Part 11

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."

A little time passed before Mary said: "Who is Joergen Thiis?"

"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.