Gert and Jenny were walking side by side down the windy path under ragged pines. He stopped to pick some little wild strawberries, ran after her, and put them in her mouth. She thanked him with a smile, and he took her hand as they walked towards the sea that showed glittering blue between the trees. He looked bright and young in a light summer suit, the panama hiding his hair completely. Jenny sat down near the edge of the wood, Gert lying on the grass beside her in the shade of big drooping birches.
It was scorching hot and still; the grassy slope by the water was dried yellow. Over the point hung a blue metallic bar of haze with white and smoke-yellow clouds in front. The fjord was light blue, streaked with the currents, the sailing boats lay still and white, and the smoke from the steamers hung long in the air in grey strips. There was a slight swirl of water round the pebbles, and the twigs of the birches moved gently above their heads, dropping one or two leaves dried by the heat.
One of them fell on her fair curly hair—she had taken off her hat—and Gert removed it. Looking at it, he said:
“Queer how the rain keeps off this summer. You women are much better off than we are, wearing such thin dresses. It[228] would look as if you were in half-mourning but for those pink beads. It is very becoming, though.”
The dress was a dead white, with small black blossoms, gathered all over and held at the waist by a black silk belt. The straw hat in her lap was black, trimmed with black velvet roses, and the pale pink crystal beads shone against the delicate skin of her neck.
He bent forward to kiss her foot above the rounding of the shoe, and, following with his fingers the delicate bend of her instep in the thin stocking, grasped her ankle. She loosened his hand gently and he seized hers, holding it, smiling, in a firm grip. She smiled back at him and turned away her head.
“You are so quiet, Jenny. Is it the heat?”
“Yes,” she said, and then was silent again.
At a short distance from them, where the garden of a villa reached down to the sea, some children were playing on a landing-stage; a gramophone was singing sleepily inside the house. Now and again the breeze brought the sound of music from the band at the bathing establishment.
“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.”
[229]
“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[230] 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 tim............