Mary

Uncle Klaus should help them—help them generously. She knew her power over Uncle Klaus.

"After all, Aunt Eva dear," she said one day when she sat chatting beside Mrs. Dawes's bed; "I think you may write to Jörgen."

Mary herself was standing on the pier when the steamer came in. It was Saturday afternoon; all that could do so were leaving town to enjoy the last days of autumn in the country. The weather was beautiful; in the south of Norway it can be so till far on in September. Mary was dressed in blue and carried a blue parasol, which she waved to Jörgen and some of her girl friends who were standing beside him. All on board moved towards the gangway to watch the meeting.

Jörgen felt, as soon as he reached her side, that he must be cautious. He divined that she had come to meet him here in order that their meeting might not be private.

On the way up to the house they talked of the swallows, which were now assembling for their departure—of the farm-overseer, who had just shot a huge eagle—of the writing-board which Mrs. Dawes had had constructed—of the good aftermath, of the price of fruit and turnips. In the hall she left him with a short "Excuse me!" and hurried upstairs. The boy who was carrying Jörgen's portmanteau had followed them in; Jörgen and he stood still, not knowing where to go. Then Mary called from above: "This way, please!" Opening the door of the visitors' room next her own, she told the boy to take the portmanteau in there. To Jörgen she said: "Shall we go and see Father?" She led the way. The nurse was not in the room. Probably it was to send her away that Mary had run up first.

A light kindled in the sick man's eyes as he saw Jörgen enter. As soon as the door was closed, Mary went up to her father, bent over him, and said: "Jörgen and I are engaged now, Father."

All the affection and happiness that a human face can express beamed from Anders Krog's. Smiling, Mary turned towards Jörgen, who, pale and agitated, was prepared to rush forward and embrace her. But he felt that though his astonishment, his gratitude, and his adoration were quite acceptable to her, she desired no such manifestation of them. This did not detract from his happiness. He met her smiling eyes with an expression of intense, perfect delight. He pressed the hand which Anders Krog could move; he looked into his tearful eyes, his own filling. But no word was spoken until Mary said: "Now we must go to Aunt Eva."

With a feeling of triumph she led the way. He followed, admiring. His heart was full of many feelings, not least among them admiration of the magnanimity with which she had forgiven. He thought: Out in the passage she will turn round, and then ... But she went straight to Mrs. Dawes's door and knocked.

When Mrs. Dawes saw Jörgen, she clapped her fat hands, tugged at her cap, and tried to sit up, but could not for excitement. She fell back again, wept, blessed them, and stretched out her arms. Jörgen allowed himself to be embraced, but would not kiss her.

As soon as sensible conversation became possible, Mary said: "Don't you think too, Aunt Eva, that we ought to go and call on Uncle Klaus to-morrow?"

"Most certainly I do, my child! most certainly! Why should there be any delay?"

Jörgen was radiant. Mary retired, that the two might have a confidential talk.

When Jörgen and she met again, he understood that the watchword was: "Look, but do not touch!" This was hard; but he acknowledged it to be only just that one who had presumed as he had should be compelled to control himself. Mary intended to be her own mistress.

In her triumphant mood she was more beautiful than ever. It seemed to Jörgen an act of grace when she addressed him as "thou." And she condescended no further. He went on hoping, but she gave no more—not the whole of that day. He betook himself to the piano and there poured forth his lament. Mary opened the doors, so that Mrs. Dawes might hear the music. "Poor boy!" said Mrs. Dawes.

Next day Mary did not come downstairs until it was time to set off on their expedition to Uncle Klaus's.

"You are la grande dame to-day, and no mistake!" said Jörgen, inspecting her admiringly. She was in her most elegant Parisian walking costume. "Is it to make an impression on Uncle Klaus?"

"Partly. But it is Sunday, you know.—Tell me," and she suddenly became serious; "does Uncle Klaus know about father's misfortune?"

"He knows about his illness, if you mean that."

"No; I mean the cause of it?"

"That I can't say. I came straight from home. I have told nothing—even at home."

Of this Mary approved. Consequently they were on the pleasantest, most confidential terms, both during the walk down to the steamer and on board. There they sat talking in whispers of their wedding, of furlough for the first month after it, of life in Stockholm, of her visits to him there, of his visit to Krogskogen at Christmas, of a trip to Christiania now—in short, there was not a cloud in their sky.

They found Uncle Klaus in his smoke-filled den, where they rather imagined than saw him. He himself was quite startled when Mary in all her glory appeared before him. He led them hurriedly into the large, stiff drawing-room. Even before they were seated, Jörgen said: "We have come, Uncle, to tell you—"

He got no farther, for Uncle Klaus saw in their radiant faces the news which they brought.

"My heartiest congratulations!" The tall man bowed, offering a hand to each. "Yes—every one says that you are the handsomest couple ever seen in this town. For," he added, "we engaged you to each other long ago."

Hardly were they seated before his face became gloomy. He looked compassionately at Mary. "But your father, my poor child!"

"Father is much better now," she answered evasively. Uncle Klaus looked searchingly at her. "But he can never...." He stopped; he was not capable of putting his thought into words; neither was Mary. They sat silent.

When they began to speak again, it was of the unusually bad times. It seemed as if there were to be no end to them. Investments were yielding no interest, the shipping trade was in a bad way, there were no new undertakings, money was not forthcoming. Whilst they were talking, Uncle Klaus looked several times at Jörgen as if he would put more questions but for his presence. Mary understood, and made a sign to Jörgen, who rose and asked permission to go, as he had an appointment with some friends in town. It was, thus, tacitly agreed upon between Mary and him that she should have a private interview with Uncle Klaus. But what was it Uncle Klaus wished to speak to her about? She was most curious.

As soon as the door closed behind Jörgen, the old man, with an anxious look, began: "Is it true, my poor child, that your father has had great losses in America?"

"He has lost everything," Mary replied.

Klaus jumped up, pale with the shock.

"Lost everything?"

He stared at her, open-mouthed and turning purple. Then exclaiming: "Good Lord! This is a simple enough explanation of the shock!" began to march up and down the room as if no one else were present. The wide trousers twisted themselves round his legs; he waved his long arms.

"He has always been a confiding simpleton! an absolute fool! Fancy having a fortune like that invested in another man's business and never looking after it! What a damned—" Here he stopped suddenly and asked in astonishment: "What do you mean to marry upon—?"

Mary had felt herself mortally insulted long before this question came. To behave thus in her presence—to speak thus of her father in her hearing! Nevertheless she answered archly and with her sweetest smile: "On our expectations from you, Uncle Klaus!"

Klaus's astonishment was beyond all measure. She tried to moderate it before it found vent; she joked—said in English that she felt dreadfully sorry for him, as she knew what a poor man he was! But he paid no more attention to her than a bear to the twitter of birds.

Out it came at last. "It is like that scoundrel Jörgen to speculate upon me!" Marching up and down again, faster than before, he continued: "Ha, ha! I might have known it! Whenever anything goes wrong, it is I who must come to the rescue—and at this moment, too, when I am hardly earning my bread! I never knew anything so impudent in my life!" He did not see her, he did not see anything. The rich man was accustomed to give free vent to his petulance, anger, insolence. "Jörgen deserves—confound him!—that I should stop the allowance I give him! He does nothing but ask for more. And now I am to——ha, ha! It's just like him!"

Mary listened, pale as death. Never before had she been so humiliated; never had any human being treated her otherwise than with the deference paid to a privileged person.

But she did not lose her head. "I keep Father's accounts now," she said coldly; "and I see from them that there is money of his in your hands."

"Yes," said Klaus, without stopping and without looking at Mary; "oh, yes—two hundred thousand kroner or so. But if you keep the accounts, you also see that at present these investments hardly yield anything."

"It is not so bad as that," she replied.

"Well—what about them?" asked he, standing still. An idea suddenly occurred to him: "Has Jörgen asked you to sell out?"

"Jörgen has asked nothing of me," Mary said, and rose to her feet.

As she stood there tall, pale, stately, facing him so bravely, Klaus felt himself worsted. He could do nothing but stare. When she said: "I am sorry that I did not know before what kind of man you are!" all his superiority vanished. He felt stupid and helpless, unable to answer, unable even to move. He allowed her to go—the very last thing he intended!

He looked out at the window and saw her sweep past towards the market-place. What a vision of proud beauty she was!

When, in course of time, Jörgen came to fetch Mary, or rather to stay to dinner there with her—for he was certain that they would be invited—an even more violent explosion of wrath awaited him; because now Uncle Klaus was extremely dissatisfied with himself too.

"Why the devil did you not come alone? You were afraid!—And you wanted her to sell shares now, when they are worth nothing—like the cursedly extravagant, reckless fellow you always have been!"

Uncle Klaus was wrong; but Jörgen knew him—knew that he must not answer. He slunk away and joined Mary at the house in the market-place, even more wretched than the day when she found him on the ridge, gazing down into the lost paradise. She herself had been weeping with anger and disappointment; but there was abundance of elasticity in her; now came the rebound. Their fall from the triumphant elevation of half-an-hour ago had been so precipitous that when Jörgen's misery was added as a finishing touch, the whole became ridiculous. She laughed so heartily, so exhilaratingly, that even Jörgen was cured. A quarter of an hour later the two went out to order a good dinner, with champagne. They had agreed to take a walk whilst it was being prepared. But no sooner did they feel the delicious fresh air, than Jörgen rushed upstairs again and telephoned to Krogskogen that they were coming out to dine there. It was a good two hours' walk by the new coast-road—how they would enjoy it!

They set off at a rapid pace. It was the very weather for walking, this bright, cool autumn day with the fresh breeze.

The road followed the coast line, rounding all the rocky headlands; they looked forward to the constant changes—from shore to height, from height to shore. On the sea, dark blue to-day, sailing ships and columns of smoke were to be seen, far as the eye could reach. It being Sunday, there were also pleasure-boats out, some gliding about among the islands, others venturing out to the open sea.

At their quick pace, the two young people were soon in the outskirts of the town. They passed a pretty little house in a garden.

"Who lives there?" asked Mary, admiring it.

"Miss Röy, the doctor," answered Jörgen, immediately adding: "Our annoyance and disappointment made me forget to tell you that I met Frans Röy in town."

Unconsciously Mary stood still; involuntarily she blushed. "Frans Röy?" she repeated, looking hard at him—then walked on without waiting for an answer.

"He is here to inspect the operations at the harbour. You know that Irgens is dead."

"The engineer? is he dead?"

"They say now that Captain Röy will probably take his place."

"Is it work for a man like him?"

"Many are no doubt asking the same question—asking what brings him here," laughed Jörgen.

Mary looked at him and he at Mary. Then he went nearer to her. "But now he comes too late."

He had expected an understanding glance in answer—possibly with a little happiness in it. She walked on without looking at him, and without speaking.

They were silent for a long time, walking fast in the refreshing autumn breeze. At last she turned towards him, with the intention of giving him a pleasant surprise.

"Do you know, Jörgen, that Father has two hundred thousand kroner invested in Uncle Klaus's business?"

"He has two hundred and fifty thousand," Jörgen answered.

She was much surprised—in the first place by Jörgen's knowing, in the second, by the fifty thousand.

"Uncle Klaus himself said two hundred thousand."

"Yes, your father has that sum invested in Uncle's ships and commercial enterprises. But lately, before he was taken ill, he sent Uncle fifty thousand more, which he had lying idle."

"How do you know?"

"Uncle told me."

"There is no note of this last sum in father's books."

"No; your father probably did not take the trouble to enter it; he was not in the habit of doing so. Besides"—here Jörgen paused—"are you in possession of all your father's business papers?"

Into this subject Mary would not enter; she knew that the question was a natural one; but how in the world did Jörgen——? Perhaps through Mrs. Dawes. What he had told her, however, rejoiced her. She stood still; there was something she wanted to say. But the wind caught up her skirts, unloosed some of her hair, and blew about her scarf.

"How perfectly lovely you look!" Jörgen exclaimed.

"But Jörgen—then there is nothing in the way!"

"We can marry, you mean?"

"Yes!" and off she started.

"No, dear. The shares are yielding almost nothing just now."

"What does that matter? We'll risk it, Jörgen!" she cried, radiant with health and courage.

"Without Uncle's consent?" asked Jörgen in a despondent tone.

Mary stood still again. "He would disinherit you?"

Instead of answering directly, Jörgen began mournfully: "I wish you knew, Mary, what I have had to bear from Uncle, from the day he adopted me—the things he has demanded of me, the things he has persecuted me for. To this very day he treats me like a naughty schoolboy. The worst of his bad temper is vented upon me."

The mixture of unhappiness and bitterness depicted on his face led Mary involuntarily to exclaim: "Poor Jörgen—now I begin to understand!"

They walked on. She reflected that Jörgen's power of self-control had been acquired in a hard school; there he had also learned the art of concealment. She could not but admire his tenacity of purpose. What had it not accomplished! Think of his music alone! It, however, had been a great consolation to him. Now she understood his extreme politeness; now she understood his sentimentality; she understood what had made him so exacting and severe with those under his command.

She saw that she herself had probably added to his unhappiness. His long, silent love for her had only been an additional burden; for she had not given him one encouraging word—very much the reverse! What wonder that at last it should have become a kind of possession!

"Poor Jörgen!" she said again, and took his hand.

It was the first token of affection she had bestowed upon him. She had to draw her hand away again immediately to hold down her dress, for a strong wind was blowing at the point, and a sailing-boat was tacking just below them. The people in it waved up to them, and they waved back. How fresh the air was! How brilliantly blue the fjord!

As they were descending towards the bay, Mary asked: "Do you really believe that Uncle Klaus will disinherit you if we marry?"

"My dear girl, we have nothing to marry on!"

"We can sell these shares," she said undauntedly.

"If we were to sell them at their present price, in order to be able to marry at once, he would be absolutely certain to cut me off."

But Mary would not give in. "There are our woods."

"It will be several years before there is any timber to fell."

How well informed Jörgen was! How carefully he had thought the whole thing out!

They had now reached the stretch of level road which led along the shore to the last headland before Krogskogen. At a farm here there was a surly old Lapland dog. Mary and he were good friends. He always barked a little as people came up; probably he did not see well; but as soon as he scented an acquaintance his tail began to wag.

To-day he was furious.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mary, "is it you who are making him so angry, Jörgen?"

Jörgen did not answer, but stooped to pick up a small stone. When the dog saw this, he scurried off with his tail between his legs to the shelter of a heap of sticks, and there continued to bark.

"Don't do it!" said Mary, as she saw Jörgen taking aim.

"It will be interesting to see whether or not he retreats in the exact direction of my aim—if he does, the stone will hit him on the back." As Jörgen spoke, he pretended to throw. Off rushed the dog. Then he threw, and the stone landed exactly where he had said. The dog howled.

"You see!" said Jörgen exultingly. "There are not many who can throw like that, I can tell you."

"Do you shoot equally well?"

"Certainly. What I do, Mary—it isn't much, I know—but I do it fairly well."

This she was obliged to admit. The dog's distant fury also confirmed the statement.

As they were taking the short cut up to the house, Jörgen began: "Do you think we should say anything to Mrs. Dawes or to your father about this?"

"About Uncle Klaus?"

"Yes. It will only distress them. Can't we say that Uncle Klaus asked us to wait till spring?"

Mary stood still. Such a line of action was not to her mind. But Jörgen continued:

"I know Uncle Klaus better than you do. He will repent soon. He will certainly not give in to us; but he will make a proposal of his own—probably what I am asking you to say—that we should wait till spring."

Mary had already discovered how well informed Jörgen was; so she could not but allow that he was probably better able to judge than she. But she was unaccustomed to roundabout methods.

"Let me manage it," Jörgen said. "I'll spare the old people a disappointment."

"But what am I to say, then?" asked Mary.

"What is perfectly true. That Uncle Klaus was delighted to hear of our engagement; but that as times are so bad just now, we shall be obliged to wait. And this is really the case."

Mary agreed, the more willingly because she thought it considerate of Jörgen to wish to spare the old people. For this he received her best thanks—and her hand again. He kept hold of it until they reached the house, and even whilst they mounted the steps. He thought to himself: "This is the pledge of a kiss in the hall. But I'll take ten!"

He opened the door and let Mary pass in first. Nodding brightly to him as she passed, she made quickly for the stairs and disappeared up them. He heard her go into her own room.

Carefully as Jörgen chose his words in communicating the result of their expedition, it was a sad disappointment to the old people. It was inexplicable to them both, but especially to Mrs. Dawes, who thought the decision arrived at cruel. Mary was to spend the long winter alone here, and Jörgen in Stockholm. They might possibly see each other for a few days at Christmas, but that would be all. Curiously enough, the old people's disappointment reacted upon Jörgen. He sat moping like a sick bird, had nothing to say, hardly answered Mrs. Dawes when she spoke to him, and presently went off to prepare for his departure next morning. His leave had expired, and he was going direct to Stockholm.

Mary alone was in good spirits. One would have supposed that she had no concern whatever in the matter. To her the day had, to all appearance, brought no disappointment. The triumphant mood in which she had been ever since she graciously proclaimed their engagement in her father's room, far from having abated, was more pronounced than ever. She went humming about the rooms and passages, and seemed to have no end of arrangements to make, as if it were she who was about to take an important and long journey. At supper she joked and teased until Jörgen began to have an uncomfortable suspicion that she was making fun of him. At last he said plainly that he could not understand her. He thought she ought rather to be sorry for him. She was to remain here in her own comfortable home, working for those whom she loved, whilst he——. Now he hated what he was going back to, because it took him away from her! He repented his exchange into the diplomatic service. He loathed Stockholm. He knew what an inferior position a young man occupied there who had no good introductions, and who, in addition to this, was Norwegian. He was, in short, unhappy, and grumbled freely.

"You who distinguished yourself in the confirmation class, Jörgen, don't you know that Jacob had to work seven whole years for Rachel?"

"And how many have I not worked for you, Mary?"

"Ah! the reason of that is that you began far too early. It's a bad habit you have acquired—that of beginning too early."

"Was it possible to see you without...? You are unjust to yourself."

"You had other aims, Jörgen, besides winning me."

"So had that business-man, Jacob. And he had the advantage over me, that whilst working and waiting he could see Rachel as often as he liked."

"Well, well—he who has waited so many years, Jörgen, can surely wait half a year longer."

"It is easy for you to talk, you who have never waited—never for anything!"

Mary was silent.

"But that you should tease me into the bargain, Mary—I who, even when I am beside you, must exist on such meagre fare!"

"You think you have cause of complaint, Jörgen?"

"Yes, I do."

"You began far too early, remember!" And Mary laughed.

This put Jörgen out, but presently he repeated: "You don't understand what it means to wait."

"So much I do understand, that it comes easier to those who live on meagre fare." And she laughed again.

Jörgen was both offended and perplexed. A woman who really cared for him would hardly have behaved thus on the eve of parting from him for several months, and with such poor prospects as they had of being able to marry.

They sat for a short time beside her father, and longer beside Mrs. Dawes. Jörgen was quiet—hardly spoke. But Mary was gay. Mrs. Dawes watched them in surprise. Turning to Jörgen, she said: "Poor boy, you must come here at Christmas!" Mary answered for him: "Aunt Eva, it is just at Christmas that Stockholm is pleasantest."

Suddenly Mary rose and very unexpectedly said good-night, first to Jörgen, then to Mrs. Dawes.

"I am tired after the walk, and I must be up early to-morrow to see Jörgen off."

Jörgen felt that this sudden departure was a piece of deliberate mischief. She wished to escape saying good-night to him in the passage. He vowed to revenge himself. He was skilled in the art.

Mrs. Dawes asked if there were any misunderstanding between them. He said there was none. She did not believe it; he had to assure her again solemnly that he knew of none. But he could not conceal that he was out of temper; he could not even bear to sit there any longer. When he left he found the passage, contrary to custom, dark, and had to grope his way to his own door. Not till he had lit his lamp and listened involuntarily for any sound from Mary's room, did it occur to him that the door-handle had been made noiseless. In the morning it had creaked—very little; but it certainly had creaked. Never had he been in such a well-ordered house as this, where the very slightest thing amiss was instantly put right—even on a Sunday. He could not imagine greater happiness than to return here when everything should be satisfactorily arranged, to rest, and to live as long as he chose in the manner which his ardent desire for the pleasures of the senses pictured.

Therefore patience! He would submit to Mary's caprices now, as he had submitted to his uncle's before—until his time came!

He was undressing, when the door opened noiselessly, and Mary entered, in her night-dress—dazzlingly beautiful. She closed the door behind her and went forward to the lamp. "You shall not wait, Jörgen," said she, as she extinguished the light.

ALONE

In a moment she was up and dressing, afraid lest she might be too late to go down with him to the steamer. The wider awake she became with the rapid motion, the more impetuously did her thoughts rush towards him and his joyful agitation. That heartfelt, soul and sense pervading gratitude and praise—she would fain enjoy it in his immediate neighbourhood. She longed to be uplifted and borne in triumph as his life's queen! Of her sovereign grace she had bestowed on him life's highest prize. He was rewarded now for his long sufferings!—without bargaining, without regard for established prejudices. She knew him now; she knew exactly how he would look, exactly in what manner he would make her the partaker of his happiness. Therefore her breast heaved high in expectation of the meeting—expectation of his gratitude and homage.

In her blue morning dress she passed through the little Dutch ante-room and stretched out her hand to open the door of the big drawing-room with the windows to the sea; but so excited was she that she had to pause to take breath—enjoying Jörgen's triumph the while. He was so carried away with his own music that she was quite close to him before he noticed her. He looked up, radiant—rose slowly, silently, as to a festal rite. This impression he would do nothing to destroy. He opened his arms, drew her into his embrace, kissed her hair gently, stroked the cheek that lay bare—slowly, protectingly. He was trying to shield, to hide, to help her with manly tenderness to overcome the feeling of shame from which she must be suffering. His whole attitude was tender and reassuring.

"But we must hurry in to breakfast now," he whispered affectionately, kissing her beautiful hair again, and inhaling its fragrance. Then he passed his arm gently, yet in a controlling manner, round her waist. Near the door he said in a low tone: "You have slept well, since you come so late?" He opened the door with his disengaged hand, and, receiving no answer, looked sympathisingly at her. She was pale and confused. "My sweet one!" he whispered soothingly.

At breakfast there was no end to his consideration for her, especially when it became evident that she could not eat. But time was short; he had to attend to himself; so he could not talk much. Mary did not say a word. But it struck her that Jörgen handled his knife and fork in a new, masterful manner, of a piece with that in which he now spoke to her and looked at her. He evidently desired to inspire her with courage—after what had happened last night. She could have taken her plate with what was on it and flung it in his face!

His triumphal song had been in his own honour! He had been hymning his own worthiness!

A decanter with wine stood on the table. Jörgen poured out a large glass, drank it slowly, and rose with a dignified: "Excuse me!" adding in the doorway: "I must look if the boy has taken my portmanteau."

In a moment he was back again. "Time is almost up." He closed the door, and hurried across the room to Mary, who was now standing at the window. This time he drew her quickly into his arms and began to kiss.

"No more of that, please!" she said with all her old queenliness, and turned away from him. She walked proudly into the hall, put on her coat with the assistance of the maid who hastened to help, chose a hat, looked out to see the state of the weather, and then took her parasol. The maid opened the front door. Mary passed out quickly, Jörgen following, mortally offended. He was unconscious of any transgression.

They walked on for a time silent. But Mary was in such a state of suppressed rage that when she at last remembered to put up her parasol, she almost broke it. Jörgen saw this.

"Remember," she said—and it sounded as if she had suddenly acquired a new voice—"I don't care about letters. And I can't write letters."

"You don't wish me to write to you?" He had also a new voice.

She did not answer, nor did she look at him.

"But if anything should happen—?" said he.

"Well, of course then—! But you forget that you have Mrs. Dawes."

And as if this were not enough, she added: "I don't imagine that you, either, are a good letter-writer, Jörgen. So there will be nothing lost."

He could have struck her.

As ill luck would have it, the surly old Lapland dog was at the landing-place with his master. No sooner did he catch sight of Jörgen than he began to bark. All his master's attempts to silence him were in vain.

Every one turned to look at the new-comers. Jörgen had at once picked up a small stone, and Mary had asked him in a low voice not to throw it. The steamer was now lying to; it diverted the attention of all, including the dog. For this moment Jörgen had been waiting; he flung the stone with all his might, and a loud howl arose. He immediately turned to Mary, swept off his hat with his best smile, and thanked her for the hospitality shown him.

For the sake of appearances she could not but remain on the pier until the steamer went; she was even obliged to wave her parasol once or twice. Smiling and triumphant, Jörgen returned sweeping bows from the steamer's deck.

How furious she was! But he was hardly less so.

"He, who should have thrown himself in the dust before me, and kissed the hem of my dress!" This was Mary's feeling.

She had had a dawning suspicion last night of a want of delicacy in her lover. He would not let her go. She had had to resort to artifice, and had been obliged to lock her door. But she had explained his behaviour to herself as an unfortunate result of those years of longing which had turned his passion into a morbid possession.

Now uncertainty was no longer possible! Only an "experienced hand" could behave like this. She had been deceived! The very best that was in her, fostered and guarded by her noblest instincts, had been led loathsomely astray.

With this thought she wrestled and strove all day long. She called herself betrayed, dishonoured. At first she thrust the blame away from herself. Then she took it all upon herself, and pronounced herself unworthy to live. She did nothing but make mistakes; she was her own betrayer! One hour she said to herself: "Violence was done me, although I gave myself to him voluntarily!" The next she said: "All this has its beginning farther back, and I cannot unravel it."

What a blessing that her own room remained undefiled! The one next it she would never enter again.

With Jörgen she would have nothing more to do! But would he in these circumstances keep silence? She felt certain that he would. His faults did not lie in this direction—otherwise she, too, must have heard something. But that even one human being should exist who——! She wept with anger and impotence. It would break her spirit. It would weigh on her like an incubus—heaviest when she rose highest.

She would meet him! She would tell him what she had taken him for, and what he was—to whom she thought she was going that night and whom she found. He should not be able to boast! But to carry out this intention she must know something about his life. Whom dared she ask? who knew?

When she awoke next morning, her mind was clearer—clearer in the first place as to how she must proceed in acquiring information regarding Jörgen. It must be gathered as opportunity offered, so that no one's attention should be attracted. It was also clear to her that the breach with him, and the meeting which was to prepare it, must be postponed—chiefly for the sake of the old people. But her second and much more important resolve was to restore the equilibrium of her own life, to escape from the unhealthy atmosphere which had been her undoing. This could be done in only one way; she must take up her work again, fit herself to do it better, and gain new courage by success.

Work and duty! She raised herself on her elbow, as if imitating the corresponding uplifting of her mind. The next moment she was out of bed, preparing to begin.

The 50,000 kroner which her father had given to Uncle Klaus, and of which she had found no record in his books—did they not indicate that he probably had money in America over and above that which had been in his brother's business? that the interest which he had not spent had been invested there? that 50,000 kroner of capital had lately been paid up and sent home?

Ever since Jörgen had told her about these 50,000 kroner, the thought of them had been haunting her. Now she must examine her father's American correspondence; they must be mentioned in it. But no American letters could she find, until she opened a small box which was shoved under a book-shelf, and the key of which she found in her father's purse. She remembered that this box had accompanied them on their travels, but she had never known what it contained. In it lay the American correspondence and accounts. It seemed as if, ever since her mother's days, he had kept this American part of his fortune, and everything relating to it, separate from the rest. And a very considerable sum he must still own over there, even although the principal part, the million, was lost. Mary became quite excited. Her father had undoubtedly understood from the fatal letter that everything he possessed in America was lost; and she and the others had received the same impression.

She now went to her father's room, explained things carefully to him, and said that she intended to go to America at once to investigate the matter. He was startled, but soon recognised the necessity of the step, and agreed to it.

Mrs. Dawes was not so confiding. She felt that there was something wrong, and that Mary was seeking distraction. But Mary's manner in telling of her discovery and intention was quite determined. Therefore the old lady confined herself to a gentle reminder of the gales likely to be encountered at this season.

Three days later Mary, with an English-speaking maid, was on her way to America, confident, as she had assured her father, of finding some one among her many acquaintances capable of giving her the assistance she required.

Everything happened as she had hoped, and in six weeks she was home again. It was fortunate that she had gone out when she did, for proceedings were on the point of being taken on the assumption that Anders Krog had been his brother's full partner, whereas his partnership was limited to the amount which he had invested in the business. This Mary was in a position to prove.

Her business success inspired her with courage. Why not go on? She had capital at her disposal now with which to commence operations. She felt very much inclined to try. And the timber trade too! Was she not as capable as any one of learning it? Was book-keeping by double-entry so very difficult? She set to work at once.

Anders Krog seemed to revive after his daughter's return. The certainty that the money which had not been in his brother's business was saved gave him the greatest satisfaction. Mary's future was his one thought.

Mrs. Dawes, on the contrary, became visibly worse. It seemed as if the once active, indefatigable woman had no strength left to draw upon. She did not even ask after Jörgen; her correspondence she had quite given up.

Mary managed the property with the assistance of the overseer, and her father's money with the aid of a lawyer. She took lessons and studied. Twice a week she went to town.

The time passed thus until the beginning of November. Then Anders Krog received a letter from a near relation in Christiania, whose only child, a daughter, had just become engaged. He was particularly anxious that Mary should come and take part in the festivities to be held on this occasion. Several entertainments were to be given by both families concerned.

Mary was surprised at the pleasure with which the prospect suddenly filled her. The old Adam was not dead! She hummed cheerfully as she went about the house making her preparations. She was longing for new surroundings—and for new homage! It was as reparation she desired it; this she was obliged to confess to herself.

She had not been in Christiania many days before Anders received a letter proclaiming her praises in the strongest words in the language. It was not the engaged couple, but Mary, who attracted most attention at the balls; it was she who was distinguished and fêted—the young couple themselves being amongst her most devoted admirers! Her unique style of beauty, her charm of manner, her accomplishments, her tact, had made an indelible impression upon them all. They must be allowed to keep her a little longer.

Anders Krog sent the letter in to Mrs. Dawes, with the request that it should be returned soon. He spent most of the day reading it.

Next morning Mary came home. She went upstairs quietly to her father's room. He was shocked with her look. She was ill, she said; and this was plainly visible. She was not pale, but grey; her eyes were heavy with sleep, her voice was faint. She embraced her father long and tenderly, but would neither look at his letter nor tell him about her visit. She must go to bed and rest, she told him, as soon as she had seen Mrs. Dawes.

She did not stay half a minute with Mrs. Dawes, whom she left terribly anxious.

She slept all day, ate a little at supper-time, and slept again all night.

When she got up she looked much as usual, and was active and interested in everything. Overseer, gardener, and housekeeper came with their reports, and she went her usual rounds. Then she made her father happy again by coming smiling into his room.

She had come to tell him that there was nothing now to prevent her marrying at once. They would be quite well enough off. Her father managed with great difficulty to say that he had been thinking the same himself. His eyes and the one hand said more, namely, that nothing would please him better.

But when she told Mrs. Dawes, and added that she thought of going at once to Stockholm to propose it (Jörgen's name was not mentioned), Mrs. Dawes's usual perspicacity returned; she sat up in bed and began to weep bitterly. Then Mary's courage failed her; she threw herself on the bed and whispered: "It's only too true, Aunt Eva!" She wept as she had never wept in her life before. But as Mrs. Dawes's agitation was increased by this, she was obliged to raise her head and say: "Aunt Eva, dear, Father will hear us!" This subdued them a little. Then Mrs. Dawes told, through her tears, that this was her own story over again. Not until after her fiancé had induced her to go the same length did she discover what a despicable man he was.

"Then we were obliged to marry. You see now, child, what we women are; we never learn."

"Oh, if only you and Father had not insisted on bringing this man into my life!" moaned Mary. "My instinct warned me to keep him at a distance, but you deadened it." She added at once: "No, don't take it like that, Aunt Eva! I am not reproaching you and Father. Besides, there's no use in complaining now. There is only one thing to be done—to shut my eyes and take the plunge."

In this Mrs. Dawes entirely agreed with her. "Afterwards you will do as I did; when your reputation is saved, you will separate from him."

"No, that I shall not do. There will be something then that will bind us together. Good God! good God!" she moaned, clinging to her old friend and smothering her cry in the bed-clothes.

Mrs. Dawes sat helpless, holding her. "I don't understand this," she said.

Mary raised her head quickly: "Do you not understand? He did it on purpose to bind me. He knew me."

Then she threw herself across the bed again, miserable, despairing. Between her outbursts of weeping came the cry: "There is no way out of it! no way out of it!"

Mrs. Dawes had neither the strength nor the courage to seek for words to comfort such distress.

It took its free course, until the anger cooled. Mrs. Dawes could feel that another emotion was gradually taking the upper hand. Mary raised her head; in her eyes, red with weeping, was hatred.

"I thought that I was giving myself to a gentleman; I discovered that it was to a speculator." She rose slowly.

"Will you say that to him, child?"

"Most certainly not! Nothing whatever to that effect. I shall merely say that it is necessary we should marry."

Three days later a letter was brought in to Jörgen Thiis at the Foreign Office. It was from Mary. "I am at the Grand Hotel, and expect you to meet me there, outside the entrance, at two o'clock punctually."

He understood at once what this implied, and hurried off, for it was now a quarter to two. It did not strike him until he was on his way downstairs that their meeting was to be "outside the entrance"!

She did not wish to be alone with him in her room.

This altered his intentions. He ran up to his rooms and released from imprisonment a little black poodle puppy, a valuable animal, which he was training.

The middle of the road was filthy with slush and mud, and the dog was at once ordered to keep beside his master on the pavement, which was clean. After a few sprightly excursions he became obedient; he was afraid of Jörgen's thin cane.

Mary's erect figure was distinguishable from a long distance. She stood with her back to them, looking in the direction of the palace. Jörgen's heart beat violently; his courage was failing him.

Mary became aware of his approach by the dog's rushing up to her as to an old friend. She loved dogs; nothing but her constant change of abode had prevented her keeping one. And this was such a beautiful, healthy, well-kept animal, so entirely to her taste in every way, that she involuntarily bent down to take notice of him. As she did so she saw Jörgen. She drew herself up again at once.

"Is this your dog?" she asked, as if they had parted half an hour ago.

"Yes," answered he, taking off his hat respectfully.

Then she bent down again and patted the dog: "What a beauty you are! a real beauty! No—keep down!"

"Keep down!" came in a more peremptory tone from Jörgen.

Mary straightened herself again. "Where shall we go?" she asked. "I have never been in Stockholm before."

"We may as well go straight on. If we take the turning yonder we shall come to John Ericson's monument."

"Yes, I should like to see that." They walked on.

"Come here!" called Jörgen to the dog, indicating the spot with his stick. He was offended by Mary's not even having offered him her hand. The dog came dejectedly, but cheered up immediately, for Mary spoke to him and patted him again.

"I have been over in America," she said.

"Yes, I heard that."

"The 50,000 kroner of which you spoke were not in my father's books, which made me certain that he must keep a separate account of the money in America. This account I found. It showed me the necessity for going across and saving what could be saved. The main sum was, of course, hopelessly lost."

"What success had you?"

"I brought home with me the accumulated interest of all these years."

"The money had been well invested?"

"Better, I believe, than it could have been in Europe."

Here followed a short intermezzo. The dog had been off the pavement, and now received a few cuts with the cane. This made Mary indignant.

"Dear me! the dog doesn't understand."

"Yes, he understands perfectly; but he has not learned to obey."

They walked on quickly. "What is your intention in telling me this?" asked Jörgen.

"To show you that we can marry at once."

"How much is there?"

"About two hundred thousand."

"Dollars?"

"No, kroner. And the 50,000 besides."

"It is not enough."

"Along with the rest?"

"The 'rest' is hardly yielding anything at present. That you know."

Mary began to feel ill. He knew it by her voice when she said: "We have the timber to fall back upon."

"Which cannot be felled for three years; possibly not for four, or even five? That depends entirely on its growth."

Mary knew that he was right. Why had she mentioned it? "But—ten to twelve thousand kroner a year...?"

"Is not enough in our position."

Another intermezzo. There was no pavement here. They had come to a large, open space, thick with mud. Both had forgotten the dog. A fat, dirty ship-dog, also of the poodle tribe, had come on shore with some sailors, who were sauntering along in the same direction as Mary and Jörgen. With this welcome playfellow Jörgen's dog had joined company. Jörgen had the greatest trouble in inducing him to come back—dirty as he already was. As soon as Mary called too, he came boldly and joyfully. But a stroke with the cane awaited him, and called forth a howl.

"It is strange," said Mary, "that you cannot treat a nice dog kindly!" She was thinking of his cruelty to their neighbour's old Lapland dog.

Jörgen did not answer. But as soon as he felt sure that the dog was following meekly, he said: "Does Uncle Klaus know anything about this money?"

"I do not believe that any one knows about it except ourselves. Why do you ask?"

"Because it will be our best plan to speak to Uncle Klaus."

Mary stood still, astonished. "To Uncle Klaus?"

Jörgen also stood still. They looked at each other now.

"It will be to our interest," continued Jörgen.

"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 Jörgen, 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. Jörgen 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 Jörgen 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 Jörgen'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.

Jörgen 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 Jörgen 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 Jörgen'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 Jörgen. Mary knew it, and made an attempt to save the dog. Standing behind Jörgen, 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 Jörgen. Jörgen, 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. Jörgen had hold of one of the long ears. The dog howled; Jörgen must have pinched hard. Mary called in French: "Don't beat him!" Jörgen 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, Jörgen!"

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; Jörgen 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 Jörgen and all his ways!

"That's what we are saying, my little rescuer, eh?" The dog barked.

She looked round to see Jörgen. 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; Jörgen 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. Jörgen 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 Jörgen, 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. Jörgen 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 Jörgen 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—Jörgen 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 Jörgen 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 Jörgen 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.