But the dog's joy at seeing Mary again was boundless. He barked, he yelped, he jumped right up to her face; there was no end to his demonstrations. When Frans Röy spoke to him, he went up to him at once, as to an old friend, but immediately returned to Mary. The little shaggy creature's ardent delight represented to her the joy of her home at seeing her again, saved. His was the greeting of both the dead and the living. This was what Mary felt. And she also felt that his happiness possibly preluded a re-awakening of her own, when she had succeeded in shaking off the impression of the horrors she had undergone.
When she entered the house, heralded by the dog, who was as wild with joy as ever, the three maids were all in the hall to welcome her, Nanna with them. They stopped short in their exclamations when they saw the enormous figure looming behind her; for in his waterproof cloak and hood Franz Röy seemed supernaturally tall. But it was only for a moment; then they broke out: "Oh, Miss, to think that you should have been out in such a storm! We have been terribly anxious. The housekeeper in town let us know. But we had no one to send to meet you, for there is a fire in the neighbourhood and all the men have gone off there. Thank God that we have you again, safe!"
Mary concealed her emotion by hastening upstairs. Her room was warm, her lamp was lighted.
"Is all this affection and care new? Or is it just that I have never noticed it before?"
The dog whined outside until she was obliged to let him in. He was so obtrusive in his gratitude that it was with difficulty she managed to change her clothes.
When she was doing her hair she remembered the locket with her mother's portrait. She took it from her pocket, and before fastening it on her neck again, looked at the portrait—for the first time for many years—and caressed and kissed it. Presently she lit a candle, and with it in her hand crossed the passage to her father's room. There she set it down, and going forward to his bed, bent over it and kissed the pillow. On coming out, she stopped at the door of the visitors' room. "In this room he shall sleep; then it can be opened again to-morrow; its hateful associations will be gone." A maid to whom she gave orders to light a fire told her that this had already been done, and taking Mary's candle, went in to light the lamp. Mary stood looking after her. "Have they really been like this all the time?"
The maid remained in the room, arranging it. Mary moved on towards the stairs. There she once more stopped. The dog, who had run down, came rushing up; he was determined not to lose her again. She stroked him gratefully; it was like a first little instalment of that gratitude with which her heart was full to overflowing.
"To-morrow—this evening I am too tired—to-morrow I will tell Frans Röy everything! Every single thing that has happened! Perhaps this will help me to understand it all myself."
With this brave resolve she walked downstairs, but stopped once more before she reached the foot. "Strange it is—most strange—but I feel as if I could tell the whole world!"
The dog was standing at the door of the Dutch room. He smelt Frans Röy there.