He was right, she thought, and reproached herself for not being patient enough. He, poor boy, had to live and work in a home she could scarcely endure for two hours. He had grown up in it and lived his whole youth in it.
“I am horrid and selfish, Helge.” She clung to him, tired, worried, and humiliated. She longed for him to kiss her and comfort her. What did it really matter to them? They had each other, and belonged somewhere far away from the air of hatred, suspicion, and anger in his home.
The scent of jessamine was wafted from the old gardens that still remained.
“We can go off by ourselves another day—just you and I,” he said, to comfort her. “But how could you be so silly?” he said suddenly. “I cannot understand it. You ought to have known that mother would get to know it—as sure as anything.”
“Of course she does not believe the story your father told,” said Jenny timidly.—Helge sniffed.—“I wish he would tell her everything just as it happened.”
“You may rest assured he won’t do that. And you cannot do it—you must just go on pretending. It was awfully stupid of you.”
“I could not help it, Helge.”
“Well—I had told you enough about things at home for you to know. You could have prevented father from coming again, and all your visits to the office—as well as the meetings in Stenersgate.”
“Meetings?—I saw the view and knew I could make a good picture of it—and so I have.”
“Yes, yes, you have. The fault, no doubt, is mostly father’s. Oh, the way he speaks of her.” Helge fumed. “You heard what he had said to Aagot—and what he said to you tonight. ‘She’ ”—imitating his father—“does not say anything to you! Remember it is our mother he speaks of like that.”
“I think your father is much more considerate and courteous to your mother than she is to him.”
“That consideration of father’s—I know it. Do you call it considerate the way he has won you over to his side? And his politeness—if you knew how I have suffered under it as a child, and since. He used to stand and listen very politely without saying a word, and if he spoke, it was in an icy cold, extremely civil manner. I almost prefer mother’s loud anger and scoldings. Oh, Jenny, it is all so miserable.”
“My poor, darling boy.”
“It is not all mother’s fault. Everybody prefers father. You do—quite naturally—I do myself, but I understand her being as she is. She wants to be first with everybody, and she never is. Poor mother.”
“I am sorry for her,” said Jenny, but her heart remained cold to Mrs. Gram. The air was heavy with scent from leaf and blossom as they went through the square. On the seats under the trees there was whispering and murmuring in the clear summer night.
Their solitary steps echoed on the pavement of the deserted business quarter where the tall buildings slept—the pale blue sky was reflected in the shop windows.
“May I come up?” he whispered as they stood at her entrance.
“I am tired,” said Jenny softly.
“I should like to stay a while with you—don’t you think it would be nice to be by ourselves a little?”
She said nothing, but began to walk up the stairs, and he followed.
Jenny lighted the seven-armed candlestick on her writing-table, took a cigarette, and held it to the flame: “Will you smoke?”
“Thanks.” He took the cigarette from her lips.
“The thing is, you see,” he said suddenly, “that there was once some story about father and another woman. I was twelve then, and I don’t know exactly how much truth there was in it. But mother! … it was a dreadful time. It was only because of us that they remained together—father told me so himself. God knows, I don’t thank him for it! Mother is honest at least, and admits that she means to hold on to him by hook or by crook and not let go.”
He sat down on the sofa. Jenny went and sat beside him, kissing his eyes. He sank on his knees and laid his head in her lap.
“Do you remember the last evening in Rome, when I said good night? Do you still love me as you did then?”
She did not answer.
“Jenny?”
“We have not been happy together today—it’s the first time.”
He lifted his head: “Are you vexed with me?” he said in a low voice.
“No, not vexed.”
“What, then?”
“Nothing—only. …”
“Only what?”
“Tonight”—she hesitated—“when we walked here, you said we would go somewhere alone—some other day. It was not as it was in Rome; now it is you who decide what I must do and not do.”
“Oh no, Jenny.”
“Yes—but I don’t mind; I like it so. I only think that, if such is the case, you ought to help me out of all this trouble.”
“You don’t think I did help you today?” he asked slowly.
“Ye—s. Well, I suppose there was nothing you could do.”
“Shall I go now?” he whispered after a pause, drawing her close to him.
“Do as you wish,” she said quietly.
“You know what I wish. What do you wish—most?”
“I don’t know what I want.” She burst into tears.
“Oh, Jenny darling.” He kissed her softly time after time. When she recovered herself he took her hand: “I am going now. Sleep well, dear; you are tired. You must not be cross with me.”
“Say good night nicely to me,” she said, clinging to him.
“Good night, my sweet, beloved Jenny.” He left, and she fell to crying again.
VI
“These are the things I wanted you to see,” said Gert Gram, rising. He had been on his knees, looking for something on the lower shelf of his safe.
Jenny pushed the sketchbooks aside and pulled the electric lamp nearer. He wiped the dust from the big portfolio and placed it
