her several times, and finally asked: "What harm was there in that, my dear?" Magnhild grew pale. "I have often despised you," said she, "but never so much as at this moment." She turned, went into her bed-room and bolted the door. She heard Skarlie go. Then she threw herself on the bed. A few bars were struck on the piano above, but no more followed; Tande was probably himself startled at the sound. These bars involuntarily made Magnhild pause. Now she was forced to follow the steps which began afresh. A new tinge of the mysterious, the incomprehensible, had fallen over Tande. She The steps above ceased, and she glided from the unfathomable to Skarlie; for here she was clear. How she hated him! And when she thought that in a fortnight he would come again and act as though nothing had occurred, she clinched her hands in rage and opened them again; for as it had been a hundred times before, so it would be again. She would forget, because he was so good-natured, and let her have her own way. A profound sorrow at her own insufficiency fell like the pall of night on her fancy. She burst into tears. She was unable to cope with one of the relations of life, either those of others or her own; unable to grasp any saving resolution. Indeed, what could this be? The steps began again, swifter, lighter than ever. Once more Magnhild experienced that inexplicable, not unpleasant tremor Tande had caused in her before. It had finally grown dark. She rose and went into the next room. At the cottage opposite there was light, and the curtains were down. Magnhild also struck a light. Scarcely She found everything changed. All around stood open, already-packed chests, trunks, boxes, and traveling satchels; Magda lay sleeping on her own little hamper. A hired woman was assisting the maid in putting the room in order. The maid started up saying: "My lady has just gone into her bed-room. I will announce you." Magnhild knocked at the door, then entered the chamber. The lady lay on her couch, behind white bed curtains, in a lace-trimmed night-dress. She had wound about her head the Turkish kerchief which was inseparably associated with her headaches. The lamp stood a little in the background, with a shade of soft, fluttering red paper over it. She was leaning on one elbow which was buried deep in the pillow, and she languidly extended the free left hand; a weary, agonized gaze followed. How beautiful she was! Magnhild was hers again, hers so completely that she flung herself over her and "The walls have ears," she whispered, pointing to the door. Magnhild brought the chair. "No, here on the bed," said the lady, making room beside her. The chair was set aside again. The lady took Magnhild's hand and held it in both of hers. Magnhild gazed into her eyes, which were still full of tears. How good, how true, how full of comprehension she looked! Magnhild bent down and kissed her. The lips were languid. "I sent for you, Magnhild," said she, softly. "I have something to say to you. Be not afraid,"—a warm pressure of the hand accompanied these words; "it is not my own history—and it shall be very brief; for I feel the need of being alone." Here the tears rolled down "You are married—I do not understand how, and I do not wish to know!" A tremor ran through her and she paused. She turned her head aside for a moment. Presently she continued: "Do not attempt"—but she got no farther; she drew away both hands, covered her face, and flinging herself round, wept in the pillow. Magnhild saw the convulsive quivering of back and arms, and she rose. "How stupid that was of me," she heard at last; the lady had turned round again, and now bathed eyes and brow with an essence which filled the room with perfume. "I have no advice to give you—besides, of what use would it be? Sit down again!" Magnhild sat down. The lady laid aside the phial and took Magnhild's hand in both of hers. She patted and stroked it, while a long, searching gaze followed. "Do you know that you are the cause of what happened to-day?" Magnhild flushed as though she were standing before a great fire; she tried to rise, but the lady held her fast. "Be still, my child! I have read his thoughts when we were together. You are pure and fine—and I—!" She closed her eyes and lay as still as though she were dead. Not a sound Magnhild heard the beating of her own heart; she dared not stir; she suppressed even her breathing. She felt cold drops of moisture start from every pore. "Yes, yes, Magnhild;—be now on your guard!" Magnhild started up. The lady turned her head after her. "Be not proud!" said she. "Is there any place where you can now go?" Magnhild did not hear what she said. The lady repeated her question as calmly as she had spoken before. "Is there any place where you can now go? Answer me!" Magnhild could scarcely collect her thoughts, but she answered: "Yes," merely out of accustomed acquiescence to the lady. She did not think of any special place of refuge, only that she must go away from here now, at once. But before she could move, the lady, who had been watching her closely, said,— "I will tell you one thing that you do not know: you love him." Magnhild drew back, swift as lightning, her eyes firmly fixed on hers. There arose a brief conflict, in which the lady's eyes, as it were, Then throwing herself on the lady's bosom she wept violently.
While he was still in bed the next morning there was brought to Tande by the sailor's wife a letter. It had a dainty, old-fashioned, somewhat yellow, glazed envelope, and the address was written in an unpracticed lady's hand, with delicate characters, of which those extending below the lines terminated in a little superfluous flourish, as if afraid of being round and yet with a strong tendency to become so. "From whom can this be?" thought Tande. He opened the letter. It was signed "Magnhild." A warm glow ran through him, and he read:—
He read the letter through at least five times. But with such trifling discoveries Tande could not silence the terrible accusation that stared at him from this letter. He lay still a long time after letting the letter drop from his hands. Presently he began to drum on the sheet with the fingers of his right hand; he was playing the soprano part of a melody. Had it reached the piano, and had Magnhild heard it, she would surely have recognized it. Suddenly Tande sprang out of bed and into the adjoining room. Stationing himself behind the curtain he took a cautious survey of the opposite house. Quite right: the windows were all open, two women were at work cleaning; the house was empty. Tande paced the floor and whistled. He walked until he was chilled through. Then he began to dress. It usually took him an hour to make his toilet, during which he went from time to time to the piano. To-day he required two hours, and yet he did not once go near the piano. The first day he had twice commenced a letter to Magnhild but had torn up each effort. On the fourth day he found, instead of the attempted letter, a musical theme. This was capable of being developed into a complex, richly harmonized composition, full of magnificent unrest. Several bars of the simple, refined melody which had conjured up for Magnhild dreams of her childhood might be sprinkled through it. Could not the two motives be brought into conflict? But as he failed to succeed to his satisfaction, Tande concluded that neither at this place nor it this time could it be accomplished. He remained at the Point one week longer, and then packing up his things he departed. The piano he left behind him, and the key with it. He set forth for Germany.
About five years had elapsed when one Sunday evening in spring, a party of young girls passed up the one large street of the coast town. They were walking arm in arm, and their numbers were continually increased; for the girls were singing a three part song as they went along. In front of the saddler's house (which, by the way, was now without either sign-board or shop) they slackened their speed, as though they especially desired their singing to be heard here. Perhaps they also expected to see a face at one of the low windows; but they saw none and soon moved onward. When the last of the party had disappeared, a woman rose from the large chair in the corner. She was scarcely more than half dressed, had down-trodden slippers and disheveled hair. As she knew that no one lived opposite and saw no one in the street, she ventured to approach the window, and resting her arm on the sash she bowed her head in her hand and This chorus was a reminder that Magnhild had once loved song and had believed that in it she had found her vocation. It was she who stood there, and who although, it was Sunday, or perhaps just because it was Sunday, had not thought it worth while to dress herself; it was six o'clock in the afternoon. She was roused by the rattling of carriage-wheels from another direction. The steamer must have arrived. So accustomed was she to this one break in the desert-stillness of the town, that she forgot she was not dressed, and looked out to see who was coming. It proved to be two ladies; one with a child in her arms and a sunshade; the other with a fluttering veil, bright, eager eyes and a full face. She wore a Scotch plaid traveling suit, and as the carriage drove rapidly past she nodded to Magnhild, the travel-bronzed face all beaming; later she turned and waved her gloved hand. Who in all the world could this be? In her surprise, which with her always gave place to embarrassment, Magnhild had drawn back into the room. Who could it be? There was something familiar that was struggling "Do you not know me?" asked the elegant lady, in the broadest dialect of the parish. "RÖnnaug?" "Yes, of course!" And then they embraced. "My dear! I am here solely on your account. I want to tell you that all these years I have been looking forward to this moment. My dear Magnhild!" She spoke an intermixture of three languages: English, the dialect of the parish, and a little of the common book language of Norway. "I have been trying to speak Norse only a couple of months, and do not succeed very well yet." Her countenance had developed: the eyes glowed with more warmth than of yore; the full lips had acquired facility in expressing every varied shade of humor, friendliness, and will. Her form was even more voluptuous than When she sailed from Liverpool she was sitting forward on the gunwale of the large ship. A gentleman came up to her and in broken Norwegian claimed acquaintance with her, for just as she was sitting now, he said, she had sat a month before on the back of his cariole. RÖnnaug, too, remembered him, and they talked together that day and many other days. After a while he brought a lady with him. The next day he and the lady came again and invited RÖnnaug to go with them to the first cabin. Here the lady and she, with the aid of the gentleman, entered into an English conversation, She left the ship with the lady, who proved to be an aunt of the gentleman who had first spoken to RÖnnaug and at whose expense, as she soon learned, she had traveled. He afterwards had her provided with instruction and the handsomest support, and it was at his expense they all three took frequent long journeys together. For the past two years she had been his wife, and they had a child about a year old whom she had with her. And this child Magnhild must see—not "to-morrow," nor "by and by," but "now," "right away!" Magnhild was not dressed. Well, then she must speedily make her toilet. RÖnnaug would help her—and in spite of all resistance they were both soon standing in Magnhild's chamber. As soon as Magnhild had begun to dress RÖnnaug wandered about in the rooms. As she did so she asked one single question, and this was: why Magnhild was not dressed so late in There are times when a change occurs in our mood, inasmuch as the sun which filled the whole room suddenly disappears, leaving the atmosphere gray, cold, within and without. In like manner Magnhild was involuntarily seized with an indescribable dread; and sure enough, the next time RÖnnaug came humming past the open door (she was looking at the pictures on the wall), she cast a brief side glance in at Magnhild; it was by no means unfriendly; but it was felt, nevertheless, by Magnhild, as though she had received a shock. What in all the world had happened? or rather, what was discovered? It was impossible for her to conceive. They set forth; both had grown silent. Even on the street, where there must be so much that was familiar, she who had but now spoken in three languages could hold her peace in them all. They met a man in a cariole, who was talking passionately with a younger man he had stopped; both bowed to Magnhild, the elder one with an air of indifference, the younger one with triumph in his pimpled face and flashing eyes. For the first time RÖnnaug roused to interest. Although nearly five years had elapsed since she had served as "skyds" girl to the unknown man who had talked about Magnhild's destiny, and who had seen her herself in circumstances of which she was now ashamed, she recognized him at once. Hurriedly grasping Magnhild's hand, she cried:— "Do you know him? What is his name? Does he live here?" In her eagerness she quite forgot to use her mother-tongue. "Yes, since last winter." "What is his name?" "Grong." "Have you had any conversation with him?" "More with his son; that was he who was standing by the cariole." RÖnnaug looked after Grong, who at this moment drove briskly, it might almost be said angrily, past them. They soon came to the second hotel on the right hand side; a maid servant was asked if a lady had stopped there with a child. They were shown up-stairs. There stood the lady who had accompanied RÖnnaug. The latter asked her in English where the child was, at the same time presenting Miss Roland to Mrs. Skarlie, after which all three went into the adjoining room. "Ah, we have a cradle!" exclaimed RÖnnaug in English, and threw herself on her knees beside the cradle. Magnhild remained standing, at a little distance. The child was very pretty, so far as Magnhild could see. RÖnnaug bent over it and for some time she neither looked up nor spoke. But Magnhild saw that great tears trickled down on the fine coverlet that was RÖnnaug rose to her feet at last, and with a side glance at Magnhild she went past her into the front room. Magnhild finally felt constrained to follow her. She found RÖnnaug standing by the window. A carriage stopped at that moment in front of the hotel. Magnhild saw that it was drawn by three men. It was a new, handsome traveling carriage, the handsomest she had ever seen. "Whose carriage is that?" asked she. "It is mine," replied RÖnnaug. Betsy Roland came in and asked some question. RÖnnaug went out with her, and when, directly afterward, she returned to the room, she went straight up to Magnhild, who still sat looking at the carriage. RÖnnaug laid one arm about her neck. "Will you go with me in this carriage through the country, Magnhild?" she asked, in English. At the first contact Magnhild had become startled; she was conscious of RÖnnaug's eyes, of her breath; and RÖnnaug's arm encircled her like an iron bar, although there certainly was no pressure. "Will you go with me through the country "Yes," whispered Magnhild. RÖnnaug released her, went to the other window, and did not look round again. "Is the carriage from America?" "London." "How much did you give for it?" "Charles bought it." "Is your husband with you?" "Yes—ja," and she added, brokenly, "Not here; Constantinople—delivery of guns—in September we are to meet—Liverpool." And then she looked up at Magnhild with wide open eyes. What did she mean? Magnhild wished to go. RÖnnaug accompanied her down-stairs, and they both went out to inspect the carriage, about which stood a group of people who now fell back somewhat. RÖnnaug pointed out to Magnhild how comfortable the carriage was, and while her head was still inside she asked,— "Your rooms up-stairs, are they to let?" "No, it would give me too much trouble." RÖnnaug hastily said "good-night," and ran up the steps. This was one of Magnhild's wakeful nights. RÖnnaug had frightened her. And this journey? Never in the world would she undertake it.
When she left her chamber after ten o'clock, the first object she beheld was RÖnnaug, who was coming up from the coast town, and was on her way to call on Magnhild—no, not on Magnhild, but on the priest, the young curate, who lived at Magnhild's house, in the former saddler workshop. RÖnnaug at the priest's? At eleven o'clock she was still with him. And when she came out, accompanied by the curate, a shy young man, she merely put her head in Magnhild's door, greeted her, and disappeared again with the curate. Magnhild found still greater cause for wonder, for later in the day she saw RÖnnaug in company with Grong. This wounded her, she could scarcely tell why. The following day RÖnnaug called in as she passed by; various people were discussed whom it had entertained RÖnnaug to meet, but not a word was said about the journey. Several days went by, and it was still not mentioned. Perhaps it had been given up! RÖnnaug told her that she was reading Norse with Grong, and also with the curate, in order that neither might have too much torment with her at any one time; she wrote exercises, too, she said, and laughed. In the same abrupt manner she touched upon sundry individuals and circumstances, mentioned them in the most characteristic way, and hurried on to something else. Magnhild was not invited to the hotel. RÖnnaug often went by pushing her child in a little wagon she had bought; she would stop and show the child to every one she met, but she never brought it in to see Magnhild. RÖnnaug made the most extraordinary sensation in the town. It was no unusual thing at a sea-port town to see remarkable changes of fortune. Judging from the presents RÖnnaug made, indeed from her whole appearance, she must be immensely wealthy, yet she was the most unassuming and sociable of all. Magnhild frequently heard her praises sounded; the young curate alone occasionally observed that she decidedly But what then did RÖnnaug hear about Magnhild? For it might be assumed beyond all doubt that if she did not question Magnhild herself she at least asked others about her. This was true, but she proceeded very cautiously. There were, indeed, but two people to whom she put direct questions,—the young curate and Grong. The curate said that during the whole time he had been at the Point, and that was now nearly a year, he had neither heard nor seen anything but good concerning Magnhild. Skarlie was a person who was less transparent; according to universal testimony he had settled in this town merely to study the prevailing conditions and utilize them for his own benefit—"without competition and without control." He was sarcastic and cynical; but the curate could not deny that it was sometimes amusing to talk with him. The curate had never heard that Skarlie was otherwise than considerate to his wife—or rather his adopted daughter; for other relations scarcely existed between them. And the shy young curate seemed quite embarrassed at being obliged to give this information. Grong, on the contrary, called Magnhild a Magnhild's vocation? Bah! He had long since given up the idea of there being such a thing as a special destiny. In Nordland, many years before, he had seen an old man who in his childhood had been the only person saved out of a whole parish; the rest had been swept away by an avalanche. This man was a great dunce; he had lived to be sixty-six years of age without earning a farthing except by rowing, and had died a year before, a pauper. What sort of a destiny was that? Indeed, there were precious few who had any destiny at all. So she once more sought Magnhild herself, but found her so apathetic that it was impossible to approach her. If she would persevere in her design, there was nothing left for her but to resort to strategy. In the most indifferent tone in the world she therefore one day announced to Magnhild that in a couple of days she proposed starting; Magnhild would not need to take much luggage with her, for when they stopped anywhere they could purchase whatever they required. That was the way she always managed. This was about nine o'clock in the morning, and until twelve o'clock Magnhild was toiling over a telegram to her husband who had just announced to her his arrival at Bergen. The telegram was at last completed as follows:— "RÖnnaug, married to the rich American, She felt it to be treason when, on the stroke of twelve, she dispatched this telegram. Treason? Toward whom? She owed reckoning to no one. Meanwhile, in the afternoon, she went out in order that no one might find her. When she returned home in the evening a telegram was awaiting her. "Home by the steamer to-morrow.—Skarlie." RÖnnaug sought Magnhild at eight o'clock the next morning: she wanted to surprise her with a traveling suit that was ready for her at the hotel. But it was all locked up at Magnhild's. RÖnnaug went round the house and peeped in at the bed-room window whose curtain was drawn aside. Magnhild was out! Magnhild, who seldom rose before nine o'clock! Well, RÖnnaug went again at nine. Fastened up! At ten o'clock. The same result. After this she went to the house every quarter of an hour, but always found it fastened up. Then she became suspicious. At eleven o'clock she paid two boys handsomely to stand guard over the house and bring her word as soon as Magnhild returned. RÖnnaug herself stayed at the hotel and She found Magnhild in the kitchen. Magnhild was so busy that RÖnnaug could find no opportunity to speak a single word with her. She was passing incessantly to and fro between kitchen, yard, and inner rooms. She went also into the cellar and remained there for a long time. RÖnnaug waited; but as Magnhild never paused, she finally sought her in the pantry. There she asked her if she would not go with her to the hotel for a moment. Magnhild said she had no time. She was engaged in putting butter on a plate. "For whom are you making preparations?" "Oh!"— The hand which held the spoon trembled; this RÖnnaug observed. "Are you expecting Skarlie by the steamer—now?" Magnhild could not well say "No," for this would speedily have proved itself false, and so she said "Yes." Magnhild laid aside the spoon and went into the next room; RÖnnaug followed her. It now came to light how much good vigorous Norse RÖnnaug had learned in the short time she had been studying, even if it were not wholly faultless. She first asked if this signified that Skarlie would prevent the journey. When Magnhild, instead of making any reply, fled into the bed-chamber, RÖnnaug again followed her; she said that to-day Magnhild must listen to her. This "to-day" told Magnhild that RÖnnaug had long been wanting to talk with her. Had the window Magnhild now stood beside been a little larger, she would certainly have jumped out of it. But before RÖnnaug managed to begin in earnest, something happened. Noise and laughter were heard in the street, and ringing through them an infuriated man's voice. "And you will prevent me from taking the sacrament, you hypocritical villain?" After this a dead silence, and then peals of laughter. Most likely the man had been seized and carried off; the shouting and laughing of boys and old women resounded through the street, and gradually sounded farther and farther away. "Do you remember Machine Martha? Do you remember something that I told you about your husband and her? I have been making inquiries concerning it and I now know more than I did before. Let me tell you it is unworthy of you to live under the same roof with such a man as Skarlie." Very pale, Magnhild turned proudly round with:— "That is no business of mine!" "That is no business of yours? Why you live in his house, eat his food, wear his clothes, and bear his name,—and his conduct is no business of yours?" But Magnhild swept past her and went into the sitting-room without vouchsafing a reply. She took her stand by one of the windows opening on the street. Magnhild had just leaned her head, against the window frame. She now drew it up sufficiently to look at RÖnnaug and smile, then she bowed forward again. But this smile had sent the blood coursing up to RÖnnaug's cheeks, for she had felt their joint youth compared in it. "I know what you are thinking of,"—here RÖnnaug's voice trembled,—"and I could not have believed you to be so unkind, although at our very first meeting I plainly saw that I had made a mistake in feeling such a foolish longing for you." But in a moment she felt herself that these words were too strong, and she paused. It was, moreover, not her design to quarrel with Magnhild; quite the contrary! And so she was indignant with Magnhild for having led her so far to forget herself. But had it not been thus from the beginning? With what eager warmth had she not come, and how coldly had she not been received. And from this train of thought her words now proceeded. "I could think of nothing more delightful in the world than to show you my child. There was, indeed, no one else to whom I could show She strove at first to speak calmly, but before she finished what she was saying, her voice quivered, and she burst into tears. Suddenly Magnhild darted away from the window toward the kitchen door—but that was just where RÖnnaug was; then toward the bed-room door, but remembering that it would be useless to take refuge there, turned again, met RÖnnaug, knew not where to go, and fled back to her old place. But this was all lost on RÖnnaug; for now she too was in a state of extreme agitation. "You have no heart, Magnhild! It is dreadful to be obliged to say so! You have permitted yourself to be trailed in the mire until you have lost all feeling, indeed you have. When I insisted upon your seeing my child, you did not even kiss it! You did not so much as stoop to look at it; you never said a word, no, not a single word, and you have no idea how pretty it is!" A burst of tears again checked her flow of words. "But that is natural," she continued, "you have never had a child of your own. And I She failed to notice that she had thus avowed her whole errand; she stood and waited to see Magnhild rouse and turn. She was not standing near enough to see that tears were now falling on the window-sill. She only saw that Magnhild neither stirred nor betrayed the slightest emotion. This wounded her, and, hasty as she was in her resolves when her heart was full, And RÖnnaug did not cease weeping, not even when she had thrown herself down over her child and was kissing it. She clasped it again and again to her bosom, as though she wanted to make sure of her life's great gain. She had expected Magnhild to follow her. The clock struck eight, no Magnhild appeared; nine—still no Magnhild. RÖnnaug threw a shawl over her head and stole past the saddler's house. Skarlie must have come home some time since. All was still within; there was no one at the windows. RÖnnaug went back to the hotel and as she got ready for bed she kept pondering on what was now to be done, and whether she should really start on her journey without Magnhild. The last thought she promptly dismissed. No, she would remain and call for assistance. She was ready to risk a battle, and that with Mr. Skarlie himself, supported by the curate, Grong, and other worthy people. She probably viewed the matter somewhat from an American standpoint; but she was determined. She fell asleep and dreamed that Mr. Skarlie and she were fighting. With his large hairy hands he seized her by the head, the shoulders, "RÖnnaug! RÖnnaug!" "Yes, yes!" "It is I—Magnhild!" RÖnnaug started up in bed, half intoxicated with sleep. "Yes, I see—you—It is you? No, really you, Magnhild! Are you going with me?" "Yes!" And Magnhild flung herself on RÖnnaug's bosom and burst into tears. What tears! They were like those of a child, who after long fright finds its mother again. "Good Heavens! What has happened?" "I cannot tell you." Another burst of passionate weeping. Then quietly freeing herself from RÖnnaug's arms, she drew back. "But you will really come with me?" There was heard a whispered "yes," and then renewed weeping. And RÖnnaug stretched out her arms; but as Magnhild did not fly into them, she sprang out of bed and took her joy in a practical way by beginning to dress in As she sat on the edge of the bed, drawing on her clothes, she took a closer survey of Magnhild; the summer night was quite clear and light, and Magnhild had raised a curtain, opened a window, and was now standing by the latter. It was about three o'clock. Magnhild had on a petticoat with a cloak thrown over it; a bundle lay on the chair, it perhaps contained her dress. What could have happened? RÖnnaug went to her parlor to finish dressing, and when Magnhild followed her, the new traveling suit was lying spread out and was shown to her. She uttered no word of thanks, she scarcely looked at the suit; but she sat down beside it and her tears flowed anew. RÖnnaug was obliged to put the clothes on her. As she was thus engaged, she whispered:— "Did he try to use force?" "That he has never done," said Magnhild; "no, there are other things"—and now she became so convulsed with weeping that RÖnnaug said no more, but finished dressing both Magnhild and herself as quickly as possible. She hastened into the bed-chamber to awaken her American friend, then down-stairs to rouse the people of the hotel: she wanted to start within an hour. "No, this will not do," said she. "Pray control yourself. Within an hour we must be away from here." But Magnhild sat still; it was as though all her energy had been exhausted by the struggle and the resolve she had just come from. RÖnnaug let her alone; she had as much as she could do to get ready. Everything was packed, and last of all the child was wrapped in its traveling blanket without being roused. Within an hour they and all their belongings were actually stowed away in the carriage. The world around them slept. They drove onward in the bright, dawning morning, past the church. The sun was not visible; but the skies, above the mountains to the east, were flushed with roseate hues. The landscape lay in dark shadows, the upper slope of the mountains in the deepest of deep black-blue; the stream, not a streak of light over its struggle, cut its way along, like a procession of wild, angry mountaineers, recklessly dashing downward at this moment of the world's awakening, without consideration, without pausing for rest, and with shrill laughter at this mad resolve and the success which attended it. The impressions of nature, and the feelings After they had slept, eaten, and settled their account, RÖnnaug felt a desire to write something with her own hand in the traveler's register. That was indeed too amusing. She read what was last written there, as follows: "Two persons, one horse, change for the next station," and on the margin was added, "What nonsense was this?" The rest of the party must see: it was translated into English for Betsy Roland. Now they remembered that as they drove into the station they had seen a carriage, with a gentleman and lady in it, driving quickly past them up the road. The gentleman had turned his face away, as though he did not wish to be seen; the lady was closely veiled. They were still talking of this when they sat in the carriage and drove away, while all the people at the station had assembled to watch them. The travelers concluded that the verses must have been written by some happy new-married couple; and Magnhild, by one of those trains of thought which cannot be accounted for, called to mind the young couple, the gentleman in morocco slippers, and the lady with her hair so strangely done up, she had met at the next station, on her own wedding trip. This led her to recall her own wedding, then to think of what she had gone through in all these years, and of how aimless her whole life was,—aimless whether she looked into the past or into the future. The peaks of the mountains sparkled, the dark pine forest in the bosom and lap of the chain displayed such a wealth of luxuriance, that whoever viewed it aright must inevitably be refreshed. Close by the road-side grew deciduous trees, for here the pines had been cut down, yet ever and anon they pushed their way triumphantly forth from their vigorous headquarters in the background. The road was free from dust. On the outskirts of the forest grew mountain flowers, all glittering with the last dew-drops of the day. The travelers had the carriage stop that they might pluck some of the flowers; and then they sat in the grass and amused the child with "Ah, how I have longed for this journey! And Charles, who gave it to me!" The tears stood in RÖnnaug's eyes, but she brushed them away, after she had kissed her child. "No, no tears. Why should there be any?" And she sang:— "Shed no tear! Oh shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! Oh weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core." "This is our summer trip, Magnhild! The summer travels in Norway. Now onward!" "All shall be well with you, Magnhild. Charles is so good! He will do everything for you." But here she heard Magnhild sob, and so she said no more. The sunny day through which they rode onward, the fresh, aromatic mountain air they inhaled, the sounds of jubilee which burst forth from the forest, blending with childhood's memories, became too much for RÖnnaug. She forgot Magnhild and began to sing again. Then she took the child and chatted playfully with it and with Miss Roland. She was surprised by Magnhild's asking:— "Do you love your husband, RÖnnaug?" "Do I love him? Why, when Mr. Charles Randon said to me: 'I will gladly provide for your education, RÖnnaug; I hope you will let me have this pleasure,'—well, I let him have the pleasure. When Mr. Charles said to me: 'My dear RÖnnaug, I am much older than you; yet if you could consent to be my wife, I am certain that I should be happy,'—well—and so I made him happy. And when Mr. Charles said: 'My dear RÖnnaug, take good care of our little Harry, so that I may find you all in They changed horses at the next post-station. Magnhild and Miss Roland kept their seats in the carriage. RÖnnaug got out, partly to re-visit familiar haunts, partly to make an entry in the register. That was her duty, she said. Presently she came back, laughing, with the register. Under the entry: "Two persons for the next station,"—indicating that these two persons were too much absorbed to even trouble themselves with the name of the next station,—were the following lines:— "Love is all the budding flower, Perfect blossom, fruit mature. When breaking boughs no more endure, Then "stop!" is shrieked to Winter's power. Rather life to stop be driven; No alternative is given!" RÖnnaug translated it for Betsy Roland, and now various conjectures were expressed by them all, in both Norwegian and English. They agreed in supposing the writers to be two lovers, on a journey, under peculiar circumstances; but whether they were a newly-married couple, or They drove rapidly on, and left Magnhild to "Come—go in there now and read your letter!" said she. When Magnhild found herself alone in the wood she stood still. Her agitation had compelled her to pause. She peered about her, as though fearing even in this lonely spot the presence of people. The sun played here and there on the yellow pine needles that were strewn about, on the fallen decayed branches, on the dark green moss covering the stones, on the heather in the glades. Around her all was profoundly still; from the sunny margin of the wood there floated toward her the twittering of a solitary bird, the babbling of the child, and RÖnnaug's laughter, which rang with the utmost clearness through the trees. Magnhild ventured to draw forth the letter What had she not experienced during this perusal of thoughts and feelings she had had a thousand times before, and thoughts and feelings she had never dreamed of! The first complete impression she gathered, in the humid forest shades, where she sat concealed from view, was like a shaft of quivering sunbeams. It was the foreboding which stole over her—it was not put into words, and yet it was breathed from every line (a thousand times sweeter so!) the foreboding, aye, the certainty, that he, yes, that he had loved her!—and the second was that he had at the same time been Ah! it was all one! And yet amidst her grief the thought of being able to feel all this to the core as he had felt, was like the sun shining behind a misty atmosphere and gradually bursting through the layers of fog with thousands of undreamed-of light effects, above and below. How freely she could breathe again after the void, privation, brooding of many years. Not until later did individual thoughts force themselves forward, then not fully until RÖnnaug came to her. There was something labored in this letter; it read occasionally like a translation from a foreign language. But now for the letter itself:—
Magnhild and RÖnnaug came arm in arm out of the wood where RÖnnaug had finally been obliged to seek her friend, where so many confidences had been made, so much discussed and considered. They emerged into the open plain. How blue the haze about the mountains! And this was the frame for the pine forest, the surrounding heather, and the plain with Miss Roland and the child. The latter were sitting on blue and red rugs near the carriage. From this foreground the mother's eye wandered away more musingly than ever, and gained even stronger impressions of outline, light, color. "The summer travels in Norway! The summer travels in Norway!" she kept saying to herself. From the way in which she uttered these words it might be surmised that in the entire English vocabulary there was nothing which admitted of being repeated with such varied shades of meaning. The horses were now hitched to the carriage, and the party drove on. The noonday repose of nature was not disturbed by so much as the rumbling of the wheels, for the carriage wound its way slowly over the mountain slopes. At the next post-station the following lines were found in the register:— "There met us croaking ravens on our way: We knew that Evil this to us did bode; We made no off'rings, though, as on we rode, To angry gods—the mild are fall of doubt. Why should we care? One God to us feels kindly. He is with us! And Him we follow blindly:— We laugh at all the omens round about." These little verses began to affect the party like a chorus of birds. But a joy to which we are unattuned is apt to jar; and here, moreover, the verses became prophetic, for the travelers had gone but a short distance when they gained a view of the This barren patch of stones always rose up distinctly in Magnhild's mind when she thought of her own life, whose long desert wastes seemed to lay stretched out before her like just such a heap of ruins. Here it faced her once more. It was some time before the consolation she had newly grasped could find expression, for she was haunted by so much that was unsolved, so much that was doubtful. She was now approaching the starting-point of the whole; from the brow of the hill the parsonage was visible. It had been agreed that they should stop here. The carriage rolled down toward the friendly gard through an avenue of birch-trees. RÖnnaug was giving Miss Roland a most humorous description of the family at the parsonage when suddenly they were all terrified by having the carriage nearly upset. Just by the turn near the house-steps the coachman had driven against a large stone which lay with its lower side protruding into the road. Both RÖnnaug and Miss Roland uttered a little shriek, but when they escaped without an accident "Have they a dog?" asked Magnhild. "If they have," replied RÖnnaug, "I will venture to say it came through its own enterprise." Old Ane took the luggage, RÖnnaug the child, and the whole party was ushered through the passage into the sitting-room, where no one was found except the dog. He was a great shaggy fellow, who at the first kind word relinquished his wrath, and in a leisurely way went from one to the other, snuffing and wagging his tail, then sauntering back to the stove, lay down, fat and comfortable. A creaking and a grating could now be heard overhead; the priest was rising from the sofa. How well Magnhild knew the music of those springs! The dog knew it too, and started up, ready to follow his master. But the latter, who The priest was unchanged in every possible particular. He had heard about RÖnnaug, and was glad to see her; his plump hands closed with a long friendly clasp about hers and with a still longer one about Magnhild's. He greeted Miss Roland and played with the child, who was in high glee over the unfamiliar objects in the room, especially the dog. And when he had lighted his pipe and had seated the others and himself on the embroidered chairs and sofas, the first thing he must tell them (for it was just about a month since the matter had been successfully terminated) was that the "little girls" were provided for. There had been secured for each an annuity. It was really on the most astonishingly favorable terms. God in his inconceivable mercy had been so good to them. About the "FrÖken" (so the former governess was usually called), they had had greater cause for anxiety. They had, indeed, thought of doing something for her, too, although their means would scarcely have sufficed to make adequate provision for "Thus it is, dear Magnhild, in life's vicissitudes," said he. "The one is summoned to the grave, the other to the marriage feast. Ah, yes! But what a pretty dress you have on, my child! Skarlie is truly a good husband to you. This cannot be denied." The mistress of the house and her two daughters at length appeared. The moistened hair, the clean linen, the freshly ironed dresses, betokened newly-made toilets. They had not a word to say; the priest took charge of the conversation, they merely courtesied as they shook hands, and then, taking up their embroidery, sat down each on her own embroidered chair. One of the daughters, however, soon rose and whispered something to her mother; from the direction in which first her eyes then her mother's "Tell me about the FrÖken who is dead," said Magnhild. With one accord the three ladies dropped their embroidery and raised their heads. "She died of apoplexy," said the priest's wife. They all sat motionless for a moment, and then the ladies continued their embroidery. The priest rose to let the dog out. The animal departed with the appearance of being excessively abashed, for which the priest gave him much praise. Then followed a lengthy account of the dog's virtues. He had come to them three years ago, the Lord alone knew from where, and He alone knew why the dog had come to the parsonage; for the very next summer the animal had saved the "FrÖken's" life when she was attacked on her accustomed walk to the church by Ole BjÖrgan's mad bull. The third great event, that old Andreas had cut his foot, was next detailed at quite as great The dog glanced round the room; observing that the eyes of the priest's wife manifestly rested with especial friendliness on him, he walked up to her, and licked the hand extended to him. At this moment Magnhild rose, and abruptly crossing the floor to where the priest's wife sat, she stroked her hair. She felt that every one was watching her, and that the mistress of the house herself was looking up in embarrassed surprise,—and Magnhild was now powerless to explain what she had done. She hastened from the room. Profound silence reigned among those left behind. What was it? What had happened? It was this: in the forenoon Magnhild had received a letter, as we know, and it had caused her to look with new eyes on the life at the parsonage. There was not a word in the priest's narratives, from beginning to end, designed to call attention to the good he or any of his household had done. The listener was left to find this out for himself. But the dog had discovered it before Magnhild. The dog returned thanks; had she ever done so? The thought had rushed over her with such force that it caused her to feel an irresistible impulse to express her gratitude. The universal astonishment caused by her effort to do so made her for the first time realize how unaccustomed her friends were to thanks, or indication of thanks from her, and she became frightened. This was the reason why she had left the room. She took the road leading up toward the church, perhaps because it had just been mentioned. Her new views wholly absorbed her. Until now she had seen only the ludicrous side of the life at the parsonage. The members of the household had provoked, amused, or wearied her. But hitherto she had not been aware that what had just been praised in herself had If she had lived here without forming close relations with any one, the fault lay not alone in the monotonous routine of the house: it was due chiefly to herself, for even in the days of her life at the parsonage she had wrapped herself up in dreams. It must have required all the forbearance by which the family were characterized to bring her, notwithstanding all this, to the point she had reached. In any other family she would have been shown the door—dull, awkward, thankless as she had been. Yes, thankless! Whom had she ever thanked? Aye, there was one—him who had done her the most harm but also the most good; for him she loved. But this could scarcely be counted. But whom else? Not Skarlie, although he had been incessantly kind to her, even he. Not Fru Bang, and how kind she had been! Not RÖnnaug; no, not RÖnnaug either. Now she comprehended, although once before she had been startled by a passing thought of the kind; now for the first time she comprehended what it must have been to RÖnnaug after having longed for so many years to tell her about the rich change in her own life, to show her her child, to bring her freedom and increased happiness; and then to find a person who did not even care to take the trouble to walk to the hotel, not a hundred steps distant, because, forsooth, it would necessitate her dressing herself. She sat once more on the heights facing the ruins of the home of her parents; and she covered her face in shame. From the thoughts to which this spot gave birth she did not escape until evening, weary in body and in soul. When late in the evening she said good-night to RÖnnaug, she threw her arm round her, and leaned her head against hers. But words refused to come; they are not easily found the first time they are sought.
The next morning RÖnnaug dreamed of singing; she still heard it when she awoke, and ere long she had so far collected herself as to consider whether it could really be Magnhild who was singing. This thought caused her to become wide awake and to leave her bed. She scarcely waited to don her morning-gown before she opened a window. From the sitting-room, which was at the other end of the house, there came the sound of singing and a low piano accompaniment. The voice was pure and high; it must be Magnhild's. RÖnnaug made haste to complete her toilet and go down-stairs. She carried her boots out into the passage and put them on there lest she should awaken Miss Roland and the child. There was some one coming up the stairs. RÖnnaug quickly put down her boots and stepped forward; for the head which was now displayed to her view was Grong's. What, Grong here? He greeted RÖnnaug with a keen, hasty RÖnnaug sat listening to the singing while she put on her boots. It flowed so equally and calmly; unquestionably there was joy in it, but the joy was subdued—it might be called pure. She remained still until Magnhild ended, and even then paused a little while. She finally went down-stairs. The door of the sitting-room was half open, which accounted for her having heard so distinctly. Magnhild had turned round with the piano-stool and sat talking with the two friends of her childhood, who had seats one on each side of her. She had been singing for them, it would seem. They all rose as RÖnnaug entered. Magnhild called her friend's attention to the clock. Verily, the hour hand pointed to ten. Magnhild had been up a long time—and singing. The girls withdrew to carry coffee, eggs, etc., into the dining-room. As soon as Magnhild saw that she and RÖnnaug were alone, she hastened to ask if RÖnnaug knew that Grong was at the parsonage. RÖnnaug told about having just met him. "Yes," whispered Magnhild, "he is traveling in search of his son. Only think, the young "So, then, the verses—?" "Were of course by Grong's son. Grong is furious. He wanted to make a poet of his son, though!" They both laughed. The young man was really extraordinarily gifted, Magnhild further narrated, and for his sake his father had read extensively, besides taking long journeys with his son in Germany, France, Italy, and England. Plans had been made to give the young man an opportunity of gaining an impression of the scenery of his fatherland and of country life, but—pop!—the bird had flown. Grong was now heard on the stairs, so nothing more was said. He gave the ladies a sharp glance as he entered, then began to pace the floor, as completely hidden by his beard as though it were a forest, and veiled by his spectacles as an image is veiled in a fountain. They sat down to the late breakfast, and the priest's wife received them, one by one, with diffident friendliness. The priest had gone down to the school-house to attend a meeting. After the meal was over, Grong, who had not "I have been so confoundedly bored with this tall woman and her tiresome vocation, that you will find it impossible to get one word out of me. Besides, I am expecting my 'skyds.'" He was about to turn away; but RÖnnaug held fast to him, laughing, and brought him back to the theme. Before she had succeeded, however, in laying before him the necessary facts, he interrupted with,— "The fact is she has no vocation whatever; that is the whole secret of the matter. Her singing? Tande so often wrote to me about her singing. Well, I have been listening to her singing this morning, and do you know what I think about it? Technical correctness, good method, pure tone, in abundance; but no fancy, no inspiration, no expression; how the deuce could there be! Had she had fancy, she would have had energy, and with her voice, her natural technical ability, she would Notwithstanding the harsh, blunt form in which this idea was framed, there might be sufficient truth in it to make it worth while to place Magnhild's history before Grong in its true light. Grong could not resist the fascination of a soul's experiences. He became all ear, forgetting both his ire and his "skyds." He heard now about the Magnhild who would scarcely take pains to dress herself, and who let Skarlie do and say what he pleased, but who the moment Skarlie mentions Tande's name and hers together, in other words, invades her inner sanctuary, flees forthwith from him to America. Was there no energy in that? He heard about the Magnhild who, checked in her highest aspirations, became wholly indifferent. The relations with Tande were fully explained. Grong, indeed, had been partially acquainted with them by Tande himself. RÖnnaug also thought it right to inform Grong of the purport of Tande's letter; she could recall it perfectly, for it had made a deep impression on her. What an impression did it not make on Grong! "Consolation in the idea that our calling is greater and more manifold than we ourselves are aware? Yes, for those who can blindly and without exercise of their own wills place themselves under subjection to the unknown guidance! I cannot do so!" He raised his clinched hand, but let it fall again. "Is it a crime to steer toward a definite goal, and concentrate one's will, one's responsibility upon its attainment? Look at yonder insect! It goes straight forward; it has a fixed aim. Now I crush it to death. See—thus! "You should have seen my wife," he continued, presently. "She sped onward through life, with fluttering veil; her eyes, her thoughts sparkled. What was her goal? Just as she was beginning, with my aid, to comprehend her faculties, she expired. A meteor! "I had a friend. What talents, and what aspirations! How handsome he was! When he was but little over twenty years of age, he fell during the siege of a Danish fortress, "But what solicitude for existences which neither can nor will be of any use in the world. That fisherman in Nordland was the only person who was saved from destruction out of a whole parish. And he lived more than sixty years as stupid as the codfish he drew out of the sea. "For the sake of others? For the advancement of one's fellow-creatures? For the good of posterity? Aye, aye, find consolation in all this, if you can! Before I shall be able to do so I must see the benefit of it for myself. The mole's life in the dark, with chance alone for its guide, is not a life that I could lead, even though I might have a certificate guarantying that light should dawn on me one day, that is to say, on the other side of the grave. I admire those who can be content with such a lot." "In other words, you despise them!" interposed RÖnnaug. Grong looked at her, but made no reply. RÖnnaug was anxious to know how it was best to advise Magnhild. Grong promptly answered,— "Advise her to go to work." He hesitated a moment, and then said,— "I will tell you one thing, my good lady: Magnhild's misfortune has been that throughout her whole life she has had every want supplied, every meal, every garment. Had she been obliged to labor hard, or to bring up children, she would not have indulged so freely in dreams." "So, then, work without definite aim?" repeated RÖnnaug. "There are so many kinds of aims," said Grong, peevishly,—and then he was silent. It was evident that he had been all round the circle and had returned to his wrath over what had befallen himself. They had turned and were retracing their steps in the friendly birch avenue leading to the parsonage. The tones of a human voice were heard; they drew nearer, paused, and listened attentively. The windows were open, and every note rang out, clear and equal. "Yes, there is purity in the voice," said Grong; "that is true. But purity is a mere passive quality." They went on. "Not technical skill alone, then?" queried RÖnnaug. "She and I are, both of us, I dare say, bearers of a half-completed family history. Nevertheless, her family dies out with her; and mine? Oh, all this is enough to drive one mad! Where is my 'skyds?'" With these words he strode past the main building to the court-yard behind. RÖnnaug slowly followed. The "skyds" had not yet arrived. Grumbling considerably, Grong sauntered up to the coach-house, whose doors stood open, and in which he saw RÖnnaug's carriage. She joined him, and they discussed the carriage together. It was too light for a traveling carriage, Grong thought. One fore-wheel must already have been damaged, for it had been taken off. So, then, it depended upon the blacksmith how long the ladies would remain at the parsonage? But he would start without further delay; for there—at last—came the "skyds." He bade her a light farewell, as though he were merely going to the next corner, and then went into the house for his luggage. RÖnnaug, however, determined to wait until he came out again. RÖnnaug had failed to find the light she needed. This was truly discouraging; for counsel must be given, a resolution formed. She prayed God for her friend, and for this gloomy man now coming out of the house, accompanied by the priest's wife, who seemed to be the only person to whom he had said farewell. "Present my greetings to my old teacher," he called down from the cariole, as he grasped the hand of the mistress of the house. "Tell him—tell him nothing!" and with this he whipped up his horse so suddenly that the "skyds" boy came near being left behind. "You made your sale?" "Yes." "I thought so from your looks." Then turning to RÖnnaug the priest's wife said,— "This woman, you may well believe, made Magnhild happy this morning." "How so?" "Why, she stopped here with her work on her way to the dealer, who makes purchases for a merchant in town. Just as she stepped inside Magnhild came down into the kitchen. When the woman caught sight of her, she eagerly addressed her—she is a great talker—and she began to cry and to talk, to talk and to cry, telling how poor she had been and how well off both she and her children now were. Magnhild, you know, for many years taught an Industrial School up in these mountains, and this woman was one of her aptest pupils. This hand-work, I can assure you, has spread rapidly "But Magnhild—was she glad?" "She certainly must have been glad, for soon afterward we heard her singing. And the last time she was here—about four or five years ago—we could not persuade her to go near the piano." RÖnnaug now greeted Miss Roland, who was coming toward her with the child. A little later, as she was going through the passage to the sitting-room, the sounds of music once more floated out toward her. The priest's daughters were at the piano, singing a duet with feeble voices, one of which was more quavering than the other. They were drawling out,— The door stood open. One of the girls sat at the piano, the other stood at its side. Magnhild sat facing them, leaning against the piano. Peace radiated from the little hymn, because they who sang it were at peace. The small, yellow-haired heads above the stiff collars did not make a single movement, the piano almost whispered. But the sunshine, playing on the embroidered furniture and the embroidered covers, blended with the music a harmony from afar. At this moment voices were heard out of doors. The priest was approaching, accompanied by several men. As they stopped at the door-steps, RÖnnaug entered the sitting-room. Soon a tramping of many feet was heard on the steps; the group at the piano rose, Magnhild crossed the floor to where RÖnnaug stood. First the dog, then the priest, entered in solemn procession, and slowly following them came dropping in, one by one, six or seven of the farmers of the little mountain parish, heavy, toil-worn men, all of them. Magnhild pressed close up to RÖnnaug, who also drew back a little, so that they two stood in front of the gauze-covered mirror. The priest said good-morning, first to Mrs. Randon, then to Magnhild, and asked how they were. Then the men went round the room, one by one, and shook hands with every one present. "Call mother," said the priest to one of his daughters, and cleared his throat. "Dear Magnhild, there is no cause for alarm! The representatives of our little parish chanced to assemble to-day in the school-house, and as I happened to mention that you were making a journey and had stopped at the parsonage on your way, some one said: 'It is due to her exertions that the poor-rates of this parish are so small.' Several others expressed the same sentiments. And then I told them that this should be said to your face; they all agreed with me. I do not suppose thanks have ever been offered to you, my dear child, either here or down at the Point, where the results of your work are even greater than here and have spread to the parishes on both sides of the fjord. "Dear child, God's ways are inscrutable. As long as we can discern them in our own little destinies we are happy, but when we fail to see them we become very unhappy." (Here Magnhild burst into tears.) "When you were carried downward by the landslide, with your sled in your little hand, you were saved in order that you might become a blessing to many. The priest now turned toward his wife, and in the same solemn tone said,— "Have refreshments handed to these men!" He strode round among the latter with playful remarks, but the whole house seemed to shake beneath his tread. The more deeply Magnhild seemed moved the happier the priest was. Magnhild felt a strong impulse to say something to him; for had she not found a refuge in his house, none of the results for which she had just received such unmerited thanks would have been accomplished. But the priest's impetuosity restrained her. Refreshments were handed round; then the men once more shook hands with every one and withdrew, led by the priest, whose voice could be heard almost all the way to the school-house.
In the afternoon the mail from the Point arrived, bringing a letter for Magnhild. She was alarmed, and handed the letter to RÖnnaug, who soon returned it to her, with the information that she need not be afraid to read it herself. "You will see by this what your journey has already brought about," RÖnnaug added. The letter was from tall Louise.
There is no better way to express what now happened to Magnhild, than to say that a new life-spring welled up within her. This help from what she had never thought of as anything but a pastime and a monotonous routine worked wonders. She felt that she must endeavor to deserve this devotion; she knew now what it was her duty to do. She was walking and talking with RÖnnaug in the court-yard. Evening was drawing nigh; the fowls had already sought shelter and were settling themselves cackling on the roost; the cows were being driven home from the pasture, and slowly passed by. The perfume of hay was wafted toward the ladies, ever and anon, for loads were being hauled into the barn. RÖnnaug was so sure of what she was doing that she did not hesitate to tell Magnhild what the same mail had brought her: it was a newspaper containing a telegram from Munich announcing the death of Tande. These tidings produced no further effect upon Magnhild than to make both her and RÖnnaug pause for an instant and then walk on in silence. Tande had always been thought of as one very far The first words she uttered were not about Tande but about Skarlie. Perhaps it would be best to send for him that they might have an explanation before she started on her journey. RÖnnaug was not disinclined to agree to this; but she thought that she, not Magnhild, should attend to the explanation. In fact, there was nothing to say except to announce what Magnhild had resolved upon doing. The conversation was spasmodic like their walk. All the people of the house were out making hay. Miss Roland and the child had also gone to the field. Magnhild and RÖnnaug were about going there themselves when a boy came walking into the yard whistling, with his hands in his pockets. Seeing the ladies he stood still and stopped whistling. Then he took a stand on his right foot; the left heel he planted in the ground, and moved his leg in such a way that the sole of the foot stood erect and fanned the air. Presently he drew nearer. "Is it you they call Magnhild?" he asked, in the ringing dialect of the parish. He addressed the question to the right one, who replied in the affirmative. "What is his name?" asked RÖnnaug. "I was told not to tell," said the boy, as he planted his left heel in the ground again, fanned the air with his foot, and stared at the barn. RÖnnaug broke into the dialect as she asked whether the "fellow" was not lame. "That is very possible," answered the boy, with a grin, and an oath. Here RÖnnaug ran to meet old Andreas who was just coming out of the barn with an empty hay wagon to go after another load; the rumbling of the wheels prevented him from hearing her call; but she overtook him. "Was it you who took one of the fore-wheels from my carriage?" asked she. "Fore-wheel of the carriage," repeated old Andreas. "Is it off? Stand still, you fool there?" he cried, giving the reins such a jerk that one of the horses started to move backward instead of forward, for it was a young horse. But in the mean time RÖnnaug had gained light on the question, and left Andreas. In slow English she told Magnhild what she believed she had discovered; she did not want Magnhild laughed: "Yes, Skarlie has come. It is undoubtedly he!" and turning to the boy she said that she would accompany him at once. RÖnnaug tried to persuade Magnhild to remain where she was and let her go. No, Magnhild preferred to go herself. She was already on her way when RÖnnaug called after her that she would soon follow herself to see how things were going. Magnhild looked back with a smile, and said,— "You may if you like!" So after a time RÖnnaug set forth for Synstevold. She knew very well that Skarlie could offer nothing that would tempt Magnhild, but he might be annoying, perhaps rough. The fore-wheel was a warning. There was perhaps no one to whom Skarlie was so repulsive as to RÖnnaug. She knew him well. No one besides RÖnnaug could surmise how he had striven, dastard as he was, to taint the purity of Magnhild's imagination, to deaden her high sense of honor. Magnhild's frequent blushes had their history. What was it that so bound him to her? At the outset, of course, the hope that failed. But RÖnnaug had sat and pondered. Had not Skarlie hereby explained his own relations with Magnhild? It was his way of making payments on his debt of sin. And so, of course, he grudged giving her up. Had he but been harsh and impatient, Magnhild would immediately have left him. That was just the misfortune; he was a coward, and he could not bear to renounce her. He was very humble whenever he failed in his attempts to win her, and when he had been especially malicious he forthwith made amends by being as friendly and interesting as possible. And this was what had kept the ball rolling. Amid these and similar reflections, RÖnnaug took the way across the fields in order not to be seen from the place. The grass where she There sat Skarlie and Magnhild in the grass, he in his shirt-sleeves and without a hat. Half-frightened for Magnhild and utterly without respect for him, RÖnnaug immediately stood guard. Concealing herself from view she took her post between two copses. Skarlie and Magnhild could be seen quite distinctly, for the space behind them was open. "Then I shall certainly close up down at the Point, and I will follow you." "You may if you choose. But spare me further threats. For the last time: I have resolved to go. I wish to travel in order to see and to learn. Some day I hope to return and teach others." "Do you intend to come back to me?" "That I do not know." "Oh, you do know very well." "Perhaps I do, for if you should lead a better life I presume I would come back to you; but I do not believe you capable of changing, "You do not know all I mean to do for you." "What, your last will and testament again? Suppose we drop this subject now." She sat twirling a flower, upon which she was intently gazing. Skarlie had placed his shorter leg under him; his face was all puckered up and his eyes stung. "You have never appreciated me." "No—that is true. I have much to thank you for which I have taken without thanks. Please God, I shall one day show my gratitude." "Cannot we make it right now? What is it you want? To travel? We can travel; we have means enough." "As I said before, let us drop this subject now." He sighed, and taking up his cutty, he laid his forefinger over it. It was already filled; he produced a match-box. "If you can smoke there is hope for you," said Magnhild. "Oh! I am not smoking; it is nothing but habit,"—he drew a long sigh. "No, Magnhild, it is impossible for things to go well with me He looked now positively unhappy. Magnhild plucked several flowers; but if he expected an answer from her it was in vain. "It is hard for those who have strong natures," said he; "the devil gains the upper-hand over them in many ways. I thought you would have helped me. One thing I must say: if we two could have had a right cozy home together, and a child"— But here she sprang up quickly, and the flowers fell from her lap. "Let us have no more of this! He who means to do right does not begin as you did. But in spite of the beginning you might perhaps still have—Yet how did you act? I say: let us have no more of this!" She moved away a few paces and came back again with: "No, I was not to blame when I gave myself to you, for you promised that I should do and live precisely as I pleased. And I was such an inexperienced child that I did not in the least understand how you were outwitting me. But I did wrong when I heard how matters really were and did not at once "What do you mean by that?" His eyes blinked and his face grew sharp. "I mean that you have outwitted others, so I have heard, for your own selfish ends. Try to make amends for your evil deeds, if you really desire improvement." "That is not true. If it was, it is nothing to you." "Alas! alas! There is little hope of improvement, I fear, in this as in other things. Aye, then, farewell! It shall be as I have said." He looked up and distorted his face to a grin, making the eyes almost wholly disappear beneath the bushy brows. "You cannot leave here without my consent." "Oh!" "Moreover, have you considered what you are doing? Are you right in the eyes of God?" "You know very well what I think upon this subject." She stroked the hair from her brow. "Then it is written here," said she, and turned to go. Skarlie began to get up. He was very angry. RÖnnaug felt the necessity of making haste, for now she was in danger of being seen. Suddenly the three stood face to face. RÖnnaug went right up to Skarlie, in the sweetest, most amiable manner, heartily shook his hand, and said in English that she was delighted to see him, he had often been so extremely kind to her. Then she began to jest; she was at once insinuating and daring. Skarlie could not help laughing and offering some remarks, also in English; then RÖnnaug said something witty to which Skarlie could retaliate; soon they were both laughing heartily. The impression made on him by this handsome, finely developed woman, transported him, as it were, before he was aware, to other scenes and spread a new train of thoughts over his spirit. The jesting became livelier. English alone was spoken, which particularly pleased Skarlie; and it put him in a good humor, too, to Amid the stream of conversation she gradually led the limping Skarlie round the willow copse, and when they stood on the other side she turned toward the copse which had concealed her while she was eavesdropping. Thrusting aside some of the branches, she asked Skarlie, with a laugh, if he would not be "gallant enough" to aid them in rolling home the wheel that lay concealed here. He could not possibly allow the ladies to do it alone, she said. Skarlie heartily joined in her laughter, but showed no readiness to give her any assistance. He was in his shirt sleeves, he said; he must go after his coat if he was to accompany them to the parsonage. "It requires two to do this!" said she. She once more stooped to take hold of the wheel, and while bending over it flashed her roguish eyes on Skarlie. His were irresistibly attracted to her face and superb form. The wheel was raised. RÖnnaug and Skarlie rolled it forward between them, she skipping along on one side, he limping on the other, amid merry words and much laughter. Magnhild slowly followed. RÖnnaug cast back a look at her, over the top of Skarlie's bald head; it sparkled with mirth and victory. But ere it was withdrawn, its fire was scorching enough to have left two deeply seared brown stripes on his neck and shoulders. The distance was not very short. Skarlie groaned. Soon RÖnnaug felt great drops of sweat rolling down from his face upon her hands. All the more swiftly did she roll. His sentences became words, his words syllables; he made a vigorous effort to conceal his exhaustion RÖnnaug called to old Andreas, who at this moment appeared on the road with a load of hay, to come and take the wheel. Then she drew her arm through Magnhild's, bowed and thanked Skarlie—still in English—"many thousand times for his admirable assistance." Now they could start the next morning early—and so, "farewell!" From the road they looked back. The attitude of Andreas indicated that he was asking Skarlie how the wheel had come there. Skarlie made a wrathful movement of the hand, as though he would like to sweep away both the wheel and Andreas; or perhaps he was consigning them to a place where the inhabitants of Norway are very apt to consign their least highly-prized friends. The ladies now saw him turn his face toward them; RÖnnaug promptly waved her handkerchief and cried back to him, "Farewell!" The word was echoed through the evening air. The two friends had not proceeded many Magnhild recoiled from her. RÖnnaug stared wildly at Magnhild, then composed herself and said in English, "You are right!" but immediately gave way to a new outburst of wrath and horror; for she was so forcibly reminded of the time when she herself crept along as best she could down among the slimy dwellers of the human abyss where darkness reigns, and where such as he down on yonder hill sat on the brink and fished. She thrust her hand into her pocket to draw forth Charles Randon's last letter, which she always carried about her until the next one came; she pressed it to her lips and burst into tears. Her emotion was so violent that she was forced to sit down. It was the first time Magnhild had ever seen RÖnnaug weep. Even upon the deck of the vessel on which she had set sail for America she had not wept. Oh, no, quite the contrary!
They remained at the parsonage several days, for when it was announced that Magnhild was going with RÖnnaug to America the good people were so startled that it was thought best to grant them time to become accustomed to the idea. Magnhild wished for her own sake, too, to pass a little time with them. One day the ladies were all taking a walk along the road. RÖnnaug and Miss Roland had little Harry between them, so they made but slow progress. From sheer solicitude for the child they all went quite out of the way of a large carriage which was overtaking them. "Magnhild!" was called from the carriage, at the moment those walking had fully turned their faces toward it. Magnhild looked up; a lady in black was smiling at her. Magnhild sprang directly toward her; the coachman stopped his horses. It was Fru Bang. The lady drew Magnhild up to her and kissed her. A stout military man by the lady's side bowed. "Yes, I am changed," said she, languidly. Magnhild turned from the lady to the stout officer. The lady's eyes followed. "Do you not recognize Bang? Or did you not see him?" His size had increased tenfold, the flesh resembling heavy layers of padding; he occupied at least two thirds of the carriage, crowding his wife, for one shoulder and arm covered hers. He looked good-natured and quite contented. But when one looked from his plump, heavy face and body back to the lady, she appeared spiritualized—aye, to the very finger-tips of the hand from which she was now drawing the glove. Steadfastly following Magnhild's eyes, she "You are in mourning?" asked Magnhild. "The whole land should be in mourning, my child!" And after a pause, came a whispered, "He is dead!" "You must remember that there is no time to lose if we would reach the steamer," said Bang. The lady did not look up at her husband's words; she was busy with the lock she had just stroked back. Bang gave the coachman a sign, the carriage was set in motion. "I am going to America," whispered Magnhild, as she descended from the carriage step. The lady gazed after her a moment, then she seemed to grasp in its full extent what it implied that Skarlie's wife was going far, far away—what suppositions might be therewith connected and what consequences. For her face resumed somewhat of its old brightness, her frame regained its elasticity: at once she was on her feet, had turned completely round, and was waving her handkerchief. With what charming grace she did it! Her husband would not permit the carriage to halt again. He contented himself with following |
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