"Of course you may--but first"----looking at his hands and
shirt-sleeves, "first I must----."
"I can go in alone," said she frankly.
"Of course--please do! Go in by the front-door. I'll send the maid--"
and he hurried towards the kitchen.
She ran round to the front of the house and up the steps. Turning an
enormous key, an old work of art (as was also the iron-work on the
door), she stepped into the hall or entrance room. Here there was plenty
of light. Marit drew a little. She had learned to use her eyes. She saw
at once that all these cupboards, large and small, were of excellent
Dutch workmanship, and that the room was larger than it seemed; the
furniture took up so much space. On her left an old-fashioned carved
staircase led up to the second storey. The door straight in front of her
led to the kitchen, she concluded, assisted by her sense of smell; and
when the maid-servant issued from it she knew that she had guessed
rightly. Through the open door she saw a floor flagged with marble,
walls covered with china tiles decorated in blue, and, upon the shelf
which extended round the walls, brightly polished copper vessels of many
different sizes--a Dutch kitchen.
In the hall she stood upon carpets thicker than any her feet had ever
trodden. And quite as thick were those on the stairs, secured with the
hugest of brass rods. "The people in this house walk on cushions," she
thought to herself; and the idea immediately occurred to her that the
house was an enormous bed. Afterwards she always called it "the bed."
"Shall we go back to bed now?" she would say, laughing. On both sides of
the hall she saw doors and pictured to herself the rooms within. To her
left, that is, on the right side of the house, she imagined first a
smaller room, and beyond it, nearest the sea, a large room, the whole
breadth of the building. And she was correct. To her right she imagined
the house divided lengthwise into two rooms. And in this also she was
correct. Nor was it surprising that she should be, for her father's
house on the shores of Lake Michigan was planned in imitation of this.
Upstairs she pictured to herself a broad passage the whole length of the
house, with moderate-sized rooms on both sides of it. The carpets were
extraordinarily thick down here, but she was certain that they were at
least as thick upstairs, real cushion carpets. In this house there were
no noises. Its inmates were quiet people.
The servant had opened the door to the left. Marit went into the great
room and examined all its pictures and ornaments. It was terribly
overcrowded, but all the things in themselves had been well chosen, many
of them by connoisseurs--that she saw at once. Some of the paintings
were, she felt certain, of great value. But what occupied her most was
the thought that not until now had she understood her own old father,
although she had lived with him all her life--alone with him; she had
lost her mother early. Of just such a quantity of rare and precious
things was he composed--in a somewhat confused fashion, which prevented
his being appreciated. She felt as if he were standing by her, smiling
his gentle, kindly smile, happy because he was understood.
And there he was, sure enough! Through the open door she saw him on the
stair. Younger, yes! But that was of no consequence; the eyes were only
the brighter and warmer for that. He came towards her with the same
walk, the same movement of the arms, the same slight stoop and
circumspect carriage. And when he looked at her, and spoke to her, and
bade her welcome in her father's gentle, subdued manner, she was
conscious in him of the profound respect for the individual human being
which, in her estimation, characterised her father beyond any one she
had ever known. Her father's hair was thinner, his face was deeply
lined, he had lost some of his teeth, his skin was shrivelled. The
thought filled her eyes with tears. She looked up into the younger eyes,
heard the fresher voice, felt the grasp of the warmer hand. She could
not help it--she threw her arms round Anders Krog's neck, laid her head
on his breast, and wept.
This settled the matter. There was no resisting this.
Soon afterwards they both got into the boat in which she had come. It
was Marit who rowed round the point. Both for his own sake, and because
of the bathers, who saw them, he had made some feeble attempts to take
the oars. But from the moment when she threw her arms round his neck, he
was powerless. He knew that he would henceforth do the will of this girl
with the glory of red hair. He sat gazing at her freckled face and
freckled hands, at her superb figure, her fresh lips. At the edge of
her collar he caught a glimpse of the purest of white skin; there was
something in the eyes which corresponded exactly with this. He had not
seen his fill when they landed. Nor could he get enough on the way up to
his sister's farm--not enough of her soft voice, of her gait, of her
dress, of the smile which disclosed her teeth, nor, above all else, of
her frank, impetuous talk; all these things were alike bewildering.
Next morning he stayed at home. No sooner had the steamer with which he
should have gone to town turned the point, than Marit's white boat came
in sight. She had a maid-servant with her who was to keep watch, for
to-day she too meant to bathe.
Afterwards she went up to the house. She had planned to stay there to
dinner. In the afternoon they walked back together, across the ridge;
the boat had been sent home.
Next day she went with him to town. The day after they were in town
again, but this time she chose to drive, and made Anders' sister come
with them. There was something new every day. The brother and sister
simply lived for her, and she accepted the situation as if it were quite
natural.
When she had been with them for about three weeks, a cablegram came to
Krogskogen from brother Hans, telling that their uncle, Anders, had died
suddenly; the news must be broken to Marit.
Never had Anders Krog taken a walk with heavier feet and heart than on
the day when he crossed the hill to his sister's with this telegram in
his pocket. As he came in sight of the home-like yellow house and
steading amongst the trees on the plain below, he heard the dinner-bell
ring out cheerily into the bright sunshine. The spread table was
waiting. He sat down; he felt as if he could go no farther. Was he not
on his way to kill the glad day?
When at length he reached the house, he went in by the kitchen door,
along with some labourers who had come from a distance for their dinner.
In the kitchen he found his sister, who took him into a back room. She
was as much shocked and grieved as he; but she was of a more courageous
nature; and she undertook to break the news to Marit, who had not come
in yet, but was expected every moment.
Anders Krog in his back room ere long heard a scream which he never
forgot. He sprang to his feet with the agony of it, but could not bring
himself to leave the room; the sound of bitter sobbing in the next held
him fast. It grew louder and louder, interrupted by short cries. The
same impetuous strength in her grief as in her joy! It set him pacing
the room wildly until his sister opened the door.
"She wants to see you."
Then he was obliged to go in. Exerting all the strength of his will, he
entered. Marit was lying on the sofa, but the moment she saw him she sat
up and stretched out her arms.
"Come, come! _You_ are my father now!"
He crossed the room quickly and bent over her; she put her arm round his
neck and drew him down; he was obliged to kneel.
"You must never leave me again! Never, never!"
"Never!" he answered solemnly. She pressed him closer to her; her breast
throbbed against his; her head lay against his--wet, burning.
"You must never leave me!"
"Never!" he said once more with all his heart, and folded her in his
arms.
She lay down again as if comforted, took hold of his hand, and became
quieter. Every time the sobbing began afresh he bent over her with
caressing words, and soothed her.
He dared not go home; he stayed there all night. Marit could not sleep,
and he had to sit beside her.
By the following day she had made up her mind what was to be done. She
must go to America, and he must accompany her. This prompt decision
rather disconcerted him. But neither he nor his sister dared oppose her.
The sister, however, managed to give another direction to the girl's
thoughts. She said: "You ought to be married to each other first." Marit
looked at her and replied: "Yes, you are right. Of course we must be."
And this thought began to occupy her mind so much that her grief became
less acute. Anders had not been asked; but there was no necessity that
he should be.
Then came the first letter from Hans. After telling about his uncle's
funeral--how he had made all the arrangements, and what they were--he
offered to take over his uncle's business and property.
Anders placed unlimited confidence in his brother; the offer was
accepted; hence the journey was given up as needless. As soon as the
necessary investigations and valuations had been made, Hans named his
figure, and asked his brother if he would not invest this sum in the
business. The bank deposits and other securities were sent over at
once. These alone produced a sum sufficient not only to pay Anders'
debts, but also to allow Marit to make all the improvements at
Krogskogen which she fancied. Anders wished her to keep the whole
fortune in her own hands, but she ridiculed the idea. So he went into
partnership with his brother, and was thenceforth, according to
Norwegian ideas, a very wealthy man.
Some months after their marriage a change came over Marit. She gave way
to strange impulses, seemed unable to distinguish clearly between dream
and reality, and was possessed by a desire to make changes in everything
that was under her care, both at home and in their house in town. The
people who rented part of the latter had to move. She wished to have the
house to herself.
Much of her husband's time was occupied in carrying out her plans, more
in watching over herself. His gratitude did not find much expression in
words; it was to be read in his eyes, in his increased reverence of
manner, and above all in his tender care. He was afraid of losing what
had come to him so unexpectedly, or of something giving way. His
humility led him to feel that his happiness was undeserved.
Marit clung to him closer than ever. Two expressions she never tired of
repeating: "You are my father--and more!" and: "You have the most
beautiful eyes in the world; and they are mine." Gradually she gave up
many of her wonted occupations. In place of them she took to reading
aloud to him. From her childhood she had been accustomed to read to her
father; this practice was to be begun again. She read American
literature, chiefly poetry--read it in the chanting style in which
English verse is recited, and carried conviction by her own sincerity.
Her voice was soft; it took hold of the words gently, repeated them
quietly, as if from memory.
Then came the time when they went every day together to the hot-house.
The flowers there were the harbingers of what was growing within her;
she wished to see them every day. "I wonder if they are talking about
it," she said.
And one day, when winter had given the first sign of departure from the
coast, when they two had gathered the first green leaves in the border
beneath the sunny wall, she fell ill and knew that the great hour had
come. Without excessive previous suffering, and with her hand in his,
she bore a daughter. This had been her wish. But it was not her lot to
bring up her child; for three days later she herself was dead.