“Shouldn’t I have married him when I was fond of him?” she thought, as if her father could hear; and she insensibly conjured up the memory of the beautiful moments in their early love, as if to convince herself that she was honest now.
But her father had objections to make—hanging there—and she involuntarily pressed her husband’s hand closer. This union of their hands in affection gave their fear another direction. They were at last able to occupy themselves with others, and therefore began to be sorry for one another, because that kept them from seeing to the bottom of their own misery.
“My poor Karen!” said Wangen. “It’s worst for you after all.”
She loosed his hand to stroke his wrist, and answered in a low voice: “Oh no, Henry! It’s worst for you. Good heavens!”
“No, Karen, for I’m a man; and he was your father.”
The last words gave her a shock, and once more brought the image of the dead man before her eyes. But she could not stand this any longer. It couldn’t be Wangen’s fault. And insensibly she took refuge in Wangen, in his innocence, wherein now lay her only safety.
“Henry, may I come into your bed?”
“Yes, dear.”
He too was glad not to feel alone any more. He held up the bedclothes, and she crept in, and as in the old days laid her head upon his shoulder, clung to him so as to feel safe and calm.