“Yes, Cesca dear.”
“You see, I had told him the same thing once before—about the baby, I mean—in the autumn, when he was so sad and we were not happy. I wanted him to be pleased and to be kind to me, and he was. It was a lovely time. I had really lied, but I began to believe it myself at last, for I thought God would make it true, so that I need not disappoint him. But God did not do it.
“I am so unhappy because I can’t have one. Do you think it is true—some people say it is so,” she whispered emotionally—“that a woman cannot have a child if she cannot feel—passionate?”
“No,” said Jenny sharply. “I am sure it is only nonsense.”
“I am sure everything would come all right then, for Lennart wishes it so very much. And I—oh, I think I should be so good—an angel for joy at having a dear little child of my own. Can you imagine anything more wonderful?”
“No,” whispered Jenny, confused, “when you love each other. It would help you to get over many difficulties.”
“Yes, it would. If it were not so awkward I would go and see a doctor. Don’t you think I ought to? I think I will some day, but I am so stupid about it—I feel so shy. I suppose it really is my duty as I am married. I might go to a lady doctor—one who is married and has children of her own.
“Think of it! A tiny little creature all your own; Lennart would be so happy!”
Jenny set her teeth in the dark.
“Don’t you think I ought to go home tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I will tell Lennart everything. I don’t know if he will understand me—I don’t myself, but I am going to tell him the truth always. Should I not, Jenny?”
“When you think it is right you should do so. One must always do what one thinks right, and never do anything one is not absolutely sure about.”
“Good night, Jenny dear.” She embraced her friend with sudden earnestness. “Thank you! It is so lovely to have you to talk to; you are so good, and you know how to take me. You and Gunnar always get me on to the right way. I don’t know what I should do if it weren’t for you.”
Then, standing by the bed, she said: “Won’t you come through Stockholm when you go abroad this autumn? Please, do! You could stay with us. I am getting a thousand kroner from father because he is going to give Borghild the same for her trip to Paris.”
“Thanks, I should like to, but I don’t know yet what I am going to do.”
“Do come if you can! Are you sleepy? Do you want me to go now?”
“I am a little tired,” and, pulling Cesca’s head down, she kissed her. “God bless you, darling.”
“Thank you.” Cesca went across the floor on her bare feet; at the door she turned, saying in a sad, childish voice: “I do wish Lennart and I could be happy!”
IV
Gert and Jenny were walking side by side down the windy path under ragged pines. He stopped to pick some little wild strawberries, ran after her, and put them in her mouth. She thanked him with a smile, and he took her hand as they walked towards the sea that showed glittering blue between the trees.
He looked bright and young in a light summer suit, the panama hiding his hair completely. Jenny sat down near the edge of the wood, Gert lying on the grass beside her in the shade of big drooping birches.
It was scorching hot and still; the grassy slope by the water was dried yellow. Over the point hung a blue metallic bar of haze with white and smoke-yellow clouds in front. The fjord was light blue, streaked with the currents, the sailing boats lay still and white, and the smoke from the steamers hung long in the air in grey strips. There was a slight swirl of water round the pebbles, and the twigs of the birches moved gently above their heads, dropping one or two leaves dried by the heat.
One of them fell on her fair curly hair—she had taken off her hat—and Gert removed it. Looking at it, he said:
“Queer how the rain keeps off this summer. You women are much better off than we are, wearing such thin dresses. It would look as if you were in half-mourning but for those pink beads. It is very becoming, though.”
The dress was a dead white, with small black blossoms, gathered all over and held at the waist by a black silk belt. The straw hat in her lap was black, trimmed with black velvet roses, and the pale pink crystal beads shone against the delicate skin of her neck.
He bent forward to kiss her foot above the rounding of the shoe, and, following with his fingers the delicate bend of her instep in the thin stocking, grasped her ankle. She loosened his hand gently and he seized hers, holding it, smiling, in a firm grip. She smiled back at him and turned away her head.
“You are so quiet, Jenny. Is it the heat?”
“Yes,” she said, and then was silent again.
At a short distance from them, where the garden of a villa reached down to the sea, some children were playing on a landing-stage; a gramophone was singing sleepily inside
