Before the vicar’s voice has ceased, and while he is pronouncing the blessing, Mona is hurrying home. There are no tears in her eyes now, and in her heart there is only a great exaltation.
Hitherto she has been thinking of what she intends to do as something that God would have to forgive her for. Not so now. If Jesus died of His own free will, if He died for love, why shouldn’t she? And if by dying He saved the world, would it not be the same with her also?
In the dizzy whirl of her brain she can see no difference. What she intends to do ceases to be a sin and becomes a sacrifice. If the world is full of hatred, as the consequence of the war, her death may save it. She is only a poor girl, and nobody on earth may ever know what she has done and why she has done it, yet God will know.
But Oskar? She had not intended to tell Oskar. He loved her so much that he might have tried to dissuade her. Just to slip away when the time came for him to go back to his own country—that had been her plan. But she could not reconcile herself to this now—not now, after this great new thought. Oskar must know everything.
Hours pass. She is sure Oskar will come to-day—quite sure. While waiting for him she drinks many cups of tea, forgetting that she has not eaten since yesterday. At last he comes. As usual, it is late at night, and she is so weak from emotion and want of food that she can scarcely reach the door to open it.
“May I come in?”
“Yes, indeed, come.”
He steps into the house, never having done so since the night of her father’s seizure, and sits by her side before the fire. His face is lividly white, his lips are twitching, and his voice is hoarse.
“What’s to do with you, Oskar?”
“Nothing. Don’t be afraid. I have come to tell you something.”