Magnhild; Dust

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 lady went forward, and Magda and Magnhild followed.

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 crowd behind those who were seated. A woman with a child three or four years old in her arms was trying to push her way forward. She could not stand and hold the child forever, she said; she wanted to sit down. She was quite as good as any one else present.

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.

She must have been abashed herself by all the silk she had come into contact with, for she now got up and moved away.

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.

"You Swedish troll!" cried she, "will you let my child alone?"

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.

It was all the work of a moment. The lady turned to Magnhild as though to call on her to bear witness. And yet no! There was no one in the world beside him and herself who could know how great was the offering that now was burnt, how great the love he now flung from him.

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 strode at this moment two officers, seen by all; but how could admittance be refused to a general's cap? And such a one was worn by the all-powerful individual who, with long strides and wide-swinging arms, as though he were himself both commander and army, advanced with his adjutant on the left flank. Already from afar he saluted, in the most respectful manner, his captain's beautiful wife. She hastened to meet her deliverer. On the general's arm she was led back to her place, while he himself took a seat by her side. The adjutant fell to Magnhild's lot, after the lady had introduced them. The general stole many a glance at Magnhild, and the adjutant was all courtesy. This was almost the only thing Magnhild noticed. She was quivering in every nerve.

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 a spectator, and then cast into the air by the old athlete, as though it were a play ball, and caught again on his arm, shoulder, or breast; but at the same time she heard the lady tell the general that she would leave the next morning under his escort; she had been waiting for him since her husband could not come.

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 of the third. The first man walked about on the ground, carrying with him the other three, while the upper man played with balls."

"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 something infinitely sublime in the landscape; something awe-inspiring.

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.

When the officers took their leave at the lady's door, she did not speak a word to Magnhild; she did not so much as glance at her as she went into the house. Magnhild felt her sympathy repulsed. Deeply grieved, she crossed the street to her own house.

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.

"Have you been waiting for a conveyance?" asked she.

"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 was afraid of him. Before this, she had trembled when he was near at hand; now a thrill ran through her when she merely thought of him.

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 had she done so when she heard steps in the hall, and some one knocked at her door. She listened; there came another rap. She went to the door. It was a message from the lady for Magnhild to come to her. She put out the light and obeyed the summons.

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 wept. As though under the influence of an electric shock the sick woman sat up and casting both arms about Magnhild pressed her to her own warm, throbbing form. She wanted to appropriate all this comprehension and sympathy. "Thanks!" she whispered over Magnhild. Her despair quivered through every nerve of her body. Gradually her arms relaxed and Magnhild rose. Then the lady sank back among the pillows and begged Magnhild to fetch a chair and sit by her.

"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 over her cheeks. She was aware of it and smiled.

"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 was heard, until at last the lady drew a long, long breath, and looked up with a gaze so full of suffering!

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, breathed upon Magnhild's. Magnhild grew confused, colored, and bowed her head on her hands. The lady sat up and took hold of her arm. Magnhild still resisted; her bosom heaved—she tottered, as though seeking support; and finally leaned aside toward where she felt the pressure of the lady's hand.

Then throwing herself on the lady's bosom she wept violently.

CHAPTER VIII.

He read the letter through at least five times. Then he studied each word, each character. This epistle had cost fully ten rough sketches and discarded copies; he was sure of it. The word "Magnhild" was written with more skill than the rest; the writer must have had frequent practice in that early in life.

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.

In the forenoon he took a long walk, but not to the spots they had all visited together. During this walk what had occurred began to assume a shape which made him feel less guilty than he had felt at first. The next day he scarcely felt that he was in the least to blame. Toward evening of the third day his conscience began again to trouble him; but on the following morning he rose from his couch ready to smile over the whole affair.

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.

CHAPTER IX.

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 became absorbed in thought. And as she stood thus she dreamily listened to the harmonies which ever and anon floated back to her.

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 in vain for the supremacy when the lady came running back toward the house. She moved on briskly in her light traveling costume, and now springing up the steps she soon stood in the door that was thrown open to receive her. She and Magnhild looked at each other for a moment.

"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 it had formerly been, but her rapid movements and the elegant traveling suit she wore softened the effect. Her broad hands, which bore the impress of her working days, closed warmly about Magnhild's hand, and soon they were sitting side by side while Rönnaug told her strange experiences of the past four or five years. She had not wanted to write about them, for no one would have believed her story if she had. The reason why she had not kept her promise to write immediately upon reaching her journey's end was simply because even during the voyage she had risen from the steerage to the first cabin, and what had caused this promotion would have been misinterpreted.

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, which created much amusement. Others soon gathered about the group and the upshot of it all was that Rönnaug was compelled to remain in the first cabin, she really did not know at whose expense. She took a bath, was provided with new clothes from top to toe, several ladies contributing, and remained as a guest among the passengers. All were kind to her.

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 the day. A long protracted "oh!" was the only answer she received. Rönnaug hummed softly to herself as she went out into the front room. By and by some words were uttered by her; they were English words, and one of them Magnhild heard distinctly: it was "disappointed." Magnhild understood English; during the past three winters Skarlie had read the language with her, and she could already read aloud to him from the American weekly paper, which, since his sojourn in America, it had been a necessity for him to take. She knew, therefore, that "disappointed" was the same as "skuffet."

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. She cast her eyes searchingly around the room, when she came in after dressing. But she sought in vain for anything which could have betrayed what she herself would have concealed, or indicated what could have caused displeasure. What was it? Rönnaug's face was now quite changed—ah! what was it?

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.

Magnhild replied only to the last question:—

"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 spread over the cradle. There arose a painful silence.

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 in this—in this carriage, Magnhild?" she heard once more, this time in a blending of the dialect of the parish and English, and the voice trembled.

"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.

Magnhild had not gone very far before she felt that she certainly ought to have offered those rooms to Rönnaug. Should she turn back? Oh, no.

This was one of Magnhild's wakeful nights. Rönnaug had frightened her. And this journey? Never in the world would she undertake it.

CHAPTER X.

But finally Magnhild began to hear about this journey from others: first from the sailor's wife who did the work of her house, then from the woman of whom she bought fish, finally from every one. What should she do? For upon no account would she consent to go.

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 evinced that impatience which was characteristic of such a child of fortune.

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 lazy, selfish, pretentious hussy. She would not even take the trouble to tie up her stockings; he had noticed this himself. The hand-work she had started here had long since been left to a hunchback girl named Marie and a tall girl by the name of Louise. Magnhild occasionally taught them something new, yet even that was due not to herself but to her husband, who picked up such things on his travels and spurred her on to introduce them. Upon the whole, Skarlie was a capable, industrious fellow, who had breathed life into this sleepy, ignorant parish, and even if he had victimized the people somewhat, it could scarcely be expected that so much knowledge should be gained for nothing.

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.

Grong at this time was wretchedly out of humor: he had believed his gifted son to be destined for something; he lived for his sake alone—and the young man had accomplished nothing except falling in love. Rönnaug, who knew nothing of Grong's own experience, was shocked at his harsh verdict. Nor could she induce him to discuss the subject with her, for he declared point blank that Magnhild bored him.

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, Charles Randon, New York, is here; wants me to go with her on a long journey.—Magnhild."

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 waited. It came to be one, two, three o'clock—no messenger. She inspected her guards; all was right. The clock struck four, then five. Another inspection. Just as the clock struck six a boy came running along the street, and Rönnaug, hat in hand, flew down the steps to meet him.

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."

"Then you sent for him?"

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.

Neither of the two women in the chamber had stirred from her place. They had both peered out through the door toward the sitting-room window, but they had also both turned away again, Magnhild toward the garden. But Rönnaug had been reminded by this interruption of Machine Martha, who in her day had been the terror and sport of the coast town. Scarcely, therefore, had the noise died away, before she asked,—

"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.

"Aye, if you do not feel this to be a disgrace, Magnhild, you have sunk lower than I thought."

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 it. And you did not even care to see it; you did not so much as want to take the trouble to dress yourself."

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 chanced to remember this, otherwise I should have started right off again—at once! I was so disappointed. Ah! well, I wrote Charles all about it!" In another, more vigorous tone she interrupted herself with: "I do not know what you can be thinking of. Or everything must be dead within you. You might have full freedom—and you prefer Skarlie. Write for Skarlie!" She paced the floor excitedly. Presently she said: "Alas! alas! So this is Magnhild, who was once so pure and so refined that she saved me!" She paused and looked at Magnhild. "But I shall never forget it, and you shall go with me, Magnhild!" Then, with sudden emotion: "Have you not one word for me? Can you not understand how fond I am of you? Have you quite forgotten, Magnhild, how fond I have always been of you? Is it nothing to you that I came here all the way from America after you."

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, she left. Magnhild saw her hurry, weeping, up the street, without looking in.

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, the hands; his repulsive face, with its toothless mouth, looked with a laugh into her eyes. She could not ward him off: once more he had her by the head; then Magnhild repeatedly called her name aloud and she awoke. Magnhild was standing at the side of her bed.

"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 great haste. There was joy, aye, triumph in her soul.

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.

She found Magnhild where she had left her.

"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 Magnhild might otherwise have experienced during this journey away from the griefs of many years, over the first miles, as it were, of a new career in the sumptuous traveling carriage of the friend of her childhood,—all were lulled into a weary, vapid drowsiness. Her daily life had been for years one monotonous routine, so that the emotions of a single evening had completely exhausted her strength. She longed now for nothing so much as for a bed. And Rönnaug, bent on fully carrying out the wonders of contrast, was not content with traveling in her own carriage with two horses (when the ascent began she would have four), she wanted also to sleep in one of the guest-beds at the post-station where she had once served. This wish was gratified, and three hours' sleep was taken by them all. The hostess recognized Rönnaug, but as she was a person Rönnaug had not liked, there was no conversation between them.

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,—