Mary by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (little red riding hood ebook TXT) 📖

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The message which touched her most came from Paris, and was as follows: "My beloved Mary,--Can it comfort you in your great sorrow to know that there is a resting-place here for you, and that I am at your service--to travel with you, to come to you, to do whatever you wish!--Yours unalterably, ALICE."

She knew who had sent Alice intimation.

Joergen, too, telegraphed. "If I could be of the slightest service or comfort to you I would come at once. I am broken-hearted."

The same touching, reverential sympathy was shown on the occasion of the funeral, which was hastened on Mary's account, and took place three days after the deaths. Amongst the countless wreaths, the most beautiful of all was Alice's. It was taken up to Mary--she wished to see it. The whole house was fragrant with flowers on that winter day, their sweet breath a message of love to those who slept there.

Mary did not go downstairs; she refused to see the coffins, or the flowers, or any of the preparations that had been made for the entertainment of friends who came from a distance.

More people came than the house could hold, and at the chapel there was a still larger gathering.

The clergyman asked if he might go upstairs and see Miss Krog. Mary sent him her best thanks, but declined the visit.

Immediately afterwards little Nanna came to ask if she would see Uncle Klaus. The old man had sent her a very touching telegram, in which he asked if he could not be of service to her in any way. And his wreath was so magnificent that, after hearing the servants' description of it, Mary had made them bring it, too, for her to look at.

She now answered: Yes. And in came the tall man, in deep mourning, gasping as if he had difficulty in breathing. No sooner did he see Mary standing by the bed, a figure of ivory draped in black, than he sank on to the first chair he could reach, and burst into loud weeping. The sound resembled what is heard when the mainspring of a large clock breaks, and the whole machinery unreels itself. It was the weeping of a man who had not wept since he was a child--a sound alarmed at itself. He did not look up.

But he had an errand, so much Mary understood. He tried twice to speak, but the attempt only increased the violence of the weeping fit. Then, motioning despairingly, he rose and left the room. He did not shut the door, and she heard him sobbing as he went along the passage and downstairs, to go straight home.

Mary was deeply touched. She knew that her father had been the old man's best, perhaps his only friend. But she understood that it was not for him alone the tears had been shed; they told also of sympathy with her, and of remorse. Had it not been so, Uncle Klaus would have stayed beside the coffin.

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 Saturday, 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 god-daughter, Miss Mary Krog." She had had no idea that she was his god-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 god-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 Joergen'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 godfather,
"KLAUS KROG."

Mary answered at once:

"MY DEAR GODFATHER,--Your letter has touched me deeply. I thank you with all my heart.

"But I dare not accept your generous gift.

"Joergen 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."

Whilst she was despatching this letter she heard a carriage drive up, and presently a card was brought in to her, on which she read: "Dr. Margrete Roey."

It was a little time before Miss Roey came in. She had been taking off her wraps. It was a cold day. The delay increased Mary's excitement, with the result that she trembled and turned pale as the tall, strong woman with the kind eyes entered the room. She saw the impression made by this on the kind eyes, which now poured forth all their compassion upon her. As if they had known each other for many years, Mary went up to her visitor, laid her head on her shoulder, and wept. Margrete Roey pressed the unhappy girl affectionately to her breast.

After they had seated themselves, she told her errand, which was to inquire when Mary intended to go abroad. Mary asked in surprise: "Have I spoken to any one about that?"

Miss Roey said that she had heard it from the nurse.

"Oh!" said Mary, "I have no idea what I said in the state I was in at that time. I have certainly given the matter no thought since."

"Then you are not going abroad?"

Mary sat silent for a moment. "All I can say is that I don't know. I have not yet made any plans."

Margrete Roey was embarrassed. Mary saw this, or rather felt it. "You also have perhaps had thoughts of travelling!" she said.

"Yes, and I wanted to know if I could be of any use to you. I should be happy to arrange my journey so that we could travel together."

"Where are you going?"

"I am going abroad to study--Paris first. The nurse told me it was there you meant to go," said Margrete, beginning to feel very awkward. Her wish had been to help Mary, but it seemed to her now that she was intruding.

"I appreciate your kindness," said Mary. "It is possible that I mentioned Paris. I don't remember. The truth is that I have come to no decision."

"Please forgive me, then. The whole has been a misunderstanding," said Miss Roey, rising.

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