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 a.s.sisting 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 a.s.sociated 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.

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.