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."