“I wish I were not going home,” said Helge sadly.
“But I am going home soon too,” she said softly, “and we shall probably come back here together.”
“You are quite determined to go? Are you sorry that I have upset all your plans in this way?”
She gave him a hurried kiss and ran to the kettle, which was boiling over.
“No, you silly boy. I had almost made up my mind before, because mamma wants me badly.” She gave a short laugh. “I am ashamed of myself—she is so pleased that I am coming home to help her, and it is really only to be with my lover. But it is all right. I can live cheaper at home even if I help them a little, and I may be able to earn something. What I can save now, I shall want here later.”
Helge took the cup she gave him and seized her hand:
“But next time you come here you will come with me; for I suppose you will—you mean—that we should marry?”
His face was so young and so anxiously inquiring that she had to kiss him several times, forgetting that she had been afraid of that word, which had not been mentioned between them before.
“I suppose that will be the most practical plan, you dear boy, since we have agreed to be together always.”
Helge kissed her hand, asking quietly: “When?”
“When you like,” she answered as quietly—and firmly.
Again he kissed her hand.
“What a pity we can’t be married out here,” he said a moment after in a different voice.
She did not answer, but stroked his hair softly. Helge sighed:
“But I suppose we ought not to, as we are going home so soon in any case. Your mother would feel hurt, don’t you think, at such a hurried marriage?”
Jenny was silent. It had never occurred to her that she owed her mother any account of her doings—her mother had not consulted her when she had wanted to marry again.
“It would hurt my people, I know. I don’t like to admit it, but it is so, and I should much prefer to write and tell them that I am engaged. As you are going home before me, it would be nice of you to go and see them.”
Jenny bent her head as if to shake off a disagreeable sensation, and said:
“I will, dear, if you wish me to—of course.”
“I don’t like it at all. It has been so lovely here—only you and I, nobody else in all the world. But mother would be so vexed, you see, and I don’t want to make things worse for her than they are already. I don’t care for my mother any longer—she knows it, and is so grieved at it. It is only a formality, I know, but she would suffer if she thought I wanted to keep her out in the cold. She would think it was vengeance for the old story, you know. When we are through with all that, we will get married, and nobody will have anything more to say. I wish so much that it would be soon—don’t you?”
She kissed him in answer.
“I want you,” he whispered, and she made no resistance when he caressed her. But he let her go suddenly and, buttering his biscuit, began to eat.
Afterwards they sat by the stove smoking, she in the easy-chair and he on the floor with his head in her lap.
“Isn’t Cesca coming back tonight either?” he asked suddenly.
“No; she is staying in Tivoli till the end of the week,” Jenny answered a little nervously.
“You have such pretty, slender feet.”
“You are so lovely—oh, so lovely—and I am so fond of you. You don’t know how I love you, Jenny—I should like to lie down on the floor at your feet.”
“Helge! Helge!” His sudden violence frightened her, but then she said to herself: he is my own darling boy. Why should I be afraid of him.
“No, Helge—don’t. Not the shoes I stamp about with in those dirty streets.”
Helge rose—sobered and humble. She tried to laugh the whole matter away. “There may be many dangerous bacilli on those shoes, you know.”
“Ugh! What a pedant you are. And you pretend to be an artist.” He laughed too, and to hide his embarrassment, he went on boisterously: “A nice sweetheart you are. Let me smell: I thought so—you smell of turpentine and paint.”
“Nonsense, dear; I have not touched a brush for three weeks. But you will have to wash, sir.”
“Have you any carbolic, in case of infection?” While he was washing his hands he said: “My father used to say that women are utterly destitute of poetry.”
“Your father is quite right.”
“And they can cure people by ordering cold baths,” he said, with a laugh.
Jenny became suddenly serious. She went to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him: “I did not want you at my feet, Helge.”
When he had gone she was ashamed of herself. He was right. She did want to give him a cold bath, but she would not do it again, for she loved him. She had played a poor part tonight. She had thought of Signora Rosa. What would she have said if anything had happened? It was rather humiliating to realize that she had been afraid of a scene with an angry signora—and tried to get out of her promise to her lover. In accepting his love and responding to his kisses she had as good as bound herself over to give him all he asked. She, of all people, would not play a game where she took everything and gave but little—not more than she could easily
