in her. She grew tall, her eyes large, her head shapely. Her father could not get her to associate with other children; it bored her. They did not transport themselves quickly enough into her imaginary world, which was certainly a curious one. The fields were a circus—her father had told her about Buffalo Bill's. The Indians galloped across the plain; she herself, on a white horse, leading. The ridges were boxes, and they were full of people. This the other children could not see. Nor could they understand the travel-game on the table, which her father had taught her to play.
When she was nearly seven, she compelled her father, who was a good cyclist, to buy her a bicycle and teach her to ride it. But this was the drop which caused the cup to overflow. He decided to call in help.
In Paris he had made the acquaintance of a distant relation, Mrs. Dawes by name. This lady had married in England, but after the death of her only child she left her husband, and supported herself by keeping a boarding-house in Paris. In this boarding-house Krog had admired her extremely. He had seldom met a cleverer woman. Now he asked her if she would come and keep his house and educate his child. She promptly telegraphed "Yes," and within a month had sold her business, travelled to Norway, and entered upon all her duties. A disease of the hip-joint from which she had long suffered had become worse, so that she had difficulty in walking. But from the wheeled arm-chair which she brought with her, and which her stout person completely filled, she managed the whole household, including Anders himself. He was quite alarmed by her cleverness. She seldom left her chair, and yet she knew of everything that happened. Walls did not conceal from her eyes; distance did not exist for her. Much of this power of hers was explained by the acuteness of her senses, by her cleverness in interpreting words and signs, reading looks and expressions and drawing inferences from them, and by her skill in the art of questioning. But there was something that defied explanation. When danger threatened any one she loved, she was aware of it—sitting in her chair. With a loud exclamation—always in English on such occasions—she sprang up, and actually ran. This happened, for instance, on the memorable day when Marit, on her bicycle, fell into the river and was fished out again by two men from the steamer; for it was close to the landing-place that the accident occurred; she was on her way there. On the way home she and Mrs. Dawes met—the one dripping with sea-water and screaming, the other dripping with perspiration and screaming.
Mrs. Dawes went the round of the house every day—outside, if necessary, as well as inside—but she seldom went farther. On this round she saw everything—including what was about to happen, the servants declared.
There was a suggestion of floating about her. She sat floating in paper. She carried on, at least according to Anders Krog, a constant correspondence with every one who had ever lived in her house. It was carried on in all languages and upon all subjects; a considerable part of her time was spent in introducing what she read—and she read far into the night—into her letters. She moved her chair to the table on which lay her desk; then she turned away from the table to read. Fastened to the arm of the chair was a reading-desk, on which she laid the book; she seldom held it in her hand. Memoirs were her favourite reading; gossip from them she at once transferred to her letters. Next came art magazines and books of travel. She had a little money of her own, and bought what she wanted.
Along with all this she taught the child. The two sat at the big table in the drawing-room, "Aunt Eva" in her chair of state, the little girl opposite her. But whenever it was necessary, Marit had to come round and stand beside Aunt Eva's desk. The hours of instruction passed so pleasantly that the little one often forgot that she was at lessons. Her father, whose library opened out of the drawing-room, often forgot it too, when he came in and listened to the conversations or to what Mrs. Dawes was telling.
Lessons might be easy, but something else was difficult and led to conflict. Mrs. Dawes wished to bring about a general alteration in the child's habits, and here she had the father against her. But he was, of course, worsted, and that before he understood what she was about. Marit had to learn to obey; she had to learn the meaning of punctuality, of order, of politeness, of tact. She had to practise every day, to hold herself straight at table, to wash her hands an unlimited number of times, always to tell where she was going—and all this against her own will, and really against her father's, too.
Mrs. Dawes had one sure base from which to operate. This was the child's unbounded faith in her mother's perfection. She convinced Marit that her mother had never gone to bed later than eight o'clock. Before getting into bed, too, Mother had always arranged her clothes upon a chair and set her shoes outside the door.
From what Mother had done, and done to perfection, Mrs. Dawes went on to what Mother would have done if she had been in Marit's place, and, also, to what she would not have done if she had been Marit. This proved harder. When Mrs. Dawes, for instance, assured her that her mother had never ridden out of sight on her bicycle, Marit asked: "How do you know that?" "I know it because I know that your father and mother were never away from each other." "That is true, Marit," said her father, glad to be able for once to confirm one of Mrs. Dawes's assertions; most of them were not true.
The farther the work of education progressed, the more interested in it did Mrs. Dawes become, and the stronger did her hold on the child grow. She set herself the task of eradicating Marit's dream-life, an inheritance from her mother, which flourished exuberantly as long as her father encouraged it and took pleasure in it.
One spring Marit rushed in and told her father that in a hollow in the old tree between Mother's and Grandmother's graves there was a little nest, and in the nest were tiny, tiny little eggs. "It's a message from Mother, isn't it?" He nodded, and went with her to look at it. But when they came near, the bird flew out piping lamentably. "Mother says we are not to go nearer?" questioned Marit. To this her father answered: "Yes." "It would be the same as disturbing Mother if we did?" continued she. He nodded.—They walked back to the house, perfectly happy, talking of Mother all the way. When Marit told Mrs. Dawes about this afterwards, Mrs. Dawes said to her: "Your father answers 'Yes' to such questions because he does not want to grieve you, child. If your Mother could send you a message, she would come herself." There was no end to the revolution which those few cruel words wrought. They altered even the relation between the child and her father.
The lessons went on steadily, and so did the training, until Marit was nearly thirteen—tall, very thin, large-eyed, with luxuriant red hair and a pure white skin guiltless of freckles, which was Mrs. Dawes's pride.
About this time Krog came in one day from the library to stop the lessons. This had not happened during all the years they had gone on. Marit was allowed to go. Mrs. Dawes accompanied Anders into the library.
"Be kind enough to read this letter."
She read, and learned what she had had no idea of—that the man who was standing before her, watching her face whilst she read, was a millionaire—and that not in kroner, but in dollars. Since receiving the bank deposits and shares at the time of his uncle's death, he had drawn nothing from America—and this was the result.
"I congratulate you," said Mrs. Dawes, and seized his right hand in both of hers. Her eyes filled with tears: "And I understand you, dear Mr. Krog; it is your wish that we should travel now."
He looked at her, a glad smile in his bright eyes. "Have you any objection, Mrs. Dawes?"
"Not if we take servants with us. You know how lame I am."
"Servants you shall have, and we shall keep a carriage wherever we are. Lessons can go on, can't they?"
"Of course they can. Better than ever!" She beamed and wept. She said to herself that she had never felt so happy.
A fortnight later the three, with maid and manservant, had left Krogskogen.
THE SCEPTRE
