Chapter 31

His two sons were waiting for him when the pilot came up to the jetty
next morning. Little Henrik had begun to shout to him gleefully while he
was still some way off; but Gjert was quiet. He had seen enough to feel
that there must be something serious the matter between his parents, and
he was depressed.

"Good morning, boys!" said their father, kindly; "how is your--aunt?"

"Better," replied Gjert.

"She sleeps in the daytime, too," added the "bagman," triumphantly--he
had discovered that this was what was required to make her well again.
He then threw his cap down on the stones with a great sailor air, and
with an eager "hale-hoi--o--ohoi!" began to haul in the shore-rope which
his father had thrown, while Gjert, paying no attention whatever to his
brother's efforts, made it fast to the mooring-ring.

"That's good lads! Stay here now, both of you, by the boat, and look
after her till I come back," said their father. "See, Gjert, that Henrik
doesn't leave the quay."

He left them then, and went rapidly up the street.

Elizabeth was standing by the hearth expecting him; and something of a
Sunday calm seemed to have come over her as she stood there. She heard
him out in the passage; and when he entered, a rapid flush passed over
her fine features, but it disappeared again immediately, and she stared
at him with half-open lips, forgetting to greet him. At the same time,
there was a conscious self-possession in her bearing which did not
escape him. That was the Elizabeth he loved.

He came to the point at once; and looking her full in the face, began
with great earnestness--"Elizabeth, I have a serious accusation to make
against you. You have not been frank towards me--you have disguised your
real feelings from me for many years, I am afraid during the whole time
we have lived together."

He spoke gently, and as though he had no desire to press the charge, but
merely waited to hear her make a full acknowledgment before he forgave
her. She stood, however, without raising her eyes from the ground, her
face pale, and her bosom heaving.

"And yet how I have loved you, Elizabeth!--more dearly than my life," he
added.

She still remained for a moment silent, and had to summon all her
courage now to speak. At last she said, in a rather strained voice, and
without lifting her eyes--

"I hear you say it, Salvé. But I have been thinking a good deal lately."

"You have been thinking, Elizabeth?" he repeated, "what have you been
thinking?" and his expression changed in a moment to the dark, stern one
she knew so well. He had made his