The reality was something quite different.
She saw, the moment she set foot on land, that both old and young were
unfeignedly happy to see her again. Every face brightened. Every one
whom they met on the way up to the market-place recognised and greeted
her with pleasure. She had not thought of them, but they had thought of
her.
From the house on the market-place they were to go on later in the day
to Krogskogen, with the coasting-steamer. In the interval many of their
relations called, who all expressed great pleasure at seeing them home
again at last. They told what a success Mary's Spanish portrait had
been--in their own town, in Christiania, and then on its tour with other
pictures through the country. The notices--but these she had of course
read? No, she had read no newspapers, except occasionally one published
at the place where they were living. "Do you read no home newspapers?"
"Yes, when Father shows me them." Had not her father, had not Mrs.
Dawes, told her anything? "No." Why, she was famous now throughout the
whole of Norway. For this was the third portrait of her--or was it the
fourth? Anyhow it was the finest. It had been reproduced in the
illustrated newspapers; and also in an English art-magazine, the
_Studio_. Did she not know that? "No." The young people here were very
proud of her. They had put off their spring picnic and dance until she
came home.
"You are to be feted!"
"I?"
"The picnic is to be at Marielyst. One steamer goes from here, and
another comes from the places on the opposite side. Joergen Thiis planned
it all in Paris."
"Joergen Thiis?"
"Yes. Did he not tell you about it?"
"No."
As soon as the callers left, Mary went to her father, who was unpacking
some of the art treasures which were to remain in town.
"Father, is it the case that you sent my portraits to exhibitions?"
He smiled, and said: "Yes, my child, I did. And they have given pleasure
to many. I was asked to send them. They wrote and asked me each time."
He spoke in such a gentle voice, and Mary thought it so considerate of
him that he had not told her, and had forbidden Mrs. Dawes to
tell--probably Joergen Thiis too--that she did what she very seldom did,
went up to him and kissed him.
So this was what her father, Mrs. Dawes, and Joergen Thiis had so often
sat whispering about. This was why the home newspapers had been kept
from her. Everything had been planned--even to the proposal to travel
home at this particular moment! She almost began to like Joergen Thiis.
When they left for Krogskogen in the afternoon, a crowd of young people
assembled on the pier called: "Au revoir on Sunday!"
Mary was charmed with the view as they sailed along. The short half hour
was spent, as it were, in recognising one old acquaintance after
another. The new, or at least much altered, high road along the coast
was now finished. It looked remarkably well, especially where it cut
across the headlands, often through the rock. At Krogskogen it led, as
before, from the one point across the level to the other, passing close
to the landing-place and directly below the chapel and the churchyard.
And Krogskogen itself--how snugly it lay! She had remembered its
loneliness, but had forgotten how beautiful it was. This calm,
glittering bay with the sea-birds! The ripple yonder where the river
flows in, the level land stretching back between the heights, and these
in their robes of green! Were the trees round the house really no
higher? How nice it looked, the house--long and white, with black window
frames and black foundation wall. From one chimney thick smoke was
rising, in cheerful welcome. She jumped on shore before the others and
ran on in front. A little girl, between eight and ten, who was running
down from the house, stopped when she saw Mary, and rushed back as hard
as she could. But Mary overtook her at the steps. "I've caught you!" she
cried, turning her round. "Who are you?" The fair-haired, smiling
creature was unable to answer. On the steps stood the maids, and one of
them said that the child's name was Nanna, and that she was there to run
errands. "You shall be my little maid!" said Mary, and led her up the
steps. She nodded to each of the women, and felt that they were
disappointed because she hurried on without speaking to them. She was
longing to set foot on the thick carpets, to feel the peculiar light of
the hall about her, to see the huge cupboards and all the pictures and
curios of the Dutch days. And she was longing even more to reach her own
room. The silence of the stairs and of the long, rather dark
passage--never had it played such a game of whispers with her as it did
to-day. She felt it like something soft, half-hidden, confidential and
close. It was still speaking when she reached the door of her room; it
actually kept her from opening the door for a moment.
Ah!--the room lay steeped in sunshine from the open window which looked
over the outbuildings to the ridge. Paler light entered from that
looking on the orchard and the bay below, the water of which glittered
between the trees. Beyond the trees were seen the islands and the open
sea, at this moment pale grey. But from the hill, now in fairest leaf
and flower, the fragrance of spring poured in. The room itself, in its
white purity, lay like a receptacle for it. There everything arranged
itself reverently round the bed, which stood in the middle of the floor.
It was more than a bed for a princess; it was the princess herself;
everything else seemed to do homage to it.
* * * * *
The excursion to Marielyst was in every way a success. But during the
course of it a coolness arose between Mary and Joergen Thiis.
It happened thus. Joergen came on board with a tall, strongly-built lady,
the sight of whose broad forehead, kindly eyes, small nose, and
projecting chin brought a slight blush to Mary's cheeks, which she
concealed by rising and asking: "Are you not a sister of Captain Frans
Roey?"
"She is," answered Joergen Thiis. "For safety's sake we are taking a
doctor with us."
"I am glad to meet you," said Mary. "Of course I have heard your brother
speak of you; he has a great admiration for you."
"So we all have," Joergen Thiis declared as he left them.
Miss Roey herself had not spoken yet. But her scrutinising eyes expressed
admiration of Mary. Now she seated herself beside her.
"Are you to be at home long?"
"I can't say. Possibly we shall not travel any more; my father is not
strong enough now."
Miss Roey did not speak again for some time; she sat observing. Mary
thought to herself: It is tactful of her not to begin a conversation
about her brother.
The two ladies kept together during the sail. And they also sat beside
each other when dessert was served out of doors at Marielyst and
speeches were made. The success of the entertainment went to Joergen
Thiis's head. One after another came round to him and drank his health;
he became sentimental, and made a speech. His toast was "the ideal, the
eternal ideal." Fortunate the man to whom it was revealed in his youth!
He bore it in his breast as his inextinguishable guiding lamp on the
path of life! Pale and excited, Joergen emptied his glass and flung it
away.
This sudden earnestness came so unexpectedly upon the merry company that
they laughed--one and all.