CHAPTER XXVIII.
Salvé had been lucky; he had piloted an English bark into Hesnaes, and his services had been liberally acknowledged. He had, as usual, looked forward with dread to coming home again; but when he found his wife not there, and heard the reason, he had set off at once for Arendal to see after her.
She received him out in the passage.
"Good morning, Salvé," she said, shaking hands with him. "I have been anxious about you, as you may suppose, and have been expecting you. You mustn't make a noise—come this way," and she showed him into the room at the side. "Where is Gjert?"
He looked at her in surprise; this was not her usual way of receiving him. There was a confidence in her tone, as if she had taken upon herself to call him to account for his absence. It had hitherto been he always who had taken the initiative and been in a gracious humour or not, according as it pleased him.
"Gjert," he answered, rather shortly, "is at home in the house. So you have been anxious about me—expected me?" he added, in a peculiar tone, as if he found something to remark upon in this way of addressing him, but deferred comment for the present.
"Why, you know, goodman, that it can't be the same to me if you are lost out there at sea."
"How is your aunt?" he asked, abruptly. "Is she seriously ill?"
"She can see you. Come in with me, but step gently."
Salvé felt that he could not very well refuse, and followed her. He had always, as far as possible, avoided seeing Mother Kirstine, and had left his wife to represent him in that quarter. He was afraid of the penetrating eyes which the old woman turned upon him, and had never forgotten the warning she had given him not to go near Elizabeth as long as he harboured a doubt against her in his heart.
It was with great deference that he now approached her bedside.
"Oh, it's you, Salvé," she said, in a weak voice. "It's not often I have a sight of you. Elizabeth has been such a blessing to me; and Henrik is so quiet and good. Where is Gjert? Have you not brought him with you?" And her eyes wandered in search of the boy.
"He is at home taking care of the house, aunt. How are you?"
"Oh, thanks—as you see. I think so often what will become of that boy; he is so wild, but with such a good nature, poor fellow!"
"Oh, we shall make something of him, you'll see," said Elizabeth, who had been standing behind Salvé, and now came forward. "But you must not talk so much."
Salvé's face grew stern; this was the most unfortunate topic which could have been suggested. And matters were presently made worse by Mother Kirstine saying, when there was a pause—
"You looked so glad last night, Elizabeth! Who was it that was sitting with you talking yesterday?"
"It was Fru Beck."
"The young one?"
"Yes. But you talk too much, aunt."
"I am afraid so too," thought Salvé; and as he saw Elizabeth, as if nothing had happened, motioning to him now to come away, he controlled himself for the moment, and said a little constrainedly—
"You will be quite well, aunt, I hope, by the time I come again perhaps in a few days. Good-bye till then."
He left the room rather brusquely, and his face was black as thunder.
Elizabeth read his thoughts, and when they came out into the kitchen she forestalled him.
"Listen, Salvé," she said; "I must, of course, stay here as long as aunt is ill."
"Of course," he replied; "and you have acquaintances here."
"You mean Fru Beck? Yes, she has been so kind to me, and I am attached to her—she is unhappily married, poor thing!"
Salvé was astounded. Elizabeth seemed all in a moment to have forgotten a great deal—to have forgotten that there existed certain stumbling-blocks between them—was it perhaps because she was in her aunt's house? He looked coldly at her as if he could not quite comprehend what had come over her.
"You will remain, of course, as long as you please," he said, and prepared to go; but could not help adding with bitterness—
"I daresay you find it lonely and dull at home."
"You are not so far wrong there, Salvé," she replied. "I have indeed found it lonely enough out there for many years now. You are so often away from home, and then I am left quite alone. It is two years now since I have been in here to see my aunt."
"Elizabeth," he burst out, trying hard to restrain himself, "have you taken leave of your senses?"
"That is just what I want to avoid, Salvé," she said, with freezing deliberation.
He stared at her. She could stand and tell him this to his face!
"So these are your sentiments, then," he observed, scornfully. "I always suspected it; and now, for what I care, you may please yourself about coming home, Elizabeth," he continued in a cold, indifferent tone.
"You ought always to have known what my sentiments were, Salvé; that I was, perhaps, too much attached to you."
"I shall send you money. You shall not have that as an excuse. So far as I am concerned, you may enjoy the society of Fru Beck and your fine friends as long as ever you please."
"And why should I not be allowed to speak to Fru Beck?" she cried, with her head thrown back, and with an expression of rising anger. "You don't mean, I suppose, that there is anything against me that should prevent my entering her house? But there must be an end to this, Salvé—and it is for the sake of our love I say it; for if matters go on as they have been going on so long between us," she concluded slowly, and with a tremor in her voice, "you might live to see the day when it had ceased to exist. These things are not in our own power, Salvé."
He stood for a moment still, and gazed at her in speechless amazement, while the flash of his dark keen eyes showed that a devil had been roused within him, which he had the utmost difficulty in restraining.
"I will suppose that you have said this in a moment of excitement," he said, with terrible calmness; "I shall not be angry with you—I shall forget it; I promise you that. And I think that you have not been quite yourself to-day—ill—"
"Don't deceive yourself, Salvé. I mean every word—as surely as I love you."
"Farewell, Elizabeth; I shall be here again on Wednesday," he said, as if he only held to his purpose, and did not care to hear any more of this. He left her then, and shut the door quietly behind him.
When he had gone, Elizabeth sank rather than sat down upon the bench. She was frightened at what she had said. A profound dread took possession of her. She knew his nature so well, and knew that she was risking everything, that the result might be that he would leave her altogether, and take to some misguided life far away from home. And yet it must—it must be dared. And with God's help she would conquer, and bind him to her closer than ever he had been before.