Chapter V: Part 5

Three days later Mary, with an English-speaking maid, was on her way to America, confident, as she had assured her father, of finding some one among her many acquaintances capable of giving her the assistance she required.

Everything happened as she had hoped, and in six weeks she was home again. It was fortunate that she had gone out when she did, for proceedings were on the point of being taken on the assumption that Anders Krog had been his brother's full partner, whereas his partnership was limited to the amount which he had invested in the business. This Mary was in a position to prove.

Her business success inspired her with courage. Why not go on? She had capital at her disposal now with which to commence operations. She felt very much inclined to try. And the timber trade too! Was she not as capable as any one of learning it? Was book-keeping by double-entry so very difficult? She set to work at once.

Anders Krog seemed to revive after his daughter's return. The certainty that the money which had not been in his brother's business was saved gave him the greatest satisfaction. Mary's future was his one thought.

Mrs. Dawes, on the contrary, became visibly worse. It seemed as if the once active, indefatigable woman had no strength left to draw upon. She did not even ask after Joergen; her correspondence she had quite given up.

Mary managed the property with the assistance of the overseer, and her father's money with the aid of a lawyer. She took lessons and studied. Twice a week she went to town.

The time passed thus until the beginning of November. Then Anders Krog received a letter from a near relation in Christiania, whose only child, a daughter, had just become engaged. He was particularly anxious that Mary should come and take part in the festivities to be held on this occasion. Several entertainments were to be given by both families concerned.

Mary was surprised at the pleasure with which the prospect suddenly filled her. The old Adam was not dead! She hummed cheerfully as she went about the house making her preparations. She was longing for new surroundings--and for new homage! It was as reparation she desired it; this she was obliged to confess to herself.

She had not been in Christiania many days before Anders received a letter proclaiming her praises in the strongest words in the language. It was not the engaged couple, but Mary, who attracted most attention at the balls; it was she who was distinguished and feted--the young couple themselves being amongst her most devoted admirers! Her unique style of beauty, her charm of manner, her accomplishments, her tact, had made an indelible impression upon them all. They must be allowed to keep her a little longer.

Anders Krog sent the letter in to Mrs. Dawes, with the request that it should be returned soon. He spent most of the day reading it.

Next morning Mary came home. She went upstairs quietly to her father's room. He was shocked with her look. She was ill, she said; and this was plainly visible. She was not pale, but grey; her eyes were heavy with sleep, her voice was faint. She embraced her father long and tenderly, but would neither look at his letter nor tell him about her visit. She must go to bed and rest, she told him, as soon as she had seen Mrs. Dawes.

She did not stay half a minute with Mrs. Dawes, whom she left terribly anxious.

She slept all day, ate a little at supper-time, and slept again all night.

When she got up she looked much as usual, and was active and interested in everything. Overseer, gardener, and housekeeper came with their reports, and she went her usual rounds. Then she made her father happy again by coming smiling into his room.

She had come to tell him that there was nothing now to prevent her marrying at once. They would be quite well enough off. Her father managed with great difficulty to say that he had been thinking the same himself. His eyes and the one hand said more, namely, that nothing would please him better.

But when she told Mrs. Dawes, and added that she thought of going at once to Stockholm to propose it (Joergen's name was not mentioned), Mrs. Dawes's usual perspicacity returned; she sat up in bed and began to weep bitterly. Then Mary's courage failed her; she threw herself on the bed and whispered: "It's only too true, Aunt Eva!" She wept as she had never wept in her life before. But as Mrs. Dawes's agitation was increased by this, she was obliged to raise her head and say: "Aunt Eva, dear, Father will hear us!" This subdued them a little. Then Mrs. Dawes told, through her tears, that this was her own story over again. Not until after her fiance had induced her to go the same length did she discover what a despicable man he was.

"Then we were obliged to marry. You see now, child, what we women are; we never learn."

"Oh, if only you and Father had not insisted on bringing this man into my life!" moaned Mary. "My instinct warned me to keep him at a distance, but you deadened it." She added at once: "No, don't take it like that, Aunt Eva! I am not reproaching you and Father. Besides, there's no use in complaining now. There is only one thing to be done--to shut my eyes and take the plunge."

In this Mrs. Dawes entirely agreed with her. "Afterwards you will do as I did; when your reputation is saved, you will separate from him."

"No, that I shall not do. There will be something then that will bind us together. Good God! good God!" she moaned, clinging to her old friend and smothering her cry in the bed-clothes.

Mrs. Dawes sat helpless, holding her. "I don't understand this," she said.

Mary raised her head quickly: "Do you not understand? He did it on purpose to bind me. He knew me."

Then she threw herself across the bed again, miserable, despairing. Between her outbursts of weeping came the cry: "There is no way out of it! no way out of it!"

Mrs. Dawes had neither the strength nor the courage to seek for words to comfort such distress.

It took its free course, until the anger cooled. Mrs. Dawes could feel that another emotion was gradually taking the upper hand. Mary raised her head; in her eyes, red with weeping, was hatred.

"I thought that I was giving myself to a gentleman; I discovered that it was to a speculator." She rose slowly.

"Will you say that to him, child?"

"Most certainly not! Nothing whatever to that effect. I shall merely say that it is necessary we should marry."

* * * * *

Three days later a letter was brought in to Joergen Thiis at the Foreign Office. It was from Mary. "I am at the Grand Hotel, and expect you to meet me there, outside the entrance, at two o'clock punctually."

He understood at once what this implied, and hurried off, for it was now a quarter to two. It did not strike him until he was on his way downstairs that their meeting was to be "outside the entrance"!

She did not wish to be alone with him in her room.

This altered his intentions. He ran up to his rooms and released from imprisonment a little black poodle puppy, a valuable animal, which he was training.

The middle of the road was filthy with slush and mud, and the dog was at once ordered to keep beside his master on the pavement, which was clean. After a few sprightly excursions he became obedient; he was afraid of Joergen's thin cane.

Mary's erect figure was distinguishable from a long distance. She stood with her back to them, looking in the direction of the palace. Joergen's heart beat violently; his courage was failing him.

Mary became aware of his approach by the dog's rushing up to her as to an old friend. She loved dogs; nothing but her constant change of abode had prevented her keeping one. And this was such a beautiful, healthy, well-kept animal, so entirely to her taste in every way, that she involuntarily bent down to take notice of him. As she did so she saw Joergen. She drew herself up again at once.

"Is this your dog?" she asked, as if they had parted half an hour ago.

"Yes," answered he, taking off his hat respectfully.

Then she bent down again and patted the dog: "What a beauty you are! a real beauty! No--keep down!"

"Keep down!" came in a more peremptory tone from Joergen.

Mary straightened herself again. "Where shall we go?" she asked. "I have never been in Stockholm before."

"We may as well go straight on. If we take the turning yonder we shall come to John Ericson's monument."

"Yes, I should like to see that." They walked on.

"Come here!" called Joergen to the dog, indicating the spot with his stick. He was offended by Mary's not even having offered him her hand. The dog came dejectedly, but cheered up immediately, for Mary spoke to him and patted him again.

"I have been over in America," she said.

"Yes, I heard that."

"The 50,000 kroner of which you spoke were not in my father's books, which made me certain that he must keep a separate account of the money in America. This account I found. It showed me the necessity for going across and saving what could be saved. The main sum was, of course, hopelessly lost."

"What success had you?"

"I brought home with me the accumulated interest of all these years."

"The money had been well invested?"

"Better, I believe, than it could have been in Europe."

Here followed a short intermezzo. The dog had been off the pavement, and now received a few cuts with the cane. This made Mary indignant.

"Dear me! the dog doesn't understand."

"Yes, he understands perfectly; but he has not learned to obey."

They walked on quickly. "What is your intention in telling me this?" asked Joergen.

"To show you that we can marry at once."

"How much is there?"

"About two hundred thousand."

"Dollars?"

"No, kroner. And the 50,000 besides."

"It is not enough."

"Along with the rest?"

"The 'rest' is hardly yielding anything at present. That you know."

Mary began to feel ill. He knew it by her voice when she said: "We have the timber to fall back upon."

"Which cannot be felled for three years; possibly not for four, or even five? That depends entirely on its growth."

Mary knew that he was right. Why had she mentioned it? "But--ten to twelve thousand kroner a year...?"

"Is not enough in our position."

Another intermezzo. There was no pavement here. They had come to a large, open space, thick with mud. Both had forgotten the dog. A fat, dirty ship-dog, also of the poodle tribe, had come on shore with some sailors, who were sauntering along in the same direction as Mary and Joergen. With this welcome playfellow Joergen's dog had joined company. Joergen had the greatest trouble in inducing him to come back--dirty as he already was. As soon as Mary called too, he came boldly and joyfully. But a stroke with the cane awaited him, and called forth a howl.

"It is strange," said Mary, "that you cannot treat a nice dog kindly!" She was thinking of his cruelty to their neighbour's old Lapland dog.

Joergen did not answer. But as soon as he felt sure that the dog was following meekly, he said: "Does Uncle Klaus know anything about this money?"

"I do not believe that any one knows about it except ourselves. Why do you ask?"

"Because it will be our best plan to speak to Uncle Klaus."

Mary stood still, astonished. "To Uncle Klaus?"

Joergen also stood still. They looked at each other now.

"It will be to our interest," continued Joergen.

"With Uncle Klaus----?" Mary stared. She did not understand him.

"For the sake of the family's honour he will do a great deal," said Joergen, giving her a quick side-glance as he moved on.

She had turned ghastly white, but she followed. "Must we confide in Uncle Klaus?" she whispered behind him. A lower depth of humiliation there could not be.

"Yes, we'll do so!" he answered encouragingly, almost gaily. "Now he will not say 'No'!"

Had this, too, entered into his calculations?

He went closer to her. "If Uncle Klaus knows nothing about the American money, we shall get more--do you see?"

How well he had thought it all out! In spite of her disgust, Mary was impressed. Joergen was a cleverer man than she had taken him for. Once he had the opportunity to develop all his gifts, he would surprise many besides herself.

She walked along, shrinking into herself like a leaf in too dry heat.

"You will manage this with Uncle Klaus yourself?"

"I shall go back with you now, as you may suppose. You need not have come. You had only to let me know."

Her head was bent and she was trembling. His superiority robbed her of her strength and courage; his words sickened her. As on a previous occasion, one foot refused to plant itself in front of the other; she could follow no farther.

Then she heard Joergen call: "Come here, you little devil!" The dog again! His dirty scamp of a playfellow had once more tempted him from the path of duty.

There was something peculiar about Joergen's voice when it commanded--it was subdued and sharp at the same time. The dog recognised it, but only looked round, irresolute. Being endowed with a happy frivolity of disposition, he rushed again merrily up to his comrade and went on with the game as if nothing had been said.

Mary stood learning a lesson. It was just underneath John Ericson's statue that this happened. She looked up at the statue, looked into John Ericson's kind, thoughtful eyes, until tears filled her own. She was utterly miserable.

Joergen was engrossed with the dog. The animal's education was conducted on the principle that he must never be allowed to have his own will when it conflicted with his master's. "Come here, you little rogue," said Joergen ingratiatingly. The dog was so surprised that he stopped in the middle of his game. "Good dog! come along!" He made one or two joyful bounds in Joergen's direction; he remembered the good times they had had together--perhaps such a time awaited him now. But, whatever the reason, doubt seized him--he turned back and was soon between his dirty friend's paws again, both of them sprawling in the mud.

The passers-by stopped, amused by the animal's disobedience. This annoyed Joergen. Mary knew it, and made an attempt to save the dog. Standing behind Joergen, she said softly in French: "It is not fair first to coax and then to strike." Her words only made him more obstinate. "This is a matter you don't understand," he answered, also in French, and continued coaxing.

With the short-sighted trustfulness common to sweet-tempered puppies, the dog stopped in his game and looked at Joergen. Joergen, with his stick behind his back, advanced persuasively. He was furious at the laughter of the onlookers, but muffled his rage in soft words. "Come on, old fellow, come on!"

"Don't believe him!" shouted an English sailor. But it was too late. Joergen had hold of one of the long ears. The dog howled; Joergen must have pinched hard. Mary called in French: "Don't beat him!" Joergen struck--not hard; but the terrified puppy yelled piercingly. He struck again--not hard this time either; it was done chiefly to annoy them all. The dog howled so pitifully that Mary could not bear to look in that direction. Gazing into John Ericson's good, kind eyes, she said: "These blows have separated you and me, Joergen!"

Instantaneously he let the dog go and stood up. He saw her eyes flame; her cheeks were white; she held herself erect and faced him--above her John Ericson's head.

A moment later, and she had turned her back on him and was walking quickly away, with light, glad steps--the dog following.

The onlookers laughed, the English sailors derisively; Joergen started in pursuit.

But when Mary saw that the dog was following her and not him, and that the creature's eyes sought hers to learn what she intended to do, the fear she had felt before turned into wild exhilaration. Such revulsions of feeling were not uncommon with her. She clapped her hands and ran, and the dog sprang along at her side, barking. The spell was broken, the disgrace was cast from her! Farewell to Joergen and all his ways!

"That's what we are saying, my little rescuer, eh?" The dog barked.

She looked round to see Joergen. He dared not hurry, for the sake of appearances.

"But we two dare, don't we?" Again she clapped her hands and ran, and the dog ran with her, barking.

Then she slackened her pace, and played with him and talked to him; Joergen was so far behind. "You ought to be called 'liberator'; but that is too long a name for a little black puppy. You shall be called John--be named after him who looked at me and gave me courage." Off she and the dog ran again. "You follow me and not him! Well done, well done! That is what he whom you are called after did. He would have nothing to do with the slave-drivers; his friends were those who set free!"

Now they were round the corner. Joergen was not visible. When he came to the hotel, he was told, though he had seen Mary go in, that she was not at home. He said that she had his dog. The waiter professed ignorance. There was nothing for it but to go. He had lost both her and the dog.

Up in her room Mary asked the dog: "Will you be mine? Will you go with me, little black John?" She clapped her hands to make him bark his joyful: Yes. The question of ownership was settled thus. A letter which came from Joergen, probably on this subject, she burned unread.

She expected him to appear at the station, at the time when the train for Norway left, to claim his property. She drove boldly up with her dog at her side, washed, combed, perfumed. Joergen was not there.

* * * * *

Mary slept all night with the dog at her feet, on her travelling rug.

But with morning came reflection. Now she was alone, alone with the responsibility.

Hitherto she had been forcing herself into the one narrow way of escape--to marry Joergen at once, bear her child abroad, and after that--endure as long as she could.

But to marry the man she loathed, merely in order to save her good name--how inconceivable such a step now seemed to her! She had tried to take it, because she knew what those around her thought on such subjects, and because she occupied a peculiar position; upon festal garments a stain was unendurable.

But now she said "For shame!" at the thought of it--said it aloud. And the dog instantly looking up, she added: "Yes, John, it was 'to the dogs' I was going when I set off on this journey!"

But what was she to do now?

She knew what could be done. But two besides herself would be in that secret--Joergen and another. This in itself was prohibitive. She could never again hold up her head proudly and independently--and to be able to do so was a necessity to her.

Well, what then?

As long as her journey and what it entailed had seemed to her to be imperative, for honour's sake inevitable, the idea of the last, the very last refuge had not suggested itself seriously.

Now it faced her in sad earnest!

She looked mournfully into the dog's honest eyes, as if she were searching for a way of escape from this too. She read in them the most unmixed happiness and devotion. Burying her face in his curls, she wept. She was so young still, she did not want to die.

For the first time she wept for herself, was sorry for herself. It did not seem to her that she had done anything to deserve this. Nor could she account to herself for the manner in which it had all come about.

The dog understood that she was unhappy. He licked her hands, looked up into her face, and whined to be allowed to jump up and comfort her.

She lifted him up and bent over him. Imagining that she meant to play with him, he began to snap at her hands. She let him have his way, and the two were soon engaged in a merry, babyish game, which lasted a long time, because John refused to be satisfied; every time she stopped, he began again.

Then she talked to him. "Little black John, you remind me of the negroes. You remind me that your namesake ransomed negroes from slavery. You have saved me from being enslaved. But it is a sorry deliverance, I can tell you, if I am not to have the right to live as well as you. Don't you think so too?" Then she began to cry again.

In Christiania she drove from one station to the other wearing a thick veil, the dog beside her on the seat. She saw none of her acquaintances. If they knew----!

Oh, that condemned and executed crow, which Joergen wanted to pick up and she fled from--she had no idea how well she had seen it, seen the torn neck, the hacked body, the empty eye-sockets! The red wounds gaped at her; she could not get them out of her thoughts during this terrible drive.

It was winter now. She had not seen winter for many years. Dying, withered vegetation she had seen, but not winter's transforming power, not desolation decked in the fairest, purest white, with capricious variations where the landscape was wooded. The fjord was not yet ice-covered; steel-grey, defiant, hard, the sea came rolling up from every direction, like a hydra-headed monster challenging to combat.

Her imagination had been excited by the drive through the town; now the powers of nature took possession of it. All the more intensely did she feel her impotence. Could _she_ accept any challenge to combat? Would _she_ ever know the period of transformation? For her there was no course open but to die.

Whilst she was wrestling with these thoughts she suddenly saw her father's face. How could she live without telling him what was impending? And never, never would she be able to tell him! She could not even let him know that she had broken off her engagement. This alone would be more than he could bear.

What if, instead of speaking, she were to disappear? Good God! that would kill him at once.

During the rest of the journey she felt no more fear of others, none whatever for herself--it was all for him, for him alone!

She arrived in such an exhausted and miserable condition that she began to cry when she saw the house. There can have been few sadder walks than hers up to it. Even the dog's joyful antics when he reached firm ground could not distract her. She went straight to her own room to wash and change her dress, requesting that her father and Mrs. Dawes should be told of her arrival. Little Nanna went with her, to help her. The child played with the dog whenever she had an unoccupied moment; this annoyed Mary, but she said nothing.

She looked utterly worn-out, and it was only too evident that she had wept. But perhaps this was fortunate. Her father would understand at once that all was not well. If he were only able to bear it! She would tell him that she had had a long, fatiguing journey, and that Joergen did not consider the means at their disposal sufficient for people in their position to marry upon. They must wait and see what Uncle Klaus would do.

If she cried--and she was sure to cry, so tired and heart-broken was she--it would prepare him for what was to follow. Oh, if he were only able to bear it!

But what else could she do? If she did not go to him at once he would suspect mischief, and feel alarmed, and that would be quite as bad for him.

She trembled as she stood at his door. Not only from anxiety for him--no, also because she must not throw herself down beside him, tell him everything, and weep till she could weep no more. How dreadful it all was!

But life is sometimes merciful!

Anders had not been told of his daughter's arrival, because he was asleep. The nurse had waited in the passage to let Mary know this when she came out of her room. Why did the woman not knock at the door and tell her? Simply because it was not natural to her to act thus. However, when Mary did come out, she was no longer in the passage, but half way downstairs. One of the servants was carrying up the invalid's dinner. The nurse, distressed at being unable to do this herself as usual, had thought that she would at least take it from her on the stairs.

Whilst she was doing this, Mary opened the door of her father's room. She stood still in the doorway, because the nurse, who had hastened up again, was whispering: "He is asleep, Miss Krog."

But the dog, understanding nothing, was in the room already, already had his paws on the edge of the bed and his face close to the face of the sick man, who was awaking--who awoke, with this black apparition staring into his eyes. The eyes opened wide with terror, gazed round the room, and met Mary's. She stood in the doorway, horror-struck, pale as death. Her father raised his head towards her; then the eyes became fixed and a far-away look came into them. The head sank back.

"He is dying!" cried the nurse behind Mary, setting down the tray and rushing forwards.

Mary would not believe it at first; but when she understood that it was true, she threw herself upon him with a heartrending scream. It was answered by one from Mrs. Dawes in the next room. The servants who hurried there found her lying unconscious. She recovered sufficiently to be able to stammer some unintelligible English words. The doctor said: "It will soon be all over with her too." Anders Krog was dead.

Mary clung to her reason as if she were grasping it with her hands. She must not, must not give way--must not scream, must not think. _She_ had not killed him! She must listen to and remember what the others said, must give her consent to what they were proposing, which was to send for her father's sister. When she witnessed that sister's grief, she felt that she must not give way to her own. She must not, must not! "Help me, help me," she cried, "that I may not go mad!" And, turning to the doctor, she said: "_I_ did not kill him, did I?"

The doctor ordered her to bed, prescribed cold compresses, and remained beside her. He, too, impressed on her the necessity of self-control.

Not till little Nanna brought the dog to her next morning, and the animal insisted on being taken into her arms, was she able to shed tears.

During the course of the day she improved a little. Her grief was alleviated by the heartfelt sympathy, often expressed in the most moving terms, which was conveyed to her by the numberless telegrams that arrived in town and were telephoned from there. All this sympathy for herself, admiration for her father, and intense desire to comfort and strengthen her, helped her greatly. From the incautious manner in which one of these telegrams was transmitted she learned that Mrs. Dawes, too, was dead. They had not dared to tell her. But the great and general sympathy helped her to bear this also. Now she understood how it was so great and general. Every one but herself knew that she had lost both, that she was alone in the world.

The message which touched her most came from Paris, and was as follows: "My beloved Mary,--Can it comfort you in your great sorrow to know that there is a resting-place here for you, and that I am at your service--to travel with you, to come to you, to do whatever you wish!--Yours unalterably, ALICE."

She knew who had sent Alice intimation.

Joergen, too, telegraphed. "If I could be of the slightest service or comfort to you I would come at once. I am broken-hearted."

The same touching, reverential sympathy was shown on the occasion of the funeral, which was hastened on Mary's account, and took place three days after the deaths. Amongst the countless wreaths, the most beautiful of all was Alice's. It was taken up to Mary--she wished to see it. The whole house was fragrant with flowers on that winter day, their sweet breath a message of love to those who slept there.

Mary did not go downstairs; she refused to see the coffins, or the flowers, or any of the preparations that had been made for the entertainment of friends who came from a distance.

More people came than the house could hold, and at the chapel there was a still larger gathering.

The clergyman asked if he might go upstairs and see Miss Krog. Mary sent him her best thanks, but declined the visit.

Immediately afterwards little Nanna came to ask if she would see Uncle Klaus. The old man had sent her a very touching telegram, in which he asked if he could not be of service to her in any way. And his wreath was so magnificent that, after hearing the servants' description of it, Mary had made them bring it, too, for her to look at.

She now answered: Yes. And in came the tall man, in deep mourning, gasping as if he had difficulty in breathing. No sooner did he see Mary standing by the bed, a figure of ivory draped in black, than he sank on to the first chair he could reach, and burst into loud weeping. The sound resembled what is heard when the mainspring of a large clock breaks, and the whole machinery unreels itself. It was the weeping of a man who had not wept since he was a child--a sound alarmed at itself. He did not look up.

But he had an errand, so much Mary understood. He tried twice to speak, but the attempt only increased the violence of the weeping fit. Then, motioning despairingly, he rose and left the room. He did not shut the door, and she heard him sobbing as he went along the passage and downstairs, to go straight home.

Mary was deeply touched. She knew that her father had been the old man's best, perhaps his only friend. But she understood that it was not for him alone the tears had been shed; they told also of sympathy with her, and of remorse. Had it not been so, Uncle Klaus would have stayed beside the coffin.

The sweet-toned chapel bell began to toll. The dog, which had been kept prisoner in Mary's room all day, and was very restless, rushed to the window towards the sea, and put his fore-paws up on the sill, to look out. Mary followed him.

At that moment Uncle Klaus drove off. The singing of a psalm began in the rooms below, and the funeral procession issued from the house. The coffins were carried by the peasants from the neighbouring farms. When the first came in sight, Mary fell on her knees and wept as if her heart would break. She saw no more.

She flung herself across the bed. The strokes of the bell seemed to cut into her flesh; she imagined that she felt the stripes they raised. Her mind became more and more confused. She was certain now that her father, when he caught sight of her in the doorway, had guessed the truth, and that this had killed him. Mrs. Dawes had followed him, as she always did. Her love for Anders Krog was the one great love of her life. They were both here now. And Mary's mother, too, was in the room, in a long white robe. "You are cold, child!" she said, and took her into her arms--for Mary had become a child again, a little innocent child. She fell asleep.

When she awoke and heard no sound, outside the house or in, she folded her hands and said, half aloud: "This was best for us, for all three. We have been mercifully dealt with."

She looked round for the dog; she craved for sympathy. But some one must have taken him away whilst she was asleep.

No more was needed to make the tears flow again. Welling forth from the inexhaustible fountain of grief within, they poured down her cheeks and over the hands with which she was supporting her heavy head.

"Now I can begin to think of myself again. I am alone now."

THE CRISIS

When Mary was visiting the graves next day, her grief was distracted by the following little occurrence.

It was Saturday, and the eve of one of the few Sundays in the year when service was held in the chapel. On such occasions it was customary to decorate the graves. As the farm to the right of Krogskogen had once formed part of that estate, its owners had their burial-place here. The peasant's wife had come with flowers to deck a new grave, and the old Lapland dog was with her. Mary's little poodle at once rushed at him fearlessly, and to the woman's and Mary's surprise the old dog, after cautious and minute inspection, made friends with the giddy youngster. Though he as a rule could not bear puppies, he quite fell in love with this one. He allowed his ears to be pulled and his legs to be bitten; he even laid himself down and pretended to be vanquished. This delighted Mary so much that she accompanied the woman part of the way home, to watch the game. And she was more than repaid for so doing. She heard warm praise of her father, and some of the anecdotes of him that were circulating in the neighbourhood at this time, and were ensuring him an honoured memory.

She thought as she walked home with her excited dog: "Am I beginning to resemble Mother? Has there always been in me something of her which until now has not had room to develop; something of her simple nature?"

This day brought two surprises.

The first was a letter from Uncle Klaus. He addressed her as: "My honoured and dear god-daughter, Miss Mary Krog." She had had no idea that she was his god-daughter; her father had never told her, probably did not know it himself.

Uncle Klaus wrote: "There are feelings which are too strong for words, especially for written words. I am no letter-writer; but I take the liberty of intimating to you in this manner, since I was unable to do it by word of mouth, that on the day when your father, my best friend, and Mrs. Dawes, your revered foster-mother, died, and you were left alone, I made you, my dear god-daughter, my heiress.

"My fortune is not nearly so large as is generally supposed; I have had great losses of late. But there is still enough for us both--that is to say, if your share is under your own management _and not Joergen's_. I write on the supposition that you will now marry.

"Mrs. Dawes's will has been in my hands for many years, and I have had charge of her money. I opened the will yesterday. She has left everything to you. This means about 60,000 kroner. But the same holds good of this money as of your father's; it is for the moment yielding almost no interest.

"Your godfather,
"KLAUS KROG."

Mary answered at once:

"MY DEAR GODFATHER,--Your letter has touched me deeply. I thank you with all my heart.

"But I dare not accept your generous gift.

"Joergen is your adopted son, and on no account will I stand in his way.

"You must not be angry with me for this. I cannot possibly act differently.

"In the matter of Mrs. Dawes's will, I shall come to a decision ere long, and shall then write to you again.

"Your grateful
"MARY KROG."

Whilst she was despatching this letter she heard a carriage drive up, and presently a card was brought in to her, on which she read: "Dr. Margrete Roey."

It was a little time before Miss Roey came in. She had been taking off her wraps. It was a cold day. The delay increased Mary's excitement, with the result that she trembled and turned pale as the tall, strong woman with the kind eyes entered the room. She saw the impression made by this on the kind eyes, which now poured forth all their compassion upon her. As if they had known each other for many years, Mary went up to her visitor, laid her head on her shoulder, and wept. Margrete Roey pressed the unhappy girl affectionately to her breast.

After they had seated themselves, she told her errand, which was to inquire when Mary intended to go abroad. Mary asked in surprise: "Have I spoken to any one about that?"

Miss Roey said that she had heard it from the nurse.

"Oh!" said Mary, "I have no idea what I said in the state I was in at that time. I have certainly given the matter no thought since."

"Then you are not going abroad?"

Mary sat silent for a moment. "All I can say is that I don't know. I have not yet made any plans."

Margrete Roey was embarrassed. Mary saw this, or rather felt it. "You also have perhaps had thoughts of travelling!" she said.

"Yes, and I wanted to know if I could be of any use to you. I should be happy to arrange my journey so that we could travel together."

"Where are you going?"

"I am going abroad to study--Paris first. The nurse told me it was there you meant to go," said Margrete, beginning to feel very awkward. Her wish had been to help Mary, but it seemed to her now that she was intruding.

"I appreciate your kindness," said Mary. "It is possible that I mentioned Paris. I don't remember. The truth is that I have come to no decision."

"Please forgive me, then. The whole has been a misunderstanding," said Miss Roey, rising.

Mary felt that she must not let her go, but her strength seemed to fail her. It was not until Margrete had reached the door that she managed to say: "I am coming to speak to you one day soon, Miss Roey." She said it in a low voice, without looking up. "I am not well enough to do it to-day," she added.

"I can see that. It is only what I expected; so I brought something with me for you--if you will only take it. It is the most invigorating tonic I know."

Mary felt all her sympathies go out to this woman. She thanked her heartily, adding: "Then, as soon as I am a little stronger, I may come?"

"You will be very welcome."

"Perhaps," said Mary, blushing, "you would not mind coming to me?"

"To your house in the market-place?" asked Miss Roey.

"Yes, to our house in the market-place. Though I ought no longer to say 'our' house!" The tears came again.

"You have only to let me know, and I shall come at once."

A week later Mary went to town--in the wildest November storm, the worst they had had in these parts. The fjords were not yet frozen over, so the steamer managed to reach town, but had to remain there.

Margrete Roey was much astonished at being summoned on such a day. It was to a warm, comfortable house she came, not the deserted one with the drawn down blinds which she was accustomed to see. She was conducted up an old-fashioned broad stair; the whole interior was in the style of the old town-houses of the beginning of last century.

Mary was in the farthest away of the suite of sitting-rooms, a red boudoir, unchanged since her mother's day. She was sitting on a sofa, beneath a large portrait of her mother. When she stood up in her black dress, pale and heavy-eyed under her crown of red hair, it struck Margrete Roey that she was the very image of sorrow, the most beautiful one that could be imagined. A solemn tranquillity surrounded her. She spoke as low as the storm outside permitted.

"I feel that you respect another's grief. I am also certain that you betray no secrets."

"I do not."

A little time passed before Mary said: "Who is Joergen Thiis?"

"Who is he----?"

"I have several reasons for believing that you can tell me."

"You must first allow me to put a question. Are you not engaged to Joergen Thiis?"

"No."

"People say that you are."

Mary remained silent.

"You have perhaps been engaged to him?"

"Yes."

"But," said Margrete quickly and joyously, "you have broken off the engagement?"

Mary nodded.

"Many will rejoice to hear it; for Joergen Thiis is not worthy of you."

Mary showed no signs of surprise.

"You know something?" she asked.

"Doctors, Miss Krog, know more than they may tell."

"Yet I do believe that he loved me," said Mary, to excuse herself.

"We all saw that," replied Margrete. "He undoubtedly loved you better than he had ever loved before. Nor was it surprising," she added. "But when I lived in Christiania I knew a sweet young girl who at that time was the one love of his life! She allowed herself to be deeply moved by this, and as they could not marry, she gave herself to him."

"What did she do?" asked Mary, startled. Had she understood aright? The storm was howling so loudly outside that it was difficult to hear.

Margrete repeated distinctly and impressively: "She was a warm-hearted girl, who believed that she was doing right, as she was his one and only love."

"They could not marry?"

"It was not possible. So she gave herself to him without marriage."

Mary started up, but did not move forward. She was going to say something, but stopped.

"Do not be so startled, Miss Krog. It is nothing very uncommon."

This information lowered Mary considerably in her own estimation. She slowly seated herself again.

"You cannot have had any experience of this sort of thing, Miss Krog?"

Mary shook her head.

"In which case it surprises me that you were able to escape from Joergen Thiis in time; _he_ has had plenty."

Mary made no reply.

"We expected, especially after your father and Mrs. Dawes both became invalids, that you would have been married before autumn."

"We intended to be, but it proved impossible."

Margrete could not fathom what lay beneath this enigmatic answer; but she said, with a searching glance: "This, doubtless, added very considerably to his ardour?"

Mary trembled inwardly, but controlled herself.

"You seem to know him?" she said.

Margrete reflected for a moment, then answered: "Yes. I am older than you, older than Joergen, too. But in Christiania I also, to my shame be it spoken, was infatuated with him. This he discovered--and tried to take advantage of." She laughed.

Mary turned pale, rose, and walked to the window. The wind was lashing the rain against the panes with ever-increasing force. She remained for a few moments gazing out into the storm, then came and stood in front of Margrete, agitated, restless.

"Will you promise me never to tell any one what we have spoken about to-day--under any circumstances whatever?"

Margrete looked at her in surprise. "You wish me to tell no one that you have asked me about Joergen Thiis?"

"It is my express desire that no one should know it."

"Do you mean any one in particular?"

Mary looked at her. "Any one in particular?" She did not understand.

Margrete rose. "A man came to this town on purpose to tell you that Joergen Thiis was not worthy of you. He came too late; but I think he deserves to know that you have discovered for yourself what Joergen Thiis is."

Mary answered, eagerly: "Tell _him_. By all means tell _him_!... So that was why he came," she added slowly. "I am glad that you have told me. Because my other reason for wishing to see you was--" she hesitated a little, "the other thing I wanted to ask you was--to give my kind remembrances to your brother."

"That I shall do, gladly. Thank you for the message. You know what you are to my brother."

Mary looked away. She struggled with herself a moment, then said: "I am one of the unhappy people who cannot understand their own lives--cannot understand what has happened. I can find no clue to it. But something tells me that your brother has had his share in it."

She evidently wished to say more, but could not. Instead, she returned to the window and remained standing there again. The storm without called into the room with its thousand-voiced wrath. It was calling her.

"What a terrible storm!" said Margrete, raising her voice.

"I am rejoicing at the thought of going out into it," said Mary, turning round with sparkling eyes.

"You are never going out in this weather!" exclaimed Margrete.

"I mean to walk home," answered Mary.

"To _walk_?"

Mary came forward and placed herself in front of Margrete, as if she were about to say something wild and dreadful. She stopped short, but what she had not said rushed into her eyes, into her whole face, to her heart. She flung up her arms and with a loud groan threw herself back on her mother's sofa, and covered her face with her hands.

Margrete knelt down beside her. Mary allowed her friend to put her arms round her and draw her to her like a tired, suffering child. And she began to cry, as a child cries, touchingly and helplessly; her head sank on to Margrete's shoulder.

But only for a moment; then she sat up with a sudden start. For Margrete had whispered into her ear: "There is something the matter with you. Speak to me."

Not a word came in answer. Margrete dared not say more. She rose; she felt that it was time to go.

Nor did Mary do anything to retain her. She too had risen to her feet. They bade each other good-bye.

But Margrete could not help saying, as she left the room: "Do you really mean to walk----?"

Mary gave a nod which implied: "Enough has been said! That is my affair!"

Margrete closed the door.

* * * * *

The lamps were lit in the streets when Mary left the house. It was with difficulty she could keep her feet in the gusts that blew from the south-west, strengthened by compression between the houses. She had on a waterproof cloak and hood, firmly secured, and long waterproof boots. She walked as fast as she could. One thought alone remained to her after the conversation with Margrete Roey. But it united with the wind and the rain in driving her, lashing her on--the thought of Margrete's horrified eyes and pale face when she said: "There is something the matter with you; speak to me!" Good God! Margrete understood. They would all look at her like this when they heard. Thus terribly had she disappointed and wounded those who had believed in her. She felt as if she had them all behind her, as if it were from them she was fleeing--the flock of crows! She flew on, and had reached the outskirts of the town before she knew where she was. Here, beyond the last lamp, it was pitch dark; she had to wait a little before she could see her way. But what a pace she set off at then! The gale was coming half from behind, half from the side.

The judgment passed upon her was driving her out into the wide world--no, much farther than that! It seemed to her that at the moment when she first understood her position a packet had been given her, which she had not opened until now. She had felt all the time what was in it, but it was only yesterday she had opened it. It contained a large black veil, large enough for her to conceal herself and her shame in--the veil of death. But even this was given upon a certain condition--a condition she had known about since she was a child. For as a child she had heard the story of a grand-aunt of her own, who, in the hope of concealing that she had become pregnant during her husband's absence, walked barefooted upon an ice-cold floor, secretly, night after night, in order that she might die a natural death. It would never be known that she had brought it about herself, so there would be no occasion to ask why she had done it.

But some one had heard her pacing thus night after night, and the question was asked after all.

Things should be managed better this time! The weakness to which Mary had so unexpectedly given way in Margrete's presence was quite gone. Now she had the strength to carry out her purpose.

As if it were to be put to the test at once, something shadowy appeared at her side. It rose unexpectedly out of the darkness, so alarmingly near that she set off running. To her horror she seemed to hear through the roar of the storm that she was being pursued! Then she took courage and stood still. Whatever was following her stopped too. Mary moved on; it also moved on. "This will never do," thought she. "If I am not brave enough to face this, I am not brave enough to face what comes next." She thereupon turned and went straight up to the pursuing monster, which whinnied good-naturedly. It was a young horse, seeking in its desolateness the neighbourhood of a human being. She patted it and spoke to it. It was a messenger from life--the desolate was comforting the despairing. But, as the animal continued to follow her, she took it in to the next farm. She must be alone. The people at the farm were much astonished. They could not understand any one being out in such weather, least of all a woman! Mary hurried away from the light and out into the darkness again.

The little occurrence had strengthened her. She knew now that she had courage, and walked on quickly.

She was nearing the first headland round the face of which the road was cut. It either really was the case, or it seemed to her, that the hurricane was increasing. It must surely soon have reached its worst. To her it represented her own misery and shame. This thought strengthened her. It was not death she feared, but life.

She thought it all out again as she pressed on. She would not save herself by allowing her child to be killed, nor would she send it away to strangers and thus disown it; she could not live without self-respect.

If a suitor were to come--and doubtless as many would come now as in days past--should she begin by confessing? Or should she maintain a dishonourable silence? There was only one thing she could do with honour--die with her child. She felt incapable of anything else. But no one must have any suspicions. She must die of an illness; therefore an illness must be ensured that would end in death.

This much she owed to herself; for she was as certain to-day as on the evening when she went into Joergen's room that her action was not one for which she deserved to be disgraced.

It had been a terrible mistake, that was certain; but the fault did not lie with her. There had no doubt been a considerable admixture of natural instinct in the feeling that prompted it; but even granting this, it was an action of which she was not ashamed. She owed it to herself to die with the undiminished sympathy of all who knew her; she also owed it to the companions who had recognised her as their leader. She had not disloyally forfeited their faith in her.