Part 23 (1/2)

The sweet-toned chapel bell began to toll. The dog, which had been kept prisoner in Mary's room all day, and was very restless, rushed to the window towards the sea, and put his fore-paws up on the sill, to look out. Mary followed him.

At that moment Uncle Klaus drove off. The singing of a psalm began in the rooms below, and the funeral procession issued from the house. The coffins were carried by the peasants from the neighbouring farms. When the first came in sight, Mary fell on her knees and wept as if her heart would break. She saw no more.

She flung herself across the bed. The strokes of the bell seemed to cut into her flesh; she imagined that she felt the stripes they raised. Her mind became more and more confused. She was certain now that her father, when he caught sight of her in the doorway, had guessed the truth, and that this had killed him. Mrs. Dawes had followed him, as she always did. Her love for Anders Krog was the one great love of her life. They were both here now. And Mary's mother, too, was in the room, in a long white robe. ”You are cold, child!” she said, and took her into her arms--for Mary had become a child again, a little innocent child. She fell asleep.

When she awoke and heard no sound, outside the house or in, she folded her hands and said, half aloud: ”This was best for us, for all three. We have been mercifully dealt with.”

She looked round for the dog; she craved for sympathy. But some one must have taken him away whilst she was asleep.

No more was needed to make the tears flow again. Welling forth from the inexhaustible fountain of grief within, they poured down her cheeks and over the hands with which she was supporting her heavy head.

”Now I can begin to think of myself again. I am alone now.”

THE CRISIS

When Mary was visiting the graves next day, her grief was distracted by the following little occurrence.

It was Sat.u.r.day, and the eve of one of the few Sundays in the year when service was held in the chapel. On such occasions it was customary to decorate the graves. As the farm to the right of Krogskogen had once formed part of that estate, its owners had their burial-place here. The peasant's wife had come with flowers to deck a new grave, and the old Lapland dog was with her. Mary's little poodle at once rushed at him fearlessly, and to the woman's and Mary's surprise the old dog, after cautious and minute inspection, made friends with the giddy youngster.

Though he as a rule could not bear puppies, he quite fell in love with this one. He allowed his ears to be pulled and his legs to be bitten; he even laid himself down and pretended to be vanquished. This delighted Mary so much that she accompanied the woman part of the way home, to watch the game. And she was more than repaid for so doing. She heard warm praise of her father, and some of the anecdotes of him that were circulating in the neighbourhood at this time, and were ensuring him an honoured memory.

She thought as she walked home with her excited dog: ”Am I beginning to resemble Mother? Has there always been in me something of her which until now has not had room to develop; something of her simple nature?”

This day brought two surprises.

The first was a letter from Uncle Klaus. He addressed her as: ”My honoured and dear G.o.d-daughter, Miss Mary Krog.” She had had no idea that she was his G.o.d-daughter; her father had never told her, probably did not know it himself.

Uncle Klaus wrote: ”There are feelings which are too strong for words, especially for written words. I am no letter-writer; but I take the liberty of intimating to you in this manner, since I was unable to do it by word of mouth, that on the day when your father, my best friend, and Mrs. Dawes, your revered foster-mother, died, and you were left alone, I made you, my dear G.o.d-daughter, my heiress.

”My fortune is not nearly so large as is generally supposed; I have had great losses of late. But there is still enough for us both--that is to say, if your share is under your own management _and not Jorgen's_. I write on the supposition that you will now marry.

”Mrs. Dawes's will has been in my hands for many years, and I have had charge of her money. I opened the will yesterday. She has left everything to you. This means about 60,000 kroner. But the same holds good of this money as of your father's; it is for the moment yielding almost no interest.

”Your G.o.dfather, ”KLAUS KROG.”

Mary answered at once:

”MY DEAR G.o.dFATHER,--Your letter has touched me deeply. I thank you with all my heart.

”But I dare not accept your generous gift.

”Jorgen is your adopted son, and on no account will I stand in his way.

”You must not be angry with me for this. I cannot possibly act differently.

”In the matter of Mrs. Dawes's will, I shall come to a decision ere long, and shall then write to you again.

”Your grateful ”MARY KROG.”