Shallow Soil Part 8

"We are approaching a tunnel," I answer.

And we rode through the tunnel.

Some time pa.s.ses. She glances at me, a trifle impatiently, and says:

"It seems to me it grows dark again?"

"We are drawing near the second tunnel, there are three altogether," I answer. "Here is a map--do you want to see?"

"It frightens me," she says and moves closer to me. I say nothing. She asks me smilingly:

"Did you say three tunnels? Is there one more besides this one?"

"Yes--one more."

We enter the tunnel; I feel that she is very close to me, her hand touches mine. Then it grows light again and we are once more in the open.

We ride for a quarter of an hour. She is now so close to me that I feel the warmth from her.

"You are welcome to lift my braid if you wish to," she says, "and if you care to look at my ring--why, here it is!"

I held her braid and did not take her ring because her friend had given it to her. She smiled and did not offer it to me again.

"Your eyes are so bright, and how white your teeth!" she said and grew confused. "I am afraid of that last tunnel--please hold my hand when we get to it. No--don't hold my hand; I didn't mean that, I was jesting; but talk to me."

I promised to do what she asked me to.

A few moments later she laughed and said:

"I was not afraid of the other tunnels; only this one frightens me."

She glanced at my face to see how I might answer, and I said:

"This is the longest, too; it is exceedingly long."

Her confusion was now at its highest.

"But we are not near any tunnel," she cried. "You are deceiving me; there is no tunnel!"

"Yes, there is, the last one--look!"

And I pointed to my map. But she would see nothing and listen to nothing.

"No, no,--there is no tunnel, I tell you there is none! But speak to me if there be one!" she added.

She leaned back against the cushions, and smiled through half-closed lids.

The engine whistled; I looked out; we were approaching the black opening. I remembered that I had promised to speak to her; I bent towards her, and in the darkness I felt her arms around my neck.

"Speak to me, please do! I am so frightened!" she whispered with beating heart. "Why don't you speak to me?"

I felt plainly how her heart was beating, and I placed my lips close to her ears and whispered:

"But now you are forgetting your friend!"

She heard me, she trembled and let me go quickly; she pushed me away with both hands, and threw herself down in the seat. I sat there alone. I heard her sobs through the darkness.

"This was The Power of Love," Ojen said.

Everybody listened attentively; Milde sat with open mouth.

"Well--what more?" he asked, evidently thinking there must be a climax yet to come. "Is that all? But Heaven preserve us, man, what is it all about?

No; the so-called poetry you young writers are dishing out nowadays--I call it arrant rot!"

They all laughed loudly. The effect was spoiled; the poet with the compa.s.s in his fob arose, pointed straight at Milde, and said furiously:

"This gentleman evidently lacks all understanding of modern poetry."

"Modern poetry! This sniffing at the moon and the sun, these filigree phrases and unintelligible fancies--There must, at least, be a point, a climax, to everything!"

Ojen was pale and furious.

"You have then not the slightest understanding of my new intentions," said the poor fellow, trembling with excitement. "But, then, you are a brute, Milde; one could not expect intelligent appreciation from you."

Only now did the fat painter realise how much he had offended; he had hardly expected this when he spoke.

"A brute?" he answered good-naturedly. "It seems we are beginning to express ourselves very plainly. I did not mean to insult you, anyway.

Don't you think I enjoyed the poem? I did, I tell you; enjoyed it immensely. I only thought it a little disembodied, so to speak, somewhat ethereal. Understand me correctly: it is very beautiful, exceedingly artistic, one of the best things you have produced yet. Can't you take a joke any more?"

But it was of no avail that Milde tried to smooth things over; the seriousness of the moment had gone, they laughed and shouted more than ever, and cut loose in earnest. Norem opened one of the windows and sang to the street below.

To mend matters a little and make Ojen feel better, Mrs. Hanka placed her hand on his shoulder and promised to come and see him off when he started on his trip. Not she alone--they would all come. When was he going?

She turned to Ole Henriksen: "You'll come, won't you, and see Ojen off when he goes?"

Ole Henriksen then gave an unexpected reply which surprised even Mrs.

Hanka: He would not only go with Ojen to the station, he would go with him all the way to Torahus. Yes, he had suddenly made up his mind, he would make this little trip; he had, in fact, a sort of reason for going--And he was so much in earnest that he b.u.t.tonholed Ojen at once and arranged the day for the departure.

The Journalist drank with Mrs. Paulsberg, who held her gla.s.s in a peculiar masculine fashion. They moved over to the sofa on account of the draught, and told each other amusing anecdotes. Mrs. Paulsberg knew a story concerning Grande and one of Pastor B.'s daughters. She had reached the climax when she paused.

"Well--go on!" the Journalist exclaimed eagerly.

"Wait a moment!" answered Mrs. Paulsberg smilingly, "you must at least give me time to blush a little!"

And she recounted merrily the climax.

Norem had retired to a corner and was fast asleep.

"Does anybody know the time?" asked Mrs. Paulsberg.