Magnhild; Dust

CHAPTER IV.

Skarlie was more frequently absent than at home; he was engaged in speculations; the work-shop was pretty much abandoned, though the store was still kept open. A short time after her arrival, Magnhild had received an invitation from the school committee—most likely through Skarlie's solicitation—to become the head of the industrial school. Henceforth she passed an hour or two every day at the public school; moreover, she gave private instructions to young girls who were grown up. Her time was employed in walking, singing, and a little sewing; she did very little reading, indeed. It was tedious to her.

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.

One morning after a sleepless night, Magnhild took her accustomed walk to the wharf to watch the steamer come in. She saw the usual number of commercial travelers step ashore; the usual number of trunks carried after them; but this day she also observed a pale man, with long, soft hair and large eyes, walking around a box which he finally succeeded in having lifted on a wagon. "Be careful! Be careful!" he repeated again and again. "There must be a piano in the box," thought Magnhild.

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 the gaze that held her captive, one behind the other. Magnhild was unable to fathom this accurately; but in the effort to do so she put her forefinger in her mouth, and became so absorbed in thought that she forgot to reply.

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, too, she had read his name in the newspaper. How would it be when such a person played? Surely it would seem as though miracles were being wrought. At all events, something would doubtless ring into her poor life which would long give forth resonance. She needed the revelation of a commanding spirit. Her gaze wandered over the flowers which decorated her window, and on which the sun was now playing; her eyes sought the "Caravan in the Desert," which hung framed and glass covered by the door, and which suddenly seemed to her so animated, so full of beautifully arranged groups and forms. With ear for the twittering of the birds in the opposite neighbor's garden and the sporting of the magpies farther off in the fields, she sat in blissful content and waited.

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:—

I have let the rooms over the sitting-room and bed-chamber to a sick man who plays the piano. The price is left to you.

I have had one of the new sofas (the hair-cloth) carried up-stairs and one of the spring beds. He wants to be comfortable. Perhaps I have not done right.

Magnhild.

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 richly-colored the bridge became; for lo! it was woven of rainbow threads, and was transparent and radiant, all the way up to the straight line from crest to crest. But crosswise above this, the distance was spanned by another bridge. Both bridges began now to vibrate in slow two-fourths time, and immediately the entire valley was transformed into a sea of light, in which there was an intermingled play of all the prismatic hues; but the bridges had vanished. Nor were the mountains any longer visible, and the dissolving colors filled all conceivable space. How great was this? How far could she see? She grew positively alarmed at the infinity of space about her and awoke;—there was music overhead. In front of the house stood a crowd of people, silently gazing at the upper window.

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 out by the all-bountiful Providence who had ordered her destiny. The music was the result of a knowledge she did not possess, but it appealed to a passion awakened by it within her soul. She stretched out her arms, drew them in again, and burst into tears.

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 scarcely went out again the rest of the day. Either her guest was at home and she was waiting for him to play, or he had gone out for a walk, and she was watching for his return. When he greeted her in passing she blushed and drew back. If he came into her room to ask for anything, there ran a thrill through her the moment she heard the approach of his footsteps; she became confused and scarcely comprehended his words when he stood before her. She had, perhaps, not exchanged ten words with him in as many days, but she already knew his most trifling habit and peculiarity of dress. She noticed whether his soft brown hair was brushed behind his ears, or whether it had fallen forward; whether his gray hat was pushed back, or whether it was drawn down over his forehead; whether he wore gloves or not; whether he had a shawl thrown over his shoulders or not. And how was it in regard to herself? Two new summer dresses had been ordered by her, and she was now wearing one of them. She had also purchased a new hat.

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.

Day by day she developed in budding fullness of thought; her dream-life had prepared her for this; but music was the atmosphere that was essential to her existence: she knew it now. She did not realize that the refined nature of this man of genius, spiritualized and exalted by ill-health, was something new, delightful, thought-inspiring to her; she gave music alone the credit for the pleasure he instilled into her life.

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.

CHAPTER V.

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 perceived Magnhild, she nodded to her and smiled.

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 plants into the sunshine, one of her daily duties, but she came very near dropping the flowerpot into the street, for as she held it in her hands the lady's head was thrust into the open window.

"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. Magnhild blushed. Then the lady smiled, and Magnhild hastened to remark: "That is a lodger—who"—

"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, everything became so empty, so still. A few creaking steps above, then not another sound.

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 interchange of words between mother and child in the adjoining room, and then to her consternation the bedroom door was opened; the lady came in. There was not the slightest trace of guilt in her eyes: they diffused happiness, warmth, candor through the whole chamber. But when her gaze met Magnhild's the expression changed, causing Magnhild to drop her eyes in confusion.

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 contending emotions she entered the pretty little cottage occupied by the lady, and was soon standing in the midst of open trunks and a wardrobe scattered through two rooms.

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.

All this increased the young woman's embarrassment to such a degree that she scarcely realized whose was the image in the glass. The elegant lady standing in front of her, the delicate perfume, the child at her knee who with its earnest eyes fixed on her said, "Now you are pretty!"—and the guest at the opposite window who at this moment looked down and smiled. Magnhild started up, and was about to make her escape, but the lady only threw her arms around her and drew her farther into the room.

"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 through the window. She tossed back her curls, and drew on her gloves. "That hat becomes you very well indeed," said she. "Come now!"

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 child walked on in advance; the lady and Tande followed.

"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 laugh. Tande seated himself slowly and at a little distance, Magnhild and the child took their seats opposite the pair.

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 busied herself in decking Magda's hat with flowers.

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.

CHAPTER VI.

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 embarrassment increased. But the genuine, hearty applause that arose from many voices speedily set her at her ease, and she returned home in a frame of mind similar to that of a public officer whose rank had been raised one degree.

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 loftiest pinnacle of the mighty mountain chair had never been more completely bathed in blue. It stood out in bold relief against the glowing grayish tone in the jagged cliffs about the fjord. The music grew more calm; pain was uppermost again, but it was like an echo, or rather it seemed as though it were dissolved into drops which ever and anon trickled down into the sunny vigor of the new mood. The lady opposite bowed forward until her head rested on her arm, and her shoulders quivered convulsively. Magnhild beheld this, and drew back. She did not like such an exposure.

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, above all those regulations of the church which had became mere empty forms, hypocrisy, too, were all reviewed in the most amusing manner; the infinite claims of love, however, were freely conceded.

"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 heard for some time," said Tande, who now drew near, and who was flushed from having taken a few steps at a more rapid pace than usual.

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 third, such joy reigned in the little circle that Magnhild gained inspiration, which gave her a beauty she had never possessed at any previous moment of her life.

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 aftermath of the meadows, and not a disturbing sound save from the turbulent stream. Even if a wagon came along, it paused in front of the house.

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 greeting was cold and absent-minded. She turned, however, before she had proceeded many steps, and descrying Magnhild's look of surprise, sprang back and clasped her in a fervent embrace.

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 being conscious herself of the transition of thought, Magnhild seemed to be sitting on the hill-side on the day of her confirmation, gazing at the spot where her home had stood. All her little brothers and sisters were about her. The theme was treated in a variety of ways, but always produced the same picture.

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 as a rule without looking at her; the whole hour passed as a calm matter of business; she was thankful for this.

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?"

On the table behind Magnhild lay the materials for a summer costume.

"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 had her regular lesson. Tande entered into it with the same business-like silence as on the first day. Magnhild gained courage.

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 Skarlie and some men in Bergen had bought it; for they could repair it at a much less outlay than had originally been estimated. They had made an uncommonly good bargain. Skarlie supervised the carpentering, painting, and leather work of refitting the vessel. He had come home now after a fresh supply of provisions for the workmen.

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?"

"Yes!"

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.

"That's a deuce of a woman! Is that the lady?"

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 my ——"; but it would not cross her lips; and so without speaking she turned to conceal her emotion from the child. The little one stood silently waiting for some time; finally she asked,—

"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."

"Is he married, too?"

"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, and carried them into the next room. He asked good-naturedly after something that was wanting, and actually received an answer. After a while Magnhild had so far recovered her composure as to set the kettle on the fire for tea.

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."

Skarlie was still in extraordinarily high spirits when, weary from his journey, he went up to the room over the saddler workshop to go to bed. He filled his pipe, and took an English book and a light up-stairs with him.

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 was hunch-back Marie, and tall, large-eyed Ellen who were the loudest of all in both delight and astonishment. Magnhild felt ill at ease among them, and took her departure as early as possible. As soon as she had reached home it was announced to her by the sailor's wife that Tande was expecting her. A brief struggle ensued; and then she put on the dress which became her best. She was received as she had been received yesterday, the day before, and every other day: he greeted her with a slight bow, took his seat at the piano and struck a few chords. She was so thankful for his reserve, and especially to-day, that she—her desire to show her appreciation failed to find utterance.

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 look; for the forehead alone was almost as large as all the rest of the face. Magnhild was conscious of him at this moment to the extreme tips of her fingers.

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 she would be positively diabolical. She sees everything!"

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 in every caress that had accompanied every previous embrace and kiss. When the lady released her, they moved away in different directions. Magnhild busied herself in breaking off a few withered twigs from one of the plants in the window.

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.

CHAPTER VII.

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 other thoughts. This indicated a change of mood.

"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 out of the house opposite, holding little Magda by the hand. This must be Magda's papa. The little girl had his light hair and something of his expression of countenance; but neither his features, nor his form; he was of a heavy build. They crossed the street, entered the house, and went up-stairs. Surely there could be no quarrel when the child was along? Magnhild heard Tande go dress himself, and she heard an audible, "Good-day! Are you here?" in Tande's voice.

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 and Tande followed, very slowly, very confidentially. Magnhild was left behind alone, overwhelmed with astonishment.

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.

"Have you been long married?" he presently asked, taking a seat.

"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."

And she fell to describing her home to Magnhild, which, however, she had often done before. The father listened with that peculiar smile of his that was not altogether a smile, and as though to turn the conversation he hastily observed: "We took a short stroll up the mountains this morning (here the little girl explained where they had been) and then"—There was undoubtedly something he wanted to say; but a second thought must have flashed across the first.

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. Magnhild was so much mortified that she could scarcely be prevailed upon to enter the sitting-room again; but amid the laughing words of consolation heaped upon her she forgot everything but the never-wavering goodness and loving forethought of her friend. It was so unusual for Magnhild to express herself as freely as she did now, that the lady threw her arms about her and whispered,—

"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 entered with a tray, on which were the cream and other articles, and by some untoward chance Fru Bang ran against it directly in front of Magnhild and Tande, and her efforts to prevent the things from falling proved fruitless, because the others did not come speedily enough to her aid. Everything was overthrown. The dresses of both ladies were completely bespattered. Tande at once drew out his pocket handkerchief and began to wipe Magnhild's.

"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 drawn back in order not to accept any further assistance from him. That she could act so, and that his name was "Hans," was all that was clear to her at this moment. Tande slowly paced the floor. He was very pale; at least so it seemed to Magnhild, although she could not see very well, for it was beginning to grow dark. Should she follow the lady, or withdraw altogether? Magda was in the kitchen; she finally concluded to go to her. And out there she helped the little girl fill a dish with preserves. From the chamber which adjoined the kitchen she soon heard a low conversation and sobs. When Magda and she went into the sitting-room with the dish, Tande was not there. They waited so long for the evening meal that Magda fell asleep and Magnhild had to go home.

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 that on a trip to Bergen he had traveled with Captain Bang.

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.

Then they set off, Magda and Magnhild, the lady and Tande. A crowd of people had assembled, most of them outside of the inclosure, where they could pay what they pleased. Within the inclosure there were "reserved" places, that is, benches, and to these the lady and her party repaired.