The Fisher Maiden/Chapter IX
Chapter IX.
In the third year of her sojourn here, one Friday, a few days before Christmas, the two girls were sitting together in the dusk of the evening; the priest had just come in with his pipe. The day had been passed as most others during these two years; it had begun with a walk, and after breakfast an hour had been spent in playing and singing, next came language lessons or other studies, and then a little time devoted to household matters. In the afternoon they retired to their own rooms, and to-day Signe had been writing to Ödegaard, after whom Petra never inquired; indeed, she never could bear any reference to the past. Toward evening they had gone coasting, and had now met to talk and sing, or later, to read aloud. It was at such times the priest always joined them. He was a remarkably fine reader, and so was his daughter. Petra learned the style of both, but especially their language. Signe’s pronunciation and the inflections of her voice had a great charm for Petra, and the musical tones kept ringing in her ear when she was alone. Altogether, Petra held Signe in such high esteem that a man would have taken a fourth of such devotion for strong love; she often positively made Signe blush. As the priest and his daughter read aloud every evening,—Petra could not be induced to take active part in the readings,—they had become quite familiar with the prominent authors of northern literature, and had also made considerable progress in the acquaintance of the works of well-known foreign authors. The dramatists were chiefly read.
Just as they were about lighting the lamps to begin this evening, the kitchen-maid came in to say that there was some one outside who had a message for Petra. It proved to be a sailor from Petra’s native town, whom her mother had charged to seek her, as he was coming in that direction. He had walked nearly seven miles, and must hurry off again, as his ship was about to sail. Petra accompanied him part of the way, desiring to talk further with him, for she knew him to be a trusty man. It was a very cloudy night; there was no light in any of the parsonage windows, except those of the laundry, where a large washing was being done; profound darkness reigned along the road; it was scarcely possible to distinguish the path until the moon rose triumphantly above the mountains. Still Petra walked bravely onward, and fearlessly entered the forest, although mysterious, unearthly shadows crept about among the fir-trees. One piece of news which had especially tempted her to follow the sailor was that Pedro Ohlsen’s mother was dead, and that he himself had sold his house and moved to Gunlaug’s, where he now occupied Petra’s loft chamber. This had happened nearly two years since, but Petra’s mother had not said a word about it in her letters. Petra could now readily conjecture who it was wrote these for her mother. She had often inquired, but had received no reply, and yet every letter ended with the words: “and a greeting from the person who writes the letter.” The sailor’s errand was to ask how long Petra intended to remain at the parsonage and what plans she had for the future. To the first question she replied that she did not know, and to the second that he might tell her mother there was but one thing in the world she wished to do, and if she failed in that she would be unhappy her whole life; but for the present she could not tell what it was.
While Petra was walking and talking with the sailor, the priest and Signe remained behind in the sitting-room, speaking of her who was such a source of joy to them both. They were interrupted by the entrance of the overseer, and after he had rendered his account for the day, he asked if either of them knew that the young lady who was staying with them was in the habit of leaving her room at night by means of a rope-ladder and returning in the same way. He was obliged to repeat this three times before either of them understood what he meant; he might just as well have announced to them that it was her wont to walk back and forth on the moonbeams. It was dark in the room, and now it became perfectly still; not even the puffing from the priest’s pipe was heard.
“Who has seen this?” said the priest at last, in a forced, husky tone of voice.
“I saw it myself. I was up foddering the horses; it must have been about one o’clock.”
“You saw her going down a rope-ladder?”
“And up again.”
Another long pause. Petra’s room was in the upper story, in the corner facing the avenue leading to the house. She was alone up there, no one else had a room on that side of the house. There could, therefore, be no mistake.
“It is quite possible she may have done it in her sleep,” said the servant, and was about to withdraw.
“Yes, but she could not have made a rope-ladder in her sleep,” said the priest.
“Well, that was what I thought myself; and so it seemed to me best to tell you about it, sir. I have not spoken of it to any one else.”
“Has any one beside yourself seen this?”
“No; but if you doubt it, sir, the ladder itself will, I suppose, be proof enough. If it is not up in her chamber I must have seen wrong.”
The priest rose at once.
“Father!” entreated Signe.
“Bring a light!” replied the priest, in a tone that admitted of no opposition.
Signe lighted a candle.
“Father!” she once more implored, as she handed it to him.
“Yes; I am her father as well as yours, as long as she remains in my house, and it is my duty to look into this.”
The priest went on in advance with the light, Signe and the overseer following. Everything was in perfect order in the little room, only the table in front of the bed was covered with open books, piled one upon another.
“Does she read at night?”
“I do not know; but she never puts out her light before one o’clock.”
The priest and Signe exchanged glances. It was customary at the parsonage to retire for the night from ten to half-past ten, and to assemble again in the morning between six and seven.
“Do you know anything of this?” asked the father.
Signe made no reply. But the overseer, who was on his knees in the corner making a search, answered,—
“She is not alone.”
“What is that you say?”
“Why, there is always some one talking with her, and they often speak very loud. I have heard her both begging for mercy and herself uttering threats. No doubt she is in some one’s power, poor thing!”
Signe turned away; the priest had grown deathly pale.
“And here is the ladder,” continued the man, producing the article as he spoke, and rising to his feet. The ladder was formed by two clothes-lines, fastened together by a third, which was tied in a knot, then drawn across and tied in another knot, at a distance of about half a yard, and thus running back and forward formed steps.
“Was she gone long?” asked the priest.
The overseer looked at him.
“Gone where?”
“Did she stay away long after she came down the ladder?”
Signe was shivering with cold and terror.
“She did not go anywhere; she went up again.”
“Up again? Then who did go away?”
Signe turned and burst into tears.
“There could not have been any one with her then; that was last evening.”
“So, no one was on the ladder but herself?”
“No.”
“And she went down and directly up again?”
“Yes.”
“She has only wanted to try it, I suppose,” said the priest, drawing a long breath, as though somewhat relieved.
“Yes, before she allowed any one else to get on it,” added the overseer.
The priest looked at him.
“You think, then, this is not the first one she has made?”
“Of course it is not. How else could people have come to her room?”
“Has it been long since you knew of any one coming to her?”
“Not until this winter, when she began to use a light; it did not occur to me to come down here before.”
“Then you have known this the whole winter. Why have you not told of it before?” the priest asked, sternly.
“I supposed that it was one of the household that was with her; but when I saw her last night on the ladder I first thought it might be some one else. Had it struck me sooner, I should have spoken of it.”
“Well, it is plain enough, she has deceived us all!”
Signe raised her eyes in silent entreaty.
“She ought not, perhaps, to have her room so far away from the rest,” suggested the overseer, as he rolled up the ladder.
“After this she ought not to have a room anywhere in this house,” said the priest, and left the room, the rest following him. But when he got down-stairs and had put the light on the table, Signe came and flung herself into his arms.
“Yes, my child, this is a bitter disappointment,” said he.
A few moments later, Signe sat in the corner of the sofa, with her handkerchief to her eyes: the priest had lighted his pipe and was rapidly pacing the floor. All at once they were aroused by screams from the kitchen and hurried steps were heard on the stairs and rushing along the passage above. Both hastened out. Petra’s chamber was on fire! A spark from the candle had fallen in the corner,—for it was from there the fire came,—had swept along the wall paper, and was approaching the wood-work about the window, when it was seen from the road by a passer-by, who had at once run into the laundry and given the alarm to the people who were at work washing there. The fire was soon extinguished; but in the country, where everything has its own monotonous course, year out and year in, any disturbance serves to throw the people into a state of commotion. Fire is their greatest and most dangerous enemy; it is never out of their thoughts, and when it actually does appear some night, thrusting forth its head from the abyss, and greedily darting out its tongue after its prey, the people shudder, and it is weeks before they wholly regain their composure; some, indeed, never do so throughout their lives.
When the priest and his daughter were once more alone in the sitting-room and had lighted the lamps, they both felt uncomfortable at the thought that Petra’s room had thus swiftly been swept out by fire and everything that could remind them of her destroyed. Suddenly they heard Petra’s clear voice asking questions and exclaiming aloud. She sprang up-stairs and down again, sped from chamber to passage and from passage to kitchen, and finally burst into the room with her out-door wraps still on.
“Good heavens! my room has been burned!” cried she.
There was no reply, but in the same breath, she asked,—
“Who has been there? When did it happen? How did the fire begin?”
The priest now said that it was he and Signe who had been up there; they had been looking for something, and he fixed his eyes sharply on Petra as he spoke. But not by the least sign did she show that she thought this strange, nor did she betray any uneasiness whatever as to what they might have seen in her room. She did not even suspect anything amiss when Signe did not look up from her sofa corner, but attributed this to Signe’s fright and began to pour out a volley of questions about how the fire had been discovered, how put out, and who had first reached the spot; and when she failed to get replies fast enough she darted out of the room as abruptly as she had come in. Presently she broke in again, having now partly removed her out-door wraps, and fell to telling the priest and Signe how the whole thing had happened, how she herself had seen the flames and hastened home with the most alarming speed, and how thankful she felt to find matters no worse. While speaking she took off the rest of her out-door things, carried them away, then returned, and took her accustomed place at the table, keeping up an incessant chatter about what this one had said, that one had done. The whole gard had been turned upside down, she reported, and this afforded her infinite amusement. As her listeners persisted in their silence, she began to express regret that all this excitement had spoiled the evening for them; she had been looking forward with so much pleasure to “Romeo and Juliet,” the play they were then reading aloud, and she had intended that same evening to ask Signe to read aloud once more the scene that seemed to her the most beautiful of all: Romeo’s parting from Juliet on the balcony. In the midst of her stream of words one of the maids came in from the laundry to say that they needed clothes-lines; a whole bunch was missing. Petra’s face was speedily covered with blushes.
“I know where they are; I will get them for you,” she said, taking a few steps forward, and then, remembering the fire, she paused and colored still more deeply.
“But,—oh, dear! they must be burned! They were in my chamber!”
Signe had turned eagerly toward her. The priest gave Petra a sharp side glance.
“What use had you for clothes-lines?” And his breath came and went so rapidly, he could scarcely speak.
Petra looked at him; his terrible solemnity almost alarmed her, but in the next moment it tempted her to laughter. This she strove against for a while, but a second glance at him made her burst into such hearty laughter that it was no longer of any use to resist. There was no more evil conscience in her laugh than in a rippling brook. Signe knew this from its ring, and she sprang up from the sofa, with—
“What is it? What is it?”
Petra turned, laughed, bounded off, tried to escape, and made for the door. But Signe stood in her way.
“What is it? Tell me, Petra.”
Petra buried her face on Signe’s shoulder, as though she would thus hide herself, but she continued to laugh immoderately. Nay, guilt does not act thus! The priest, too, comprehended this now. He who was about leaping up into a towering rage, now instead came tumbling down into the most overpowering laughter, and Signe followed his example. Nothing is more infectious than laughter, and especially laughter, the cause of which is not quite clear. The vain efforts that now the priest, now Signe made to find out what they were laughing at only increased the merriment to the highest pitch. The maid, who stood waiting, was finally compelled to laugh aloud with them. She burst out into one loud horselaugh after the other, and she felt herself that it was not in keeping with such fine furniture and gentle-folks, and so she hastened to the door to give full vent to her hilarity in the kitchen. Thither, of course, she bore the infection, and soon a perfect deluge of laughter came rolling in from the kitchen, where there was even less knowledge of its cause than in the parlor, and this kindled the laughter in there anew.
When finally they were almost exhausted, Signe made a last attempt to learn the meaning of all this laughter.
“Now you shall tell me,” she cried, clinging to Petra’s hand.
“No; not for all the world!”
“Yes; but I know already what it is!” she cried again.
Petra looked at her and uttered a scream; but Signe exclaimed,—
“Father knows all about it, too.”
Petra did not scream now, she fairly yelled, and, tearing herself away, fled to the passage-door; but there Signe caught her again. Then Petra turned to struggle with her; she was determined to get away at any cost; she laughed as she kept struggling, but tears were in her eyes. This made Signe let go. Out rushed Petra, Signe after her, and both darted into Signe’s chamber. There Signe seized Petra about the neck, and Petra flung her arms around Signe.
“Good heavens! Do you know it?” whispered Petra, and Signe whispered in reply:—
“Yes, we were up in your room with the overseer; he had seen—and we found the ladder.”
Another shriek and a fresh flight, but this time only as far as the sofa corner, where Petra took refuge. Signe soon followed her, and, bending over her, poured into her ear the whole story of the voyage of discovery and its fiery results. That which but a brief period earlier had caused her both tears and alarm now struck her as amusing, and she related it with considerable humor. Petra alternately listened and stopped her ears, looked up, and buried her face. When Signe had finished and they were both sitting side by side in the dark, Petra whispered:—
“Do you know what it all means? I cannot possibly sleep at ten o’clock when we go each to our rooms, what we have been reading has too much power over me. So I commit to memory all the finest passages, and in this way I know whole scenes by heart and repeat them aloud to myself. When we came to Romeo and Juliet, it seemed to me that nothing in the world could be more lovely; I grew perfectly wild about it, and I could not help making that attempt with the rope-ladder. It had never occurred to me before that any one could go up and down on a rope-ladder. I got hold of some clothes-lines, and that rogue, it seems, was standing below watching me. Indeed, it is no laughing matter, Signe; it is so tom-boyish; I never shall be anything but a tom-boy; and now, of course, to-morrow I shall be the talk of the whole parish!”
But Signe, who had been seized by a fresh fit of laughter, fell over Petra with kisses and caresses, and exclaimed:—
“Ah, father must know this!”
“Are you mad, Signe?”
Down they ran to the sitting-room, one after the other, with the same speed they had left it. At the door they almost upset the priest, who was just about leaving the room to see what had become of them. Signe began her story. Petra, with a scream, ran off once more, but paused outside of the door, recollecting that she should remain to prevent Signe from telling it; so she thought she would go in again, but the priest held the door; it was impossible to get it open. She pounded on it with both hands, sang, stamped her feet on the ground, in order to drown Signe’s voice; but Signe only spoke the louder, and when the priest had heard the whole and had laughed as heartily as Signe over this new method of studying the classics, he opened the door; but then Petra ran away.
After supper, at which Petra had been present and had been duly teased by the priest, she was condemned, by way of punishment, to repeat what she knew. It proved that she knew the most famous scenes, and not merely one rôle in each but all the parts. She recited just as they had been in the habit of reading; at times there was a flash of fire in her manner, but she quickly smothered it. No sooner did the priest observe this than he called for more expression, but she only grew the more shy. They went on and on, they continued for hours; she knew the comic scenes as well as the tragic ones, the playful as well as the serious; her memory aroused both their surprise and their laughter; she laughed herself and begged them only to try, too.
“I really wish the poor actresses had an eighth part as good faculties as you have,” said Signe.
“God forbid that she should ever become a play-actor!” exclaimed the priest, suddenly turning grave.
“Why, father, I hope you do not think Petra has any such idea?” cried Signe, laughing. “I only spoke of actors because I have always found, without exception, that those who from their youth up have been trained to a knowledge of the poetry of their own land have not the least desire to go on the stage, while those who have very little acquaintance with poetry until they are grown up, rave about the stage; it is the suddenly aroused yearning that carries them away.”
“That is doubtless very true,” said the priest. “We certainly rarely, find a person of any education on the stage.”
“And still more rarely one who has had poetic culture.”
“Yes, and when this does happen, it is doubtless due to some lack in the character which permits variety and frivolity to gain the upper hand. I have met with many actors, both in my student days and during my travels, but I have never known, nor have I heard of any one else knowing, one who led a truly Christian life. They may have felt a desire for it—that I have seen; but there is so much restlessness, so many disturbing influences, in their career, that they find it impossible to gain control over themselves, even long after they have left the stage. Whenever I have spoken with them about this, they have admitted it themselves and deplored it; but soon, however, they have added: ‘We must console ourselves with the fact that, after all, we are no worse than so many others.’ But this is what I call a poor consolation. A life that in nowise tends to build up the Christian character within us is a sinful one. The Lord have mercy on all who must lead a life like this, and may He keep from it all who are pure in heart!”
The next day, Saturday, the priest was up as usual before seven, went on his morning rounds among his work-people, then took a longer walk and came home at day-break. Just as he was passing the house into the courtyard, he espied an open exercise-book, or something of that sort, which doubtless had been thrown out of Petra’s window and not found because it was the color of the snow. He picked up the book and carried it into the study. As he spread it out to dry, he observed that it was a discarded French exercise-book in which verses were now written. It did not occur to him to look at these verses, but his eye accidentally fell on the word “actress,” written up and down, up and down, everywhere—it was even to be seen in the verses. He sat down to examine it more fully.
After many attempts and erasures, he found the following rhymes, which, although still full of corrections, could readily be deciphered:—
A little below was written the following lines:—
Then below this, again, probably by way of a commentary to a poem they had read some months before:—
Then, after many erasures and crossings over, designs, and notes, came:—
Then distinctly and clearly the following letter:—
My heart's Henry:—Do you not think that you and I are the cleverest ones in the whole comedy? It will cause us great annoyance; but that does not signify: I empower you to accompany me to the masquerade to-morrow evening, for I have never been to one, and I long for some genuine mad pranks, because it is so very quiet and dull in this house.
You are a great rogue, Henry! Whither are you wandering, pray, while here sits your
Pernille?
Last of all was written in large letters, distinctly and over and over again, the following verse, she must have found somewhere, and had taken this means of committing it to memory:—
Many other things besides were written there, but the priest read no more.
So, then, it was in order to become an actress that she had come into his house and received instructions from his daughter. It was for this secret purpose she had listened so eagerly while they read aloud every evening and committed it all to memory when she was alone. She had been deceiving them the whole time; even yesterday, when she had pretended to open her heart to them, she had been concealing something; when she was laughing the most heartily she was cheating them.
And this secret purpose of hers! That which the priest had so often condemned in her presence, she glorified as a divine calling and dared to invoke God’s blessing on it! A life replete with exterior show and frivolity, idleness and sensuality, deceit and ever-increasing instability of character, a life over which vultures hover as over carrion; it was to this she yearned to devote herself, this she prayed God to sanctify! And to such a goal the priest and his daughter were expected to help her onward in the quiet parsonage, beneath the severe eyes of a regenerated congregation!
When Signe came in, bright and fresh as the winter morning, to greet her father, she found the study filled with tobacco-smoke. This was always an indication that something was amiss, and doubly so thus early in the morning. Without a word he handed her the book. She saw at once that it was Petra’s; a recollection of the suspicion and pain of the preceding evening flashed over her; she dared not look in the book; her heart beat so violently that she was forced to sit down. But the same word that had first attracted her father’s attention now caught her eye; she had to look again and thus read all. Her first feeling was one of shame—not on Petra’s account, but because her father had seen this.
But soon she experienced the deep humiliation that arises from being disappointed in one who has been dearly beloved. In such instances a person who has been capable of disguises is apt for a moment to seem greater, more ingenious, more clever than ourselves, to glide away from us into the regions of the mysterious. But soon all the faculties of the soul unite in indignation; honesty gains power over all those forces which, although hidden, do not savor of the mysterious; we feel strong enough to crush with one blow the manifold cunning devices; we despise what but now humiliated us.
In the sitting-room Petra had seated herself at the piano, and now they heard her singing:
Then a storm swept over the keys of the instrument, and out of it burst the following song:—
Ah! this was more than the priest could bear! Striding past Signe, he snatched the book from her hand and stormed toward the door, and this time his daughter made no effort to hold him back. He rushed straight to Petra, flung the book on the piano in front of her, turned, and made the complete circuit of the room. When he came back to her she had risen, the book was clasped to her bosom, and she was looking about her on every side with a bewildered gaze. He paused in front of her, intending to tell her just what he thought of her, but so violent was his wrath at having served as a tool for more than two years for this wily young person, and still more that his warm-hearted, devoted daughter had been made a dupe of, that he could not at once find words, and when he did succeed in doing so, he felt himself that they might be too harsh. Once more he took a turn about the room, walked right up in front of Petra again, his face fiery red, and then, without a single word, turned his back on her and strode away to his study. When he reached it, Signe was gone.
The whole of that day was passed by each in retirement. The priest dined alone; neither of the girls made her appearance. Petra was in the housekeeper’s room, which had been assigned to her after the fire. She had searched everywhere in vain for Signe to pour out her heart to her; but Signe could not be at home.
Petra felt that she was standing on the verge of a crisis. The most secret thoughts of her soul had been rudely torn from her, and there was an effort about to be made to exert over her an influence she could not brook. She well knew that if she were to give up her cherished purposes, she would drift idly onward henceforth before the wind of chance. She could be happy with those that did rejoice, trustful with those whose hearts were filled with trust, secure in everything; but it was through the strength inspired by that secret hope of hers that she might one day attain the goal of her aspirations toward which all the faculties of her soul were growing. Confide in any one after that first pitiful failure in Bergen—no, she would have found this impossible, even had it been Ödegaard himself! She must be alone with her secret until it was sufficiently developed to brave the breath of doubt.
But now a change had been wrought. The priest’s flaming countenance looked incessantly down into her frightened conscience—she must seek deliverance. More excitedly, more hastily, than ever, she pursued her search for Signe; the afternoon wore on and still Signe was not to be found. The longer a person we are seeking remains absent from us, the greater seems the cause of the separation, and thus it came to pass that Petra finally arrived at the conclusion that she had been guilty of treachery in secretly availing herself of Signe’s friendship for the furtherance of what Signe herself deemed sinful. The omniscient God must be her witness that never before had this view of the matter presented itself to her mind; she felt herself a great sinner.
As once before, in her own home, she was overwhelmed by a knowledge of which but a moment previous she had not the faintest misgiving! That anything so appalling actually could repeat itself, that she had not yet progressed one step, increased her anxiety to terror. She saw before her a future full of misery. But in the same proportion as her own sense of guilt increased, Signe’s image rose in purity and magnanimous devotion. Truly, coals of fire were heaped upon her head. She longed to fling herself at Signe’s feet; she wanted to entreat and implore her, and neither relax her hold nor cease her importunities until Signe had given her just one look of the old friendliness.
It had grown dark. Signe must be at home now, wherever she might have been. Petra sped along the passage to the wing of the house where Signe’s room was, and found the door locked,—a sure sign that Signe was there. With throbbing heart Petra once more grasped the door-knob, and cried beseechingly:—
“Signe, please let me talk with you! Signe, I cannot bear this any longer!”
Not a sound from the room; Petra bent over, listened, and knocked again.
“Signe, oh, Signe! you do not know how unhappy I am!”
No answer. Again Petra waited and listened, but still there came none. When we thus fail to obtain a response, we are apt to doubt at last whether there is any one at hand to give it, even when we have reason to feel sure that there is, and when darkness surrounds us we become alarmed.
“Signe, Signe! If you are there, be merciful—answer me! Signe!”
But the silence remained unbroken. Petra shuddered and shivered. At this moment the kitchen-door was opened, letting out a broad, full stream of light, and brisk, buoyant footsteps were heard in the court-yard. This suggested a plan to Petra’s mind. She would go out into the yard herself, and climbing on the ledge on the stone foundation of the wing, she would walk round the entire building in order to reach the other side, where the elevation from the ground was very great. She wanted to look into Signe’s room.
It was a bright, starlit evening. The mountain, as well as the surrounding houses, stood out in sharp outlines, but the outlines alone were visible. The snow lay glittering around; the dark paths served only to increase its dazzling distinctness. From the road came the jingling of sleigh-bells; the merry sound and the sparkling brightness of the night had an inspiriting effect on Petra, and she sprang lithely on the ledge. She strove to cling to the projecting wood-work of the windows, but lost her balance and fell to the ground again. Then she seized an empty barrel, and rolling it up against the wall stepped on it and from it to the ledge. She now worked her way along by means of hands and feet together, advancing about a quarter of a yard with each effort; the strong fingers of a strong hand were needed to hold on vigorously; she could not get a firm grasp, for the wood-work scarcely projected an inch. She was fearful lest some one should see her, for it would naturally be thought this had some connection with her rope-ladder exploits. If she could only clear the side facing the court-yard, and reach the gable-wall. But when finally she succeeded in doing so, fresh danger awaited her; for there were no blinds to the windows, and she was compelled to stoop as she passed each window, in constant terror of falling. On the main wall of the wing the foundation was very high and beneath ran a gooseberry hedge, which would certainly receive her should she fall. But she had no fear. Her fingers smarted, her muscles quivered, a tremor ran through her whole frame; but she went on. Only a few steps more and the window was reached. There was no light in Signe’s room, and the curtain had not yet been drawn down; the moon shone full in the room, so that the innermost corner was plainly visible. This gave Petra fresh courage. She reached the window-sill; she could at last take hold with her whole hand and rest, for now that the goal was reached, her heart began to throb so violently that she could scarcely breathe. As this only grew worse the longer she waited, she felt that she must make haste, and suddenly she leaned her whole person against the window. A wild cry broke from the room. Signe had been sitting on one corner of the sofa, and now with a bound she stood in the middle of the room, warding off the dreadful apparition, wildly and with gestures of horror, then turned and fled. This figure on the window-panes in the bright moonlight, this reckless, offensive daring, this face outlined by the moon, all aglow with excitement! In the twinkling of an eye Petra realized that her unlucky fancy in itself was enough to fill any one with terror, and that her image would no doubt henceforth be a continual source of terror to Signe; consciousness forsook her, and with a piercing shriek she fell to the ground.
Every person in the house had rushed out at Signe’s cry, but had failed to find any one. This second cry set the whole gard astir, but all searching and shouting was in vain, until the priest chanced to look through the window in Signe’s chamber and espied Petra lying among the bushes. A great fear fell upon every one around, and it cost some exertion to get her free from the brambles. She was carried into Signe’s chamber, as there was no fire in the housekeeper’s room, was undressed and put to bed, where her hands and neck, which were pretty badly torn, were bathed by some, while others made the room comfortable, bright, and warm.
The calm coziness of the room, the snowy-white drapery of the windows, toilet-table, bed, and chairs, all made her think of Signe. She called to mind her pure, loving nature, her gentle voice, whose accents betokened the utmost guilelessness, her delicate comprehension of the thoughts of others, her tender benevolence. From all this she had now shut herself out; soon she would be banished from this room, in all probability obliged to leave the gard. And whither should she then go? People are not likely to be taken in a third time from the highway, and even if this were possible she no longer desired it, for it would only end in the same way. Not a living soul could have confidence in her again; whatever might be the cause of this, she felt that it was so. She had not gained one step, she felt that she would never advance any, for without the confidence of our fellow-creatures progress is an impossibility. How she prayed, how she wept! She tossed and writhed in her anguish of spirit until she became exhausted and fell asleep.
Soon in her sleep everything became snowy white, gradually, moreover, lofty as well; in her whole life she had never seen such lofty heights and such a dazzling glitter of millions of stars.