Mary, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson [book series for 10 year olds .txt] 📗

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