“Gert”—Jenny took hold of his hand suddenly—“when I have been a short time with mamma and come back to town again, I shall go.”
“Where?” He raised himself on his elbow. “Where do you think of going?”
“To Berlin.” She felt her voice tremble as she spoke.
Gert looked into her face; neither of them spoke. At last he said:
“When did you make up your mind to go?”
“You know it has been my intention all along to go abroad again.”
“I know. But I mean how long have you been determined—when did you decide to go so soon?”
“At Tegneby.”
“I wish you had told me before,” said Gram, and his voice, low and calm as it was, cut her to the heart.
She was silent for a moment.
“I did not want to write it, Gert. I would rather tell you. When I wrote you yesterday to come and see me I meant to tell you, but I could not.”
His face turned livid.
“I see. My God, how you must have suffered, child!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, mostly for your sake, Gert. I will not ask you to forgive me.”
“I forgive you? Great heavens! Can you forgive me? I knew this day would come.”
“I suppose we both did.”
He threw himself suddenly face downwards on the ground. She bent and laid her hand on his neck.
“Oh, my dear Jenny—my little one—what have I done to you?”
“Dearest. …”
“Little white bird, have I touched you with my ugly unclean hands—spotted your white wings?”
“Gert”—she took both his hands, speaking impetuously—“listen to me. You have done nothing but what was good and kind; it is I who have done wrong. I was tired and you gave me rest; I was cold and you warmed me. I needed rest and I needed warmth; I needed to feel that somebody loved me. I did not wish to deceive you, Gert, but you did not understand—I could not make you see that I loved you in a different way—with a very poor love. Can you not understand?”
“No, Jenny, I don’t believe that a young innocent girl gives herself to a man if she does not believe her love will last.”
“That is just what I ask you to forgive—I knew you did not understand, and yet I accepted all you gave me. It became more and more unendurable, and I realized that I could not go on. I am fond of you, Gert, but I cannot go on only taking when I can give you nothing that is real.”
“Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday?” asked Gert after a pause.
She nodded.
“And instead. …”
Jenny turned scarlet.
“I had not the courage. You were so happy to come, and I saw that you had been longing and waiting.”
He raised his head quickly: “You should not have done it. No, you should not have given me—alms.”
Her face was turned away; she remembered the painful hours of yesterday in her hot, stuffy studio, hurriedly dusting and tidying to receive him, her heart aching with sorrow; but she did not care to tell him:
“I did not quite know myself—when you came. I thought for an instant—I wanted to make sure.”
“Alms.” He moved his head as if in pain. “It was alms all the time, then—what you gave me.”
“But, Gert, don’t you understand that it is just what I have accepted from you—alms—always?”
“No,” he said abruptly, lying face downwards again. After a little he lifted his head:
“Jenny, is there anyone else?”
“No,” she replied, vexed at the thought.
“Don’t think I would reproach you if there had been another—a young man—your equal; I could understand that easier.”
“You don’t seem able to realize—I don’t think there need be another.”
“Perhaps not. It seemed to me more likely, and, remembering what you wrote about Heggen being at Tegneby and going to Berlin. …”
Jenny blushed deeply:
“How can you think that I would have—yesterday?”
Gert was silent. Then he said wearily:
“I cannot quite make you out.”
She was suddenly seized by a wish to hurt him.
“In a way it would not be wrong to say that there was another—a third person.”
He looked at her searchingly, then clutched her arm all of a sudden:
“Jenny—good God!—what do you mean?”
But she regretted her words already, and said hurriedly:
“Yes, my work—my art.”
Gert Gram had risen to his knees before her:
“Jenny—is there anything—particular—tell me the truth—don’t lie to me—is there anything the matter with you?”
She tried for a second to look him straight in the eyes, then bent her head. Gert Gram fell forward with his face in her lap.
“O God!—O God! …”
“Gert, dear, compose yourself. You irritated me with your talk about another. I ought not to have told you. I did not mean to let you know until afterwards.”
“I would never have forgiven you for not telling me,” said Gram. “You must have known this some time. Do you know how … ?”
“Three months,” she answered shortly.
“Jenny”—he seized her hands in awe—“you cannot break with me now—not in this way. We cannot part now.”
“Oh yes.” She stroked his face caressingly. “If this had not happened I daresay we could still have been together some time, but now I must arrange my life accordingly, and make the best of it.”
He was silent a moment.
“Listen to me, little one. You know I was divorced last month. In two years’ time I shall be free, and then I will come to you to give you—and it—my name. I ask nothing from you, you understand—nothing—but I claim the right to give you the redress I owe you. God knows I shall suffer because it cannot be done before. Nothing else will I claim; you shall not be tied in the least to me—an old man.”
“Gert, I am glad that you are separated from her, but I will tell you once and for all that I am not going to marry you when I cannot be your wife in truth. It is not because of the difference in age. If I did not feel that I have never wholly
