"Who is he----?"
"I have several reasons for believing that you can tell me."
"You must first allow me to put a question. Are you not engaged to
Joergen Thiis?"
"No."
"People say that you are."
Mary remained silent.
"You have perhaps been engaged to him?"
"Yes."
"But," said Margrete quickly and joyously, "you have broken off the
engagement?"
Mary nodded.
"Many will rejoice to hear it; for Joergen Thiis is not worthy of you."
Mary showed no signs of surprise.
"You know something?" she asked.
"Doctors, Miss Krog, know more than they may tell."
"Yet I do believe that he loved me," said Mary, to excuse herself.
"We all saw that," replied Margrete. "He undoubtedly loved you better
than he had ever loved before. Nor was it surprising," she added. "But
when I lived in Christiania I knew a sweet young girl who at that time
was the one love of his life! She allowed herself to be deeply moved by
this, and as they could not marry, she gave herself to him."
"What did she do?" asked Mary, startled. Had she understood aright? The
storm was howling so loudly outside that it was difficult to hear.
Margrete repeated distinctly and impressively: "She was a warm-hearted
girl, who believed that she was doing right, as she was his one and only
love."
"They could not marry?"
"It was not possible. So she gave herself to him without marriage."
Mary started up, but did not move forward. She was going to say
something, but stopped.
"Do not be so startled, Miss Krog. It is nothing very uncommon."
This information lowered Mary considerably in her own estimation. She
slowly seated herself again.
"You cannot have had any experience of this sort of thing, Miss Krog?"
Mary shook her head.
"In which case it surprises me that you were able to escape from Joergen
Thiis in time; _he_ has had plenty."
Mary made no reply.
"We expected, especially after your father and Mrs. Dawes both became
invalids, that you would have been married before autumn."
"We intended to be, but it proved impossible."
Margrete could not fathom what lay beneath this enigmatic answer; but
she said, with a searching glance: "This, doubtless, added very
considerably to his ardour?"
Mary trembled inwardly, but controlled herself.
"You seem to know him?" she said.
Margrete reflected for a moment, then answered: "Yes. I am older than
you, older than Joergen, too. But in Christiania I also, to my shame be
it spoken, was infatuated with him. This he discovered--and tried to
take advantage of." She laughed.
Mary turned pale, rose, and walked to the window. The wind was lashing
the rain against the panes with ever-increasing force. She remained for
a few moments gazing out into the storm, then came and stood in front of
Margrete, agitated, restless.
"Will you promise me never to tell any one what we have spoken about
to-day--under any circumstances whatever?"
Margrete looked at her in surprise. "You wish me to tell no one that you
have asked me about Joergen Thiis?"
"It is my express desire that no one should know it."
"Do you mean any one in particular?"
Mary looked at her. "Any one in particular?" She did not understand.
Margrete rose. "A man came to this town on purpose to tell you that
Joergen Thiis was not worthy of you. He came too late; but I think he
deserves to know that you have discovered for yourself what Joergen Thiis
is."
Mary answered, eagerly: "Tell _him_. By all means tell _him_!... So
that was why he came," she added slowly. "I am glad that you have told
me. Because my other reason for wishing to see you was--" she hesitated
a little, "the other thing I wanted to ask you was--to give my kind
remembrances to your brother."
"That I shall do, gladly. Thank you for the message. You know what you
are to my brother."
Mary looked away. She struggled with herself a moment, then said: "I am
one of the unhappy people who cannot understand their own lives--cannot
understand what has happened. I can find no clue to it. But something
tells me that your brother has had his share in it."
She evidently wished to say more, but could not. Instead, she returned
to the window and remained standing there again. The storm without
called into the room with its thousand-voiced wrath. It was calling her.
"What a terrible storm!" said Margrete, raising her voice.
"I am rejoicing at the thought of going out into it," said Mary, turning
round with sparkling eyes.
"You are never going out in this weather!" exclaimed Margrete.
"I mean to walk home," answered Mary.
"To _walk_?"
Mary came forward and placed herself in front of Margrete, as if she
were about to say something wild and dreadful. She stopped short, but
what she had not said rushed into her eyes, into her whole face, to her
heart. She flung up her arms and with a loud groan threw herself back on
her mother's sofa, and covered her face with her hands.
Margrete knelt down beside her. Mary allowed her friend to put her arms
round her and draw her to her like a tired, suffering child. And she
began to cry, as a child cries, touchingly and helplessly; her head sank
on to Margrete's shoulder.
But only for a moment; then she sat up with a sudden start. For Margrete
had whispered into her ear: "There is something the matter with you.
Speak to me."
Not a word came in answer. Margrete dared not say more. She rose; she
felt that it was time to go.
Nor did Mary do anything to retain her. She too had risen to her feet.
They bade each other good-bye.
But Margrete could not help saying, as she left the room: "Do you really
mean to walk----?"
Mary gave a nod which implied: "Enough has been said! That is my
affair!"
Margrete closed the door.
* * * * *
The lamps were lit in the streets when Mary left the house. It was with
difficulty she could keep her feet in the gusts that blew from the
south-west, strengthened by compression between the houses. She had on a
waterproof cloak and hood, firmly secured, and long waterproof boots.
She walked as fast as she could. One thought alone remained to her after
the conversation with Margrete Roey. But it united with the wind and the
rain in driving her, lashing her on--the thought of Margrete's horrified
eyes and pale face when she said: "There is something the matter with
you; speak to me!" Good God! Margrete understood. They would all look at
her like this when they heard. Thus terribly had she disappointed and
wounded those who had believed in her. She felt as if she had them all
behind her, as if it were from them she was fleeing--the flock of crows!
She flew on, and had reached the outskirts of the town before she knew
where she was. Here, beyond the last lamp, it was pitch dark; she had to
wait a little before she could see her way. But what a pace she set off
at then! The gale was coming half from behind, half from the side.
The judgment passed upon her was driving her out into the wide
world--no, much farther than that! It seemed to her that at the moment
when she first understood her position a packet had been given her,
which she had not opened until now. She had felt all the time what was
in it, but it was only yesterday she had opened it. It contained a large
black veil, large enough for her to conceal herself and her shame
in--the veil of death. But even this was given upon a certain
condition--a condition she had known about since she was a child. For as
a child she had heard the story of a grand-aunt of her own, who, in the
hope of concealing that she had become pregnant during her husband's
absence, walked barefooted upon an ice-cold floor, secretly, night after
night, in order that she might die a natural death. It would never be
known that she had brought it about herself, so there would be no
occasion to ask why she had done it.
But some one had heard her pacing thus night after night, and the
question was asked after all.
Things should be managed better this time! The weakness to which Mary
had so unexpectedly given way in Margrete's presence was quite gone. Now
she had the strength to carry out her purpose.
As if it were to be put to the test at once, something shadowy appeared
at her side. It rose unexpectedly out of the darkness, so alarmingly
near that she set off running. To her horror she seemed to hear through
the roar of the storm that she was being pursued! Then she took courage
and stood still. Whatever was following her stopped too. Mary moved on;
it also moved on. "This will never do," thought she. "If I am not brave
enough to face this, I am not brave enough to face what comes next." She
thereupon turned and went straight up to the pursuing monster, which
whinnied good-naturedly. It was a young horse, seeking in its
desolateness the neighbourhood of a human being. She patted it and spoke
to it. It was a messenger from life--the desolate was comforting the
despairing. But, as the animal continued to follow her, she took it in
to the next farm. She must be alone. The people at the farm were much
astonished. They could not understand any one being out in such weather,
least of all a woman! Mary hurried away from the light and out into the
darkness again.
The little occurrence had strengthened her. She knew now that she had
courage, and walked on quickly.
She was nearing the first headland round the face of which the road was
cut. It either really was the case, or it seemed to her, that the
hurricane was increasing. It must surely soon have reached its worst. To
her it represented her own misery and shame. This thought strengthened
her. It was not death she feared, but life.
She thought it all out again as she pressed on. She would not save
herself by allowing her child to be killed, nor would she send it away
to strangers and thus disown it; she could not live without
self-respect.
If a suitor were to come--and doubtless as many would come now as in
days past--should she begin by confessing? Or should she maintain a
dishonourable silence? There was only one thing she could do with
honour--die with her child. She felt incapable of anything else. But no
one must have any suspicions. She must die of an illness; therefore an
illness must be ensured that would end in death.
This much she owed to herself; for she was as certain to-day as on the
evening when she went into Joergen's room that her action was not one for
which she deserved to be disgraced.
It had been a terrible mistake, that was certain; but the fault did not
lie with her. There had no doubt been a considerable admixture of
natural instinct in the feeling that prompted it; but even granting
this, it was an action of which she was not ashamed. She owed it to
herself to die with the undiminished sympathy of all who knew her; she
also owed it to the companions who had recognised her as their leader.
She had not disloyally forfeited their faith in her.
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."
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
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