They were up-stairs in the afternoon, standing by the piano singing,
when they heard Skarlie come home and go into the sitting-room below.
Without making any remarks about this, they went on singing. They sang
at last by candle-light, with the windows still open.
When Magnhild came down-stairs Skarlie too had his windows open; he was
sitting in the arm-chair in the corner. He rose now and closed the
windows; Magnhild drew down the curtains, and in the mean time Skarlie
struck a light. While they were still in the dark, he began to express
his admiration of the singing to which he had been listening. He praised
Magnhild's voice as well as the lady's alto, and of his wife's soprano
he repeated his praise. "It is as pure--as you are yourself, my child,"
said he. He was holding a match to the candle as he spoke, and he
appeared almost good-looking, so calm and serious was his shrewd
countenance. But ere long there came the play of 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.
The old juggler was already in his place, where, with the aid of his
wife, he was preparing for the show. He bore a ludicrous resemblance to
Skarlie, was bald, had a snub-nose, was large and strong-looking, and
his face was not devoid of humor. Scarcely had Magnhild made this
discovery than she heard Magda whisper to her mother,--
"Mamma, he looks just like Magnhild's husband."
The lady smiled. At the same moment the old juggler stepped up to them.
Among the reserved places was one "especially reserved," a bench, that
is, with a back to it. The old man was quite hoarse, and his language,
so far as it could be comprehended, was such a droll mixture of Swedish
and Norwegian, that those nearest laughed; and the clown-like courtesy
of his manner also created a laugh, even among those at a distance. But
so soon as the laugh began Tande stepped back a few paces. The lady
went forward, and Magda and Magnhild followed.
The old juggler had a wife much younger than himself, a black-haired,
hollow-eyed, sorrowfully thin person, who had the general appearance of
having been unfortunate. There soon came skipping out of the tent a
little lad with curly hair, sprightly eyes, and an air of refinement
over face and form which he did not get from his mother, still less from
the old clown. He was dressed as a jester, but was evidently anything
else. He paused at his mother's side and asked her some question. He
spoke in French. The lady, who was annoyed by Tande's foolish shyness,
addressed the boy in his native tongue. The little fellow came forward,
but merely to pause at a short distance and stand viewing her with an
expression of dignified inquiry. This amused her, and taking out her
purse she handed him quite a large coin.
"_Merci, Madame!_" said he, making a low bow.
"Kiss the lady's hand!" commanded the old man. The boy obeyed, with shy
haste. Then he ran back to the tent, whence was heard the barking of
dogs.
Suddenly there arose a commotion in the crowd behind those who were
seated. A woman with a child three or four years old in her arms was
trying to push her way forward. She could not stand and hold the child
forever, she said; she wanted to sit down. She was quite as good as any
one else present.
But there seemed to be no seat vacant except on the front bench. So to
the front bench she went, to the great sport of the multitude; for she
was well known. She was no other than "Machine Martha." Two years before
she had come to the Point with a child and a large and a small
sewing-machine, with which she supported herself, for she was capable.
She had deserted her husband with an itinerant tradesman, who dealt,
among other things, in sewing-machines. He had deceived her. Since then
she had fallen into wretched habits of drunkenness, and had become
thoroughly degraded. Her face was rough and her hair disheveled.
Nevertheless, she still seemed to have sufficient energy left to raise a
storm. She seated herself directly beside the lady, who shrank away, for
Martha smelled strongly of beer.
The old juggler had noticed the involuntary movement the lady made. He
was on hand at once, and, in a hoarse, rough voice, ordered Martha to
take another place.
She must have been abashed herself by all the silk she had come into
contact with, for she now got up and moved away.
As she was watching her Magnhild descried Skarlie. At his side Martha
paused. Soon she came forward again. "I will sit there, I tell you,"
said she, and resuming her seat she placed the child on the bench beside
her.
The old juggler left his preparations. He had grown angry. "You
cursed"--here he must have remembered the fine company he was in, for he
continued: "It costs money to sit here." He spoke Swedish.
"Here is a mark!" said the woman, holding out the coin as she spoke.
"Very well," said he, hoarsely; "but sit on another bench. Will the
ladies and gentlemen please move closer together?" he begged of those on
the nearest benches. Whether his directions were followed or not, Martha
did not stir.
"The devil a bit will I move," said she.
"Let her stay where she is," whispered the lady.
"Not for any sum," replied the gallant old man. "These seats are
reserved for the highest aristocracy," and he took hold of the child.
But now Martha sprang up like one possessed.
"You Swedish troll!" cried she, "will you let my child alone?"
The crowd burst into stormy shouts of laughter, and encouraged thereby,
she continued: "Highest aristocracy? Pshaw! She is a--she, as well as
I." The word shall remain unwritten; but Martha looked significantly at
the lady. A volley of laughter, and then, as at the word of command, the
silence of the grave.
The lady had started up, proud and beautiful. She looked around for her
escort. She wished to leave. Tande was standing not very far off, with a
couple of travelers, who had begged to be presented to the well-known
composer. The lady's flaming eyes met his. He gazed back at her
intently. Every one was looking at him. But no one could penetrate his
gaze, any farther than they could have penetrated a polished steel ball.
And yet, however unfathomable those eyes, there was one thing they said
plainly enough: "Madame, I know you not!" And his refined, arched brow,
his delicately-chiseled nose, his tightly-compressed lips, his hollow
cheeks, aye, the glittering diamond studs in his shirt, the aristocratic
elegance of his attire, all said, "Touch me not!" Over his eyes were
drawn veil after veil.
It was all the work of a moment. The lady turned to Magnhild as though
to call on her to bear witness. And yet no! There was no one in the
world beside him and herself who could know how great was the offering
that now was burnt, how great the love he now flung from him.
Again the lady turned toward him a look, as brief as a flash of
lightning. What indignation, what a great cry of anguish, what a swarm
of memories, what pride, what contempt, did she not hurl at him.
Magnhild received the quivering remains as she turned to her to--aye,
what should she do now? Her face suddenly betrayed the most piteous
forlornness, and at the same time a touching appeal, as that of a child.
The tears rolled down her cheeks. Magnhild, entering completely into her
mood, impulsively held out her hand. The lady grasped it and pressed it
so vehemently that Magnhild had to exercise all her self-control not to
scream aloud. The poor, wounded, repulsed woman gathered together all
her inward strength through this outward expenditure of force, and thus
she became uplifted. For at the same time she smiled. And lo! across
that part of the square where the tight rope was stretched and where
spectators were forbidden to intrude, there strode at this moment two
officers, seen by all; but how could admittance be refused to a
general's cap? And such a one was worn by the all-powerful individual
who, with long strides and wide-swinging arms, as though he were himself
both commander and army, advanced with his adjutant on the left flank.
Already from afar he saluted, in the most respectful manner, his
captain's beautiful wife. She hastened to meet her deliverer. On the
general's arm she was led back to her place, while he himself took a
seat by her side. The adjutant fell to Magnhild's lot, after the lady
had introduced them. The general stole many a glance at Magnhild, and
the adjutant was all courtesy. This was almost the only thing Magnhild
noticed. She was quivering in every nerve.
The lady sparkled with wit, sprightliness, beauty. But every now and
then she would seize Magnhild's hand, and press it with remorseless
energy. She strengthened herself in the reality of the moment. The
bodily pain this caused Magnhild corresponded with the spiritual pain
she experienced. She heard the adjutant at her side and Magda cry out in
wonder. She, too, now saw several balls glittering in the air, and she
saw a large one weighed by a spectator, and then cast into the air by
the old athlete, as though it were a play ball, and caught again on his
arm, shoulder, or breast; but at the same time she heard the lady tell
the general that she would leave the next morning under his escort; she
had been waiting for him since her husband could not come.
Magnhild well knew that all was now over: but would the end come as soon
as the next morning? A loud outcry, coming chiefly from the voices of
boys, cut through her pain. The old man had thrown the large ball into
the air with both hands, and then quite a small ball, and continued to
keep them in rapid motion for some time. To Magnhild the small ball
represented herself; and the large one--? It was not in order to search
for an adequate symbol, nor did she apply it, but everything became
symbolic. The perpetual glitter of the balls in the air represented to
her the icy glance which had just made her tremble.
"The old man is extraordinarily strong," said the adjutant. "I once saw
a man in Venice with another man standing on his shoulders, who stooped
and raised a third, and he worked his way up and stood on the second
man's shoulders, and then, only think, they drew up a fourth, who
managed to stand on the shoulders of the third. The first man walked
about on the ground, carrying with him the other three, while the upper
man played with balls."
"Were I to die at this moment," the lady was saying on the other side,
"and the soul could forget everything here and have imparted to it a new
series of wonderful problems, infinite vistas, so that enraptured
discovery after discovery might be made--what could there be more
glorious?"
"My imagination does not carry me so far," came in the general's firm
voice. "I am ready to stake my life that to live and die in the
fulfillment of one's duty is the greatest happiness a healthily
organized human being can feel. The rest is, after all, of little
consequence."
Here Magnhild received a feverish pressure of the hand.
"Applaud, ladies and gentlemen, applaud," said the clown, hoarsely and
good-naturedly. This raised a laugh, but no one stirred.
"Why do not the dogs come out?" asked Magda, who heard the animals
impatiently barking in the tent.
About the mountain peaks clouds crisped and curled; a gust of wind
betokened a change in the weather; the fjord darkened under the
influence of a swiftly rising squall. There was something infinitely
sublime in the landscape; something awe-inspiring.
It began to grow cold. The people in the background felt hushed and
gloomy. Now the clown's wife came forward; _she_ was to go on the tight
rope. The haggard, faded beauty wore a dress cut very low in the neck,
and with short sleeves. The lady shivered as she looked at her,
complained of cold feet, and rose. The general, the adjutant, and
consequently Magnhild also, did the same; Magda alone, with looks of
entreaty, kept her seat; she was waiting for the dogs. A single glance
from her mother sufficed; she got up without a word.
They passed out the same way the officers had come in; not one of them
looked back. The lady laughed her most ringing laugh; its pleasant tones
rolled back over the assembled multitude. Every one gazed after her. The
general walked rapidly, so that her light, easy movements appeared well
at his side. The general's height invested hers with a peculiar charm;
his stiff, martial bearing and figure heightened the effect of her
pliant grace. The contrasts of color in her attire, the feather in her
hat, an impression from her laughter, affected one man in the audience
as he might have been affected by withdrawing music.
When the officers took their leave at the lady's door, she did not speak
a word to Magnhild; she did not so much as glance at her as she went
into the house. Magnhild felt her sympathy repulsed. Deeply grieved, she
crossed the street to her own house.
Tande returned late. Magnhild heard him walking back and forth, back and
forth, more rapidly than ever before. Those light steps kept repeating:
"Touch me not!" at last in rhythm; the glitter of the diamond studs, the
aristocratic elegance of the attire, the deep reserve of the
countenance, haunted her. The lady's anguish groaned beneath these
footsteps. What must not _she_ be enduring? "That amidst the thunder and
lightning of her suffering she should think of me," thought Magnhild,
"would be unnatural." In the first moment of terror she had sought
refuge with her young friend, as beneath a sheltering roof, but
immediately afterward all was, of course, forgotten.
Some one came into the hall. Was it a message from the lady? No, it was
Skarlie. Magnhild well knew his triple time step. He gave her a
searching glance as he entered. "It is about time for me to be off,"
said he. He was all friendliness, and began to gather together his
things.
"Have you been waiting for a conveyance?" asked she.
"No, but for the meat I ordered and had to go without the last time; it
came a little while ago."
She said no more, and Skarlie was soon ready.
"Good-by, until I come again!" said he. He had taken up his things, and
now stood looking at her.
"Skarlie," said she, "was it you who gave Machine Martha that mark?"
He blinked at her several times, and finally asked: "What harm was there
in that, my dear?"
Magnhild grew pale.
"I have often despised you," said she, "but never so much as at this
moment."
She turned, went into her bed-room and bolted the door. She heard
Skarlie go. Then she threw herself on the bed.
A few bars were struck on the piano above, but no more followed; Tande
was probably himself startled at the sound. These bars involuntarily
made Magnhild pause. Now she was forced to follow the steps which began
afresh. A new tinge of the mysterious, the incomprehensible, had fallen
over Tande. She was afraid of him. Before this, she had trembled when
he was near at hand; now a thrill ran through her when she merely
thought of him.
The steps above ceased, and she glided from the unfathomable to Skarlie;
for here she was clear. How she hated him! And when she thought that in
a fortnight he would come again and act as though nothing had occurred,
she clinched her hands in rage and opened them again; for as it had been
a hundred times before, so it would be again. She would forget, because
he was so good-natured, and let her have her own way.
A profound sorrow at her own insufficiency fell like the pall of night
on her fancy. She burst into tears. She was unable to cope with one of
the relations of life, either those of others or her own; unable to
grasp any saving resolution. Indeed, what could this be?
The steps began again, swifter, lighter than ever. Once more Magnhild
experienced that inexplicable, not unpleasant tremor Tande had caused in
her before.
It had finally grown dark. She rose and went into the next room. At the
cottage opposite there was light, and the curtains were down. Magnhild
also struck a light. Scarcely had she done so when she heard steps in
the hall, and some one knocked at her door. She listened; there came
another rap. She went to the door. It was a message from the lady for
Magnhild to come to her. She put out the light and obeyed the summons.
She found everything changed. All around stood open, already-packed
chests, trunks, boxes, and traveling satchels; Magda lay sleeping on her
own little hamper. A hired woman was assisting the maid in putting the
room in order. The maid started up saying: "My lady has just gone into
her bed-room. I will announce you."
Magnhild knocked at the door, then entered the chamber.
The lady lay on her couch, behind white bed curtains, in a lace-trimmed
night-dress. She had wound about her head the Turkish kerchief which was
inseparably associated with her headaches. The lamp stood a little in
the background, with a shade of soft, fluttering red paper over it. She
was leaning on one elbow which was buried deep in the pillow, and she
languidly extended the free left hand; a weary, agonized gaze followed.
How beautiful she was! Magnhild was hers again, hers so completely that
she flung herself over her and wept. As though under the influence of
an electric shock the sick woman sat up and casting both arms about
Magnhild pressed her to her own warm, throbbing form. She wanted to
appropriate all this comprehension and sympathy. "Thanks!" she whispered
over Magnhild. Her despair quivered through every nerve of her body.
Gradually her arms relaxed and Magnhild rose. Then the lady sank back
among the pillows and begged Magnhild to fetch a chair and sit by her.
"The walls have ears," she whispered, pointing to the door. Magnhild
brought the chair. "No, here on the bed," said the lady, making room
beside her.
The chair was set aside again. The lady took Magnhild's hand and held it
in both of hers. Magnhild gazed into her eyes, which were still full of
tears. How good, how true, how full of comprehension she looked!
Magnhild bent down and kissed her. The lips were languid.
"I sent for you, Magnhild," said she, softly. "I have something to say
to you. Be not afraid,"--a warm pressure of the hand accompanied these
words; "it is not my own history--and it shall be very brief; for I feel
the need of being alone." Here the tears rolled down over her cheeks.
She was aware of it and smiled.
"You are married--I do not understand how, and I do not wish to know!" A
tremor ran through her and she paused. She turned her head aside for a
moment. Presently she continued: "Do not attempt"--but she got no
farther; she drew away both hands, covered her face, and flinging
herself round, wept in the pillow. Magnhild saw the convulsive quivering
of back and arms, and she rose.
"How stupid that was of me," she heard at last; the lady had turned
round again, and now bathed eyes and brow with an essence which filled
the room with perfume. "I have no advice to give you--besides, of what
use would it be? Sit down again!" Magnhild sat down. The lady laid aside
the phial and took Magnhild's hand in both of hers. She patted and
stroked it, while a long, searching gaze followed. "Do you know that you
are the cause of what happened to-day?" Magnhild flushed as though she
were standing before a great fire; she tried to rise, but the lady held
her fast. "Be still, my child! I have read his thoughts when we were
together. You are pure and fine--and I--!" She closed her eyes and lay
as still as though she were dead. Not a sound was heard, until at last
the lady drew a long, long breath, and looked up with a gaze so full of
suffering!
Magnhild heard the beating of her own heart; she dared not stir; she
suppressed even her breathing. She felt cold drops of moisture start
from every pore.
"Yes, yes, Magnhild;--be now on _your_ guard!"
Magnhild started up. The lady turned her head after her. "Be not proud!"
said she.
"Is there any place where you can now go?" Magnhild did not hear what
she said. The lady repeated her question as calmly as she had spoken
before. "Is there any place where you can now go? Answer me!"
Magnhild could scarcely collect her thoughts, but she answered: "Yes,"
merely out of accustomed acquiescence to the lady. She did not think of
any special place of refuge, only that she must go away from here now,
at once. But before she could move, the lady, who had been watching her
closely, said,--
"I will tell you one thing that you do not know: you love him."
Magnhild drew back, swift as lightning, her eyes firmly fixed on _hers_.
There arose a brief conflict, in which the lady's eyes, as it were,
breathed upon Magnhild's. Magnhild grew confused, colored, and bowed her
head on her hands. The lady sat up and took hold of her arm. Magnhild
still resisted; her bosom heaved--she tottered, as though seeking
support; and finally leaned aside toward where she felt the pressure of
the lady's hand.
Then throwing herself on the lady's bosom she wept violently.