XXII
Johannes and Marjon both held out bravely until night, doing their daily work as well as they could, and telling briefly, to the few faithful friends of Markus, what had occurred.
But when the lonesome night was come, and they were about to part for several hours, Johannes said:
“No, do not go away from me! How can I endure it—alone with my thoughts—without you!”
They were in the little kitchen where Marjon slept. A small lamp, without a shade, stood burning on the table beside an untidy coffee-set.
When Johannes said this, Marjon looked at him with puzzled, half-closed eyes, as if she did not understand and was trying to think it out. Then she threw herself forward upon her pillow, her face in her hands, and began to cry piteously.
At that Johannes also broke down, and kneeling beside her poor, rickety little iron bed, he cried with her like one in desperation.
Then said Johannes: “What shall we do without him, Marjon?”
Marjon made no reply.
“Do you remember that he said he should soon go away from us?”
“If only I could nurse him,” she said.
“Is he going to die?” asked Johannes.
“He can die as well as we. Is he not flesh and blood?”
“He will never really die, though.”
“Nor will we, Jo. But what does that avail us? I can’t do without him.”
And she sobbed again, hopelessly.
“Perhaps it is not so had,” said Johannes. “We will call in the morning, and they surely will let us see him.”
And so they talked on for a time. Then Johannes said:
“Let me stay with you, Marjon. It really seems as if I never again could go away from you.”
Marjon looked at him through her tears, and even smiled.
“But, Jo, we cannot do as we used to. We are no longer children. I am already eighteen, and are you not that also?”
“Then let us become husband and wife, so that we can remain together,” said Johannes.
“Then you no longer love that other one more than me?”
“I think not, Marjon; for she would understand nothing of this, and certainly would not join us in our sorrow.”
“But, dear boy, we are far too young to become husband and wife.”
“I do not understand, Marjon. First you find us too old to stay together, and then you find us too young. And yet I want to remain with you. How can it be done?”
“Listen, Jo. Formerly you said to me, ‘No foolishness,’ and that hurt me for I cared much more for you than you did for me. Why were you never more kind to me then?”
“Because I was forced to remember that ugly, dark woman, your sister. I cannot bear the thought of her.”
Marjon reflected a while, and then said:
“But that is no reason for you to be hard toward me, Jo. I am not low, like her.”
Johannes was silent. Then she resumed:
“But then I know what, Jo: you may stay here. But now I shall say ‘No foolishness,’ and remain unyielding until you shall have forgotten that ugly woman. Will that do?”
“Yes, Marjon,” replied Johannes. Then a pillow and some covering were given him, and he lay on the hard floor of the little kitchen the entire night. And now and then, as one of them became aware that the other was still awake, they would talk together, softly, about their poor friend, each trying to comfort the other.
And thus it happened, as I told you it would, that, before the ending of the book, they became husband and wife.
But when Johannes forgot the ugly, dark woman Marjon’s sister I do not tell you; for that does not concern others.