Part 17 (1/2)
”She's so afraid you're going to carry me off into the wide world at a moment's notice.”
”But I've told her we're going to live here for the present.”
The girl drew up one side of her mouth in a smile, and her eyelids almost closed. ”And what about me, then? After living here all these years crazy to get out into the world?”
”And I, who am crazy to stay at home!” said Peer with a laugh. ”How delicious it will be to have a house and a family at last--and peace and quiet!”
”But what about me?”
”You'll be there, too. I'll let you live with me.”
”Oh! how stupid you are to-day. If you only knew what it means, to throw away the best years of one's youth in a hole like this! And besides--I could have done something worth while in music--”
”Why, then, let's go abroad, by all means,” said Peer, wrinkling up his forehead as if to laugh.
”Oh, nonsense! you know it's quite impossible to go off and leave mother now. But you certainly came at a very critical time. For anyway I was longing and longing just then for someone to come and carry me off.”
”Aha! so I was only a sort of ticket for the tour.” He stepped over and pinched her nose.
”Oh! you'd better be careful. I haven't really promised yet to have you, you know.”
”Haven't promised? When you practically asked me yourself.”
She clapped her hands together. ”Why, what shameless impudence! After my saying No, No, No, for days together. I won't, I won't, I won't--I said it ever so many times. And you said it didn't matter--for YOU WOULD.
Yes, you took me most unfairly off my guard; but now look out for yourself.”
The next moment she flung her arms round his neck. But when he tried to kiss her, she pushed him away again. ”No,” she said, ”you mustn't think I did it for that!”
Soon they were walking arm-in-arm along the country road, on their way to Aunt Marit at Bruseth. It was September, and all about the wooded hills stood yellow, and the cornfields were golden and the rowan berries blood-red. But there was still summer in the air.
”Ugh! how impossibly fast you walk,” exclaimed Merle, stopping out of breath.
And when they came to a gate they sat down in the gra.s.s by the wayside.
Below them was the town, with its many roofs and chimneys standing out against the s.h.i.+ning lake, that lay framed in broad stretches of farm and field.
”Do you know how it came about that mother is--as she is?” asked Merle suddenly.
”No. I didn't like to ask you about it.”
She drew a stalk of gra.s.s between her lips.
”Well, you see--mother's father was a clergyman. And when--when father forbade her to go to church, she obeyed him. But she couldn't sleep after that. She felt--as if she had sold her soul.”
”And what did your father say to that?”
”Said it was hysteria. But, hysteria or not, mother couldn't sleep. And at last they had to take her away to a home.”
”Poor soul!” said Peer, taking the girl's hand.
”And when she came back from there she was so changed, one would hardly have known her. And father gave way a little--more than he ever used to do--and said: 'Well, well, I suppose you must go to church if you wish, but you mustn't mind if I don't go with you.' And so one Sunday she took my hand and we went together, but as we reached the church door, and heard the organ playing inside, she turned back. 'No--it's too late now,' she said. 'It's too late, Merle.' And she has never been since.”