Two years had passed since that evening, and the greater part of a
third.
Magnhild was quite as thoroughly accustomed to the new daily routine as
she had been to the old.
The priest visited her three or four times a year; he slept in the room
over the workshop usually occupied by Skarlie when he was at home.
During the day the priest visited at the captain's, or the custom-house
officer's, or at the home of the chief of police. His coming was called
the "priestly visitation."
There was chess-playing in the day-time and cards in the evening. The
priest's wife and young lady daughters had also been seen at the Point a
few times. In the lading-town there was scarcely any one with whom
Magnhild associated.
Skarlie and she had taken one trip to Bergen. Whatever might there have
happened or not happened, they never undertook another, either to Bergen
or elsewhere.
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, Roennaug 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 Roennaug'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.
After Magnhild had been to school, she saw the same pale man, with the
box behind him, standing before the door of her house. He was
accompanied by the landlord of one of the hotels. Skarlie had fitted up
the rooms above the sitting-room and bed-chamber for the accommodation
of travelers when the hotels were full. The pale stranger was an invalid
who wished to live quietly.
Magnhild had not thought of letting the rooms to permanent guests and
thus assuming a certain responsibility. She stood irresolute. The
stranger now drew nearer to her. Such eyes she had never beheld, nor so
refined and spiritual a face. With strange power of fascination those
wondrous eyes were fixed on her. There was, as it were, two expressions
combined in 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.