Chapter VI: Part 6

She was reaching the most exposed part of a headland now, and the struggle which began there unconsciously became to her a struggle to settle this question. It was as if all the powers of nature were trying to wrest her self-respect from her and procure her condemnation. The sea was open here, and from miles out the waves came rolling in, gathering force as they came. When they struck the cliff they leaped yards into the air. The largest of them lashed her with their highest jets. "Take that! Take that!" And the gale put forth all its strength in its endeavour to force her away from the hewn cliff. It seemed, moreover, to be trying, though her skirts were well protected by her cloak, to twist and tear them off her. "Stand naked in your shame, in your shame!"

But the raging waves did not frighten her into feeling herself guilty, nor did the gale succeed in blowing her against the parapet, and over it into the sea. She had to walk bent; she had even to stand still when the worst gusts came; but as soon as they were over she set off again, and held steadily on her way. "I will not part with my wreath of honour; I will die with it. Therefore _you_ shall not have me!"

She rounded the point, and turned inland towards the low ground between it and the next headland. There had once been a landslip here; the piece of the cliff which had fallen lay as heaps of stones below, and through these the road now passed. Amongst the crumbling blocks by the wayside stood a slender birch, quite alone. Mary remembered it as she came up to it. Had it weathered such a storm uninjured? Yes, it was safe and sound. She paused beside it to recover her breath. It bent so low that every moment she thought: Now it must break! But up it came again as fresh as ever. She herself could not stand still, with such hurricane force was the gale blowing here; but the young birch, which was so tall and had such a spreading top and such a slender, swaying stem--it stood, quite alone.

She was thinking about this as she descended towards the level ground, when the gale suddenly lashed the rain into her face; each jet was a sharp arrow. "Ah, no!" she thought; "_this_ would be what I should feel if I tried to face the storm which awaits me."

The lights from the little farmhouses, the only thing that she saw, proclaimed peace. But she knew that it was not for her.

She sped swiftly along the shore, but she was becoming tired now. One sign of this was that imagination began to take the upper hand; the reality disappeared in the semblance--in old mythical conceptions. As she toiled up and outwards to the next point, the sea was no longer sea, but hundreds upon hundreds of gaping sea monsters, roaring with desire. And raging aerial monsters with tremendous wings had promised those below to fling her out to them. With all the strength remaining to her she kept close to the rocky wall; but beneath it here there was a ditch, into which she fell and was wet through. More enemies still are abroad to-night, she thought, as she crawled out. Fortunately this headland was a narrow one; she soon reached the next stretch of level ground. Now there was only one more point to round. It was not to save her life that she was so unwilling to be blown into the sea, but to save her honour! If she were found in the sea, or disappeared altogether, they would say that she had sought death--and would try to discover her reason for doing so.

But now she heard through the darkness the bark of the old Lapland dog. It sounded quite near. She had been walking faster than she thought; she was close to his home. There were its lights!

The mere thought of meeting a living creature that cared for her moved her. She loved life, and she no longer believed that she was so unfit to live. This familiar voice calling to her through the darkness affected her as the sight of people on shore affects those clinging to a wreck.

As she passed the farm, the dog left his sentinel's post and came to be spoken to, wagging his tail and giving friendly little barks. Mary gave his wet coat three farewell pats and hastened on. She soon heard him bark again, but it was another, angrier bark. She involuntarily thought of Joergen--and continued to think of him all this last part of the road, which, but for him, would have been sacred to her father. How many hundred times, beginning as a little child, she had walked and cycled with her father here! Now this place too had been spoiled by Joergen. Never could she walk here again without _him_. Not a step further in her life could she take without him!

Involuntarily she looked heavenwards--to see nothing but clouds and thick darkness. She reached the last headland utterly exhausted, and rounded it without thinking at all, without any feeling that it was the last time, but also without fear.

Of what was before her now Mary was as certain as of the road beneath her feet, which was leading her through the Krogskogen fields to the landing-stage. It was so dark that her eyes, though by this time accustomed to the darkness, did not distinguish the white walls of the chapel until she was close to the landing-place. Her thoughts rushed to the graves in the churchyard, but deserted them again instantly in order to concentrate themselves on what she was about. She stepped on to the quay without hesitation and walked quickly along it. The gale did not threaten here, the rain no longer lashed her face; both had become subdued and friendly powers from the time she had set foot on Krogskogen soil, with its protecting ridge and islands. In other circumstances she would have felt relief and possibly peace in return to the shelter of her home--now every thought was blunted. Quite mechanically she hurried on. Mechanically she unfastened some of the buttons of her cloak to get at the key, mechanically inserted it in the key-hole and opened the door of the bathing-house. Not until she was standing inside in the pitch-darkness did her senses awake and feel alarm. When the remnant of south-west wind which was blowing here slammed the door, she shuddered. She felt as if she were not alone.

And now she must undress and go down the steps to become ice-cold--ice-cold! Then dress again and go home to fever, and to its consequences.

If the fever did not do what she expected of it, she had what would help. She had found it amongst Mrs. Dawes's stores. The blame would be laid on the fever.

But now that the moment had come for her to begin and undress, she shrank and shivered. It was the water, the ice-cold water she was shrinking from. There would likely be ice at the edge here, and she would have to walk over it with her bare feet. No, she would keep on her stockings; she could dry them afterwards, and no one would have any suspicion. But the ice-cold water ... what if she took cramp in it? No, she would keep herself in motion, she would swim. But what if she cut herself on the ice in coming out? She must keep on her underclothing too. But would it be dry by to-morrow morning? Yes, if she hung it near the stove. She would lock her door, and have everything in order before the maid came. If only she were in her right mind in the morning! She had never been ill; she had no idea what would happen.

Before falling into this long train of reflections, she had unbuttoned her waterproof. Now, instead of taking off the hood, as was natural, she began, without conscious intention, to unfasten her dress at the neck, where the locket with her mother's portrait hung. Her hands shook as she did it, and her body also began to tremble. She had not thought of the locket for many years, nor was she thinking of it now; the trembling had no connection with it. But the locket became, as it were, involved in the trembling. She must take it off. If only she did not forget it! She would make sure by putting it into her pocket at once.

Oh, horror of horrors! what did she hear? Firm steps on the landing stage, coming nearer and nearer. The trembling stopped; instinctively Mary fastened, first the collar of her dress, then her cloak--quickly, quickly. Who could have any errand here? It could not be to the bathing-house at any rate.

But it was straight there the steps came. The handle was seized, the door flew open, and the doorway was filled by a huge figure in a waterproof cloak. The hooded head was considerably higher than the door. An electric lamp threw light straight into Mary's face. She gave a wild scream as she recognised Frans Roey.

Such a feeling of faintness came over her that she was on the point of falling; but she was seized and carried out. It all happened in an instant. She heard the door banged; she was lifted and carried off. She could not say a word, nor did Frans say anything.

But before they had left the landing-stage she had come to herself again. Of this Frans was conscious; and presently he heard her say: "This is violence!" No answer. After a determined struggle to free herself, she repeated in a clearer, stronger voice: "This is violence!" No answer. But his free arm was put gently round her. She asked excitedly: "How do you come here?" Now he answered. "My sister told me." His voice embraced her as gently as his arm. But she struggled against both. "If your sister has any affection for me at all, or if you have, leave me alone!" He walked on. "Let me go, I say! This is shameful!" She struggled so vigorously that he was obliged to change his hold; but where she was she had to remain. With tears in her voice she said: "I allow no one to decide for me." Then he answered: "You may struggle your hardest, but I will carry you home. And if you do not obey me, I shall have you placed under restraint."

The words acted like a fetter of iron. She became motionless.

"You will place me under restraint?"

"I shall, for you have lost control over yourself."

Never since she could hear at all had she heard anything so silly as this. But she would not discuss the matter with him. She merely said: "And do you imagine this will be of any use?"

"I think so. When you see that we are doing everything in our power for you, you will give in to us, because you are good."

After a short silence she said: "I cannot accept help from any one who has not entire respect for me--" and she began to cry.

Then Frans Roey stood still and peered under her hood. "You don't imagine that _I_ have not entire respect for you? Do you suppose that I would be carrying you now if I had not? To me you are all that is noblest and most beautiful. That is why I am carrying you. You may have done Heaven knows what wrong deed--_I_ know that if you did it, it was from the noblest of motives. You can't act otherwise! If you have been deceived, if you have made a terrible mistake--why, I love you all the better!--for then you are unhappy--that I know. And perhaps now it may be possible for me, too, to help you. No greater happiness could befall me. I will leave you, if you insist upon it. I will marry you, if you can trust yourself to me. I will kill the fellow, if _that_ is your wish. I will do anything whatever for you, if you will only be happy--for that is my chief desire."

He stopped short, but began again.

"When I set off after you this evening, I was in greater misery than I had ever imagined possible. She is going to throw herself into the sea, I thought. Of course I shall go after her. In this storm it means death to us both; but there is no help for that. Nor was that what distressed me. No, it was your unhappiness, your despair--the idea that you could believe yourself unworthy to live--you who could not act unworthily to gain life's highest prize! Never, never have I known a human being for whom I could answer as confidently. And I could not tell you this; I could not help you. I knew you; I dared not come near you. But I have been able to save you after all. For you cannot possibly wish to die now, after you have heard me?"

He had heard her sob; her arms were round his neck now, almost stifling his words. He let her slip slowly down. But she still held fast with the arm which was round his neck; and when she reached the ground she flung the other round it too, and laid her head upon his breast, sobbing--but with happiness now. He could feel the quick beat of her heart; it was the speed of joy.

The housekeeper in town had telephoned to Krogskogen that Miss Krog was walking home, in a worse storm than any one remembered, and had inquired again and again if she had arrived.

Nanna and the dog had been out on the steps several times, but the dog had never barked. Now he not only barked, but scampered off down the road.

The servants had been in the greatest anxiety. It did not seem to them at all remarkable that Mary's unhappiness and distress should have driven her out into the storm. Some such action as this hazarding of a life which she no longer valued had been an imperative necessity to her. Therefore now, when little Nanna rushed in calling: "Here she comes! here she comes!" they wept for joy. They had long had the rooms warm and hot food in readiness. Now they laid another cover, for Nanna had rushed in again to tell them that Miss Krog was not alone; she had heard a man speaking. The maids at once said to each other that Joergen Thiis had come at last. "No," said Nanna; "it was not his voice; it was a strong man's!"

But the dog's joy at seeing Mary again was boundless. He barked, he yelped, he jumped right up to her face; there was no end to his demonstrations. When Frans Roey spoke to him, he went up to him at once, as to an old friend, but immediately returned to Mary. The little shaggy creature's ardent delight represented to her the joy of her home at seeing her again, saved. His was the greeting of both the dead and the living. This was what Mary felt. And she also felt that his happiness possibly preluded a re-awakening of her own, when she had succeeded in shaking off the impression of the horrors she had undergone.

When she entered the house, heralded by the dog, who was as wild with joy as ever, the three maids were all in the hall to welcome her, Nanna with them. They stopped short in their exclamations when they saw the enormous figure looming behind her; for in his waterproof cloak and hood Franz Roey seemed supernaturally tall. But it was only for a moment; then they broke out: "Oh, Miss, to think that you should have been out in such a storm! We have been terribly anxious. The housekeeper in town let us know. But we had no one to send to meet you, for there is a fire in the neighbourhood and all the men have gone off there. Thank God that we have you again, safe!"

Mary concealed her emotion by hastening upstairs. Her room was warm, her lamp was lighted.

"Is all this affection and care new? Or is it just that I have never noticed it before?"

The dog whined outside until she was obliged to let him in. He was so obtrusive in his gratitude that it was with difficulty she managed to change her clothes.

When she was doing her hair she remembered the locket with her mother's portrait. She took it from her pocket, and before fastening it on her neck again, looked at the portrait--for the first time for many years--and caressed and kissed it. Presently she lit a candle, and with it in her hand crossed the passage to her father's room. There she set it down, and going forward to his bed, bent over it and kissed the pillow. On coming out, she stopped at the door of the visitors' room. "In this room he shall sleep; then it can be opened again to-morrow; its hateful associations will be gone." A maid to whom she gave orders to light a fire told her that this had already been done, and taking Mary's candle, went in to light the lamp. Mary stood looking after her. "Have they really been like this all the time?"

The maid remained in the room, arranging it. Mary moved on towards the stairs. There she once more stopped. The dog, who had run down, came rushing up; he was determined not to lose her again. She stroked him gratefully; it was like a first little instalment of that gratitude with which her heart was full to overflowing.

"To-morrow--this evening I am too tired--to-morrow I will tell Frans Roey everything! Every single thing that has happened! Perhaps this will help me to understand it all myself."

With this brave resolve she walked downstairs, but stopped once more before she reached the foot. "Strange it is--most strange--but I feel as if I could tell the whole world!"

The dog was standing at the door of the Dutch room. He smelt Frans Roey there.

Mary followed him and opened the door. As she entered Frans exclaimed, as if he had had difficulty in keeping silence so long: "What a beautiful home!" Noticing the dog's continued attentions, he added: "And how much you are thought of in it!" His face lighted up.

"You are in uniform!" she exclaimed.

"Yes. I was at a wedding when I was sent for." He laughed.

The uniform had suggested a thought to Mary. With the dog tugging at her dress, she said, looking brightly up into Frans Roey's face: "It will not be the first time that a general of engineers has lived at Krogskogen."

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Transcriber's Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling has been retained as it appears in the original publication. Changes have been made as follows:

Page 60 I dont like the _changed to_
I don' like the

Page 62 from that morning's newpapers _changed to_
from that morning's newspapers

Page 112 they had not sat long in the empty, stift _changed to_
they had not sat long in the empty, stiff

Page 165 any misunderstanding beween them _changed to_
any misunderstanding between them