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.