Part 19 (1/2)

In her blue morning dress she pa.s.sed 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 Jorgen'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 s.h.i.+eld, to hide, to help her with manly tenderness to overcome the feeling of shame from which she must be suffering. His whole att.i.tude was tender and rea.s.suring.

”But we must hurry in to breakfast now,” he whispered affectionately, kissing her beautiful hair again, and inhaling its fragrance. Then he pa.s.sed 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 Jorgen 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. Jorgen poured out a large gla.s.s, 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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sed out quickly, Jorgen 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. Jorgen 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, Jorgen. 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 Jorgen 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. Jorgen 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 Jorgen 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, Jorgen 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 pa.s.sion 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 n.o.blest 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 p.r.o.nounced 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.”