At first Laura told Herman nothing. She felt that it would be humiliating to admit her condition. But she observed him secretly. She watched for a searching or a triumphant expression in his face. Has he been expecting this? Was he only playing with me when he spoke about the wedding trip, she thought. And she felt something in her heart that almost resembled dislike. But then it struck her how sad and strange and really impossible it was that she was feeling dislike of her own Herman. And then she went down to the office and let him kiss her behind old Lundbom’s back. But she was not yet able to speak about it. She felt a strange cold shame at her condition. In her there was nothing groping with tender hands towards the new life. It was as if this tender seed of life had been growing outside her and not beneath her heart.
After a few weeks Laura had no need to decide whether to tell or not—she simply could not hide it. She felt sick and she could not for ever run away and hide every morning. Laura had never been ill since she had the measles as a child. She felt a cold dread. It was as if her body were insulted every day. In her mirror she seemed to see how ugly and pale she was already growing. Still Herman said nothing. He was only doubly tender and attentive. But Laura saw all the same a flash of irritating pride and satisfaction in his eyes. And she turned away and set her teeth. What sort of a knight was this whose kisses at once produced sickness. She seemed to feel his pride like a pain within her. And then a torrent of complaints and accusations broke from her. Herman had cheated her out of her wedding trip! And she had not been allowed to live in town, as she wanted! And now she was ill, awfully ill! And she was getting ugly, old and ugly! And soon she would probably be dead—Yes, this would certainly mean her death!
Herman made no reply to all these accusations, which induced in him a solemn mood. He stroked her hair softly and calmly as one would in putting a crying child to sleep. And in the end Laura could find no other place than his arms in which she could cry out her heart.
After a time she grew calmer. The first crisis was over. It looked as if she would submit to her fate with a certain equanimity.
One dark and wet December day Laura was sitting in the bedroom window sewing some small garments. She always locked the door so as not to be taken by surprise. The sewing did not amuse her, but she did it in order to pass the time.
“Ugh!” she had pricked her finger. She stared at the red drop of blood, and with a long sigh let the sewing fall into her lap.
Out of doors it was drizzling from the grey winter sky. Through the bare lilac hedge Laura could see the yard. There lay the cutter, their cutter, drawn up forlorn under its ugly unpainted cover. Their beautiful summer cutter! It looked like a butterfly with the wings pulled off, and the crutches were its legs. It suddenly occurred to Laura that the boat had never won a prize. There had always been something to prevent it. Supposing it was not so finely designed and built after all!
Laura suddenly felt terribly depressed at this thought. She could not understand herself why she felt so sad. She rose up groaning and went to her chest of drawers. In the bottom drawer beneath her chemises and bits of ribbon, there lay a small locked box. She found the key hidden amongst her jewellery. Then she took out her diary, the romantic diary from Neuchatel, and sat down to read it from beginning to end. She hastened nervously through its pages and it seemed as if she had jumped with great anxious strides back into the past. But there was no refuge there. She could not help sneering at all that sloppy, girlish nonsense. No, the past was past. As she was turning a page, a drop of blood fell on it. Laura threw away the book. Then she saw that there were many drops of blood on her light grey dressing gown also. “Blood,” she thought with a shiver. “I shall give my blood. I shall suffer and sacrifice myself for another. People say that it is a splendid and glorious sensation. But I am not made that way. Herman must teach me. He must treat me more severely—bend me to it—.”
Laura dashed on her fur coat and galoshes and flew down to the office where Herman sat talking to Lundbom about the lawsuit, which looked as if it would be prolonged.
But Herman did not handle her firmly. He was only kind and indulgent and gave her much well-meant advice: “You must not go about thinking of disagreeable things: you must just make yourself comfortable and let me look after you.” And then he telephoned for theatre tickets for the evening.