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.
"Roennaug?"
"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 Roennaug
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. Roennaug, 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 Roennaug 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 Roennaug 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 Roennaug 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.
Roennaug 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 Roennaug 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. Roennaug 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 Roennaug 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? Roennaug'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 Roennaug 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."
Roennaug 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 Roennaug. 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 Roennaug 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. Roennaug 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.
Roennaug 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 Roennaug 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 Roennaug.
Betsy Roland came in and asked some question. Roennaug 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. Roennaug
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
Roennaug's eyes, of her breath; and Roennaug'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.
Roennaug 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. Roennaug 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. Roennaug 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."
Roennaug 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 Roennaug. Should she turn back? Oh, no.
This was one of Magnhild's wakeful nights. Roennaug had frightened her.
And this journey? Never in the world would she undertake it.