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.