And she would go at once—before Helge came, asking for an explanation of her behaviour yesterday. She packed a bag, and as she was putting on her mackintosh somebody knocked at the door—again and again—she knew it was Helge. She stood absolutely still and waited till he had gone. After a while she took her bag, locked the studio, and went. Halfway down the stairs she saw a man sitting in one of the windows. It was Helge. He had seen her too, so she went down to him. They looked at each other in silence.
“Why did you not open just now?” he asked.
Jenny did not answer.
“Did you not hear me knocking?” He looked at her bag: “Are you going to your mother?”
She hesitated a little, then said: “No; I thought of going to Holmestrand for a few days and writing to you from there to come down, so that we could be together for a time without undue interference and scenes. I should like to talk matters over with you in peace and quiet.”
“I am anxious to speak to you too. Can we not go up to your place?”
She did not answer directly.
“Is there anybody there?” he asked.
Jenny looked at him: “Anybody in my studio when I have left?”
“There might be somebody you do not wish to be seen with.”
She turned purple in the face: “Why? How could I know that you were sitting there spying on me?”
“My dear Jenny, I don’t mean to say that there was any harm in it, not on your part at least.”
Jenny said nothing, but went up the stairs again. In the studio she placed her bag on the floor, and without taking off her things stood looking at Helge while he hung up his coat and put his umbrella in the corner.
“Father told me this morning that you had been to the office and that mother had been below in the street.”
“Yes. It is a peculiar manner you people have—of spying, I mean. I must say, I find it hard to get accustomed to it.”
Helge turned very red.
“Forgive me, Jenny—I had to speak to you, and the porter said he was sure you were in. You know very well that I don’t suspect you.”
“Really, I hardly know anything,” she said, overcome with it all. “I cannot bear it any longer. All this suspicion and secrecy and discord. Good heavens, Helge!—can’t you protect me from all this?”
“My poor Jenny.” He rose and went to the window, where he remained standing with his back to her. “I have suffered more than you know. It is all so hopeless. Can you not see for yourself that mother’s jealousy is not without foundation?”
Jenny began to shiver. He turned round and saw it.
“I don’t believe father is aware of it himself. If he were, he would not give in like that to his desire to be with you. But he told me himself that we ought to go away from here, both of us. I am not so sure that your going away now is not his idea too.”
“No; I decided myself to go to Holmestrand, but he spoke to me yesterday about leaving town, when—when we got married.”
She went to him and put her hands on his shoulders.
“Dearest—if it is as you say, I will have to go away. Helge, Helge! What shall we do?”
“I am going,” he said abruptly, lifting her hands from his shoulders and pressing them against his face.
They stood a moment in silence.
“But I must go too. Can you not understand? As long as I thought your mother absurd, even common, I could keep my countenance, but now it is different. You should not have said it, Helge—even if you are mistaken. I cannot go there any more with that on my mind. Whether she is justified or not, I cannot meet her eyes. I shall not be myself, and I shall look guilty.”
“Come,” said Helge, leading her to the sofa and sitting down beside her.
“I am going to ask you a question. Do you love me, Jenny?”
“You know I do,” she said quickly, as if frightened.
He took her cold hand between both of his: “I know you did once—though, God knows, I never understood why. But I knew it was true when you said so. You were loving and kind to me, and I was happy, but I was always afraid of a time coming when you would not love me any longer.”
She looked up in his face, saying: “I am very, very fond of you, Helge.”
“I know,” he answered, with a shadow of a smile. “I don’t think you turn cold all at once to somebody you have loved—you are not that kind. I know that you don’t wish to make me suffer, and that you will suffer yourself the moment you understand that you don’t love me any longer. I love you above everything.”
He bent his head in tears. She put her arms round him.
“Helge—my own darling boy.”
He raised his head and pushed her gently away from him: “Jenny, that time in Rome I could have made you mine—you wanted it yourself, for you believed that we could only find happiness in a life together. I was not so sure, I suppose, as I did not risk it. But here at home I have been wanting you more than ever. I wanted you to be mine entirely, for I was afraid of losing you, but I saw you were frightened every time you understood that I was longing for you.”
She looked at him in awe. Yes, he was right—she had not wished to admit it, but it was so.
“If I asked you now—this moment—would you consent?”
Jenny moved her lips; then came a quick and firm “Yes.”
Helge smiled sadly, kissing her hand:
