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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.
“You forgot to take your umbrella, dear — as usual. You
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