Loe raamatut: «Magnhild; Dust», lehekülg 6

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

While he was still in bed the next morning there was brought to Tande by the sailor's wife a letter. It had a dainty, old-fashioned, somewhat yellow, glazed envelope, and the address was written in an unpracticed lady's hand, with delicate characters, of which those extending below the lines terminated in a little superfluous flourish, as if afraid of being round and yet with a strong tendency to become so.

"From whom can this be?" thought Tande.

He opened the letter. It was signed "Magnhild." A warm glow ran through him, and he read: —

Hr. H. Tande, – I thank you very much for your kindness to me, and for the instruction you have so generously given me. My husband has said that you have no room-rent to pay.

I am obliged to go away without waiting for an opportunity to tell you of this. Once more my best thanks.

Magnhild.

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

About five years had elapsed when one Sunday evening in spring, a party of young girls passed up the one large street of the coast town. They were walking arm in arm, and their numbers were continually increased; for the girls were singing a three part song as they went along.

In front of the saddler's house (which, by the way, was now without either sign-board or shop) they slackened their speed, as though they especially desired their singing to be heard here. Perhaps they also expected to see a face at one of the low windows; but they saw none and soon moved onward.

When the last of the party had disappeared, a woman rose from the large chair in the corner. She was scarcely more than half dressed, had down-trodden slippers and disheveled hair. As she knew that no one lived opposite and saw no one in the street, she ventured to approach the window, and resting her arm on the sash she bowed her head in her hand and 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

When she left her chamber after ten o'clock, the first object she beheld was Rönnaug, who was coming up from the coast town, and was on her way to call on Magnhild – no, not on Magnhild, but on the priest, the young curate, who lived at Magnhild's house, in the former saddler workshop. Rönnaug at the priest's? At eleven o'clock she was still with him. And when she came out, accompanied by the curate, a shy young man, she merely put her head in Magnhild's door, greeted her, and disappeared again with the curate.

Magnhild found still greater cause for wonder, for later in the day she saw Rönnaug in company with Grong. This wounded her, she could scarcely tell why. The following day Rönnaug called in as she passed by; various people were discussed whom it had entertained Rönnaug to meet, but not a word was said about the journey. Several days went by, and it was still not mentioned. Perhaps it had been given up!

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.