She put her arm round his neck and drew his head on to her shoulder. It had struck her the moment he spoke that he was not a part of that which filled her heart with longing. She raised his head again and looked into his amber brown eyes, wishing to be reminded of all the glorious days in the Campagna, when he lay among the daisies looking at her. And she wanted to shake off the intense, sickening feeling of discomfort which always came over her when she was in his home.
Everything was unbearable here. The first evening she was invited to the house after Helge’s official arrival, when Mrs. Gram had introduced her to her husband, she had to pretend not to know him, while Helge stood looking on at this comedy, knowing they had deceived his mother. It was dreadful—but something still worse had happened. She had been left alone with Gram for a few minutes and he mentioned that he had been to the studio to see her one afternoon, but she had not been in. “No, I was not at the studio that day,” she had answered, turning very red. He looked at her in great surprise, and almost without knowing why she did so she blurted out: “I was, but I could not let you in, because there was somebody with me.” Gram had smiled and said: “Yes, I heard quite distinctly that somebody was moving in the studio.” In her confusion she had told him that it was Helge, and that he had been a few days in town incognito.
“My dear Jenny,” Gram had said, and she saw that he was hurt, “you need not have kept it secret from me. I would certainly not have intruded on you—but I will say that it would have given me much pleasure if Helge had told me.” She found nothing to say, and he continued: “I shall be careful not to tell him.”
She had never meant to keep it a secret from Helge that she had told his father, but she had not yet been able to tell him—afraid that he would not like it. She was worried and nervous about all these mysteries, one after the other.
It is true, she had not told them anything at home either, but that was quite different. She was not used to speak to her mother about anything concerning herself; she had never expected any understanding from her, and had never asked for it. Her mother, besides, was very anxious about Ingeborg just at present. Jenny had got her to rent a cottage a little way out of town; Bodil and Nils came to school by train every day, and Jenny lived in the studio.
Yet she had never been so fond of her mother and her home as she was now. Once or twice when she had been worried about things, and out of spirits, her mother had tried to help and comfort her without asking any questions. She would have blushed at the mere thought of forcing herself into the confidence of any of her children. To grow up in a home like Helge’s must have been a torture. It seemed almost as if the gloom of it hung about them even when they were together elsewhere.
“Dearest,” she said, caressing him.
Jenny had offered to help Mrs. Gram wash up and to get the supper, but she had said, with her usual smile: “No, my dear, you have not come here for that—certainly not, Miss Winge.”
Perhaps she did not mean it, but Mrs. Gram always smiled in a spiteful way when she talked to her. Poor woman, it was probably the only smile she had.
Gram came in; he had been for a walk. Jenny and Helge went to sit with him in his study. Mrs. Gram came in for an instant.