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."