Title: Ragna
Author: Costantini, Anna Miller
Language: English
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RAGNA

A Novel

by

MADAME ANNA COSTANTINI



New York
Sturgis & Walton
Company
1910

All rights reserved

Copyright 1910
By Sturgis & Walton Company

Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1910



RAGNA



BOOK I



CHAPTER I


We see her first, a tall child with wind-blown hair standing on the
rocky point of a barren promontory where fjord and ocean meet, wild as
the sea-birds that circle about her head--indeed at this time wildness
was the keynote of her nature. The household tasks and lessons disposed
of, she spent the rest of the day in rambles over the rugged country
side, or in exploits that kept the older members of the family in
breathless suspense. It was she who mounted bareback the unbroken horses
in the pasture, she who sailed her boat down the foaming fjord in the
teeth of the storm. Danger heightened her enjoyment, and true descendant
of the vikings of old, she looked her best, lithe and straight,
breasting the gale, the joy of the struggle gleaming in her sea-blue
eyes, flushing her cheeks, her long golden hair flung out on the wind
like a triumphal banner.

Her home was a long, low, timber house, sheltering amid pines and firs,
under the lee of a high rocky hill, a home built for the long northern
winters, the long months when the country lay snow-bound. The winter
afternoons and evenings were spent in sewing or embroidery, when the
father or the mother read aloud, or grandmother told tales of the Old
Times, and of the family. The favourite was that of brave young Uncle
Olaf, who had sailed to the frozen North in his whaler, never to return.
Grandmother always wept at the end of this tale, and father would wipe
his spectacles and gaze intently into the fire, but to the children it
was a splendid myth, and on clear days they would climb to the bare
headland to the north of the house, and stand looking out to sea,
watching for Uncle Olaf with his ship, bringing home treasure untold.

To Ragna especially, Uncle Olaf was an embodiment of the spirit of
adventure and of the sea; he became in her imagination a sort of "Flying
Dutchman," doomed to sail forever and ever the Northern Seas, passing
the fjord and his old home in the whirling storm, doomed never to bring
his ship into port, never to rest in the haven where he fain would be.
She loved him, the tall, beautiful young sailor, with the waving fair
hair and deep-set blue eyes, and she imagined him amongst his
grey-bearded seamen,--they would grow old, but he, never. Some days when
she took her boat out in the open water, beyond the sheltering fjord,
she would imagine that far away against the dark horizon, against the
gathering storm-clouds, she saw the phantom vessel, flying before the
wind, all sails set, half veiled in the blowing scud. Her two sisters
would talk of when Uncle Olaf should come home, of the riches he would
bring, and the wonderful tales of adventure in far countries he would
tell, but only Ragna knew that he would never come, that his mysterious
doom was to sail on and on till the Judgment Day, longing for peace and
home, family and joy, but never to find them; seeing his comrades grow
old and grey, and die--but himself, always young, always stretching
longing arms toward the happiness and rest he might never attain to--and
so on and on for ever, till the end of the world.

Ragna, as you may see, was impulsive and visionary, and while her
sisters both became capable little housewives, she took but little
interest in homely duties. Eagerly she read whatever fell in her way,
but especially she loved the old Sagas, with their great fierce women,
and strong, terribly human men. She heard the call of the Valkyries in
the wind, saw their shapes in the battling clouds; the Aurora Borealis
to her, lighted the feasting of heroes in Valhalla. Naturally, she wrote
verses herself, but in secret, hiding her copy-book deep in her clothes
press. There her sister Lotte found it one fateful day, and produced it,
in a fit of childish mischief, after supper in the family circle. Poor
Ragna, all confusion and blushes, fearing the inevitable reprimand for
foolish waste of time, tried to snatch her darling, but the father held
up his hand.

"Give that book to me, Lotte," he said, and when she had complied, he
locked it up in his desk, and nothing further was said.

A week passed, and still Ragna trembled for the fate of her treasure,
but dared not inquire. She stood in awe of her father, and would as soon
have bearded a lion in his den, as question him. When he finally
summoned her to his study, and bade her close the door behind her, she
entered timidly, not daring to look him in the face. If he was secretly
amused by her air of conscious guilt, he gave no sign.

"My daughter," he said, in calm judicial tones, "your mother and I have
read the writings in the little book, the good grandmother also has seen
them. It is all nonsense, of course--what could a child like you write
but nonsense? But it is not such bad nonsense, after all," he added
kindly. Then he bade her sit by him, and she fetched a low stool, and
sat by his knee--up to now she had been standing as a dutiful child
should.

He laid his hand on her shining plaits of hair, and bent her head back
so that he might look into her eyes.

"True eyes," he said dreamily, half to himself, "Andersen eyes, and you
have the Andersen face, child. Lotte is of your mother's race, but
Ingeborg and you are Andersens through and through--and you look like
your Uncle Olaf." He paused awhile, apparently immersed in thought.
Ragna burned with excitement and curiosity, what could it mean? What
could he be going to say? Her head moved under his hand, and recalled to
him the fact of her presence.

"Ragna, your mother and I have decided that you must go away; you must
go to a school where you can learn more than is possible here. Fru
Bjork, a relative of your mother's, is taking her daughter to a convent
in Paris, and I have written to her asking her to take you also, and to
place you in the convent with Astrid. You are sixteen--two years in
Paris will do more for you than a lifetime here. The mother and I shall
miss you--but an Andersen must have the best, and I believe I can trust
you to make the most of this opportunity. Now, my child, I have said
what I had in my mind, there is nothing more, only this: remember always
that an Andersen must have the best and be worthy of it!"

Ragna had listened to him, her colour coming and going, her eyes
shining. Two years in Paris! It was too wonderful almost to be believed.
She rose from her stool, and made motion to kiss her father's hand, as
was her custom, but he took her into his arms, and kissed her forehead.

"You are too old now to kiss my hand," he said smiling. She flung her
arms about his neck and clung to him, sobbing with excitement and joy,
till her father loosed her arms and putting her copy-book into her hand,
led to the door saying:

"There, there! Control yourself my dear, recollect that you are almost a
woman now!" And he closed the door behind her.



CHAPTER II


The next few weeks passed as in a dream, and at length the day of
departure came. Ragna set off with her father in the stulkjarre, her
modest box well corded and tied on behind. Grandmother, mother and
sisters, even the old nurse, waving a tearful farewell, disappeared
behind the clustering trees.

Travel in those days was not the easy affair it is now, and three days
posting lay between the travellers and Molde. They were to meet Fru
Bjork at Bergen. When, in due time they arrived, Ragna found her
chaperone to be a matronly woman, arrayed in brown silk with a heavy
gold chain round her neck; her crab's eyes looked good-naturedly out on
the world, and her ample curves bore witness to her naturally placid
temperament--relieved, however, by a surface fussiness. She at once took
Ragna to her arms and heart with such pattings and caressings as made
the girl feel quite uncomfortable, unused as she was to such a
demonstrative show of affection.

Astrid, the daughter, fair and pretty, sprightly and capricious of
character, also welcomed the newcomer with enthusiasm.

"How delightful it will be!" she carolled. "We shall be just like
sisters, and tell one another all our secrets--shan't we, dear?" She
linked her arm in Ragna's, and gazed soulfully into her face. Ragna
could not help wondering what secrets she might ever find it possible to
confide to such a little linnet. At first awkward and constrained, she
soon thawed, however, in the friendly atmosphere, and in a few minutes
was chattering away with a gaiety and freedom, quite surprising to her
father, who had always known her timidly reserved. This was not to be
wondered at, as he had never encouraged any other attitude in his
children.

As this is not to be a chronicle of a young lady's school-days, little
need be told concerning the journey to Paris, and the years at the Sacré
Coeur, suffice it to say that Ragna, under the care of the good
Sisters, improved both in mind and body. As her skin lost its coating of
sunburn and tan, and her body its abrupt and boyish movements, so her
mind, trained in the study of the French classics, took on polish, and
she acquired a nice discrimination of taste, and a distinction of manner
rarely met with in so young a girl. So much for externals, at heart she
was the same old Ragna, impulsive, dreamy, and of a childlike credulity,
splendidly loyal to those she loved. One instance of this will suffice.

Astrid, in whom vanity and the indulgence of her mother had developed a
thirst for admiration and romance, soon found the monotonous round of
convent life unbearably dull. She confided the yearnings of her lonely
heart to her bosom friend Ragna, and for a time these confidences, the
daily bulletins as to the state of her soul scribbled in pencil on
scraps of paper, and passed from one to the other as the girls met going
to and from chapel, or in recreation hours, sufficed.

Shortly after their arrival, they had been sent to separate dormitories
and tables, and kept apart during recreation, the Convent discipline not
permitting of too close an intimacy between two young girls, and there
being the added reason of the more rapid progress made in acquiring the
language when neither had the occasion to use her mother tongue.

Astrid considered it suitable to the arid state of her heart that she
should pine away, and to that end consumed bits of chalk from the
class-room blackboard, scrapings of slate pencils, and all the vinegar
within reach at meals. As may be imagined, she soon displayed an
interesting pallor, and was accordingly dosed with iron pills and quince
wine. Her heavy sighs and melancholy demeanour so impressed her fellow
pupils, that it was generally rumoured she was dying of a broken heart.
The broken heart soon mended, however, when early in the second year at
the convent, her discerning eye perceived the burning glances of a most
romantic looking youth. "Long hair, my dear, velveteen clothes, and the
most beautiful soulful eyes you ever saw," she told Ragna.

The girls were on their way, with a group of selected pupils under the
guardianship of an assistant mistress, to see a picture gallery. The
young man turned in behind the procession and followed. The next time it
was the same, and Astrid's romantic little soul thrilled at the thought
of so devoted an admirer. It was easy for the man to slip a folded note
into the girl's hand one day, as the little group straggled up the
stairway of the Louvre, and during the rest of the afternoon Astrid's
hand strayed constantly to her pocket to assure herself of the safety of
the precious paper. With eyelids lowered over shining eyes, she listened
to the droning explanations of the teacher, longing to be alone, to be
free to read the note.

This was the beginning of a correspondence, for Astrid answered the
letter and an obliging day-scholar posted the little envelope addressed
to M. Jules Gauthiez. So the two exchanged perfervid epistles, and
wrote such impassioned, if confused, outpourings, that Astrid's little
soul was consumed within her. The secret feeling of importance it gave
her betrayed itself in the brightness of her eyes and in the
self-consciousness of her voice and manner. The regimen of chalk and
vinegar fell into abeyance.

Ragna, at first amused, began to be alarmed at the situation; Astrid
keyed to the highest pitch of romantic sentimentality, was capable of
any folly, and the immediate consequences of discovery, public reprimand
and expulsion from the school, spelled unthinkable disaster to her more
serious mind. She begged Astrid to give the whole thing up, but the girl
would listen to no argument that her friend could put forward. "My love
is my life, can you ask me to tear my heart out?" she demanded.

The most Ragna could obtain, was that Astrid should be more
prudent--which meant exactly nothing.

Naturally, the Sisters could not long remain unobservant of the change
in Astrid's demeanour, and from awakened attention to discovery there
lay but a step.

Ragna was making a water colour drawing in the assembly room, when a
Sister brought her the order to go at once to the Reverend Mother. She
put by her brushes with trembling hands, and the black-robed Sister
observed her emotion curiously, but kindly.

"There, there, my child!" she said, "Reverend Mother will do you no
harm; she wishes to ask you a question, nothing more. If your conscience
is good, what do you fear?"

Ragna followed her without answering, her mind intent on the pending
interview.

The Superior's sitting-room was a comfortable apartment; a table stood
in the middle, and at one window a large writing desk. One of the walls
was occupied by a bookcase, another by a large carved _prie-dieu_ over
which hung an ivory crucifix and a silver holy-water stoup with its twig
of box.

Mother Marie Sacré Coeur, sat in a large carved armchair by the table.
She was a tall, slender woman, and her face, though unlined and delicate
as a piece of carved ivory, bore the imprint of long years of
responsibility, and conveyed the impression of a wonderful degree of
will power. It was not altogether an ascetic face, however, the grey
eyes, though keen, were human, and the strong firmly modelled mouth had
a humorous twist. The hands, long, slender and white with rather thick
thumbs, were lightly clasped over a Book of Hours bound in velvet and
silver.

By her side stood the Mère in charge of Astrid's dormitory, Mère
Perpétua, a severe, sour-looking woman, yellow under her white guimpe
and black veil. Astrid cowered beside her, looking like a prisoner in
the grasp of a gendarme; she had been crying, but her eyes had a furtive
expression and her weak, pretty mouth was set in obstinate lines. She
looked like a trapped animal, badly frightened, but feebly at bay. On
the table lay a little pile of crumpled papers, and the ribbon that had
bound them.

They all looked eagerly at Ragna as she entered, followed by Soeur
Angélique; she glanced at them each in turn, and from Astrid's eyes
caught such an agonized appeal for help that her back straightened, and
it was with a calm, almost defiant consciousness of definite purpose
that she met the Superior's interrogating gaze.

"Ragna," said the Reverend Mother, "we have called you here to ascertain
how much you know of this disgraceful affair. Mère Perpétua has found
these letters," she indicated the little heap on the table, "hidden in
Astrid's mattress. I have read them, they are letters such as no young
girl should receive from any man, even her fiancé. Our Rule has been
broken by this clandestine correspondence, and our sense of propriety
outraged; we are profoundly shocked and grieved."

"Such deceit! Such disgraceful effrontery! She brazenly denies they are
hers!" broke in Mère Perpétua, her lean face working.

"Silence!" cried the Superior. "Mère Perpétua, you forget yourself. I
had not desired you to speak." She paused a moment, then addressed
Ragna.

"You will tell us, my child, all that you know about this; it is your
duty to your companion, to us, and to yourself. On your frankness
depends to a large extent the punishment I shall deem it necessary to
impose; you may lighten it very appreciably, by telling the truth--but
if you hesitate, if I understand that you are withholding anything, it
will be the worse for both of you."

Mère Perpétua's interruption had been brief, but illuminating. Ragna
felt that her way was made clear, it was with a steady eye and a firm,
if slightly unnatural voice, that she answered:

"Reverend Mother, the letters are mine; I gave them to Astrid to keep
for me."

The effect was electrical. Astrid gasped and her jaw dropped; Mère
Perpétua stared at Ragna with the expression of one who has cherished a
viper in her bosom, and only just found it out. Soeur Angélique gave a
cry that was almost a sob. Ragna was her favourite, and she could have
wept with disappointment. Only the Superior showed no surprise; her
hands clasped the Book of Hours a little more tightly, and her keen eyes
fixed on Ragna's face seemed trying to penetrate her very soul, that was
all. Ragna returned her gaze without wavering.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Three months."

"Why did you not keep the letters yourself?"

"I was afraid of being found out!"

"Oh!" said the Reverend Mother, and laughed a little.

Her eyes went from Ragna, straight and proud, to Astrid, trembling
violently, and gazing anxiously at her friend.

"And did you answer the letters?"

"Yes."

"Who posted them for you?" Silence.

"Come, who posted them for you?"

"I will not tell," said Ragna. "I will tell anything that I have done
myself, but I refuse to tell on others--besides, the blame is mine in
any case."

The Superior nodded her head. "I shall not press the point now, we can
return to it later if need be. Are you aware of the result of this, of
what you have done? No punishment can be too severe for the girl who
deceives her friends and teachers so disgracefully, who sets so
deplorable an example to her fellow-pupils. What will your parents say
to this?"

Ragna went pale: "Oh Reverend Mother," she pleaded, "do anything to me
you like, but don't let them know of it! Oh, I know I have done wrong,
punish me as much as you please, but don't tell them!"

Astrid gathered herself together for a supreme effort; her cowardly
little soul, shamed by her friend's generosity, rose to her lips. With
tightly clasped hands, she stepped forward and began:

"Reverend Mother!"--but Ragna interrupted her quickly. She must do the
thing thoroughly or not at all; having put her hand to the plough, she
would not turn back.

"Reverend Mother, it has been very wrong of me, and I am sorry and
ashamed. Punish me however you like. I am to blame, but don't punish
Astrid, or hurt my parents; it is no fault of theirs."

The Superior laid her book on the table; her eyes, as she looked at
Ragna were full of kindly amusement, and also of respect.

"Soeur Angélique," she said, "take these girls to their dormitories,
and keep them till Benediction, afterwards I shall tell them what I have
decided upon."

As the door closed on the three, she turned to Mère Perpétua smiling.

"Well?" she said.

"What will you do with them, Reverend Mother? Shall they be publicly
expelled?"

"Ragna, as she has confessed, will be 'excused' from further walks
outside the Convent; Astrid, for having concealed the letters will be
kept at home also. You, ma Mère, will see that no word of this business
gets about among the girls--I wish no one to speak of it, _no one_."

Mère Perpétua was a study in pained amazement.

"What!" she burst forth. "No adequate punishment? Nothing to put that
brazen girl to shame for her indecent conduct? She stands here in your
presence and admits to having received the letters, and answered them,
to having corrupted her companion, as she might say: 'I have said thirty
Aves'! Oh Reverend Mother, you are too lenient! It is unjust!"

"So that is how you understand it, ma Mère? Has life taught you
nothing?"

"Life has taught me that sin requires punishment," she rejoined grimly.

"Ma Mère, I see that I must open your eyes; those letters were not
written to Ragna."

"Not written to her! Why she confessed that they were hers!"

"So she did, to save Astrid."

"Well, that only makes it worse, she has lied outrageously, and so has
Astrid--and you let them go unpunished!"

"I consider that Ragna's lie is a good lie, ma Mère. A generous lie is
better than a mean truth. I make a pretence of punishing her so that she
may not know I understand; vicarious punishment, if suffered
voluntarily, is good for the soul. As for Astrid, she is weak and
foolish, she has been thoroughly frightened, and is not likely to fall
again in the same direction--for the present at least. The sight of
Ragna, bearing the blame that should be hers, will do more for her than
any punishment you or I might inflict."

Mère Perpétua gazed at her Superior in amazement; though still
disapproving, she had a dim perception of the other's greatness of soul,
and the insight into human nature, that had made her, while still young
in years, the Head of the Community.

"You may go, ma Mère, and after Benediction you will bring our two black
sheep here."

So dismissed, Mère Perpétua took her departure, shaking her head.

The Superior remained alone, leaning her head on her hand. She thought
of the many young lives under her care, of the many girls she had seen
come and go. She thought of the many natures hopelessly warped by a
mistaken or untimely severity, shut in upon themselves, black-frosted,
as it were, in the very hour when they most need drawing out, training
and guiding by a sympathetic hand. She loved Ragna, her whole heart was
drawn to the girl in admiration for her generous assumption of the
other's fault. "She is too ready to take up others' burdens," she
thought; "God send that her own be not too heavy for her shoulders!"

The bell for Benediction interrupted her meditation. As she walked along
the passages to the Chapel the same thought pursued her, and when from
her carved stall she recognized Ragna's fair head, bowed among her
fellows, she seemed to see the halo of future suffering about it.

Ragna bending over her prayer-book, was wondering what the punishment
would be; and half defiantly she squared her shoulders to meet it. She
thought of Astrid, divided between contemptuous pity, and real sympathy
for the agonized fear displayed by the butterfly creature.

Astrid was sobbing her heart out, her face hid between her hands. She
despised herself for her weakness, and reproached herself for letting
Ragna take the blame. Later she would resent her friend's generosity,
but just now she fairly grovelled in self-abasement; she took a morbid
delight in mortifying herself in her own eyes, as formerly she had
exulted in the thought of her sentimental superiority over her comrades.

The level rays of sunlight tinged with the glory of Saints, touched the
rows of young heads, passing over some, distinguishing others, colouring
with purple and crimson the tresses, dark and fair, of the kneeling
girls, and the Chaplain holding aloft the Ostensory with its symbol of
the Great Sacrifice, glowed in a mystic radiance. Then the light went,
and the tapers on the altar twinkled like stars in the sudden twilight.

After the concluding hymns, Ragna and Astrid were again conducted to the
Superior's sitting-room, to hear her decision. The Reverend Mother had
chosen a good moment, for the service of Benediction had had its effect
on the impressionable girlish natures. Ragna was softened, and Astrid
had found moral courage enough to overcome her selfish fear.

The Reverend Mother at once saw the change and profited by it, so that
almost without their knowing it, she had soon drawn a full confession
from both girls. Astrid, once fairly started, and prone as ever to
exaggeration, would have known no limits to her self-abasement,
luxuriating in her confession of guilt, had she not been almost sternly
controlled and restrained.

Ragna, though pleased and relieved by Astrid's assumption of the
misdoing, was yet secretly disappointed in surrendering her role of
self-immolated victim. She would not have owned it to herself, she did
not even recognize the flat feeling of generous effort rendered useless,
that chilled her. Quite unconsciously she had been admiring her action.
How much self-sacrifice would there be in the world, if the self-made
victim were not secretly upheld by the nobility of the pose--even if
self be the sole admirer? There is, in every action, not the result of
passionate impulse, a certain amount of play to the gallery, even though
the gallery be only what is commonly known as conscience.

The Superior, being a wise woman, was neither too severe nor the
reverse; she improved the occasion by giving the girls a lecture which
they neither of them forgot, and dismissed them with a punishment
sufficient to keep the matter in their minds for some time, while giving
them no reason for considering themselves martyrs to discipline.

So the incident ended, and it had the effect of drawing the girls closer
together, for Astrid, having vindicated her own self-respect, could
appreciate Ragna's generosity and forgive it, while Ragna loved her
friend the better for having assumed the role of protector to her, and
could love her the more, not being obliged to despise her for
cowardice.



CHAPTER III


So the time passed and the end of the second year came; Astrid was to
remain at the Convent another twelve-month, but Ragna must return home.

With tears in her eyes she packed her boxes and took leave of the
Sisters and her companions. She had begged in vain for another
year--even six months, but her father was obdurate. He had made
arrangements with a friend of his, a sea-captain, to fetch her in Paris
and take her to Norway in his vessel. All was decided and Ragna must go.

She felt a strange shrinking from the journey and in later days came to
regard as a premonition what was probably only reluctance to face the
busy outside world after so many months of seclusion. Certain it is that
with heavy heart and red eyes she left the Convent, and Captain Petersen
was much concerned by the dolorous appearance of his charge.

"You look more like a virgin martyr being led to the stake than a pretty
young lady just let out of her cage into the world!" he told her. "Bless
my soul, if I wouldn't want to shake a loose leg after being mewed up so
long!"

He was a stout, red-faced man with merry blue eyes, and a red fringe of
beard round his face like a misplaced halo. There was nothing saintly
about him, however, though he was a thoroughly good and honest man.

"Cheer up!" he adjured Ragna, "the sea-breezes will soon blow the
cobwebs out of your brain and the colour into your cheeks--besides," he
added with a jovial wink, "I've a surprise up my sleeve for you--a
surprise most young ladies would give their eyes for!"

"What is it?" she asked for politeness' sake.

"It will keep! It will keep!" he answered delightedly.

He enlivened the long railway journey to the best of his ability, with a
constant stream of jokes and stories at which he chuckled heartily in
default of a more appreciative audience. He plied the girl with sweets
and fruit, little flasks of wine and biscuits. He was so unfailing in
his good-humoured and kindly attentions that she could not help but
respond and presently was laughing with him as merrily as possible. He
insisted on calling her "Fröken" pretending to stand in great awe of her
long skirts, chignon and "young-ladyfied" manners. He teased her by
constant references to his "surprise," but refused to tell her of what
it consisted, so that her curiosity was thoroughly aroused and her
eagerness to penetrate the mystery was only equalled by his pleasure at
the success of his diplomacy.

So they journeyed to Hamburg, and Ragna forgot to regret her
convent-life in the whirl of new sights and sensations. Captain Petersen
found time, in spite of his other occupations, to take her boating up
the Alster and to the theatre. She slept in her cabin, on the small
steamer, and amused herself when the Captain was busy, by wandering
through the city, visiting the market-place, the churches, or on the
harbour and river in the small steamboats plying ceaselessly to and fro.

The _Norje_ was to sail four days after their arrival in Hamburg. Much
preparation was being made on board, unusual, even to Ragna's
unaccustomed eyes--the state-rooms were being freshened and made ready,
and the steward was laying in stores of chickens, fruit and other
delicacies. Evidently some distinguished passengers were expected.

At last the day came, the sailing was fixed for noon, and Captain
Petersen, watch in hand, stood on deck, by the gangway, looking
expectantly up the wharf. Ragna, sitting aft under the awning, a book in
her hand, could not keep her eyes from straying in the same direction,
though she did her best to disguise her curiosity, for Captain Petersen,
true to his word, had remained adamant to her enquiries and coaxings,
and she wished him now to believe that she did not care so very much for
his old "surprise" after all. Hence the book and the carefully detached
attitude.

Down on the wharf there was a slight commotion; two carriages had
stopped, and servants and porters were hastening to and fro. Ragna saw a
young man step from the first carriage, followed by another man,
slightly older. Both had the military bearing and both were handsome,
but the first had the air of one accustomed to precedence, and his
somewhat petulant orders and gestures found instant response and
acquiescence on the part of his companion. They were too far away for
Ragna to catch their speech, though the sound of their voices reached
her, and she wondered what language they might be using; Norwegian was
out of the question; Swedish and Danish equally so; German it could not
be for their appearance was anything but German--but neither did they
look like Englishmen nor Frenchmen nor Russians, nor in fact anyone she
had ever seen.

Meanwhile Captain Petersen had hastened down the gang-plank and cap in
hand was bowing clumsily to the younger man and escorting him
deferentially to the ship. As they passed up the gang-plank to the deck,
the young man raised his head and his eyes met Ragna's, as leaning over
the rail quite forgetful of herself, in her interested surmising, she
gazed down at him. Her hat, tipped back and only held by the dark blue
ribbon tied under her chin, left her hair uncovered, and the mass of
gleaming braids and curls caught and reflected the sunlight; her blue
eyes shaded by dark lashes looked down from out the shadow of her hair,
clear, wondering and free from self-consciousness; her mouth, rather
large but well-shaped and red as that of a child, too red for the
Scandinavian fairness of her skin, was smiling, the lips just parted.

So their eyes met, his, large, dark, burning, different from any she had
ever seen, held hers a moment, then he raised his hat and passed on, as
Ragna withdrew, a flush she could not understand rising in her cheeks.
One moment only, but while his eyes held hers she had felt a curious
sensation, a sort of magnetic thrill drawing her to him, and as long as
he looked at her she could not have withdrawn her eyes, nor lowered her
lids.

It had lasted but a second, but that second, though she did not know it,
was the turning point of her life.

Captain Petersen, preceding the young man had seen nothing, he was still
murmuring disconnected phrases of greeting--"Most highly honoured! Such
condescension! Entirely at Your Highness's disposal." As they reached
the deck, the Captain stood aside to give passage to "His Highness"
disclosing to view the deck, with Ragna who had retreated to a chair at
some distance, and as His Highness stepped to the deck, his eyes
followed the Captain's to the girl; then he raised them in inquiry to
Petersen's face. The latter with a sweeping gesture and a voice
unconsciously raised to quarter-deck tones answered the unspoken
question.

"A fellow-passenger, Your Highness, the daughter of an old friend who I
am bringing back from school. She speaks French like a Russian--Will
Your Highness permit?" His Highness graciously permitted and they walked
over to Ragna who rose to her feet annoyed by the blushes which came in
spite of her, under the young stranger's scrutiny. Captain Petersen
chuckling at her embarrassment addressed her in his genial roar:

"Ragna, His Royal Highness, Prince Mirko of Montegria has permitted me
to present you, and I make you responsible for his entertainment during
the trip. Didn't I tell you I had a surprise for you that would take
your breath away? You can begin at once; I'm no carpet-knight, and
managing this ship is about enough for me. Her name is Andersen, Your
Highness, Fröken Ragna Andersen--and with your kind permission--"
someone hailed him and he bustled away.

The servants were coming on board, directing the stewards with the
luggage and the Prince's companion had already gone below to arrange the
details of the installation.

Ragna had made her curtsey and stood in silent embarrassment until
Prince Mirko broke the ice by saying smilingly:

"A kind Fate evidently presides over my destiny--but Captain Petersen
was wrong in preparing you for a surprise; he should have warned me of
the pleasure in store for me."

Then seeing how unsophisticated the girl was, and that his
complimentary phrase only added to her confusion, he put her quite at
her ease by making an ordinary remark or two about the weather, followed
by a few questions as to her life in the Convent and the journey to
Hamburg. They were still talking, standing by the rail, when the young
man who had accompanied Prince Mirko in the carriage, approached and
stopped within a few paces of them.

"Oh," said the Prince, "Mademoiselle, let me present my friend and
aide-de-camp, Count Angelescu. What is it, Otto?"

"Captain Petersen wishes to know if Your Highness will have luncheon
served in your state-room, or if you will eat in the saloon. There are
no other passengers beside your party and this young lady."

"The saloon, by all means, Otto, and tell the Captain I hope he will
join us, as well as Mademoiselle, if she will do us the honour!"--He
looked at Ragna who bowed.

Count Angelescu also bowed and withdrew--he had bowed to Ragna, bringing
his heels together with a click, when his Prince presented him, but had
seemed to give her no further attention. In reality he had observed her
closely and her frank expression and fresh youthfulness pleased him.
Ragna's impression of him was equally favourable; she liked his bronzed
soldierly face, with the grave eyes and the firm mouth under the dark
moustache. He must be thirty or over, she thought, the Prince could not
be more than twenty-four or five.

The sailors had lowered the gang-plank and were casting off the hawsers
which held the steamer to the wharf. A wheezy donkey-engine was lowering
boxes and bales through the forward hatch; on the river side a small
puffing tug was slowly warping the _Norje_ into midstream. Ragna and
the Prince could hear Captain Petersen on the bridge, now calling orders
through the tube to the engine room, now bawling through his
speaking-trumpet. His round face looked like an overgrown peony and
Ragna said so, to her companion's amusement.

"Is that the botany they teach you in Paris?" he asked.

"Oh," she answered, laughing gayly, "Paris is a place where one learns
many things!"

"Even in a Convent?"

"Even in a Convent."

He shot a stealthy glance at her from under dropped lids--the girl was
thoroughly innocent, there could be no doubt as to that. A smile
twitched his moustache--the things Paris had taught him were not
subjects usually included in the curriculum of a girls' school, and the
piquancy of the contrast between his experience of _la Villa Lumière_
and that of Ragna amused him. He stood idly watching her--her face
interested him, not from its prettiness alone--she was at the same time
more and less than pretty. It was no doll's face, the cheek-bones were
too high and prominent for the canons of perfect beauty, the mouth too
large and the forehead too high, but there was an indescribable charm he
did not seek to analyse--enough that it should be perceptible. He felt
instinctively that though childlike in her mind Ragna was no fool, and
that it would amuse him to draw her out. So he led her on to express her
opinions on various subjects grave and gay, such as came up in their
desultory conversation.

The announcement of luncheon, by means of a cracked gong, was no
interruption for the Captain excused himself on the ground that his
presence was required on the bridge, and Count Angelescu barely joined
in the conversation from time to time in response to a direct appeal
from the Prince or from Ragna.

The girl had lost all trace of shyness and was enjoying herself heartily
in the highest of spirits, and Prince Mirko seemed more like a
school-boy on a holiday than the heir to a kingdom on a diplomatic
mission. He explained to Ragna that he was on his way to Stockholm, and
from there to St. Petersburg.

"But," he said, "that is all so appallingly serious that I am cutting
capers while I may--I often cut them when I should not, don't I, Otto?
And old 'Long face' there, tries to keep me in order; old 'Long face'
does not approve of me now!" he laughed.

Count Angelescu did not reply, nor did he even smile at the sally; he
was not at all pleased by the rate at which the _camaraderie_ between
the Prince and Ragna was progressing. He knew his Prince for a "coureur
de cotillons" and scented danger from afar. "Fortunately we land the day
after to-morrow," he thought. Two days is a short time, but much can
happen in them.

Ragna had listened, astonished by the bantering challenge.

"Why," she exclaimed, "Your Highness, can you be kept in order?"

The naïve question so pleased the Prince that he roared with laughter,
as did also Count Angelescu who answered her.

"No, Mademoiselle, he can't, and that's the worst of it! I do my best;
it's no use; I advise you to beware of him, he's dangerous."

"Now, Otto, none of that! I won't have you making me out an ogre. I
assure you," he said, turning to Ragna, "that I am warranted neither to
bite nor scratch. Do I really look terrible?"

"No, indeed," she laughed, looking him in the eyes, "I am not afraid of
you!"

"Ah, Mademoiselle," said Angelescu, "it is when one thinks one's self
safest that one is generally in the greatest danger. I was never so sure
of myself as the day I fell hopelessly in love; I had the folly to think
myself woman-proof, you see, and I fell!"

"So you are married, then," said Ragna.

"No, for after all she would have none of me!"

They all joined in a laugh at this, and Ragna said: "Your sermon loses
its point, oh Preacher!"

So the luncheon-hour passed amid jest and laughter and they strolled out
to the deck where comfortable chairs awaited them under the canvas
awning. The _Norje_ was passing the islands of the Elbe--the Vierländer,
and Prince Mirko made much fun of the quaint dress of the peasant women
with their awkward hats, stiff ribbons and clumsy petticoats.

Ragna described to him the dress of the women about her home, and was
led on to talk of the many ancient customs of the country people, now
fallen into disuse, such as the duel with daggers, both men bound
together with the same leather belt, and of other contests, bloodless
ones these, when two or more men vied with each other in improvising
verse, often carrying it on far into the night. She told of the
bear-hunts, of the strange tales of returning whalers, of her Uncle Olaf
and his phantom ship, and of her fancy of seeing him in the storm.

As she talked, the men smoked; Count Angelescu watched her, charmed by
her fresh young voice and the expressive play of her features. He
thought to himself: "No, my dear friend this is no game for you. St.
Petersburg will furnish you with adversaries worthy of your steel, save
your efforts for them--this little girl is too good for you," and he
made up his mind not to leave the Prince alone with Ragna, more than was
unavoidable. Speaking to the Prince himself would do no good, very
possibly it might put ideas into his head that he had not heretofore
consciously entertained--or might crystallize the mere intent to please
into obstinate purpose of conquest. Angelescu was thoroughly determined
in his own mind that no harm should come to Ragna which he could
prevent.

Prince Mirko, on his part, was listening to her chatter, the picture of
lazy enjoyment, his graceful figure reclining easily in his deck-chair.
He played with his cigarette while watching her with narrowed eyes. He
noted the graceful poise of her head, the gleam of her heavy hair, the
fresh colour coming and going under her transparent skin, the rounded
contours of her slender figure, but it was her mouth that fascinated him
most, sinuous, sensitive and red--too red.

"Good Lord," he reflected, "what a temperament the girl must have! I
wonder what kind of a man will get her? Her husband--or lover, will be a
lucky man. I shouldn't object myself, to playing Pygmalion to her
Galatea." He fell to imagining what she would be like when the crude
innocence of her eyes should give way to a depth of passionate feeling,
when the barely perceptible circles under them should widen and darken,
and her mouth--that luscious, voluptuous, childish mouth should take a
man's kisses and return them. He thrilled at the thought, then pulled
himself together ashamed at the direction his thoughts had taken. "You
fool," he said to himself, "can't you leave that child alone? I really
believe Otto was not far wrong in warning her against me--I'll show him
he's wrong though, I'm not as bad as that! I may be a bit of a Don Juan,
but I'm not a _mangeur de petits enfants_!"

He rose to throw his cigarette-butt over the side and lighting a fresh
one strolled up and down the deck, watching the shores slip by.

Captain Petersen at that moment joined them and his presence amalgamated
the discordant unities of the group. Ragna had felt, without
understanding it, a sort of moral tension during the last few moments,
and though the Prince's abrupt rising had relieved it, there persisted
an uncomfortable undercurrent of conflicting influences. Captain
Petersen's cheery red face and jovial manner came like a rush of fresh
air into an overheated room. He indicated the various points of interest
as they steamed by and regretted that they would pass Heligoland after
dark.

"If it keeps clear, we shall see it by moonlight though," he promised
them.

Ragna sought her cabin early on the plea of getting ready for dinner,
and contrary to her custom spent much time over her toilette, trying her
hair this way and that, and passing in review her not too extensive
wardrobe. She had awakened to a sense of coquetry; she was newly
conscious of a deliberate desire to please.

When she had finished she viewed with dissatisfaction the image her
glass reflected: her hair seemed to her much too formal and
school-girlish in its arrangement, yet had she known it, the severe
lines of burnished plaits suited her small, well-shaped head and the
crude youthful curves of face and slender neck far better than any more
elaborate style. Her dark-blue frock opening in a point at the throat
and leaving the fore-arms bare, seemed suddenly to her newborn critical
sense too childish and plain--and again it suited her perfectly,
throwing into relief the whiteness of her skin and the fairness of her
hair, the lack of frill and furbelow emphasizing the slender waist and
the rounded slimness of hip and breast. And she longed for trained
ringlets and lace flounces.

Dinner was not as pleasant a meal, she thought, as luncheon; the Prince
was silent, almost moody, and conversation languished.

Count Angelescu, quick to perceive the change in his Prince's manner,
and as quickly guessing the cause, did his best to second so worthy a
resolve by making an effort to keep up a conversation on indifferent
topics and to engage Ragna's attention and interest. He was not much of
a conversationalist, however, and quite unused to the society of young
girls. In his part of the world girls were rarely, if ever, seen in
society and the stories and small talk adapted to the married women of
his acquaintance were certainly not of a type suited to present
circumstances.

Ragna was disappointed; she took the Prince's bad humour for a touch of
hauteur and suspected him of regretting having unbent in her society. So
piqued and hurt she made no effort to second Angelescu's efforts. She
ate little and refused wine until champagne was brought and Prince Mirko
insisted upon filling her glass. He had been secretly amused by his
aide's laborious attempts at entertainment and Ragna's very evident
chagrin at his aloofness flattered his vanity. In spite of his
resolution to maintain a barrier of formality between them he could not
resist the temptation of making her face resume its former sunny
expression. Raising his glass in which the bubbles were winking merrily
he said: "Let us drink, Otto, to the health of Mademoiselle, who has
turned the desert of a Norwegian ship into a garden for us!"

Ragna looked up, blushing and smiling; they both touched their glasses
to hers and drank.

"Now Mademoiselle, you must answer the toast!"

"I? Oh, never!" she cried in confusion. "I have never answered a toast
in my life. I don't know how!" Then recovering herself, "You may answer
it for me if you like."

"Shall I?" he asked. "Very well then, I rise, lady and gentleman--no I
don't, I sit down," as a lurch of the ship threw him back into his chair
and spilt half the contents of his glass--"I sit then, as the elements
won't permit of my standing, to thank you for the toast just drunk, and
to propose in return our newborn friendship!"

They all drank to that.

"There," said Mirko, "that is better; we have set the seal on our
present relation. The Present with a capital P. is always the best life
has to offer. Yesterday is dead and to-morrow is in darkness: to-day
only we live. _Carpe diem_ was the motto of the Ancients and it is
mine!"

"Oh, no, not of all the Ancients," objected Ragna quickly, horrified at
the Pagan irresponsibility of the thought, "the Stoics did not live for
the pleasure of the hour, they taught themselves to forego pleasure. I
think it is nobler to deny one's self," she added timidly.

"Deny one's self? What for?" demanded the Prince. "Why should I deny
myself anything for the sake of others' pleasure? Am I not as good as
they? And besides if I deny myself it only makes them selfish. To be
really altruistic I should indulge myself on every occasion with the
object of cultivating a beautiful unselfishness in others--that would be
true self-sacrifice"--He stopped, laughing at the extreme bewilderment
of the girl's face. She had lived entirely among serious-minded people,
devoid of a sense of humour, and was unused to hear what were, to her,
serious matters bandied about as subjects for jest; she rejoined
gravely:

"You say, 'live only for the day,' but there is a to-morrow--someone
must always bear the consequences, it can't keep on being just 'to-day'
however much we may wish it."

The remark was characteristic of her, and she was one on whom life's
to-morrows would fall heavily. Angelescu came to her assistance.

"Mademoiselle refuses to accept the sophistry of Your Highness's
arguments," he said smiling. "Sophistry, why it is the simple truth, and
the Epicureans are your true Stoics. _Carpe diem!_ Let us drink to
_carpe diem_!"

"Not I," said Ragna.

"Very well then, Mademoiselle la Stoique--but I shall make it my
business to convert you. Let us then drink to the health of our noble
selves. What do you say, in Norwegian, when you drink a health?"

"Skaal," said Ragna.

"Skaal, then," said both men raising their glasses and looking at Ragna,
who half timidly raised hers to her lips, then put it down again--and
Prince Mirko added under his breath as he drained his glass,

"And to your conversion, my dear."

On deck, a fresh breeze was blowing, and Ragna bound a long scarf over
her head and wrapped her travelling-cloak well about her. Accompanied
by the two men she paced briskly up and down the deck inhaling joyfully
the strong sea air.

"Let us try the other side," she said presently, and they turned forward
of the wheel-house: At the turn the wind caught the long ends of her
scarf and wound them about the Prince's neck; they paused to disentangle
the soft silken thing, Prince Mirko's hands delaying rather than
hastening the process, when a lurch of the vessel flung Ragna against
him. He steadied himself with one arm against the deck-house and with
the other supported the girl, holding her firm young body close to his.
He held her but a moment more than was needful, but in that moment,
pressed close to him, his moustache brushing her cheek, she felt a
repetition of the same thrill, half attraction, half fear, which had
come over her the first time their eyes met. It was over in an instant
and they were running down the deck before the wind, but Ragna felt a
new and strange constraint upon her which did not wear off as the
evening advanced.

She waited up long enough to see Heligoland rising up dark and
forbidding on the starboard side in the half-light of the moon. The
cloud-wrack behind, seemed like the wings of some monster bird of prey
about to swoop down upon the island, crouching to repel the attack. As
she watched, a cloud passed over the moon and a jagged line of lightning
cleft the darkening mass on the horizon. The flash lasted but the
fraction of a second, but she had seen a ship carrying full sail
silhouetted against the storm-cloud. The ship stood out for an instant
in wonderful relief, every spar and rope clear-cut against the sombre
background, then was swallowed up into the night.

"It is Uncle Olaf," thought Ragna. "He has come to warn me--but of
what?"

She turned to Angelescu, leaning on the rail beside her.

"Did you see the ship?"

"The ship! What ship? When?"

"Just over there, against that black cloud in the lightning flash."

As she spoke the lightning flared again but revealed nothing.

"You see there is no ship, Mademoiselle," said Angelescu, "and landsman
though I be, I know that she would show some lights if she were there."

"Then," said Ragna in a low voice, "the sign is not for you--it was the
ship of my Uncle Olaf."

"What are you talking about so earnestly?" asked Prince Mirko, joining
them. He had been lighting a cigarette in the shelter of the
companion-way. His tone was suspicious, he thought that Angelescu might
have been warning the girl against him. The mere fact that he suspected
such a contingency and resented it, was proof patent that his good
resolution of the afternoon had fallen into abeyance.

During the brief moment when he had held her in his arms, had felt her
heart beating under his hand and the stray locks of her hair blowing
across his face, his pulse had given a leap, and had it not been for
Angelescu's restraining presence, he would have kissed her.

Angelescu hastened to reassure him:

"Mademoiselle has seen the phantom ship of her phantom uncle--I have
not, which proves that my spiritual vision is defective."

Ragna laughed.

"Should I be able to see your family ghost, I wonder?" she queried.

"What makes you think I have a family ghost, Mademoiselle?"

"Everyone has them--you, the Prince--oh, everyone!"

"If you mean a private, particular ghost, Mademoiselle, every man or
woman has one after a certain age. Sometimes it is the ghost of the 'has
been,' sometimes of the 'what might have been,' and sometimes of both.
But you are too young for that sort of ghost--and I pray you may never
have a worse one than your Uncle Olaf's."

"Oh, stow all that nonsense about ghosts," said the Prince testily. "Why
should you fill up a poor girl's head with that sort of thing? Will you
not walk again, Mademoiselle, and let the wind blow all these cobwebs
away?"

But Ragna refused; it was late, she said, four bells had just struck,
and it was time for bed. The men strolled over to the companion-way with
her and each kissed her hand. Angelescu brushed it respectfully with his
moustache, but the Prince set his lips upon it and the burning seal of
his mouth sent a current through her veins. She snatched her hand away
and fled to her cabin.

The men walked slowly up and down the lee-side of the deck, the swinging
lamp grotesquely lengthening and broadening their shadows as they passed
under its feeble ray.

"Otto," said the Prince suddenly, "what do you think of the girl? Is she
as innocent as she appears?"

"I think," rejoined Angelescu, weighing every word, "that she is
entirely too good a girl to play with and fling away. Anyone can see
that she is nothing but a child at heart, and a man who can't marry her
has no business to wake her up."

"Which means me? Well, calm yourself, good Otto, calm yourself, the fair
maiden runs no danger that I know of. I have no foul intentions on her
virtue! A little fun does no one any harm--What makes you such an old
fogy any way, damn you? I don't recognize you in the role of St.
Anthony, nor myself either for the matter of that!" he chuckled
reminiscently.

"Your Highness knows," answered Angelescu, "that I am no saint, and I
don't mind a bit of a game myself, when there is any sport in it, but in
this case it would be entirely too one-sided. Wait till you find someone
who knows the rules of the game--there's no glory in turning the heads
of boarding-school misses!" He puffed disgustedly at his cigarette which
had gone out, then threw it away and thrust his hands into his pockets.

"You're right, old man; that's the worst of you, fidus Achates, you're
always right in the main--but I think this time you are just a little
bit off the track. Have I not already declared my intention of
respecting virtuous innocence? What more would you have? And if I throw
in a lesson or two, just a kindergarten lesson in the gentle art of
flirtation, what harm is there?"

Angelescu shrugged his shoulders and moved away. He knew better than to
prolong a useless discussion, and he knew equally well from experience
what the Prince might consider as legitimately included in his
"kindergarten of flirtation." Judging from his own impression of Ragna
and of the capabilities of her temperament once aroused, he realized
the danger to her peace of mind which would inevitably follow the merest
spark of sense awakening. "There would be the devil to pay," he thought
and as before reflected that fortunately the time was short.



CHAPTER IV


Ragna, tired out by the long day of new experience, soon fell asleep in
her narrow berth. It seemed to her that after a long sleep of which she
was dimly conscious she awoke to find herself in a strange country, a
wide grass-covered plain running to the foot of low mountains, a rolling
plain extending right and left as far as the eye could reach. The sky
was heavy with thunder clouds, and against the dark heavens and the
grassy knolls and bottoms ran a series of arches--white arches, some
broken, some still whole and joined one to the other like an
interminable bridge. She was no longer a girl but a hare, running
bounding along, and after her ran a greyhound the fleetest of his kind,
following her in long easy leaps. It seemed to her that though she was
the hare, yet it was as if she stood at a distance and watched the
chase, saw the anguished turning and doubling of the hare, saw the
greyhound ever nearer and nearer, about to overtake his prey. At last
the storm broke, and amid the wild lightnings and the crashing thunder,
the end came--one last despairing bound, and Ragna, the hare, felt the
pursuer's teeth close in her panting side. With a shriek she sat up in
her berth. Above, the sailors were holy-stoning the deck, and the cabin
was as she had seen it the night before, her clothes swaying to the
motion from the hooks on the wall where she had hung them. Now and again
a green wave washed over the closed port-hole.

She flung herself back on her pillow. Drops of perspiration beaded her
forehead, and in spite of her wish to laugh at the relief of finding her
dream only a dream after all, she was still dominated by the mysterious
anguish with which the dream had filled her. Thinking it over, she
shuddered and had need to feel the stuff curtain of her berth to assure
herself that she was really awake. She looked at her watch; it was not
yet six o'clock, but accustomed to the early rising at the Convent, she
felt it impossible to fall asleep again, so she rose and performed her
toilette, amused by the difficulty of dressing on a floor which swung up
and down under her feet sending her staggering to and fro like a drunken
man.

In the deserted saloon a steward brought her zwieback and coffee, and
after she had eaten she went on deck carrying a handful of bread with
which to feed the gulls. She was standing in the stern, looking out over
the narrowing foamy wake, and throwing the bits of crust to the hungry
birds, watching them wheel and plunge and seize the tempting morsel,
while those who caught nothing vented their displeasure in angry
squawks, when Captain Petersen joined her. He slyly stole up behind her
and pinched her rosy cheek with a "Hey, now, what's our young lady doing
about so early? Stealing bread, too! Dear, dear that will never do!"

Ragna turned laughing to meet the mock reproof.

"Well, what do you think of the old man now? Haven't I managed to give
you pleasant company for the voyage, little one? A real prince, too, not
many would have pulled that off for you! And you know how to keep him
entertained!"

He shook his finger at her.

"Don't think that because I was cooped up on the bridge all day, I
didn't see anything that was going on, Miss Sly-boots!"

He laughed uproariously, and Ragna glanced apprehensively back over the
deck to assure herself that no one was within hearing.

"What did you see, Captain Petersen?" she asked. "I am sure there was
nothing extraordinary, and it was you who asked me to entertain His
Highness!"

"So I did," roared the Captain, "so I did, and the little Minx must
needs set her cap at him as well--and capture him, horse, guns and foot!
A little lass just out of a convent at that!"

Ragna was much embarrassed by this well-meaning banter, and in terror
lest he should revive the subject in the Prince's presence--if that were
to happen she would surely die of shame! "Captain Petersen," she said,
"I have never set my cap at anyone, please don't say such things! The
Prince is very kind to take any notice of a little girl like me, and he
must find me very simple after the ladies he sees in society. Do be
good, Captain Petersen, don't tease me again please, I don't like it! I
think I will go down now and write some letters and my diary."

Captain Petersen shook with laughter.

"And so it is a child and not a young lady at all, in spite of its long
skirts, and _it_ doesn't like to be teased about Princes--and _it_
thinks it will run away and write to be rid of me!"

Then as he saw tears of vexation rise in Ragna's eyes he realized that
he had gone too far and like the gentleman he was, hastened to
apologize.

"There, there, my dear, forgive an old sea-dog his joke! I meant nothing
by it, but if you don't like it we won't say any more. I may be a bit
rough and ready, my dear, and I'm not used to turning compliments and
dancing on carpets, but I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

"I'm sure you wouldn't, Captain," said Ragna, laying her hand on his
blue sleeve and smiling up into his kindly eyes. They stood there a few
minutes longer watching the cloud of whirling white and grey gulls, and
Ragna threw her last crumbs of bread; then they walked forward and the
girl went to the saloon to write her letters, while the Captain returned
to the bridge.

In the saloon she found Angelescu just finishing his breakfast. He rose,
serviette in hand, as she entered.

"You are up early, Mademoiselle!"

"Oh," she answered, "I have been up for hours; I have been on deck
feeding the gulls."

"And now you are going to have some breakfast? Let me call the steward."

"Thank you, Monsieur, I breakfasted before I went on deck. I have come
down to write a little. Please don't let me interrupt your breakfast."

As she spoke, she moved over to a small table set across the end of the
saloon, and laid upon it her writing case and travelling inkstand.

Angelescu resumed his seat and silence reigned except for the usual
noises of the ship and the scratching of Ragna's pen.

The Count having finished his repast went on deck, where he was hailed
by Captain Petersen and invited to the bridge, where the good Captain
set forth at some length the principles of navigation, and enjoyed
himself thoroughly, not often having had the fortune to meet with so
considerate a listener; for the Count, though more bored than otherwise
by the Captain's disquisition, sprinkled as it was by innumerable
technical details, maintained throughout an air of courteous interest.
So delighted was Captain Petersen that he actually sent for his private
bottle of "schnapps" and insisted on his visitor's partaking thereof to
close the interview.

Ragna had settled herself on deck with a rug and a book, and evidently
expected Count Angelescu to join her as he descended from the bridge,
but he only bowed--it seemed that he also had some writing to do. Much
as he felt inclined to sit down by her, he realized that after what had
passed between him and the Prince, it would not be wise for him to
appear to devote more time or attention to her than courtesy required.
And moreover he felt that it would not be easy for him to remain too
long alone with Ragna without falling to a certain extent victim to the
charm which she unquestionably exerted.

Ragna therefore spent the long morning between her book and short
constitutionals up and down the deck. Part of the time she lay lazily
watching the changing cloud shapes, the spray dashing up to catch the
sunlight and falling again like a shower of diamonds, the ceaseless
march onward of the white crested waves. Leaning on the rail, she
followed the churning lines of foam, swirling deep down in the marble
like water and rising again to the surface in a lacy pattern of tiny
bubbles.

So the time passed until shortly after eleven the Prince appeared
followed by Angelescu. They drew up chairs, and after the first
salutations were over, Ragna bantered the Prince on his late rising.

"Ah, but my dear young lady," he answered, "you do not know the night I
spent. In the first place, your charming image held sleep at bay for
hours, and then a less romantic reason kept me awake. My bed was made
like a jam-roll, and it did roll--it rolled off three times, and each
time I had to get up and put it back."

Ragna laughed; the Norwegian fashion of bed making was one to which she
was well accustomed and she had never thought of the effect it might
have on a stranger.

"Ah, you may well laugh," continued Mirko, "but if you had seen me
taming that wild beast of a bed, and at the same time trying to keep my
balance on that see-saw floor you would have wept tears of compassion."

"Crocodile tears, I fear," said Angelescu drily.

"Then they began holy-stoning the deck just as I had fallen asleep, and
I had to begin all over again. I am convinced, Mademoiselle, that I was
not born to sail the seas!"

Ragna laughed and sparkled; in the clear morning light, the vague
distrust and fear of him, which had assailed her the evening before,
seemed a ridiculous trick of the imagination and of a piece with her
foolish dream. The man was simple, gay and straightforward enough now,
in all conscience! His eyes, whose magnetic power had so troubled her
the day before, now reflected nothing but merry good humour, as he gave
his whimsical account of his night's experiences. He rattled along in a
cheerful way, making them all laugh at his nonsense and merry conceits.

Captain Petersen lunched with the party, his jolly red face beaming like
a rising sun. Ragna thought she had never laughed so much in all her
life. When they had finished she fed the gulls again with the help of
the Prince and Angelescu, who vied with each other in seeing who could
toss the crumbs farthest. One large gull, an old white fellow, either
stronger or more masterful than the others, was getting more than his
share; he would wait until another bird had caught a crumb and would
then bear down on him, wings spread, legs extended, and with wild
squawks oblige the poor thing to drop the coveted morsel, whereupon he
would pounce upon it and devour it, only to begin all over again. Ragna
pointed him out to the men and the Prince nicknamed him "Napoleon."

It was very pleasant there in the stern. Ragna seated herself on a coil
of rope in the shadow of a life-boat, and the men leaned lazily on the
rail watching the exploits of "Napoleon." Angelescu had always a certain
soldierly stiffness about him from his clear-cut face to his trim feet,
suggestive of an uncompromising attitude of mind where honour or
principle were involved. Prince Mirko was a picture of lazy, rather
feline grace; not to be characterized as effeminate, he yet did not
convey an impression of masculine supremacy, in spite of his broad
shoulders and the insolent lift of his moustache; his eyes were too
large, his hands and feet too small, his hair too silky, the symmetry of
his shape too perfect. He looked more like some handsome arrogant animal
than a man born to command men--yet there was no denying his
distinction, he was undoubtedly a thoroughbred.

Presently they returned to the shade of the awning and the deck chairs,
and the Prince drawing a notebook from his pocket, made little sketches
of Ragna.

"I shall carry something of you with me when our ways part," he said.

Ragna felt much flattered and regretted that her list of accomplishments
did not include drawing.

"But," she said, turning to Angelescu, who had sat a silent spectator,
"you can draw, I am sure, will you not make me a little sketch?"

Angelescu would be delighted; he went to his cabin and returned with
sketch book and pencil, and without more ado began work. Ragna wished to
look over his shoulder, but he would not hear of it.

"You must be patient till I have finished, Mademoiselle, I am not as
accomplished a draughtsman as the Prince, and I could not do anything if
you watched me."

Finally he produced a very pretty little sketch, representing the rail
at the stern, with the slender figure of a girl silhouetted against it,
one arm flung out in the act of scattering crumbs. The action was
spirited, the whole thing suggested by a few clear decisive strokes of
the pencil. Ragna was delighted with it and begged leave to inspect the
Count's sketch book; he refused in an embarrassed way, and the Prince,
seeing an occasion to tease his friend, made as if to snatch at the book
crying--

"Fie, how can you refuse a lady. What have you drawn that is so very,
very naughty that it can't be seen? Out with it!"

As he spoke, his hand touched the book, and in his haste to withdraw it,
Angelescu seized the upper cover. The book opened and two loose leaves
fluttered out and fell at Ragna's feet. She picked them up to return to
him, glancing at them involuntarily as she did so, and her attention was
arrested. The first sketch was a portrait of herself, idealized, but an
excellent likeness; the other was the Prince, also an admirable
likeness, but conveying an impression of evil--not conscious evil,
however, rather the face of a faun through whose eyes looked out a
laughing fiend. Ragna shivered unconsciously and turned to the Prince,
in whose good humoured countenance she failed to detect the slightest
expression similar to that in the drawing.

"So," said Mirko, "our dear Otto has been exercising his talents at our
expense! very clever indeed. The sketch of Mademoiselle is charming,
but, my dear fellow, what has induced you to lend my humble features to
your conception of the Devil? You flatter me, you do indeed!"

Angelescu visibly annoyed, made answer,

"I am sorry, I did not wish Mademoiselle to see that I had taken the
liberty of attempting her likeness without her permission, and I can
only beg that she will accept the little sketch as a token that she
bears me no ill will. As for the other, Your Highness, it was only an
idle fancy of mine, and it is only by accident that it may seem to
resemble you."

Ragna looked at the little sketches thoughtfully and said, "Count
Angelescu, you were wrong in sketching me without my permission, but I
will forgive that--especially as you have made me so pretty. As the
Prince has some sketches of me, I will let you keep this, if you wish
it, and I will keep the other."

But the Prince would have none of that.

"What, Mademoiselle, you wish to keep me before your eyes as a devil?
Never in the world; I won't have it!"

In the end, Angelescu was persuaded to draw another portrait of the
Prince with which to redeem the "Devil Sketch" which Ragna insisted on
holding as hostage until it should be replaced by a better.

More than once, in the course of the afternoon, Angelescu pleaded that
he had writing that must be attended to, official papers and reports
that must be prepared, but Mirko refused to let him go.

"You can do all that later," he would say.

Ragna caught Angelescu glancing anxiously at him from time to time, as
though suspecting him of some ulterior motive. The aide could hardly
insist, however, especially after the episode of the sketches--indeed he
had an uneasy feeling that the last word had not been said with regard
to them, and that the Prince meant to turn the situation thus created to
his own personal advantage. So the afternoon wore on, the Prince keeping
the ball of conversation gaily rolling, nothing in his appearance giving
the slightest hint that he thought of anything beyond the careless
enjoyment of the passing hour.

The sun was nearing the horizon as they went below to prepare for
dinner. A few light clouds flecked the sky, looking like the fleeces of
wandering lambs.

"It will be a perfect evening," said Mirko, "and we shall have a full
moon."

Ragna put on the same frock she had worn the evening before--it was her
best--but to-night she turned it in a little more at the neck and bosom,
and pinned on a piece of lace given her by her mother when she left
home. Her skin showed white in the opening and her delicate throat rose
from its frame like the stalk of a flower.

The Captain came to the saloon for dinner and sat at the head of the
table, having Prince Mirko on his right and Angelescu on his left; Ragna
sat by the Prince. All had good appetites and did full justice to the
excellent fare provided.

The Prince had given orders that champagne be served from the very
beginning and he made it his care to replenish Ragna's glass as often
as she emptied it.

Captain Petersen, busy with his dinner and in entertaining his
distinguished passengers to the best of his ability, noticed nothing,
but Angelescu's eyes were grave as he observed the girl's flushed
cheeks, and unnaturally bright eyes. He even ventured so far as to ask
her whether she were fond of champagne, to which she answered innocently
that she liked it very much but had never drunk much wine of any kind
whatever.

Captain Petersen broke in with his genial roar. "So you like the
champagne, Fröken Ragna? So do I! So do I! Not but what a little
'schnapps' in season, has its merits--still I suppose champagne is
better for a young lady than 'schnapps'!"

Angelescu relapsed into silence; if the captain, who was, in a way the
girl's guardian, saw nothing amiss, he himself would do no more. To do
the Prince justice, he had no thought of making his neighbour take more
than was good for her; he had no intention of doing her the slightest
harm; he wished to give her pleasure and at the same time to enjoy
himself. If in filling her glass he wore a slight air of bravado it was
that Angelescu's evident distrust of him and his intentions had stirred
up a certain obstinacy within him, and he was possessed by the desire to
outrage the would be protector's feelings. Mirko had shrewdly guessed
that Angelescu entertained a warmer regard for Ragna than he was willing
to admit of to himself; that the assumption of the protector's role
might not be wholly the disinterested or rather uninterested attitude
that the Count wished it to appear, as that, when at the close of dinner
Ragna went to her cabin for a wrap, he drew Angelescu aside and said to
him:

"I wish you to understand once and for all, Otto, that I will not
tolerate your interference and your silent criticism. It is all very
well for you to think that because you are older than I, and because we
have always been comrades you have the right to control me. I am your
Prince, and you will do well to remember the fact."

Angelescu, his face burning, cut to the quick, saluted and answered
stiffly.

"Your Highness shall be obeyed," then turned on his heel; but Mirko
called him back, already regretting the sharpness of his tone and
language towards his old playmate and faithful friend.

"Hold on, old man, don't take it like that! I didn't mean what I said,
at least not all. You seem to think me a sort of villain in disguise,
and you arrogate to yourself the responsibility for my conduct in every
direction. You sat at table glaring at me as if I were trying to poison
Mademoiselle. Now what is the matter with you?"

"I thought that Your Highness did not realize the fact that she is only
a child and quite unused to champagne--"

"Did you not hear the Captain?"

"The Captain is a rough old sailor, unused to young girls; I thought--"

"You think too much, Otto. Besides, it's rather new for you to play the
part of 'Squire of Dames' to wandering damsels--I believe the root of
the matter is that you are in love with the girl, yourself. Why don't
you marry her? You could, you know."

"Your Highness knows very well that I am not free to marry," said
Angelescu in a low voice, a dark flush spreading over his face. The
Prince knew well, as did everyone else, that his aide was bound, and had
been for years, to a married woman of high rank, whose unhappy married
life had been responsible for the forming of the liaison, and that now
time and custom and a quixotic sense of moral obligation continued to
bind the unfortunate Angelescu to the lady's chariot wheels, though any
feeling he had had for her was long since dead.

Ragna's entrance put a stop to further explanations, and Angelescu
excused himself, saying that he must attend to the neglected writing of
the afternoon. So the other two were left with the deck to themselves.

It was a perfect evening, the full moon hung low in an almost cloudless
sky and the broad silver pathway over the water looked like a carpet
laid for a procession of fairies. Ragna hung over the rail in an ecstasy
of appreciative joy.

"Oh, isn't it just like Heaven!" she murmured.

"I can't say," answered Mirko, "never having been there, but it would
make a good setting for a love scene. Imagine it for a honeymoon!"

"I must answer like Your Highness," laughed Ragna, "never having had a
honeymoon I can't very well imagine one."

"Then look at the lovers in the moon."

"Lovers in the moon!"

"What! have you never seen them?"

"I see only the hare, with his two long ears."

"Look again, the lady is on the right, and you see her head in profile,
her lover has a beard--there, do you see?"

"No," said Ragna, "I still do not see."

"That is because your eyes have not been opened; when you have had a
lover, you will see the Lovers in the moon."

Ragna laughed at the idea.

"Why should having a lover improve one's eyesight?" she asked.

"It will not improve your physical eyes, Mademoiselle, but it will open
your spiritual eyes to the world; just now your heart is blind."

To this Ragna found no answer; she stood silent, her face turned up to
the moon, still looking vainly for the Lovers. Mirko stood gazing at her
tempted by her fairness, her simplicity, and the moonlight.

"Do you realize the delightfulness of this episode?" he asked her
abruptly. "It will be like an oasis in the desert to look back on. I
should like you to forget this evening, that we are anything but just
our two selves; there is no Prince, there is no Fröken Andersen, we are
just you and I and nothing more. Yesterday we met, to-morrow we part,
probably for ever, so that there can be no thought of past or future to
embarrass us. There is no yesterday and no to-morrow, no time and no
limitation of space; we are all the world, we are quite alone and
detached from everything, you and I and the moon!"

His eyes were fastened on hers and held them; she could not have moved
away had she wished.

She answered in an embarrassed way:

"You wish to stop the hands of the clock for this evening?"

"Exactly--with your help."

The romance of the situation appealed to her.

"The clock has stopped," she announced gravely.

"Thank you," he murmured raising her hand to his lips.

Ragna laughed uneasily; it seemed to her that she was living in some
fairy tale.

The Prince led her to a deck chair and drew up another beside it. From
where they sat they could see the moon and the light upon the water,
but they were screened from the companion-way door, and indeed from most
of the deck, by the ventilator of the saloon and the shadow of a
life-boat. It was unusually warm for the North Sea, especially for so
early in the season, and Ragna found her heavy cloak oppressive.

"Take care you do not get cold," said the Prince as he helped her to
loosen the clasp at the neck. The whiteness of her throat seemed like
marble in the moonlight. Her hook had caught in her lace collar, and in
disentangling it the Prince's fingers brushed her bosom; they gave her a
tingling sensation and she started up.

"I beg your pardon," said Mirko; "it was not intentional, but if it had
been would you resent it? Where is the harm, are we not friends?"

"Friends," said Ragna, "just friends. You must not do things like that."

"Then give me your hand. Has anyone ever read your palm? No?"

He took her hand lying idly on a fold of her cloak and held it up in the
moonlight.

"I cannot see the lines, it is too dark, but your hand is beautiful, so
soft, so tapering!"

He drew the tips of his fingers over her palm and had the satisfaction
of seeing her shiver. She tried to draw her hand away, but he kept it.

"Ragna, little Ragna, there are many things, I should like to say to
you, but I am afraid you would misunderstand me. Do you know what you
are? You are the Sleeping Beauty, you are asleep, no one has come yet to
wake you; you are waiting for the Prince."

He paused, stroking her hand. His touch seemed to magnetise her, for her
hand lay passive within his and she made no effort to withdraw it as he
leaned towards her. The music of his voice seemed to hold her
enthralled,--perhaps the champagne she had drunk had something to do
with it,--she had no volition, her will was asleep.

"Who will the 'Prince' be, Ragna? A fair-haired lover with cold blue
eyes, or a Southerner--one who will burn you with his passion, who will
reveal to you all the magic of love? Is it not worth everything to feel
one's self awake, to live?"

The sense of his physical nearness almost overpowered her and she moved
uneasily. Mirko's fingers had crept to her wrist and seemed to burn the
tender skin.

"Are you afraid of me, Ragna?" he asked.

She answered that she was not, ashamed that he should think her timid
and unsophisticated. If he talked to her in this way, it must be the way
of the world, of his world. She felt that none of the men she had known
would speak to her as he spoke--but then she could not imagine their
doing so, without appearing extremely ridiculous. And then, she
reflected the Prince and she were on the open deck,--there could be no
harm, so she surrendered herself to the fascination of the moment.

"Ragna," the melodious voice at her ear murmured, "I could teach you so
much, so very much that you do not know--so many things that you will
never know if you marry one of your cold country men! I would teach you
to live, dear, to live and to love; I could make your heart beat and
your veins burn; I would hold you hard and fast in my arms,--or quite
lightly, and under my caresses you would live--oh, Ragna, to see the
light of Life in your sea-blue eyes, to feel your red lips learn to
kiss, to feel your beautiful body quiver, as you learned the mystery of
Love!"

In reality he had lost his head, he had let himself be led on by his
passionate fancy,--at first only a playful desire to flatter the girl,
to lead her on to graceful flirtation, but his hot blood had got the
better of him, and as he proceeded, the voluptuous image called up by
his words inflamed his senses and lost him to all sense of restraint or
prudence. He seized the girl, for Ragna, dazed, intoxicated and
fascinated by his daring speech, and by the magnetic suggestion of his
desire, opposed no resistance to his encircling arms. He drew her to
him, and covered her neck and bosom with burning kisses. She gasped half
fainting, then he took her mouth, and her eyes opened wide at the
revelation of a sensation the like of which she had never imagined.

But with the revelation came the awakening; with a frantic effort she
broke from him and stumbled to the rail. The action brought him to
himself and to a sense of shame.

"Oh, Ragna," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "What have I done!
Pardon me! It was too much for me, your beauty, having you there, so
near me! Ragna, speak to me, tell me that you forgive me!"

He moved towards her, but seeing her shrink away from him, he stopped.
Ragna put out a trembling hand, and with a shaking voice said:

"Oh, why did you! Oh, you have spoiled it all!"

She turned to the rail, and hiding her face in her hands began to cry.

Mirko was really touched and concerned. He had no idea that a girl could
take a kiss so seriously, it gave him the measure of her innocence. He
came to her side and putting his hand on her shoulders tried to console
her with awkward phrases, but she still sobbed on. At last he began to
be annoyed and said rather sharply:

"What are you weeping so about anyway? Your life is not ruined, I have
kissed you, but I have apologized--I would never have done so if I had
known you would take it like this!"

Ragna looked up, bewilderment on her face. What! He could take it so
lightly! Then it was not so terrible after all? The poor child had felt
herself dishonoured for ever.

"But you will despise me for letting you kiss me!"

He was quick to seize the advantage.

"Despise you? Never in the world! What a little goose you are! What harm
is there in a kiss? And don't worry about it, I took it without your
consent--but you liked it--come now, be honest and admit that! I know
you liked it, I felt it!"

He stopped, seeing that he was going too far. Ragna had turned away from
him, her face burning. It was quite true, too true, she had felt herself
respond. What right had she to be indignant, since she must acknowledge
to herself that she had not resisted him, that she had not wished to.

His low vibrant voice continued:

"And one thing you can never change, never drive from your memory,--I
have had your first kiss; you will never forget that. No woman ever
forgets her first kiss, or her first lover:--"

He paused hearing footsteps approaching over the deck, and stepped to
the girl's side.

"Someone is coming," he said; "for God's sake pull yourself together and
remember that a kiss is not a crime. Come now, tell me you forgive me,
quick!" His voice had an imperious note, and Ragna yielded to it; she
turned to him, tears still shining on her long lashes in the moonlight.

"There, you do forgive me, it is understood?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"Pull your cloak up about your shoulders and hook it," he ordered and
she obeyed.

The footsteps had by now made the tour of the deck and were approaching
the sheltered nook; they rang loud in the silence. It was Captain
Petersen and as he hove in sight, his cheerful voice woke the echoes:

"So here I find them as snug as you please! Well, well, a moonlight
night and the deck of a good ship, and a pair of young folk to profit by
it all--what more could one want?"

Mirko engaged him in conversation, and Ragna thus had time to steady her
voice and regain control over her excited nerves. The effort was good
for her, and she was glad of the Captain's arrival. So was the Prince,
for the good man's coming tided over an awkward moment, as the "voyage
de retour" is bound to be--however short the journey may have been.

"To-morrow, our journey together will be over," said the Captain.
"To-morrow morning you will wake at Christiansand, after that little
Ragna and I go on to Molde alone--if we pick up no other passengers. I
am sorry Your Highness leaves us so soon--if ever you should wish a
cruise in northern waters, the old _Norje_ and I are at your service,
Prince!"

"Thank you, Captain Petersen," said Mirko, "I have enjoyed this little
trip exceedingly, thanks to your kind attentions and to Mademoiselle,
and I wish I might promise to renew it in the near future--but I am not
entirely my own master, you know."

Presently the Captain remarked that it was growing late, and Ragna,
rising, said she would go to bed. The Captain wished her a hearty, if
gruff "Good-night," but Mirko walked with her to the companion-way, and
after kissing her hand, held it while he murmured in a low voice:

"You will never forget this evening, nor shall I--dear!"

With a final pressure he released her hand and Ragna went slowly down.

Captain Petersen grumbled to himself as he watched them.

"Pity the fellow is a Prince. Handsome couple they would make, handsome
couple! After all, who knows, little Ragna is as pretty as a
princess--he might do worse!"

Prince Mirko returned to him fumbling vainly in his pockets.

"Have you a match about you, Captain?" he asked, "I must have left my
box below."

On a former occasion he had offered the Captain a cigarette from his
case, but the old sea-dog had refused it, explaining that he would get
no good out of a little paper stick, a pipe was the thing for him.

The Captain produced a box of matches and the Prince lit his cigarette.
Seeing him disinclined for further conversation, the old sailor left
him, and Mirko, leaning both elbows on the rail enjoyed his smoke while
he reviewed the events of the evening. In his innermost heart he was a
little ashamed of having given way to an impulse but then, he reflected
complacently, there was no real harm done, and after all, what is a
kiss? He was rather amazed at himself for giving the slightest
importance to the occurrence. His thoughts turned again to Ragna.

"What a little witch it is, and as unsophisticated as a newborn babe;
pretty, too, much too pretty, in the moonlight!" The fresh taste of her
mouth came back to him, like a strawberry, just ripe, he thought, and
the throbbing of her firm young bosom, as he had pressed her to him.
What a mistress she would make! Then he laughed at himself--"What! take
a mistress, a mere school girl at that, from the bosom of a respectable
bourgeoise family! What a row there would be! No, my son," he admonished
himself, "that game is not worth the candle!" He remembered too well the
trouble subsequent to his latest escapade of the sort, and made a wry
face. "No, no more luring of innocent maidens from their happy homes!"
He thought of Ragna going to bed in her little cabin, and a wild desire
came over him to follow her. The recollection of the kiss he had given
her suddenly maddened him. His pulses beat strongly and rang in his
ears. He must have her, he felt, must have her in spite of everything
and he started towards the companion-way, but before he reached it shame
seized him, and thrusting his hands savagely into his greatcoat pockets
he strode up and down the deck, fighting the impulse.

"Am I lost to all sense of decency?" he murmured, "What has come over
me?"

He walked until he was tired out, then went below and locked himself
into his state-room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ragna, as soon as she reached her cabin, took down the oil lamp from its
swinging bracket and carrying it to the small mirror studied her face.
Was this creature with gleaming eyes, rosy cheeks, red mouth and
loosened hair the prim little Ragna of but a few hours since? This
looked more like the head of some young Bacchante, wine flushed and
triumphant. Indeed the "Princess" slept no longer, the spell was broken
and Ragna knew it. She replaced the lamp and undressed slowly, her
thoughts running tumultuous riot. She was astonished at finding herself
neither indignant nor ashamed--all that had passed. It seemed to her
that she had entered upon a new life, a door had opened upon a
heretofore unknown country, and many things came into perspective, that
she had not understood before. She had crossed the dividing line, she
was no longer a child, Eve had tasted of the apple.

As she lay in her berth some of the Prince's sayings came into her mind,
"an oasis in the desert," "there is no to-morrow and no yesterday," and
for the moment she hugged the thought, little dreaming how insidious it
was to prove. Who was to tell her that some day Eve's apple would prove
to be an Apple of Sodom? _Carpe diem_ was the Prince's avowed motto, and
was she already a convert and had she forgotten her own answer,
"Somebody has to bear the consequences"? She was too young though, to
realise that every act, no matter how insignificant, how detached
apparently from the main trend of life, has far-reaching consequences,
cropping out when we least expect them, bearing in their wake the most
extraordinary changes.

How was she to know that the kiss on deck in the moonlight bore in it
the seed of her future life. Her lips burned, and she felt, in
imagination, the pressure of Mirko's arms about her,--but at the same
time she was curiously conscious that this was not love, or not yet.
She felt, but could not define the distinction. Still she was not
ashamed, being still borne up by the wave of elemental impulse; she had
no room as yet for introspection and self blame--indeed they might never
come. The timid, untried girl of yesterday had vanished, a new,
passionate Ragna had taken her place.



CHAPTER V


Lars Andersen met his daughter at Molde. He seemed to have grown older,
and his face had a care-worn look. "The Grandmother was ill," he said;
"she had been ailing for some time, but now was bedfast and could not
live long."

Though he was truly glad to welcome Ragna home again, his
undemonstrative manner gave hardly a hint of it and the girl felt her
joy at seeing him effectually repressed and chilled.

At dinner with her father and the Captain she sat almost silent until
the old sailor rallied her on her dulness.

"You had more to say for yourself, Fröken, when the Prince was with us!"

"The Prince! What Prince?" asked Andersen.

"Prince Mirko of Montegria, who crossed with us from Hamburg to
Christiansand, on his way to the Court of Russia." The Captain went on
to give a roseate account of the Prince, his condescension, his
amiability, and wound up with:

"Little Ragna entertained him as though she had been a court-lady, and
you may well be proud of her!"

Andersen frowned; he knew more of men and of the ways of the world than
did the good Captain, who in many respects was but a grown-up child, and
he was displeased that his young and inexperienced daughter should have
been thrown into such companionship with a strange young man, prince or
no prince, as the Captain's account suggested.

Still, he did not wish to hurt the feelings of his old friend, and since
it was over and done with, the less said about the matter, the better.
Ragna, watching his face, guessed with newborn intuition the trend of
his thoughts, and with feminine diplomacy changed the subject, leading
the talk to her stay at the convent and entertaining the two men with a
lively account of the nuns, and of her school-fellows.

Her father studied her with a clearing face.

"What a child it still is," he thought, "this Prince Mirko nonsense has
rolled off her mind like water off a duck's back!" So he mused, and
putting aside his cares, encouraged her to continue her chatter. The
Captain was delighted to see his friend unbend, and joined his efforts
to Ragna's to keep the ball rolling.

So the evening passed merrily enough and it was not till the girl was
alone in her room that she let herself go. Rather scornfully she
thought:

"Oh, yes, they all think me a child! I am nearly nineteen, and they
think I have learned nothing but French verbs and embroidery. Well, let
them think it, better so! But if they knew, if they could guess!"

She shook out her long golden hair--it fell nearly to her knees--she
slipped out of her clothes and winding her long gauze scarf about her,
looked at herself in the glass, turning this way and that. Her body,
wonderfully white and firm had slight graceful curves like those of a
young nymph. She played with her hair, draping it about her shoulders
and bosom--truly this was a new Ragna! Then a sudden shame came over
her; she put on her nightgown, and blowing out the candle, plunged into
bed and lay blinking in the darkness. The thought she had had was not:
"I am beautiful," but "_He_ would think me beautiful."

"This must not go on," she said to herself. "You were a fool, Ragna, to
let him kiss you--you are a fool to think about him at all. Why can't
you let it be just an episode,--as he said? Of course he was only
playing with you. What do you suppose it meant to him to say a few
complimentary things to a little country girl--and kiss her?" But she
thought of the quiver in his deep voice, as he talked to her, on deck
that last evening, the passionate vibration of it that had fascinated
and stirred her, body and soul. She thought of his burning lips on hers
and his arms straining her to him so closely that it hurt her. No, in
that moment at least he had been sincere, he had loved her! The formal
leave-taking under the eyes of Angelescu and the Captain had meant
nothing. Oh! why could she not have been a princess--now she would never
see him again! Great tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down,
wetting her pillow, but she did not wipe them away. She was thinking how
dull it would be at home--how unendurable after this one brief glimpse
into the reality of life and emotion. Her innermost soul rebelled; she
threw out her arms, then strained them to her bosom.

"I want to live, to live, to live!" she cried to herself.

When she was calmer her clear mind reasserted its power as she reflected
that after all she was very young still, that the future might bring
much.

"It shall," she promised herself. "I will make it! I will not, I will
not be buried alive!"

She had not stopped to ask herself if she loved Prince Mirko; as a fact
she did not, but he had awakened her to life, he was identical to her
with Life and emotion. The mere fact of his being a stranger to her,
quite outside her limited field of experience, of his being a Prince
and heir to a throne, endowed him in her eyes with a halo of romance. In
default of a real hero, he would become her dream-hero, the axle round
which would revolve the wheel of her intimate thought.

In the morning, when dressed for the homeward journey, she joined her
father in the dining-room; she presented to his eyes the same innocently
childlike expression she had worn the evening before, and he kissed her
smooth brow, little dreaming of the thoughts which filled her head.

       *       *       *       *       *

As they drew nearer home, and the familiar mountains, the Trolltinder
with its jagged crest, and oddly shaped Romser Horn, loomed up against
the sky, Ragna felt her spirits rising. The air was cool and crisp, the
little horse trotted briskly along, shaking his short stiff mane, the
meadows were carpeted with flowers: forget-me-nots, pansies, and the
purple swamp orchids, the pine-trees filled the air with balsam. It was
home, the country of her birth. They rounded the last turn in the long
road; the sun was setting and the long rays illuminated the summits of
the mountains which her childish imagination had peopled with gnomes and
trolls.

Now they were turning in at the wooden gateway--another few minutes and
there was the long low cinnamon-coloured house, smoke rising hospitably
from the chimneys, behind it the stables and sod-roofed cottages, and on
the steps stood a welcoming group, mother, the sisters. "Oh, how they
have grown," thought Ragna, "and there is Aunt Gitta too!" she cried.
Behind them stood the servants, smiling and excited.

Almost before the _stulkjarre_ had stopped, Ragna was out over the
wheel, embracing them all in turn, laughing and trying to answer a dozen
questions at once.

Fru Andersen held her daughter at arm's length, to see her better.

"It is my 'little' Ragna no longer," she wailed. "You are taller than I,
and you have changed, dear--you went away a child, you come back a
woman!"

Her husband interrupted her, calling for the servants to take in Ragna's
luggage, and the good woman's further comments, if there were any, were
lost in the bustle that ensued.



CHAPTER VI


The days that followed were occupied with filling in the gap of the past
two years. All had much to ask, and Ragna was kept busy answering their
questions. Fru Andersen and Fru Boyesen were most interested in the life
at the convent, and the latter especially examined Ragna thoroughly as
to the studies pursued and the accomplishments acquired.

The sisters, Lotte and Ingeborg, wished to hear about the Prince,--a
Prince being to them almost as mythical a being as the old gods they had
read of in their mythology; they imagined him robed in ermine, his manly
brow decorated by a coronet. They never tired of returning to the
subject, but were much disappointed by Ragna's matter of fact story, and
the Prince lost much of his prestige in their eyes when they learned
that he dressed and spoke like an ordinary mortal.

"And you talked to him just as if he were one of us?" asked Lotte in an
awe-struck voice. "You really did and you were not a bit scared, not one
bit?"

"Of course not, you silly little goose!" laughed Ragna, as if
conversation with princes were an everyday occurrence to her. She was
not above airing her recently acquired graces before these country mice.

"What did you say to him? What did he talk to you about?" chimed in
Ingeborg.

"Oh, about the weather and the gulls and the moon--anything."

"I don't call that very much," said Lotte, much disappointed. "I should
have thought you would talk about wars and court-balls, and things like
that."

"Oh, dear, no,--one doesn't talk about those things, it would seem
affected and silly."

"And didn't he make love to you? They always do in stories," queried
Lotte, then seeing her sister blush. "I believe he did--and you're too
mean to tell. What did you talk about anyway, that makes you blush like
that?" she added with a child's terrible perspicacity.

"I'm blushing at your curiosity, that's what I'm blushing at," returned
Ragna, angry at having betrayed herself. "And if you went to the Sisters
they'd tell you it was ill-bred to ask so many questions and pry into
what isn't your business!" Afraid of betraying herself further she got
up and left them.

The three girls had been sitting on a rock, not far from the house,
where they had long been accustomed to take their work on summer
afternoons. The younger girls stared at each other thunderstruck, as
Ragna walked away.

"Well," said Lotte, "it's rude to ask a civil question, and it's all
right to get up and go off in a temper. What is the matter with her
anyway? I'm sure I wish the old Prince had never spoken to her at all,
it has turned her head, being taken notice of, that's what it is!"

Ingeborg said nothing; she merely bit off her thread reflectively as she
followed Ragna's retreating figure with her eyes. Less impulsive than
Lotte, and endowed with a finer intuition, she felt that if Ragna were
keeping something from them it would be useless to try and drag it out
of her, and not only that, she realized as Lotte did not, that each of
us has his or her own little "Secret Garden," of memory and fancy, of
which no hand, however intimate, may open the gate. But vaguely
conscious of this, herself, she felt how useless it would be to explain
it to Lotte, whose frank curiosity knew no such restraint.

Lotte stitched on viciously, indignant at the snub she had received, and
giving vent to her feelings in intermittent monologue.

"She thinks us ninnies or children, that's what she does, but she's not
so awfully grown up, after all! She's not nineteen yet, and I'm sixteen,
and you're nearly fifteen. Oh, yes, we're not good enough for her
Ladyship to talk to; she's used to Princes and Kings and Popes, she is!
And she thinks she has come back to teach us her fine French manners!"

Ragna walked on, away from her sisters and away from the house. Her path
lay some way through the woods, then across two or three pastures and
out to a rocky point overlooking the fjord. She marched on, looking
neither to the right nor to the left, consumed with vexation for having
been so easily led on to retort. Of course Lotte had been annoying, but
she had always been a bundle of curiosity. And how sharp the child was!
"I must be a transparent fool," thought poor Ragna, "if any child can
see through me like that!"

As she crossed the third pasture someone hailed her; she looked up, and
saw, sitting on a rock under a tree, her Aunt Gitta, knitting
industriously, a sheaf of flowers lying on the ground beside her. Ragna
went to her, and she indicated a place on the boulder beside her.

"Sit down, Ragna," she said, "I have been wishing for a chance to talk
to you alone."

Ragna obediently seated herself, and drawing the flowers to her, began
sorting them and making them up into bouquets. Fru Boyesen coughed once
or twice, as though in doubt how to begin. She looked at her niece in a
tentative way, but the girl was seemingly intent on her flowers, and
gave no assistance.

Finally in a rather embarrassed manner, she began by asking Ragna what
she thought of doing.

"Doing, Aunt Gitta?" asked Ragna, lifting her head in surprise, "I had
not thought of doing anything!"

"Then your father has not told you?"

"He has told me nothing,--what is there to tell?"

"You have been away for two years, and I suppose no one wished to worry
you, but the fact is," Aunt Gitta lowered her voice as if about to
reveal some terrible secret,--and really, to her practical mind anything
connected with money-loss was terrible,--"the fact is that your father
has lost money in several ways and the estate is mortgaged!"

Ragna gazed at her with wide eyes; this explained then, her father's
anxious look, the small changes in the way of living, the
thread-bareness, slight as yet, of things in general. She had put it
down to the Grandmother's illness--but again that had not explained the
fewer horses in the stables and the simpler fare.

"Oh, poor father!" exclaimed Ragna.

"Oh, yes," said Fru Boyesen, "but it is partly his own fault; he would
not take my advice, he made some imprudent investments, and of course he
has had bad luck with the horses, this year of all years. Three good
foals lost, and Green Hunter broke his leg and had to be shot. But that
is not the point; it is this, when your Grandmother dies, and she cannot
live long, poor woman, her income goes with her, and what your father
and mother will do then, I do not know. Of course your father can't
afford to send Ingeborg and Lotte away to school as he has sent you--and
it is better for them that he can't, they can help at home and your
mother need keep fewer servants. Now as to you, you are of no earthly
use in the house, you know nothing about cheese and butter-making, nor
of practical housekeeping. Your fine embroidery and piano playing and
French and Italian won't help you here, and I know you don't want to be
a burden." She paused to wipe her glasses before turning the heel in her
stocking.

Ragna had listened to her, leaning her head on her hand and her elbow on
her knee, the flowers quite forgotten. Being so young she was rather
exhilarated than depressed by the implied suggestion that she must fend
for herself.

"Don't you think, Aunt Gitta, that I might teach?"

"Teach whom? Where? One, two, three, four, um-um,--Who wants to
learn,--five, six and seven,--French here? There now, I've lost count, I
must begin all over again! Don't interrupt me for five minutes."

Fru Boyesen said this intentionally in order to give Ragna time to take
the situation in. The girl knew that her Aunt was quite correct: who
indeed, out in the country would wish to learn anything she could teach?
When she was sure the five minutes were up, she spoke again, timidly.

"I meant in a town, Aunt Gitta, or I could be a governess."

"Teach in a town! Where are your certificates, my dear?"

It was true, of certificates Ragna had none but those of elementary
study. The convent gave no certificates. Her face fell.

"And as for governessing,--my niece a governess? An Andersen a
governess? Never."

"Well, then, Aunt Gitta, what can I do? You say yourself I can't live on
here and be a burden." She had reached the point her Aunt had meant her
to reach from the start.

"Listen, Ragna," she said kindly, "you know you have always been my
favourite niece, you are the one who takes most after our side of the
family. Now, my child, this is my proposition,"--she took Ragna's hand
and held it, with a fine disregard of her knitting. "My idea is this: I
have no children and I am often lonely in my house,--it is too large for
one woman. Now I think the best thing would be for you to come and live
with me. I should look after you and give you an allowance as if you
were my own daughter, and I should consider you as such.--No, don't
speak yet, let me finish. I have spoken of this plan to your parents; of
course they would rather keep you with them, but I pointed out to them
how foolish it would be to throw away such a chance for a purely
sentimental scruple. I said to them: 'The girl is grown, she is of no
use to you here, and she should marry--but who? With her new ideas she
won't take up with any man from these parts, she is not the kind of a
girl who can marry a farmer and be happy! With me she will have the
advantages of city life, and I shall keep my eye on her and her
chances.' So they said they would leave it to you; if you wish to go
with me, well and good,--if not, you may stay with them and weigh them
down!" She stopped, searching the girl's face, but Ragna did not answer
at once, nor jump at the proposition as the good lady had expected.

Indeed, Ragna was by no means sure of her own mind; but a few days
since, she had vowed that she would not submit to being buried alive,
and yet before this most unexpected chance of escape from the monotony
of country life she hesitated. An unaccountable repugnance to leaving
home again, seized her--perhaps the mere spirit of contradiction called
up by her Aunt's certainty as to her answer. Besides it seemed to her
like a sort of treachery, an evidence of moral cowardice, to desert her
parents at this juncture. But then, as her Aunt had said, what could she
do to help them, at home? Nothing. On the other hand, if she accepted
her Aunt's offer, and the arrangement proved impossible, she would be
better situated to find employment in a city like Christiania. She knew
Fru Boyesen's determined character, her love of ordering the lives of
others, and doubted if life with her would be bearable for long. If it
were not for that! Then she reproached herself for ingratitude--was this
the way to receive such a generous offer?

"Well?" asked Fru Boyesen.

"Aunt Gitta," said Ragna slowly, choosing her words, "it is very, very
good of you to want me, and if Father and Mother tell me they do not
need me, I shall be glad to accept your offer."

"Well then, that's settled," said her Aunt cheerfully, "only you don't
seem as pleased as you might. It's not every girl has such chances come
her way, let me tell you!"

The girl leaned forward impulsively and kissed her Aunt who returned
the embrace amply, and they sat in silence for a short time, until Fru
Boyesen's lively tongue got the better of her. She launched into a
lengthy description of her life in Christiania and of the neighbours and
friends, but Ragna heard little; her thoughts were busy with the new
life opening before her, as she mechanically finished tying up the
flowers. As in a dream she heard fragments,--details of Fru Hendersen's
illness that had puzzled all the doctors, and why the Klaad girls wore
blue stockings with all their frocks, and how much Ole Bjornsten had
paid for his new carriage--"Most extravagant I call it,"--till her Aunt
finally shook out her completed stocking and rose, brushing the moss
from her skirts.

"You are a good girl, Ragna," she said commendingly, "and you have
learned to talk quite interestingly."

Ragna smiled but made no comment, so they wended their way home, Aunt
Gitta looming up large in front, her skirts held high displaying a
well-filled pair of worsted stockings--she boasted of always knitting
her own,--ending in stout elastic-sided boots. Ragna followed her,
outwardly meek, but inwardly convulsed with her relative's appearance,
and wondering what would happen, should the bull have been in his usual
pasture, for the good lady confessed to a taste for bright colours and
affected a cathedral-window style of dress, and the combination she had
evolved to-day was wonderful to behold. Her dress was of royal purple,
over which miniature rising suns made splotches of white, her bonnet was
a deep, rich blue, while a small scarlet shawl decorated her portly
shoulders.

"I hope to goodness she won't try to dress me in her own style!" thought
Ragna.

As they neared the house it was evident that something had happened;
there was a confusion of people rushing to and fro and a servant was
officiously closing the shutters of the upper rooms.

Ingeborg, standing in the doorway flew to meet them as they reached the
gate.

"Oh, Aunt Gitta! Oh, Ragna!" she exclaimed in a loud hoarse whisper,
looking at the same time frightened and important. "I've been looking
for you everywhere! It happened an hour ago, and where you've ever
been--"

Fru Boyesen took the girl by the shoulders and shook her.

"What is it? Can't you speak out? Don't beat about the bush like a
fool!"

"Grandmother's dead" said the child, boldly, and burst into tears.

Fru Boyesen pushed her aside and ran into the house and up to her
mother's room. It was as Ingeborg had said, the old woman had quietly
passed away. Her daughter-in-law, sitting in the room, had not seen when
it happened,--she only noticed after a time that the place seemed
unusually silent, as when a clock in a living-room stops its ticking,
and going over to the bed, she saw that the old woman was no longer
breathing. She felt for a pulse in vain, and a mirror held to the mouth
remained unclouded, so she had drawn the sheet up over the still, white
face and called the family.

Ragna and Ingeborg followed their Aunt up the stairs and into the room.
Lars Andersen stood by the bed, holding the dead woman's hand; his
sister had thrown herself upon her knees beside him; at the foot of the
bed stood Lotte and her mother, and by them Ragna took her place.
Ingeborg stopped in the doorway, sobbing loudly with hysterical
excitement, and also with honest grief, for she sincerely loved her
grandmother. Lars Andersen turned in his place and in a low, stern voice
reprimanded her.

"Stop that boisterous sobbing, Ingeborg! I am ashamed of you! Go to your
room until you can control yourself!"

Ragna quietly slipped out and led the weeping child away--none of the
others had even turned a head.

"Oh, Ragna," sobbed Ingeborg, as they reached the little room with its
dormer window, "isn't it dreadful? Only this morning I was sitting with
her and she said the knitting hurt her eyes, and she would finish it
to-morrow--and it was for me--and now she is de-e-ad--" her voice rose
in a wail.

Ragna took her into her arms, and sitting down, drew her on her knees.

"Oh, Ingeborg," she said, "you mustn't cry so, indeed you mustn't! We
ought to be glad she died peacefully like that. Of course it would have
been awful if it had happened when you were alone with her this
morning."

"It isn't that, it isn't that at all," said Ingeborg, in an awed voice.
"It's just dreadful that she should have been alive like you or me only
an hour ago,--and now she is dead like a light when it is blown out. She
was here and now she is gone--she's nowhere!"

"Oh, Ingeborg, you shouldn't talk like that!" cried Ragna, shocked. "Her
soul has gone to God in Heaven!"

"Do you really believe that, Ragna?" asked the child. "I don't,--I don't
care what they say. When Balke, my dog, died, I wanted to bury him and
put up a tombstone, but the Pastor wouldn't let me; he said animals
have no souls and Christian burial is only for people. Balke knew lots
more than ever so many people; he had a great deal more soul than a
baby. When do babies get their souls? I know they don't have them when
they are born, they're too stupid,--and so when do they get them? I said
if Balke wouldn't go to Heaven I didn't believe there was one at all, so
there!"

She sat up with flushed face and looked at her sister defiantly.

Ragna did not know what to answer; she had never seriously questioned
any religious doctrine that had been taught her and Ingeborg's revolt
both shocked her and found her unprepared.

"Aren't you ashamed to talk like that, Ingeborg Andersen?" she said
indignantly. "Of course there is a Heaven and a Hell, and perhaps good
dogs have a Heaven of their own--I don't know! If there is one, I'm sure
Balke went there," she ended lamely.

Ingeborg was watching her with curious unchildlike eyes.

"You don't believe in Heaven any more than I do," she asserted. "If you
did you'd talk about it differently. People have told you things and you
have just gone on believing them to save yourself the trouble of
thinking."

She slipped from Ragna's knees and crossed to the window, where she
stood looking out; she left her sister thunderstruck. The child had
spoken the truth--but how had she known, by what intuition had she
understood? Ragna went over to her, and putting an arm about her, stood
some minutes in silence before she asked:

"What made you say that, Ingeborg?"

"I don't know, but it is so and you can't deny it. Oh, I often know
what people think about when they don't know themselves, and I often
know, too, what is going to happen to people. Grandmother told me I was
fey; you see I'm the youngest and I'm the seventh daughter and so was
mother, and those people always are, Grandmother said so."

"How can you know? What do you do?"

"Oh, nothing, I just look into people's eyes, and sometimes I see
things, and sometimes I don't."

"Can you tell me what will happen to me?" asked Ragna in a low voice.

Ingeborg turned and looked long into her sister's eyes. The sun had sunk
below the mountains and a cool grey light pervaded the place. She stood
motionless a long time, then she passed her hand over her forehead and
half turned away.

"I don't want to tell you, Ragna," she said.

But Ragna insisted, she would know, she was not superstitious; she only
wanted to see if it would come true.

"It will come true--it always does," said Ingeborg sadly.

"Then tell me, I'm not afraid."

Ingeborg hesitated, then seeing that Ragna was in earnest:

"I will tell some of it, but I do not see very clearly. You are going
away, to begin with, I see you with Aunt Gitta and there are many people
but their faces are shadows. Then you go away farther still, where the
sun is hot--it dazzles you, and there is a man--or is it a greyhound?"
Ragna started. "Yes, it is a man, but there is a greyhound and a hare
and some stone arches, and you are very sad after that, Ragna. But the
man goes away and there is another man with eyes like coals, and he
hates you--he puts chains on you, and you can't break them, and you
never come home any more--" Her voice died away.

Ragna stood spellbound: a greyhound and a hare--her dream! And the rest,
the chains, the man with the burning eyes! She shivered; it was as
though the shadow of a dark wing had passed over her, her flesh crept.
Neither spoke for some time; it grew darker.

A maidservant entered the room with a light. Ragna shook herself to
throw off the incubus. The maid began to speak of the Grandmother, of
how good she had been, and the girls looked at one another ashamed--they
had quite forgotten it all for the moment.

"Come, Ingeborg," said Ragna, "let us go down again." Hand in hand they
descended the stair.



CHAPTER VII


The funeral was set for the day week and the intervening time seemed
interminable, at least to the younger members of the family. Fru Boyesen
was invaluable; her practical good sense which not even grief could
impair, employed itself in arranging the thousand and one details
incident to a death.

Ragna took her turn with her elders in watching at night in the
death-chamber. She had begged to do it and had obtained permission, but
when the night came and she was left alone in the terrible silent room,
a single candle burning on the table beside her, casting grotesque and
fitful shadows over the motionless form on the bed, and over the walls,
a kind of panic seized her. She wished she had not persisted in
obtaining the vigil. It was horribly lonely, more so than she could have
imagined by day. She could hear the ticking of the tall clock on the
landing outside the door; no other sound came from the sleeping
house--it was like sitting in a funeral vault she thought. An owl was
hooting dismally in a tree far off and the mournful noise had an uncanny
sound in the pervading stillness. The window was partly open and
occasionally a puff of air would make the candle gutter, and then the
shadows moved and took on unearthly shapes.

Ragna tried to keep her mind on the book her mother had left with her,
but without avail; her mind would wander, and her eyes turned
continually to the bed in the corner--it was as though the dead woman
called her, requiring insistently her whole attention. She was a healthy
girl, not in the least morbid, but the stillness, the tension wore on
her nerves until the strain became unbearable. She looked uneasily to
right and left and over her shoulder as though she expected to see
strange and grisly shapes emerging from the shadows. A kind of panic
seized her; she felt as if she must scream. A terrible unreasoning fear
overcame her, the horror of the presence of the dead body submerged her
spirit, a curious stiffness possessed her limbs and seemed to bind her
to her chair; she felt the roots of her hair crawl, and her fingers
worked convulsively. The book she had been reading dropped to the floor
with a bang. The noise broke the spell and she gave a long shuddering
sigh; she raised her hand to her forehead and was surprised to find it
wet.

"This will never do," she said to herself resolutely, and rising, she
went to the window. There was no moon, but everything showed clearly in
the light northern night. The trees near the house rose in a dark
stippled mass against the sky. Everything was peaceful and quiet, only
the drowsy twittering of birds broke the silence from time to time; the
owl had gone. Ragna stood at the window breathing the chill night air
and let the peace of the night sink into her soul. When she was quite
calm she closed the window and taking the candle walked resolutely over
to the bed and stood there, looking. The face of the dead woman wore an
expression of ineffable peace--a repose almost inhuman in its
detachment. Her white hair was brushed in smooth bandeaux over her brow,
her features, ashy grey with violet shadows, appeared almost unreal, as
though carved in some strange alabaster. Her hands, waxen and stiff
with bluish nails lay folded on her bosom. The flickering light of the
candle lent no semblance of life. Ingeborg's words came to Ragna's mind.
Where indeed was the spirit that had animated this clay? And to the
question she found no answer. In the actual presence of death the
formally taught maxims regarding a future life--a life of reward and
punishment--fell to the ground; the flimsiness of all speculation on the
Life hereafter appeared naked to the girl's eyes.

"No one can know, no one can tell," she thought, "it is a mystery, but
at least one may find peace--she has found peace!" She stooped and
reverently kissed her grandmother's cold hands, then she returned to her
seat.

The moment had been a crucial one, for in that instant of putting her
conventional belief to the touchstone of reality, it had failed and she
recognized the fact; the bed-rock on which her childish faith had been
built fell from beneath her feet, for, if she lost her belief in part,
disbelief in all must follow. A chain is no stronger than its weakest
link, but the weak link in her chain was not, as she thought, the
insufficient grounds for belief, rather the formality of her teaching;
to her the "letter which killeth" had indeed become dead, and of the
"Spirit which giveth light" she knew as yet nothing. This one thing she
knew, that never again should she be afraid of the dead or of death. "It
is peace," she said to herself softly, "it is like sleep when one is
very, very tired."

When morning had come and they relieved her at her post, she walked out
to the high rocky promontory from which she could see the sea. The day
was still young and the grass and bushes were covered with dewdrops.
Ragna gathered a handful of flowers as she went and pressed their wet
freshness to her face. She felt grave and old; the bright sunlight
seemed like an insult in the fact of the long night and the silent
darkened room. She seated herself on a grey lichen-covered boulder
overlooking the water. The fjord was like glass, as far as the eye could
reach and it reflected the surrounding mountains like a mirror; to her
tired eyes it was unreal, like a pictured scene. As she sat there, a
breeze sprang up and tiny ripples ruffled the surface of the water,
spreading from shore to shore. The reflections of tree and crag shivered
into a thousand fragments. Up the bay a boat was putting out from the
little village. Ragna idly watched the rise and fall of the oars. A girl
was rowing, swaying to the rhythm of the stroke; she was standing and
her red bodice stood out against the background, a vivid patch of
colour. She was singing and her clear voice rose in plaintive minor
notes. Smoke began to rise from the village chimneys, and a dog barked.

It was Life going on, taking no heed of those who fall by the wayside,
Life, the cruel Wheel, crushing the weak, casting to one side those who
would clog the onward march--life, the Life of the world to whom the
individual existence, the individual pain and strife are of no
importance; life continuing the same throughout the ages, no matter who
dies, no matter who suffers.

"The mountains do not change, nor the sky, no matter who comes or goes,"
thought Ragna, "and everything goes on just the same, no one is
necessary, continuity is everything. If we suffer, if we die, what does
it matter? I shall die, we shall all die, and in a few years it will
make no difference to anyone; there is no real change, only people come
and go. That is the real eternity--just the same old round, over and
over again, and on forever." She sat a long time, her chin supported in
her palms, her eyes, steel blue, gazing out steadily over the New World
made manifest to her.

In after years she often thought of the hours spent there by the fjord
in the early morning, and the memory nearly always brought peace to her
heart. Her own troubles seemed so trivial, so transient in comparison
with the age old changelessness of life, her own life and destiny so
unimportant in the endless chain of humanity.



CHAPTER VIII


When all was over, Ragna accompanied her aunt to Christiania. She was
given a comfortable room on the first floor and soon settled into the
pleasant regularity of the household. It was very quiet--there could be
no entertaining until the period of mourning should be over--but
intimate friends often came in the afternoon and evening, and very
pleasant circles formed about the cheerful lamp. Fru Bjork was a
frequent visitor and made much of Ragna. The girl had taken her fancy
when they had journeyed to Paris together and moreover she was convinced
that the friendship of a serious-minded girl like Ragna was excellent
for Astrid. The girls kept up a lively correspondence and in a few
months Astrid would be coming home. Ragna looked forward to her coming
with some impatience; though they had actually but little in common,
there was at least the mutual experience of school-life, and since
Ragna's awakening experience, much that had been incomprehensible to her
in Astrid's nature now became clear.

"She knew more than I did about things--and I was proud of my
ignorance," she reflected. She was as yet unable to realize the
difference between Astrid's shallow feminine coquetry and her own
awakening consciousness of womanhood.

Fru Boyesen and Fru Bjork had been schoolmates and although differing as
to character, were excellent friends, owing to the ties of life-long
association and a common point-of-view in social matters. Each of the
ladies entertained a tolerant pity for the foibles of the other, which
is perhaps the most comfortable _modus vivendi_ to be found.

Ragna's time was well occupied. By her own wish she continued her
studies under the best professors obtainable--that part was Aunt Gitta's
doing. Literature interested her more than anything else and after a
time she was encouraged to try her hand at writing a series of short
essays. To her great delight a well-known review accepted them, and this
materially affected her relations with her aunt. The good lady had
heretofore regarded her as a child to be exhaustively directed and
controlled, but a niece whose writings were published was quite a
different person in her estimation. In common with many people of
prosaic mind she had a genuine respect for intellectual attainments,
therefore, Ragna was promoted to a position of semi-independence, her
working hours were held sacred, and to give her more time for her
literary pursuits such household tasks as had fallen to her share were
removed as incompatible. This was a mistake, for the homely work would
have been a wholesome antidote to the romantic trend of the girl's mind.
Withdrawn from the ordinary business of the house, she lived an unreal
life made up of fanciful imaginings which her philosophical and literary
studies were unable to counteract. She had no experience of actualities
to control and place in their proper perspective the various social and
philosophical theories which formed the greater part of her reading.
Consequently with nothing to counter-balance the paramount influence of
the moment, she swayed to the mental attitude of whatever author she
happened to be reading, being in turn, or imagining herself a
Swedenborgian, an agnostic, an atheist, and a mystic.

She was cynical with Voltaire and romantic with Byron and De Musset. For
a considerable period the "categorical imperative" haunted her days and
nights, and during three months at least. "Also sprach Zarathustra" was
the sun whose rising and setting determined her getting up and her
sitting down. But Nietsche did not last long; his doctrine was too
foreign to her nature and she returned to Kant as to an old friend.

Fru Boyesen was not a little worried by these moral and spiritual
waverings, but never having known anything of the kind herself, was
unable to cope with the case. She took a purely material view of the
situation. They were now out of mourning, but Ragna seemed to have
little taste for society in general, and none for that of young men; she
preferred her books, she said, when her aunt rallied her on the subject.
Now Fru Boyesen had been at some pains to obtain for her niece a circle
of eligible masculine acquaintances; she had made it known that she
considered the girl as her adopted daughter and would make her her
heiress, and there was no lack of eligible suitors; so when Ragna had
sent two of the most desirable firmly but kindly about their business
with no better excuse than that they did not happen to be congenial to
her, her aunt felt that it was time to interfere.

She would have considered either of them a most desirable husband for
her niece--was not young Nansen tall and handsome as well as the only
son of wealthy parents? And was not Peter Näss a most estimable young
man and well situated to make a wife comfortable and happy? What was
Ragna waiting for? A white blackbird?

Ragna threw her arms about her aunt's neck.

"Dear Aunt Gitta, I am so happy with you! I don't want to marry ever, I
think!"

"Not want to marry, child? You are crazy! It is a woman's duty to marry
and rear children--the Bible says so. Perhaps you think you are in love
with some other young man?"

No, Ragna was in love with no one.

"Well then, why did you refuse Ole Nansen?"

"Because I did not love him."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense! Not love him! Very probably you don't, but that
is not essential, not one woman in a hundred 'loves' her husband until
after she has married him. The important part is that everything else
should be suitable. There's nothing you dislike in him, is there?"

"No, Auntie."

Fru Boyesen raised her eyes to Heaven.

"Well, all I can say is, you'll never get such a chance again; young
Nansen is a man in a thousand."

"Are you so anxious to be rid of me, Auntie dear?"

"No, of course not, goosie," she kissed the girl affectionately, "but I
should like to see you married, in a home of your own. It would be much
better for you, I am sure. I don't really approve of this one-sided life
you are leading."

"But, Auntie dear, how could I marry a man who takes no interest in my
work? These young men are very nice and all that, but we have absolutely
nothing in common. I asked Peter Näss the other day what he thought of
the Kantian philosophy, and he said he had never thought about it at
all. These young men never like to talk about serious subjects and they
refuse to take me seriously when I do."

"Ah, Ragna," said the elder woman, "when you have a home and children to
look after, you will find that all your philosophy goes to the wall."

"But that is just what I am afraid of, why should I stifle all my higher
instincts in a commonplace marriage?"

She had not told her aunt, however, what was the real matter with her.
The fact was that try as she might, she could not rid herself of the
memory of Prince Mirko and that moonlit crossing of the North Sea. His
kiss remained imprinted on her lips and his idealized image on her
heart. She mentally compared with him the young men of her acquaintance
and weighing them in the balance, found them woefully wanting.

One evening, sitting alone with her in the drawing-room, young Nansen
had kissed her--the effect had been electrical. Furiously rubbing her
offended cheek, she had reprimanded him in such terms of withering scorn
that the poor young man fled, never to call again. Afterwards she was
ashamed of her outburst, and analysing her feelings, as she had come to
do, was obliged to admit to herself that the cause of her resentment was
not the temerity of her suitor, but the fact that he had failed to awake
in her an answering thrill. She liked the young man, and her vanity
would have been pleased by the marriage, for he was the best "parti" in
Christiania, but her conscious womanhood revolted at a loveless union.
Was the shadow of a kiss to spoil her life? In vain she reasoned with
herself, the unconquerable memory remained; she felt it like an
indelible mark on her.

Fru Boyesen in despair at her niece's obstinacy and foolishness, and
after many fruitless attempts to bring the girl round to her point of
view, finally betook herself to Ragna's old professor, Dr. Tommsen. She
laid the case before him and begged him to use his influence with his
wayward pupil--she would surely listen to him.

Dr. Tommsen had received Fru Boyesen in his study. He sat, in an old
leather-covered armchair between the porcelain stove where a fire was
burning, and his large, much belittered writing table, gazing at his
visitor in good-humoured perplexity and twiddling his thumbs--a habit of
his when not engaged in writing or reading. His spectacles were pushed
up on his bulging forehead and his keen grey eyes peered out from under
shaggy, grizzled eyebrows, which he had a habit of working up and down
in a terrifying manner. His sanctum was not often invaded by ladies, and
the presence of a portly dame arrayed in green silk trimmed with bugles
and yellow lace and protected by a dead-leaf mantle, and the singularity
of her coming to him, a bachelor of well-known eccentricity, in order
that her niece should be prevailed upon to enter the bonds of matrimony,
appealed to his sense of humour.

Therefore, when Fru Boyesen had finished her elaborate exposition of the
case, the Doctor pursed up his lips and his eyes twinkled.

"My dear Madam," he said, "I fail to see how I can be of any assistance
to you, I have so little experience in these matters."

"You could advise Ragna, my dear Herr Doctor--she would listen to you.
She must be persuaded to take a reasonable view of life."

"Ah, that depends on what one considers a reasonable view," he said
judicially, putting the tips of his fingers together. "From my
standpoint your niece's objections appear quite reasonable. You may not
be aware, my dear lady, though most people are, that theoretically I
disapprove of marriage."

"Disapprove of marriage! Oh, Herr Doctor, you can't mean that!" cried
Fru Boyesen horrified, feeling the solid ground slipping from beneath
her feet, as it were.

"Precisely, Madam--or to be more exact, I disapprove of marriage as now
generally practised. I regard it as a social contract, useful to
humanity in general, since no better substitute has been found as yet,
but I certainly do not consider it an ideal state, and it would be
against my avowed principles to urge any young person--much more so one
of the 'élite,' among whom I place Ragna--to enter upon a form of
contract which I personally consider both futile and degrading--an
insult to the intelligence."

This was too much for Fru Boyesen; she gasped angrily, but found herself
unable to give articulate utterance to her amazement and indignation.
The Professor, his eyes twinkling more and more, pursued in a calm
deliberate voice.

"Since you do not answer, I take it that you agree with me in the
main--or perhaps your estimation of your niece is not the same as mine?"

"I most certainly do not agree with you, Dr. Tommsen," said Fru Boyesen
hotly; "I am a married woman myself, and a respectable one, and I assure
you I have found nothing either degrading or futile in the married
state. I do not think you should use such words in connection with a
divine institution."

"Ah, that is where we differ, dear Madam," returned the Professor,
gently rubbing his palms together--it amused him on occasions to tease
the conventionally-minded--"You consider it a divine institution and I
do not--however that is not the point. I admit that some persons are
obviously qualified for matrimony and find their vocation in it--you
think your niece to be one of those, I do not."

Fru Boyesen interrupted him.

"But there is where you are wrong, Herr Doctor. Ragna is made for
marriage, trust an old woman for that. She is not the girl to be an old
maid. I am anxious for that reason--if she lets her best years go by and
despises the chances that offer, she will regret it when it is too late.
I love her, Herr Doctor, and old women see farther than young ones--I
want to see her happy in the way that God intended her to be."

"Then for God's sake leave her alone, Madam, leave her to God. If you
are right about her, and she does marry, let it be at her own time and
by her own choice; nothing but harm can come of forcing her inclinations
in any way."

"But, Doctor, she has already refused two of the most eligible--I think
it a poor return after all I have done for her--"

"Let her refuse ten, let her refuse twenty! To show her gratitude must
she sell her body to the highest bidder?"

Fru Boyesen bounded rather than rose from her chair; the very ribbons on
her bonnet bristled with indignation. Her back was a study in outraged
virtue as she moved majestically towards the door. The doctor was before
her.

"One moment, Madam, I beg!"

"I have heard quite enough, more than enough," she said in a frozen
voice.

"My dear lady, I beg your pardon if my words were too forcible; what I
intended to say was that should your niece marry a man for his
position, without love for him, it would be equivalent to selling
herself, and you who have her ultimate happiness at heart would not wish
that, I am sure." He smiled, and he had a most winning smile. "My dear
Fru Boyesen, you come to discuss this matter with me; I am an old man,
you are a widow, why should we mince matters?"

His tone, grave and kindly, mollified her somewhat: she wavered an
instant, and answered.

"It shocked me that you could speak of my niece's selling herself--an
honourable marriage--"

"Just so, Madam, an 'honourably' married woman who does not love her
husband and has not loved him, who has married him because he is wealthy
or of good family--" he deliberately brought his argument within the
range of her comprehension--"is lower in my eyes than the woman who
gives herself for love only, dispensing with ceremony, or who sells
herself for hire, to get her bread."

Fru Boyesen gasped with horror.

"Society!" she murmured, "religion! morality!"

"Society, indeed, dear lady, but neither religion nor morality as I
understand them."

Fru Boyesen was in deep waters, her argumentative powers were not
sufficient to cope with the Doctor, and she knew it, still she tried
once more.

"But Herr Doctor, I don't want her to marry without love, I only want
her to make up her mind to love a man she can marry--and do it soon!"

The Doctor rubbed his hands. He had not been able to resist the
temptation of shocking the good lady; he was often tempted to jolt a
bourgeois mind out of its self-complacent rut. Fru Boyesen's bewildered
and horrified face had amused him intensely, but he realized that to
push the matter further might seriously harm Ragna's cause, so he
contented himself with replying:

"I am sure, Madam, that your niece will not disappoint you in the end;
but if you really desire her welfare, do not urge the matter for the
present, I beg of you. Give the child time--that is a panacea for all
ills, you know. She is very young, and should she marry merely to please
you, her inevitable unhappiness would be heavy on your conscience."

Fru Boyesen retied her bonnet strings but with less firm a touch than
usual. The Professor had frightened her and, for the moment, shaken her
conventional social beliefs; however, she made a last tentative effort.

"Then I am to understand that you positively refuse to use your
influence, Herr Doctor?"

"Most decidedly, Madam--and as you value your future peace of mind and
Ragna's, do not attempt to force her."

"And you advise me to do nothing, to wait?"

"Why not try a change of scene? A journey would probably drive some of
the 'ologies' and 'isms' you object to out of her mind, and she would
very likely come home prepared to settle down."

Fru Boyesen sighed. She was not satisfied with the result of the
interview--it had been so different from what she had expected. She took
her leave, thinking to herself, "Poor man, one can see that he doesn't
know much of the practical side of life! How could he, being a
bachelor?"

Doctor Tommsen, watching her substantial figure retreat down the street,
drummed on the window and said to himself:

"What fools these women are! And the old ones who ought to know better
are always trying to drag the girls into the same miserable mistakes
they have made themselves." He was sorry for Ragna--"They will probably
end by making a fool of her too, one girl can't stand out against the
whole State of Society!"



CHAPTER IX


Fru Boyesen went to Fru Bjork for consolation and over a cup of coffee
discussed the Doctor's refusal.

Fru Bjork was more at a loss than her friend to understand Ragna's
indifference to the advantages of the married state, and she held up her
hands in horror at Fru Boyesen's account of Dr. Tommsen's speeches--it
may be said that they lost nothing in the telling. Sentence by sentence
she repeated them, punctuating them with indignant sniffs, and
appreciative sips at her cup.

Fru Bjork listened, her fat hands clasped on her rotund person, her cap
awry over her kindly face, her eyes wide and round with dismay.

"He says," stated Fru Boyesen, "that we respectable married women sell
ourselves for hire like the women on the streets. He says that marriage
is immoral and irreligious."

"Perhaps," said Fru Bjork, "he is a believer in free love. Try a little
of this seed-cake, my dear, I made it myself."

Fru Boyesen helped herself and continued, her mouth half-full,

"He must be,--anyway he is outrageous, and it's no longer a mystery to
me where Ragna gets her absurd ideas from. If I'd known what sort of a
man he was, I never should have let her study under him. But his name is
so well known! He is so universally respected! I don't understand it at
all!"

Fru Bjork agreed with her--she had the amiable habit of agreeing with
everyone, it saved so much trouble, and Fru Boyesen went on to recount
the rest of the interview. Fru Bjork approved of the suggestion of
sending Ragna away for a time.

"Travelling is good for young girls," she opined, "it takes the nonsense
out of them and when they have seen how things are done in other
countries, they are ready enough to settle down in their own."

Astrid had returned home some months before, and was a great favourite
among the young people. Her vivacity and ready, if rather shallow wit,
her delicate almost affected prettiness, her coquettishness attracted
the young men and her good humour and readiness to oblige made her
friends among the girls. It was natural for her to try to please
everyone, and she exercised her blandishments on all who came near her,
from the servants in the house, to the most important personages of her
social world. She was quite sincere in her desire to please; approbation
was the meat and drink of her existence. She admired Ragna and rather
stood in awe of her attainments, but could not understand her
indifference to social pleasures. Ragna had not cared to tell her more
than the barest outline of the momentous home journey, and if she had,
Astrid would not have understood, for constancy to a dream-memory could
form no part of her spiritual make-up. She was not one to whom any
impression would be lasting; to her, lovers might come and go as
butterflies to a flower,--to all she would give of her smiles, but no
one of them would leave a mark on her soul. Fidelity, to her, would mean
the imposed constraint of public opinion, not the keeping of herself to
one, and one only. She wished to marry, and to marry well,--all things
considered, one man is very like another, when it comes to matrimony,
she thought.

Innumerable times she had fancied herself in love, and each time she had
gone to Ragna with the tale of her infatuation. After the first time or
two, when she had taken the affair seriously, Ragna would listen with an
amused smile,--it was always the same story over again,--and she ceased
to be surprised, when a few days or weeks later, the Star waned and a
new luminary rose above the horizon. Astrid had once said to her:

"One starts out with the idea that men are all different, but when they
have kissed you, you know they are all alike--if one could not see, one
would swear it was always the same man." Ragna had with difficulty
repressed her impulse to protest, "but what's the use?" she thought, and
wisely kept her own counsel.

Finally Astrid had announced her engagement, much to her own
satisfaction. It was an excellent match and her mother was pleased; she
stipulated, however, for a year's delay before the marriage, as Astrid
was barely twenty, and far from strong.

Fru Bjork, then, on the strength of her daughter's conventional social
success, felt herself complacently superior to Fru Boyesen, in the way
that an ordinary hen would feel herself comfortably above one who had
hatched ducklings. She could not but gloat a little over her friend's
discomfiture before she presented a proposition of her own; she
therefore remained silent a few minutes and pressed Fru Boyesen's hand
sympathetically.

Fru Boyesen, who in ordinary circumstances would have resented anything
savouring of commiseration, but who felt too perplexed to think of
anything beyond her present difficulty, presently afforded an opening,
by remarking that though a few months abroad would probably benefit
Ragna and bring her to a more reasonable frame of mind, yet the thing
was impossible; who was there to take her? Fru Boyesen herself had no
desire to set forth on a journey, too many interests and occupations
kept her at home.

Fru Bjork then suggested that Ragna be entrusted to her care.

"I have been thinking," she said, "of taking Astrid to spend the winter
in Italy. The doctor advises it--she is just a little delicate, you
know,--and why should not Ragna come too? She would be company for
Astrid and such a serious, steady girl as she is would give me no
trouble--I should enjoy having her with me."

Fru Boyesen, secretly much pleased by her friend's proposition, would
not seem to seize upon it at once; she agreed to think it over, and the
ladies parted on that understanding.



CHAPTER X


Ragna was now almost twenty-one; she had slightly matured in appearance,
the curves of her figure were rounder and fuller, but her eyes still had
the expression of the idealist, the visionary; she was as prone as ever
to credulity, to taking those with whom she came in contact at their own
valuation.

She had resolutely tried to put the Prince Mirko episode out of her
mind, but with slight success. She had locked Angelescu's sketch of him
away in her writing-case, and rarely allowed herself to look at it, but
she knew it was there, she felt its occult presence as at times she
still felt the presence of Mirko's lips on hers. When, by chance, she
came upon his name in the newspapers the blood would rush to her heart.
Once an illustrated journal had published a portrait of him, accompanied
by a short biographical sketch, and she cut the page out, and laid it
away with her sketch. She had never heard from her dream-hero directly,
but each New Year's day brought her a card from Count Angelescu--He, at
least, still remembered her!

She was at a loss to explain the restlessness that often possessed her.
More often than she dared confess to herself, her work and her studies
bored her; in vain did she try to throw herself entirely into her
serious occupations; emptiness, the vanity of it all, would in spite of
her efforts, rise up and confront her.

The truth was, her physical nature was awake and clamouring for
satisfaction, and the difficulty lay in the fact that having tasted the
caviare of the sophisticated passion of a Don Juan, she could not
content herself with the bread-and-butter of a calm, everyday affection.
Had she never been awakened, even if but partially, to the possibilities
of the latent passion within her, her life would have been calmer, less
eventful and happier--if happiness lie in the absence of upheaving
emotion. Requiring less of life she would have been more easily
satisfied, or would have imagined herself so. The narrow boundaries of
conventional contentment would have shut out the larger horizon of
emotional experience, pain and soul discipline. She would have remained
iron, Destiny was to make her steel tempered by fire.

She was writing in the living-room when her Aunt came in. The
comfortable room, with its low-raftered ceiling and large porcelain
stove looked very cheerful in the glow of the lamp. The heavy red
curtains were drawn across the windows, and the red table-cloth threw a
rosy reflection on the girl's face, as she leaned over her work. Her
hair was like live gold in the strong light of the hanging lamp.

Fru Boyesen came in and seated herself heavily in an upholstered
armchair. Ragna had raised her head on her Aunt's entrance but had not
interrupted her writing. Her Aunt scanned her closely; she had come to
look upon the girl as her own; she enjoyed her presence in the house,
and it was her proprietary feeling that was mortified by the girl's
failure to take advantage of the opportunities offered her. Astrid's
engagement, especially, rankled in the good woman's mind. Here was a
girl not as pretty, not as clever as Ragna, and several months younger,
whose mother had not the social influence and importance she herself
possessed, yet this girl was making an excellent match. It was too
vexatious!

Ragna looked up and meeting her Aunt's eyes, said:

"You have been out a long time, Auntie, did you enjoy yourself?"

"No," answered Fru Boyesen, "at least not very much. I don't see, Ragna,
why you can't go out and enjoy yourself like other young people instead
of moping here all by yourself and spoiling your looks with all your
studying. Now Astrid goes about and has a good time--she is out skating
with her friends now. Why can't you be more like her?"

"So you've been to Fru Bjork's," remarked Ragna quietly.

"I've been where I pleased," said Fru Boyesen, untying her
bonnet-strings and smoothing them between her plump fingers. "I don't
see what it has to do with you where I go. You shouldn't take me up so.
I think you are a very strange girl--and Fru Bjork can't understand you
any better than I do," she added.

"I do wish, Auntie, that you would not discuss me with Fru Bjork, or
anyone else."

"Hoighty, toighty, Miss! I shall discuss whom I please, and if you will
be so peculiar and different from other girls, you must expect people to
talk."

"It's none of 'people's' business what I choose to do or not to do,"
returned Ragna, making little scribbles on the sheet of paper before
her. When her Aunt came in, she had been asking herself if she were not
really foolish in holding herself thus aloof from her fellows, but at
the hint of public criticism on her actions she was up in arms again.

"Ragna, you are positively hopeless; I don't know how a niece of mine
can have so little sense! If you lived in a hut in the woods or on the
Desert of Sahara, you might do as you like, but here one has to consider
the opinion of one's neighbours."

"Who is my neighbour?" quoted Ragna softly, smiling in spite of herself.
She knew well that to her Aunt, "public opinion" consisted of the
prejudices of four or five of the foremost families of Christiania;
outside of that charmed circle she had a fine disregard as to what
people might think, in fact she expected people of less importance to
follow her example and conform to her opinions.

The smile was unwise in that it irritated the elder lady, already
ruffled by the unsuccessful visit to Dr. Tommsen.

"Oh, you may well laugh in your sleeve at me, Miss Know-it-all! The day
will come when you will realise that I am in the right--and it may be
too late!"

Ragna made no reply; she returned to her writing and the scratching of
her pen and the ticking of the clock filled the silence. Fru Boyesen,
after one or two ineffectual efforts, rose from her chair and left the
room.

"It's no use," she said to herself as she puffed up the stairs--she had
grown very stout of late,--"she is quite impossible. I've more than half
a mind to pack her off with the Bjorks. Else Bjork is not very clever,
but she has brought Astrid up to be a credit to her and I think I'll let
her try her hand with Ragna. I've been a fool to let her have her own
way so long,--her head is full of the stuff these atheistic professors
pour into it. I'll let her go; it can't do any harm, anyhow."

If she had entertained a secret hope that Ragna would elect to stay at
home with her, and incidentally conform to her wishes in general, she
was disappointed, for Ragna, when the proposition was broached to her,
hailed it with delight. It would afford a welcome relief, she thought,
from the growing monotony of her self-chosen occupations, which
consistency forbade her to change of her own accord, and would at the
same time remove her from her Aunt's ever more frequent innuendoes and
reproaches, besides taking her to Italy, the land of her dreams. Of late
the German Romanticists had formed the subject of her study and her mind
was, as so many northern minds were at that time, possessed by the
"_Drang nach Italien_."

There was much to be arranged for the journey, as Fru Bjork, in spite of
her many travels was always flustered by a fresh start; Astrid was of no
practical use and Ragna too much taken up with her personal
preparations, and also too inexperienced a traveller to be of much help
to her fussy chaperone. Fru Bjork was therefore glad to welcome an
addition to the party in the shape of a spinster of uncertain age,
Estelle Hagerup, who was expected to be the balance-wheel of the
expedition.

Fru Boyesen devoted all her energies to getting Ragna ready, and
supplied her with an amount of luggage remarkable for its bulk and
variety, every possible contingency of sickness and health being
provided for. Estelle Hagerup boldly risked the good lady's displeasure
by declaring that at least half must be left behind, and herself
undertook to separate the sheep from the goats by weeding out all but
the indispensable articles. It was the reverse of Penelope's web, for
what the uncompromising Estelle undid by day, Fru Boyesen and Ragna
restored by stealth at night, and on her next visit, Estelle would find
nobby parcels and piles of books more or less skilfully concealed
beneath the clothing in the boxes--and the struggle would begin again.
Fru Boyesen, having never left her native country, fondly imagined that
mustard-plasters, rolls of flannel, bottles of spirit and sundry other
necessities would be unobtainable in a strange land. Fröken Hagerup
heartlessly rejected all these things, but Fru Boyesen was not to be
out-done and the very last day after the boxes were closed and locked,
Estelle caught her stuffing two large parcels into the shawl-strap--one
containing a goodly provision of soap, the other, two bags, one of
flax-seed for poultices, the other of camomile flowers.

When, eventually, the time for starting came, Fru Boyesen wished she had
never thought of letting Ragna go out from under her control. "Else
Bjork is too soft, she will spoil her," she thought, "and the girl will
come back worse than when she left. I have been criminally weak with
her, but she'll ride roughshod over poor Else!"

As the luggage was being carried out of the house, an impulse seized her
to have it brought back again; then she chid herself for her
inconsistency.

"The little minx has upset me entirely! This is the first time in my
life I haven't known my own mind!" Therefore to hide the sinking of
heart she felt at the prospect of imminent loneliness, she assumed such
a stern and forbidding aspect that half Christiania, assembled to see
the party off, was certain that Ragna was being banished for some
heinous offence.

Ragna kissed her Aunt good-bye with a light heart,--was she not faring
forth to the land of her dreams?--And the separation would be but for a
few months.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Ingeborg received her sister's letter announcing the prospective
journey, she burst into tears, much to the amazement of the family.

"Ragna is going, we shall never see her again!" she sobbed.

Lars Andersen reproved her sternly.

"Stop this nonsense, Ingeborg!" he ordered, "I will have none of this
foolish superstition in my house. The future rests with God."

But though he spoke boldly, yet his heart sank. Ingeborg's predictions
had a strange way of coming true.



BOOK II



CHAPTER I


"Astrid," said Ragna, "do make haste! It will be luncheon time before we
get out, and you can perfectly well finish your letter this evening."

Astrid looked up from her writing-board, nibbling her pen-holder
reflectively. She was sitting near one window of the room, and by the
other stood Ragna, pulling on her gloves impatiently. They had been in
Rome a few weeks, and the first fervour of sight-seeing over, had fallen
into a go-as-you-please sort of existence. Fru Bjork left the girls
largely to their own devices; the long flight of stairs to be climbed
after every outing so tired her legs and shortened her breath, that she
declined to face them more than once a day, and she had conscientious
scruples against eating in a restaurant, when her meals must be paid
for, in any case, at the pension. Estelle Hagerup preferred to wander
about alone; she would start out valiantly in the morning, her hat tied
firmly on her sleek head, her skirt looped up in festoons by a series of
flaps and buttons, displaying her sturdy broad-toed boots. The very
glasses perched on her prominent nose gave an earnest inquiring
expression to her face. Night-fall would see her home again, tired,
dusty, radiant and quite unable to give a connected account of her
peregrinations. She would blissfully say:

"I am drinking in the atmosphere, I am saturating myself with the
essence of Rome!" and the word "Rome" as she said it with an awed
expression and bated breath suggested a hoary cavern of antiquity,
haunted by the ghosts of buried Cæsars. Her short-sighted eyes would
grow round and she would clasp her large bony hands ecstatically.
Good-natured Fru Bjork smiled at her enthusiasm and if the girls made
fun of her at times, they did it pleasantly.

Astrid was inclined to be lazy; she enjoyed the sun and the warmth, and
the picturesque figures on the Spanish Stairs, but museums and picture
galleries bored her, and the churches, she declared, gave her the
creeps. So it fell out that Ragna who wished to do her sight-seeing
after a methodical plan, generally found herself alone. Armed with a
guide book she began at the beginning, as it were, visiting first the
most ancient ruins and relics, in their order, working on down to modern
times. It disconcerted her to find ancient and modern mingled--as they
so often were,--and at the Pantheon she resolutely shut her eyes to the
monuments of the House of Savoy, until such time as she should have
reached their place in history. It will be seen that her method involved
no little difficulty and much returning over the same ground. It seemed
pure lunacy to Astrid, who objected to being dragged over and over again
to the same place to observe some addition or later adaptation which she
had been forbidden to inspect on her first visit.

"It would be so easy to see it all at once," she plaintively protested,
but Ragna was adamant.

Astrid therefore pleaded her delicate health and the overfatigue caused
by such strenuous sight-seeing as an excuse to remain at home, where she
composed lengthy epistles to her fiancé with whom she was comfortably,
if not passionately, in love.

On this particular morning she was evolving a description of her
impressions during a drive on the Pincio the afternoon before. She felt
lazily content with the world, herself, and things in general and had no
wish to bestir herself.

"I wish you weren't so awfully energetic, Ragna," she said.

"Well, I couldn't sit down in Rome and bite my pen all day, as if there
were nothing better to do,--you might as well be in Christiania! Come,
get on your things!"

"What are you going to see to-day?"

"I'm not going to see anything this morning. I have some shopping to do
in the Corso."

Astrid's eyes brightened, then she shook her head.

"I must finish my letter first."

"Oh, nonsense! Edvard can wait a few hours!"

"You always say that--but then you don't know what it is to be engaged,"
she glanced at the pretty ring decorating her hand. "You see, Edvard
gets so huffy if I'm not regular in my correspondence, and I haven't
written to him for three days."

Ragna shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, very well! I suppose I must wait. Do be as quick as you can,
Astrid, the morning is almost all gone."

She stood drumming on the window-sill, looking down into the busy Piazza
Montecitorio far below. A row of "_botti_" stretched across the sunny
side, the drivers carrying on an animated conversation among themselves
and with one or two flower sellers. The old woman who kept the
news-stand at the corner, alternately sorted her newspapers and warmed
her fingers over her scaldino, for the air was crisp, it being early in
January. Through the Piazza streamed a motley procession of tourists,
red-covered Baedeker in hand,--priests in cassock and beaver hat,
_popolini_ and girls, and some _Trasteverine_ with coloured stays over
white _camicie_, and strings of coral about their necks. Ragna watched
them all with fascinated eyes. The variegated Roman crowds were a
constant source of interest and delight to her; she could not but feel
the charm of their casual, seemingly untrammelled existence. The Romans,
she thought, had not a worry in the world, their happy care-free faces
drew her; even in the beggar's professional whine she observed a lack of
real distress--all seemed to float lightly on the surface of Life,
passing the under-currents, the sunken rocks, skimming carelessly over
the shallows. She remembered a boy she had seen the day before, breaking
his fast on a hunch of bread and a glass of sour wine; his bare feet
protruded from tattered trouser-legs, his elbows showed through rents in
the sleeves of his ragged jacket. He was a flower-vendor and she had
stopped to choose a bunch of flowers from his basket. When she paid him,
he thanked her with a brilliant smile, displaying his white teeth, and
in halting Italian she asked him what made him so happy.

"Happy, Signorina? Of course I am happy,--the sun is warm and I have my
bread and wine--!"

It was little reason enough, in all conscience, thought Ragna; she
wondered what made these people satisfied with the passing sensation,
oblivious of ulterior good or ill, and she envied them.

Her eyes wandered to the clock on the Parliament buildings opposite,--it
was almost eleven. She turned half angrily to Astrid who was gazing into
space, still chewing her pen-holder.

"Haven't you finished yet?"

Astrid started and a look of contrition came over her face.

"Oh! I'm awfully sorry Ragna, but I just can't write quickly to-day.
Don't wait for me, there's a dear! I'll go out with you this afternoon.
I'll be ready by then, I truly will!"

Ragna pushed out her underlip, but made no answer; she merely shut the
door quite firmly behind her as she left the room. She descended the
long stairs and crossed the Piazza, shaking her head at the eager
_vetturini_ one or two of whom rattled after her cracking their whips,
in hopes of a fare. She walked along resolutely, seemingly unconscious
of the attention she attracted. She wore part of her thick golden hair
down her back where it hung well below the waist, and the rest wreathed
in massive plaits about her head. Men of the people often spoke to her
as they passed, praising her "_cappelli d'oro_," calling her "_bella
biondina_" and "_simpaticona_," but she had become accustomed to it, and
took no notice of them. In her heart of hearts she was flattered by the
simple homage which had nothing of either insolence or rudeness.

She walked on enjoying the crisp air, for though the sun was warm, snow
lay on the Albon Hills and the breath of it gave a keen edge to the
breeze. She was in the Corso, standing, looking in a shop window, when
she saw, reflected in the plate glass, a man who had passed her suddenly
turn on his heel and come to her side; at the same moment a voice,
strangely familiar, asked her in French:

"Have I not the pleasure of addressing Mdlle. Andersen?"

She turned and met the eyes of Prince Mirko. The colour left her cheeks
and she felt a suffocating sensation at her heart. She could not answer
him, her voice seemed strangled in her throat. The Prince continued:

"Or is it Madame Something?"

The red came back to her cheeks with a rush, and recovering the use of
her tongue, she murmured,

"Your Highness! Here?"

"Yes," he answered, "I'm not a ghost, but I'm not a 'Highness'
either,--I left that at home; I am plain 'Count Romanoff,' for the
present. But you are still Mademoiselle Andersen?"

She nodded affirmatively.

"What shall I say? That I am glad? But that would be selfish--poor
unfortunate man that you have not married!" He laughed easily.

Ragna smiled; his playful assumption of comradeship put her at her ease;
the ice was broken, it was a tacit resumption of their friendly relation
before the far away evening of the kiss. Perhaps he had forgotten that
episode, his cheerful friendliness of manner gave no intimation of any
such recollection, and Ragna felt gladly assured that such was the case.
The thought completed her composure, and she replied,

"But neither have you married, Your--"

"No! No!" he interrupted, "don't call me that! In the first place I am
here incognito, and then I have always liked to think that to at least
one charming person in the world, I am just myself, just 'Mirko.' We
were comrades on the ship--let us begin again where we left off--shall
we?"

Her eyes interrogated him intently, but she still saw no sign of an
embarrassing memory, so she allowed herself to smile. In point of fact,
he had no distinct recollection of those days on the _Norje_, nor of
their ending; many new faces had come between, in the intervening years.
He merely remembered Ragna as a charming child who had helped while
away the hours on the little steamer, and the finding of her here in
Rome was a windfall, when he most needed distraction. His eye followed
approvingly the slightly more developed curves of her figure and the
shining ripples of her hair. He had been to Monte Carlo and luck had
been against him, even to his father's hearing of the escapade, and it
had been intimated to him that a month or so of rustication incognito
before coming home, in order to give the paternal wrath time to cool,
would materially aid in the restoration of peace. Ragna's emotion at his
sudden appearance laid a flattering unction to his soul; her northern,
and to him, unusual beauty attracted him newly, and he said to himself,

"Unlucky at cards, lucky in love--_chi lo sa?_"

"Let us move on," he said to Ragna, "we are attracting attention as well
as stopping the way. You will let me walk with you, and you shall tell
me how it is you happen to be here."

Ragna found herself walking beside him as in a dream. In reply to his
questions she told him of her journey to Italy with Fru Bjork and
Astrid; she described Fröken Hagerup and her peculiarities, to his great
amusement. Something in him seemed to draw out the wit and humour in
her--or perhaps it was the excitement of the unexpected meeting,--in any
case she talked to him as she had never talked to anyone in her life.

So they walked on until they reached the Piazza del Popolo, and Ragna
looking at her watch found, to her horror and surprise, that it was
half-past twelve.

"And I never heard the midday gun!" she exclaimed.

The large square was deserted; a beggar or two sat eating in the sun by
the fountains. Even the busy Corso seemed empty.

"I must hurry home at once," said Ragna, turning swiftly.

"It is a long walk,--why go back? Why not celebrate our reunion by
lunching with me?" suggested Mirko.

"Oh, no!" she shook her head, "that would never do! They would all be
anxious about me if I did not turn up--and think what Fru Bjork would
say when she heard I had been lunching with a young man!"

"But why should she hear of it? You can say you have been sight-seeing,
too far away for you to get back in time. Make any excuse you like, but
do be good! Come!" His voice was like that of a spoilt child begging for
a new toy.

"Astrid knows I'm not sight-seeing to-day. I told her before I went
out."

He observed that she appeared not to resent the idea of a mild
deception--or was it that she wished to ignore the suggestion?

"You are afraid of me!" he said teasingly. "Believe me, I am not an
ogre!"

She rose at once to the bait.

"Afraid? Why should I be afraid? I say 'no' because it is impossible."
Her tone was final.

Mirko laughed.

"'When a woman won't, she won't, and there's an end on't!'" he quoted.
"At least one hears so. What is it, obstinacy or propriety as
personified by your compatriots?"

"In this case it would amount to the same."

"Not in the least; obstinacy is hopeless, but Mrs. Grundy may be got
around."

"How so?" asked Ragna.

"In the first place, there is no reason at all why Mrs. Grundy should
become aware of my existence--in the second place, there are ways of
placating that worthy dame. I know something of that," he smiled to
himself reminiscently. "However, that is beside the point,--prevention
is better than cure, besides being simpler. No, little friend," he
emphasized the word, "let our friendship be free from outside
interference--let us keep it to our two selves."

Ragna thought that too delicate to hint of their difference in station,
he was taking this way of urging on her the private character of their
acquaintanceship,--of telling her that he did not care to be thrust into
a bourgeois _milieu_. That he should desire to prolong the chance
renewal of their comradeship beyond the hour, flattered her, and she was
too innocent-minded and too accustomed to the free intercourse between
northern men and maidens to see any real harm in acceding to his
suggestion. "Concealment," she told herself, "did not necessarily imply
deceit, so why expose herself to the curiosity of Astrid and Estelle
Hagerup, why hedge about this unexpected adventure with the formality
that must of necessity follow on disclosure, when she might so easily
keep it to herself?" Quite unconsciously she was actuated by a slight
jealousy of Astrid; in spite of herself, the assured triumph of Astrid's
career as symbolised in her engagement, the consequence it gave her in
the eyes of others, rankled in Ragna's spirit. The thought that a prince
sought her friendship raised her in her own eyes and gave her a sort of
moral vertigo. If Mirko had shown the slightest sign of remembering that
he had once kissed her, her pride would have been up in arms to defend
her, but he seemed to remember her only as a merry comrade and it was
as such that he sought her society. He saw her hesitation and pressed
his point.

"Let me show you the charm of Italy, you will never learn it alone.
Italy to be understood must be seen through two pairs of eyes--and you
can always dismiss me the minute you are tired of me. I should so like
to show you Rome,--the Rome I love--There is no reason why anyone should
know, you have told me yourself that you go about alone. You don't know
how useful I can make myself if I try!"

Ragna laughed.

"I confess you convey more the impression of a 'lily of the field,' than
of an exponent of the beauty of utility!"

"Oh, but you've never seen me really hard at work! Nor has anyone else,
for the matter of that," he added to himself.

"Then what is it, exactly, you expect to do for me?"

"I shall be your guide, philosopher and friend. '_Sous les remparts de
Rome et sous ses vastes plaines!_'" he declaimed, drawing himself up.

Ragna's eyes sparkled mischievously,

"I believe I should make a better cicerone than you, if it comes to
that!"

"Oh, that is quite beside the point! It is unspeakably barbarian to
insist on guide-book accuracy. I shall supply what is much more
important: the atmosphere."

"That is what Fröken Hagerup says she is absorbing."

"She will never know anything about it. Haven't I told you it takes two
to see it?"

"How so? One to pour it out and one to drink it in?"

"I didn't remember you so flippant--have you lost all respect for your
elders?"

"The child is ready to learn," said Ragna, assuming an expression of
becoming meekness. Indeed she hardly recognised her sedate self in this
new and agreeable sensation of buoyancy.

"Now," said Prince Mirko, changing his tone, "where shall I meet you
again? This afternoon--"

"Is out of the question; I must go out with Fru Bjork and Astrid."

"Then to-morrow morning meet me at the entrance to the Palatino."

"But I haven't said that I would come."

"Oh, yes, you will."

"You take too much for granted."

"I don't think so."

"Then I shan't come," said Ragna, nettled by his air of complacent
certainty.

"I shall be there, and we shall see what we shall see," was his calm
rejoinder.

They had reached the Piazza Colonna, and Mirko paused, hat in hand.

"I shall come no further--until to-morrow, then!" He turned and left her
without waiting for a reply. Ragna watched his lithe figure as he strode
easily across the open space. She felt dissatisfied with herself and
angry with him for this somewhat cavalier leave-taking, and his
confident assumption that she would do as he said.

"What does he take me for?" she asked herself as she sped with rapid
steps towards her belated luncheon. "I shall not go to meet him, no I
shall not."

She entered the dining-room of the pension, flushed and breathless from
the stairs, and found it nearly empty, most of the guests having already
finished. Fru Bjork, who liked to take things easily, was still busy
with a slice of cold meat, and Astrid picked daintily at an orange with
slender fingers.

"Wherever have you been, so long, Ragna?" she asked.

"Did you get the photographs in the Corso?"

"Yes,--or at least no," answered Ragna in some confusion. "It was such a
lovely morning I went for a walk instead. I thought I would leave the
photographs till you could come with me to choose them." Lying did not
come easily to her, and her awkwardness would have betrayed her at once
to a keen observer, but Fru Bjork was too unobservant to notice it and
Astrid felt confused herself, owing to her failure to be ready to go out
as she had promised.

Ragna sat down in her place, removing her gloves as she did so. She
poured herself a glass of water, but her hand shook and the water
streamed over the table cloth. Fru Bjork, seeing it, said kindly,

"My dear, you should not run up the stairs so fast,--it is bad for the
heart. You are too young to think about such things, but when you are my
age you will know."

Ragna blushed, thinking of the real reason of her excitement, and the
good lady continued anxiously:

"And how flushed your face is, my dear! Oh really, really, you must be
more careful!"

She was interrupted by Ragna's other neighbour, an old Swedish lady,
whose long nose seemed to rest on her chin and that again on her
voluminous bosom tightly sheathed in striped silk, and adorned by a
cameo brooch and a frill of lace that had seen fresher days. She laid
her mittened hand on Ragna's arm, and said:

"My sweet one, will you choose an orange, the very nicest one, for me?
My poor eyes are so bad that I am afraid to trust them." She had drawn
the fruit dish over to her and appeared to be trying the efficacy of her
nose in selecting fruit.

Ragna picked out an orange at random and laid it on the lady's
plate,--the interruption was not unwelcome to her.

"Ah, that is very nice indeed, my dear. Thank you so much! And are you
quite sure it is the very best? Well then I know you will like to peel
it for me!"

Astrid leant across the table, saying,

"I'll peel it for you while Ragna eats her luncheon."

"Thank you, my dear," said the old lady, a little stiffly.

"You are very kind, but I think the other young lady would have done it
more carefully. Young folk are so apt to be inconsiderate, nowadays!"
She sighed heavily. Presently she addressed herself to Fru Bjork.

"Don't you think that young people are apt to be inconsiderate
nowadays?" she inquired raising her voice. Astrid winked at Ragna; the
old lady was their pet antipathy; Astrid had christened her the "Old
Woman of the Sea." She always came to the table first and left it last,
and managed to keep her neighbours busily employed most of the time.

Fru Bjork answered slowly, a little streamer of salad waving at the
corner of her mouth.

"I don't agree with you; I have not found them inconsiderate."

"Then you have been more fortunate than I. I must say, however, that the
young men are worse than the young women. Only the other day I asked a
young man to give me _the_ piece of chicken in a fricassee, and he gave
me the neck."

Astrid stifled a wild giggle in her serviette. The old lady turned to
her.

"Are you choking? Get someone to thump your back! But there has been
much worse--" she again trained her eye on Fru Bjork,--"just think, last
night I never closed an eye, for two thoughtless young men who had the
room next to mine, were packing up to go, and they dragged their heavy
boxes about and made such a noise that I couldn't sleep at all! It was
most inconsiderate of them towards one so much older and so far from
strong!"

Astrid's choking became violent. Her room was next to that of the young
men, and they had made such a noise that at last she had knocked on the
partition asking them to be quiet. They had answered, begging her
pardon, explaining that they had been trying to wake the old lady whose
sonorous snoring made it impossible to sleep. And in fact, the snoring
had been a running accompaniment to the various thumps and bangs, and
had continued on, triumphant and undiminished.

"You had better go to your room, Astrid," said her mother. She had heard
the story, and in her kindness of heart was afraid of hurting the old
lady's feelings.

Ragna rose also, glad of an excuse to go.

"Oh," gasped Astrid, as they left the room, "that old woman will kill me
yet. 'So inconsiderate of them!'" she mocked.

"Hush," said Ragna, laughing, "she will hear you!"

"I don't care if she does!" said Astrid, "horrid old mole! She told me
I looked consumptive, and that my colour was a hectic flush. If she can
see that much she ought to be able to help herself at table!"

Ragna went to her room and sat down on her bed. She felt all in a whirl.
The Prince in Rome! And he wished her to be his friend! She was uneasily
conscious that she should have spoken of the meeting to Fru Bjork--but
the Prince did not wish it. "I suppose on account of his being
incognito," she told herself--but reason told her that his official
presence would have rendered any intercourse impossible.

"It's like a fairy-tale come true, to have seen him again," she thought,
"but I will not meet him to-morrow. Of course there would be no harm if
I did. I am old enough to take care of myself,--but I shall not, it
would be better not."

She was still going over in her mind the conversation of the morning,
when Astrid and Fru Bjork entered, ready for the drive. Ragna started
guiltily and Astrid pointed a derisive finger:

"Behold the punctual Ragna! Who's late this time, Miss?"

"I'll be ready in a second," said Ragna flying about the room, while Fru
Bjork subsided to a chair, settling her bonnet strings under her double
chin.

"There, there!" she said in her comfortable way, "don't hurry so,
there's no harm done!"

"Now I'm ready!" cried Ragna.

"Why, my child," exclaimed Fru Bjork, "you have one grey glove and one
tan one, and you have put your green coat over your blue frock!"

Astrid giggled, "The air of Rome must have gone to your head!"

Ragna, much confused, rectified her mistakes, and the party set out.
They drove to the Doria Pamphilj gardens and afterwards to the
Janiculum. Fru Bjork stopped the carriage and they got out and walked.
Ragna loved the view from that point better than any other she had seen;
the huge mass of St. Peter's, towering like a Titan above the city
dwarfing all else by the symmetrical immensity of the dome, fascinated
and held her. It dominated humanity, she thought even as it dominated
Rome,--the Mother Church, Mistress of the World, rising triumphant on
the ruins of the past.

She would willingly have stood there for hours, but the early winter
dusk was falling; Astrid shivered and Fru Bjork said "Home."

The return drive through the Trastevere was a delight to Ragna, though
Astrid turned up her delicate nose at the variety of smells, and Fru
Bjork commented at length on the unhealthfulness of defective drainage.
To Ragna it seemed a fairy world, and the hour after sunset, "blind
man's holiday" brought out all the wonder and mystery of it, throwing a
kindly veil over dirt and sordid details. Lights twinkled in the winding
streets, and as they passed Hilda's Tower they saw the glow of the lamp
in the shrine. And beneath it all, there ran as an undercurrent in
Ragna's mind, the Prince in Rome!



CHAPTER II


When Ragna opened her eyes the next morning, she had the impression of
opening them to a new life, different from that of yesterday; there was
something to look forward to,--just what, her sleepy memory refused to
say. Then as she stirred and sat up, it came back to her, and again she
declared: "I shall not go to meet him, it would be foolish!"

But she dressed with unusual care, and went to the dining-room for
breakfast, afraid of finding Astrid ready to accompany her, and at the
same time almost hoping for it. Astrid, however, had elected to spend
the morning in bed; she had got a chill, she said, from the drive the
day before, and yawning, buried her face in the sleeve of her blue
flannel bed-jacket. So Ragna started out alone, and resolutely set her
face towards the Vatican. She had gone but a short distance, however,
when she wheeled about, and walked as rapidly in the opposite direction.

"It can do no harm if I meet him this once," she argued. Then, "I
suppose I am a fool." A panic seized her, suppose he should not come,
after all? As she turned the end of the Forum, she saw the graceful
figure of Prince Mirko coming to meet her.

"I knew it!" he cried joyously, waving his hat like a school-boy. "I
knew you would not disappoint me!"

His gaiety was infectious, and Ragna's laugh echoed his. He took the
red guide-book from her hand, and held it up accusingly.

"Why have you brought this? I told you, you would not need one with me!"
he cried, stuffing the offending book into his pocket.

They passed through the turnstile, and strolled up the path in the wake
of the official guide. The bright Roman sunshine illuminated the Forum
below, gilding the columns and casting short blue shadows in the
excavations. Overhead, the sky was a deep rich blue, and the air was
charged with the peculiar sweetness of approaching Spring. The guide
walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, humming an air from Rigoletto:
"_Questao quella per me pari sono_,"--Mirko hummed it also, then broke
into "_La donno è mobile_," giving it with rollicking voice.

Ragna smiled at him.

"In the opera it is the man who is 'mobile,' in spite of what the song
says!"

"Oh, no, the song is quite right--when a man is openly unfaithful, it is
only in answer to a secret defection on the part of the woman. Any
intelligent woman who wishes to keep a man, can do it--you can always be
sure that it is really the woman's fault if a man strays in his
allegiance."

"That is an extremely convenient theory," said Ragna, laughing, "but it
is a poor rule that won't work both ways. Would you make the man
responsible for infidelity on the part of the woman?"

"Oh, that is a very different matter!"

"Why should it be?"

"You will not pretend, I suppose, that a woman is exactly the same as a
man? The difference between them alters the whole aspect of the case."

"Oh!" said Ragna, "you are incorrigible, you twist and turn so,--you
will never meet me fairly!"

"The infidelity of man," continued Mirko, "is different in its very
essence from that of woman,--it is quite possible for a man to be
constant when he is apparently most unfaithful--the superficial change
only enhances the charm of the real affection; he never tires of coming
back to it,--if he were never to leave it, it would pall on him."

"Why will you be so paradoxical?"

"It is not I who am paradoxical,--it is life."

They were so absorbed in their conversation, that the guide found no way
of attracting their attention; in vain did he hem and haw, and scrape
his foot on the gravel.

"They are most certainly a '_viaggio di nozze_,'" he thought, "or
perhaps '_fidanzati_'--as such they will be generous."

Finally, as they came to the entrance to the ruins, he stepped before
them with a commanding gesture.

"This, Signori, is the gallery where the Empress sat with her ladies.
You see it overlooks the street where the chariots passed up to the
palace. The palace itself was built out over the way, and the people
went under it as under a bridge."

"See," said Mirko, "can you not imagine it,--the beautiful gallery, with
its marble balustrade, hung with woven carpets and silken
draperies--there before you in the sunlight? Do you not see the Empress,
beautiful, stately, robed in purple, gems and gold-dust in her dark
hair, wonderful jewels on her neck and arms? There are the ladies,--the
proud dark one just behind her, the fair girl leaning over the
balustrade at her side, with the gold of the sun on her hair, on her
white dress, and the other three, laughing together, over there to the
left? The slave-girls are holding peacock-feather fans to shield their
royal mistress, and the slave-boys, beautiful, fair-haired captives,
have brought baskets of fruit and sweets. And down in the street below,
what a crowd, what a riot of colour! The Cæsar on his white horse with
the gold trappings--do you catch the gleam of his burnished helmet, of
his cuirass? He turns his head haughtily, and gathers up the reins in
his hand; his short sword clatters against his thigh as his horse moves
on. There, just behind him, comes the centurion of his escort, brave to
see in his flaunting scarlet cloak, and the legionaries follow, like so
many animated bronze statues. See--the fair waiting-maid by the Empress
has dropped a rose to the centurion--he looks up and smiles--his teeth
flash white--the slaves, carrying jars and baskets on their heads, have
flattened themselves against the walls, to let the procession go by,--it
moves like a glittering snake up the narrow way.--Hark! the salute of
the palace guard, spear rattling on shield, and the shout 'Ave Cæsar!'
It echoes under the vaulted way--and all Rome is in that cry!"

Mirko was flushed with enthusiasm; he threw back his head, and the
clear-cut features of his classic face glowed, his dark eyes flashed, he
seemed the very incarnation of that "lust of the eye and pride of life,"
of that "grandeur that was Rome."

As he spoke, Ragna saw the pageant of those far off days unrolled before
her. She felt the throbbing of all the passionate life of old, where but
a few minutes before there had been but moss-grown stone and crumbling
ruins. He had laid a spell on her; she was for the moment, by virtue of
his imagination, and its dramatic expression, actually living in the
past, feeling its reality.

And so it continued throughout the morning. In the long paved
underground passage way, Mirko showed her Cæsar, carried along in his
litter, returning from his theatre. She saw the flickering light of the
torches, heard the sandalled footsteps of the slaves,--their heavy
breathing, the creak of the poles. And at the foot of the stairs she saw
the sudden confusion,--the dark-cloaked assassins stealing from the
shadow, she heard the shrieks, the cries of "Treason!" "Murder!" She saw
in glimpses between the surging figures, the white-faced Emperor,
struggling from his litter,--his unwieldy form leapt upon, borne back
and down, then blows,--a gurgling groan. She saw the overturned litter,
the crumpled body on the floor, the widening pool of blood,--then flight
to the long flare of torches snatched from the trembling slaves, then
darkness, and the alarm.

She saw the gay crowds, trooping into the Circus Maximus, the arrival in
procession of Cæsar, æditor of the games. She watched breathless the
speeding chariots, and carried out of herself, with flushed cheeks and
shining eyes, joined in the thunderous applause which acclaimed the
victor,--the hoarse roar which must, it seemed, shake the very
foundations of Rome.

When it was all over, and the guide had beamingly pocketed his _mancia_
and they were in the street again, Ragna drew a long breath.

"It has been wonderful!"

"Then you are satisfied with your cicerone? You are convinced that a
guide-book is unnecessary?"

"Oh," she answered, "the book makes it all into a cemetery,--or a table
of dates,--but you have made Rome live.--It can never be the same now,
as it was before; I have been there, I have seen it, it is part of
me,--and without you I should never have known anything of it at all.
How do you do it? How do you bring it all to life?"

Mirko smiled, well pleased with the result of his effort and with
himself.

"I have been there."

"Been there! How?"

"I was once a Roman, I feel it, I know it!"

"Yes," she answered, "I think you must have been,--I can feel that you
have been--you have made me feel it."

They were silent for a few minutes, and Ragna repeated:

"It has been wonderful!"

When they had parted, and Ragna found herself alone, the wonder of it
grew on her. How blind she had been until the Prince opened her eyes!
She was very glad that she had come, all her half-formulated scruples
were laid at rest. How foolish she had been to imagine any possible
harm!--What could be more innocent or more delightful than their
informal comradeship? He was quite right too, in wishing to keep it all
to themselves. Astrid would not, could not understand, still less so
good, prosaic-minded Fru Bjork, and as for Estelle Hagerup! Ragna
laughed scornfully, as there rose before her mental vision the
grasshopper-like silhouette of that strenuous spinster.

At luncheon, looking about her at the commonplace faces of her fellow
sojourners, she could not repress a secret movement of vanity.

"How many of these," she thought, "would give their eyes to spend a
morning like mine,--and with a friend like mine!" She even pitied
Astrid,--poor Astrid, who had never known a Prince!

Estelle Hagerup announced a discovery--she had a voice.

"My dears," she said with pride, "what a voice! Just as clear as
crystal, and very powerful--and to think I never knew of it before!"

"How did you find it out, Estelle?" asked Ragna and Astrid together.

"I was standing on the top tier of the Colosseum, and the impulse came
over me to sing--so I lifted up my voice and sang. I wish you could have
been there to hear! A _custode_ came running at once and was much
impressed. He said he had never heard anything like it in his life. I
gave him a lira, and he said '_grazie Contessa_.' He refused to leave me
after that, and waited till I was ready to go with the greatest
deference."

"Are you thinking of the operatic stage?" asked Astrid wickedly.

"Perhaps that may come later, when I shall have acquired a repertory."

"You will have to study," said the old Swedish lady. "There was a young
woman here last winter studying music, and she sang scales three hours a
day; she had a room next mine. I should advise you to go to
Florence--they say there are better singing-masters there."

"I shall not sing scales," said Estelle firmly.

"I thought one always had to," put in Ragna.

"Not with a voice like mine; my voice is far beyond scales."

"That is very satisfactory, dear Fröken," said the old lady. "My dear,"
this to Ragna, "will you give me the largest tartlet,--the one with the
most jam on it?"

"I hope," remarked Fru Bjork, "that you will do nothing so silly as to
train for the stage, Estelle." She was about to add, "at your age, too,"
but refrained.

Estelle simpered.

"Why should it be silly, Fru Bjork, if I feel it to be my vocation? Why
should I not give utterance to the sacred fire that is within me? Is it
not my duty to humanity?"

Fru Bjork found no answer to this, and held her peace, but Ragna was
more daring.

"Do you think you have a stage presence, Estelle?" she asked.

"Why not? I am tall--besides, it is much more important to have voice
and temperament. I feel it my mission to redeem the stage. Why do you
ask me such a question?"

Ragna was saved from answering by the old lady.

"My dear! My dear! Pick me out something before they carry the fruit
around! Last evening that man with the whiskers at the end of the table
took the last banana, before I had a chance."

Ragna rose from the table in disgust. She longed to be back in the past
again with Prince Mirko--all these present things seemed so vulgar and
common by contrast, and yet until now, they had amused her! She looked
about the dining-room and despised the men in it. A stout German with
his napkin tucked in at the neck, sprawled over his plate, emitting
hideous grunts and smacks, at the other end of the room, two
well-nourished Englishmen sat with their families like self-satisfied
roosters with their feathered following. At her own table, an anæmic
and dreamy-eyed art-student played with his dessert, an Italian
Commendatore with white whiskers, and a rotund waistcoat, beamed on his
neighbours, and a gentleman with marvellous tight striped trousers, a
still more marvellous moustache and a flamboyant necktie, was lighting a
cigarette.

"How vulgar, how horrid they are!" thought Ragna.



CHAPTER III


It seemed to Ragna that she had opened her eyes on a new Heaven and a
new Earth. As the days went on and lengthened into weeks, she grew so
dependent on the companionship of Prince Mirko, that if a day passed
without her seeing him, she felt blank and as though defrauded of a
pleasure that was hers by right. A curious change, too, had taken place
in her mental or rather sentimental attitude, for whereas at first, she
had dreaded his recalling the, to her, unforgetable episode of the last
evening on the _Norje_, she now felt secretly piqued by his lack of
memory, and by his mere friendliness. It was as though she were
disappointed in not having to ward off unwelcome--or too
welcome--advances. The passionate impulsiveness of him, as she
remembered it, but threw into greater relief the measured comradeship of
his present attitude towards her. A more experienced woman would have
suspected him of "parti pris," for a purpose, but Ragna saw nothing but
genuine indifference, and her feminine vanity urged her to force him
into recognition of the womanhood he had been instrumental in awakening.
Therefore the simple almost childlike relations of the first days had
insensibly given way to a state of tension which Mirko understood and
was ready to turn to his advantage, but which Ragna did not understand
in the least. Here her real innocence was the weak point in her armour.
Several days passed thus, each waiting for a sign. Mirko with
perspicacity, and Ragna with a sort of subconscious expectation.

One afternoon towards the end of February they were standing by the
balustrade of the Pincio watching the sunset. The sky was a gorgeous
riot of crimson and gold, across which were flung like flaunting royal
pennants, long streamers of dark purple clouds. The very air was
luminous and golden, and the bells ringing for vespers in the amethyst
and grey city below, filled the ear with triumphant clangour. The
carriages were leaving the drive and rolled by silently under the
grey-green ilexes, the noise of the horses and of the wheels drowned by
the ringing of the bells. Ragna stood in ecstasy, her hands tightly
clasped, looking out over the sea of roofs and towers to where the great
Dome rose bubble-like, silhouetted against the glowing sky. Her face was
flushed, her eyes shining, her parted lips quivered. Mirko watching her
said to himself:

"She is ready."

She gave a sigh of deep enjoyment and murmured, "It is like what one
would imagine Heaven to be!" Mirko echoed her sigh; she turned and her
eyes met his and there was that in his glance, which caused her to lower
her eyes and her heart to beat suddenly quicker.

"It is like Paradise," he said, "but the essential is lacking; it is
like a beautiful woman without a soul."

Ragna made no answer and he continued dreamily as though thinking aloud:

"All is perfect--the stage is ready for the players--the outward
semblance is awaiting the soul to animate it."

He paused again, but the girl still remained silent. Presently he
addressed her directly:

"I told you I would unveil to you the spirit of Italy, I have done my
part--the rest lies with you."

"I do not understand what you mean," she answered. "I think you have
opened my eyes--what is there still to learn?"

"I have shown you the form, the outward shape, but you have not yet
penetrated the spirit," he said, and his voice had the softness of a
caress. "You have not guessed what is the real soul of Italy--that which
makes her, though in ruins, the Soul of the World?"

"And that 'soul' is--?" she asked in a voice so faint he could hardly
catch it.

"Love," he said, and taking her unresisting hand pressed it.

"Love," he repeated presently, and his musical voice aroused all the
echoes in her heart. "Italy is love, and love is the spirit of Italy.
That is why lovers come here; there is love magic in the air, and those
who are destined to love cannot escape it. You," he said, looking into
her eyes, "you were born to love and be loved, do you not feel that it
is so?"

A deep blush crept over Ragna's cheeks, she drew her hand from his.

"Hush, this is folly. You must not talk to me like that!"

Now that he had spoken she wished that he had not, yet she knew now that
for days past she had been waiting for him to say just this. She felt at
the same time guiltily conscious of her delight that he should speak to
her in this way and terrified lest he should continue.

"Ah," said Mirko, "why should you fear the awakening of your soul? A
woman who has not loved, who does not love is a sweet instrument out of
tune. Love brings you into harmony with the music of the Universe. Do
you not want to learn all that life has to teach? The Book of Love is
here for you to open, you have but to stretch forth your hand."

Ragna stood listening fascinated. No one had ever talked to her like
this. The recollection of her Norwegian suitors rose to her mind and she
scorned them in her heart. Who of them all could have spoken like this?
This was fairyland, and the fairy Prince was at her side.

"Ragna," his voice caressed her, "Ragna, my Star of the North, tell me
have you not felt it, the magic spell?"

She raised her eyes to his, and there passed from him to her a magnetic
current that seized and shook her innermost being. It frightened her;
with an effort she turned her eyes away and the spell was broken. She
passed her hands to her heart, then stretched them out before her as
though to thrust him away.

"Oh, you must not!" she cried, "indeed you must not!"

"Have I said anything that could offend you? Surely not! I would die
rather than offend you, dear little friend!"

The word reassured her and soothed her conscience; how could she explain
that it was far more the look than the words?

"Perhaps you misunderstood me," he continued, "but I did not think you
would, I thought we knew each other too well for that!" He spoke as
though wounded by a misconstruction put upon his sincerity.

Ragna felt foolish.

"I shall try not to offend you again," he said presently, and very
humbly, "but you must bear me good-will enough not to look for offence
where none is intended."

The girl smiled at him by way of answer.

It was growing rapidly dark and a _guardia di pubblico sicurezza_
passing by, eyed the isolated couple curiously, but also with the
sympathy every Latin feels for a pair of lovers. The bells had long
since ceased ringing and many lights twinkled in the city below. In the
sky stood a fair large planet and Mirko drew Ragna's attention to it.

"Venus, the Star of Love," he said briefly, with no comment, but his
voice emphasized the words.

Ragna turned and they walked to the Spanish Stairs. As they passed the
Trinità del Monte a voice came out to them, a soprano voice marvellously
clear and vibrant, the pure high notes almost startling in their
passionate intensity.

"How beautiful!" said Ragna, and Mirko answered:

"But how sad! Think of a woman who can put that into her singing, eating
her heart out in a cloister!"

As they descended the stairs Ragna looked up again at the white planet
nearing the horizon, a whiter glow seemed to be overtaking the star,
drowning it in a diffused effulgence.

"The moon is casting poor Venus in the shade."

"Ah, yes, she is wise to retire before the moon! Listen, Ragna,
to-morrow the moon will be full,--you must give me the evening, we shall
go to see the Colosseum by moonlight!"

"The evening? Oh, never! It would be impossible! It is bad enough for
me to be out alone as late as this; Fru Bjork does not like it, I shall
be scolded when I go in."

"You can manage it well enough, if you want to. Think of it! The
Colosseum by moonlight--and there is no possible danger from malaria at
this time of year."

"It would be lovely," she said wistfully, "but I don't see how I
could--"

"Oh, easily! At dinner you say you have a headache and go to your room,
and when all the people are in the drawing-room, you slip out quietly
and I shall be waiting for you below."

"But how could I get in again?"

Mirko smiled at her simplicity.

"Tell the chambermaid you will give her a little present if she sits up
for you."

"But will she?"

"As certainly as she is an Italian; she will love to think she is making
the way easy for a pair of _innamorati_."

"Oh!" said Ragna.

"Of course," said Mirko, "we are not _innamorati_, we are friends,--but
she would not understand the distinction," he smiled to himself, "and in
any case how can it matter to you what she supposes?"

"I won't promise to come," declared Ragna; still the charm of such an
escapade appealed to her romantic imagination--and after all, there was
no real harm in it!

Mirko was satisfied and took advantage of the dusk to kiss her hand
twice when he had put her in a "botte" in the Piazza di Spagna. The act
had lost its significance to her since she had come to Italy and had
seen how generally it was practised, but this evening the pressure of
Mirko's lips sent a thrill through her fingers.

As she lay in her bed that night, Mirko's words: "I would rather die
than offend you!" rang in her ears and she smiled happily.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dinner was drawing to an end and the long Pension dining-room was filled
with a hubbub of conversation in many languages. Estelle Hagerup and
Astrid were having a lively discussion on the advantages of matrimony as
compared with single blessedness.

"I say," declared Estelle, "that no man living is worth a woman's giving
up her whole life to him. Why should she? Why should the woman always
give up to the man? Then there is the monotony of it. I should be tired
to death of seeing the same face across the breakfast table every day in
the year, and year in, year out!"

"You needn't look at him then," said Astrid, "or you could make him sit
at the side, or have your breakfast in bed. Now I think it must be such
a comfort to have someone to grumble at, and who is obliged to listen to
you!"

"Oh, my dear, you'll find that all the grumbling won't be on your side!"

"I hope I shall bring my husband up too well for that!" said Astrid.
Estelle snorted.

"If only my dear Peter were alive!" sighed Fru Bjork, "he was such an
amiable man. I never knew him to grumble."

"Ah, well, there's no telling," said Estelle, "he might have in time."

"My blessed Peter would never have grumbled," said Fru Bjork with
finality. Astrid giggled.

"I should hate a man with no spirit, there would be no satisfaction in
managing him."

The old Swedish lady raised her head.

"My dear, it is most unseemly for a young woman to talk of 'managing'
her husband. Young people nowadays have lost the virtue of obedience."

"Obedience is for children and the feeble-minded," said Astrid. The old
lady gasped and raised her mittened hand.

"My dear, my dear, a wife should always obey her husband!"

"Well, I shan't when I'm married."

Fröken Hagerup interposed:

"You'll find that you'll have to, to keep the peace."

"Keep the peace indeed! That will be Edvard's business. Ragna, why don't
you say something?"

Ragna had been sitting silent; on being addressed she started and
dropped her fork.

"I--I have a headache." Her cheeks flamed at the lie. Fru Bjork looked
at her anxiously.

"I do hope you are not going to be ill, child! I am sure you have been
tiring yourself out with all this going about alone, I don't half like
it!"

"Stuff and nonsense," said Estelle, "she never looked better in her
life! A night's rest and she will be all right again. You should not
walk in the sun," she said to Ragna; "it is dangerous at this season of
the year. It is probably that that gave you your headache."

"I believe Ragna's in love with somebody," said Astrid, "all this
mooning about alone is a symptom, and she's losing her appetite, too."

"Nonsense!" said Ragna angrily. "I am a bit tired, but as Estelle says,
a night's rest will set me right. I think I shall go to bed now."

"I think you are right, Ragna," said Fru Bjork. "Take some quinine and
cover yourself well. I shall come a little later to see if you are
comfortable."

"Oh, please don't," said Ragna. "I feel quite sleepy already. I assure
you there is nothing to worry about, I had rather no one came, it might
wake me up."

Fru Bjork looked hurt.

"As you like," she said, and Ragna hated herself for her ungraciousness.

"Oh, why wasn't I born diplomatic?" she thought.

Astrid was looking at her rather maliciously through her lashes. The
headache had not deceived her, but she had no suspicion of the truth;
she thought that absence might have played advocate for some despised
Christiania swain; she wondered who it might be, and promised herself
that she would find out at the first opportunity.

When they rose from the table, Ragna went to her room and ostentatiously
called for hot water. The others repaired to the drawing-room, where the
old Swedish lady established herself with alacrity in the most
comfortable armchair. A lady of uncertain nationality opened the
pianoforte and played with faultless technique and absolutely no
expression, selections from Beethoven and Chopin, and the rest of the
company disposed themselves about the room, some reading, some sewing,
some talking in small groups. Astrid withdrew to a window-recess with
the art-student, with whom she had begun a mild flirtation. Fru Bjork
settled herself near the fire and took out her knitting; her brow was
furrowed and she puckered up her mouth. She was more worried about Ragna
than she cared to admit; certainly the girl looked the picture of
health, but she had been oddly absent-minded of late, and had seemed so
evidently to prefer going about alone that gradually the other members
of the party had given up offering to accompany her. Then her headache
of this evening--.

"I do hope the child is not going to be ill," repeated the good woman to
herself; she drew out a needle at the end of the row and meditatively
scratched her head with it.

Ragna, meanwhile, was devoured by a fever of excitement. Unable to sit
still she paced up and down her room; her hands trembled and she felt
curious nervous qualms through her body. She pinned on her hat with
unsteady fingers, drew on her gloves and threw a long dark cloak about
her. When enough time had elapsed for all to be well settled in the
drawing-room, she cautiously opened her door and locking it behind her,
stole down the passage, at the end of which a chambermaid was crocheting
lace by the light of an oil lamp.

"Rosa," said Ragna in a low voice, "I am going out but I don't wish
anyone to know of it. If you will let me in very quietly when I come
back--I shan't be late--I will give you a present. I shall knock on the
door with my knuckles three times,--like this. Do you understand?"

"_Si, Signorina_," answered the maid, showing her white teeth in a
smile. It was a sly understanding smile that made Ragna hot and
uncomfortable. She felt Rosa's curious eyes upon her as she went on down
the passageway to the door. In another minute she was flying down the
poorly-lit stairs; at the foot of the last flight a dark figure detached
itself from the surrounding gloom and came towards her.

"I thought you were never coming," said Mirko. His voice had an odd
triumphant note, but Ragna in her excitement failed to notice it. He
drew her arm through his and hurried her out and across the shadow side
of the Piazza, to where a carriage was waiting.

"_Al Coliseo!_" he said to the driver.

Ragna sat in a constrained attitude, her eyes cast down.

"Now," said Mirko, "you look as though you were embarking on a crime. I
ask you what harm is there in this little escapade?"

"I do so hate to deceive them all! What would Fru Bjork say if she
knew?"

"Has she never been young herself? If you knew, Ragna, the memories that
half these good and prudish ladies carry under their starched fronts,
you would be surprised. There is a proverb that says, 'when you are too
old to give yourself to the Devil it is time to turn to God!'" Then
seeing she looked shocked; "there, don't mind what I say,--I am so glad
you have come that I am not half responsible. You can take my word for
it that you are doing nothing very terrible. Do you think for a moment I
would ask you to?"

"No," she answered.

"And you are glad you came?"

"I feel as if I were being carried off by a brigand," said Ragna.

The Prince wore a broad-brimmed soft felt hat casting the upper part of
his face into deep shadow, he had thrown round him an Italian military
cloak, the folds of which flung up and over his left shoulder had the
grace of a toga. He really looked not unlike the gallant brigand of
romance.

"Oh, indeed!" he laughed, "and supposing I were to carry you off, far
away across the Campagne to a castle in the hills and hold you for
ransom, what then?"

"What ransom would you set on me?"

"A ransom no one could pay but yourself--a king's ransom: your love. And
the day you give it you would be free to go--if you so wished." He spoke
jestingly but his voice had a deep undertone that thrilled the girl.

"Would you pay the ransom, oh, captive?"

"Even a captive lady could not love to order," laughed Ragna.

"But could you not love a man, who for love of you carried you away from
all the world and made you his by force? I think you would--every woman
is really a Sabine at heart!"

Ragna was spared the necessity of answering by the carriage drawing up
at the entrance to the Colosseum.

"Shall we keep him?" asked Mirko, as he helped her to alight.

"No! no. Let us walk back."

Mirko dismissed the vetturino, who with much cracking of his whip, made
his way to the nearest osteria there to drink the health of the mad
forestieri who would risk any sort of "malanno" to see an old ruin by
moonlight.

The moon rode high in the heavens and the great building stood out clear
and sharp in the silvery light, the inky shadows seemed pregnant with
mystery. Ragna almost looked to see the ghosts of martyrs in horrid
procession, threading the gloomy archways. A shadow in the arena seemed
a pool of blood. Above, in the tribunes, bloodthirsty multitudes had
watched, breathless, the matchless show,--and well might the
Vestal-virgins cover their faces, of what avail the fate deciding thumb
when maidens and lions meet in the amphitheatre?

"Is it not wonderful?" asked Mirko.

"Wonderful, but horrible," said Ragna, "if ghosts walk anywhere on
earth, surely they must walk here! Think of all these walls have looked
down on!"

"Yes, the Games, the glorious Games!" he replied eagerly. "Oh, to have
seen it in its pomp and pride! Think of it, Ragna,--the people, the
colours in the sunlight, the purple velarium up there against the sky,
the Cæsar, the Senate, the Vestals,--and the gladiators in the ring!"

"I was thinking of the martyrs," said Ragna.

"Oh, the martyrs! Poor fools! After all it was their own fault."

His slight sneer grated on the girl's mood.

"They were glorious," she said indignantly, "they had the courage of
their convictions. They proved their strength,--they were stronger than
Cæsar, stronger than Rome,--their death was their victory!"

Her eyes shone, and Mirko, looking at her face upturned in the
moonlight, thought he had never seen her so beautiful, transfigured as
she was, by her enthusiasm.

"Would you have the courage of your convictions?" he asked suddenly.

"I--I don't know. Which convictions, for instance?"

"Well, if you did not believe in marriage, would you have the courage to
override public opinion?"

"But I do believe in marriage," she said simply.

"Do you believe that love can be bound with a chain, then?"

"There should be no question of binding--A marriage without love is no
marriage at all in my eyes."

He smiled at her earnest simplicity.

"That is all very well--for you," he said, "but for me? I may not marry
to please myself."

His voice had a caressing cadence, charged with regret, his eyes were
mournful under the long lashes. Perhaps for the moment he was really a
victim to self pity. Like most emotional people, he was apt to believe
in the sincerity of a passing feeling, even the appropriate pose of the
hour investing him with a fleeting reality of sentiment.

"No," said Ragna, "that is true. You cannot be free to follow your
heart, it is part of the price you must pay."

"The price is heavy."

They stood silent a time, then Mirko spoke again in a deep voice.

"I love you, Ragna, you know it--you must have seen it. I did not mean
to tell you, I have been fighting it down, but here in the moonlight it
is too strong for me. I love you, and it is not within my power to marry
you. I must go away, and perhaps never see you again; I have loved you
ever since those days on the _Norje_"--this was untrue but he said it
with conviction, even felt it--"and you love me darling, you can't deny
it. Oh, _cara_, _carissima_, look at me, let me see your eyes!"

His arm had stolen round her, she raised her head, and he saw that
bright drops glittered on her lashes. In a flash his mouth was on hers
and she returned his kiss. She stood unresisting in his embrace, leaning
against him, her whole form quivering, then after a moment, gently freed
herself and walked a few paces away, her head bent, clasping and
unclasping her hands. He followed her and would have taken her in his
arms again but she stopped him.

"What's the use?" she asked in a hoarse voice, "we have no right,--you
can't marry me. You must not--" her voice broke.

"But you love me," cried Mirko, a passionate gladness ringing in his
voice. "You do love me! Surely we have the right to a little happiness!"

"No," she answered slowly, "no, it is impossible. You must go away. This
is not your destiny. You will be King some day, your country, your
people, claim you."

"I will give it all up for you, Ragna!" He knew that he would not, but
promises come easily, by moonlight.

"No," she repeated, "you must go; we must part."

"But if you love me--"

"If I love you?"

"What need is there to part? If you loved me enough."

"Oh," she cried, suffocating, as his meaning dawned on her, "Oh! Do you
take me for that?"

She sprang back, her breast heaving, tears rising to her eyes.

"Take you for what, dear? For a woman who would love me better than all
the world beside? Do you think that an insult?"

"You--you would make me your--," she could not bring herself to say the
word.

Prince Mirko executed a masterly retreat.

"My child!" he cried in a horrified voice. "What do you imagine? I mean
that where true love is, there can be no parting. Far or near, those who
love are always united."

"Oh," said Ragna dubiously, "I thought you meant--"

Mirko fixed his mournful eyes upon her.

"Did I not tell you yesterday that I would rather die than harm you?" he
asked reproachfully.

Ragna hung her head, ashamed.

"You have no confidence in me--and yet I deserve it," he said bitterly.

"I have confidence in you; it was only that I did not understand, I was
afraid--"

"Do you wish to give me a proof of your confidence, dear one?"

"Yes," said Ragna, "what shall I do?" she was ashamed of her suspicion
and eager to atone.

"We have so little time left to us--only a few days, then our ways
part,--let us be lovers for that little time, as if we were betrothed,
as if we were to marry like ordinary people. Will you, dear? It can do
no harm--just a game of 'pretend' as the children say, and we shall have
those days to look back on all our lives!"

He sank to one knee, holding her clasped hands in his own, the folds of
his long cloak sweeping the ground. That, and the felt hat gave him the
appearance of a cavalier of romance. It was splendidly theatrical--but
it harmonized with the setting and the hour. His eyes, soft and burning,
held hers.

Why not? thought Ragna, a little romance,--a little happiness, a
gorgeous illusion, and the light would go out. Why not make the most of
the golden hours--there would be enough grey ones in the future to
compensate amply for the delicious fraud. Instinct warned her of hidden
danger--but had he not said:

"I would rather die than harm you!"

The pressure of his hand was insistent.

"Very well," she said faintly, "I will."

He sprang to his feet and clasped her in his arms, covering her face
with kisses.

"Oh!" she cried struggling, "you must not! It is not right!"

"Are you not my fiancée, my little love?" he asked in a pained voice.
"What hurt can my kisses do you? Oh, Ragna!"

He kissed her again, and this time she did not resist.

When he released her she was breathless and her head swam; she could
feel her heart leaping in her bosom and she pressed her hands upon it to
still its wild beating. Her face was white as marble and her eyes shone
strangely as though illuminated by fires within. In that moment, Mirko
really loved her; her confidence appealed to all that was best in him,
so realizing that he would not trust himself further he made the move to
go.

"It is late _Anima mia_, I must take you home now."

He encircled her waist with his arm under cover of her cloak and they
walked slowly back through the dark streets to the Piazza Montecitorio,
talking as they went. Or rather it was Mirko who talked and Ragna
listened, held in thrall by the musical voice of her lover. It did not
occur to her that to make love with such _mæstria_ presupposes a large
and varied experience.

He left her with a kiss under the gloomy _portone_, and she sped up the
stairs, wondering how she should explain her absence in case of
discovery. There was no need, however, for Rosa promptly answered her
timid knocking, and at a sign from her followed her to her room.

"Here," said Ragna, taking a little brooch from its case and tendering
it to the maid, "take this, Rosa,--it is the little present I spoke of."

"_Ma Signorina, che le pare?_" exclaimed Rosa with great deprecation,
"it is much too fine for me,--I will take nothing for so small a
service. It is a night made by the good God for lovers, do I not
understand that? I also have an _innamorato, Signorina_!"

Ragna, who two hours earlier would have felt unspeakably humiliated by
such a speech, now was conscious of a fellow feeling for the girl--such
is the freemasonry of love. She smiled and tucking the trinket into
Rosa's hand, said:

"Then you will wear this to remember me by, and also to look well in the
eyes of your _fidanzato_."

"_Grazie Signorina_, a thousand thanks! And may your _innamorato_ be as
faithful as you are beautiful."

"Faithful," repeated Ragna to herself when she had closed the door
behind the retreating form of the maid. "What is faithlessness,--memory?
For us there can be no other."

It pleased her to think of her romance as set apart from the common lot.

"It is an oasis in the desert," she thought,--"it will be as he says,
something to look back on all our lives."

For a long time she lay awake, gazing into the dark, her pulses
throbbing as she thought of his kisses.



CHAPTER IV


The end of Carnival was approaching and many shops displayed dominoes,
masks and various disguises and travesties in their windows. The merry
madness was in the air and all Rome was keyed up to a pitch of wild
gaiety, so soon to relapse into devotional gloom.

Fru Bjork had taken tickets to the _veglione_ in the Costanzi Theatre,
and Astrid was wild with anticipation. She raged at the indifference
displayed by Ragna, who was so absorbed in her fool's Paradise that the
_veglione_ might as well not have existed. Her detachment was the more
noticeable as even Estelle Hagerup had caught the contagion of
excitement and was feverishly weighing the rival advantages of a
pea-green domino and a purple one. Astrid had chosen pale blue, but
Ragna when pressed decided on black.

She had promised to spend the day of the _veglione_ with Prince Mirko.
They were to drive out into the country, far from the noisy
merry-making, and though he had not said so, she felt that it was to be
their last day together--the time for separation was approaching, the
end of the idyll at hand.

So on the morning of that fateful _mardi gras_ she met him, as arranged,
by the Pantheon. He was waiting with a _botte_, drawn by two strong
little Maremmano horses with pheasant feathers stuck in their
head-stalls and tinkling bells on the harness. The driver, a bronzed
aquiline featured Roman, beamed on her as she approached, having often
driven them on shorter excursions.

Mirko helped her in and took his place beside her, laying on her lap a
huge bunch of fragrant white narcissus and violets. She buried her face
in the flowers, breathing the perfume voluptuously.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Oh, quite out, over the Campagna, away from everything and everybody."

He squeezed her hand and she smiled happily.

It was warm for the season, almost sultry, as the Scirocco was blowing.
The sun was comfortably hot, but heavy clouds banking the horizon
promised rain before night-fall.

They drove out the Via Appia past the tomb of Cecilia Metella; the green
grass springing fresh between the mortuary tablets bordering the way,
and from the walls showed the rapid advance of spring, and as they left
the city farther behind, the whole Campagna in new radiance of colour
appeared to them as a bride arrayed for her wedding day. The pale pink
of the almond blossom in delicate tracery against the deep blue of the
sky, the rich dark ilexes with light green tender shoots, the silvery
grey of the olives, all looked more like a fairy picture than anything
that could possibly be real. This awakening of Nature, this decking out
of all the Earth in bridal array, could not but have its effect on the
lovers. All creation was breaking into bud and blossom, the spirit of
love permeated the very air with the mysterious intoxication of the new
running sap in the trees, the awakening to life of the flowers, the song
of the birds. It was the mating season.

Mirko and Ragna sat in silence, his right hand closed on her left; she
felt strong vibrations passing from his hand to hers, she was burning
with a vague mysterious excitement too deep for expression.

Mirko's eyes were fixed on her face; he watched her colour come and go,
noted the soft shadow of her lashes on her cheek; the impulse of spring
flamed in his blood. The tantalising nearness of the girl was too much
for his fiery southern temperament, he was rapidly losing his head.

They drove far out over the Campagna, until the city behind them was
swallowed up in the undulations of the great grassy plain. Groups of
people bound citywards passed them, many of them enlivening the way with
snatches of song. A soft damp breeze laden with the composite spring
fragrance blew up from the sea. Presently a turn of the road brought
them to an old acqueduct; many of the arches lay in ruins, but here and
there groups of them still intact, stood upright in the sunshine. Ragna
looking at them suddenly remembered her dream on board the _Norje_, and
Ingeborg's prediction. Were these the actual stone arches of her dream?
She glanced at Mirko; his eyes were devouring her, they had a wolfish
expression; a shiver of fear passed over her and she drew her hand from
his in a quick gesture of alarm.

"Oh, don't look at me like that! You frighten me. Your eyes look like
the eyes of a wild beast, as if you wanted to tear me limb from limb."

Mirko flushed and his expression changed.

"Silly!" he said, but his voice was hoarse and sounded strange in her
ears. "Silly! May I not look at you? Do you know that you are very
beautiful to-day? I must fill my eyes with your dear image, so that I
may have you with me always,--even when you are far away."

Ragna partially reassured, glanced at him shyly through her lashes.

"You really did frighten me, you looked so fierce, so--so hungry!"

He laughed. "I am hungry--hungry for you. But that is nothing new!"

They relapsed into silence again, but there was a strange constraint
upon them. The sun's rays were very hot with that sickly heat felt just
before a shower. The scent of the narcissus rose insistent and too
sweet. Ragna felt uneasy; although Mirko was outwardly the same as he
had always been, she divined a change in him, a mysterious subtle change
that set him over against her as an enemy from whom she must defend
herself. She could not explain to herself this newborn antagonism, she
only felt it dimly,--and at the same time there arose riotous within her
the call of the springtide, urging her towards him.

The vetturino drew up jingling before the door of an _osteria_,--that of
the "_Sora Nanna_," the sign proclaimed. Some deal tables and benches
stood under the budding pergola, and at them a few _contadini_ on their
way to the festa were indulging in modest libations of "_vino dei
Castelli_"--advertised at thirty, forty and fifty _centesimi_ the
measure, on placards hanging at the entrance.

As the _botte_ drew up to the door, the hostess, a stout, wholesome
looking woman appeared, bowing and wiping her hands on her apron.

"The Signori would descend? Luncheon? Most certainly,--their
Excellencies should be served immediately--Maria! wring the neck of a
chicken! Would their Excellencies eat in the common room, in the sala,
with contadini? There was a most clean and _conveniente_ chamber above,
where they would be much better, _non è vero_?"

She bustled in ahead of them, shooing chickens as she went, and
chattering volubly. They followed her through the brick-paved kitchen,
gloomy, after the bright light outside. One end of it was taken up by an
immense brick stove, in which were sunk numerous wells for charcoal. A
large pot bubbled merrily on one of these and most savoury odours arose
from a collection of copper stew-pans of all sizes. Hams, salami and
bunches of herbs hung from the smoky rafters. A girl with large hoop
earrings and a bright kerchief about her neck was sitting on a low stool
peeling potatoes and singing lustily the song of the "_Ciociara_"--"_E
quando la Ciociara si marita_"--she sang to the rollicking air. A ray of
sunlight coming through the window gilded her hair and touched the coral
beads on her round brown throat.

Sora Nanna led the way up a stone stair to a large light upper chamber.
The floor like that of the kitchen was of bare brick well scrubbed, a
table stood in the centre with some straight-backed chairs. On the walls
hung prints of Garibaldi, King Umberto and Queen Margherita taken at the
time of their marriage, and Vittorio Emanuele II with a fierce moustache
and a truculent eye. A couch stood against the wall, and in the far
corner a large white bed flanked by a primitive dressing-table. Ragna
shrank back, but the hostess bustled cheerfully forward.

"Many _cacciatori_, Signori of Rome and _forestieri_ have I entertained
here," she said, throwing open the windows. "Ah, they all know the Sora
Nanna's cellar and the _frittata_. A _frittata_ with artichokes, that is
what I shall give your Excellencies!"

"I would rather go downstairs," whispered Ragna.

"Come now," said Mirko, "you can't sit in the kitchen with the
contadini! This room is clean and it will do very well."

"Can't we sit outside under the pergola?"

Mirko pointed to the clouds fast obscuring the sunshine. "It will be
raining in a few minutes."

Ragna thought it would be foolish to object further, and she tried to
throw off the uneasy feeling that possessed her.

"Your Excellencies shall be served in half an hour," said the hostess,
as she bustled out, shaking her head at the madness of people who came
out to the country when they might be enjoying the Carnival in Rome.

Ragna went to one of the windows and leaned on the sill, looking out.
The vetturino was leading his horses to a shed in the rear, and Maria,
the girl who had been singing in the kitchen, was displaying a generous
expanse of red stocking as she pursued an elusive chicken. The contadini
under the arbour below made merry at her expense and praised her
well-developed charms and neat ankles.

The Campagna rolled away as far as the eye could reach, an inland sea of
grass, dotted here and there with trees; far away the broken acqueduct
straggled across it. The fleeting shadows chased each other over the
rolling surface as the clouds gathered, and the air was damp and sultry,
charged with the sweet scent of spring, stealing over the senses like
mellow wine. Mirko came up behind Ragna as she stood and kissed her neck
behind the ear where the short hairs made golden tendrils. She thrilled
at the touch of his lips but did not turn her head. During these days of
their pseudo betrothal, she had gradually grown accustomed to various
loverlike familiarities, which from day to day had become more daring,
and she had come to accept as natural, liberties on the part of her
lover, from which she would have recoiled, shocked and horrified, ten
days earlier. In love as in everything else, it is the first step that
costs.

"Why do you not take off your hat, dear?" said Mirko. "It will be so
much cosier if you take off your hat. We will pretend we are on our
honeymoon.--Come! let us be quite mad and gay--remember it is Carnival!"

The words suited her mood; suddenly she felt reckless, she smiled her
answer.

"Wait here a minute," said Mirko and he bounded down the stair. Ragna
quickly unpinned her hat, and laid it on the dressing table, she fluffed
up her hair where it had been crushed, and went back to the window,
watching with amused sympathy the merry party below. Her spirits had
recovered from the depression of a few moments since, she felt daring,
buoyed up by a strange sensation of irresponsibility--the spring was
having its effect on her also.

Presently Mirko returned, followed by the bouncing Maria who set the
table still humming her song. Ragna caught the words.

"_E se vuoi la robba mia, è certo che caro la devi pagar!_"

"That is a very jolly song," said Ragna.

"Si, signora," said Maria showing her even white teeth in a broad
smile.--"It is sung all through Ciociaria and everywhere!" She ran down
to the kitchen and reappeared bearing a large bowl of steaming _gnocchi_
and two cobwebby bottles of gold-coloured wine.

"Come," said Mirko, "your Ladyship is served."

Ragna laughingly took her place at the table and they both fell to with
healthy appetites. Mirko saw that Ragna's glass was kept replenished
with the wine. "_Proprio di dietro i fagotti_," the hostess had declared
it. After the gnocchi came stewed chicken and potatoes, then the famous
_frittata_ with artichokes and a salad, then cheese, and finally, Maria
having asked if the Signori wished anything more, retired, closing the
door after her.

The wine was singing in Ragna's ears, and her face was flushed, it
seemed to her that she was in a dream in which she had become two
distinct persons,--one a long way off, watching as at a play, what the
other Ragna did. Mirko rose from his chair and led her to the couch
where he seated himself beside her. He drew her head down on his
shoulder and holding her close to him murmured his love in her ear. His
nearness, his kisses and the low, passionate vibration of his voice
overpowered her; she felt all power of resistance slip from her, his
personality, his desire dominated her entirely; her lips parted, she
closed her eyes, her senses swam. As in a dream, his lips found hers,
she felt the heat of his breath scorching her face, a wild flame surged
through her veins,--a brief almost unconscious struggle and she lay
unresisting in his arms.

When she came to herself again a sudden gloom pervaded the place. Large
drops of rain splashed on the window-sill. She watched them idly a
moment, then her eyes wandered to the other window where Mirko stood
leaning, pulling at his moustache, then down to herself. Suddenly a gulf
of realization and shame overwhelmed her. With a hasty hand she
straightened out her skirts, then flung herself down, sobbing, her
burning face hidden in the cushion.

At the sound Mirko turned and came towards her, an exceedingly sheepish
expression on his handsome face.

"Don't, love!" he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. She writhed
away from him.

"Don't, dear," he repeated awkwardly, and as the girl paid no attention,
he knelt at her side and kissed all that was visible of one ear. She sat
up, wild-eyed and disheveled.

"Oh, how could you?" she sobbed, "oh, why did you do it? Oh, how can I
ever look anyone in the face again!"

She flung herself down again, her voice lost in a paroxysm of grief.

Mirko bit his moustache; scenes of this kind annoyed him terribly and
now that his fever had passed he could think of nothing to say.
Presently Ragna faced him once more.

"You despise me, don't you?" she asked.

"Never! Never in the world, my darling!" he cried but his voice carried
no conviction. "I owe you all gratitude!"

"Oh!" she said, her eyes widening, a hard look coming over her face,
"oh!"

He lifted her limp hand and kissed it.

"I am your devoted slave,--you have given me the greatest proof of
love--"

"What are you going to do about it?" she interrupted.

"Do about it. What is there to do? The memory of this--"

"Ah, so it is already a memory to you! To me it is dishonour."

"My dear child, nothing of the sort! We loved each other, we lost our
heads,--there is no dishonour, no one need know."

His ineffectual manner struck her like a blow. Covering her face with
her hands she burst into fresh sobs.

Mirko like all men, hated above all things a scene; he began to feel
angry, revengeful even, the more so as his conscience reproached him. He
said in a hard voice:

"Look here, Ragna, you are not a fool, you knew I could not marry you--"

Her scornful eyes stopped him; he shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear girl, if you had not wished--I have never taken a woman against
her will--"

"You coward!" she said her eyes blazing.

He rose and strolling to the window carefully chose a cigarette from his
case and as carefully lit it, but in spite of himself his hands
trembled. Ragna sat immovable on the sofa as though turned to stone. The
rain pattered softly on the window-sill and the warm heavy dampness
invaded the room. Below, in the kitchen, someone was clattering pots and
pans, and Maria's voice took up the refrain of the "Ciociara." The
lively tune rose, a ghastly mockery, and Ragna smiled at the irony of
it, then a fresh wave of despair swept over her, her shaken nerves gave
way, and dropping her head on her folded hands she wept disconsolately
and brokenly. The forlornness of her attitude, the bowed head with its
dishevelled mass of golden hair, the slender shoulders heaving with
noiseless sobs touched Mirko; he threw his cigarette out of the window
with an angry gesture and paced up and down the long narrow room,
tugging at his moustache and knitting his brows. The mood of brutality
like that of a sated animal had passed and a reaction of something very
like shame, set in--shame be it said, not for having taken advantage of
a confiding girl, but for the unchivalrous cynicism of his subsequent
conduct which he could see no way of glossing over. A woman may forgive
passion, brutality even, but not the poisoned barb of cynicism. His
vanity refused to consider the situation irretrievable notwithstanding,
and he paused beside the weeping girl.

"Ragna," he said, "forgive me! I have behaved like a brute and I deserve
to be kicked."

The accent of sincere regret in his voice was like balm to the girl's
wounds; by his self-abasement she might recover a semblance, at least,
of self-respect that would help her to tide over the present necessity.
In a half subconscious way she realized that death does not come through
the wishing for it, that a situation no matter how terrible must be
lived through somehow,--but oh, to be alone!

"Poor child," said Mirko, stroking the silky waves of her hair, "I must
have been mad! Will you not believe that I was mad, dear,--and forget
all that I would have you forget?"

He knelt beside her putting one arm about her; with his free hand he
forced her head up from her locked fingers and would have kissed the
tears away, but she drew back with horror.

"Oh, no! Never again!"

"Ragna," he pleaded, "but you love me?"

"I did love you--once," she said in a toneless voice. "I did love
you--too much."

"No, dearest, not too much--" he started but stopped silenced by the
expression of her eyes.

"God knows," he said impulsively, "that I would give my life not to have
hurt you! You were too beautiful,--you maddened me!"

She smiled a little scornfully, very sadly, and the smile condemned him
in his own consciousness; in her eyes he saw reflected for the first
time the futility of his declarations, the shallow selfishness of his
nature. It seemed to him that he shrivelled morally under her gaze. To
Ragna he had become a stranger, the dream hero was shattered
irremediably; the scales had fallen from her eyes and with a pitilessly
clear vision she had seen the paltry egoism of the man's soul. Something
had snapped within her,--a light had gone out; she wondered dully if
anything could matter very much again.

Mirko rose to his feet rather unsteadily and poured himself a glass of
wine; as he raised it to his lips someone knocked on the door and he
started, spilling half the contents of the glass. Maria's voice called
cheerfully.

"The vetturino wants to know at what hour the Signori will start, it is
getting late."

"Tell him we will start as soon as he is ready and send me the
_addizione_," answered Mirko. He gulped down his wine, and then poured
out another glass and carried it over to Ragna.

"Drink this," he ordered and she obeyed mechanically.

"Now," he said, "put on your hat and smooth your hair a little; don't
let these people guess anything."

Ragna flushed, but her pride was touched as he had meant it to be. She
rose with an effort and walked lifelessly over to the dressing-table.
She wet the corner of her handkerchief in the jug and dabbled it on her
dark-ringed reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks; taking out a little
comb from the back of her hair she straightened up her stray locks and
resettled her heavy plaits. She put on her hat and tied over it a thick
blue veil she found in the pocket of her ulster. When she had finished,
she walked to a chair, passing the couch with a shudder, and sat down
dully.

Maria entered presently, carrying the bill on a plate; she looked
curiously from the apathetic girl, shrouded in her heavy veil, to the
self-possessed young man,--they were not like any lovers she had seen.
"They must have quarreled," was her reflection. Mirko paid the modest
bill and added a generous mancia at which the girl's eyes sparkled, and
she thanked him effusively.

"Is the carriage ready?" he inquired.

"_Sissignore, eccola quà!_" As she spoke they heard the little trap
rattling and jingling as it drew up outside. Mirko turned to Ragna:

"If you are ready, we will go."

She rose and avoiding his proffered hand, preceded him quickly down the
stair and across the kitchen, walking head down, with a furtive air as
though trying to escape observation. Maria and the hostess smiled
significantly at each other as she passed.

She climbed unaided into the carriage and drew her skirts aside as Mirko
entered. The hood was drawn up and a large water-proof apron covered
their knees, another water-proof strip was fastened at one end to the
hood and at the other to the large umbrella that sheltered the driver,
so that they were almost in the dark and entirely shielded from the
curious gaze of passers-by.

They sat in an oppressive silence; Ragna, her hands clasped on her
knees, her eyes looking straight before her, her mouth set in a hard
line, barely discernible through the thick veil. Mirko was most
uncomfortable, and could think of nothing to say or do to relieve the
situation. Finally, in desperation, he asked her permission to light a
cigarette; she shrugged her shoulders in complete indifference and made
no answer; he lit one and puffed away moodily, every now and again
casting furtive glances at the girl's averted profile. She sat quite
motionless, only shuddering slightly as they passed the ruined
acqueduct. "The hare is run to earth," she thought bitterly. The drive
seemed interminable; the carriage bumped on endlessly over the bad
roads, the rain pattered unceasingly on the lowered hood, the driver
urged on his steaming beasts in endless monotone--and so on and on and
on. It was like a long bad dream.

As they came into the city, the rain stopped, but the air was heavy with
a damp, soggy mist through which the street lamps glowed, each set in a
luminous halo. The streets were full of a noisy merry crowd and the
carriage made slow progress. Once it stopped altogether and a masked
Pierrot climbed up on one step, a gay Harlequin on the other while a
very masculine _ballerina_ in draggled pink tarletan installed herself
or himself beside the driver.

"_Tò!_" said the Pierrot, and blew out a long paper sausage that
squeaked as it collapsed; the Harlequin emptied a shovelful of confetti
over the silent pair.

"Who is the mysterious princess?" squeaked the Pierrot, "Unveil! unveil,
fair one!"

As Ragna paid no attention he snatched her veil from her face and fell
into a pose of ecstatic mock admiration. Ragna threw herself back,
alarmed.

"Here!" said Mirko, starting up angrily, "I won't have this! Let the
lady alone, will you? Get down!"

"Pray, be more courteous!" mouthed Arlecchino, "_In carnevale ogni
scherzo vale._" The crowd shrieked approval.

"Here, then," said Mirko, diving into his pocket and bestowing a gold
piece on each masker, "go and drink to the health of your '_carnevale_'
with this."

The _ballerina_ poked a long red cardboard nose down under the hood,
squeaking in high falsetto.

"And poor Colombina? Don't forget poor Colombina!"

Mirko found another gold piece for Colombina and the three masks jumped
down shouting joyously.

"_Evviva gli sposi!_"

The crowd took up the cry and it rang after the retreating carriage.

Mirko looked at Ragna deprecatingly, but meeting her scornful eyes,
turned his own away.

When at last they reached the Piazza Montecitorio he insisted on helping
her out, and holding her fast by the hand, asked her:

"Do you really hate me then, after all?"

She drew her hand away from him, and without looking at him said
"Good-bye" with a finality of accent not to be mistaken; then the
_portone_ swallowed her up. Mirko, with a muttered oath clambered back
into the carriage and drove to his hotel. As he entered the lobby he
encountered the unexpected form of Angelescu.

"When did you come?" he asked in surprise.

"At noon, and I have been waiting for you ever since. I have a message
for you from the King--" he spoke the last word in a whisper.

"The devil you have! What's up?"

"You'll know soon enough," said the other significantly.

"Am I to be restored to grace?"

"Oh, yes, but there is a certain amount of humble-pie to be eaten first.
Also they are determined to clip your wings for the future--there is
question of a marriage."

"Marriage--whew! Who is the lady, may I ask?"

Angelescu named a princess, Mirko's senior by several years and not
renowned for her good looks. Mirko made a wry face.

"His Majesty is awfully keen on it, and if you were to upset the
arrangement by any fresh escapades, I fancy your bed would not be of
roses for some time to come--I hope you haven't been getting into any
scrapes here?" He looked suspiciously at Mirko's tell-tale countenance.

"Come along, old man," said Mirko putting his arm through Angelescu's.
"There is nothing very terrible--and nothing to be very proud of either;
I'll tell you all about it presently. By the way I want you to do
something for me to-night. I want you to take a message to a lady at the
_veglione_."

"Why don't you go yourself?"

"I would rather not,--it might be embarrassing for both of us." He
laughed uneasily. "Do you remember that little Andersen girl we met on a
steamer the year we went to St. Petersburg?"

He felt Angelescu's arm stiffen under his, and had the light been
stronger, he would have seen the bronzed cheek pale. They had reached
Mirko's room and entered, closing the door after them.



CHAPTER V


As Ragna entered the pension Astrid came out of the drawing-room to meet
her.

"Oh, Ragna, where on earth have you been all day? We have been so
anxious! We were afraid you were lost or kidnapped or something. And the
dominoes have come, do come and try yours on!"

"The dominoes?" asked Ragna dully.

"Why Ragna Andersen! The dominoes for the _veglione_!" She turned and
looked at Ragna attentively as they passed under a swinging lamp in the
passage.

"Ragna, you are ill!" she cried, "you are as white as a sheet! What has
happened?"

"Nothing," said Ragna, "I got caught in the carnival crowd and pushed
about--that's all, and I am tired out."

"Well, in the name of common sense, what made you stay out all day when
you knew we were going to the _veglione_ to-night? I believe you won't
be able to go at all!"

"Oh, yes I shall," said Ragna, making a desperate effort to pull herself
together--no one must know, no one guess her secret! "Astrid, do be an
angel--if I rest quietly for two or three hours I shall be as fit as
ever--do explain it to your mother and Hagerup, and have some dinner
sent me in my room. I want to lie down, and I won't have time if I have
to dress for dinner. Do now, there's a dear!"

"Very well," assented Astrid, "you do look done up, you poor thing!"

But she shook her head as she turned away from Ragna's door. "I don't
like this business," she said to herself; "there's something wrong,
she's not a bit like her old self!" She was thinking of Ragna's calm
assurance and self-sufficiency in Christiania, so far removed from her
present almost apologetic manner.

Ragna, alone at last, turned the key in the door; she swept to the floor
the black domino laid on her bed, and flinging herself face-downward
among the pillows, writhed in a frenzy of grief and shame, the fruit of
long hours of suppression. It seemed to her that her very soul must be
contaminated. "Oh, fool! Oh, blind fool that I was!" she moaned, and
strained her arms till shoulder and elbow cracked. Suddenly she rose,
and marching over to the dressing-table, gazed long and searchingly at
herself in the glass. The redness and puffiness of her eyelids had
disappeared during the long drive, but there were dark purple circles
under the eyes, she was terribly pale and her mouth and features
generally, had a hard, drawn look. "Fool!" she cried again and burying
her face in her hands, began to weep. It did not last long however, she
soon dashed the tears away, angrily. "It's no use crying over spilt
milk!" With a sort of rage she tore off her clothes, trampling them on
the floor,--were they not witnesses, accomplices almost? Then she
washed, and it seemed to her that she hated her beautiful white body;
all that she was, all that she had become, sickened her.

She slipped on a dressing gown and lay down on the bed, quite
motionless, staring miserably into space. Nothing was left to her,
nothing! If only Mirko had not been so horrible--afterwards! She
shuddered and ground her teeth. Oh, the shame of it, the bitter
humiliation! Her eyes burned, her throat was dry as though seared by a
hot iron, her head throbbed painfully.

Presently the maid knocked and when Ragna had unlocked the door, brought
in a tray with dinner, which she set on the table. She surveyed Ragna
with sympathy and curiosity.

"Does not the Signorina feel well? What a pity, the night of the
_veglione_!"

"Thank you, Rosa, I am a little tired; I daresay I shall be quite rested
in an hour or so," answered Ragna bitterly.

"Shall I not bring the Signorina a glass of Marsala?"

"No, thank you," said Ragna, but the maid had already flown off and
returned very quickly with a glass of the topaz-coloured wine.

"Here, drink this, Signorina, it is very good when one is tired, it will
warm you up!" She was not to be denied, and to please her Ragna drained
the little glass. Rosa was right, she felt it warming her veins; a tinge
of colour crept to her cheeks, and she managed to swallow a little food.
Then she lay down again, and what with the wine and the fatigue fell
asleep, and slept until Rosa returned to help her dress.

Rosa, as she watched the Signorina's purple shadowed eyes, said to
herself.

"_Macchè fatigue!_ Displeasure of love, that is what it is!" She prided
herself on her perspicacity where affairs of the heart were concerned,
and sighed deeply to show her sympathy.

Ragna stood apathetically while the maid hooked up her bodice. She wore
a simple white frock, very youthful and girlish, and the low neck and
short sleeves displayed her pretty shoulders and rounded, slender arms
to advantage.

She had thought with pleasure of Mirko's seeing her in it, for she had
told him by what sign to recognise her, and he was to have come masked
to the ball to dance with her.

"The Signorina lacks but the veil to be a bride!" said Rosa admiringly.

Ragna shuddered and grew paler than before, if that were possible.

"The Signorina is beautiful, as she is, but if she will take my advice,
she should put on a little rouge, she is too pale."

Ragna looked at herself in the mirror,--she was heavy eyed and white,
far too white. The virginal whiteness of her frock, the pure pale face
and pale gold hair seemed a pitiful mockery to her. She was glad when
Rosa laid the black domino about her shoulders though it made her face
look ghastly.

There was a sound of voices and laughter in the passage, and Ragna
quickly snatched up her black mask and adjusted it as Astrid and Estelle
entered the room.

"Ready, Ragna?"

"Yes," she answered, bending for Rosa to draw the domino hood over her
head and fasten it with a pin.

Estelle turned herself about before the cheval-glass; her green domino,
trimmed with black lace, was too short for her, and showed a good three
inches of grey skirt at the hem; it was too full and made awkward bunchy
folds about her and she wore a green mask with a frill of black lace,
which fluttered as she breathed through her mouth,--however, she was
quite satisfied with her appearance.

Astrid wore her light blue domino with coquettish grace and the small
white loup hardly disguised her features; she had not yet pulled up the
hood, and her fair hair curled prettily over her small head. Ragna also
wore a _loup_, a black velvet one: she wished now that she had chosen a
mask like Estelle's--anything to hide her, for her chin would quiver in
spite of all her efforts.

Fru Bjork followed the girls into the room, very imposing in heliotrope,
and grumbling at the necessity of wearing a mask.

"So hot! So stuffy! I can't breathe now, and I imagine what it will be
in that place!" She was already fanning herself vigorously. "I'm quite
as excited as you girls! Dear me, I hope it will be all just right--I
should be more comfortable though, I admit, if we had a gentleman with
us."

"You might have asked the man with the striped trousers, Mother,--I
should think those stripes would carry him through anything!"

"Why should you make fun of the poor man?" asked Estelle. "I am sure he
has been most polite. He has taken a great deal of trouble in inquiring
about singing lessons for me, and he sings so sweetly himself. Didn't
you like that song of his last evening about some '_Paese lontano dal
mar_'?"

"He has a good voice," said Ragna.

"But his trousers drown it!" laughed Astrid. "Come on, all of you, it is
time to start!"

Fru Bjork led the way, burly in her domino, Estelle after her, and the
other two followed, Astrid keeping up a gay chatter which saved Ragna
the effort of conversation. They packed themselves into the waiting
carriage, and in a few minutes alighted at the Costanzi.

It was early as yet and the crowd was thin, but more people were
arriving all the time, some in fancy costume, but most of them in
dominoes. Fru Bjork marshalled her party to the box she had taken,--it
was in the second tier, near the stage, and there was a table in it as
they were to have supper served from Aragno's. Estelle and Astrid
pressed to the front of the box, and Ragna sat down on the little bench
at the side, behind Astrid.

"Why, Ragna, child," said Fru Bjork, "don't you want to see what's going
on, now you're here?"

"I am still a little tired," she answered, "and there is not much to see
now, by and by it will be more interesting."

Astrid turned her head.

"What on earth made you such a fool as to tire yourself all out in the
crowd to-day?"

Ragna thought she detected a note of suspicion in the question and a
wave of terror swept over her,--suppose someone were to guess? She made
an effort and answered jestingly, forcing the note. Fortunately the
attention of the party was soon taken up with the scene below, leaving
her to her own thoughts. The boxes were rapidly filling, and on the
floor below a variegated crowd surged to and fro. Near the entrance a
number of young men in evening dress and without masks, scanned
curiously the entering dominoes, sometimes accosting them, and sometimes
being accosted in the conventional falsetto. Marguérites, Columbines,
peasant-girls, flower-girls abounded, and the air seemed thick with
Pierrots. All the women, without exception, were masked, and it gave
them an assurance, not to say audacity of manner very different from
that of ordinary occasions. They were daring, _provocantes_, insolent
even, and the young men enjoyed it hugely. A babel of voices and
laughter rose from the throng, almost drowning the orchestra, but as yet
all was orderly and quiet. Women in dominoes walked about in pairs,
stopping to talk to men, often separating, and joining other groups. It
was a human kaleidescope.

Ragna leaned over Estelle's shoulder and gazed apprehensively about; she
did not see the face she feared, however, and sank back into her place.

"Surely he would not have the courage to come here--now," she thought.
He was to have come masked, wearing a tuberose in his button-hole and
carrying one in his left hand. If he should come notwithstanding, what
should she do? At least, she thought, her mask was a protection,--there
would be no necessity for recognising him.

The door of the box opened and an attaché of the Swedish-Norwegian
Legation entered, bowing. He was a distant connection of Fru Bjork's,
and had come to offer his services to the ladies. His attentions to
Astrid had long been joked about by the others, and it may be said that
Astrid did not discourage them. "So convenient to have him
about,--besides he is a sort of cousin," she had said to her Mother,
when that lady remonstrated with her on the subject. So Count Lotten was
made welcome and Fru Bjork invited him to sup with them. He promptly
accepted and set about earning his salt by pointing out such well-known
people as he recognised.

As the time passed the scene grew livelier, dancers filled the centre of
the floor, cutting the most surprising capers, one Pierrot in particular
drawing the applause of the spectators by his daring antics. No one
seemed to resent the liberties he took, the whisper having gone about
that he was the young Prince C---- a spoilt darling of the Roman
aristocracy, Count Lotten told the ladies, and Astrid sighed.

"I do wish I knew a prince, if they are like that! It must be awfully
amusing." Ragna's lip curled, but she said nothing.

Supper was being served in the boxes, and presently the waiters laid the
table and set out the oysters and gallantine and the other good things
Fru Bjork had ordered. Ragna could not eat, but the champagne did her
good, and she clinked glasses with the others and joked in so lively a
way as to set Fru Bjork's mind quite at rest on her account. Gaiety was
in the air, the merry din became deafening. As the girl looked about she
interpreted it to herself. "Let us eat, drink and be merry, for
to-morrow we die!" A feverish excitement seized her; her lips burned and
her eyes glittered through the mask, she had unhooked her domino at the
neck on account of the heat, and her white throat throbbed in its black
frame. Astrid expressed a desire to walk about below and Ragna seconded
her--she felt that she must get up and move about, or she must scream.
Count Lotten offered himself as escort.

"It will be quite proper," he assured Fru Bjork, "I shall be responsible
for the young ladies' safety,--in half an hour we shall be back here
again."

He told Astrid to take his arm and let Ragna take hers,--"and be sure to
stick together."

Down on the floor they pushed as best they could through the excited,
perspiring crowd, laughing, shrieking, gesticulating, mad with the
Carnival. Astrid laughed excitedly.

"I should like one turn, just one turn of this valse," she pleaded.

Lotten smiled down at her.

"But it is impossible, we can't leave Fröken Ragna!"

"Oh," said Ragna, "please don't stop on my account! I shall stand
against the side here, under this box, and be quite safe. You can come
back for me here!"

The Count hesitated but the desire for a dance with Astrid overcame his
scruples and he acquiesced. Ragna took up her position under the box, as
she had said, and Lotten and Astrid whirled past, then were swallowed up
in the crowd.

Ragna stood watching the brilliant scene. The noise and the recurrent
rhythm of the dance music aroused a certain wildness within her,--the
latent savagery hidden in the hearts of all of us. As the tide rose
within her she grew defiant and reckless--she had lost that which a girl
holds most precious, why should she observe any restraint, had not the
bonds of conventionality been snapped for her? Would she not be
justified in flinging all constraint to the winds, in giving free rein
to the wildest impulses of her nature? "It's of no use keeping the
stable-door locked when the horse is stolen," she reflected bitterly.
Her foot tapped the floor in time to the music, the whirling crowd
fascinated her, drew her as to a vortex, it was a critical moment. "_He_
had no scruples, why should I have any henceforward?" she asked herself.
"'_Carpe diem_,' he used to say,--well, I say it now and I mean it!" She
stepped out from the wall.

Suddenly a band of maskers emerged from the crowd, thrown from it like
the spray from the crest of a wave, they surrounded Ragna, holding one
another by the hand, forming a chain about her. One of them, a tall man
disguised as Mephistopheles, stepped into the ring and the others
capered about them, gibbering.

"_Bella mascherina!_" squeaked the Mephisto. Ragna smiled at the
challenge and the masker thus encouraged, came close to her.

"_Ti conosco, mascherina!_" he said.

Ragna shook her head laughingly.

"Impossible!"

"What, not recognise the most beautiful mouth in Rome! Già!" The man's
tone was insolent.

"Go away!" said Ragna.

"Don't be rude, _mascherina_! I won't betray you--I can keep a secret as
well as anyone!"

"Go away!" repeated Ragna, her defiant feeling of a few moments earlier
giving way to nervous apprehension. Why had she left the shelter of the
wall, why exposed herself to the impertinence of half-tipsy maskers?

Impertinence,--her position of a young woman apparently alone at a
masked ball invited it!

"You really want me to go away? Very well, my little dove,--when you
have given me a kiss. A favour for a favour, you know!" He crooked his
arm and minced nearer. The dancing circle of red imps burst into
laughter.

Ragna turned and tried to break through the ring.

"No, you don't," said Mephisto with a leer, laying his hand on her arm,
"not so fast, sweet one! You shall give me that little kiss first!"

Ragna, really frightened, threw herself away from her tormentor; he was
clutching a fold of her domino and the fastenings at the neck gave way;
he pulled it back baring her white shoulder and her fair head.

"Bella! Bella! give us each a kiss!" shrieked the imps, and
Mephistopheles, leaning forward pressed his lips on the smooth shoulder
nearest him.

At that moment a tall figure burst through the ring, scattering the imps
right and left, and seizing the Mephisto by the collar dragged him back
and flung him aside. The masker turned with an oath but seeing the
height and strength of his assailant and realizing that discretion is
sometimes the better part of valour, bowed low with a mocking laugh and
disappeared into the crowd followed by his attendant demons in search of
fresh amusement.

Ragna, clutching her domino about her, raised her eyes to her rescuer's
face and uttered an involuntary exclamation:

"Count Angelescu! You here!"

"Mademoiselle Andersen!" he said, "I had been watching you for some
time, but I was not sure, there are so many black dominoes. Then when
those devils--but never mind, since I have found you. Take my arm and
let me get you out of this; I must talk to you and it is impossible
here!"

It was quite true, he could hardly make himself heard above the din; the
fun was fast and furious, pandemonium reigned.

She took his arm and he piloted her skilfully through the crowd and
round the corridor to an empty box, where he set a chair for her with
its back to the house, and closed the door. She paused a moment to
rearrange her hood and sat down; Angelescu took a chair facing her.
There was a moment's embarrassed silence, then Angelescu moistened his
lips and began.

"I do not exactly know how to put what I have to say, it is very
difficult for me. A certain person asked me to come here on his
behalf--"

"Then you know--all?"

"Is it true?"

She bowed her head.

"It is?"

"Yes."

A groan escaped him.

"Oh, the infernal blackguard! I would not believe it until I had heard
it from your own lips. Oh, why was I not in time--I might have saved
you! And now it is too late."

Ragna was silent.

"But that is not the message I was told to deliver. He wishes to offer
you compensation,--any sum you care to name."

"Compensation! To me!" Ragna half rose from her chair.

"Wait! wait! I beg of you! It is an insult, I know that--but it is not
from me, it is an order. I had to get it over! Oh, don't!"

Ragna had dropped her face in her hands and was weeping as though her
heart were broken, but the tears were of rage rather than of grief.

"Compensation! How dare he!"

"Listen, Mademoiselle, listen! Ragna, don't cry like that! Listen to
what I have to say to you! That was my official message, but this is
what I really come to say." His face was pale and his eyes blazed.
"Ragna I have loved you ever since we first met,--I love you still--"

She interrupted him with an hysterical laugh.

"What, you too! This is too funny!"

"Ragna, don't! I love you--"

"Don't talk to me about love, I have learned what that means!" She now
sat stiffly, her head held upright.

"Poor child," he said gravely, "my love is not of that kind, I want to
marry you, Ragna."

"But you don't understand," she cried, "surely you can't know, or you
would not say that!"

"I do know," he said, still very gravely, "I know all, and because I
realize that you are a victim, because I love you really and want to
have the power to protect you, I ask you plainly: will you be my wife?"

She smiled cynically. It was too much. In the light of her terrible
disillusionment she could not understand the sincerity of the man. Her
whole world had fallen in ruins about her and the dust of her broken
idol obscured her vision. Angelescu had made the fatal mistake of
delivering Mirko's message, and Ragna having found one man so utterly
vile, could not, for the moment, believe generosity or magnanimity
possible in any other. "He thinks it would be convenient to have me
married to his aide," she thought. "Find the girl a husband, and all is
comfortably arranged!" She despised Angelescu for lending himself to
such a scheme.

"I think not, thank you," she said in a hard voice.

"You are in love with him?"

"Love him? I despise him!"

"Then think well if you are doing right," he said earnestly, "in
refusing a man who not only loves you but respects you, who is, above
all things, anxious for your welfare."

"I see, you mean that beggars should not be choosers!"

He considered her compassionately, and it was in a very gentle voice
that he said:

"I know that I have not chosen a good time for this--but I had no
choice. To-morrow I must accompany the Prince," his mouth twisted as he
said it, "back to Montegria, but before going I had to see you, I had to
tell you that I love you, that I shall stand by you, that I am at your
disposal, to take, or to leave."

"Very kind of you," she answered in that cold, hard voice, so unlike her
own.

"I see that you are determined to misconstrue me," he said sadly, "and I
am sorry, for surely no man ever offered a woman a more sincere or
whole-hearted devotion than that I lay at your feet. Oh, little Ragna,
if only you would come to me, I should make you forget."

"I think, Count," interrupted Ragna, rising, "that I will go back to my
friends. Will you be good enough--"

"One moment, let me finish," said Angelescu, rising also, "will you not,
at least, hear me out?"

Ragna stopped, but did not reseat herself, so both remained standing.

"I should make it the business of my life to give you happiness, to wipe
from your memory all trace--" She made an impatient gesture. "Forgive my
clumsiness! You will not consider it? To-night you are tired, you are
worn out, perhaps you may think differently later. At least promise me
that if you change your mind you will let me know--I shall come to you
anywhere, at any time. Remember, I love you,--you need only to make the
sign and I will come. And if there ever is anything I can do to help
you, at any time,--if ever you are in trouble, remember that I am
there."

"You are very kind," she said wearily, and again moved towards the door.
This time he made no effort to detain her, but giving her his arm,
conducted her to the door of her own _palco_. She turned to take leave
of him and gave him her hand which he raised to his lips.

"Thank you for your kindness, Count," she said, adding in a clear, hard
voice: "And tell the Prince that I despise him for his message. Tell him
that no proposition he might make would be accepted."

He saw that although her voice was hard, her eyes were bright with
unshed tears,--another moment and he might have won his cause, or at
least have broken down the barrier of ice she had built about
herself,--but Ragna was afraid to trust herself further; she quickly
entered the box, closing the door behind her.

"Poor child," he murmured, "poor, poor child!"

He returned to his box, the one that Mirko had engaged for the evening,
and throwing on his greatcoat took his hat and hurried out.

It was drizzling but he did not call a cab; thrusting his hands into his
pockets, he strode up the shining, wet street, his head sunk forward. It
was true that he had loved Ragna ever since the trip on the _Norje_; her
fair head had been ever before his eyes; shining like a lode star from
afar, though he had had no thought of ever seeing her again. In his
pocketbook he carried the little pencil sketch he had made of her, and
her notes with the brief words of thanks for his New Year's cards. He
was not a sentimental man, but his mind was of a rather dogged quality.
Ragna's girlish innocence and charm had made a profound impression on
him, and that impression persisted with a curious tenacity; she had
become his ideal woman, and stood to him for all that sisters might have
been, all that he desired in the wife never to be his. To think of her
now, hurt and hardened, her innocence trampled and crushed, her girlhood
soiled beyond remedy, to think of her morally alone, stripped of the
protection of maidenhood, her wounded and suspicious pride refusing the
help of his strong arm, maddened him.

He entered the hotel and went straight to Mirko's room. The Prince was
lying on a couch, smoking, the picture of lazy comfort; the contrast
between his appearance and the visible wretchedness of the girl he had
just left added fuel to the flame of Angelescu's indignation.

"Well, Otto, what did she say?"

"She refused, as I told you she would."

"Did she? Oh, well, she'll probably console herself," he growled.

Angelescu took a step forward, his brow drawn menacingly over his
blazing eyes.

"Have you no shame?"

"My good Otto, what a question! Of course, I am overcome with shame! I
am glad the girl had the spirit to go to the ball and amuse herself--"

"How dare you--"

"Don't excite yourself, Otto, I beg! Let us say, then, she went to the
ball without amusing herself. She shows a fine, independent spirit too,
in refusing--"

"I shall forget that you are my Prince presently, and then--"

"Don't, Otto, it would be so unwise! Now what else did she have to say?
Accused me all round, eh?"

"She said nothing of you except that she despised you."

"And then? I suppose you agreed with her?"

"I asked her to be my wife."

"And she jumped at the chance?"

"She refused."

"By Jove! Refused your noble offer?"

Angelescu's face was livid, a muscle worked in his thin cheeks, his eyes
looked like a lion's about to spring; his hand crept to his side where
the hilt of his sabre should have been, but he was not in uniform; his
short hair bristled on his head; with a supreme effort he held himself
in check. His impulse was to throw himself on the other and silence his
sarcastic tongue forever, but his military discipline stood him in good
stead; the man before him was his Prince and therefore inviolable. Mirko
watched him curiously, as though measuring the strength of his
endurance. When he was able to regain control of his voice it was tense
and hard; he jerked out his sentences as though each one represented a
struggle.

"I have known you, Prince, ever since you were a baby, I have played
with you, worked with you, served you faithfully and well. I knew you to
be wild, reckless, selfish--but I never thought you would sink to this;
to ruin an innocent young girl and then turn it into a jest. I am older
than you, at your father's wish I have been brought up like a brother to
you. I have stood by you through thick and thin, no man has had a more
loyal friend and servant than I have been to you--but this is the end.
You are no longer my Prince, I shall wear your uniform no longer.
To-night we stand here, not as Prince and subject, but as man to man."

The Prince sat up.

"Nonsense, Otto! Do you mean to say that after all these years, you
would desert me on account of a girl?"

"I shall send in my papers to-morrow," said Otto, and looking the Prince
in the eyes he added, "if I were wearing my sabre now, I should break it
in your presence--you are not worthy of the service of a true blade!"
His hands made the gesture of snapping the blade over his knee; he
turned on his heel.

Mirko sprang from the couch, upsetting the little table standing by it,
with its box of cigarettes, decanter and glass. The bottle crashed to
the floor and a sticky stream of liqueur crept over the carpet.

"Otto!" he cried. The other turned stiffly.

"Otto, you are right, I don't deserve a friend like you,--I have behaved
like a blackguard. You may believe me or not,--I didn't mean to do the
girl any harm. She--she went to my head, she maddened me! Hang it all!
Why didn't she keep me at arm's length?"

"She trusted you," said Angelescu accusingly.

"Now look here, Otto, as man to man, if that girl in her heart of hearts
hadn't wished me--"

"You damned cur," flashed Angelescu, "_you_ to lay the blame on a woman!
If you say another word I shall choke you where you stand. I--"

He threw out his arm, then realizing that he could control himself no
longer, he wrenched open the door and strode out, flinging it to behind
him.

Mirko flushed angrily. That he should have humbled himself to meet this
response!

"You'll pay for that, my friend," he snarled. He turned thinking to pour
himself a glass of liqueur and the sight of the broken decanter and its
wasted contents completed his discomfiture. He was furious with
Angelescu, furious with Ragna, all the more so as he was distinctly
conscious of having played a very ugly role.

"Damn the girl, I wish I had never seen her!"

His servant, coming in response to his furious summons, met with a most
unpleasant reception; he was used, however, to acting as _souffre
douleur_ in his Royal Master's fits of anger and philosophically bore
the storm of invective hurled at his defenceless head.

The outburst had its usual calming effect on Mirko, who to do him
justice, soon felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. Most of all he
regretted the estrangement of Angelescu; from boyhood up he had always
depended on Otto's devotion and clear judgment, and to have lost such a
friend over such a foolish affair would be much too hard luck, a
punishment far in excess of his fault. The wrong done to Ragna was much
less important in his eyes; like every Don Juan, he had a contempt for
women, and now that his passion had subsided he wondered what had
attracted him in the girl, who after all was no great beauty.

"I will see what can be done to-morrow," he promised himself; he felt
even ready to humble himself if necessary, to draw Otto back to him
again, never doubting that by some means he would succeed in doing so.
But alas for his plans! When he awoke late the next morning and sent his
valet to inquire for the aide, the man came back with the announcement
that Count Angelescu had left by the early train.



CHAPTER VI


Ragna was awakened by the maid knocking at her door. She sat up holding
her throbbing head between her hands, trying to marshal in her mind the
fragmentary memories of yesterday, that seemed like bits of a bad dream.
They fell into their places, one by one,--the drive, the terrible
evening at the _veglione_, her conversation with Angelescu, the return
to her box, and the joyous welcome from her party, who were growing
anxious for her--especially Astrid, consumed by remorse, for having
deserted her in the crowd--

"And for that fool of a Lotten, who dances like a knitting-machine,
anyhow, and let me get bumped and trampled on, and dragged to pieces in
the crush!" Then the sleepy return home.

"Why don't you stop knocking, Rosa? I don't want to get up yet!" she
called fretfully.

"I have a letter for you, Signorina, it is marked '_urgent_.'"

Ragna rose wearily, and unlocked the door; Rosa brought in the breakfast
tray and set it down, then fished an envelope out of her apron pocket,
and having handed it to Ragna, left the room. She would willingly have
lingered to chatter about the _veglione_, but Ragna's manner did not
invite conversation.

Ragna relocked the door, and returned to bed to read her letter; it was
from Angelescu, and ran as follows:

     "MY DEAR CHILD,

     "I shall be leaving Rome in a few hours. After what has happened. I
     cannot remain any longer as aide-de-camp to H. R. H. and I am
     returning home to resign my commission in the service, and to see
     that it takes effect immediately. After that, my plans are
     undecided.

     "I meant what I said to you last evening, and I refuse to consider
     your answer as definite. I beg of you to take some time to think
     over the proposition. I shall wait patiently for your ultimate
     decision, which I hope may be in my favour. In any case, should you
     ever stand in need of a friend, remember that now and always, I
     shall be at your service. Unfortunately for myself, perhaps, I am
     not a man who changes, and ten years from now I shall still be the
     same towards you as I am to-day. A letter sent to the address in
     the lower left-hand corner will find me always.

     "Believe me,

     "Your devoted friend and servant,"

     (here followed the signature and address.)

Ragna read the letter through twice, thoughtfully. Its intentional
restraint she took for coldness. Angelescu, in his effort to suit his
language to her manner of the night before, and to avoid antagonizing
her by any untimely warmth of expression, had overreached himself for,
with her, the inevitable reaction had set in and the formality of the
letter froze the feelings in her that a greater tenderness might have
called forth. She misconstrued the delicacy of his intention, taking it
for the ceremonious chivalry of a man, who, while repenting of his
impulsive and quixotic offer, feels that he cannot withdraw it, and is
prepared to abide by it, regardless of inclination.

Going to her writing table, she answered at once.

     "DEAR COUNT ANGELESCU,

     "I appreciate fully the kindness and generosity of your offer, but
     do not feel that I can accept it. I sincerely hope that you will
     not think of breaking off your career on my account, it would seem
     to me most unnecessary, as there is no real reason why you should
     take up the cudgels on my behalf--especially, since I desire you
     not to.

     "Thanking you with all my heart for your kindness,

     "I remain,

     "Sincerely yours,

     "RAGNA ANDERSEN."

She folded the sheet, put it in an envelope, which she addressed as
directed in Angelescu's letter, gummed down the flap, and sealed it. She
sat weighing the letter meditatively in her hand, a moment or two before
she rang the bell to call Rosa. Did something tell her that she was
throwing away her own chance of happiness, and wounding the one heart
that could really love and understand her?

After the letter had gone, she sat on at the table, resting her cheek on
the palm of her hand. It was a wet, gloomy morning, the cold light gave
the shabby pension room a dreary look; on the floor lay her clothes as
she had stepped out of them the evening before; the black domino lay
over the back of a chair, and the mask swung rakishly by one of its
elastics, from a knob of the dressing glass.

On the mantel-shelf stood a vase of half-withered flowers, whose
dropping petals littered the hearth below. Ragna took a miserable
delight in the untidiness of the room; it seemed of a piece with the
confusion of her life, a fit setting for her misery of mind and body.

Rosa entered quietly, with an armful of wood and a pine cone, and
kneeling before the fireplace, soon had a merry little blaze. Seeing
that Ragna had not touched her breakfast, she poured out a cup of
coffee, and taking it over to the girl, obliged her to drink it.

"Go back to bed, Signorina, you are still tired from the _veglione_."

Ragna shook her head, but Rosa took her by the arm, and led her gently
over, putting her to bed as though she were a child. This done, she
proceeded to straighten up the room, folding the clothes neatly and
laying them in the cupboard.

"_Ecco!_" she said, "that is better! You shall not get up for luncheon,
Signorina, I will bring you a tray here."

"You are a good soul, Rosa," said Ragna, touched by the maid's kindly
attentions.

Rosa smiled cheerfully, and went out, closing the door gently behind
her.

The fire had given Ragna an idea; she crept out of bed and took from her
writing case Angelescu's sketch of Prince Mirko, and the portraits of
him she had cut from illustrated journals. She looked at them in turn,
the handsome, smiling, indifferent face looked out from the slips of
paper, as it always had, but to her it was changed. She saw now, as she
had not before, the selfish hardness of the sensual mouth, the
nonchalant boldness of the almond-shaped eyes, the impress of
self-indulgence over the whole face. This, then, was her dream-hero,
this! Have all idols clay feet, she wondered? It was more than love she
had lost, more than innocence,--it was the ideal of all her girlhood,
all her maiden hopes and dreams. Tears filled her eyes; suddenly she
lifted the pictures to her lips, and kissed them passionately, then
dashing the tears away, she laid them, one by one on the fire, watched
them flame up and shrivel to fluttering black rags,--and crept back to
bed.

"It is over," she thought, "all over. I will put the past behind me, as
though nothing had been; it is destroyed, as the flames destroyed the
pictures. It is idiotic to pretend that one little hour of weakness can
ruin one's whole life! I shall put it behind me, I shall forget it all,
I shall wipe it from my memory. It shall not influence my life--except
that I shall be wiser in the future."

So said Ragna; she had yet to realize that the future is made up of the
past--of a thousand pasts, that one can no more wipe a past event out of
one's life, than one can discard all one's past personality, the growth
of years and of circumstance, and put on a new one. Every act has it
consequence, and the complex interweaving of these consequences build up
what men call fate,--also we are bound as much by the consequences of
the acts of others, as by those of our own,--we are bound by the acts of
countless generations past. Every day that passes, we dislodge stones
that shall rebound, we know not where, or when, in the years to come,
stones that shall wound men and women we will never know, who will be
unconscious of our existence.



CHAPTER VII


The whole party was dull as a result of the _veglione_, following in
that the general relaxation in the surrounding atmosphere.

With the evening of _Mardi Gras_, the carnival gaiety had reached its
highest pitch, the flame had burnt itself out with the _moccoli_ and the
reaction precipitated the city from an orgy of light and colour into the
grey asceticism of fasting and prayer. Rome, for six weeks, turned her
back on the World, the Flesh and the Devil. The gay crowds who had
paraded the streets in mask and domino now flocked to the churches for
early Mass, the charming sinner sought the confessional, and if, on
Sundays, irrepressible Frivolity lifted a corner of the pall of Piety,
giving the outer world a glimpse of twinkling eyes and flashing teeth,
Monday promptly replaced the black veil. Even the sun was keeping Lent;
day after day the dawn rose on grey, sodden skies. Draggled black-robed
priests plodded unceasingly through the rain, and dripping multitudes
thronged the churches tramping the slime of the streets in over the
marble floors.

"I've had enough of this!" Astrid complained over and over again, "for
Heaven's sake let us get to some place where the sun shines!"

Estelle Hagerup had lost her enthusiasm for the Eternal City, with all
the pictures covered up in the churches, and the awful weather that kept
one from getting about there was nothing left to do, she declared. Even
listening to a sweet-voiced gentleman in striped trousers, singing
"_Lontano del mar_" is apt to pall on one, especially if the said
gentleman happens to know no other song.

To Ragna the penitential weeks were most irksome, as above all else she
wished to forget, and the very spirit of the season, imbued as it was
with introspection, examination of conscience, and the reviewing of past
days, would, in spite of her efforts, insistently present to her mental
vision that which she most desired to blot from her memory. She shunned
the churches for the very reiteration of the endless litanies seemed to
take possession of her thoughts and drive them in a vicious circle,
round and round and ever back again to the same old theme. Pagan Rome
was no better; filled as it was, with painful association it could
afford her no relief. It was with unfeigned joy then, that she greeted
Fru Bjork's decision to leave the Eternal City for Florence.

So they packed their boxes and set their faces Northward. Estelle
Hagerup had proposed a stop at Assisi and a deviation to Perugia, but
Astrid yawningly declared she had seen enough churches to last her the
rest of her life, and Ragna was too indifferent to care, so the
proposition was overruled and it was decided to take the journey direct.

They drove to the railway station through a steady downpour, the rain
dripped from the roofs, spattered up from the pavements, ran in streams
from the umbrellas of the few passers-by in the streets.

"Well," said Astrid, "if this is Sunny Italy, give me Christiania!"

They had installed themselves in an empty second-class compartment and
thought to keep it to themselves, but just as the guard was vociferating
for the third time "_Pronti!_" and "_Partenza!_" the door was flung
open and a man got in. He was of middle height, neither stout nor thin,
and might have been of any age between thirty and fifty. His dark
grizzled hair was brushed back from a high, rather prominent forehead,
and his dark grey eyes looked out with a kindly expression from behind a
gold-mounted pince-nez. He had a good nose and his mouth was firm and
well modelled, though partially hid by his short moustache and dark
beard. He bowed to the ladies and having bestowed a heavy valise in the
rack above his head, settled himself to read a newspaper which he drew
from his pocket. Ragna noticed his hands which were well-shaped and had
the suppleness and delicacy of touch belonging to medical men,
especially surgeons--also they were scrupulously well-kept.

The train moved out slowly over the Campagna, towards the hills, and
Ragna leaned out the window, taking a last look at the city where she
had left faith and innocence. As the city receded in the misty distance,
the Pagan relics disappeared; the dome of St. Peter's towered mystically
above the town, drawing the eye irresistibly, seeming to say: "All else
passes, but I the Faith of the Ages, I remain." Then a heavy curtain of
rain swept down, obscuring the view, and she sank back in her seat. The
train swerved round a curve, and with the change of direction the rain
blew in at the open window; Ragna tugged at the strap, trying to raise
it, but it resisted her efforts.

"Allow me," said a voice over her shoulder, in French; it was the man of
the newspaper. He took the strap from her hands, and with a jerk sent
the refractory pane into place.

"It is a wet day," he remarked as though he felt called upon to
apologise for the climate. "I regret that _ces dames_ should be seeing
Italy in such unfavourable circumstances."

Fru Bjork answered him. "Indeed, we cannot complain, we have had such
beautiful weather until quite recently."

"Mesdames have been long in Rome?"

"Three months."

"And you enjoyed the Carnival?"

"It was great fun!" interposed Astrid.

"Too much fun," said Estelle, lowering the guide-ook she had been
reading, and peering out over the rims of her spectacles. "You look a
perfect rag, Astrid, and Ragna too. Too much dissipation!"

"Ah!" exclaimed the gentleman, deprecatingly, glancing from one girl to
another, adjusting his pince-nez the while, "mademoiselles are tired,
then--from too much sight-seeing, perhaps?"

Ragna flushed and made no reply, but Astrid, throwing an angry glance at
Estelle, answered:

"Everyone is not as strong as a horse, and the stairs in Rome are simply
awful."

"Mademoiselle is perhaps a little anæmic?" Then as the girl looked
surprised he added, "I beg your pardon, but I am a physician and have
seen too strenuous sight-seeing have that effect on many young lady
travellers. Allow me to present myself: Dr. Ferrari, of Florence." He
bowed in the direction of Fru Bjork who responded, naming herself, and
the others of her party.

The Doctor bowed to each in turn but his eyes rested longest on
Ragna--their kindly penetration could give no offence, however, one
instinctively trusted the man. The girl puzzled him, her gravity seemed
unnatural in one so young; she seemed consciously keyed up to a certain
pitch of conduct, her smile was forced, and when the tension was relaxed
owing to her thinking herself unobserved, or to a moment of
forgetfulness, the corners of her mouth drooped and her eyes fixed their
gaze on a point in space, as though visualizing something of ineffable
sadness. In this state she would start on being spoken to and a flash,
almost of fear, would pass in her eyes.

As the day passed he studied her more and more. "She has had some
terrible experience," he said to himself, "but she is fighting it down,
and will succeed." He also observed that whatever might be haunting her
secret thoughts, it was unknown to the others of the party. He set
himself to distract her mind, to amuse her, and was rewarded by her
instant response to his efforts; she brightened perceptibly under the
influence of his respectfully friendly manner.

Fru Bjork was charmed by this acquaintance chance had thrown in their
way; never a suspicious woman, looking for good rather than evil, she
succumbed readily to her instinctive confidence in him. Before the
journey was over, she had tentatively sounded him as to his opinion on
Astrid's health, promising herself a regular consultation when a more
favourable opportunity should offer. Astrid liked him, and even Estelle
Hagerup, though in her estimation men were but poor things at best, and
only deserving of consideration in proportion to their scientific or
artistic attainments.

Fru Bjork offered the Doctor a share of the substantial luncheon
provided for the party, and he accepted, insisting on contributing as
his share in the picnic, some _fiaschetti_ of _vino_ d'Orveito. He
filled the little travelling glasses of each in turn, and handed them
about, overriding Ragna's objection that she did not care for wine,
laughingly ordering her to drink it by virtue of his professional
authority. She raised the glass to her lips, but as she tasted the wine,
the colour left her cheeks and the glass slipping from her hand was
shattered on the floor of the compartment. There was a general outcry
from all but Ferrati, who watched her with a grave, almost worried
expression.

"How clumsy I am!" said Ragna, blushing and laughing nervously. "I can't
imagine how I came to drop it!"

The Doctor carefully gathered up the pieces of glass, wrapped them in a
paper, and threw them out the window. He forebore to offer the girl
another glass of wine and she was grateful to him for his intuitive
consideration.

"The wine reminds her of something," he thought.

Estelle presently spoke of the singing lessons she expected to take in
Florence, and Astrid also said she would like to cultivate her voice.

"Does Mademoiselle Andersen also sing?" inquired Ferrati.

Ragna shook her head.

"But you would like to take up something to pass the time?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Ragna with evident eagerness.

"Why not try painting then, or drawing?"

"Oh, I do not think I could."

"All the more reason for learning, then--and you will at least gain the
advantage of being able to appreciate the work of our great Masters, in
a way that a person who knows nothing of painting never can."

"I should love to have drawing lessons," said Astrid, always eager for
anything new. "We used to like them at the convent, do you remember,
Ragna?"

"Yes, but they were so silly, nothing but set copies."

"I think it would be a good thing for both you girls," said Fru Bjork.
"Perhaps Dr. Ferrati may be able to recommend me a good drawing-master
for you?"

"I think I can, Madame. There is a young artist, a friend of mine, who,
owing to reverses of fortune in his family, has been thrown on his own
resources, and would be glad of the lessons. He is an excellent
draughtsman, and I am sure the young ladies would learn more with him in
a short time, than with a professor of the classic school."

"I like that idea," said Fru Bjork.

She felt that it would be good for both girls to have some interest.
Astrid's light-hearted flirtations in Rome, and Ragna's long solitary
rambles appeared almost equally reprehensible, besides, drawing was a
harmless, ladylike pursuit. She determined to push the matter and after
some further discussion it was arranged that Dr. Ferrati should bring
his artist friend to meet the ladies, the second evening after their
arrival in Florence.

Ragna listened to it all, taking no part in the conversation, assenting
listlessly to Fru Bjork's good-natured questions; her first eagerness
had passed and she had fallen again into the slough of indifference.
Ferrati had not failed to notice her too eager assent to his random
suggestion, and her subsequent apathy. "She needs some occupation," he
thought, and urged the project more than with his habitual prudence, he
would have thought advisable. "It will be an excellent thing for
Valentini, too," he said to himself; "it will give him an interest and
take him out of himself."



CHAPTER VIII


Egidio Valentini was a young man of about thirty, a Roman born, full of
the civic pride that even now stirs the bosom of those who can say:
"_Civis Romanus sum_"--flaunting the superiority conferred on her
children by the Eternal City, in the face of less fortunate mortals.

Educated by the Jesuit Fathers, spoiled by an indulgent family, he knew
no law but his own pleasure, no restraint but that imposed by policy or
incontrovertible circumstance. Endowed with a high degree of cleverness,
and with a dominant personality, he was one who would undoubtedly mould
his surroundings. Of medium stature with small hands and feet, muscular
and well proportioned, he yet lacked the careless grace characteristic
of his countrymen. His head, well set on broad shoulders had a nobility
of modelling about the forehead curiously belied by the sensual mouth
and obstinate chin. His eyes were dark and of a peculiar brilliance,
shaded by beetling black brows which almost met at the base of his well
shaped nose--slightly twisted to the right, however. This slight
crookedness of the nose gave to his face, in certain aspects, an
expression of low cunning. In spite of these defects, his appearance was
distinctly pleasing, and if, to the close observer, faults of character
corresponding to those of feature might be apparent, the blunt bonhomie
of his manner, and its too insistent sincerity conveyed to most people
the impression of sturdy honesty, while his carefully timed and placed
liberality gave him the reputation of open-handed generosity. He never
gave or lent where the transaction would not redound to his credit or
interest, but the public could not know that. He lived for the house
tops and whatever his own closet may have seen of him, there was none to
repeat.

People said of him: "His bark is worse than his bite," and showed him an
indulgence not always accorded to brusquerie.

He had come to Florence a few months previously, his family having lost
the greater part of a fortune in unsuccessful speculations. Cast on his
own resources, he turned to account the decided artistic talent he
possessed, and even in so short a time had succeeded in winning
recognition as one of the foremost rising young artists of the time.
This was not accomplished without hard work, but a love of work, and
especially of his chosen profession, with a tenacity of purpose rarely
equalled, were among Egidio's best qualities. One would have thought
that the congenial occupation and the promise of success would have
brought contentment, but Valentini never ceased to lament the change in
his fortunes and his lost inheritance, which growing daily in his
imagination soon increased from the modest competency it had been, to a
princely fortune. He never tired of repeating the story.

"My friends, it was terrible! In one day, from being a prince to become
a beggar!"

Let it be said, however, that his pride kept him from asking the
assistance of any man, and if he rose, it was by his own unaided effort.
It was this quality of independence that, as much as anything, had drawn
to him the friendship of Enrico Ferrati. They had been at school
together as boys, but for years their lives had laid apart. Ferrati, on
taking his degree, had settled in Florence, where a flourishing practice
rewarded his effort, and it was to Florence that Egidio also betook
himself, his pride rebelling against life in Rome in the changed
conditions of his fortunes. Ferrati at once seized the opportunity of
renewing the old intimacy and his sympathy and respect were as balm to
the wounds of Valentini. Ferrati, on his part, attributed to the severe
disappointment undergone, the changes he could not fail to remark in his
friend, though indeed in his company Valentini was at his best; the
devoted friendship of Ferrati called out all that was best in his
nature, and Enrico never saw the depths underlying the surface manner.
It would, perhaps, be better to say that in the company of Ferrati, the
underlying meannesses vanished; the affection Valentini had for him was
the one pure, disinterested love of his selfish nature.

Valentini heard with slight enthusiasm Ferrati's plan of a course of
drawing lessons to two young Norwegian girls.

"Carissimo," he said, "pot-hooks are not in my line." He was sitting
with Ferrati, over a glass of wine at the end of their dinner in a
modest _trattoria_.

"I think you will teach them more than pot-hooks, Egidio; one of them,
at least could be taught to see and appreciate, besides you must keep
the pot boiling, you know."

"It would be a loss of time. Why should I lose my time teaching girls
what they should have learnt at school? Let them get a governess, or a
guide-book!"

"I had thought it would interest you."

"Are they pretty, at least?"

"One is pretty, the other is something more," said Ferrati, lighting
with care a black Tuscan cigar. Valentini followed suit, and they puffed
away in silence some moments.

"One of them is more than pretty, you said?"

"Yes, she suggests possibilities, she has an interesting face. But I was
thinking of you, really, more than of the girls. It would do you the
world of good, Egidio, it would take you out of yourself. You need
humanising, disinfecting, if I may say so. How do you pass your time?
You paint all day, you eat a bad dinner, and sometimes work all evening,
or else you go to the Circolo degli Artisti and play billiards and smoke
more '_Toscani_' than is good for you--and all the time you mope. Now
these lessons will give you something else to think about, they will
bring in some money which is a consideration, and moreover, I believe
you will be doing a good action, for I think that one of these girls has
had some trouble and needs distraction quite as much as you do."

"Is that the pretty one?" asked Valentini. "I don't mind consoling
pretty girls. It is easier than teaching them to draw. They all want to
do sweet things like Raphael's cherubs, and when you won't hear of it
they sulk."

Ferrati drew out his watch.

"Well, will you take them on as pupils or will you not? I must be
getting home."

"There's no hurry, your wife's away."

"Still, I must get back, I have some work to do. Tell me, Egidio, will
you give these lessons?"

"Oh, I suppose I shall--"

"Then you will come with me to the pension to-morrow evening to be
presented to the ladies?"

Egidio yawned and stretched his arms. "How insistent you are! I'll come
and have a look at them, _e poi vedremo_! Understand, I reserve the
right to withdraw if they don't please me."

Ferrati laughed.

"You might be the Great Mogul from the way you talk instead of a
struggling painter! Your airs may impress the ladies but they don't me."

They went out into the clear, cool air, and walked up the Via Calzaioli
towards the Piazza della Signoria. The street was brilliantly lit, and
thronged by a mixed crowd of young men of the town, officers,
tradespeople, and women. It was a good-humoured crowd, out for
amusement. Groups of girls with linked arms smiled saucily at the young
men they met, meeting impudent remarks with equally impudent
retorts,--the _ciane_ of Florence have always been celebrated for their
mordant wit. Others caught up the jests and quips and bandied them
about, tossed them farther afield with additions and modifications. Now
and again a snatch of song rose and bands of young men of the _becero_
class, a soft felt hat jammed on the back of the head, thumbs in
armholes, rolled along sliding their feet and intoning a chorus, "_E se
la vuoi regirar la ruota_."

Ferrati sauntered slowly up the street, absorbed in thought; Egidio's
eyes wandered restlessly from side to side, scrutinizing the glances
turned on him, seeking to read approval of his person in the eyes of the
women, curiosity, recognition or admiration in those of the men. By the
church of Orsammichele they parted, Egidio going to his little apartment
consisting of a studio and a small bedroom, on the top floor of one of
the grim old tower-like houses of which there are many in that part of
the city. He climbed up the long stair leading to his floor and letting
himself into his rooms with a cumbrous latchkey locked the door behind
him. It was the studio he had entered, a large bare room, the ceiling
rather lower than is usual in Italian houses, being just under the roof.
The moonlight falling on a livid patch from the sky-light showed a
disordered litter of sketches and painting materials, a model's throne,
on which stood a lay figure, some ordinary wooden chairs, a table, and
near the window, an easel with a picture on it, a chair and a small
Turkish stool supporting the palette and brushes. A small doorway at the
farther side opened into the bedroom.

Valentini lit the hanging lamp and drawing the upright easel under it
settled himself to work. He was preparing the drawing of a water colour
study of costume. He worked steadily for half an hour or so, then pushed
back the easel with an expression of disgust and walked to the window,
lighting a _toscano_ as he did so. The moonlight lay clear and cold over
the city roofs, throwing the endless variety of chimney-pots into bold
relief. As he stood looking out the clocks of the city struck ten--not
in unison, each striking in turn and making the most of it. The bells of
S. Spirito across the river pealed the hour. A carriage rattled over the
stone pavements a street or two away, but just below all was dark and
silent, from the Via Calzaioli around the corner came the subdued hubbub
of the promenading crowd.

The young man closed the window and went back to his seat, passing his
hand wearily over his forehead.

"Another of those headaches, and this thing must be finished by
to-morrow noon!" he groaned, and set resolutely to work.

At the same hour, Ragna was leaning out of her window, gazing at the
silvery Arno, bordered by its golden chain of lamps and barred by its
light crowned bridges.

The pension was on the Lung Arno Acciajoli between the Ponte Vecchio,
and the St. Trinità bridge, so that to the right she saw the Carraja
bridge, and beyond that the long sweeping curve of the river towards the
Cascini, and on the other hand above the Ponte Vecchio, the cypress
crowned height of S. Miniato shadowy against the star-powdered sky.

"Here I shall find peace," she said to herself.

The dark spire of S. Spirito across the river drew her gaze, and beyond
and behind it, on Bellosguardo, a white house stood out softly in the
moonlight. The river rippled by gently, slipping past the stained walls
of the gloomy old houses opposite overhung by the mystery of their
forbidding black height, and out again into the light, reflecting the
brightness of moon and stars, in a thousand flickering wavelets; from
the _pescaja_ far below came the muffled sound of the water flowing over
the dam.

Down on the street some men were playing mandolins and guitars, and
singing in mellow passionate voices; the plaintive minor refrain of the
_stornelli_ rose in the still night, and the girl's heart ached with the
beauty of it all. Then silently, slowly, tears fell from her eyes; she
suddenly felt lonely, miserable, shut out from love, shorn of the
illusions that should be hers by right. The hated face of Mirko
interposed itself between her and the beauty of the night, and the old
shame gripped her by the throat. With a choking sob she flung the
casement to and crept into bed. From below the words of the song,
swelling in the soft spring air, floated up to her: "_Metti anche tu,
la veste bianca--_"

Ah, yes, the bride's dress of virgin white was indeed for her!



CHAPTER IX


The day had been a tiring one, for Estelle Hagerup had obliged the girls
to spend it with her, sight-seeing, and the Uffizi and Pitti galleries
stretched in endless dreary miles of painted canvas and chilly statuary
in Ragna's tired head. Dinner was over and the motley collection of old
maids, mothers with bevies of plain daughters and travelling clergymen
had settled themselves for the evening in the tawdry drawing-room. Fru
Bjork had taken out her knitting, Estelle was setting down in her diary
the doings of the day. Astrid was deep in a book, only Ragna sat idle,
her hands lightly clasped in her lap, her head resting against the back
of the chair, the eyes half closed, the lips slightly parted. Ferrati
nudged Valentini's arm as they entered the _salotto_.

"That is she, in that armchair in the corner."

"She is like a Botticelli," Valentini answered as they moved towards Fru
Bjork, who rose to greet them. She was pleased by Valentini and
delighted to see Ferrati again. Valentini drew up a chair by Ragna, on
being presented, and asked her in a brusque way, what were her
impressions of Italy. She felt slightly uneasy under the bold scrutiny
of his eyes, but the abruptness of his manner pleased her--it was a
contrast to that of Mirko! Ferrati, seeing that they both seemed
interested in each other, congratulated himself on his brilliant idea.

When the men took their departure they left the most favourable
impression with all the party, and the drawing lessons had been
definitely arranged. They took place in Egidio's study, the girls going
together, otherwise unaccompanied, as it never entered Fru Bjork's
innocent mind that a chaperone might be advisable. The lessons were
supplemented by visits to the galleries, and these visits opened a new
world to Ragna's wondering eyes. She awoke to colour and form as with
Mirko she had become aware of the life of antiquity, its fulness and
beauty. Here she learned the wonders of applied imagination, of purity
of vision and power in execution. Valentini led her especially to
appreciate the earlier artists, Ghirlandajo, Botticelli, Pollaiuolo,
Francia, Filippo and Filippino Lippi, and many were the pleasant
pilgrimages taken to the various churches and galleries to see this or
that example of the Master under study. The tentative charm of the
Primitives had pleased Ragna, but it was the pagan spirit of Botticelli
that really appealed to her, the charm of his Graces dancing their round
on the flower starred grass under over-arching boughs, the nymph-like
grace and free forward swing of the Flora, the wonderful sinuous outline
of the Venus, light as the shell on which she stands,--all of these
things, as apart from life, as truly unmoral as the flowers themselves,
soothed her with the suggestion of the futility of a conventional moral
standard. She found the angels of the Beato Angelico irritating; in
their own way they seemed as apart from morality, as flowerlike as the
nymphs, the innocence of their faces was something non-terrestrial, they
were as radiant visions seen in dreams; yes that was it, they lacked the
frank paganism, the pure humanity, that is the charm of Botticelli;
their unsullied innocence implying a corresponding ignorance of evil,
appeared to her almost an insult. How could these celestial beings,
whose faces reflect the constant vision of the Crystal Sea and the Great
White Throne, be fairly compared to poor mortals who bear the burthen
and heat of the day? They were as incorporeal as any bodiless cherubim.

Astrid did not take much interest in these artistic pilgrimages and she
soon tired of the lessons. Although unwilling to work regularly or
steadily her natural aptitude soon enabled her to make pretty little
sketches, in which the delicacy of colour and facility of treatment
atoned to some extent for the faulty drawing. Incapable of prolonged or
serious effort, she was pleased with the progress made and could see no
reason for hard work. She was capricious and flighty, and Valentini,
seeing her complete inability for application ceased to urge her,
letting her take her own easy way, since she was so evidently satisfied
with it and the results. Ragna, on the contrary, could not be satisfied
with what was merely pleasing; she was both conscientious and thorough
and consequently had less to show for her labours than her friend. Her
drawings were almost painful in the evident struggle for exactitude,
they had a grim, almost Dutch character. Her work looked "tight"--she
was one who would never attain to facility of execution. Still she
persevered and her work if not exactly pleasing, was interesting, and
showed promise of talent.

Easter had passed with the usual quaint ceremonial of the Scoppio del
Carro, and afterwards the weather grew rapidly warm--a continuous
succession of soft spring days, the crown of the year in Tuscany,
celebrated in earlier times with the _feste del Calendi maggio_. About
this time Ragna began to suffer from headaches, as well as vague
physical discomfort, and on several occasions was obliged to absent
herself from the studio.

Egidio had been observing her closely. Something that Ferrati had said
of her manner suggesting some unpleasant experience in the past, had
stuck in his mind, and as he watched her, returned to him again and
again.

That would explain the girl's fits of despondency, and her almost
feverish application to her work. The more he observed her, the greater
grew his curiosity. It must have been a love affair he decided, first
because an Italian can imagine no other cause for the inexplicable in a
woman's character, and then because she objected so unmistakably to
their conversation ever taking a sentimental turn. She was curiously
reticent too, he thought, as to her impressions of Rome, indeed it was
impossible to get her to talk at any length about Rome at all. Now,
Egidio was young and a Latin, and in spite of the self-control of which
he boasted, it was clearly impossible that he should continue to be for
so long and almost constantly in the company of a pretty girl, whose
dazzlingly white skin and golden hair were to his Italian eyes as the
fair fruit of some Garden of the Hesperides, without feeling the effects
of it. His prudence forbade him, however, to make any advances of a
compromising nature until he had assured himself of the material
advantages to be obtained. To this end he availed himself of the
opportunity offered on those occasions when Ragna was unable to come to
the studio, by leading Astrid to talk of her friend. Astrid, nothing
loath, chattered on in a light-hearted fashion, talking of their days
together at the Paris Convent, of the life in Christiania, of Ragna's
incomprehensible dislike of society in general and of men in
particular, of Fru Boyesen,--and this interested Valentini most of all.

"Madame la tante must be rich to do all that she does for her niece," he
observed.

"Oh, yes," answered Astrid carelessly. "They say she is the richest
woman in Christiania, and she has always said she will leave her fortune
to Ragna, as she has no children of her own."

Egidio flushed with pleasure, and to hide the gleam in his eyes stooped
to pick up a brush that had fallen on the floor.

"Then Mademoiselle Ragna is quite an heiress?"

"Yes, Ragna will be very well off, some day, but she is such a queer
girl,--I don't think she ever thinks of it at all."

"She is engaged to be married?"

"Oh, no!"

"Yet, she can have no lack of suitors?"

"She had half Christiania at her heels, but there,--I tell you she is
not like other girls, I doubt if she will ever marry. Ragna is queer,
sometimes you know, in Rome now,--" she stopped suddenly.

"Well, what of Rome?"

"Oh, nothing, I don't know!"

"But there must be something, since you say it in that tone of voice. I
am curious, who was there in Rome?" His eyes interrogated her stealthily
over his lowered palette.

It came to Astrid with a shock that perhaps she had not been altogether
discreet--the man's too evident curiosity put her on her guard. She
assumed an air of kittenish dignity.

"No one at all, Signor Valentini, and even if there had been, do you
think I would gossip about my friend's private affairs? I only meant
that in Rome Ragna was curious, more serious than ever perhaps, and
very absorbed in her sight-seeing."

"I suppose you accompanied her, Mademoiselle?"

"Sometimes, other times she went alone."

"Ah!" said Egidio. He saw that Astrid either could not or would not tell
him more than that, and while what might have happened to Ragna in Rome
strongly aroused his curiosity, he yet considered that part as an issue
of little relative importance; on the other hand, he had learned what it
most concerned him to know, Ragna's future prospects.

He had not seen much of Ferrati lately, as the latter had been more than
usually busy, and had had additional work at home, owing to the illness
of his two children, also he did not wish to betray his half-formed
intentions with regard to Ragna, and was afraid that his friend might
guess something. Ferrati had seen more of Ragna, however, than he had of
Egidio, as he was treating Astrid for anæmia, and from what he could see
of Ragna, but principally from what Astrid told him of her and of
Valentini he had a good idea as to what was in the air. He was more
worried than he cared to admit, feeling that he was responsible for the
situation insomuch as he had made it possible by bringing the two young
people together, and his observations of the girl had forced upon him
the recognition of other possibilities as well. He had guessed the
position in which Ragna might probably be placed, but could not
penetrate her attitude towards Valentini, and as she had not seen fit to
give him her confidence he could not presume to sound the state of her
feelings, or to extend a helping hand, much as he longed to do so. It
seemed to him that at all costs he must manage to prolong the actual
situation as long as he could, so as to allow for the development of
possibilities he suspected, for he realized that the most complicated
twists of circumstance have a way of unravelling themselves, and it was
above all things essential to gain time.

He was thankful at least, that Valentini had not come to him for advice,
which he would find it impossible to give, but recognising that the
slightest occurrence would serve as a pretext to precipitate events, and
the season being far advanced, he advised Fru Bjork to take her party to
Venice for the month of June, urging the sea-air of the Lido for Astrid.
Fru Bjork fell in at once with this suggestion, and as Dr. Ferrati's
wife and children were going to the Lido the first week in June, they
agreed to take the journey together. This involved a separation with
Fröken Hagerup who decided to remain on in Florence for a few weeks, and
then join some friends in Switzerland. They were all sorry to part with
her, as in spite of her peculiarities of dress and temperament she had
been an invaluable travelling companion, always full of resource and
enthusiasm. Fru Bjork, however, thought that Astrid's health should be
the first consideration--and after all, they would soon see Estelle
again in Christiania.

Ragna, on her part, was not sorry to leave Florence. The latter part of
the time she had been feeling not quite herself, besides the headaches,
she suffered from the most annoying spells of faintness, which she put
down to the increasing heat and to the many hours she spent in work. Fru
Bjork had suggested her consulting Dr. Ferrati, but she thought it
useless to trouble him for so small a matter, quite sure that the change
of air would be sufficient in itself. As to her feelings concerning
Valentini, she admired his talent and his unconcealed admiration of
herself was as balm to her self-respect--it reinstated her in her own
eyes. She was not in the smallest degree in love with him, nor was she
likely to be, her sentimental disillusion had been too thorough, and her
physical awakening insufficient. It was perhaps the fact that he had
never attempted to make love to her that drew her to him. His bluntness
pleased her as a contrast to Prince Mirko's polish of manner, and she
attributed to him, as a natural consequence, the virtues of constancy
and sincerity,--the reverse of the medal shown her by the Prince. She
had not thought of the possibility of his wishing to marry her, as he
had told her at the beginning of their acquaintance that his actual
position practically forbade him the thought of marriage. His presence
helped her to drown recollection and under his guidance she was rapidly
acquiring fresh interests by her increasing knowledge of the world of
art. The past at times, seemed like a bad dream, and she was already
congratulating herself on the ease with which she was leaving it behind
her. She was sorry to break off her lessons, sorry to leave her beloved
view of S. Miniato and the river, but the siren charm of Venice called
to her imagination, and it was with a comparatively light heart that she
packed her boxes.

Valentini was disagreeably surprised by Fru Bjork's plan; he had been
counting on several weeks more to conduct his siege of the girl's heart,
and this sudden departure dashed the untasted cup from his lips. In vain
he tried to make an occasion for a declaration, although he was aware
from Ragna's attitude that to force the situation in such a way would
probably mean irremediable failure. He was willing to risk all for all,
but during these last days he found no chance of speaking to her alone.
Finally he went to Ferrati and poured out his hopes and disappointment.
Ferrati listened judicially concealing his satisfaction that nothing
definite had as yet occurred, and he counselled Egidio to be patient.

"_Mio caro_," he said, "if you were to declare yourself now, you would
spoil all. The Signorina is certainly not thinking of marriage at the
present moment. Wait!"

"But if I wait," objected Egidio, "she will be gone and my chance with
her!"

"Is this girl the only fish in the sea, then, that you should be so set
on her? Let her go, Egidio! You told me only a few weeks since that you
had no thought of marrying, that women were nothing to you. Let the girl
go, she is not extraordinarily beautiful, she is not rich," (Egidio has
not mentioned Ragna's expectations) "after all is said and done she is a
stranger--believe me, it will be far better for all concerned if you put
her out of your mind."

Egidio looked at his friend suspiciously.

"If you were not already married, I should think--"

Ferrati interrupted him with a laugh.

"No, my friend, personally it is nothing to me, it is for your own sake
and for the sake of the girl herself that I ask you to give up the
idea."

"Why?"

"I don't think it would make for happiness."

"But I do, Rico. I want the girl, she appeals to me, I--I love her."

"Well, wait then, there is no reason for precipitating things."

"But she is going away, I shall lose my chance."

"She may be coming back to Florence, or you could go to Venice later on.
In any case she is not in love with you now, and a few months may
change much."

"What do you mean? Why do you talk in riddles? You know I can't run all
over the country just now, that I have those orders for the London
Society and as for her coming back here you know perfectly well that Fru
Bjork will not return to Florence, she has said so."

"The Signora has said that she will not return, but she may change her
mind, or the Signorina might come back without her--if you love me,
Egidio, do nothing now, wait awhile!

"In any case, even if she were to consent, I don't think the Signorina's
health would permit of her marrying just now--unless--" He broke off
suddenly as if afraid to say more, and rose from the café table where
they were sitting.

"Look here, Egidio, promise me that you won't force the situation now."

"_Va bene, va bene_," said Egidio, and made no effort to detain him. A
light had broken in upon his mystification at Ferrati's last speech.

"So it is that, is it?" he said to himself. "Poor old Rico, he was in
rather a tight place! Ah, well, if it is that she should prove amenable
to reason, and grateful too, and the longer one waits--yes, perhaps Rico
is right after all, about waiting. Vedremo!"



CHAPTER X


The Signora Ferrati made a pleasant travelling companion, and her two
little girls were unusually quiet and well-behaved, for Italian
children, who are generally allowed far more of their elders' society
and privileges, especially as regards eating and sitting up until late
hours, than is at all good for them.

Dr. Ferrati was unable to accompany his family, but had promised to come
to Venice in a fortnight's time. The journey up was uneventful, and the
two parties separated at the railway station, the Signora taking a
_vaporetto_ directly to the Lido, while Fru Bjork and the girls, went to
a small, but comfortable, hotel on the Grand Canal.

That evening Astrid and Ragna hung over the balcony of the latter's
room, gazing in ecstasy at the fairyland spread before their eyes.
Nearly opposite, rose the white dome of S. Maria della Salute, gleaming
shadowy pale against a star-powdered sky; the dark water below, fretted
with silver ripples, flowed silently by, and over its surface sped the
slim dark shapes of gondolas, the gondolier swaying to the rhythm of his
oar, each gondola bearing its little lamp behind the tall steel prow.
Down the canal, from the Rialto, came the _barche_ full of musicians,
gay with Japanese lanterns, and the high transparent emblem "S. Mareo"
or the "Sirena," and surrounded by a growing flotilla of gondolas. The
still air throbbed with the haunting strains of voices, mandolins and
guitars. A strong, clear tenor voice, rose above the others, the notes
vibrating with passion, as they rose and fell.

Astrid squeezed Ragna's hand.

"Oh, isn't it just too heavenly for words!" she murmured.

The charm of it all, in its setting of soft, luminous Italian night,
penetrated both the girls, but in different ways. To Astrid, it was a
delightfully romantic impression, to be recalled with pleasure; to
Ragna, the poignancy of the beauty was tinged with bitterness, and the
very loveliness of it was as a two-edged sword, recalling other Italian
nights and their associations. Try as she would, she could not banish
the past, nor had custom yet made her callous to the memory of what had
happened.

The girls stood on the balcony, until the music stopped, and the boats
drifted away, then they kissed one another good-night, and Astrid went
to her own room.

Ragna, although tired out by the long day's journey, could not sleep;
instead, she lay watching through her mosquito netting the white patch
of light on the floor, and the shadow of the balcony balustrade with its
fretted pattern. She was thinking of Valentini. He had been at the
station that morning to see her off, and his farewell had been so
loverlike as to bring a look of surprised inquiry to Fru Bjork's face.
The flowers he had given her were in a vase on the balcony, as their
strong perfume made it impossible to keep them in the room. She turned
uneasily as she thought of his pressure of her hand, of the intensity of
his dark burning eyes on hers, of the words he had said to her when, for
an instant, he had managed to draw her aside from the others of the
party.

"Signorina, this is not good-bye, but au revoir. You will come back, I
know it, I feel it, and when you come back, it will be to _me_.
Remember," he added with solemnity, "if ever you are in trouble, if ever
you need a friend, I am here!"

At the time, his manner had struck her as curious, and even more so now,
as she thought it over.

"If ever I should be in trouble--" she murmured, "but, why should he
think of my being in trouble? Surely, my trouble is over and done with!
Can he know, can he suspect?--But no, that is quite impossible. I wonder
what he supposes and what he means? Go back to Florence to him? No, I am
not going back."

She wondered if his words might have the virtue of a prophecy, then
laughed at herself. Presently, she turned her hot pillow and threw back
the sheet, for the night was close.

The change of air gave fresh energy to the whole party except Ragna, who
continued pale and languid. Fru Bjork worried over it, and longed for
the coming of Dr. Ferrati whose advice she intended to ask, whether
Ragna wished it or no. As the Doctor had recommended sea-bathing for
Astrid, the three ladies made daily trips to the Lido, and the girls
thoroughly enjoyed their dips in the warm Adriatic. Ragna had always
been a strong swimmer, but here, to her surprise, found that she tired
almost at once, but set it down to the heat. After the long delicious
bath was over the girls wrapped themselves in bath-robes, and lay on the
sands to bake, their heads shielded from the sun by broad-brimmed straw
hats. The strong soft heat and the salt air made them sleepy, the sands
seemed to vibrate in the sunshine, a delightful weariness weighted their
limbs, a drowsy consciousness of complete physical well-being filled
them. It was to Ragna the happiest moment of the day.

The atmosphere alone of Venice gave her a feeling of rest and peace; the
silent gliding of gondolas through the canals, the long drawn-out
sonorous cries of the gondoliers, the soft wash of the water against the
richly tinted walls, all lulled her senses. She realized that afternoon
is the time to see Venice, the strong light of morning throws into
intolerable relief the decay of the city; the St. Martin's Summer of the
glorious Republic requires the mellow haze of the hours before sunset,
as a fading beauty is best seen by candle light, and often in the
afternoon, she would slip away to some old church, and in solitary
musing to steep herself in the wonderful atmosphere of golden autumn.
Most often of all, she went to S. Maria Formosa, and would sit for hours
in contemplation of Palma Vecchio's Santa Barbara. She loved the strong,
voluptuous, calm woman, beautiful with the beauty of the corn-harvest,
standing clear-eyed and self-possessed in her rich russet draperies. All
the richness and fulness of the earth seemed symbolized in this glorious
creature, this Woman of women. "Ceres," the girl called her, for in her
appearance, there is nothing of the saintly, nothing of the ascetic,
rather the promise of abundant voluptuous joy--not pleasure, but
something deeper, graver, more fundamental, the earnest of a bounteous
harvest of life.

She sought the mellow golden glow of S. Mereo, at that hour, when the
level rays of the declining sun fill the air with a mystic radiance,
seemingly the golden impalpable dust of centuries of prayer. The
softened splendour filled her soul, and warmed it, as generous wine
warms the veins, and the heavy odour of the incense drugged her
restless memory to temporary oblivion. She followed from afar, the
offices, and once was tempted to make the sacred sign with the holy
water at the door, as she left. She dipped her fingers in the stoup,
then smiled and wiped them on her handkerchief, ashamed of the impulse;
did not her reason tell her that all these observances were mere
foolishness? Still she could not deny the craving of her heart for some
sort of mystic communion with the souls of the simple worshippers about
her. She loved to watch the rays mount until they touched, with a
fleeting radiance, the gold mosaics of the domes, then disappeared,
carrying the glory with them. But afterwards, in the sudden darkness,
the star-like tapers about the high altar gained a mystic significance,
and the little floating lights in glasses, like glow-worms in the dusk,
before the smaller shrines, seemed tiny beacons set for the wandering
soul, or were they merely will-o'-the-wisps, luring one to a sense of
false security? The spirit of it all breathed consolation and peace, but
she saw it as through a glass; she longed to enter the sanctuary, but
felt herself barred out by impalpable barriers. The haven seemed to lie
before her eyes, but the path was hidden. "There was the door to which I
found no key," she quoted to herself.

One afternoon, as she sat there in a side chapel, a girl entered, and
disregarding the kneeling benches, threw herself against the altar
itself, clutching the edge of the Sacred Table with straining clasped
hands, her head bowed between her arms, her long, dark shawl dragging
down the steps behind her, like a black trail of despair. The faint
light from the tapers shone on the girl's auburn hair, following the
burnished waves and tendrils. Her slender shoulders were heaving with
sobs.

Ragna watched her awhile, then rose from her chair and put her hand
softly on the girl's shoulder.

"What is it?" she asked. "Let me help you. Tell me what your trouble
is."

The girl raised her head, and her streaming dark eyes met Ragna's.
Seeing the sympathy in the fair face bent over her, she rose and let
herself be led away to a corner near the entrance where there were some
chairs.

"What is the matter?" asked Ragna.

"Oh, Signorina, it is very great," sobbed the girl, "but it is nothing a
young lady like you could understand."

"What is it? Tell me," said Ragna gently.

"Oh, Signorina, I can't! I should be ashamed, you would despise me. What
can a young lady like you know of--"

"Come, tell me, I shall not despise you," said Ragna; she was conscious
already of an odd sense of fellowship. The girl raised her head, and
looked at her steadily, as though testing the sincerity of the words.

"Signorina, my lover, Zuan, he is--he is going away, to America--he no
longer wishes to marry me, and--" she drew aside the shawl, showing the
altered lines of her figure.

"Oh!" said Ragna pitifully.

"And Signorina, my father turns me out of his house, he says I have
brought disgrace on him, that no one will marry me now. I have nowhere
to go. But that is nothing. I can work. It is Zuan--he doesn't love me
any more, he is tired of me--" her voice trailed off into a wail. Ragna
stroked her hand.

"Signorina, why should he cease to love me when I love him as much as
ever? It must be another woman who has taken him from me! If I find her,
I will kill her, I swear it! I will kill him too, and then I will kill
myself!"

"But your child?" said Ragna, "have you thought of it?"

"The _creatura_? Poor little lamb to be wronged by its father before it
is born! See you, Signorina," she turned defiantly, "it is his child,
and he shall recognize it or die! No other woman shall have him!" Her
eyes flashed.

Ragna tried another tack.

"If you are patient, and wait, he may come back to you; what would you
gain by killing him? They will send you to prison, and your child will
be born in disgrace."

"Perhaps you are right, Signorina," returned the girl doubtfully. "But
how can I wait? Where can I go? My father has turned me out of his
house, and no one will give me work now. No, it is better that I make an
end of it."

She rose, but Ragna caught her hand, and pulled her down.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Carolina, Signorina, Carolina Manin di Guiseppe."

"Listen to me, Carolina, I will do something for you, I will see that
you get work, but you must promise me to do nothing foolish. I can help
you as long as you are only unfortunate, but I can't help a murderess."

"A murderess, Signorina?" The girl's eyes dilated.

"A murderess, yes, that is what you would be if you killed your lover.
Would you like people to say that your child's mother was a murderess?"

"Madonna santissima, no!"

"Well, then, you will promise me?"

"I will swear it by the Madonna, Signorina."

"Take this money then," she emptied the contents of her purse into the
girl's hand, "it will keep you for some days, until I can find something
for you to do." She scribbled her name and address on a leaf torn from
her note book. "Here, this is my address--you can come to see me--let me
see, this is Monday--come to see me Sunday. You know how to find the
Hotel Roma?"

"Oh, Signorina, you are an Angel of God, whom the blessed Madonna has
sent me in my need!" She seized Ragna's hands, and covered them with
kisses. "God will reward you, Signorina!"

"No, I am not an angel, Carolina, indeed I am very far from being
one,"--she smiled sadly. "Come to see me next Sunday then, and we will
see what can be done."

Interrupting the girl's protestations of gratitude and devotion, she
freed herself, and walked quickly away, wondering what she should do to
carry out her impulsive promise.

"I suppose I am a foolish idiot," she said to herself, "but I simply
could not help it. Poor thing--I wonder what I can do for her?"
Instinctively, her thoughts turned to Dr. Ferrati, he would be sure to
find some way of arranging the matter. She said nothing to Fru Bjork or
Astrid, they would only be shocked, and blame her for her impulsiveness.
Fru Bjork was kind-hearted, but narrow-minded, and in common with many
"good" women, would have shunned Carolina and her like, as she would the
plague.

Dr. Ferrati arrived a week later than the day he had set. He had
travelled by a night train, and chance had it, that he took the same
_vaporette_ that carried Fru Bjork and the girls to the Lido. When they
got on at the Piazzetta, they hailed him with joy, and bade him bring
his campstool to the bow, where they usually sat. When they were all
comfortably settled, he put on his pince-nez, and looked at the girls in
turn, noting with satisfaction Astrid's delicate bronze colour, so
becoming to her fair curls and greenish eyes, but he started at Ragna's
pallor, and drawn features. They were speaking of the Lido, and Ragna
said:

"The bathing is delightful, especially when there is a little surf, I
love to swim through it, to feel the waves buffet me about. But I get
tired so soon now."

"But surely, Signorina, you are not bathing?"

"Why not?" asked Ragna, astonished, and the others echoed her.

"It is most unwise for you just now," said Ferrati, adjusting his
pince-nez to hide his dismay and embarrassment. "You are anæmic, you are
not strong enough--it is most unwise."

"Yes," agreed Fru Bjork, "I have told her so, but she won't listen to
me. She really is not at all well. I wish you would advise her, Doctor,
indeed I do. The child worries me, what with her pale looks, and no
appetite, and headaches and fainting fits."

Ragna anxiously met the Doctor's scrutinizing gaze.

"I wish you would prescribe for me; Fru Bjork is right. I am really not
myself," she said simply.

Ferrati skilfully changed the subject and they chatted on gaily enough,
until the Lido was reached. The little tram took them across the island,
and while the others went to the dressing-rooms to change for the bath,
the Doctor and Ragna walked out on to the terrace fronting the sea. They
found two chairs, a little apart from the groups of smiling, chattering
people, and when they had seated themselves, Ragna opened the
conversation.

"Tell me the truth, Doctor, why should I not bathe?"

Ferrati met her question with a searching glance; was she in good faith,
or feigning?

"Do you not know, then, Signorina, what is the matter with you?"

"You say I am anæmic, I have headaches, and dizzy spells--" a horrible
doubt suddenly thrust itself upwards in her mind. "For God's sake,
Doctor, tell me what it is?"

"Surely you must have an idea--" He hesitated, then in answer to the
appeal for frankness in her eyes, he continued in a lower tone.
"Signorina, you are _enceinte_. Is it possible that you have not guessed
it?"

Ragna paled, and her head fell back against the wooden support of the
awning. Ferrati hastily summoned a waiter, and bade him bring a glass of
cognac, which he made the girl take. The colour slowly crept back to her
lips and cheeks; she made one or two efforts to speak, but was only able
to swallow convulsively; finally in a husky voice she asked:

"How long have you known, suspected--this?"

"For about two months now--suspected, I say--but when I saw you on the
boat, I was sure. Of course I may be mistaken, an examination would be
necessary to be quite certain--there are tumours--"

"Will you examine me then--to-day? I must know, I must be sure--Oh, my
God, I never thought of this!"

He gazed at her curiously, half cynically, yet impressed by her
sincerity of manner.

"But surely, you must have known? You are young, Signorina, but you are
not a child."

Her eyes fell before his.

"I did not know--I never thought of this!" she repeated dully.

His doubting expression faded before the despairing misery of her pale
face.

"No," he thought, "she did not know or she could not look like this."

The girl's attitude was not one of discovered shame, but that of a
person felled by a sudden blow. She looked dazed, stricken. People in
bright summer dress were laughing, and joking all about; some were
drinking Vermouth. From the sands below came the voices of happy
children, and bathers in gay costumes made merry in the sparkling blue
water.

"You are sure, quite sure?" Ragna asked suddenly, in a low, terrible
voice.

"I told you that there can be no absolute certainty without an
examination. Do not distress yourself so, my child," he added, touched
to the heart by her misery, "after all, it may be a false alarm!"

The words seemed to give Ragna strength; though still deadly pale, she
rose from her chair, saying:

"Come with me now, then; let us have it over at once. Come!"

"But, Signorina," he remonstrated, "your people, what will they think?"

"I can leave a message for Fru Bjork; I shall say I felt ill, and that
you took me home. See! there comes your wife--tell her and she will see
the others!"

She was already moving towards the Signora, who was crossing the terrace
with her little girls, all three greeting Ferrati with smiles of
welcome. The children ran to him, and throwing their arms about him,
shrieked with joy.

"Babbo has come! Babbo has come!"

Ferrati embraced them, and put them down; he kissed his wife who was
holding Ragna's hand, and said to her,

"Virginia cara, the Signorina has a bad headache, and feels faint, so I
am taking her home. Tell the others not to be alarmed; it is only that I
think the glare here is too much for her, and she ought not to go all
the way home alone."

"You are pale, dear," said the Signora to Ragna. "Will you not come to
my room, and lie down? You will be quite cool and quiet there."

"Thank you," said Ragna, "you are very kind, but I think I will go
home--I should like to go quite to bed."

"Yes," said Ferrati, "I think you had better go home."

"Enrico is right," said the Signora, "go, cara, I will explain to the
others when they come."

Ragna kissed the Signora, and moved off; the bright light dazzled her,
she stumbled once or twice, and would have fallen, had not the Doctor
been at her elbow. He steered her to the little tram, and at the landing
found her a shady place on the vaporetto. Thinking she would be more
comfortable by herself, he moved a little distance away, and lit a
cigar, being careful, however, to remain within call.

To the end of her life, Ragna never forgot that trip. The little
steamer rushed along through the greenish-yellow water, following an
endless winding channel marked by groups of piles. The very swish of the
bows through the water, seemed carrying her inexorably onward to some
untoward fate. She shrank from the imminent certainty, yet longed to
know, to be sure. Nothing she thought, could be worse than this horrible
state of semi-suspense. A fictitious suspense it was though, for her
inner consciousness was aware that Dr. Ferrati had seen the truth; still
as long as there was a possibility of doubt, she felt that she must
cling to it. Other boats passed, gay with people in summer dress, there
were _barche_ too, and gondolas with their bright summer awnings. She
saw them apathetically, but between them and her, there rose distinct in
her mental vision, the slender black-draped figure of Carolina, thrown
in despair against the little side-altar. How she had pitied that
girl--and now, here she was in like case! A bitter smile wreathed her
lips.

"And I thought to forget, to put it out of my life!" she murmured.

The boat was a "diretto" and took them to the Piazzetta without
intermediate stops, and there the Doctor put Ragna into a gondola for
the remaining distance. The vibrating noonday heat beat down on her
through the inadequate awning, she lay back dazed, but half conscious,
until the hotel was reached. At last they were in the girl's cool,
shaded room; the Doctor made his examination, and withdrew to the
balcony, while Ragna dressed herself again; as soon as she was ready,
she called him, and turning, he found her standing in the middle of the
room.

"Well?" she asked.

"I am sorry, Signorina, but there is no possible doubt."

She sat down heavily; against her inner knowledge, she had been hoping
against hope. The red and yellow striped awning over the balcony cast a
bright glow on the floor, through the parted Venetian blinds; a bowl of
late roses stood on the table, filling the air with their musky perfume,
and the heavy droning of flies against the ceiling emphasized the noon
silence. The girl sat like a graven image, staring straight before her
with terrible dry eyes, her nerveless hands hung by her side.

Ferrati drew up a chair, and took one of the limp hands in his own.

"Will you not tell me all about it, my child? Remember a doctor is a
sort of lay confessor. Perhaps I can help you?"

Thus had she offered to help the unfortunate girl in S. Mario! She
laughed mirthlessly.

"I said that myself to a girl a few days ago, she is coming to-morrow
for me to help her--the blind leading the blind!"

Her hardness alarmed the Doctor. "I must break this," he thought. "I
must make her cry."

But she had no intention of crying; in a hard, even voice she told him
the tale of Prince Mirko, and the fateful drive over the Campagna, and
when she had finished, relapsed into silence.

"Poor little girl!" he said, stroking her hand. "Poor little girl!"

She looked at him wonderingly.

"Then you do not despise me?" she asked.

"God forbid! I have seen too much of the world and of men. And if you
have been foolish, if you have done wrong--which you have not, in my
eyes--you are paying for it heavily enough, God knows!"

"I should feel better about it, if I had really loved him--I thought I
did, but I know now that I did not--"

"Many women do not love their husbands, the fathers of their children,
and it is not counted sinful," he said, smiling.

"Yes, but marriage is different--If I had loved him I should not feel so
humiliated.--I was foolish and weak, I let myself go--And now--"

"And now, my dear, you pay the penalty. It is weakness, not vice, that
expiates, in this world," said Ferrati grimly. "Yes, you expiate, there
is no obviating that. But there is no necessity for bearing more than is
unavoidable--we must consider what is to be done. The past is the past,
there is no helping that, we must think of the present. Can you go home
to your people?"

"Home? Oh, never!" cried Ragna, hiding her face in her hands. "They
would turn me out!"

"I thought as much--the usual charity of a virtuous family. Full of
self-righteousness--sends missionaries to the heathen and its own flesh
and blood to perdition," he added under his breath.

"Well then, home being out of the question, we must think of something
else.--Leave it to me my child. I will think it over; you shall not
worry, leave it all to me. I shall not fail you."

His honest, steadfast eyes met hers, and she felt in some degree
reassured and comforted.

"You are good!" she cried.

He patted her shoulder. "Go to bed now, and keep up the pretence of the
headache." (Indeed, it was no pretence by this time.) "I will come to
see you again later in the day, and we will talk it all over quietly. In
the meantime you must rest." He took from his pocket a little bottle of
pellets and gave her one--"Take this at once, it will make you sleep,
and when I come back you will be rested and clear in your mind, so that
we can discuss your future plans. I shall leave orders that you are not
to be disturbed. Remember, above all, that you have nothing to fear, I,
at least, shall stand by you, and see you through--you shall see that
everything can be arranged."

She made no answer, so he passed his hand lightly over her bowed head,
and left the room.

Ragna laid the pellet on the table, and sat on stupidly in her chair,
her head supported by her hands. She felt blank and stunned; gradually,
out of her blind chaos of misery rose terrible and concrete this thing
that was upon her; it obsessed her half-paralysed brain with a sense of
inevitable, unreasonable doom. She wondered dully why she had not
thought of this contingency, and yet the possibility of it had never
entered her mind. To bear a child of _his_, and in this way! She
shivered with horror. And the shame, the disgrace of it! For this could
not be hidden, this could not be passed over and buried in oblivion--the
coming of the child would blazen her dishonour to the eyes of all men.
Oh why could she not die? Surely things had been bad enough as they were
before, but this--this was unendurable. The water sparkled there
invitingly, beneath the balcony--a plunge and it would soon be over. Why
should she live, why bear this shame, while _he_ went scot free? What
was there to compel her to tread this Via Crucis, when the way of escape
lay open? The water called her; with a feverish hunted look in her eyes
she staggered to the balcony, drew the awning aside. The door behind her
opened silently, a strong hand grasped her shoulder.

"Doctor!" she gasped.

"Signorina," asked Ferrati sternly, "what were you about to do?
Something warned me to come back, and thank Heaven I have been in time!
You were about to throw yourself into the Canal, were you not?"

He forced her into a chair, and stood towering accusingly over her. She
met his gaze with defiant despair.

"Yes, I was. What right have you to stop me?"

"I have the right to prevent you from adding crime to weakness. Yes,
crime," he added, seeing her wince.

"Understand me, had it been a question of yourself only, I should not
say this--you see my morality is not of the conventional pattern--but
you have not only yourself to think of, there is the child--your child.
If by your past weakness, wittingly or unwittingly, you have incurred
this responsibility, you cannot repudiate it, you must bear the
consequences, you cannot brush them aside. You think that this, the
physical part, and the disgrace implied were a price that you could
avoid paying by forfeiting your life, but you cannot forfeit for
another. You are no longer alone, you have another life to consider,
that of an innocent and helpless child who did not ask to be born--"

"But surely, Doctor," she interrupted, "I have a right to decide whether
I shall bear this child or not; I have a right to choose death for it
and me, rather than the stigma of shame!"

"My dear child, I do not consider that there is any shame. The shame
would die in repudiating a fundamental law of nature, of sacrificing two
lives to the fetish of conventional morality. What are the conventions,
that you should immolate yourself and your child to them? Your duty is
this: to bring your child into the world strong and healthy, and you owe
it to him to make his life as happy as shall lie in your power--beyond
that, nothing can rightly be required of you, and you can do no less.
You are no longer merely a girl, a woman, you are a mother!"

Ragna lifted her head; Ferrati's words opened new vistas to her
wondering gaze.

"A mother!" she echoed.

"Yes, a mother, and your first duty is to be true to your child--all the
rest comes after." His voice softened as he read the response to his
call in the girl's face. "You will be brave, you must be brave, for the
little one's sake. You see that now, do you not?"

"Yes, I understand that now--it was all so sudden, and so dreadful, it
took me unawares. But I see that you are right, I will be brave now, I
promise it."

Ferrati had touched the right chord, the chord of self-sacrifice, the
battle was won, and he knew it; never again would Ragna attempt
self-destruction, come what might.

"And now you will rest as I told you, until this afternoon?"

She signified "yes" with her head. Ferrati brought a glass of water from
the toilet table, and she took the little pellet. Then he rang for the
chambermaid, and when she had come, said to her:

"Help the Signorina into bed, she has a bad headache, and must rest. I
have given her some sleeping medicine, and I leave it to you to see that
she is not disturbed. You can tell the Signorina that I am coming back
later, and will speak to her then."

So he left the room a second time, his heart full of pity for the
wretched girl, the more so, as he had found her so readily responsive to
his appeal to duty.

"Poor child!" he repeated. "Poor, poor child!"

He returned to the Lido and lunched with his wife, but was silent and
preoccupied. The Signora, accustomed to these moods of her husband's,
when his patients caused him anxiety, forbore to question him. When he
had finished eating, he lit his _toscano_, and walked up and down the
long terrace of the hotel, his brows knit, his hands joined behind his
back; finally he rejoined his wife in her room, whither she had retired
for the siesta. She raised her head from the pillow, as he entered, and
put down the novel she had been reading.

"_Ebbene, Rico?_" she asked.

"Virginia mia, I am worried about a patient of mine, a girl who is in
great trouble--and I don't know what to do to help her!"

"Ragna Andersen?" she asked quietly.

"How did you guess?"

"My dear man, you are so hopelessly transparent! Besides, I am not
blind--a look at her face this morning would have been enough for
anybody."

"The fact is, Virginia, I don't know what to do about it."

"Can't she go home?"

"She says her people would turn her out, if they knew."

"Poor girl! No, I suppose she must manage to keep them in the dark
somehow. Did she tell you how it happened?"

"She told me in confidence, but one thing I can assure you of,
Virginia, she has been most outrageously treated, and taken advantage
of--her very goodness and innocence have betrayed her."

Virginia waved this aside. "After all, what does that matter? The fact
remains that she is in a hole and must be got out of it. What had you
thought of doing for her, Rico?"

"I wanted to ask your advice--a woman knows so much more in a case like
this."

What he wished to do was to enlist his wife's sympathy and interest; he
knew how invaluable, and how necessary her help would be, for without
her adherence, there really was not much he could do.

"Won't you tell me, Virginia, what you think should be done?"

Virginia sat up, dropping her feet down over the edge of the bed; chin
in hands, elbows on knees, she reflected, her tumbled dark hair falling
over her pretty ivory tinted shoulders, from which the chemise had
slipped.

"The first thing, of course, is for her to leave her party before they
find out, and how it is that they have suspected nothing, is beyond my
comprehension! She must leave them at once.--Fru Bjork is kind, but on
her daughter's account, she would throw Ragna off with no compunctions
whatever--It's lucky that that old maid they had with them in Florence
isn't here--she would have seen it all long ago. I'll tell you what,
Rico, Ragna can say she is coming back to Florence with me, and when we
go back next week--I always liked the girl and I will do that much
anyhow, for her--tell her she can use my name in any way she likes, and
she can count on me to help her out. In Florence, she can have it all
over quietly and go home afterwards."

"I thought you would help her, Virginia, and she will appreciate it, I
know. If you could have seen her utter misery!"

"Would you like me to go to her? I will if it would do any good."

Ferrati raised his wife's face to his, and kissed her.

"Yes, she would appreciate that--to-morrow, you shall go." He paused a
moment. "I am thinking how to manage about Fru Bjork, how to get the
girl away from her, without her suspecting--"

"Ah, well, you and she must work that out together. Necessity sharpens
the wits, and Ragna ought to be able to find a way--I don't think that
should prove very difficult."

"I must be getting back to her now. I promised her I would come soon."

"Tell her I will come to-morrow, or she can come to me, and we will
arrange it all. Tell her to keep her courage up, and that we will see
her through!" Virginia called after him, as he left the room, and he
answered her with a smile and a wave of the hand.

In the hotel lobby he met Fru Bjork, anxious inquiry written large upon
her face.

"Now, Doctor, what is the matter with Ragna? I am really most anxious
about the child."

"My dear Signora," he said, "there is nothing to be alarmed about; I
find her very much run down--there may be something more, but until I am
certain I prefer not to say anything. All that she needs for the present
is complete rest and quiet. I shall go up now and see if her headache is
any better, and afterwards I would like to talk over with you the course
of treatment I wish to propose for her general health."

"I will go up with you," said Fru Bjork, gathering her skirts about her.
The Doctor raised a deprecating hand.

"Afterwards, my dear lady, afterwards. With her head as bad as it was
this morning, she ought not to see more than one person at a time."

"Just as you say, Doctor--and I hope you will find the poor child more
comfortable. I can't tell you Doctor, how glad I am that you are here to
look after her--I have worried over her so, I love her as though she
were my own child, and that's a fact. Go up to her then, and I'll wait
for you here." She sank on to a wicker settee, fanning herself with an
awkward jerky movement.

Ferrati went to Ragna's room, and listened an instant at the door; there
was no sound within--He tapped gently and entered in obedience to a
languid "Come in!"

Ragna lay on the bed, staring towards the window. She was very pale, her
eyes had dark circles and her features looked pinched and worn--In a
toneless voice she asked the Doctor to be seated, and he drew a chair
beside the bed. He felt her pulse, which was regular, but weak, and
glanced anxiously at the sharpened delicacy of her face.

"How do you feel by now?"

"Oh, very tired," she answered wearily, "and rather stunned. My head
seems too weak to think--and I must think," she added desperately,
passing a hand over her forehead.

"I told you not to worry, that I would do the thinking for you," he
reminded her. "Now is it essential that your friends should not
guess--or could you take Fru Bjork into your confidence? Would she not
help you?" He thought of the motherly anxiety the good woman had just
displayed, and wondered if Virginia had not been wrong.

"Fru Bjork!" exclaimed Ragna, shuddering. "Oh, no! I would rather die
than tell Fru Bjork! She is a good woman, she would not understand--she
would despise me! Oh, not Fru Bjork!"

"Then if it won't do to tell her, you must find a way to leave her
without her suspecting. You cannot remain with her much longer--not a
day longer than can be helped."

"But how shall I manage it?"

"We will think of some way, and as for the rest, you must come back to
Florence, and I will see you through with this. My wife says that you
may tell your friends you are going to stop with her--she is very sorry
for you, and will do all she can to help you."

"Then you told her--she knows?"

"She had guessed already, but you need not worry, she is quite safe--and
my child, you must have some woman friend to help you now. Virginia will
do all she can."

"The Signora is very good--but oh, I shall feel ashamed to see her
again--now!"

"You need not, I assure you, she understands, and is full of sympathy."

Ragna smiled faintly--it was good to hear that, after all, she would not
be friendless.

"Do you know when Fru Bjork intends to return to Christiania?"

"She will be going soon now--she has always said she would go home in
July, and we are at the end of June."

Ferrati pursed up his lips.

"June--next Wednesday is the first of July--if she keeps to her plan we
may win through--but if she postpones her departure--In any case, I
shall tell her that your health will not permit of your taking a long
journey now. I shall tell her that I am afraid of a growth of some kind,
a tumour, and that I wish to keep you under my observation until I can
be sure. She has confidence in me, and if she can be persuaded to leave
you in my care--"

"But she will never leave me like that. She is very fond of me, and
nothing would induce her to leave me alone and ill in a strange
country."

"We must think of a way to get her to do it, something may turn up--and
in any case, if the worst comes to the worst, you can quarrel with her
on some pretext or other, and leave her."

"Oh, I should hate to do that, she has been so good to me!"

"My dear child, we can't afford to consider your likes and dislikes in
the matter, since you feel that you can't confide in her, you must take
whatever means offers of leaving her before she finds out. However,
there is no reason to precipitate matters, we can wait a few days, in
case of something happening. In the meantime, you must be very careful
not to arouse her suspicions in any way,--this migraine will tide you
over two or three days anyway. We must arrange for you to travel back to
Florence with my wife and me, next week; I shall take rooms for you near
our apartment, for you can't stop on in a pension now,--and you must
have a woman to do the work and look after you."

As an inspiration the thought of Carolina flashed through Ragna's mind.

"Doctor," she said, "there is that girl I promised to help, she is
coming here to see me to-morrow,--she might do for a servant for me--at
any rate, I should have no need to feel ashamed before her, she knows
what it is to be unhappy, and it would be a way of redeeming my
promise."

"You might do worse--we can certainly consider the question. Send the
girl to me, I will speak to her, and make some inquiries about her. If
she proves to be a suitable person, we can take her back to Florence
with us."

"How kind you are to me, dear Dr. Ferrati! I don't know what I should do
without you, nor how I shall ever thank you!"

"I wish there was more I could do, my poor child! If you want to please
me, be brave and gather up all your strength. We all have our hard times
to live through, and we must do it as best we can. You are very young,
remember, and life lies before you,--you will have many bright and happy
days yet--"

Ragna smiled bitterly, and made no answer.

"I think you had better stop in bed, and I shall come again to-morrow. I
will tell Fru Bjork that you are not to talk or be disturbed." He took
her hand and stroked it gently. "Don't worry and reproach yourself, my
child; regretting the past will undo none of the mischief, one must go
forward and face the future. Looking backward never does any good; if
all the strength wasted in repentance and vain regrets were turned into
a wholesome resolve to make the future better than the past! Ah, my
dear, the Church has much to be responsible for, in fostering
introspection and useless repentance as virtues! Virtues indeed! they
sap the strength and muddle the brain, and make one weak and mawkish!
Face the future, and make the best of it, that is the true morality!"
He smiled whimsically down at the girl. "See how my tongue runs away
with me, when I mount one of my hobbies! We shall have long discussions
in future, you and I,--and I think you will find that life is not such a
bad affair after all!"

He left Ragna much benefited by his cheery optimism, and kindly manner.

"At least I have one real friend," she thought, and then her mind turned
to Angelescu. He had meant well by her, he had tried to help her,--would
he, if he could have foreseen all? His earnest face with the serious
steadfast eyes rose before her mental vision, and she knew that nothing
would have made any difference to him. The impulse seized her to write
to him, to recall him--but no, that was impossible, she had refused his
offer twice, and so decisively that reconsideration was impossible, even
if present circumstances had not precluded such a thought. No, as she
had made her bed, so must she lie in it. She fell into a state of
self-pity, in which she saw herself the victim of adverse circumstance,
about to be crushed by the juggernaut-car of fatality, broken and cast
out! The flagrant injustice that she alone should suffer the penalty,
while Mirko went scot free, seared her soul, but it caused her,
nevertheless, a sort of pride. Her sufferings made him appear but a poor
creature in his careless detachment from moral responsibility, and in
the abstract, the idea of shouldering the whole of the burthen alone,
gave her an odd sense of exhilaration. She said defiantly to herself:

"God has denied me the common joys of women. He has chosen me to wreak
His vengeance upon; my lover has forsaken me, and mocked me, what
matter? I will take up the load he has shirked. I will rise above the
condemnation of society. I will prove myself mistress of my fate."

With this, calm came upon her, and she fell asleep.

Fortune favoured Ragna, or at least had for her that ambiguous smile,
which for the time being, promises a smoothing of the way, but which,
retrospectively, seems but an ironic mask. "Here is the way open before
you," says Fate; but the path leads but to the deeper intricacies of the
labyrinth, from which we would fain escape.

Fru Bjork received a telegram, announcing the illness of Astrid's
fiancé, and requesting their instant return.

Ragna was still in bed with a low fever, brought on by the shock and
subsequent extreme nervous tension, resulting from her terrible
discovery. Fru Bjork, poor woman, was in a quandary; she felt that she
must take Astrid back to Christiania, while Dr. Ferrati positively
forbade Ragna's undertaking the journey in her weak state of health, and
gave his opinion, moreover, that several weeks must elapse before she
might contemplate it. The good lady worried, and lost sleep at night,
her fat rosy cheeks drooped in anxious curves, and her cap sat
perpetually awry on her grey hair. She vacillated hopelessly, without
arriving at any decision,--should she and Astrid stop on with Ragna, or
should she bundle Ragna off with them, in defiance of Dr. Ferrati's
orders? Astrid grew pale, and talked of setting off alone.

At this juncture, the Signora Ferrati stepped in, offering to receive
Ragna into her care, and take her back to Florence, where she should
remain under the Doctor's eye until he should declare her fit to
travel. Fru Bjork, although loath to leave the girl, finally agreed to
the arrangement,--indeed, there was nothing else to be done,--and with a
heavy heart, set about her preparations for the return journey.

"I don't like it," she kept repeating to Astrid. "I don't like it at
all. Something tells me that I should not leave Ragna behind. How shall
I explain it to Gitta Boyesen?"

"But, Mother," Astrid would answer, "what else can you do? Ragna can't
take a long journey, and she will be perfectly safe with the
Ferratis--and I must get back to Edvard!"

"Let us hope that it will all work out for the best!" Fru Bjork would
sigh.

Ragna's feelings during these days were mixed. Her relief was great that
Fru Bjork and Astrid should leave without discovering her secret, yet
she felt lonely and helpless at the prospect of being abandoned by her
old and trusting friends,--abandoned to a fate, of which they could have
no idea and which she herself could not foresee. When the time for
leave-taking came, she broke down utterly, and wept in such a
heartbroken fashion, that Fru Bjork untied her bonnet strings, and
sitting down announced firmly:

"We will not go,--I cannot go and leave this child in such a state!"

Almost Ragna would have welcomed this change of decision, but the
realization of what it would mean, the inevitable discovery, and
subsequent shame, brought her to her senses.

"Oh, no, Fru Bjork!" she cried. "It is quite right that you should go! I
would not think of letting you stay, I would not indeed! I shall soon
get well under Dr. Ferrati's care, and you will see me back in
Christiania before you think,"--her heart failed her with the last
words, but she said them boldly. "Dear Fru Bjork, you have been so very,
very kind to me, and I would not, for worlds, keep you now, when it is
your duty to go. Astrid must go to Edvard at once, and she can't go
alone."

"Do you really think that, Ragna? Are you quite sure, child, that you
don't so very much mind being left alone?"

"But I shan't be alone. I shall be with the Signora Ferrati, and you
know how pleasant and kind she is! Really, I don't mind at all.--I am
only sorry at parting with you and Astrid, even if only for a short
time!"

"I wish it could have been helped," said Fru Bjork regretfully. "I don't
like at all leaving you in this way, but as you say, it seems that it
must be so.--Well, good-bye my dear, I am glad you have the Ferratis
anyway--do whatever they advise, and be sure you let me know how you get
on. Good-bye!--Ragna, dear, it does grieve me to leave you!"

She kissed the girl in her motherly way, and followed Astrid to the
door; as she went out, she turned once again to wave her plump hand to
the pale girl lying on the bed, and the door closed behind her.



BOOK III



CHAPTER I


Ragna sat at the window of a little apartment overlooking the Piazza S.
Spirito. The day was hot and the green Venetian shutters left the room
in a refreshing dusk very grateful in comparison to the glare of
sunshine outside, beating pitilessly on the light walls of the houses
across the square and vibrating in waves of heat over the stunted palms
in the garden below. In a shady corner a water-seller who had set up his
little stand, gay with bottles and coloured glasses and was languidly
chaffing a _facchino_ who had come to refresh himself with a glass of
lemonade. The vendor of watermelons, whose stand nearly touched that of
the acquaiolo, had gone to sleep under his lurid sign of firemen rushing
to extinguish the fire simulated by a glorious red melon the size of a
house. Flies droned in the stillness and the girl fanned herself
languidly. The room where she sat was furnished in the usual
shabby-genteel style of the furnished apartment. A table with a cheap
tapestry cover on which stood a glass lamp and a folding case of books
occupied the middle of the room; about it were ranged a few poorly
carved chairs in the Florentine style. A sofa appeared to lean against
the stencilled wall and over it hung a miserable bituminous copy of the
Madonna della Seggiola, in a scaling gilt frame. A wooden shelf along
one wall supported two vases of dried grasses and paper flowers and a
few photographs. There were also yellowed prints of Garibaldi, King
Umberto, Queen Margherita and Vittorio Emanuele II.

Ragna herself occupied a long invalid-chair of rattan and by her side
stood a small table on which were a small vase of fresh flowers, a
half-cut book and a glass of syrup and water.

She had been in Florence about three weeks and had settled herself at
once in the small apartment chosen for her by Dr. Ferrati. She had with
her Carolina her Venetian protégée and who had proved to be just the
person to help her through the difficult time to come. Carolina,
effusively grateful, was devoted to her young mistress and evinced a
truly Latin sympathy, and tact to the delicate situation. To her, at
least, Ragna was a superior person, unfortunate perhaps, but to be
admired and respected none the less.

During the first few days, the newness of it all and the interest
afforded by learning Italian ways of housekeeping and the work of
arranging her belongings, had occupied Ragna's mind, but now that there
was nothing more to do, only to live and wait, her spirits flagged and
she became dull and unable to interest herself in the small details of
her circumscribed existence. Her thoughts had freer scope and wandered
far and wide, increasing in bitterness as the days crawled by. The first
flush of her resolution to down the dictates of society at large by the
arrogance of her individual will and strength of character, had died
down, and she dragged through day after day in a state of dreary apathy.

Egidio Valentini had come to see her several times and was keeping
careful watch over her state of mind in order to seize the psychological
moment for the furtherance of his project. He observed with
satisfaction her growing depression and discontent with herself and her
immediate surroundings. Ferrati gave her as much of his time as he
could, unfortunately, it was but little, absorbed as he was in his
professional duties, and though Virginia was kind, Ragna did not yet
feel quite at ease with her. With Valentini she had many long and
interesting conversations; he could be fascinating when he chose and
with her he did choose, also the consideration and respect of his manner
soothed her irritated self-consciousness, ever on the alert for a
slight. She grew more and more dependent on him and on his visits and he
occupied a larger portion of her thoughts than she would have cared to
admit. She wondered sometimes, if he had penetrated the reason of her
return to Florence, or if he accepted the fable of her ill health. If he
had guessed, nothing in his manner pointed to the fact, and there was
nothing sufficiently marked as yet in Ragna's appearance to make her
condition patent to the inexperienced eye. She thought with dread of the
time when he must know, and wondered how the knowledge would affect him
and their relations, for his good opinion was dear to her and her heart
sank at thought of losing it. She did not often speak to him of Ferrati,
and the latter was in ignorance of the frequency of Egidio's visits, as
he had seen but little of him since the return to Florence and Egidio
was careful to choose his hours with Ragna, when there would be little
likelihood of encountering his friend, as he did not wish to submit
himself to questioning or comment.

Ragna, as she lay in her chair was thinking of Valentini and expecting
him. She was dressed in white piqué and the severe lines of the frock
suited her well. Her hair was arranged partly in plaits piled on the
top of her head, and partly left loose, flowing over the dull blue
cushion behind her head. At her breast she wore a bunch of scented
geranium leaves.

Valentini had promised to bring for her inspection a water colour copy
of one of Botticelli's paintings he was making for the Arundell Society
of London. The continuance of her art studies was the pretext for their
intercourse thinly veiling a loverlike intensity on his part that was
not without its disquieting side to the girl, and on hers a pathetic
dependence on his friendship and company.

She lay waiting, half drowsy with the heat, recollection in abeyance,
idly afloat on a hazy sea of thought. Finally she heard the door-bell
tinkle and Carolina ushered in the visitor. He had left his hat and
stick in the outside passage and entered the salotto carrying in one
hand a bunch of gardenias, and in the other his picture wrapped in
paper. His footsteps rang on the bare tile floor as he advanced to her
side and laid his floral offering on her knees.

"How good of you to come so early," she said.

"Early? I thought the hour would never come! It seems such a long time,
to me at least, since I saw you last. I have brought the picture you
see,--I put the last touches to it this morning."

He unwrapped the picture as he spoke and gave it into her hands. It was
a careful copy of exquisite delicacy of colour and finish and she gazed
on it with a kind of wonder.

"How beautiful it is, and how wonderfully done!"

He flushed with pleasure at the note of genuine admiration in her voice.

"It's my business to do it well," he said simply. "I am glad you like
it." He drew up a chair and seated himself beside her. "They will pay
me well for it," he added, then as he saw the note jarred, "but it is
not for the money I do it, though that is not to be despised--and the
labourer is worthy of his hire. I love the work; it is the greatest
pleasure in the world I think, to do the work one loves and do it well,
to see it growing under one's touch. I lose myself quite and the time
passes without my knowing it. When you are stronger you must take up
your work again and you will feel what a satisfaction it is."

"The lines are all so beautiful," said Ragna tracing them with her
slender forefinger.

"Ah, that is where the old Masters are inimitable especially Botticelli
and his school. Do you not remember what I was saying to you the other
day, that the study of them and their methods is the foundation of all
true art? What do your modern painters make of the use of the line and
the science of draughtsmanship? They slosh on their colours with barely
a thought for structure and the result, pah!"

He took the picture from her as he spoke and propped it up against the
lamp on the centre table. Ragna smiled.

"You are hard on the moderns."

"Hard on them! But I am right to be! They take themselves seriously, not
their work. And their training! Do they begin by grinding the colours
and washing the brushes in the Master's studio and work slowly up from
stage to stage until they become masters in their turn? Not they! They
spend a few months or years in academies or studios or schools and then
when they are tired of serious study, set up for themselves and with
rockety technique and flashy design impress the imagination of the
crowds. They spill pots of paint over their canvases and to hide their
bad drawing, they do things in flat tones because they can't model and
call it decorative art! They work for the commission, and a good price
for a picture, a piece of scamped meretricious work, pure clap-trap,
means more to them than all the traditions of art--yet they talk of Art
for Art's sake! I tell you they are dirt! Dirt!"

He was carried away by his theme and marched up and down the small
salotto, stamping his feet, gesticulating, threatening with annihilation
the entire breed of modern artists. His enthusiasm impressed Ragna; she
saw in it the expression of burning conviction, and its true character
escaped her--that of a facile heat of prejudice easily aroused and
incapable of cool or judicious comparison. Still he was at his best when
talking of art, and his love of it was entirely sincere.

He looked at the girl with a critical eye.

"I should like to paint you there, just as you are; you would make a
delightful study with the reflected light on your white dress and the
harmony of your golden hair and the blue cushion and the green shutters
beyond in that half light. You should have some of the gardenias on the
table by you, though, instead of those pink flowers, to make the colour
scheme perfect--all green and blue and cool with the one relieving note
of your hair." He paused close beside her. "Your hair is the most
beautiful I have ever seen--so fine, so silky--so much of it, and such a
rare shade, like moonlight on gold!" He lifted a shining strand, drawing
it through his fingers with a sort of voluptuous pleasure, then he
raised it to his lips. Ragna shrank away from him, a half-frightened
look in her eyes. He laid a hand on her shoulder, compelling her
glance.

"I love you. Surely you know that, you must have seen it?"

"Don't," she said faintly, "you must not say that!"

"And why not, Ragna cara?" he asked sinking to one knee and pushing
aside the chair he had occupied.

"Don't!" she repeated, drawing back as far as she could.

"Ragna, you know that I love you," he insisted. "I love you, I loved you
before you went to Venice! Do you not remember I told you that you would
come back--to me? And you have, carissima! I think you love me too, is
it not so?"

"I don't, I can't!" she answered wildly. "Oh, Signor Valentini, you
don't know--I have no right to love anyone or to let anyone love me!"

"Why not, dear?" he asked and tried to take possession of her hands but
she resisted him. "I love you, and I want to marry you."

"Oh, please don't, Signor Valentini! We have been such good friends,
please don't spoil it!"

"We have been friends, yes, but we shall be more than friends."

"No! no! That can never be!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, don't ask me! I can't! It is quite impossible; and besides I don't
love you in that way."

"But I love you!"

"I tell you it is impossible."

"But why should it be impossible? I love you, you are more to me than my
life,--I can't live without you. You must be my wife or--" He made a
gesture of utter despair, "Ragna, dearest, you must be mine or my life
is finished."

"Signor Valentini, you must not talk like this--it is quite
impossible."

"But why?"

Ragna closed her eyes wearily and drew a long breath. The moment she
dreaded had come, and so suddenly that she found herself unprepared. She
still tried to gain time.

"Because--because I cannot marry anyone. But it should be enough that I
do not love you."

"But I will marry you without that and trust to the future."

"I tell you it is impossible for me to marry anyone."

He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her searchingly. She
turned uneasily under his gaze, and reddened, her fan slipped from her
knees to the floor.

"Ragna," he said reproachfully, "what is it? Cannot you tell me? I am
not like other men, I love you for yourself alone, you can tell me
anything, anything,--nothing would change my feeling for you. Have I not
been a good friend? Have I not earned the right to your confidence? Tell
me all, dear,--you owe me at least an explanation of your refusal."

Ragna obstinately kept the lids lowered over her eyes; she twisted and
untwisted her fingers in silent agony.

"Tell me, dear," he plead.

She looked up at him piteously. "Why do you insist? Don't you see that
you are hurting me?"

"You have said too much or too little," he answered. "In justice to me
and to yourself you should take me into your confidence."

She sat up, a dull flush spreading over her face. "Since you will know
then, it is this: I am going to have a child." She sank back, covering
her face with her hands.

"Ragna!" his cry rang out in the stillness. She heard him sink to a
chair, pushing it back as he did so with a grating noise on the tiled
floor. Presently he rose and came to her side, she remained motionless;
he drew her resisting hands down from her face.

"Ragna, is this true?"

She nodded, not daring to look at him. He knelt beside her.

"Ragna, will you be my wife? Have I proved that I love you, now?"

She gazed at him in amazement.

"What! you still--?"

"Yes, dearest, I still love you. I told you that I was not like other
men, I love you for yourself. Whatever your past may have been, if you
have been unfortunate, all the more reason that I should protect your
future, that I should give you the shield of my name."

"But there is not only myself, there is the child," she said weakly.

He frowned but recovered himself instantly.

"The child? I shall love it as I would my own,--is it not yours? I shall
recognise it--it will be mine."

"You are generous," she said, "but I cannot accept, it would be taking
an unfair advantage--I should be doing you a wrong."

"That is as I choose to look at it, and I don't consider it is."

"But I don't love you."

"Do you love anyone else?" He asked with swift scrutiny.

"No."

"Then you will love me in time--as long as there is no one else I am
sure of that. All I ask is that you should marry me, that you should
accept the protection I offer. For the child's sake you must
accept--you can't refuse your child an honourable name. You will come to
love me dear, I know it, and until that time I will be a brother to you,
a friend, nothing more. All I ask is the privilege of helping you!"

He was carried away by the nobility of the pose, it was a fine attitude
_un beau giste_; it fired his histrionic imagination and gave a ring of
sincerity to his voice. For a moment he believed in himself as the
chivalrous rescuer of distressed damsels.

"You do not know all, let me tell you all," she demurred.

"Yes, you must give me your entire confidence--you owe me that."

So she told him the whole story, and he pressed her hand the while to
show his sympathy. At the end she paused, waiting--

"I can only repeat what I said before, dear: will you consent to marry
me? If you like, don't think of yourself at all, think of me--I am a
lonely man, an unhappy man, I have had a hard, disappointing life. You
have become the lodestar of my life, you, Ragna! With you beside me I
can do great things: I need you dear, without you life would be a
desert. Last year I was very ill with typhoid fever, I nearly died; I
was alone, no one loved me, no one cared whether I lived or died. If I
were to be ill again who would care for me, who would nurse me? Whom
have I to welcome me when I come home at night tired and discouraged?
Oh, Ragna, say 'yes,' do! and I will love you always for that word!"

His voice rose and fell in impassioned cadence, his eyes burned into
hers, how was she not to believe him? How was she to refuse the succour
so timely offered, seemingly so disinterested? Still she made an
effort.

"I must think it over, you must go away and let me think--oh, don't
imagine I do not recognise your generosity--but I cannot think it right
for me to take advantage of it."

"Ragna," he said solemnly, "this means more to me than you think. I told
you that my life without you would be worth nothing to me. I give you my
word of honour that if you refuse I will kill myself--I can't live
without you. I mean what I say and I always speak the truth. When I was
a little boy in the _collegio_ Cardinal Ferri who was the head-master
used to call me up when there had been any mischief, and say to me:
'Tell me the straight of this, Valentini, you are the only one I know
who always speaks the truth!' and I would weep, I would struggle, but I
had to tell the truth, and I did. And remember, Ragna, if you marry me,
I will be a brother to you, dear, it will be enough for me just to have
you near me, to feel your sweet presence in the house, to have your
society always:--I will not ask for more unless you give it of your own
accord."

"Give me time," said Ragna desperately, "give me time to think it over."

"Very well, I will give you until to-morrow at this hour. I shall come
for my answer,--and if it is not 'yes,' you know what will happen, I
swear it!" He released her hands and she passed them over her face.

"Till to-morrow," she said, "that is not much time."

"It is enough,--and it is too long for a man to wait for his death
sentence or for the gift of life. Oh, Ragna, I do love you so! It must
be yes."

"Now you must go," she said.

"Don't send me away, dear,--here at least I can see you, I am with you,
life is possible. Let me stay a little longer!"

"No, you must go now, I can't think clearly with you here. If you want
your answer to-morrow you must go now."

"I will go then, dear, since you wish it--see how obedient I am! You can
do anything with me, anything, Ragna darling! Give me one kiss then and
I will go?"

He bent over her but she turned her head away.

"No, not that! and you said in any case that you would be content to be
a brother to me."

"But you would let a brother kiss you! Just one, darling!"

"No," she said firmly and he saw that it would be unwise to insist.

"As you will, then, dear,--see, again I yield to your wish, and
to-morrow you will give me my answer--remember what it will mean to me
and to you."

He rose and slowly crossed the room and, as he reached the door, turned
with the one word,

"Remember!"

Left alone, Ragna felt overwhelmed by the unexpectedness of the turn her
affairs had taken and torn with doubt as to the course to pursue. She
did not question Egidio's sincerity, had she not seen the tears in his
eyes as he pleaded with her? And besides what ulterior motive could he
possibly have? She was consumed with gratitude for his generosity, the
offer of his name and protection to a girl in her position--to her it
would mean salvation. Marriage with a man who knew all and in spite of
it loved her still, would be a haven of refuge, it would save her
reputation and give her child the advantage of a father's name. But
could she accept the offer, could she accept the charity of it? True,
Egidio had put it as a benefit to be conferred still more on him than on
her--but even so, could she accept? With her woman's knowledge of the
facts of life and marriage, could she be his wife? She did not love him
and the thought of submitting to his kisses and caresses sickened her
with physical repugnance--but then he had said he would be a brother, a
friend, nothing more, that merely to have her by his side would satisfy
him. As a friend she liked him and found him interesting, and his person
was not unpleasing apart from that faint underlying sense of physical
repulsion she was conscious of in his presence. Then his threat of
suicide,--he meant it, she could see that! Could she take upon herself
the responsibility of driving him to such desperate courses? Could she
bear the thought of his blood upon her head in addition to her burthen,
heavy enough already, in all conscience? Still marriage, a binding
contract involving her whole life and his,--could she honestly bring
herself to accept?

She rose and feverishly paced the floor, refusing the refreshment of
eggs and milk that Carolina brought her. Oh, why was this decision
forced upon her now? The more she thought the more confused did she
become. All arguments were in favour of her accepting and she was at a
loss to explain her reluctance. Some hidden instinct warned her against
it,--but could she in justice to herself, to Valentini, and above all,
to the child--could she refuse? He had said that he would love the child
as his own, might not the child himself, reproach her some day for
bringing him into the world nameless, a bastard, when it had lain with
her to give him an honourable name and position? For the child's sake
could she dare to refuse? Surely for his sake, she could fulfill her
part of the contract, be an affectionate friend, a faithful and dutiful
helpmate, wife in name only? Finally in her perplexity, she decided to
lay the case before Ferrati and abide by his judgment in the matter. He,
a man of the world, a friend both of herself and of Valentini would know
what was right, would counsel her wisely. This decision brought her some
measure of calm, but when she was in bed her torment returned, and she
spent the night feverishly arguing the pros and cons.

Valentini, on the contrary, slept well, he was entirely satisfied with
the trend of his affairs, with the way he had managed the interview and
felt quite sure of the girl's ultimate decision. Fru Boyesen's fortune
loomed large in his expectant imagination.



CHAPTER II


Ferrati came to Ragna early the next morning, and found her restless and
worn, her eyes sunken by the fever of the night. She told him of
Valentini's proposal and her doubts, ending with:

"Something tells me that I should not accept; it may only be a foolish
fancy, but I feel it very strongly."

"I think," said Ferrati, "that you are overwrought and hysterical by all
your self-questioning. The question, as I see it, is simple enough: in
accepting you have everything to gain, in refusing everything to lose.
Now the point of the matter is, do you care enough for Egidio to become
his wife, or at least do you feel sure of never caring more for another
man?"

"I told him that I did not love him," said Ragna, "but he said that made
no difference to him, that he was content to take me, feeling merely a
friendly affection for him, that he would trust to the future to bring
the rest. I should do my best,--gratitude alone would make me do that.
But I don't think I could ever love a man very much again."

"Perhaps," said Ferrati musingly, "that the feeling you have for him is
better than love, considering the circumstances, and you may grow to
love him in time; women often do grow to love the men they marry for
friendship or by their parents' choice. You are of a steady, serious
nature, not subject to caprice,--that is in your favour."

"Oh, I am quite sure at least I shall love no other man, I am done with
love,--I have seen what it is!"

Ferrati smiled.

"You have still much to learn, Ragna, and I hope Egidio may be the man
to teach it to you."

Ragna smiled in answer, rather bitterly however.

"Then your opinion is?"

"That you should marry Egidio, if you have no more serious reasons
against it; I am sure that it will be best for you both--and there will
be the great satisfaction to you of having provided for the future of
your child,--think of the child."

"I do think of the child, and it is for its sake that I shall accept,
since you think it the right thing to do."

"I am sure of it, and I hope the future has great happiness in store for
you."

They talked for a little while on indifferent matters, but when he left
her, she moved restlessly about taking things up and putting them down
again aimlessly. Though the fact of the decision being made, took a
great weight from her mind she still felt uneasy and could settle to
nothing, dreading Valentini's visit in the afternoon.

A curious sense of embarrassment had kept her from telling Ferrati of
the compact between herself and Valentini, to observe only friendly
relations leaving the marriage a mere form for the eyes of the world. It
was unfortunate that she had not told the Doctor as with his man's
knowledge of life and of the fiery temperament of his friend, he would
have seen the impossibility of prolonging any such state of affairs, and
the mere fact of Egidio's having proposed such a scheme would have
aroused his suspicions as to his friend's motives in the matter and his
entire sincerity of purpose. Egidio was no Sir Galahad and was not in
the least given to idealizing the relations between man and woman, or
even capable of conceiving of such a relation apart from the sexual
element, and Ferrati knew it.

As it was, he went home very pleased with the way things were falling
out, and announced the coming engagement to Virginia who raised her arms
in silent amazement, and let them drop limply.

"Not Egidio Valentini?" she said. "Poor girl!"

"Now why do you say that, Virginia?"

"I say 'poor girl' if she is to marry Egidio, that is all. What on earth
can induce her to do such a thing?"

"What can she do? Think of her situation, Ninì. I consider her fortunate
to have found as good a man as Egidio."

"As good a man as Egidio--well--what I wonder is, what has induced him
to propose to her. What does he expect to gain by it? She is not rich."

"Now, Ninì, you are unjust; you have never liked Egidio, I know, but you
must admit that he is behaving most magnanimously. Here is a girl who
has been unfortunate, who has no money, and who is about to lose her
reputation, he offers her marriage, he gives her his name, he declares
himself ready to recognise the child, what more would you have? What
better proof of his disinterestedness? I tell you, you have always
misjudged Egidio, you let your prejudice blind you."

"Believe me, Rico, there is more in this than meets the eye,--_gatto ci
cova_, Egidio is not the man for such a quixotic action. I am sorry for
Ragna, I am afraid she will find herself out of the frying pan into the
fire."

"I hope at least, that you will say nothing to her to discourage her.
She has had a hard time already to make up her mind--and you must admit
that this marriage is her one chance."

"Did you influence her in any way, Rico?"

"She asked me my opinion and I told her I thought she should accept
Egidio, if not for her own sake, then for the child's."

"I wish you had not done that, I wish you had kept out of the affair
altogether. It never does to make up people's minds for them, the time
always comes when they turn on you and rend you. And in this case the
responsibility is far too great--you will regret it some day, mark my
words!"

"How pessimistic you are, Virginia, your name ought to be Cassandra!"
said the Doctor angrily. "I should think that instead of blaming me you
would join me in trying to secure Ragna's happiness. And you are so
unjust to Egidio, I ask you, what has he ever done to give you such a
poor opinion of him?"

Virginia smiled enigmatically.

"We shall see what we shall see," she said.

Presently she rose from the table and left the room, leaving her husband
to reflect on the curious ways of women. Nevertheless her reception of
his news had given him a vague feeling of uneasiness which he vainly
tried to shake off. Virginia was rarely mistaken in her judgment of men
and things, and he generally relied on her intuition and keen
perceptions. But then, what cause could there be for doubt? So far as he
could see, Egidio in this at least, was the very pattern of
disinterestedness and chivalry. He lacked the clue to the mystery, for
Astrid had never told him as she had Valentini, of Ragna's expectations
from her aunt--true he had never sought any information on the subject.
And above all, Ferrati's chief characteristic was a total inability to
believe ill of anyone who had gained his affection.

       *       *       *       *       *

Valentini came for his answer at the time appointed and found Ragna,
outwardly calm, awaiting him. She was standing by the window, the
shutters casting greenish reflections on her white piqué gown. He noted
the dark circles under her eyes, the waxiness of her skin and the weary
droop of her mouth, as she came forward with outstretched hand to greet
him. His glance questioned her.

"It is 'yes'," she answered with composure.

He sank to one knee and lifted her hands to his lips. Hers curled
slightly at the dramatic gesture, it seemed tawdry, after the hours of
agonised indecision she had passed through, still it was better than
verbal raptures. Egidio rose to his feet, and seeing that she was in no
mood for demonstrative affection, had the tact to maintain a restrained
friendliness of demeanour that went far towards soothing the girl and
putting her at her ease. Nevertheless when he had taken his departure
she was conscious of a distinct sensation of relief, and wondered at
herself for it. Was this not the way of deliverance and was it not being
made as easy for her as lay in the circumstances?

They had agreed as to the necessity of hastening the marriage;
prolonging the actual state of affairs could be of no possible
advantage, and Ragna herself, now that she had made up her mind, was
eager to bring the thing to its logical conclusion without further
delay. Valentini's motives are readily devinable.

"I have her!" he chuckled as he ran down the stairs, swinging his cane
jauntily, "she can't draw back now--and she would not if she could, she
is not the kind that breaks promises."

The banns were published at once at the Palazzo Vecchio, and as Ragna
was of age there was no difficulty to be anticipated. They had agreed to
forgo the religious marriage, Egidio being a fervent son of the Church
only when it suited his convenience so to appear, and Ragna, imbued with
her philosophical studies, attaching no importance to the, to her, empty
ceremony. Having the civil wedding alone would also avoid the delay and
expense occasioned by a mixed marriage.

She had decided not to write to her relations in time for any
remonstrance to reach her before the _fait accompli_ should render any
such interference obviously useless. "Since I have decided on this
step," she reasoned, "why do anything to make it more difficult? They
cannot understand why I am doing it--they never can know; they will
think I have gone out of my mind."

To those about her she showed an impassive face, and even the
sympathetic questionings of Dr. Ferrati were unsuccessful in eliciting a
response.

"It is as though you had built a stone wall about yourself--you have
become a Sister of the Murate," he complained to her one day.

She smiled in answer.

"I do feel rather frozen; perhaps being the Signora Valentini will thaw
me out."

"I hope so, I feel as though I had lost my little friend."

Ragna had, as it were, shut Ferrati out of the more intimate part of her
personality, for the time being--indeed she had shut herself out, living
on the surface, occupying her thoughts with the details of her simple
preparations. She did not wish to dwell on the confused, apprehensive
state of her feelings, and above all wished to hide that state from the
eyes of her kind friend, so delighted at the prospect of this unhoped
for escape from the difficulties of her situation. He, on his part, had
tried to put away from him Virginia's insidious suggestions, but they
would return at times in spite of him. To set his conscience entirely at
rest he desired to penetrate the girl's thoughts and feelings with
regard to Valentini and their approaching union or to have a
conversation with Valentini himself, but to all his tentative questions
Ragna opposed an impenetrable mask of reserve, answering superficially
or turning the question. And never before had Egidio been so elusive;
the Doctor found it impossible to obtain more than the most casual
exchange of greetings with him. It was always,

"_Ciao_, old man! I shall come to see you some day soon. I am in a
fearful hurry to-day, I had no idea that getting married was such hard
work!"

Virginia herself called on Ragna soon after the announcement of the
engagement. To her keen eyes the girl seemed thin, feverish, as though
harassed by unwelcome thoughts and doing her best to evade them. She sat
down by Ragna's side on the shabby sofa, and took a listless hand
between her own.

"Now tell me, dear, how it all came about, won't you? I was never so
surprised in my life as when Rico told me."

"Why should you be surprised? Though, of course, it is surprising that
anyone should wish to marry me. Oh, I quite understand that!" The girl's
voice was bitter.

"Oh, no cara, not that! You misunderstand me. I was astonished that
Valentini should marry at all--I looked for his motives--"

"His motives?"

Virginia patted the hand she held.

"Now don't be angry with me, cara. Valentini is the most utterly selfish
man I know, and for him to marry you in the present circumstances is
something I can't understand. That he should be attracted by you,
yes--but marriage! I ask myself, what is there beneath it all? I ask
myself this, because, believe me, Ragna dear, I do not wish you to make
a mistake, to be unhappier than you are. Remember that when one is
married it is for a long time."

"What do you know against Valentini?" asked Ragna.

"I know nothing to his discredit except that he is utterly selfish and
self-indulgent--it is a feeling, I search for the solution of this
problem. I do not believe it possible for Egidio Valentini to be
disinterested."

"Then let me tell you, Signora, that you are quite, quite wrong. Signor
Valentini has made me an extremely honourable and disinterested offer
which I am grateful and proud to accept. I only hope I may prove myself
worthy of the trust he has in me, and I must refuse to discuss him
further." Ragna drew her hand away as she spoke, and as she was looking
straight before her, missed the half amused, half pitying smile that
crept over Virginia's face.

"If that is the way you look at it, there is nothing more to be said,
and I am sorry, if with the best of intentions, I have hurt you or
seemed to meddle. Only one thing, cara, don't be too grateful--yet.
Don't hold yourself too cheap, you will gain nothing, believe me, by
making of yourself a door-mat for your husband to wipe his feet on. That
sort of thing never does with any man, but with Valentini it would be
fatal."

"But you must see that it is my duty to be grateful!"

"Grateful! Duty! Then you do not love him at all?"

"It is not a love marriage--we are great friends; he has been, is, most
kind to me."

"But he loves you? He has said so?"

"He has told me so," said Ragna gravely, "but we are on a friendly
footing, not lovers at all. And that is why I must be grateful, don't
you see?"

Virginia puckered her brows thoughtfully; she did not in the least
believe in either Egidio's love or his disinterestedness--still less in
his marrying on a "friendly footing" merely, but she could give no
positive grounds for her disbelief. Ragna's reserve and her refusal to
discuss her fiancé's motives, or in any way throw more light on the
question forbade any further pursuance of the subject. After all if the
girl was satisfied, what more was necessary, what more could be said or
done? Virginia had an uncomfortable feeling that the matter should not
be left thus, but Ragna's next words closed the subject definitely and
decisively.

"Thank you very much indeed for your kindly interest, Signora. There are
many things I should like to consult you about, as I am a stranger here.
Will you help me with my little trousseau?"

A trousseau is a subject near and dear to the feminine heart the world
over, and the two were still immersed in the fascinating discussion when
the tinkle of the door-bell announced Egidio's arrival. Virginia rose
as he entered the room and turning to Ragna, kissed her on both cheeks.

"I wish _you_ all happiness, my dear," she said pointedly, "I really
must run away now, the babies will be calling for me. I shall come for
you in the morning and we will go shopping."

She gave her finger-tips to Egidio and their eyes met, each divining in
the other a veiled hostility. In her glance he read an undisguised query
and he met it with a sort of insolent defiance.

"Congratulations," she said, in her clear, low voice. "You have gained a
good wife--take care of her or I shall hold you to account."

He bowed, "_Servo suo_, Signora Virginia," and opened the door for her.

He returned to Ragna, a slight frown on his face, but waited with
characteristic caution until the outer door slammed to, before he said,

"The Signora Virginia does not like me, cara; you must not let her
poison your mind against me."

Ragna flushed guiltily, but loyally took up the cudgels in her friend's
defence.

"You are unjust, Egidio, she only wants me to be happy, and she is most
kind in helping me. You must not speak of her like that!"

"Oh, she does not like me, I have always known it. She dislikes me
because I am her husband's friend. All women are jealous at heart of
their husbands' friends, male or female."

Ragna laughed at the absurdity of the idea and said playfully,

"Then I think you dislike her because she is my friend!"

"Perhaps that is it," agreed Valentini. "I am jealous of all who are
near you, dear one, when I am away."

He smiled to himself and registered a mental vow that Ragna should see
but little of Virginia in future. "She knows or guesses too much, and
she has a sharp tongue," he thought.

Carolina, the Venetian maid, was the only one who openly expressed
disapproval. She flounced about the kitchen, banging the pots and pans,
in a state of continual ill-humour.

"I do not like that Signore!" she would say a dozen times a day, "I do
not like him. You will be sorry if you marry him, Signorina mia!"

In vain did Ragna reprove her, in vain asked her the reason for her
dislike of Valentini.

"I do not know why, Signorina, but I hate him. He has the evil eye, I
know it--this marriage will bring you no luck. I shall burn candles to
the Madonna, but it will do no good--even the Madonna can't exorcise the
evil eye!"

Her croakings made Ragna uncomfortable, and she avoided Carolina to the
serving-maid's intense distress.

Meanwhile time was passing and the wedding day arrived. Egidio and Ragna
accompanied by Ferrati and his wife, Agosti, a Neapolitan friend of
Egidio's who was to be second witness, and the weeping Carolina bringing
up the rear, made up the small cortège. It was a hot morning and the
city was deserted. A few idle _facchini_ and women of the people
followed them up to the _Sala de' matrimoni_, where a wheezy clerk read
through the marriage contract, and a bored, perspiring official
representing the absent Sindaco put the questions to the pair. As Ragna
rose from her red velvet armchair to answer, it seemed to her that she
must be dreaming. The dry rapid reading, the abrupt, indifferent manner
of the official, the darkened musty hall, traversed by a stray beam of
sunlight in which dust motes danced--could this be her wedding?
Mechanically she answered and when told to do so, signed her name in the
registers under Egidio's; Ferrati and Agosti signed also, then the
official gave her a copy of the certificate and wished her happiness. As
in a trance she descended the stair, on Egidio's arm, and heard him say:

"You are my wife now, Ragna, you have promised to obey me and follow me
everywhere--to the world's end--to Hell if I lead the way!"

An oppression stopped her breathing, her head swam, the premonition came
over her that not to Hell would she follow the man at her side, but
through a daily, living Hell, to the end of her life. She stumbled and
would have fallen, but Egidio sustained her, and Ferrati hurrying
forward caught her other arm.

"Poor child," he said, "it is the emotion and the heat, she is quite
overcome! Let us get her quickly to the carriage!"

So, half supporting, half carrying her, they reached the landau, waiting
below in the courtyard. Virginia would have taken the place beside Ragna
but Egidio thrust her aside, and himself took the girl's head on his
shoulder, and held the smelling salts to her nose.

"See," said Ferrati to his wife, "how fond he is of her!"

Virginia held her peace, but inwardly thought, "All for the gallery!"

In this she was not quite right, as Egidio, for the moment, was
thoroughly honest in his anxiety for Ragna. She was his wife, his
possession, his chattel; he loved her for the moment because she was
fair to look upon, but above all because she was newly his.

Ragna's faintness soon passed off, and crushing down her presentiment as
silly weakness, she smiled up into her husband's face. Agosti came
forward, hat in hand, wished them happiness and went his ways; Ferrati
and Virginia took their places facing the pair, as Egidio still refused
to relinquish his post by Ragna's side--a malicious desire to annoy
Virginia had something to do with this, perhaps--and they drove to
Ferrati's house where luncheon was spread. In spite of all efforts on
the part of Ferrati it was but a half-earted affair, and all felt
relieved when at the close Virginia carried Ragna off to her room to
rest. They were all to dine together at the restaurant of the "Due
Terrazze," and then the newly wedded couple were to go to the apartment
Egidio had taken in the Via Serragli.

Dinner was gayer than luncheon had been; Ragna, now quite herself again,
feeling as does a bather when the first cold plunge has been made,
entertained them all by her gay sallies and quiet wit. The coloured
lanterns swinging from the _pergola_, the music on the terrace, the many
tables of merry diners calling for _pesciolini d' Arno_, _fritto misto_
and _Chianti_ all seemed delightful to her unaccustomed eyes. They drank
her health and Egidio's and she smiled, and sparkled; it seemed to her
that she had really reached port, that the worst of her troubles must be
over. So when Egidio squeezed her hand under the table, she returned the
pressure, and Ferrati who saw the movement rejoiced that all was well.
Ragna smiled at him and at Egidio, but the latter's head being in the
shadow, she did not see the expression of his burning, gloating eyes
fixed on the flushed face and shining hair under the white lace hat. He
did not, however, escape the watchful Virginia.

Dinner was over at last and Ferrati and his wife on their way home,
accompanied by much cracking of the _fiaccheraio's_ whip, and Ragna
seated in a carriage by Egidio's side let herself lapse into a sort of
reverie. So it was done, she was married! She was the wife of Egidio
Valentini, far from her home, her kindred! The sultry night air, through
which a faint breeze was stirring, wafting the odour of the thick-lying
dust to her nostrils, oppressed her. She longed for a breath from her
native fjords, crisp and aromatic from mountain and fir woods, sharp
with the tang of the sea. She closed her eyes to the noisy strolling
crowd thronging the streets and a wave of homesickness swept over her.
She fought it down and found solace in the thought that at last anxiety
and fear of a public shame were over for her, that she was saved from
disgrace, and through Valentini. A flood of gratitude welled up in her
heart, she took his hand and raised it to her lips, tears brimming in
her eyes.

"How good you are to me," she murmured, "How very good!"

He smiled and put his arm around her and she nestled back against it
confidingly. Neither spoke again till they reached the house in the Via
Serragli, but Egidio watched her obliquely out of those burning eyes of
his, and his arm tingled where she leaned against it. He shifted his
feet nervously once or twice and his breath came fast, but he gave no
other sign of the emotion that possessed him. As they rattled over the
Trinità bridge the full moon, reflected in the dark glancing waters
below, shamed the yellow street lamps, and the houses towering above the
Lung 'Arno Giucciardini glowed here and there with lights behind the
barred windows. As the darkness of the narrowing street engulfed them,
Ragna felt a vague uneasiness come over her--but was she not safe with
her husband-friend?

They drew up before the door of a _palazzo_, Egidio paid the driver, and
opened the heavy _portone_ with a large iron key. They climbed to the
first floor and at the sound of their approach a door on the landing
opened disclosing Carolina silhouetted against the light within.

"The Signora is tired," said Egidio, in a slightly hoarse voice, "she
wants to go to bed at once, take the light!" Then to Ragna, "Come,
carissima, this is your room."

Carolina lit the way to a large bedroom, overlooking the street on one
side and a garden on the other. It was furnished with a large old
four-poster bed with canopy and valance, some armchairs, a table, a
couch and a large writing desk. A screen hid the wash-stand, and
Carolina had laid out Ragna's simple toilet necessaries on a monumental
dressing table. A huge carved clothes-press stood against the wall.

"It is a beautiful room," said Ragna, but she shivered. With the
wavering shadows of Carolina's guttering candle, it seemed an abode of
grotesque and horrible ghostly shapes, a gloomy cavern haunted by
kobolds and evil spirits.

"I am glad you like it," said Egidio gratified. "Good-night,
_mogliettina_, sleep well." He kissed her on the forehead without
bending, she was nearly as tall as he and withdrew.

Carolina helped her to undress and she crept into the huge bed with a
sigh of relief, for the emotions of the day had tired her out. When the
maid had left her she lay quite still, following with her eyes the
unfamiliar outlines of this furniture, dimly seen by the flickering
night-light. She wondered why she had felt no curiosity as to the rest
of the apartment, why she had not even asked to see it. "Poor Egidio! I
hope he was not disappointed! I shall be nicer to him to-morrow. He is
so kind and this is a beautiful room, even if it is so large and strange
and unhome-like--" Her thoughts were wandering drowsily on, when a
sudden noise brought her to a sitting posture. A crack of light showed
in the wall, then a door she had not seen before, opened and Egidio
appeared, dressed for the night.

"You! You!" she stammered in surprise, clutching together the folds of
her night-dress at the neck.

"Yes, I," he answered. "You did not think that was all the good-night I
should ask for, did you?"

He used the familiar "tu," instead of the "Lei" he had always addressed
her with heretofore. That and something rough in his voice alarmed her,
a sudden fear froze her veins but she hid it, and said with well assumed
calm,

"Egidio dear, it is good of you to say good-night again. You thought I
would feel lonely?"

"Yes," he answered grimly, "I thought you would be lonely, so I have
come to keep you company. Make room for me beside you, dear."

"Oh!" she laughed with a catch in her throat, "I am not so lonely as all
that! I am quite sleepy--I shall sleep very well indeed. Good-night
Egidio!"

He bent forward and she raised her cheek, but he kissed her on the mouth
and as his lips touched hers his arms went around her and pressed her to
him.

"Oh, no!" she panted, "oh, no! no! Not that, Egidio, not that! You said
you would be a friend to me, a brother, nothing more!"

"I was a fool then," he muttered, "and you were a fool if you believed I
could marry you, a woman like you, and be no more than a brother!"

She struggled wildly to free herself, but he clasped her tight, and
forcing her hands away from his chest where she had braced them, said
angrily:

"Look here, Ragna, after all, I am your husband, I have my rights and I
mean to take them, _Intendiamoci_, I don't want to hurt you, but if you
behave this way, I shall, so make an end of it! And remember this, you
owe me a wife's duty in return for all I have done for you!"

With a groan she fell back on her pillows and his lips found hers again.

Thus did Ragna learn the most bitter of all humiliations, and it seemed
to her, that night, that her very soul died within her, together with
her newborn self-respect. Now indeed was all dust and ashes and
gall--all that remained to her was the outward shell of respectability,
"And God knows how dearly bought," she moaned into her pillow, as in the
grey dawn she lay with aching head and dry painful throat from which
rose hard tearless sobs of disgust and despair. Even if Egidio had loved
her, she thought, but she knew now that his feeling for her was anything
but love; a vile passion brutal and overmastering, a desire that would
bite rather than kiss, tear rather than caress, the passion of a beast.
And all the tenderness, the consideration, the respect of the past few
weeks? Sham, all sham! "Then Virginia was right, _this_ is what she
tried to warn me against, and I would not listen!" thought Ragna. "And
it is for always, there can be no escape--never until death!" Then she
hugged herself in her arms, "Ah, little child, little child of mine,
your name is dearly bought." So she lay, crushed and miserable, in the
sad dawn, and there rose to her ears the creak and rattle of the axles
of the heavy country carts, bringing in fowls and vegetables and hay
from the country. One after another they creaked and groaned by, now and
then a whip cracked, or a muffled curse rose. Then came the sweepers
with the swish of brooms and water and a few early street cries pierced
the morning stillness.

And always in after life, these morning sounds, the creaking of the
carts, the swish of the brooms, the hawkers' cries, were associated in
Ragna's mind, together with the chill and cruel dawn, with a dreary
sense of hopelessness, as when the watcher by a sickbed sees, by the
first livid streak of light, the ashen grey of death steal over some
beloved face, and realizes the despairing cheerlessness of all the long
day to follow, of all the cheerless dawns throughout the years.



CHAPTER III


Ragna's letter announcing her marriage reached Fru Boyesen as that lady
and Ingeborg were eating their substantial early breakfast. Ingeborg, at
her aunt's request, had come to spend some months with her, and though
not as dear to the old lady's heart as Ragna, perhaps because the
element of pride in an unquestioned intellectual supremacy was lacking,
had won a place for herself by her quiet unassuming manners and gentle
dependence of spirit.

Fru Boyesen eagerly tore open the envelope with its foreign stamp and
post mark, but as she mastered the meaning of the first sentences her
hands dropped and she gave a cry of astonishment.

"What is it, Auntie?" asked Ingeborg who had recognised her sister's
handwriting.

Fru Boyesen speechlessly waved a hand; she resettled the glasses on her
nose and continued her perusal of the letter, growing red in the face as
she proceeded. Ingeborg sat watching her with round anxious eyes
exercising all her self-control in silencing the queries that crowded to
her lips. The thin foreign paper crackled and creased as the pages were
turned, and Ingeborg followed the close fine lines of writing, though
too far away to distinguish a word. Crushing the letter in her hand Fru
Boyesen rose to her feet, upsetting her cup of coffee; Ingeborg sprang
forward, but the expression of her aunt's face was such as to drive from
her mind the minor importance of the slight mishap, and the creamy
liquid streamed unheeded to the floor.

"What is it, Aunt? Oh, do tell me!"

"Your sister," said Fru Boyesen, "has disgraced herself. She has married
a foreigner that nobody ever heard of, without her family's
permission--without mine. My consent! She never even asked it, she knew
well enough what I would say! Oh, I knew there was something in the wind
when that fool, Else Bjork, came back without her! You knew, Ingeborg, I
wanted to go down to her, and you all persuaded me not to. God knows, if
I had, I might have stopped this folly--but now listen to what the
shameless idiot says!"

She smoothed out the crumpled sheets and glancing through them read out
a paragraph here and there at random.

"'Dear Auntie:

"'I hope you are not going to be very angry when you hear my news. I
know you won't approve, but perhaps by and by--I am sorry that I could
not consult you, but it has all been so sudden. It would be difficult
for me to explain to you so that you would understand, how it was I came
to take this step'--I should think so indeed--'and knowing how little
use it would be to try and make you, who are so far away, understand it
all I thought it better not to attempt it--Fru Bjork knew nothing of
this, and indeed there was nothing definite to know at the time she
left, so you must not hold her in any way responsible. I know you will
think me very foolish, but perhaps time will prove even to you--Signor
Valentini is a young man of whom great things are predicted; he is very
kind to me and we have many interests in common--'"

The reading was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door and
the appearance of Astrid rosy and smiling on the threshold. She glanced
in amazement from Fru Boyesen's flushed face to Ingeborg's strained
white one, noting the overturned coffee-cup and the letter in Fru
Boyesen's trembling fingers.

"My dear Fru Boyesen!" she exclaimed, stepping forward, "what is the
matter? Have you bad news?" Then recognising the handwriting of the
letter--"Has Ragna--?"

"Come here, Astrid," said Fru Boyesen, "tell me what you know of this
disgraceful business."

"Disgraceful business!" echoed Astrid, in consternation.

"Yes, this marriage--"

"Marriage!" repeated Astrid almost dazed, "what marriage?"

"Ragna's marriage. What do you know of this Valentini person, this,
this--"

"Valentini!" exclaimed Astrid, still amazed, but with a note of
comprehension in her voice. "Ragna has married Valentini?"

"You knew him then?"

"Why, yes," said Astrid seating herself on the chair Ingeborg set for
her. "We both knew him, he was our drawing master in Florence."

"A drawing master! My niece marry a drawing master! My niece!"

"But Fru Boyesen, he is not just a drawing master, he is an artist."

Now this conveyed absolutely nothing to the elder woman's mind. She
considered artists a sort of licensed and decorative charlatans, a
long-haired and casual fraternity, the froth rising to the surface of
the solid and respectable mass of society, all very well in their
place, no doubt, but to be kept at a discreet distance; beings as much
outside the orbit of ordinary existence as the Milky Way or a handful of
wandering meteors. To her mind Ragna might as well have married a
peddler or an acrobat.

"An artist!" she repeated scornfully, flicking the letter with outraged
fingers. "And she wastes six sheets of good paper in explanations that
explain nothing!"

Astrid, glad to turn the point of the conversation, said,

"Ragna must surely have good reasons for what she has done."

"Reasons! She gives me no reasons. In the end this is what it amounts
to: 'Dear Aunt, I have taken my own way; it is too late for you to
change anything, so pray don't make a fuss, but make the best of it!'"

The bitterness in the good woman's voice was unmistakable.

"Oh, yes, she was afraid of our interference, of our disapproval--but
disapproval counts for nothing with Madame, now. Well, she has made her
bed, let her lie in it--nor look to me to feather her nest, I'm done
with her!"

"Oh, Auntie," interposed Ingeborg's gentle voice, "she is fond of you, I
know it; don't be so hard on her! Ragna would never do anything that
wasn't right. I know, and she would never intentionally grieve you, who
have been so good to her."

"Good to her, yes, I have been good to her and this is my reward; have
ingratitude and an insolent disregard of me and my opinion! Ingeborg,
and you too, Astrid, remember that from this day forth I wash my hands
of Ragna Andersen--no I forgot, of Ragna Valentini; she is no longer my
niece. She has chosen to flout me, well, she shall find out what it is
to do without me, and I forbid you, both of you, ever to mention her
name in my presence again. She is dead to me, as dead as if she lay in
her coffin--do you understand?"

She crossed the room unsteadily and tearing the letter across, thrust it
into the fireplace of the large porcelain stove, then swept from the
room, leaving Ingeborg and Astrid gazing horror-stricken into each
other's faces.

If Ragna could have brought her news in person, her presence, her
affectionate manner would have had a very different effect. Aunt Gitta
might have raged and stormed but the mere presence of her favourite
niece, once the first shock was over, would have influenced her
insensibly and outweighed her prejudice. If the letter had even been a
tender pleading one--but poor Ragna, sore from her disillusionment,
filled with hatred and disgust for herself and her surroundings, yet
obliged to justify those same surroundings, and give some explanation of
her reasons for her hurried marriage, had not been able to break through
the false crust of formality. So much had, of necessity, to be
concealed, so much left unexplained, that try as she would, her letter
lacked the compelling note of genuine feeling, and seemed hard, cynical,
almost insolent, in fact. If she had frankly opened her heart to her
aunt, and had thrown herself on the good woman's mercy, the appeal would
have had its effect after Fru Boyesen's horror and indignation had had
time to cool, but poor Ragna, half from shame and despair, half from the
desire to spare her family the inevitable sorrow entailed by a
disclosure, had not been able to bring herself to a frank confession.
Even if Fru Boyesen had had insight enough to enable her to read
between the lines of that poor inadequate letter,--but to her a word was
a word, a sentence, a sentence, meaning just so much and no more, and
all that she saw, was a high-handed disregard of her feelings and an
impervious ingratitude for all the benefits she had conferred. It
wounded her vanity not to have had her consent considered essential or
even desirable. Her feelings were wounded, but they would have
recovered--what are wounded feelings compared to a hurt sense of
self-importance? So she hardened her heart.

Left together, Astrid and Ingeborg sat silent, neither wishing to be the
first to speak, though Astrid was curious to learn all that she could of
Ragna's extraordinary marriage. She reviewed in her mind the months
spent in Italy, she remembered Ragna's long absences in Rome, and the
half-formed suspicions they had aroused in her, then she called to mind
her friend's changed demeanour in Florence, in Venice, her pallor, her
lack of spirits. She remembered Ragna's feverish interest in her work,
but not in her teacher, and the more she thought the more mystified did
she become.

"She does not love Valentini," Astrid reflected, "at least she did not
at that time, and it is not in the least like her to rush into a piece
of folly like this. No, there must be something behind it all."

Ingeborg had fallen forward, her arms crossed on the table, her face
hidden, weeping silently; Astrid went round the table to her, and laid a
caressing hand on her shoulder.

"Don't cry, Ingeborg dear."

The girl raised her tear-stained countenance.

"Oh, Astrid, we shall never see her any more."

"What foolishness!"

"No, it is not foolishness, I feel it here," she said laying her hand on
her heart; "she has gone from us for ever,--and Auntie has cast her
off."

"Oh, don't let that worry you," said Astrid, "she will come round in
time; I have seen Fru Boyesen in a temper before."

"But this is different, Ragna was the apple of her eye, and now--"

"All the more reason, little goose; it is only a question of time. She
is sure to come round, especially with you here to put in a good word
for Ragna now and then."

"I'm afraid it won't be much use, but I shall do my best," sighed
Ingeborg, then in another tone, "tell me, Astrid, what is your candid
opinion of this Signor Valentini?"

Astrid was rather taken aback by this sudden volte-face.

"I don't know that I have an opinion, I never thought much about him at
all. He is a clever man, but curious; there seemed to be two of him, one
very plausible and the other quite rude and rough. He is rather handsome
in a way, and his family, I believe, is quite good. I could see when we
were in Florence that he had his eye on Ragna--"

"Did she seem to like him then?" asked Ingeborg eagerly.

"I can't say she did, more than as a friend, but then it is hard to
tell, Ragna is such a self-contained sort of girl. It struck me
though,--but this is just between you and me,--that she had something on
her mind, something that was worrying her, and that she took up the
drawing and Valentini as a sort of distraction. It began in Rome, from
the Carnival on she was not the same."

Ingeborg wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully, and nodded her head.

"Yes, now I think of it, there was a change in her letters too--but from
there to marrying this man! Do you know, Astrid, in her letter to Aunt
Gitta, never once did she say that she was in love with him and that is
the only thing that would explain."

Astrid was standing before the mirror, fluffing her hair; she turned at
Ingeborg's last words, and set her hands on her hips.

"Ingeborg, if I were you, I'd get to the bottom of this, there's
something mysterious about it."

"No," said Ingeborg, "I won't pry; if Ragna had wished me to know, she
would have told me. As long as she doesn't, I wouldn't spy on her for
all the world. She must have some good reason, it's not like her to fly
off at a tangent!"

"If you knew more, you might be able to help her, to explain things to
your Aunt."

"Yes," said Ingeborg, "that is true; I might--"

"I have an idea," said Astrid suddenly, "I shall write to the Signora
Ferrati, she may be able to tell us something; you know Ragna went back
to Florence with her so she must know all about it."

"Wouldn't that seem like going behind Ragna's back?" objected Ingeborg.

"Oh, I shall be careful about that. I shall just write in a friendly way
and say how surprised we all were at the announcement of the marriage.
And it will be only natural for her to tell how it came about, in her
reply. We may find out a good deal that way, and I don't know how else.
Besides she is very fond of Ragna, and wouldn't do or say anything to
hurt her feelings."

"Very well," agreed Ingeborg grudgingly, "write to the Signora Ferrati,
and show me her answer, when it comes. But, Astrid, you won't say
anything to anybody, except just that Ragna is married, will you?"

"Of course not, dear."

Then they kissed each other on the cheek, and Ingeborg accompanied
Astrid to the door and went to her own room, the one that had been
Ragna's formerly, and sat down to compose a letter to her sister.

Fru Boyesen was writing also, a letter which she was to bitterly regret,
the more so that her pride would not let her recall it or abandon the
position she had taken. She felt a savage joy in wounding as she had
been wounded, and re-read the finished note with the pride of an artist
in his masterpiece, yet with a pang at heart.

     "My dear niece," it ran, "I am much obliged to you for your letter,
     showing, as it does, so nice a consideration for my feelings and so
     just an appreciation of your duty towards me. I rejoice in your
     independence of spirit, and since you have shown yourself quite
     able to dispense with my counsel or assistance I shall not trouble
     you in future with either.

     "(Signed) YOUR AUNT GITTA.

     "P. S.--You need not bother about answering this letter, as I think
     you must understand that any correspondence between us has become
     unnecessary."

She stamped the letter, frowning as she wrote the address, and affixed a
large seal of black wax. Allowing herself no time for reflection, she
rang for a maid and gave orders that the letter should be immediately
posted. Then, determined that the shock which had broken the whole
current of her life should leave no trace on her everyday existence, she
brought out her account-books, it being her accustomed Saturday
morning's task, and proceeded to carefully check the tradesmen's bills
for the week.



CHAPTER IV


To Ragna her Aunt's letter was a shock and a grief, but not unexpected.
She had warned Egidio that something of the kind was to be looked for
and as Ingeborg's letter arrived at the same time bidding Ragna be
patient and hope for the best, promising that she, Ingeborg, would bend
all her efforts to winning their Aunt over, Valentini was not really
disappointed. Ingeborg, however, had made the mistake of advising Ragna
strongly against writing to Fru Boyesen in the existing state of
affairs. The poor woman in spite of her plainly expressed wish to the
contrary, was secretly hoping for a letter from Ragna, a dutifully
humble letter which might permit of her abating somewhat of her wrath.
But Ragna followed her sister's advice, and no letter came. So the
misunderstanding deepened.

It has been said that one can accustom one's self to anything, and it is
certain that after the first few days of her marriage Ragna lost, to a
great extent, the feeling of moral and physical degradation which at
first had made her wish to cover her face forever from the eyes of
mankind. Or rather, as some feelings are too poignant to be born long,
there ensued a deadening of the fibres, and the daily torment became a
burden to which she learned to bend her back. She even took a bitter
satisfaction in saying to herself that she was paying her debt to the
full, earning her salt of outward respectability as it were, by the
prostitution of her soul. As for her body, it seemed to her a thing to
leave out of account henceforward, a temple profaned beyond all hope of
purification.

Respite came to her though, after some time, by Dr. Ferrati's
dissatisfaction with her state of health, and his consequent
prescription of complete rest.

He even took Valentini aside and berated him soundly.

"Have you no sense at all, Egidio, you who know your wife's condition,
that you take so little care of her? If you keep on in this way, I tell
you, I won't be answerable for the consequences!"

Virginia watched the course of events but refrained from comment, much
to her husband's relief, for there was something in the expression of
Ragna's eyes, a miserable, hunted look that made him most uncomfortable.
She never complained and when he tried to sound her, she fenced as
before her marriage; once even, when he went so far as to put a direct
question, she resolutely denied any cause for unhappiness.

Virginia had received Astrid's letter, and had answered it, but could
not give any information as she did not feel free to disclose Ragna's
secret, the real reason of her marriage. Instead she insinuated her
doubts of Valentini's disinterestedness, leaving Ragna as much out of
the question as she could. The letter, such as it was, carried a great
light to Astrid, who recalled her indiscreet confidences to Valentini,
in his studio. His motive, she saw clearly enough--but Ragna's? Here all
was still mystery. She re-read the letter and understood that the
Signora's reticence was intentional, and that she might hope to learn
nothing more from that source.

Ingeborg, to whom she took the letter, remained as much in the dark as
ever, for Astrid naturally omitted to tell of her own conversation with
Valentini on the subject of Ragna's prospects.

"She is a friend of Ragna's, I can see that," said Ingeborg, folding and
unfolding the letter, "and I am sure that if she can help her she will.
As for the rest, the reasons for this marriage, perhaps Ragna does not
wish her to speak of them, or else she is too good a friend to pry and
spy. I like her, I wish I could have a talk with her."

As time went on, the Valentinis became rather pinched for means. Shortly
after the birth of Ragna's son, whom they called "Egidio," they removed
to a smaller and cheaper apartment on the other side of the river.
Carolina, whose baby had been born a month before her mistress's, served
as _balia_ and so avoided the expense of a professional wet-nurse, for
Ragna's health was at this time too delicate and her recovery too slow,
to permit of her nursing the child herself. The long strain had told on
her severely, and for some time she was obliged to spend most of the day
in her rattan reclining-chair. She welcomed this weakness--it was good
just to lie there set apart from the everyday worries, and to let life
slip past unresistingly. Egidio, to be just to him, was kind to her at
this period, bringing her flowers and fruit and any little dainty he
could afford. Her pale face and listless hands appealed to him, also he
had a sort of vicarious pride in the plump sturdy child, and graciously
accepted as his due the compliments that such of his friends as were
admitted to his intimacy, lavished on his first born. As he had always
been of a secretive nature as to his own affairs, the sudden appearance
on the scene of a wife and child, surprised no one particularly,--the
only wonder was that after keeping his marriage secret so long, he
should have divulged it at all,--but again the birth of a son explained
that.

Virginia often came to sit with Ragna during these days of languor, and
the girl welcomed her as she never had before. Virginia was touched by
the affectionate warmth of Ragna's manner towards her and during these
visits her busy fingers fashioned many little garments for the baby. He
was fair, like his mother, round and rosy, with great blue eyes, and
from the first moment they had laid him in her arms she had loved him
with a fierce tenderness that was almost aggressive in its intensity.
She looked to the child for compensation for all she had been through.
Virginia often observed the change in the young mother's expression,
when Carolina left the baby with her; all the languor, all the
listlessness disappeared, the thin pale cheeks took on the colour and
the eyes the brightness that was natural to them. Virginia said to her
one day:

"I am sure that if you made an effort, Ragna cara, you could overcome
this weakness. It is because you voluntarily let yourself go that you
get no better. Tell me, why is it that you don't want to get well and
strong?"

Ragna lifted her head. She was dressing little Egidio. Her eyes, torn
from the contemplation of his plump rosy body had a startled expression.

"How did you guess that, Virginia?"

The other smiled.

"It was not very difficult to guess. But seriously, carissima, you
should make an effort,--for the child's sake, at least."

"I suppose I ought to, for the child's sake," said Ragna slowly,
caressing the coral-pink feet and dimpled legs, "but I can't somehow, I
can't make the effort. I--I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what, cara?"

"That when I am stronger, Egidio--"

The blood rose in Ragna's cheek; Virginia leaned forward and patted her
hand.

"I understand, poverina,--but what would you have? We married women are
not our own mistresses,--it is the way of the world. The Creator has
willed that some of us serve our Purgatory on earth."

Before she left, she kissed Ragna tenderly, and murmured, "Poverina, I
am sorry--but you have the bimbo! Let that make up to you for the rest!"

She was thinking of Egidio with his mouth like that of a beast.

After the Valentinis moved, Virginia was not able to come so often; they
lived further apart, and her visits in consequence became less frequent.
Indeed, this had been part of Valentini's intention in going so far. He
wished, partly from jealousy, and partly from mingled dislike and fear
of Virginia to remove Ragna from her close companionship and the moving
offered a good pretext for this, without the risk of offending the
susceptibilities of his friend Ferrati.

Ragna missed Virginia greatly, she had grown to depend on her society,
and as she had few friends and but little opportunity for making new
acquaintances, her lonely days became singularly dull and empty.

Egidio had had a run of bad luck and had sold no pictures for some time
and the expenses of Ragna's confinement had been a heavy drain on his
resources. As week after week passed, bringing no sign from Fru Boyesen,
he grew impatient, although he had told himself to expect nothing for
some time. The confinement had cost more than he expected, and he
thought that Ragna's family might have helped him out, though realizing
at the same time the absurdity of the idea, as they could and must know
nothing of the birth of a child for some months to come. He grew moody
and taciturn, and without speaking directly on the subject, gave Ragna
to understand that her faulty diplomacy was to blame for their
discomfort. This bewildered her, as she had even yet, no inkling of his
real motive in marrying her.

She withdrew more and more into herself, realizing as time went on, how
vain had been the hopes of a friendly comradeship on which she had
founded her expectations of married life. Egidio no longer cared to talk
with her about his work and his interests, and when she proposed a visit
to his studio and a resumption of her lessons, he received the
suggestion with such coldness and evident lack of pleasure, that she let
the subject drop and never revived it again. He nearly always spent the
evenings out now and when, by chance, he remained at home, his sour,
forbidding expression and the aura of gloom that hung about him,
effectually choked any conversation. Ragna felt a distinct relief in his
absence for Carolina's cheery song rang out unreproved in the kitchen,
little Egidio, or "Mimmo," as they called him, cooed and prattled in his
crib--the whole household, in fact, seemed to stretch its cramped limbs
and breathe freely, relieved of the oppressive presence of the master.

They were poor, very poor; Ragna did the best she could in restricting
expense, but the bills crept up in spite of her, and Egidio's reproaches
for her extravagance hurt her bitterly. Was all her life to be a
failure, she wondered drearily? She had always acted for the best, she
told herself; she had only consented to marry because Egidio had begged
her to, and on her child's account, and now all was misery. She could
see from day to day her husband's affection for the child slowly waning.
What would become of them all? In these reflections she did not dare to
be quite honest with herself,--she had acted for the best, yes, but as
others saw it for her, she had lacked the courage to be true to herself,
to her instinct. So, because she had gone counter to her nature, because
she had denied the essential truth in her soul, and surrendered her life
to the guidance of others, in giving to her motherhood the shield of
what she expected to be but an empty social contract, a sham, she had
sold her birthright for a mess of pottage. Even the love of her child,
which should have been her consolation, was to become as dust and ashes
in her mouth. It seemed cruel, as she did not err consciously, and it
was not her fault if the arguments with which society and custom
supplied her, proved specious. But she was not one who could live on the
surface, buoyed up by a succession of more or less agreeable occurrences
and material facts, therefore the Law, the first commandment of which
is, "This above all, to thine own self be true," bore heavily on her.

She grew desperate, and driven by Egidio's moodiness and fits of temper,
finally wrote to her father begging him for help, announcing herself
about to become a mother, and giving as an excuse for her appeal her
husband's extraordinary ill luck and the extra expense occasioned by her
condition. Lars Andersen replied affectionately. His daughter's marriage
had been a grief to him, and his national pride had been hurt that she
should have preferred a foreigner to one of her own countrymen, but
except for that she had become almost a stranger to him. The years she
had spent at school and with her Aunt Gitta had taken her out of his
life, and the knowledge that by her choice of a husband she had
definitely separated herself from her own family and country had brought
no such sharp pang to him as it had to her mother and to her aunt.

He wrote that he was sorry not to be able to do more for her, his
limited income being barely sufficient for home needs, and that she must
take the will for the deed.

Tears rose to Ragna's eyes as she read the letter; her memory conjured
up the cosy, low house, sheltered by pine-trees, nestled at the foot of
the steep bare promontory overlooking the fjord; she recalled one by one
the happy times of her childhood. Now, Lotte was the only one left at
home, the old grandmother gone, Ingeborg in Christiania, she herself far
away,--what was there left of the old life save yearnings and vain
regrets?

Egidio came in and found her sitting, the letter lying on her lap, her
eyes far away.

"See, Egidio!" she cried, starting up, "Father has sent us a present."

He took the enclosed draft eagerly, but his face fell as he read the
figure of the modest sum it represented, and he cast it scornfully on
the table.

"A beggar's dole!"

"Oh, Egidio," she remonstrated, "poor Father can't afford more. I didn't
expect so much. He has sent all he could spare."

He turned on his heel, his hands in his pockets, the black felt hat
which he had neglected to remove still on his head.

"I am glad to find that I have married into such a princely family!"

With a lump in her throat she gathered up the letter and the draft and
left the room, afraid to trust herself to speak. That her Father's
kindness should meet with such disdain! True, Egidio could not know the
self-denial the gift represented,--but at least he need not have
sneered!

Small as it was the gift helped her for some time, and she used the
utmost ingenuity in making it last as long as possible. But when it was
gone? The inspiration came to her, and she wondered that she had not
thought of it sooner, to write some descriptive articles for a Norwegian
review to which she had contributed as a girl. They were accepted, and
she supplemented them by a few stories for children, which were taken by
a children's magazine. So she helped tide over the period of depression.

If she had looked to her husband for encouragement or gratitude, she was
disappointed; he was angry at her success, jealous even and he mentally
compared the small sums her work brought in with the expectations he had
entertained and which seemed as far from realization as ever.

She gained though in other ways, first through the restoration of her
self-respect--she was still worth something in the world, even if
unappreciated by those nearest her; then the interest of her occupation
gave her new life, and as she worked her strength came back to her, the
colour returned to her cheeks and the spring to her step.

Egidio, coming home to dinner one evening, paused in the doorway to look
at her, surprised at the change, patent at last, even to his eyes, and a
feeling long in abeyance reawoke in him as he watched the rosy,
graceful woman, sewing in the warm radiance of the lamp. She raised her
head, and as her eyes met his, realized with a thrill of horror that her
chains were in that moment, rivetted afresh. She had almost given up
thinking of the probability of a return of the early days of their
marriage; she had hoped, nay, almost believed them over for ever. She
had even encouraged Egidio's long evenings out, thinking that the
pleasures he found away from home would keep him from her and spare her
the return of the slavery she most dreaded. But as she saw the
admiration in his look, her heart sank.

He moved over to her, something cat-like in his tread and as she turned
her head away, kissed her on the ear, murmuring,

"I am tired of my little room, _mogliettina cara_, I am coming back to
you again. I shall tell Carolina to move the crib into her own room."

He moved off towards the kitchen, and she heard his voice raised in
peremptory command as, sick at heart, she folded up her sewing with
shaking hands.



CHAPTER V


"Well, Ragna, for a young lady who could not make up her mind whether to
be married or not, you are doing well," said Dr. Ferrati, jokingly.

The baby kicked on the knees of the _levatrice_, who was dressing it,
and Ragna, pale and worn out lay back on her pillows; Egidio stood by
the window, looking out and from the adjoining room came the voices of
Virginia and Mimmo, now a lively child of nearly two.

Ragna made no answer, her eyelashes barely quivered on her pale cheeks.
She wished they would all go away and leave her to rest, to rest for
ever. Ferrati looking at her, understood, and beckoning to Egidio,
motioned him from the room.

"We must let her sleep now, she needs rest."

Egidio paused by the bed on his way out. Now that she was the mother of
a child of his, he felt an odd sort of tenderness for her. Stooping
awkwardly he kissed her pale forehead; she shivered slightly, and made
no response.

"Come away," said Ferrati, "she must rest, she is worn out," and
together they left the room.

Virginia raised her head from the game of blocks she was playing with
Mimmo.

"Well!" she asked.

"She is doing well," said Ferrati, "but she is very tired and must
sleep. You ought to be a proud man, Egidio," he continued, turning to
his friend, "to have a pair of boys like this rogue and the little one
in there--one of the finest children I have ever seen, he weighs five
kilos if he weighs an ounce, a fine straight limbed youngster he is,
too!"

Valentini smiled; then as his eyes rested on Mimmo, the smile vanished.
The child scrambled to his feet and toddled up to him, holding out a
block.

"See, babbo, the pretty birdie!"

He pushed the boy away roughly, jealous of this usurper who had taken
and must always keep the place of the eldest, the place of his own son.
The childish lip quivered and tears rolled down over the round rosy
cheeks.

"Be quiet!" said Egidio gruffly, "if you cry or make a noise I shall
beat you!"

Mimmo dropped the block and ran to Virginia; he hid his face in her
skirt and sobbed loud and long.

"For shame, Valentini!" she said sharply.

For answer he made an angry gesture and left the room, slamming the door
to, after him. Virginia and Ferrati stared at each other in
consternation.

"He hates the child," said Virginia, "he never liked him but now that
the other has come, he hates him! God knows it was hard enough before,
for that poor thing," she waved her hand towards the door of Ragna's
room, "but it will be an Inferno now. I always told you, Rico _mio_,
that this marriage would turn out badly."

Then as little Mimmo's sobs continued she kissed him and caressed his
fair curly head.

"There, there, Mimmo caro, be a good boy! Babbo didn't mean to frighten
his little man! Look up! There is only Zia Virginia who loves you. You
must be a good boy and help take care of poor mammina who is ill. Hush
now! If you are good, I will show you your new little brother, such a
dear little baby boy, just come from heaven!"

"I don't want a little brother," said Mimmo suddenly, "wants my mammina,
wants to go to her! Take little brother away, Mimmo doesn't want to see
him."

Ferrati's eyes again sought those of his wife; he was very grave.

"I'm afraid you are right, Virginia," he said.

A few hours later, when Ragna awoke from a deep refreshing sleep, the
_levatrice_ laid the baby in her arms. She looked curiously at the
little head covered with a dark down, it hardly seemed possible that it
could be her child, its presence, the little weight of it on her arm
gave her no such thrill as had Mimmo. This child was altogether his
father's, not hers, she felt, conceived with intense revolt of spirit,
he must inevitably be antagonistic to her and hers. The mystery of this
little being, born of her, yet a stranger to her, flesh of her flesh,
yet divided from her by the spirit, oppressed her heart and mind. She
tried to think it out, to understand, but the problem was too great for
her tired head, and she drifted slowly away on a dreamless sea of sleep,
unvexed by the worries of life.



CHAPTER VI


The weeks drew into months, and Beppino in his turn was short-coated and
crept about the floors with his playthings. Mimmo, after the first
attack of infantile jealousy had passed, succumbed to the fascinations
of his baby brother and adored him with the whole strength of his little
heart.

Beppino was a strange child, grave and self-contained; the selfishness
of his nature made itself apparent from the very beginning, and it
needed all the sunny brightness of Mimmo's character, all his childish
good nature to cope with the other's exactions. Beppino wanted the
blocks. Mimmo relinquished them to him. Beppino threw the precious red
ball out of the window, to keep his brother from playing with it. Mimmo
wept over the loss of his treasure but straightway invented a new game
for the delectation of baby-brother. Beppino took a special delight in
tormenting animals, pussy fled at his approach. Pallino, the little
Pomeranian incontinently turned tail and sought shelter when the baby's
toddling footsteps announced his coming. He loved to tear the wings off
flies laughing at their vain efforts to escape, and once he carried his
experiment too far, for he swallowed the hapless insects and Ragna was
surprised by his rushing to her side his hands applied to his round
little stomach, shrieking with fright.

"Mammina! Mammina! I can feel them crawling and buzzing inside!"

Egidio had come to spend less and less time at home, his affairs
prospered, one commission followed another, and often Ragna hardly saw
him for weeks together. They had moved into another and larger apartment
in a good street, an apartment occupying two floors of the house in
which it was situated, the living and reception rooms being on the first
floor and the bedrooms above. Egidio's studio was also in the house, on
the first floor, it had a separate street entrance and staircase and was
connected with the rest of the apartment by a long winding passageway.
In this studio, forbidden territory to the rest of the household,
Valentini spent most of his time when in the house, rarely condescending
to appear in the sitting-room, and these occasions were anything but
occasions for rejoicing, as his bursts of temper grew more and more
frequent, and when in the grip of one of the headaches from which he so
often suffered, the whole household trembled at his approach. Once, in a
fit of rage at the unintentional banging of a door he seized the tureen
of steaming soup from the hands of the offending servant, and flung it,
contents and all at the man's head, meeting Ragna's remonstrance with:

"I am master in my own house, if you please, and since you show yourself
incompetent to train the servants, I must try my hand at it."

He had become openly contemptuous in his treatment of her; the brief
glow of affection aroused by the birth of Beppino had soon faded and he
took an unholy joy in holding her up to ridicule before the servants and
the children. Mimmo especially, he taught to be impertinent, insolent
even--a child is very ready to adopt the tone and manner of the head of
the house, and when Ragna pleaded with him with tears in her eyes to
desist, he laughed at her and asked her what she had ever done to
deserve either consideration or respect.

"But I am your wife, Egidio, the mother of your children," she paused
biting her lip, at the unfortunate slip of the tongue.

"Oh, yes, _my_ children--very fine indeed. Your generosity does you
credit--but as a title to veneration--"

"Leave me out then," she interrupted, flushing painfully, "consider only
the boys. How do you think they will grow up, without love and respect
for their parents?"

"Oh, I warrant you they will always respect me," he growled, "the hand
that holds the purse-strings commands respect."

"So you think now, Egidio," returned Ragna, for once speaking out her
mind--generally she schooled herself to submission, "but I tell you the
time will come when all the disrespect you inspire them with towards
their mother will be turned against yourself. You think you can hold
them by your power over them, by your authority, I tell you that you are
building on sand. Love begets love, coldness begets coldness and hatred
begets hatred!"

Valentini's face grew red, the veins swelled in his forehead, his eyes
glared from under the beetling brows.

"You talk of love and respect, you!" he roared, and she recoiled
involuntarily from his violence. "How dare you speak to me like that?
Remember that I picked you out of the gutter--where would you be now if
it were not for me? If I ever married you at all, it was because my head
was still so weak from the fever that I knew no better than to let
myself be roped in. And here I find myself, saddled with a bad
tempered, puling wife and a family that is only half mine, where other
young men of my age--"

"Egidio!" she cried with flashing eyes, "recollect please, that I only
married you because you wore down my resistances, because you begged and
implored--"

"Silence, you lie! How dare you interrupt me?"

"I dare because what I say is true."

"True!" his hands appealed to Heaven. "It is as false as Hell, like
yourself! How much do you suppose I believed of that cock-and-bull story
you told me, about your being the light-of-love of a prince? A
prince!--a gondolier perhaps, or a _facchino di piazza_!"

"Hush," she said, as pale as death, "the servants will overhear you."

"The servants! What do I care for the servants? Let them hear, I have
nothing to conceal from them!"

The taunt was like a blow in the face; Ragna stiffened under it and
turned cold.

"You forget, Signor Valentini, that in insulting me, you insult
yourself, for when all is said and done, I am the wife you have chosen.
Policy at least should dictate another course of conduct towards
me,--everything that lowers me in the eyes of the world lowers you,
too."

His answer was to seize a large Contagalli vase, standing on a console
between the windows and smash it on the tiled floor, then he turned and
rushed from the room. Ragna stood looking after him a scornful smile
creeping over her frozen face. In that moment she had seen revealed the
innermost hideous recesses of the man's soul, the man who was her
husband, the father of Beppino. In the silence there rose to her ears
the reverberating bang of the _portone_, and the angry beat of his
footsteps on the stone pavement outside.

After a few days of sullen silence, he appeared before her one evening
before dinner, a little box in his hand. It was never his way to offer
an apology, but the desire for peace which stood to him for remorse,
frequently took the form of material reparation. Never would he, in any
circumstances, have admitted himself in the wrong. He opened the box,
displaying a ruby ring set with diamonds, saying:

"You must admit that I am a generous husband, my dear!"

"Thank you," said Ragna, without looking up, "I do not care for it."

"Not care for it!" he exclaimed, straightening up suddenly as though
struck by some unseen missile. "A nice return I get for all my kindness.
Of all the ungrateful--"

She raised her eyes slowly and something in their cold, scornful gaze
silenced him. He stood uncertainly opening and shutting the box.
Meanwhile a thought came to her--why not take the jewel after all? Why
not take all that she could get? Life with this man was becoming fast
unbearable, and when at last she should be able to endure it no longer,
these trinkets might provide her with the means of escape.

"If you very much desire it," she said coldly, "I will accept your
gift."

"I thought you would when you came to think it over. It is a good
stone," he said taking up the ring and holding it in the light of the
lamp, "and it is worth considerably more than I gave for it. I am not
one of your fools who pay the fancy prices of a fashionable
jeweller--indeed it is they who come to me for advice, they know I have
a good eye for stones, and for a bargain."

"So have the Jews," said Ragna, biting her thread, she was sewing a
little garment for Beppino.

"The Jews!" said Valentini, glaring at her, "what do you mean by that?
Of course you are so accustomed to the society of princes and grandees
that you think yourself above prudence and wise expenditure. You are a
fool, which of your princes would have done for you what I have done?"

Ragna bowed her head over her work; she tried to hold herself above the
continual taunts and reproaches, and she realized that sometimes, as in
this instance, she drew them on herself by her resentment of her
husband's little meannesses. He never gave her a present but he
expatiated on his shrewdness in buying at a pawn-broker's sale at the
proper moment or in taking advantage of some impoverished nobleman's
hour of need. The things were, many of them, beautiful and valuable both
artistically and intrinsically but the pleasure of their possession was
spoiled to Ragna by the unvarying circumstances of their purchase and
bestowal.

Egidio's meanness showed itself also in other ways. In September he had
accompanied his wife and children to the sea-side for a fortnight and
having installed them in the lodgings he had taken, went out for a
stroll. It lacked two hours to dinner-time and as little Mimmo was
hungry and the baby fretful, Ragna requested the landlady to send up two
bowls of bread and milk. Valentini returned in the midst of this frugal
repast and with lowering brow inquired the meaning thereof.

"The children were hungry," said Ragna, "and it is too long for them to
wait for dinner."

"Too long! They can wait if I can! Besides you should have thought of it
before and brought something with you. I tell you, Ragna, your senseless
extravagance will be the ruin of me! If you dare ever again to order
extras without my permission--" The rest of the threat was lost as he
seized the bowls and emptied them out of the window. He then beat a
rapid retreat leaving Ragna to quiet as best she could the disappointed
and hungry children.

This was one of the many instances that rose to her mind as she sat
there sewing, choking down the lump in her throat, while Egidio flashed
the ruby admiringly in the ray of the lamp. When times were hard, she
had understood his economies, but now that they were prosperous, that
there was no need for it! She did not understand that certain meannesses
were ingrained in his character, as were certain generosities--that it
was as much a part of his nature to stint her in handkerchiefs and
stockings as it was to bestow costly jewels upon her--yet, the key to it
was simple, the one redounded publicly to his credit, the other was
unknown except to himself and to her. She had long ago lost any feeling
of gratitude towards him, he had shown her all too clearly what personal
motives had actuated him at the time of their marriage, and his attempts
to throw the onus of the transaction on her, caused her a bitter
amusement; they revealed so plainly the innate selfishness of him, his
desire to divest himself of responsibility, and yet to claim gratitude,
where according to his own showing, it least was due!

"Your friends will admire this ring," said Valentini, "but I must beg of
you, Ragna, not to give it away. The things I buy for you I do not
intend to let pass out of the family." This because she had once sent a
small and not particularly valuable brooch he had given her, to her
sister Ingeborg, much to the latter's pleasure and surprise, though Fru
Boyesen had sniffed when the gift was shown her.

"Why don't you answer?" demanded Valentini, "you might at least attend
to what I say. When I give you a thing it is for yourself, not for
others."

"But if it should please me better to give it to a sister whom I love,
than to wear it myself?"

"You have no right to squander my property or my gifts."

"Very well," said Ragna wearily, "I have not the slightest intention of
giving the ring away."

They relapsed into silence and Egidio read the evening paper. The
rustling of the pages grated so on her nerves that she thought she must
scream and she jerked her needle in and out till the thread snapped.
Generally she took but little interest in the local news, but to-night,
when Egidio laid the paper on the table, she took it up, and in turning
the pages over, her eye fell by chance on the list of names of
travellers stopping at the large hotels. An involuntary exclamation rose
to her lips as the name "Count Angelescu" stared at her from the printed
column.

"What is it?" inquired Egidio suspiciously.

"Nothing--I have pricked my finger--" She still held her sewing crushed
in her left hand.

He turned again to the design he was making on the back of an old
envelope.

Angelescu in Florence! Angelescu! The blood surged and beat in her
temples, her hands shook as she raised the paper to her eyes. No, there
could be no mistake, it must be he and no other!

For so long she had hardly thought of him; the realities of her everyday
life had deadened her memory of the past, and unless something out of
the ordinary occurred to recall them specially to her mind, her thoughts
rarely turned to those days in Rome. Her household cares, the constant
attention required by the children, her interest in her writing, which
she still carried on, and the social intercourse with the little circle
of friends she had formed, all these sufficiently occupied her time,
leaving her but little leisure for brooding over past or present.

Egidio mocked at her social proclivities, at her friends, especially
when they happened to be titled folk, and called her a snob, so that it
was with terror and dismay that she viewed his arrival when any of her
friends happened to be present, for unless they were young and pretty
women, he exaggerated his habitual boorishness of manner. If a really
pretty woman occupied his wife's drawing-room, his airs and graces were
a sight to see, and caused Ragna even more shame than his rudeness.

It must be admitted that titles had an attraction for her, as
they inevitably must to those in whose countries they are
non-existent--strange that such should be the result of democracy--but a
snob she was not. A title to her represented continuity of race,
historic and chivalric tradition, something removed from the plane of
ordinary life, and which appealed to her sense of romance. This must
have been strong indeed, to blind her to the faults and weaknesses of
the bearers of some of these titles, but such was the glamour of an
historic name that her otherwise clear vision and independent judgment
not infrequently played her false and she saw the object of her
veneration through a rose-coloured mist which exaggerated qualities and
obscured defects.

She had gone on from day to day, bearing her heavy burden with a sort
of sodden resignation. Now and again a scene worse than usual made her
feel that this life was past enduring, and she beat her wings against
the bars, but never for long. The treadmill of the daily round carried
her on and her half-hearted attempts at self-assertion fell by the
wayside. The utmost she could oppose to her husband's tyranny was a
passive resistance, infinitely irritating to him. His character was so
much more violent than hers that if she attempted to meet him on his own
ground, the force of his passion bore her down, swept her from her feet,
buried her beneath the floods of his wrath. She had grown patient, God
knows she had need to be; and just lately a dim light had shone on her
horizon, a vague hope of relief, for Ingeborg had written that Fru
Boyesen was relenting, had inquired after her wayward niece, had even
asked to see the photographs of the children. If she should be restored
to favour, reinstated as her Aunt's heiress it would mean for her the
independence that only the possession of money can give, and it would
silence for ever Egidio's taunts as to her dowerless state. He would
have to consult her wishes when she had the money, she thought with
secret exultation.

So time had passed, the present absorbing her whole being, barring out
alike memories and regrets. The announcement of Angelescu's presence in
Florence came to her as a trumpet-call, the dead rose from their graves,
dead hopes, dead fears, dead emotions, and walked with her.



CHAPTER VII


She was relieved, when after dinner Egidio put on his hat and went out,
not deigning any explanation, as was his custom. She took a book, and
settled herself in an armchair by the lamp, but not to read; her eyes
followed the printed lines but her thoughts were far away.

"If I had accepted Angelescu's offer," she mused, "what a difference it
would have made. Why, oh why was I such a fool? I refused a good man, a
loyal man,--I knew he was true and loyal--to come to this!"

Her eyes rose involuntarily to a portrait of her husband, the tribute of
an enthusiastic if untalented pupil, which he had considered good enough
for his wife's sitting-room, and she shuddered. The picture though
poorly painted, was a striking likeness, almost a caricature. The
cunning expression of the handsome eyes, the slight twist of the nose,
the repulsive sensual mouth half hidden by beard and moustache were
faithfully if naively depicted. The right hand hung over the back of a
chair, a hand in curious contrast to the face, a well-formed strong but
delicate artist's hand, but even here the slight grasping curve of the
pointed fingers, the thickness of the thumb betrayed the nature of the
man.

Often she had wished to destroy the picture, or at least to take it
down, hide it, banish it from her sight, but Egidio would hear of no
such thing; it seemed to possess, to fill the room with a hated presence
as Valentini filled her life. Even when she turned her back upon it,
the knowledge of its presence obtruded itself upon her inner
consciousness, she could not escape it.

To-night, however, it seemed to have lost some of its customary power.
With a defiant lift of her shoulder she rose and went to her
writing-desk, a monumental piece of furniture which had once belonged to
a Cardinal, and opening a secret drawer, reminiscent of inquisitorial
mysteries, took out her old writing-case, shabby and worn, with one of
the hinges broken. The lock still held, however, and she opened it with
a key on her watch-chain. Inside were the sketch Angelescu had made of
her feeding the gulls, and his letter to her. She returned to her seat
and studied the drawing; the paper was yellow, the pencil-strokes faded
and rubbed, but the little sketch had kept its air of freshness and
force, the girlish figure seemed to defy the elements with all the
ignorant courage of youth.

"And that was I," said Ragna softly; it seemed to her that it must have
been some other girl, long, long ago, in the dim ages past.

"And it was not eight years ago," she said, counting on her fingers. She
put the drawing down and turned to the letter.

"What a blind fool I was not to understand! Oh if only, if only--! But I
must not see him now, it would not be right. I must dree my weird.
Besides he will have forgotten me long ago--ah but will he? He said in
his letter 'now and always,' and he meant it, but so much water has
flowed under the bridges!"

She sank into a reverie, calling up his every word and look, his steady
dog-like eyes, the firm grasp of his hand. She tried to imagine what her
life would have been like all these years, if instead of Egidio she had
had him by her side. A knock on the door startled her; she would not
have been surprised to see Angelescu himself on the threshold, indeed
she all but expected it for an instant, but the door opening, only
disclosed the familiar figure of Carolina, who came forward timidly,
quite stripped of her usually assured manner.

"What is it, my girl?" asked Ragna kindly.

"Signora," she answered, with lowered head, "I do not know how to say it
nor what you will think of me, but I have come to give notice, I wish to
go."

"You wish to go!" exclaimed Ragna with the greatest surprise, "you wish
to leave me? Why, Carolina, what in the world do you mean by that?"

The girl stood nervously rolling and unrolling a corner of her apron
between her fingers, her eyes on the floor.

"It is just that, Signora, I wish to go."

"Are you going to be married?"

"No, Signora!"

"Then why? Are you not happy here? You have been with me so long, to
leave suddenly like this, what is the matter?"

"Don't ask me Signora, I--I can't stay."

"Carolina," said Ragna sternly, "look at me!"

The maid raised unwilling eyes to her mistress's face.

"Don't you know that that is no way to speak to me? Now tell me frankly,
why it is you wish to leave me after all these years. Have I not been
kind to you? What cause have you for complaint? Think, what will Mimmo
do without you?"

The girl began to cry and dabbed ineffectually at her eyes with her
apron.

"Stop crying and tell me!" cried Ragna, exasperated.

"Signora mia, Signora mia," sobbed the maid, "I do not want to tell you,
I do not want to add to your troubles. Please don't ask me!"

Ragna's face grew hard, she more than guessed what was coming.

"I command you to speak out and hide nothing," she said in a tense
voice.

"It is on account of the Signor Padrone, Signora."

"Ah!" said Ragna, "go on, what has he done?"

"Signora," said the maid hanging her head and working her toe in and out
of the heelless slipper she still sometimes wore in the house. "The
Signor Padrone used to say things to me when he passed me, and sometimes
he would chuck me under the chin or pinch my arm, but I thought nothing
of it, it is the way of many Signori and means nothing."

"Go on," said Ragna coldly, as the girl paused.

"Well, Signora, he got more pressing, and I kept out of his way all I
could, and then one night he surprised me in my room--"

"Why did you not call out?"

"I did, Signora, but you know where my room is." Ragna did,--down at the
end of a long corridor shut off by a door from the rest of the house.
Why, oh why had she been so blind?

"And Cook was out, nursing her sick mother. Afterwards I said to him: 'I
will tell the Signora,' and he said: 'You will do nothing of the kind.
If you dare so much as hint to her I will throw you out neck and crop
without a character. Be good, Linella, and I will give you a present. I
said I did not want his present, that I was not afraid of being turned
out. Then he grew very angry and put his hands round my neck, and said
he would strangle me if I would not promise to keep quiet.
'_Padronissimo!_' I answered, 'but if you kill me the police will get
you!' He was very angry, but that frightened him, and he let his hands
drop and I stood facing him with my arms crossed,--so! 'Look here,
Carolina,' he said suddenly in a wheedling voice, 'you are fond of the
Padrona, I know, if you tell her it will grieve her and you do not want
to do that!' Signora! he had the courage to say that, after the way he
treats you and all! But it was true and I knew I would have to be quiet,
so I said, 'If I do say nothing it will be because of the Signora and
not for you. I despise you, I hate you, but I do not fear you, you
cannot harm me!' 'Have a care!' he said, and his eyes got like those of
the Evil One in that picture in the studio. 'You are a little devil,
Carolina, but I am more than a match for you. I tell you, beware!'
Signora, that fired my blood, I stood up to him and I said: 'You are the
husband of my Padrona, but you are not my master. I will keep silence
because I don't want to hurt her, she has always been kind to me, but if
you ever dare touch me again I shall tell her; it is better that she
should know than be shamed in her own house, and I will kill you, I
swear it on the Cross!' He sneered at me, Signora. 'And the police you
mention so freely,' he said, 'what of them?' 'I will tell them I did it
to save my honour.' 'Honour,' he said, 'you guttersnippet, who would
believe you? Do you think they don't know your story in Questura?' It
made me mad, I took my scissors from the table and I flew at him--he
nearly broke my wrist wrenching them from me, but not before I had
scratched him well. 'Little viper!' he yelled, 'assassin!' I thought he
was going to kill me, but he turned and went away."

Ragna had followed every word, every gesture, with a sickening horror;
she had imagined some tale of annoyance, but not this, and the leer of
the portrait on the wall seemed to confirm every word of the girl's
tale.

"Well, my poor child, has,--has he,--?"

The girl threw herself impulsively on her knees, beside her mistress and
lifted the hem of her skirt to her lips.

"Signora mia," she moaned, "you are too good, you are an angel! Any
other lady would have thrown me into the street without hearing me out."

"Hush, my poor girl," Ragna interrupted, "you are a victim and to be
pitied. How should I blame you, since your wrong is partly my fault, I
should have seen, should have guessed--"

"Signora, don't worry about me, I have had trouble before, as you know,
and no one can blame me for what is not my fault since you don't."

Ragna looked at the girl in surprise at the simplicity with which she
accepted the _fait accompli_, though it was characteristic of her and
her race. She could see no reason for weeping over spilt milk, hers was
the rational and childlike philosophy of the people--"_cosa fatta capo
ha_," and a shrug of the shoulders for the inevitable. The one thought
is to "rimediare" in the present. This state of mind appeared to Ragna
so entirely enviable and sent her back over so long a train of thought
in which she viewed her own experience for the first time with new eyes,
and perceiving the uselessness of her futile beating against the bars of
her fate, that with difficulty she brought herself back to a sense of
the present. She remembered that the maid had not answered her last
question.

"Tell me, Carolina, since you did not come to me at once, what has
obliged you to speak now?"

"Signora," said the girl passionately, "the Padrone looks at me from
under his eyebrows, in a way I don't like--I said I was not afraid but I
am. I hate him, I can't breathe the same air with him, and before he
does anything to me,--or before I go mad and kill him, it is better for
me to go."

Ragna stroked the maid's hair absent-mindedly; the Venetian had been
with her more than five years now; it would be hard to part with her,
for she was entirely devoted to her mistress and the children,
especially Mimmo, but it was clearly impossible to keep her longer.
Ragna sighed.

"I am afraid you are right, Carolina. Yes, you must go, although you
know how sorry I shall be to lose you. We will talk it over to-morrow,
it is late now and I am tired. Run away to bed."

Carolina took her mistress's hand and pressed her lips fervently upon
it.

"God bless you, Signora, and may you sleep well!" She closed the door
silently after her.

Ragna sat on in her armchair, immersed in thought, bowed down by this
new burden of vicarious shame, outraged and indignant. As the clock
struck twelve she heard her husband's latchkey grate in the outer door
and she straightened herself up with flushed cheeks. "I will have it out
with him here and now," she thought.

"Egidio!" she called, as his step sounded in the passage.

He entered the room, an expression of annoyed surprise on his face,
called forth by his finding her still up.

"Have you taken to sitting up for me?" he grunted.

"I have been waiting for you, there is something I must speak to you
about."

"Well, out with it then, don't keep me waiting all night!"

He leaned against a console, his overcoat unbuttoned and thrown back,
his black felt hat pulled down over his eyes, one hand thrust in a
pocket, the other brandishing his Tuscan cigar, the villainous fumes of
which filled the air.

"What are you going to do about Carolina?" she asked without preamble.

"Carolina?" he said, "why should I do anything? What is Carolina to me?
You have been sitting up all this time to ask me a fool's question like
that? You should go to bed, your head is tired, _ti gira ta testa_!"

"Carolina," she returned steadily, "has good cause for complaint against
you."

He tapped his forehead with his forefinger.

"You are mad, _mia cara_," he said with a short laugh, but she could see
the uneasy expression of his eyes.

"Have done with this fooling," said Ragna scornfully, "will you deny
that you have made Carolina your mistress? You had better not, you see I
know all."

He bent forward, an ugly look on his face.

"You lie! You spy on me and imagine things."

"It is you who lie, Egidio," said Ragna coldly. She was astonished at
her own coolness; passion had deserted her, she sat, calm and critical,
in the seat of judgment.

With a roar he came and stood over her.

"Take that back! How dare you! How dare you!"

"I am not deaf," said Ragna, "there is no occasion to shout. Please
lower your voice and try to behave like a gentleman for once. Go and
sit down," she continued without a quiver, "I have not finished yet and
I can't speak if you are towering over my chair. And please make up your
mind either to speak first and say your say, or else wait until I have
done, but don't interrupt me."

Her calmness, the low even tones of her voice imposed on him; raging at
her and at himself, he yet obeyed, albeit almost unconsciously, and
dropped on a chair under his own portrait.

"It is quite useless to deny or to bluster," said Ragna, "I know all, I
am sorry for Carolina, and I--"

"So that slut has been to you with her tale," he interrupted, "and you
believe her in preference to your husband. The lying hussy--! I'll teach
her--"

"Egidio," said the cold accusing voice, "she did not lie, she is a good
girl. With all due regard, the one liar in the case is--"

"You dare call me a liar!" he roared, rising from his seat. She waived
him back again. "When I was a little boy in school, Cardinal Ferri used
to call me up and say--"

"Yes, yes," she said wearily, "that is an old story, I have heard it
many times. The good Cardinal was not infallible, or else you have
changed since--" He was choking with inarticulate rage; she continued,

"However, that is not the question; what I have been trying to find out
is: what are you going to do about Carolina?"

"I shall throw the fool out of my house," he said sullenly.

"You can't do that, she is going of her own accord; but you owe her
reparation."

"Reparation!" he raved, "Carolina! reparation! Let her show her face
before me again--Reparation! She shall have all she wants and more too!"

Carolina, who, aroused by the noise of her master's rage, was listening
at the key-hole slunk away and double-locked herself into her room,
where she spent the greater portion of the night on her knees before the
little image of the Virgin beseeching protection.

Egidio bounded to Ragna's chair and shook his fist in her face.

"I'll have you to understand that I won't have this sort of thing. I am
master in my own house."

"Say harem!" she suggested. His violence left her unmoved,
superficially, at least; she only saw how ridiculous he looked, stamping
his foot, shaking his fist, his face inflamed and swollen, the eyes
blood-shot and starting from their sockets. She laughed.

"My dear Signor Valentini, if you could only see how extremely ludicrous
you make yourself!"

With an oath he rushed at her, but she moved not a muscle and the
derisive smile never left her face. It cowed him, and with a demented
gesture he jammed his hat down over his eyes and flung out of the room.

With shaking fingers Ragna put the drawing and the letter back into the
writing-case and returned it to the secret drawer. She felt the effect
of the scenes she had just been through, her head was dull and heavy,
her senses numb. She went to the dining-room and poured herself a glass
of water, then taking the lamp--she had to steady it with both hands,
she went upstairs and passed through the children's room on the way to
her own, pausing an instant by Mimmo's cot. He lay, moist and rosy, his
fair curls tossed back on the pillow; one arm was thrown up and out, the
other by his side; the long dark lashes swept his cheek--he was the
picture of childish innocence and health. Beppino lay breathing heavily
his face puckered to a frown, his fists clenched; he was a handsome
child, but lacked Mimmo's winsomeness. Ragna set down the lamp and
pulled up the covers about Mimmo's chest where he had thrown them back.
A lump rose in her throat.

"Oh, my little child, my poor little child--that you should have to call
that man 'father'!"

Afraid to stop longer, lest in her agitation she should wake the
children, she took up the lamp again and went on to her own room. Too
weary to sleep, she tossed restlessly on her bed, pressing her cool
fingers to her hot forehead and burning eyes. The interview with
Carolina, the subsequent scene with her husband, repeated themselves
over and over in her tired brain; the demoniac mask of Egidio's which
had scared her vision, seemed branded on her very soul like some horrid
Medusa-head. And the effect of that exhibition of impotent rage had been
that of the Medusa; she had felt herself turning to stone, had almost
felt the wells of common human feeling dry up in her heart. Certainly
she was no longer conscious of the slightest bond of human interest
between herself and this man; nay, to her he had become the _Beast_, no
longer a man at all. And she was subject to this Beast, his slave, his
chattel, his wife! The name was a mockery. Virginia was a wife indeed,
Virginia, happy with her husband and children, living her busy, blessed
life in the house she loved. But this--no marriage but a hateful
bondage. It was an immoral contradiction to all right living and
thinking. Could any man-made law or social convention justify the
iniquity of this horror? Ragna wondered dully why she had not been able,
like Carolina, to accept the consequences of her weakness. She saw now
in the clear light of unsparing self-study, how at the time of her
marriage she had wilfully blinded herself to what had been patent to the
eyes of Virginia, how she had weakly let the consideration of her social
security outweigh the fundamental instincts of her nature. But it was
not in the spirit of calm acceptance that she thus put to the test
motives and conduct; she was in no condition for dispassionate
investigation or conclusion; her nature, raw and abraded by the events
of the day and still more by the cumulative effect of all the preceding
days, seethed in a state of bitter revolt. She longed with a fierce, mad
desire to straighten her back, to throw off the burden that galled her,
to break once and for all the chains that degraded her in her own eyes.
No one who saw her as she was now, fierce-eyed, feverish, her long hair
unbound and streaming over the pillow would have known her for the calm
stately woman whose formal courtesy of manner was a by-word among her
friends. Rather she seemed a Valkyrie riding down the battling clouds,
challenging the thunder. It was the old Ragna of the storm-swept fjord,
but a Ragna who had eaten of the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, wild
with a sense of injustice, resentful of fate.

Gradually she grew calmer, the flame burnt itself out, and weary to the
core of her being she relaxed her aching limbs and abandoned her head
among the pillows. Dulled, numb, she was dozing off, when a voice seemed
to say in her ear: "Angelescu is in Florence." A slight smile parted her
dry lips and she fell asleep.



CHAPTER VIII


Fru Boyesen lay propped up in her high, large bed; her face was
congested and she breathed stertorously. With an unconscious gesture she
threw back the feather-bed covering her, only to have it instantly
replaced by the watchful Ingeborg. The room was close and stuffy, it was
cold outside, all the windows were hermetically closed and a fire burned
in the porcelain stove. The sick woman's hair had been braided neatly,
but with the restless movements of her head, straggling yellowish-grey
strands had come loose and strayed over her mottled forehead and on the
pillow. With a feverish hand she tugged at the top button of her flannel
nightgown.

"Air! I want air!" she muttered.

Ingeborg laid her cool hand on her Aunt's forehead, while she counted
the respiration, and under the soothing touch the old woman grew calm
for a few minutes.

She had been ill four days, an ordinary attack of bronchitis, the doctor
thought at first, but it rapidly ran into pneumonia, and the age of the
patient left but a bare chance of recovery. Ingeborg nursed her
devotedly assisted by one of the servants and would not hear of calling
in outside help.

"You are as good a nurse as I could wish," said the doctor, "but I am
afraid you will wear yourself out."

"No fear of that," Ingeborg had answered, "and I want to do all I can
for poor Auntie--you know how she hates to have anyone else in the
room."

"Well, in five days I shall be able to tell, you can do without help
till then, and afterwards if it is necessary--"

The way he spoke the last words, however, gave but little hope of such a
contingency arising and Ingeborg's eyes filled with tears.

Fru Boyesen had lain most of the time in a heavy stupor, waking
occasionally to fits of delirium when her strong will and habit of
command made it very difficult for Ingeborg to keep her in bed. When she
raved it was always about Ragna who was coming to pay a visit and in
whose honour due preparation must be made, or Ragna who would not come
and refused to give ear to her Aunt's pleading, or it was Ragna ill and
lonely who must be helped,--but always Ragna, nothing but Ragna.

The poor old soul, debarred by her own action from the natural outlet of
her affection, nay adoration, for her heart's darling, had brooded over
her sorrow, feeding on her own repressed love. Deprived of outward
expression, she bowed down in secret before the idol enshrined in her
heart. All these years she had kept up the sham of an unforgiving
spirit, had worn her mask of hardness, never once betraying herself to
anyone except the watchful Ingeborg, and now that delirium had loosened
her tongue, she raved on, babbling like a child of that which was
nearest her heart, while Ingeborg marvelled somewhat bitterly at all the
misspent effort of repression, when so much good might have been done,
so much pain avoided.

Ragna thought herself thoroughly on her guard, when writing to her
sister, little dreaming how much Ingeborg read between the lines, more
from what was omitted than from what was said, though she herself, to
whom many things had grown "through custom stale" mentioned them
casually, as though quite in the ordinary course of events, things
which to the unaccustomed eyes of Ingeborg seemed unbearable to the last
degree, little meannesses on the part of Valentini, his way of opening
her letters, his habit of spending the evenings away from home and the
like.

When Aunt Gitta fell ill, Ingeborg's first impulse had been to telegraph
for Ragna, sure that her presence would set all right, but the doctor
said that five days would decide everything, one way or the other, and
three times five days was the shortest space of time in which it would
be possible for Ragna to reach her Aunt.

There had been but little delirium to-day, at most a gentle wandering,
the greater part of the time the old woman lay oblivious to her
surroundings, lost to the world. To Ingeborg who took this state of coma
for sleep it seemed of favourable augury, but the doctor shook his head.

"She may drift away without waking up again," he said.

Ingeborg thought it terrible that anyone should die thus, with no chance
to repair the wrong done or to prepare for the future life, but there
was nothing she could do, except administer the medicines to the
unconscious woman at the appointed hours, and between whiles sit silent,
her hands folded in her lap, her anxious eyes, eager to detect any
change, fixed on her aunt's face.

It was snowing outside, a fine dry snow, hard, like ice crystals, the
room was in profound silence, broken only by the stinging sound of the
snow, driven against the window pane, the crackling of the wood in the
stove, the ticking of a small clock on the mantel, and the heavy
stertorous breathing of the sick woman. At dusk a maid came in with a
lighted lamp, tip-toeing noiselessly in list slippers; she set it on
the table cast a glance at the bed and withdrew. Ingeborg fastened a
piece of paper to the lamp shade to keep the bright light from her
Aunt's face, but it seemed already to have aroused Fru Boyesen, for she
turned uneasily, groaned and made as if to sit up.

Ingeborg stepped lightly to her side and pressed her quietly back
against her pillows. Fru Boyesen passed her hand over her eyes twice or
thrice as if dazed, but the expression of her eyes as she looked up at
Ingeborg was such that the light of reason shone in them.

"Ingeborg," she said in a hoarse voice, "how long have I been ill?"

"Four days, Aunt."

"And what does Dr. Ericssen say is the matter with me?"

"He said it was bronchitis, and that--"

"Don't lie, girl," said the old lady, quick to perceive the hesitation
in her niece's voice "tell me the truth, I can bear it."

"He says now that it is pneumonia."

"Pneumonia--" repeated Fru Boyesen, "pneumonia! And I am over sixty."
She closed her eyes a moment and her face became stern. "Tell me,
Ingeborg, how long does Ericssen give me? I have a right to know."

Her eyes claimed the truth from the girl, who answered with a sob in her
voice.

"He says the fifth day is the decisive day, until then he can't tell."

"Oh, can't he? I can then. I tell you, Ingeborg, this is the end, I
shall never recover."

The girl would have protested but such was her own intimate conviction
and had been from the first; with her Aunt's eyes on her face she felt
the futility of it. A silence fell between them, broken by a sigh from
Fru Boyesen.

"Ingeborg!" she said suddenly, "there is something I must do before I
go, I have something on my conscience."

"Do you wish me to send for the Herr Pastor, Aunt?"

"The Herr Pastor! This is not a matter for clergymen, this is something
that regards me alone. I have been unjust to your sister, Ingeborg--I am
an old woman on my death bed, and I see clearly now that I have done
wrong. The living may be vindictive, but the dying must make reparation
if they would be forgiven. I made a will disinheriting Ragna, I want to
destroy that, to reinstate her. She has been wilful, Ingeborg, proud and
inconsiderate, she has hurt me more than I can say, but she is young and
I am old, it is I who should have known better. Young people will be
foolish, it is for us old wise ones to repair the damage done, and I
have been a wicked, resentful old woman. 'Judgment is mine, saith the
Lord,' and I would have taken it into my own hands. I wished to punish
her, and perhaps I have, but I have punished myself far more. Remember
this, little Ingeborg, we should leave judgment and condemnation to the
Lord,--we should only try to love and help."

She sank back on her pillows, exhausted. Ingeborg put a cup of brandy
and water to her lips, saying,

"Hush, Auntie dear, you must not talk so much, you will tire yourself
out."

But Fru Boyesen would not be satisfied, she motioned Ingeborg to come
near, and whispered into her ear,

"Get the solicitor, send for Hendriksen, at once, _at once_ do you hear?
I must make it right for Ragna before it is too late."

Ingeborg nodded, and summoning the maid in attendance ordered her, in
the old lady's hearing to go at once for Herr Hendriksen, and gave her
the money for a cab to bring the solicitor back.

Fru Boyesen smiled contentedly and closed her eyes. Ingeborg burning
with suppressed excitement, could hardly keep her seat--now indeed was
all to come right, like in a story! Her loyal sisterly heart rejoiced
for Ragna, and could she have guessed the true state of affairs in
Florence, she would have rejoiced still more. Then the pathos of the
thing struck her, all her love and compassion went out to the quiet
figure on the bed.

"Poor Aunt Gitta!" she said softly to herself, "how she must have
suffered--and how she loves Ragna!"

How she must have loved her indeed, for that love to break down her
stubborn will, sweeping away in an all-devouring flood the barriers of
prejudice and pride, leaving nothing but tenderness and the desire to
help.

Ingeborg could no longer contain her agitation; she rose and stood by
the window, gazing out at the driving storm. Though but five in the
afternoon it was quite dark and the whirling flakes of snow made
wavering circles in the halo of light about the street lamps. In the
garden a gaunt tree, stripped of its leaves, raised black limbs skyward,
and below, an even blanket of white shaded off into the night. This late
snow storm belying the earlier promise of spring seemed of evil portent
to the watching girl. To her anxious eyes all the world outside seemed
like a great white desert, she sought in vain for some sign of life, of
human companionship, but there were no passers-by in the quiet street.
Suddenly two dim black masses appeared, coming from different
directions; they stopped simultaneously at the garden gate and resolved
themselves into three figures whom Ingeborg recognized as the doctor,
the solicitor and the maid who had been sent to fetch him. She watched
them struggle up the garden path till they reached the door-step and the
muffled sound of the bell rang through the house, then hastened to the
bedside.

"Auntie! Auntie! he has come! Herr Hendriksen is here!"

There was no answer, the heavy breathing had begun again. Ingeborg was
helplessly watching the flapping of the cheeks, the puff of the lips at
each breath, when the doctor entered; he advanced to the bed and stood
frowning, his lips pushed out.

"Can't we wake her, Doctor?" asked Ingeborg eagerly. "She was awake just
a little while ago, and had me send for Herr Hendriksen,--she wants to
set things right again for Ragna, in case--in case--Oh, Doctor, it is
most important!" she joined her hands beseechingly, "after what she said
I don't think she can die in peace, unless she has done it!"

The doctor shook his head. He knew the story of Ragna's marriage and
subsequent estrangement from her aunt; she was a favourite of his, and
he wished with all his heart to help her cause, but there was nothing to
be done.

"What a pity you did not get her to sign a statement then! Who can tell
if she will come out of this coma again? She may, but I doubt it--see,
the pulse has failed steadily since this morning, it is barely a
thread!"

"Oh, Doctor!" said Ingeborg, tears in her eyes, "can nothing be done?
Nothing? Think of all that it means!"

"There is always the possibility of a return to consciousness. Have Herr
Hendriksen draw up a will or a codicil or whatever the thing is,
according to your aunt's expressed wishes, and if she comes to, she may
be able to sign it. I can try a hypodermic of caffeine," he added to
himself, "but I'm afraid it's no use. Run down to Hendriksen and let him
get the will ready in any case, I shall stop here."

Ingeborg sped down the stairs and found the solicitor enjoying a cup of
coffee in the sitting-room. She explained the case to him and he agreed
to draw up a codicil annulling all former wills, in the tenour of the
will destroyed by Fru Boyesen after Ragna's marriage and to hold it in
readiness. Accordingly he set to work and Ingeborg returned to the sick
chamber.

They waited some time and as there was still no sign of returning
consciousness Dr. Ericssen tried the hypodermic of caffeine, but without
effect, except for a slightly stronger pulse, the stertorous breathing
continued unchanged. Solicitor and doctor supped together, in a gloomy
silence, while Ingeborg, unwilling to leave her aunt, had a tray sent up
to her; after which the doctor returned to his patient and the man of
law to his post by the fire. The evening dragged on drearily; Ingeborg
sat despondently by the bedside; it all seemed such cruel irony--the
waiting solicitor, the fate of her sister hanging in the balance,
dependent on that unconscious figure on the bed.

Towards morning there was a change, patent even to the inexperienced
eyes of the girl. Fru Boyesen opened her eyes, but they appeared
oblivious of her immediate surroundings, they were fixed on space, and
seemed to have a glaze over them; her lips moved, and bending over her,
Ingeborg caught the words:

"Solicitor--Ragna!"

"Quick!" she said to the doctor; he ran to the landing and called
Hendriksen, who gathered up his papers, pen, ink, and seals, and bounded
up the stairs.

"Oh!" thought Ingeborg, "if only there is time--if only she is able to
sign!"

She poured some brandy into a spoon, but as she turned to administer it,
the sick woman's head fell back on the pillow, and her jaw dropped--Herr
Hendriksen approaching, pen and paper in hand, stopped, hesitating.
Ingeborg dropped the spoon, brandy and all, and the doctor rushed
forward; one glance was enough; he waved the solicitor back, his
services were no longer required.

Poor Aunt Gitta! she had put off, too long, her work of reparation, and
now it was too late.

Too late! These are indeed the "saddest words of tongue or pen," a lower
circle in the Inferno of Fate than the poet's "it might have been!"
Alas! for those to whom the long sought opportunity, the ardently
desired happiness comes at last, and finds the sands run down in the
glass, the vital energy spent. The chance is there, but an ironical
voice gives the sentence "Too late!" And alas, above all, for those, who
in the sunset of life see in retrospect, the false turning, the long
weary miles of the road they have followed, and which they would
retrace, ere darkness fall, and the night come,--but the stern voice
says: "Ye have wasted the precious years, ye have put life and strength
into that which is vain, and ye would unravel the strand of the Fates
and plait it up afresh when the shears of Atropos are already extended?
Too late! Remorse is not reparation."

"Who shall restore the years that the locust hath eaten?"

The words sounded like a knell in the ears of Ingeborg, as she drew the
sheet over her aunt's face. Ragna would have laughed a bitter laugh, but
Ingeborg wept.



CHAPTER IX


"Mammina," asked Mimmo, stirring his soup with thoughtful care, "can
people do just what they like, when they are big?"

Ragna was feeding Beppino out of a bowl of bread and milk. It was the
usual luncheon hour, but Valentini had not yet come in, and the children
chattered away, gaily.

"No," said Ragna, "no one can do exactly what he likes."

"But they can,--they does," insisted Mimmo.

"Do, you should say, dear."

"'Do,' then," corrected Mimmo, "they do. Babbo says 'accidenti' and
bangs the door, but you punish us if we do,--why does no one punish
him?"

"Punish Babbo!" exclaimed Beppino agape.

"Grown up people do many things that children aren't allowed to do,--but
they don't always do what is right, and God punishes them," said Ragna.

"Who ith God," asked Beppino.

"I know," Mimmo hastened to show his superior knowledge,--"He is a big
person sitting on a cloud in the sky, with a beard and a dove with shiny
lines out of it,--I have never seen him really truly, but _Babbo_ has a
picture of him."

"Yeth," assented Beppino without interest.

But Mimmo was not so assured as he wished to appear.

"Mammina," he said, "does God come off his cloud to punish people?"

"God is everywhere," said his mother.

The child puckered his brows.

"How can he be everywhere if he sits on a cloud in the sky? Is he here
now, in this room?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then why can't I see Him?"

"He is here like the air,--you can't see the air."

"Is He in my soup?" he inquired eagerly, "does I eat Him in my spoon?"

Ragna could not help smiling. Mimmo's questions often puzzled her as to
how to answer them in a way suited to the child's understanding. This
time, she hedged.

"Eat your soup, darling; you are too little to understand yet. When you
are older, Mammina will tell you."

Mimmo addressed himself to his task, but he turned the question over in
his childish mind, and when Valentini made his tardy appearance, greeted
him with:

"Babbo, Mammina says that I am eating up God in my soup, and that He
will punish you,--but if I eat Him up, he won't be able to, will He?"

"God will punish your mother for telling such wicked lies," growled
Egidio, hitching his chair to the table.

He had not deigned to greet his wife on entering, and his sullen
expression, the yellow, bilious colour of his skin, the mottled
puffiness about his eyes were the evidences of his rage the night
before, as the retreating tide leaves uncovered the unsightly mud-flats.
He had a bad taste in his mouth, both physically and morally; an uneasy
feeling possessed him that his wife by her unbroken calm had got the
better of him in their acrimonious discussion. She had called him
"ludicrous," that was what galled him most. He was more than her match
in opprobrium, in biting sarcasm, but before ridicule and a cool,
unperturbed demeanour, he felt himself helpless. He cast about in his
mind for a way to humble her, to pierce the joint of her new armour of
indifference, and fate had brought a weapon to his hand, though he did
not yet know it. Indeed, he had finished his meal and was lighting a
cigar when he bethought him of a letter addressed to Ragna, which the
postman had brought that morning. It was his habit to take the letters
from the postman himself, or have them brought to his studio, where he
opened them, his own and those addressed to his wife, alike. It was one
of his numerous ways of keeping himself informed of all that went on. He
prided himself on knowing everything that occurred, and was pleased, on
occasions, to give his wife a proof of his ability, by recounting
minutely all her doings, both indoors and out. He wished her to
acknowledge his power over her, and he wished her, above all, to believe
that nothing could be hidden from him. This system of constant espionage
was one of Ragna's greatest trials, and despite her efforts to free
herself from it, to keep the peace, she had been obliged to submit,
tacitly, at least. She had never cared to inquire into her husband's
sources of information, she would not give him so much satisfaction, she
despised the ingenuity and acumen he displayed to such a despicable end.
It really was a symptom of the man's craving for power; it gratified his
pride to feel that he had a hold over others, that they should be at the
mercy of his good pleasure and discretion. He believed that the one way
to get on in the world was by using other people, and these either had
to be bought, or captured. "Knowledge," he said to himself, "is power,"
and certainly, in the wire-pulling for which he afterwards became
famous, he used the power his "knowledge" brought him, with an unsparing
hand.

Had he enjoyed a different education there is no telling to what heights
he might have attained, but the early Jesuit influence, coupled with the
weak indulgence of his mother, had endowed him, on the one hand, with a
cynical unscrupulousness, and on the other with an unsatiable
self-indulgence which sapped his better qualities at the fountain-head
and warped his entire character to such an extent that his natural
cleverness failed to redeem him from the narrowing distortion of his
life.

Remembering the letter for his wife, he drew it from his pocket and
jerked it across the table to her, without looking up, or appearing
otherwise to be aware of her presence.

She seized the envelope eagerly, frowning at the torn flap, but smiled
in spite of herself, as she saw that it was written in Norwegian--the
nut had been too hard to crack this time! She was obliged to defer her
reading until she had lifted the children down and sent them off to
Carolina. They slunk away like little animals, even as they had sat
silent since Valentini's entrance; they lived in mortal terror of his
fits of ill-humour, and had learned to avoid irritating him, by making
themselves as inconspicuous as possible.

Ragna took up her letter and began to read. It was from Ingeborg written
two days after Fru Boyesen's death, telling of the old woman's
intention of reinstating Ragna as her heiress and of the frustration of
her design.

"You must not think hardly of poor Auntie," wrote Ingeborg, "she has
been so unhappy. I have seen the struggle going on for some time, and I
was sure her better nature would win in the end. Oh, Ragna, if I had
only known, I might have done something, but although I could see she
was relenting I never guessed she was so near to giving in, and I was
afraid of doing more harm than good, if I tried to push things--If you
had seen the expression of her poor eyes, when she said, 'I must make it
right for Ragna,' and the agonised look in them, that last instant just
before--. Oh, if only she could have lived ten minutes, five minutes
longer! Isn't it awful to think of her remorse, feeling herself dying
without having accomplished what was in her heart? Dr. Ericssen and Herr
Hendriksen, both went to see the Directors of the Orphanage, to which
she had left her money,--she did that you know, when she tore up her
will in favour of you,--and told them they had no moral right to accept
the bequest, as the last wishes of the deceased were otherwise, but they
did not see it at all that way. Why are charities so grasping, I wonder?
I don't see how they can reconcile their consciences to accept a bequest
that morally belongs to someone else! It makes my blood boil, Ragna
dear, as according to Auntie's wishes it all ought to be yours--"

Ragna put the letter down with a sigh. She hardly realized as yet all
that this disappointment meant to her, the hopes of relative
independence dashed, nothing to look forward to beyond her own unaided
effort. The news of her Aunt's death grieved her, but her senses,
dulled by the nervous strain of the evening before, refused to
appreciate to its full extent the enormity of the catastrophe. She sat
as though stunned. Little Mimmo stole in unnoticed and installed himself
on the floor with a picture-book. Valentini, smoking ostentatiously,
cast furtive glances at his wife, and at last, unable to contain his
curiosity any longer, shifted his chair and asked:

"Well, what does Ingeborg say?"

Although he could not read the letter, the handwriting was familiar.
Ragna, taken off her guard, answered:

"Aunt Gitta is dead and has left all her money to an orphanage; she
wanted to change her will to one in my favour, at the last moment, but
died before she could sign the new one."

An oath broke from Valentini's lips.

"And so you are a beggar!"

"Yes," assented Ragna wearily,--what was the use of disputing the fact?
Valentini felt his Castle in Spain crash about his ears. He had never
ceased to hope that Fru Boyesen would become reconciled to the marriage
of her niece, and he had never thought that in any circumstances, she
would leave her niece penniless, even if she disposed of the bulk of her
fortune in another way. He felt as though the ground had suddenly
slipped from beneath his feet, and instinctively turned on the
involuntary source of his disappointment.

"I suppose that that is one of your charming national customs? _Santo
Dio_, why was I ever so left to myself as to marry a Norwegian?"

Ragna let the sarcasm fall unheeded, so with a rising intonation he
tried again.

"You prate about honesty, yet you inveigled me into a marriage, by
giving me to understand that you were your Aunt's heiress--yet you knew
all the time what might be expected! Oh, yes, I have had a refreshing
experience of Norwegian honesty and straightforwardness!"

She smiled disdainfully.

"Permit me, it was not I who held out any hopes of future riches, your
memory misleads you. But had you been frank, Egidio, had you told me
then your real reason for wishing to marry me, be very sure that I
should have declined the honour."

"Yes," he sneered, "now lie about it. When it suits your convenience,
you lie worse than anyone I ever heard. And your airs and graces! One
would think you sprang from '_la cuisse de Jupiter_.' You were not quite
so high and mighty when I married you! To exchange the gutter for a
comfortable home--"

Mimmo, alarmed by Valentini's rough voice had fled to his mother's knee,
and Ragna, stung into reply by the child's presence, said:

"Be careful, Egidio,--the child--"

The child! Ah, here was the way to hurt her! Valentini's laugh rang
hatefully in her ears; he beckoned to the boy, but Mimmo refused to
leave his refuge.

"Ask your mother, Mimmo caro, what a bastard is?"

Ragna sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing; she carried the child to the
door, set him down outside, bidding him run to Carolina, and returned to
face her husband, who sat leaning back in his chair, his legs crossed,
his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, a sneering expression on
his face.

Ragna advanced to the table and leaning both hands on it leant forward,
her eyes burning with a fierce light.

"I have borne much from you, Egidio Valentini, since you married me. I
have been a dutiful wife to you, and a faithful one, I am the mother of
your child; you have no just cause for complaint against me. I married
you in the first place, induced by your insistence, by your pleadings,
by the seemingly disinterested offers you made me of protection and
comradeship. You made me many promises none of which have you kept.
Instead of that you have abused me morally and physically, you have
taken pleasure in tormenting me and humiliating me; you have been openly
unfaithful to me, you have even outraged me in my own home by ill-using
my maid. All this I have stood, but to-day you have gone too far, you
have struck at me through my child whom you bound yourself to cherish as
your own. Coward!"

Egidio started from his chair threateningly, but she was not to be
stopped.

"Yes, coward!" she repeated. "And I tell you, Egidio Valentini, I can
bear no more, this is the end. I will take my child and go, I will shake
the dust of your house off my feet, I will leave you to the curse of
your own evil nature."

He turned upon her with a roar.

"Go, then, do! There is the door, I won't keep you, beggar, liar,
ingrate! You spit on the hand that raised you from the dirt--well, you
shall see! Go, yes go, I beg of you, you could do me no greater
pleasure! Go, my sweet dove, my repentant Magdalen,--but you go alone,
the child remains with me."

"I shall take the child, do you think I would let you keep him?" said
Ragna, "He is mine, you have said it often enough, he goes with me."

"You forget, _cara mia_, or you are more ignorant than I thought. I
acknowledged the child as my own, he is on the State register, 'Egidio,
son of Egidio Valentini.' No, no, in the eyes of the State he is not all
yours--the State does not know what we know. He is five years old, is he
not, the bastard? From five years up, the State gives a child to the
father. Mimmo is mine, by the law. A pleasant life he shall have,--my
first born, my darling! Do not fear, he shall be brought up to
appreciate his mother at her true worth!"

"Oh!" gasped Ragna, "you would not be so wicked."

"You have just given such a flattering opinion of me!"

"Oh, but there are limits to everything!"

"So you will soon find; I know how to keep my own. Be wise, Ragna,
realize that you are absolutely powerless. If you want a scandal,
beware! It will hurt you, not me; I know the good opinion people have of
me, I could put it to public vote. Who are you? You have neither money
nor powerful friends nor position, you are dependent on me for the
clothes on your back and the bread you eat. You are far too rash. Your
conduct is ungrateful and insulting; if I were not the most forbearing
man alive I should have thrown you into the street long ago. Think it
over, even you must realize the position you put yourself in."

He had the pleasure of seeing her wince, as the iron of his words
entered into her soul. Her calm deserted her; his words had a paralysing
hypnotic effect, she saw herself stripped and naked in a cold world
inimical to her desolate state. Trembling with rage, she felt herself
beaten, crushed by the power that circumstances and the law put into
her husband's hands, and that he used like a bludgeon. Despairingly she
searched her mind for any fact that she could turn to her advantage and
found none. She felt herself sinking helplessly in the quicksand.

"I hate you!" she cried with all the intensity of her being. "I hate
you! May God deal with you as you have dealt with me!"

"God is not a silly woman,"--he used the insulting word _femmina_. A
smile curled his lips, for her expression of hatred was the cry of the
weak creature driven to the wall. She had defied him, she had called him
"ludicrous"? Well, he had sworn to punish her, and punish her he would.
Fate had placed her at his mercy.

He sauntered jauntily to the door, his thumbs in his armholes; she,
leaning on the table, speechless with hatred, followed him with burning
eyes.

As the door closed behind him, she sank to a chair, and falling forward,
buried her face in her arms, in an attitude of utter despair. One
thought possessed her mind; she must get away, she must escape somehow,
anyhow; this life was intolerable. Then from the depths of her inner
consciousness rose the image of Angelescu--she would see him, she would
ask him to help her. He would not refuse,--had he not said he would
always be at her service?

Should she write, or should she go in person? She sprang to her feet and
paced up and down the long dining-room, her hands clasped, twisting and
untwisting her fingers. To and fro, to and fro, like a caged lioness she
went, living over in her mind day by day the Calvary of the five years
of her marriage. The sense of the oppression of it grew like the rising
tide, engulfing prudence, common sense, even the thought of her
children, leaving only the wild uncontrollable longing for freedom.
Free! She flung her head back and stretched out her arms. Almost she
felt the salt kiss of the home-fjord on her face, she offered herself to
the buffeting of the strong sea-wind, her lungs inhaled with rapture the
balsam of the firs, the wild singing of the gale filled her ears. A mist
rose before her eyes, she soared on imaginary wings to undreamt of
heights.

Her rapture came to an end as raptures must, and she was again Ragna
Valentini, pacing the long dining-room with its high vaulted ceiling,
its solid early Renaissance furniture, the untidy remains of luncheon
still littering the table, but she no longer felt the oppression of it
all. It was as though a veil had been drawn aside disclosing a new
landscape, or rather as though having toiled through hardship
unspeakable to the uttermost depths of the Valley of Despondency, she
saw before her the wondrous vision of sunlit peaks and the Promised Land
beyond--no longer a mirage but a blessed actuality. All that she had to
do was to enter. A light long extinguished came back to her eyes, she
carried her head with a conscious air of resolution.

The manservant entering, started as though at an apparition, so
different was she from the reserved, patient mistress he had served. And
a scene with the _Padrone_ had had this effect! With admirable
self-control the man held his peace, though questions all but burst from
his lips--your Italian servant is on a very familiar footing with the
family he serves--but his eyes were less discreet, in fact they never
left his mistress during the time he spent clearing the table and
setting the room to rights, and it may be said that he in no way
hastened the process. When he finally withdrew, it was to expatiate in
the kitchen on the marvellous change come over the _Padrona_.

"I said to myself, the Signora will require a glass of Marsala, for he
was worse than usual to-day. _Mondo ladro!_ to have to live with a man
like that! If it were not for the Signora who is an angel of goodness,
I, for one,--"

"That's so," assented the cook.

"But _Assunta mia_, there she was, she who has looked like wilted grass
ever since I came, as fresh as a daisy, with a colour like a sunset in
her cheeks. _Accitempoli!_ I all but dropped my tray! To think that with
a bella Signora like her, the _Padrone_ should--" He winked knowingly.

"All men are pigs," opined the cook.

"Some things are above the comprehension of females," returned Nando,
loftily, his masculine vanity ruffled,--"But all the same--"

He leisurely consumed the Marsala which he had found it unnecessary to
offer Ragna, tilting back on the legs of his chair, alternately holding
his glass up to the light to enjoy the clear amber colour, and
appreciatively smacking his lips as he sipped. Assunta, the cook, her
portly form arrayed in a blue apron, stood by the sink rinsing the
dishes under the tap and standing them in the overhead rack to drip. A
square of sunshine lay on the red brick floor, and Civetta, the cat, lay
basking in it, luxuriously curling and uncurling her velvet paws,
stretching her neck to lick an unruly patch of fur and blinking at her
surroundings with lazy topaz eyes. Copper kettles and pans decorated the
whitewashed walls; the red brick stove and the dresser were well
scrubbed and tidy.

Nando, having finished his wine, brought his chair back to the
perpendicular and rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Mark my words, Assunta, something is going to happen in this house!
When a woman looks like the Signora does to-day, it means trouble for
somebody,--for--"

His dissertation was cut short by the bell, and in his haste to answer
the summons he left the kitchen door open. Assunta heard Ragna send him
to call a _legno_.

She shook her head, as her little straw fan blew life into the dying
charcoal embers; it was most unusual for Ragna to go out at this time of
day,--something was surely in the wind! In any case, her sympathies were
with the Signora, even though, with an eye to her own interests she
allowed the _Sor Padrone_ to pump her as to the Signora's movements. The
Signora never did anything wrong, so what harm could it do, she argued?
Meanwhile an extra _lira_ or two in a poor woman's pocket was not to be
despised. Also instant dismissal would be the penalty of a refusal, and
who could stand out against the _Padrone_ when he glared at one with
those awful eyes? Oh, certainly the Signora's lot was not one to be
envied, even though she were a lady and had fine clothes and jewels!
Such were the humble reflections of Assunta as she fanned the fire, and
it gave her considerable satisfaction to think that her confessor Don
Bazzanti was right in saying that rich and poor alike have their
troubles.

"Signor Iddio is just, after all," thought Assunta piously, and crossed
herself. It may give the moralist pleasure to observe that the
circumstances that ground the soul of Ragna to the earth, made as a
sequence, for the contentment of her cook.



CHAPTER X


Angelescu had spent the morning in the Uffizi, devoting his visit to the
three or four paintings he really liked. Of these, the Madonna of the
Goldfinch absorbed most of his time; the artless attitude of the
children, the virginal grace of the Mother and the tender background
with its suggestion of Florence in the distance, gave him the suggestion
of the veiled delicacy of early spring, the faint perfume of early
violets wafted from the slopes of Fiesole, the embroidery of
almond-blossom against the sky. Other pictures claimed his attention,
but he returned again and again to the "Cardellino," drawn by the
exquisite purity of conception and execution that the divine Raphael
must have acquired by some mysterious communion with angels. The face of
the Madonna reminded him of someone he had known, but so vaguely that he
made no attempt to capture the vague suggestion. The sweet Madonna-face
continued to haunt him, and now as he lounged in his room, after
luncheon, it floated before him wreathed in the pale blue fumes of his
cigarette.

The years had passed over him lightly, though any close observer would
have noted the slightly increased sternness discernible in the set of
the mouth, the squaring of the lean jaw. The eyes were as kind as ever,
the brow as calm, the hair had streaks of grey at the temples, but was
no thinner than of old.

On leaving the service, he had made a two years trip round the world,
and had then, after a year, spent in the capitals of Europe, joined an
exploring expedition to the heart of Africa. From thence he had returned
to India, and while there, a sudden desire had seized him to revisit
Italy, the land of his youthful dreams. Often during these years of
voluntary exile had the face and form of Ragna risen before his eyes;
she had left an indelible impression on him. He had been sincere when he
said and wrote, "Now and always." His was a tenacious nature, both in
hate and in love, and the circumstances attending his love for Ragna had
been such as to brand that passion upon his soul, as a mark made upon
soft clay is fixed forever by the firing in the kiln. His love for her
and his indignation at the unworthiness of her betrayer had caused him
to break all the threads of his life, had made of him a wanderer upon
the face of the earth. True to his word, he had never seen Prince Mirko
again, after that last interview in Rome, and if he sometimes thought
wistfully of the earlier days of boyish comradeship, the brutal
revelation of the real character of the man had effectually killed all
but a somewhat sentimental cast of memory. He had been thoroughly and
simply in earnest in the letter which he had written to Ragna on leaving
Rome, and her answer had hurt him. He understood her however, too well,
not to read between the lines of her answer, and to see in the
apparently cold and self-sufficient note, the effort of a nature
grievously wounded, striving to hide that wound, even from the hand of
the physician.

"She will understand in time, and will turn to me," he thought, and had
been content to wait. As time went on and no word came from her, he
placed her, as it were, in the inner sanctuary of heart and mind, apart
from the daily interests of his life. She was not dethroned, he still
awaited her summons,--it had become a habit of mind with him to believe
that it would come--but he was unconsciously growing to consider the
eventuality of that summons more in the light of a possibility than of a
probability. This, until his visit to Rome.

It seemed to him on his arrival there, that the old memories lay in wait
for him in the streets, the old pain awoke in his heart, the old
indignation burned in his veins. He knew himself for a lonely man,
up-rooted from his own country, and the regret for what might have been,
had Ragna but accepted his proposal, aroused in him a burning resentment
against fate.

Under the spur of this resurrection of feeling, he seemed to awake from
a long sleep, and he wondered at the lethargy in which he had been
content to lie. He saw, in the light of revivified emotion that what was
lacking in his life was Ragna and what she symbolized to him: affection
and home-ties, and that he now felt the want of her as a painful
deprivation and no longer as a vague lack, he wondered that he had been
able to go on so long leaving the course of events to chance; it seemed
unworthy of his very masculine energy. Why had he waited helplessly on
an improbable (he recognised the fact now), appeal? Why had he not
followed the girl, or at least kept in touch with her, renewed his
offer, forcibly turned her to himself? At the time he had felt that any
such action would be indelicate, unworthy of him; but now, his deeper
understanding showed him that he had erred on the side of too great
delicacy, that the prizes of life are for those who seize them. He
thought bitterly of the five wasted years.

What had Ragna done? Where had she gone? Back to Norway, perhaps?

With a faint hope of tracing her, he went to the pension in the Piazza
Montecitorio, where she had stopped. Yes, the landlady remembered the
Norwegian ladies, but that was over five years ago. No, they had never
returned. Sorry to disappoint the Signore.

He thought of Fru Boyesen in whose care he had formerly addressed New
Year's cards to Ragna, and wrote her a note asking her if she could give
him any information as to her niece's whereabouts.

"She will probably not deign to answer, she will think her niece's
affairs none of my business, but at least I shall have done what I
could," he said to himself.

What with the insistence of old memories and the disappointment of his
forlorn hope of finding some trace of Ragna, Rome had become intolerable
to him, so he wended a leisurely way to Florence where he hoped to
receive an answer from Fru Boyesen, and we now see him lazily stretched
on a sofa in his room his mind full of Ragna, and the Madonna-face which
reminded him of her, although he did not know it, the resemblance being
more of expression than of feature, floating in the smoke wreaths about
his head.

The window was open, and his eye went to where, far over the roofs, S.
Miniato enshrined in Cypress rose white and aloof, against the
background of sky. Spring was merging into early summer, and the sun
beat already white and glaring on the deserted Lung' Arno below. The
mountains of Vallombrosa rose cool and green at the head of the valley;
it was so clear he could even distinguish the white dots of houses
composing the little hamlet perched on the ledge. Down in the river an
_arenaiuolo_ poled his boat in a leisurely fashion, a long pink
shirt,--the only garment he boasted--flapping limply about his thin,
brown legs.

Angelescu, lying back on the couch, his hands clasped above his head,
felt agreeably tired from his morning's doings, half-drowsy, yet not
inclined to sleep. He felt still less inclined to read, however, his
unfinished novel lay unheeded on the floor by his side and he was
debating inwardly how best to pass the time till four o'clock when he
could go to the _sferisterio_ and watch a match game of _pallone_, when
a page knocked at his door and brought him a note on a salver.

"From a lady, Signor Conte, she is waiting for the answer."

A lady? What lady could be writing to him? Some chance acquaintance of
his travels perhaps, who had recognised him from a distance. He tore
open the envelope and read with eyes that seemed suddenly petrified in
their sockets:

     "I saw in the paper that you are stopping here. I _must_ see you,
     that is if you still think of me in the same way as when you wrote
     to me in Rome. If not, let me go away as I have come, don't try to
     see me. I shall await your answer.

     "RAGNA."

The note had evidently been written in a hurry, under pressure of some
extraordinary emotion, so much the handwriting told him. For the rest,
she wanted him, she appealed to him, for he read the appeal in the few
words of the note. What could it mean? How did she happen to be here?
He stood with the note in his hand, lost to his surroundings, fairly
dazed by the unexpectedness of the summons, now that it had come. The
boy ventured to remind him of his presence.

"What message shall I give the lady, Signor Conte?"

"Tell her,--or stay, I will take her the answer myself. Where is she?"

"In the drawing-room, Signor Conte."

Thrusting the note into his pocket, Angelescu strode from the room and
made his way to the drawing-room with beating heart.

A graceful figure rose from the sofa to meet him, both hands
outstretched. He took them and drawing Ragna to him, clasped her in his
arms; she submitted for an instant, but speedily released herself.

"No, no!" she cried. "You must not! You do not know!"



CHAPTER XI


Waiting for him there, in the hotel drawing-room, Ragna had passed
through all the varying emotions of excitement, hope, fear and nervous
dread, the last named possessing her to such an extent that when the
step of Angelescu rang in the mosaic paved corridor and sounded on the
threshold, she hardly dared raise her eyes to him. All at once it seemed
to her a terrible thing to have done,--to have presumed on the words of
a letter five years old to such an extent as to throw herself on the
generosity of a man, who by this time would have every right to consider
her a stranger. The blood burned in her cheeks, tears of shame and
misgiving rose in her eyes, and as Angelescu paused in the doorway the
beating of her heart almost choked her while a strange thrill ran
through her body. Summoning all her courage, she desperately raised her
eyes, and meeting his expression of joyful surprise, the eagerness of
his look, rose and moved impulsively towards him. It was true then, he
still loved her!

The pressure of his arms, however, brought her to a realization of all
the barriers the years had raised between them,--she must tell him, and
perhaps when he knew all, the light would fade from his eyes, the eager
flush from his cheeks! He had greeted her as the Ragna he had parted
from in Rome, how would he take the fact of her being the actual wife of
another? She was tempted to put off the evil day, to accord herself one
hour, at least, of unspoilt happiness, but she was no coward, she
recognised that the issue must be faced and at once, that she had
already put herself into an equivocal position by accepting his embrace,
since he as yet knew nothing. As she freed herself, he made an effort to
retain her, but her out-flung hand repelled him.

"No, no!" she said, "you must not. You do not know!"

"I know that the moment for which I have waited so long has come at
last! I have awaited your summons five years now. Five years! Think of
it, Ragna!"

"But you have not yet learned my reasons--"

"That is true," he assented gravely, "but to me the fact that you have
come to me is all-sufficing. I am glad that you have done it of your own
accord. Think, Ragna, just two weeks ago, I wrote to your Aunt in
Christiania to try and trace you. I--I had grown tired of waiting, I
realized that I had been a fool from the first, that I should never have
let you slip out of my life, and I did, and for so long."

"Yes, yes," she interrupted breathlessly, "you should not have left me!"

"After your answer to my letter, I was afraid of offending you--I
thought it would be better to wait until you made some sign--"

"Oh, my foolish letter!" groaned Ragna. "But I was not myself when I
wrote it. I was wild with pain and humiliation, I--"

"I know, dear, I know, and it has been my fault if I have lost sight of
you through all these years. I realized that in Rome. When I had tried
to find some trace of you there, and failed, I wrote to your Aunt. After
all that had happened there, Rome was intolerable to me,--you can
understand that--and I came here to await an answer."

"Aunt Gitta is dead," said Ragna. Oh how much there was to say, how much
that he must know, before she allowed him to go further! And the things
he said, or rather implied--his unchanging devotion, his happiness at
finding her, were so perilously sweet to hear. In his presence she felt
herself transported to another atmosphere, poles apart from the one she
had just left. It transformed her, she felt a different creature
already.

Still the past must be dealt with; she gathered herself together for the
effort of telling him, but as her lips parted, two English ladies
entered the drawing-room, followed by a waiter with a tea-tray. They
installed themselves at a small table near a window, casting curious
glances the while, at the two standing in the middle of the room,--for
both Ragna and Angelescu had been too absorbed in one another to
remember the small conventionalities of life.

"What a bore!" said Angelescu impatiently--"and the worst of it is that
there is no place in this hotel where we can be by ourselves. What shall
we do, Ragna? We must be alone somewhere--is there any place we can
drive to?"

"Yes," said Ragna eagerly, guiltily glad of the short reprieve. "Let us
drive out into the country, we shall be alone there."

She seated herself while Angelescu went for his hat and tried to collect
her ideas, to marshal the facts that must be told. It seemed so cruel
that the beauty of their meeting should be dimmed if not destroyed by
reason of the very cause that had brought that meeting about. What would
he do, what would he say, when he knew? Would it change him? A cold
fear gripped her heart, but through it, she felt the happy bound and
surge of her pulses at the recollection of the tender expression of his
eyes, the radiance of his dear bronzed manly face.

"I must have loved him even then," she marvelled to herself, thinking of
their former meetings, for she knew now that she loved him and it seemed
to her that it had been so always, ever since she could remember. When
she had seen his name in the paper, how spontaneous had been her impulse
towards him, how unhesitating the instinct to fly to him for refuge!

"Only, why did I not realize it before?" she asked herself.

Angelescu returned, hat in hand and they walked down the wide staircase
and out the door, held open by an attentive flunkey.

"Where shall we go?" asked Angelescu as he beckoned to a cab on the
rank.

"To Sta. Margherita a Montici," said Ragna to the driver as she took her
seat.

She felt a reckless joy in driving thus publicly with Angelescu. In any
ordinary circumstances, common prudence would have forbidden her such an
act in defiance of public opinion, but this was her declaration of
independence, the burning of her boats, the definite throwing off of the
yoke, and she gloried in it.

Angelescu looked at her with undisguised admiration, though the thick
veil she wore rather obscured her features. She was more beautiful by
far than she had been as a girl, her figure had riper, richer lines
while keeping its lissome grace, her hair was as bright and abundant as
ever, and the years of stress and storm had given an added delicacy to
her features, a depth to her eyes, the subtle air of having lived and
suffered to her expression--a complex charm that no merely young and
pretty face can ever possess.

They sat silent as the carriage drove through the Via Maggio and down
the long, winding Via Romana, but as they left the Porta Romana behind
them and the pace slackened on the long hill, Ragna, with a determined
effort, broke the silence.

"I have not yet told you that I am married," she said.

"Married!" repeated Angelescu, "married!" He looked at her as though
stunned.

The idea that she might have married had never occurred to him. When she
had refused him, he had not, in his direct simplicity, thought of the
possibility of her giving to another that which she denied to him. He
recoiled instinctively at the thought of her possession by another, and
this time no accident, no sudden impulse, but with her full consent, as
the fact of marriage must necessarily imply. It sickened him. How could
she have given herself to another when everything about her proclaimed
her love for himself. Could she then pass so lightly from one man's arms
to another's? Now she had turned to him, but in the light of her prior
action, what value had her present appeal? And why this appeal, since
she had already found a protector, a husband? What explanation could
there be to her conduct, except that as a frail barque, she drifted
where the currents of circumstance and impulse took her? Or was she
dominated by fickleness, a fatal longing for change and excitement? But
here, his native generosity came to his aid,--the pressure of
extraordinary circumstances must have been brought to bear on her, he
must hear her out before judging.

So he turned to her, as she sat apprehensively expectant and took her
hand in his own, saying:

"Tell me all, dear, don't be afraid. I was surprised, for I had not
guessed--"

His voice was tender, affectionate; he spoke as he would to encourage
the confidence of a shrinking child, and the beauty of it all was his
perfect naturalness, the outcome of his simple generous soul.

To Ragna, realising as she needs must, from his first involuntary start,
his look of horror and surprise, what a shock her bald announcement had
been to him, his quick recovery, the tender simplicity of his response
seemed little short of miraculous; she had not dared hope for so much. A
lump rose in her throat and the hand that lay in his trembled.

"There, there, little one, tell me all!"

He spoke again, soothingly, as he would have spoken to a child; he did
not guess that the tears welling up in her eyes were tears of relief, of
joy, the reaction from the oppression of dread.

So Ragna told her tale, the terrible discovery that she was about to
become a mother--

"Why did you not write to me then?" he interrupted.

"Ah, dear," she answered, "I was too ashamed, I only wanted to hide
myself from all who knew me, from you, most of all, because you loved
me!"

"The very reason why you should have come to me," he reproved quietly;
"Ah, well, you did not, more's the pity. Think of it, Ragna, we might
have been so happy."

"God knows I should have been a better woman, at least," she said
bitterly, "not the hard cynical creature I have become!"

"You hard and cynical, my little Ragna?"

"Wait until you have heard all, and you will see whether I have not had
good reason for it," she rejoined.

The tenderness called forth in response to his own had died away under
the bitter memories evoked by the recital of her trials. With growing
hardness in her voice, she told of Valentini's offer, of her acceptance
and of their marriage--and at this point of her tale she dared not look
at Angelescu's face but kept her eyes obstinately fixed on the driver's
back, and even as she talked, was curiously conscious of the brown and
grey stripes of the man's coat and the deep crease in it where it bulged
over the iron rail round the top of the box.

She went on and told of her rapid disillusionment, hiding nothing, using
words brutal in their revealing frankness, such as she had often used to
herself; then of the birth of Mimmo, of that of Beppino, of the
increasing unhappiness of her life, as time went on, and lastly of
Carolina's story, the death of Fru Boyesen, the loss of her hopes, and
the culminating scene of the morning. She reached this point as the
carriage drove past the gate of the Torre al Gallo, where Galileo lived
and worked, and through the little town of Arcetri, perched on the
hill-top.

Both sat silent as they rattled through the long, narrow stone-paved
street, Ragna lost again in the horror of all those awful years, now
more unbearable than ever as she compared them to what might have been,
Angelescu, his brow drawn into deep furrows of thought, the blaze of
indignation in his eyes, a muscle working in his lean cheek, just as he
had sat listening to her. As they left the last houses behind them, and
came to a piece of undulating sunken road running between high stone
walls on the tops of which iris and rose ran riot against the gnarled
trunks and silvery leaves of the olives, he drew a long sigh and
shrugged his shoulders as though throwing off the weight of some
incubus.

"Poor little girl!" he said, and his voice shook with the depth of his
emotion. After a pause, he spoke again, and this time his voice was
full, deep, decided.

"You can't live with him any longer you know, you must come with me."

Then for an instant his anger blazed out like the sudden flare of
lightning on a summer evening.

"By God, if ever I see that man,--no, that beast, I shall kill him!"

A thrill of savage joy ran through Ragna,--here then, was the man, the
defender! The primitive woman in her leaped in response to his calm
taking possession of her. Here was no questioning as to right, merely
the assumption of herself and her burdens as the most perfectly obvious
and natural thing in the world. Yes, he was right, she was his; she
proudly acknowledged his right to command, to take her; she hugged the
consciousness of her recognition of his mastery. Here was a lord she
acknowledged with all her sentient being, one whom her soul delighted to
honour. Mentally she compared with him the man who had been so long her
hated and feared master, and the paltriness of Egidio made her wonder
how she had let herself feel insulted by the words and actions of one so
mean, so morally insignificant. She longed to throw out her arms to the
man beside her, in one glorious gesture of self-abandonment, offering
all that she was and could be, her whole being.

But the coachman was pointing with his whip to the beauties of the
landscape, austere Fiesole and Settignano nestled in the lap of the
hills, across the valley, and perched on the scarred pine-crowned hill
between the Casa al Vento, all swimming in rosy amethyst, to Monte alle
Croci, on which one distinguished the tiny mortuary chapels, the back of
S. Miniato, the Arcivescovado masked in scaffolding, the Capucine
monastery with its expresses, and nearer still the slopes of silvery
olive and green waving grain, where cornflowers and poppies began to
appear. So she only leaned forward and looked into Angelescu's eyes,
clasping both her hands on his. She had thrown back her veil and her
face appeared radiant, lit from within by the light of her love in its
passionate consciousness of supremacy.

A steep bit of hill, and the horse, goaded into a momentary effort drew
up panting in the little piazza before the Church which stood as on a
pinnacle, the land on both sides sweeping away to a deep valley. On the
right hand one saw range upon range of bare hill-tops with olive-covered
slopes, and down below small white houses, each surrounded by its
"podere," with here and there a "fattoria" or a villa, dotted the green
valley. On the near hill-slopes the gorse was in blossom, its yellow
flowers straggling over the rough ground like a ragged mantle of cloth
of gold, and the strong sweet perfume of it assailed the nostrils.
Across the piazza, opposite the grey old church was the priest's garden,
an old-fashioned straggling garden sweet with wall-flowers, pinks and
stocks, planted as borders to the onions, carrots, cabbages and
lettuces; misshapen fig-trees ran riot and the _nespoli_ showed the
golden glow of ripened fruit among the heavy foliage. Lizards ran to and
fro over the wall, from the crevices of which sprouted tufts of grass,
snap-dragon, saxifrage and a kind of small fern.

The third side of the piazza, was bounded by a low wall, connecting the
_orto_ with the church and presbytery, and a flight of stone steps led
to the terraced plantations below, where grain grew between the olives,
and wild gladiolus, cornflower and poppy starred the undulating green
surface.

Ragna, one of whose favourite haunts it was, led the way to the
lichen-covered steps. At the foot of them an uneven grassy slope
stretched downward, winding in and out among the terraces, and down this
they wandered. The grass was still green for the summer heat and drought
were yet far off, and many flowers grew in the light shade of the trees.

Ragna, full of the exuberance of the moment, laughed joyously and long
like a child; she threw back her head, eyes half closed, the parted lips
showing her white even teeth, and her laughter pulsated in her throat,
rose in clear ripples. It reminded Angelescu of the song of a bird, of
the clear water bubbling up in a spring. She had thrown off the weary
years of pain as one casts off a dark cloak; all the youth, the girlish
_insouciance_ so long repressed rose triumphant to the surface, she
irradiated the wonderful joy of life, of love. The sunlight, flecked
with narrow, quivering shadow illuminated her white dress, the gold of
her hair, the rosy flush of her cheek. She was like a bird escaped from
its cage, mad with the newness of its freedom, intoxicated with the wine
of life.

Her mood was infectious, it caught Angelescu, and he pursued her among
the olive trees, following her light bounds, her lithe turnings and
twistings. It was a page of Pagan fable,--there in the soft sunlight,
under the grey gnarled olives, on the elastic carpet of flower-starred
turf, the perfumed breeze fluttering Ragna's skirts as she laughingly
eluded her pursuer. They were Apollo and Daphne and the world was young
again. But this Daphne was no restive nymph, and when Angelescu caught
her at length, panting and rosy, to his breast, she raised her mouth to
his and closed her eyes. The colour fled from her face, she became grave
with the mysterious gravity of all true passion as in that sacramental
kiss she felt the utter surrender of her soul to his.

After this they sat down on the grass, among the twisted olive roots,
Ragna with her back against a distorted trunk, Angelescu stretched at
full length beside her, his elbow on a root, his head supported by his
hand. Dreamily happy, silent, like two people to whom the gates of
Paradise have suddenly been set ajar, they gazed out over the valley
below, where the shining reaches of the Arno reflected the sky. The
pink-tiled roofs of the city trailed out like the embroidered hem of a
robe from beyond Monte alle Croci, one could see up the valley as far as
Ponte a Sieve and the green peaks of Vallombrosa. The sky was that deep,
soft blue shading to amethyst on the horizon, that seems peculiar to
Italy, and against it the slender olive leaves, shivering in the gentle
breeze, stood out in delicate gold-illumined tracery.

Angelescu heaved a deep sigh of contentment, and Ragna echoed it; her
wild exuberance of spirits had fallen and it was now the marvel of it,
the beautiful tender mystery of this love, the only real love she had
ever known, that dominated her. It seemed to her that all she had been
through, the pain, the humiliation, the brutal servitude had been but a
preparation for this, but the stony path leading to this summit of
perfect happiness, whence she looked out and secure in her bliss, saw
the whole of the world beneath her feet. "Stay, fleeting moment!" she
half-whispered--and smiled, why should not the fleeting moment be
eternal, was it not to be her life hence forward? Had not her path at
last led her out of the shadow into the sunshine? Oh, perfect day that
had broken her bondage! But even as she looked, the soft plum-coloured
shadows lengthened in the valley, the sunlight mellowed with the waning
day.

It was Angelescu who first broke the silence, there was still so much to
be said, so much to be arranged. He leaned forward and took her hand
which was idly playing with a bee-orchid she had plucked.

"Ragna dear, we must come back to earth again and consider what we are
to do."

She started almost resentfully, so far adrift had she been on the happy
sea of her realized day-dream that she had lost sight of all other
considerations. It seemed to her that thus must she float on and on,
from day to day, lapped in the sweetness of her new found love and
exalted above all mundane concerns. She turned to him impulsively,

"Oh, why can't we live in dreamland just a little longer?"

He smiled.

"All our life is to be one long dream, darling, from which there will be
no awakening,--but we have yet to make it ours."

"Are we not together? Is that not enough?"

"Yes, darling, and you are coming away with me to a new life,--but we
must prepare that new life."

She sat up, throwing off her childish unreasonableness, even as she put
back the disordered locks of her hair and straightened her hat.

"Tell me what I am to do,--I am all yours, dear, you shall decide for
me."

"Have you a friend with whom you can spend the night? I do not like the
idea of your going back for even so few hours to--to your husband," he
pronounced the word with an effort.

"No," said Ragna quickly, "not my husband. I no longer recognize his
right to call himself by that title. You are my husband dear, you and
you only!"

He thanked her with a smile.

"And the friend, have you such an one? We can't get away until
to-morrow, and we must not give Valentini any occasion to guess our
plans or interfere with them, before I get you safely away. A man like
him would be capable of anything, out of spite, and we must not play
into his hands. He must know nothing until you are well out of reach.
But I do hate the thought, _ma chérie_, of your going back to his
roof--is there no one you could go to? You could say you had quarreled
with him,--anything--"

Ragna thought of Virginia Ferrati, but was afraid of facing her sharp
eyes and keen questions.

"Yes, I have a friend, a good friend, but I should have to take her into
my confidence, and somehow I don't like the idea. I think that until we
get away the less anyone knows of our plans, the better. Besides, dear,
what harm is there if I do go home? I can arrange things so as not to
see my husband,--I can say I have a headache and lock myself into my
room."

"I don't like the thought of you under his vile roof. You are mine, now,
Ragna, do you hear? Mine!"

She turned her face flushed with pleasure, and her dewy glistening eyes
to him.

"Ah, dear, what does it matter for a few hours more, since we know that
we belong to each other? I have borne with it all for over five
years,--" his gesture forbade reminiscence,--"now it is over and I am
free, I am yours--What can a few hours more or less, matter? And then
there are the children--I must see them once again, poor little souls!"

Her voice broke slightly as she said the last words; Mimmo's trusting
little face rose before her eyes, but she thrust the vision away,--even
he, for the moment was but a part of the hated past which she wished to
blot out.

Angelescu's face took on an undefinable expression, part constraint,
part displeasure, part pity. In spite of himself, a vague jealousy of
these children, the living proofs of Ragna's past, the concrete,
undeniable evidence of her relations with other men. He had even felt a
sort of elation, when she had told him, in relating the scene of the
morning, of Egidio's threat to keep Mimmo, should she leave her home,
thus taking advantage of the rights the law conferred on him. Now that
he had found Ragna again, he wanted her all to himself; the past could
not be helped and he was ready to accept it in the abstract, and to put
it away from them both. But a sense of shame came over him, he seemed to
be matching himself against the slender strength of a child. Still
somebody must suffer, and after all it was Valentini's fault and not his
as he was ready to accept the child as part of the burden he assumed,
and do his conscientious best by it. Ragna's manner when she had talked
to him of Beppino had showed him how evidently she considered the child
a part of his father as distinct from herself, and he had been glad of
it, for while he could bring himself to accept Mimmo, the other, the
child of the hated oppressor of the woman he loved would be a burden
beyond his endurance. Beppino had thus been eliminated from the question
from the very beginning, and as it seemed, he was to be spared the
presence of Mimmo also; Ragna and he were to be free to begin their life
on a new basis, unencumbered by the evidences of past bondage. He let
his thoughts dwell on these considerations, but was not able to still
entirely the pricking of his conscience. It was, perhaps, more to ease
this than for any other reason that he gave his consent to Ragna's
returning to her home for this one last night.

"Certainly you must see the children again," he assented gravely.

Ragna glanced at him, her eyes narrowed under thoughtful brows. The
constraint of his manner was clearly apparent to her, as was, of course,
the cause of it. Would it be the same with this man, as it had been with
Egidio? For she recognized the fact that one of the principal reasons of
the unhappiness of their marriage, had been the unwelcome presence of
Mimmo. Angelescu met her look openly and squarely, he even smiled into
her anxious eyes. Ah, she knew, she could not help but see that this man
was as far removed from Egidio as the North Pole from the South! However
he might suffer, however hard the weight of accepted responsibility
might bear on him she would never see the slightest evidence of it, in
so far as it should lie in his power to hide it. And his strength lay
not only in resolve, but in his power of calmly accepting existing
conditions with no looking backward or moody repining; all his energies
would be directed towards the future. This much his steadfast eyes told
Ragna, and she marvelled anew, as she recognized in this higher more
disciplined form the same simplicity of mental attitude towards life as
she had envied in Carolina. Still she could not help wondering if the
very resolve on his part to accept the past and put it behind them both
would not gradually raise a barrier of silence between them, and she saw
their ship of happiness wrecked on the reef of the forbidden subject.

Angelescu rose to his feet and held out his hands to Ragna.

"Come, dear, we must be going. We will talk over the rest on the way
back. You must not stop out so late as to arouse suspicions."

She took his outstretched hands and sprang up lightly; he drew her to
him and kissed her long and tenderly, then, slowly and in silence, they
walked hand in hand up the slope.

On the stone steps Ragna paused and turned for a last look down across
the olive plantation to the valley; Angelescu's eyes followed hers, it
was as though they were unconsciously bidding farewell to the place.
Ragna voiced the vague feeling that possessed them both.

"We have been happy here,--we can never be happier than we have been
to-day," she said in a low vibrant voice.

Angelescu raised her hand to his lips.

"No happier, perhaps,--I think too, that it would be impossible, but
just as happy, dear!"

She stooped and plucked two small ferns growing in a crevice, one she
gave to him, the other she laid in her card-case, saying softly,

"See, they are green--that is for hope."

In the little piazza above they found the _fiaccheraio_ asleep on a
stone bench, a straw protruding from his mouth, his rusty hat pulled
over his eyes. The horse munched at the oats in his nose-bag, in great
contentment, as he slouched between the shafts. On being hailed, the man
sat up, rubbing his eyes with grimy knuckles.

"Scusino, Signori," he said, "_schiacciavo un sonnellino_. I did not
think the Signori would be ready to leave so soon. _Quando si e
giovini_--when one is young,--" he gave a broad wink. "Do the Signori
wish to return by the same way as we came?"

"No," said Ragna, "go round the other way by the Villa Fensi and the
Barriera S. Niccolo."

"Benone!" said the Jehu, as he stowed the nose-bag under the seat. He
scrambled to the box with an agility astounding in one of his bulk, and
with a crack of his whip they were off.

The road wound sharply down away from the church, past white _fattorie_
and peasant-farmers' houses. The hill above cast a soft purple shadow
over the road and down into the valley.

"Now, darling," said Angelescu, "I have been thinking about how we are
to get away. There is a train to-morrow afternoon at three,--before
midnight we can be in Switzerland, out of reach. I shall not try to see
you in the morning, it is better to be prudent, but I shall be at the
railway station at half past two. I shall wait for you in the first
class _Sala d'aspetto_. You must arrange things so that your absence
will not be noticed before we shall have crossed the frontier--after
that _je ne crains pas le diable en personne_!" he ended gaily.

Ragna smiled up into his face.

"Bien, I understand. The first class waiting room at half past two or a
quarter to three."

"You must take with you only what you can't do without for a day or
two," he added, "just a dressing case, if you can get it out unnoticed.
We will get everything else you need."

She saw that he wished her to leave behind all that she owed to
Valentini's grudging liberality. And he, reading her unspoken answer to
her thought, said,

"I am not a rich man, darling, but I have enough for us both--and I
can't bear to think of you dressed in the clothes that--"

"I shall wear nothing in future but what you give me," she answered
gravely.

There was a pause, then Ragna said, harking back to the moment on the
steps below the church,

"This afternoon has been like a foretaste of Heaven. It has been the
most perfect happiness I have ever known."

Angelescu slipped his arm behind her, and drew her close to him; her
head sank to his shoulder.

"Ah, darling," he answered, "and to think that we have waited so long
for it--that so much has happened that was unnecessary."

"No," she returned slowly, the words falling from her lips as the
thoughts took definite shape in her mind, "it is best as it is.
I am sincere at this moment, when I say to you that I regret
nothing--nothing. If I had not learned what it is to suffer, I should
not know how to love you as I do. I see now that it has all been a
preparation--for this. If I had gone to you then, I,--we--I think we
might not have been so happy. I was too ignorant, I was too hurt and
suspicious to appreciate--And I had no real understanding of love. First
I had thought it was romance, sentiment,--then I thought I knew it to be
passion,--afterwards I thought it must be affection, friendship, esteem.
Now I know."

"What is it then?" he asked.

"I don't know that I can explain in words, it is all I have said and
more too, it is the feeling I have for you; it is all myself, the
essence of my soul, the best that is in me."

There was a short silence, and she continued,

"I said before that I had grown hard and cynical, but I know now that it
is not true. Pain has purified me, and I feel, I know--" she drew
herself up proudly and turned her face to his, "that I am infinitely
more worthy of your love than I was five years ago,--than I was even
before Prince Mirko--I was nothing but a silly, vain girl, then, now I
am a woman; I know what life is and what I give you I give consciously,
in the full knowledge of what it is, of what it means to you, to me, to
our life. Yes, I am a better woman."

"Dear!" said Angelescu and his eyes adored her.

He knew that she spoke the truth, that the harsh discipline had
unconsciously prepared her for this glorious bursting into bloom, as the
cold rains and snows of winter prepare the earth for the flowering of
spring, still in his heart of hearts, manlike, he could not help wishing
that she might have been his without having been subjected to the
bitterness of life. He wished that he might have claimed her, young,
innocent, unsuspicious of the evil in the world; he thought that without
any experience of the darker side of existence, his love and the
happiness she would have found in it, would have sufficed to bring her
nature to its perfection of flowering. Unconsciously he resented any
influence but his own in the development of the woman he loved. This was
his instinct, his reason told him that Ragna was right, and he was
thankful, nay, consummately happy, that she should come to him at last,
by whatever road, and above all that she should thus surrender herself
to him, fully, unreservedly and consciously.

They looked into each other's eyes and their souls met and mingled, even
as they had when their lips met under the olives. An ecstasy of joy
possessed them but it was no longer the exuberant joy of two hours
earlier, rather a joy so deep in its passionate intensity as to confine
on the borders of pain. It held them body and soul, in a state of
exquisite torture, penetrating every fibre of their united being,
throbbing in every particle, drawing them into communion with the
pulsating ether about them, absorbing them into the vibrant Universe,
their joint soul into the All-Soul. They felt their entire unity, one
with the other and with the whole of the Creation. For an instant Life
in its entirety was epitomized in their life, Eternity itself
concentrated in the immeasurable pause, the innermost secret of
existence lay bare before their reverent eyes.

They were driving now through a little valley, a cleft in the hills; the
road was bordered by high walls over which hung tangles of banksia rose
and jasmine. The still evening air held the fragrance till it seemed
almost unbearable to the senses through its very sweetness, and the new
consciousness of happiness in their hearts was like the perfume in the
air. It was one of those moments when it seems that the soul can bear no
more, that the very perfection of bliss bears in it the seed of its own
decay, poor human nature being unable to sustain the pitch of
perfection. Something must snap, something must give way, the wayfarer
cannot breathe long the rarefied air of the heights, his stumbling feet
bear him of their own accord to the valley.

The carriage stopped suddenly amid the objurgations of the driver, which
were echoed with equal violence from the road where appeared suddenly
the form of a burly _barocciaio_ precipitated from his slumbers and also
from his perch, where he had been indulging in a nap, by the sudden
swerve of his horse at a touch of the _fiaccheraio's_ whip. Loud and
long was the altercation studded with violent invective in purest
_fiorentinaccio_, the reputations of the female relatives of both
contestants being the chief point of attack. A small cream-coloured
Pomeranian rushed frantically to and fro on the top of the laden
_baroccio_, adding his shrill barking to the general uproar. Thus rudely
startled from their dream, Ragna and Angelescu looked on, almost dazed.

"Imbecile!" shouted the _fiaccheraio_, "_Bestia!_ Why don't you have an
eye to your horse and keep to your side of the road, instead of drinking
yourself stupid? _Ubbriaccone!_"

The neck of a fiasco protruding from the straw of the _baroccio_ gave
point to the accusation.

"_Ubbriaccone_ yourself! _Mascalzone!_" shrieked the carter. "Have an
eye yourself to what you meet on the road! Because you drive aristocrats
and imbecile _forestieri_ about, do you think you can throw honest
working-men into the dust? I'll drag you before the tribunals! You say I
am drunk, you lie! You whipped my beast, I saw you!"

"_Socialista!_ _Anarchico!_ _Figlio d'un prete!_ _Assassino!_" screamed
the _fiaccheraio_.

"_Figlio d'una--!_" yelled the _barocciaio_.

"Here now," said Angelescu authoritatively, thinking they had gone quite
far enough and annoyed by the uproar, "stop that bawling or I'll give
you both in charge. You were on the wrong side of the road and you were
asleep," he said to the lowering _barocciaio_, "so if you fell off it
was your own fault. However, here's a lira for you, and now pull aside
and let us pass."

He tossed a silver coin to the man whose ill-humour disappeared as
though by magic, he even touched his cap and wished the "Signori" a
"_Buona passeggiata_" as he led his horse by. The little dog had stopped
barking and sat on his haunches regarding them with bright intelligent
eyes, his fluffy ears pointed forward, a tip of his pink tongue showing
under his truffle-like muzzle.

The _fiaccheraio_ shook his head apologetically.

"_He vuole_, Signore, those people have no education, they will make a
bad end. Did you hear what he said about aristocrats? But that is
nothing, you should hear what they say in their socialistic meetings!
They will end like that Brescia who murdered our good King. It is a bad
thing for people of no education to talk too much. _Madonna dé
fiaccherai!_ to think that such _farabutti_ should take the bread from
honest men's mouths!"

"You are hard on them," said Angelescu.

"Ah, Signore mio, you do not know our _beceri_, and what they are
capable of! It is a bad world and one must work hard for a _tozzo di
pane_ and a glass of _vin nero_--and these _merli_ wish to live without
working, and that is a thing which has never been since the world began.
They say to us others, 'aha, _minchioni_, we will live on your
shoulders!'"

Angelescu amused, continued to draw the old man out; the shrewd
mother-wit and quaint phrases of the old Florentine were a source of
delight to him. Ragna leaned back, indifferent, lost in the pleasant
labyrinth of her day-dreams.

The road came to a sharp turn and the driver instinctively drew rein.
Before them, beyond an indeterminate fore-ground of shadow, rose the
city, bathed in the rays of the setting sun. Towers pierced the glowing
haze, fairest of all the tower of Palazzo Vecchio, slender and tall like
some stately lily, and floating bubble-like on the gold, the wonderful
airy cupola of the Duomo. The long level mellow rays of sunset gave the
scene an unreal aspect; it seemed that as way-worn pilgrims they had
come suddenly upon the golden dream city of their desire, a city called
up magically before their eyes, a glorious vision evoked by the power
and wonder of their love. Above the dome and the towers, pearly clouds
merging into amethyst floated in the gold-pink sky. The sound of many
church-bells mellowed by the distance to a suggestion of heavenly music
floated to their ears. Both felt instinctively that this was the fit
ending to their perfect afternoon. In these last few hours they had
attained to the apex of human happiness--whatever the future might hold
in store for them, nothing could ever mar the transcendent beauty of
this day, nor could they ever hope to surpass the joy, the glory of it.



CHAPTER XII


The door was opened to Ragna by Nando--Valentini had never permitted her
to keep a latchkey--the anxiety of whose countenance was changed to
relief at sight of her.

"_Meno male, Signora_, that you have come at last!"

"Why, Nando, what has happened?"

"The Signorini are crying for you, Signora,--the Sor Padrone found them
in mischief and beat them,--beat them as though to break their poor
little bones--"

But Ragna stayed for no more, her heart in her mouth she sped up the
stairs to the room shared by the children.

What had happened was this: while Carolina saw to the preparation of
their _goûter_, they had wandered in search of amusement and finding the
door of Egidio's studio open,--a most unusual occurrence, as he
generally kept the key in his pocket when not at work, had strayed in.
On the large upright easel near the window stood the portrait of a lady,
all but finished, a tall beautiful lady whose white dress and long
scarlet scarf threw into relief the dark beauty of her head and the
slender grace of her figure. The palette with its sheaf of brushes
thrust into the thumb-hole lay carelessly in the box of the easel, as
Egidio had left it on going to luncheon.

The boys stood hand-in-hand, gazing open-mouthed at the canvas which was
lowered to the last notch, as Egidio had been working on the hair and
shoulder-drapery.

"What a beautiful lady," said Mimmo in awed tones, "she must be a
princess!"

"Yeth, a fairy princeth," agreed Beppino, on whom his mother's fairy
tales had made a deep if confused impression.

"I wonder why _babbo_ never lets us come into this nice house?" queried
Mimmo, looking about him--to his childish eyes it seemed a Paradise of
delight.

The model's throne was covered by a Persian carpet on which stood a
carved armchair of the Bargello pattern, and behind, on a screen, hung a
curtain of old blue-green brocade, the same that formed a background to
the beautiful lady. At one end of the long, high-ceilinged room, an old
black-walnut press, square and massive supported some vases of
Capodimonte and old Ginori ware, and above it was a picture of the Padre
Eterno enthroned on clouds, through which the Dove sent golden beams,
while a demon leered from a cave in the lower left hand corner.
Armchairs and _sgabelli_ of various patterns stood about, over some of
them were flung long pieces of drapery, brocades and velvets in soft old
shades, some of them ragged and torn, but all a delight to the eye. At
the other end of the room an old painted _corredo_-chest, the lid turned
up, displayed a tumbled heap of costumes within, over it a panoply of
armour flanked by two racks of small arms, decorated the wall. On a
large round table paint-brushes and tubes of colour made an untidy
litter about a Renaissance jewel-casket of steel damascened with gold,
and an ivory crucifix on an ebony stand. A deep recess held a stack of
half finished portraits, studies, background sketches, bare stretchers
and rolls of canvas. A corresponding recess on the other side of the
door had been turned into a dressing-room for the model. On the
door-lintel stood a small _écorché_, in plaster, and a few heads,
hands, feet and anatomical casts. A lay figure on a divan in the corner,
emerged wildly from a trail of drapery.

The children wandered about exploring it all with fearful delight, ready
to fly at the sound of their father's footstep, for this was forbidden
ground, even to Ragna. As time passed and no alarm came, they grew
bolder, and presently found themselves standing before the portrait,
drawn by its irresistible charm. They stood gazing up at it until
suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to Beppino.

"Let'th help _babbo_," he said.

"Babbo will be angry if we touch his things," objected Mimmo, but
Beppino was obstinate.

"Me going to help _babbo_," he declared and seized a brush. It happened
to be charged with scarlet colour, and left a broad wavering trail over
the lady's white skirt. It was too much for Mimmo; he also seized a
brush and clambered to the stool Egidio used to sit on when painting.

"You do the dress, Beppino, and I'll do the face! It's too dry, give me
that bottle,--I've seen babbo stick his brush in it."

Beppino handed up the desired bottle, and a hard brush dipped in
turpentine, gripped firmly in the child's fist was presently scrubbing
diligently backwards and forwards over the freshly painted surface. Oily
streams ran down from the eyes over cheeks and chin, gobs of impasto
spread themselves impartially over the blurred features, the dark of the
hair ran down into the face. Face? It was no longer distinguishable as
such, and under Beppino's vigorous efforts the white satin of the skirt
looked like a Scottish tartan in delirium tremens.

"Beppino," said Mimmo suddenly, in an awed whisper, "her face is coming
off!"

It was at this moment that Egidio entered the studio; he saw the
children and sprang forward. Beppino, waving his brush, called
joyfully,--fear lost in the glory of achievement.

"Babbo! Babbo! we's helping 'oo!"

"Helping indeed!" His eyes roved over the devastated canvas, on which
were spread the ruins of his labour of love and a blind fury gripped
him.

"_Accidento a voi!_" he yelled, and the children shrank from his blazing
eyes and congested face. He seized the two small culprits by their Van
Dyck collars and dragged them over to the side of the room where the
armour was. The children, too frightened to cry, struggled, but he held
them easily with his left hand while he looked about him for an
instrument of punishment; seeing a foil in the rack, he took it down.
The first blow brought an agonized scream from both boys, a scream that
Carolina heard in the dining-room, where she had just finished laying
the table for their _goûter_; and that brought her breathless and with
flying feet to the studio door. There she stood a second, horrified by
the sight that met her eyes. Egidio, his face distorted like that of a
fiend, stood slashing at the children indiscriminately and mercilessly;
the poor little things had put up their arms instinctively to shield
their faces, and each whistling stroke wrung from them a fresh scream,
as it descended. Mimmo's golden curls tossed wildly as he shook in the
grasp of the madman--for Egidio at that moment was mad--his lace collar
was torn, and on his poor little wrist were cruel marks from which red
drops trickled. Being the bigger of the two he partially masked
Beppino.

Carolina paused but for the taking in of a breath, then she sprang
forward and seized in mid-air the hand wielding the foil. Egidio turned
on her with a snarl, infuriated by the interruption.

"Go, woman!" he yelled, "how dare you come here?"

"Stop it!" she answered, "let the children go!"

"I shall punish them as I see fit, I--their father. They have ruined my
work, do you hear? My work of weeks! Look!"

She glanced at the portrait and saw that it was smeared but her
untutored mind could not grasp the extent of the disaster. The sight of
it maddened Valentini again and he made an effort to wrench his hand
from her hold.

"Signore," she pleaded, "remember that they are little, they are only
babies, they did not know."

"Little are they? They are big enough to ruin my work! _Dio santo_, they
shall smart for it!"

Again he tugged at her restraining hands.

"Be careful girl--when I am through with them you shall have your
turn--who do you think you are to interfere with your master?"

He wrenched his arm free with a force that sent her reeling and once
more the foil descended.

She flew at him again, her face blanched, her eyes blazing, a new note
in her voice.

"Have a care yourself!" she shrieked. "Murderer! Assassin! Help! Help!
Murder!"

"Stop that, you fool!" he snarled, but she cried the louder, and he
dropped the children to choke her cries.

The white scared faces of Nando and Assunta peering in at the door
brought him to his senses and he flung the girl off.

"You pack of fools!" he growled, "take that hysterical idiot away and
leave this room! How dare you come here without my orders?"

But Assunta was already by Carolina's side, bending over the children,
whose loud sobbing filled the room.

"Take your silly face from that door, Nando! _Dio mi strabenedica_ if I
don't throw the whole crew of you into the street! Am I to have no peace
in my own home?"

A sound of steps was heard in the passage; Nando felt a hand on his
shoulder thrusting him aside, and Enrico Ferrati entered, glancing about
him in astonishment at the scene before him.

"My God, Egidio! What does this mean? What has happened to the
children?"

Carolina raised her tear-stained face.

"Ah, Signor Dottore! The good God himself has sent you! Look at these
poor innocents, murdered by their father!"

He was kneeling beside them in an instant, examining the welts and cuts
on their little necks and hands, feeling them cautiously
over--fortunately no bones were broken.

"Take them to their room, my good girl, undress them and put them to
bed. I shall come presently--you can put some compresses on these
bruises, and wash the cuts with the solution in the big green bottle on
the Signora's dressing table. Go, Mimmo caro, go, Beppino mio, Zio Rico
is here and will come to you. There now, don't cry! There is nothing to
be afraid of, it is all over!"

Carolina took Mimmo in her arms and staggering a little under his
weight, led the way, Assunta following with Beppino.

"Go also, my friend," said the Doctor to Nando, "I shall ring if you are
wanted."

Nando slunk off in his turn, casting many curious backward glances.

Ferrati waited till the last footstep had died away then he raised his
eyes from the foil he had picked up and was fingering.

"And now will you tell me what all this means, Egidio?" he asked
quietly.

Valentini shrugged his shoulders sulkily.

"I was merely giving the children a little richly deserved punishment."

"Punishment! They are covered with cuts and welts and bruises! Thank
Heaven they are still wearing their thick winter clothes--You might have
killed them, Egidio, you would have, if you had not been stopped in
time. As it is, it is a miracle that they are not maimed for life! Are
you mad to think of touching the tender body of a child with a thing
like this?" He bent the flexible blade of the foil, "I tell you that if
their clothes had not protected them, you would have cut the flesh of
those babies to ribbons!"

"But look, Rico," Valentini burst forth passionately, "look what they
have done! I come in here and I find they have ruined my work, the
picture that was to make my reputation--and that I shall have no chance
to do again, if I could, for she has gone away!"

He wheeled the easel about, and Ferrati gazed aghast on the havoc
wrought.

"My God, Egidio," he exclaimed, "this is awful!"

"And yet you blame me for punishing--" he said bitterly, but Ferrati
interrupted him.

"You had provocation, I will admit; this is a terrible disappointment.
But you are a man, Egidio, and to allow your rage to get the better of
you to the extent that you would have murdered--yes, _murdered_ is the
word--those innocent children--"

"Innocent!"

"Yes, certainly, innocent. Can you suppose for a minute that a child of
that age would be capable of a deliberate act of malice such as this?
Think man, think how easily you might have killed them, and how would
you have met your wife with their blood on your hands?"

"Oh, Ragna!" said Egidio sneeringly.

"Where is she?"

"I suppose she is gadding about somewhere, as usual."

Valentini looked at him keenly.

"That is another thing, in fact it was that I was coming to you about
when I heard Carolina's screams of 'murder'. You are not treating your
wife as you should, Egidio, and as I was partly responsible for the
marriage, I cannot stand aside and let things go on as they have been
doing. As your friend, as the friend of both of you, I feel that I can
be silent no longer."

"So she has been to you with her complaints!"

"She has done nothing of the sort; Ragna is not the woman to complain of
her husband to anyone--you should know your wife better by this time."

He paused, but Valentini his eyes sulkily fixed on the carpet, merely
shrugged his shoulders.

"No, I speak only of what Virginia and I have seen with our own eyes and
heard with our own ears. You speak slightingly to Ragna and of her, in
public; you humiliate her and make her life unbearable. What you say and
do in private I have no means of knowing, but I can see that your wife
both fears and hates you."

"She has an impossible character," said Egidio petulantly, like a child
taken to task. Ferrati seemed always to have this mysterious power of
domination over him, the result, perhaps, of the man's clear-eyed
honesty.

"She is pretentious, rebellious against my authority; she is ungrateful
for all I have done for her, she lies; I tell you she is impossible."

"Let us talk this over," said Ferrati glad to have at last something
definite to take hold of. "I will take you up point by point, and we
will find out how much foundation there is for what you say. I believe
it is all a misunderstanding."

"It is not, I can't be deceived about my own wife, I know her better
than she knows herself."

"There is where you are wrong. Your wife is not perfect--no human being
is, but you wilfully blind yourself to her good qualities and exaggerate
her defects. Now take this, you call her pretentious," he flung his arms
round Valentini's shoulders and forced him to pace slowly up and down
the room--"I do not think her so. She is a beautiful woman, she is
clever--I have read her publications and they are excellent,--she may
have a little weakness for titled friends."

"She fills my house with knaves and fools. She continues to receive
people I have forbidden her to see, I won't have it! She--"

"Sh! let me continue, when I have finished you shall say what you have
to say. I repeat, you call her pretentious, my opinion and that of
everyone who knows her is that she is modest and unassuming. As for her
friends--" he wheeled suddenly looking Egidio in the eyes, "what right
have you to object to them? Do you suppose your escapades, the way you
spend your evenings, to be unknown? This woman, the original of this
portrait, what right had you, knowing her for what she is, standing to
her in the relation in which you did--what right had you, I say, to
bring her here, into the house where your wife lives?"

His voice was like a trumpet-call, and Egidio's eyes fell.

"You say that she rebels against your authority--but if that authority
is a tyranny? She is not a child, she is a responsible woman and the day
has gone by when a husband's word was law. In virtue of what superior
powers do you arrogate to yourself the right to guide and control your
wife as though she were a minor child? But if obedience is what you
require you must be moderate in your commands, lighten your yoke, fit it
to the neck that is to wear it. I don't wonder that Ragna finds your
exercise of authority unreasonable. Now for the ingratitude--in what way
is she ungrateful? And after all, my dear friend, why should she be
grateful, what more have you done for her than she has done for you?"
Egidio's jaw dropped. "Your marriage was a contract entered into on both
sides with full knowledge of the circumstances. You knew her condition,
you knew, for she told you, that she did not love you--you offered her
your name and protection in exchange for the advantage of her society.
Well, has she not fulfilled her part of the contract? Has she not been a
model wife and mother, faithful, true to you in word and deed? Has she
not given you a son of whom any man might be proud? What more could you
expect of her? Granted that Mimmo--that his presence in the house must
be hard at times, but he is a dear affectionate child, whom no one could
help loving--and you knew beforehand what you were undertaking.
Remember, the child was never foisted on you, as seems sometimes to be
your conviction. Here are three of your points disposed of--frankly I
cannot see that you have a leg to stand on!"

Egidio opened his mouth to protest but closed it again; indeed what
could he say without letting his friend see that it was the loss of
Ragna's expected fortune, in hopes of which he had married her, that lay
at the root of his grievance. He had so often proclaimed his
disinterestedness that he could not very well abandon the position; and
more than this he feared Ferrati's condemnation and wished to keep his
good opinion. Anything he could say would but put himself in a most
unflattering light. Seeing he had no answer to make, Ferrati continued.

"You accuse her of lying--how and when does she lie? I have held her,
ever since I first knew her, for the personification of truth."

"Well," said Egidio uneasily, his arraignment of Ragna seemed hard to
substantiate, somehow, before this stern judge, "she says she has no
housekeeping money when I know she must have. She saves and pinches, to
send my money to her pauper family; she gives away the presents I have
made her."

"If she chooses to stint herself in order to help her family, and in
such a way that the household does not suffer by it, I do not see what
you have to complain of. Is it not natural for her to wish to help her
own kith and kin? Would not you do the same? And why do you oblige her
to ask you for every _centesimo_? Why do you insist on even buying her
clothes for her instead of letting her do it herself? If you tyrannize
over her you must expect that she will develop a slave's vices--but I
can still see no evidence of a direct lie on her part; at most, she may
be guilty of an occasional, and considering your conduct, most excusable
equivocation! Now, my friend, you have come to a turning-point, you
must realize that yourself. By your own fault, I don't say
consciously--but still by your own actions, you have come to this pass,
that the relations between you and your wife, are, by your own
admission, impossible--and that you are both of you miserable, and but
for outside intervention you would be standing here now a murderer, as a
result of your ungovernable temper--the murderer of the children you
really love better than anything else in the world. Pull up man! For
God's sake, pull up and start out afresh! I know Ragna will meet you
half-way. Can't you see where you are going, at this rate?"

Valentini fairly squirmed under his friend's kindly hand. The indictment
was terribly severe; it was the first time in his life that anyone had
dared speak to him so openly and so authoritatively. It found him
unprepared, bereft of his usual armour of carefully arranged
appearances. The incident of the children had shaken him more than he
cared to admit. If he had but little affection for Mimmo, Beppino was
the very apple of his eye; but he would not willingly have done physical
harm even to Mimmo. He, in common with many so-called "bad" men, had an
instinctive love of children and animals and in spite of his violent
temper nearly always won their affection. He was shocked to think to
what his violence had led him--so much so that he could hardly believe
it. Indeed had there been no witnesses he would have denied his action
and in a short time would positively have persuaded himself that no such
thing had taken place. He was not a man, however, to acknowledge himself
in the wrong and Ferrati knew him well enough, not to expect it of him;
it was enough that he should answer, as he presently did:

"My life, certainly, is anything but happy. A man generally looks
forward to finding at least peace in his own home, but that has not
been my lot--although if ever a man slaved from morning to night and
gave up everything for his family, I am that man!"

It was quite true that he worked hard, but he would have worked equally
hard with no family to provide for, industry was in the nature of the
man.

"However, ungrateful though they be, _I_ shall keep on. I was a fool to
get married, I see that now, if it had not been for that attack of
typhoid--but I shall keep on sacrificing myself, I can't help it, I am
never happy unless I am doing something for others. What do I care for
money for myself?"

He threw out his arms in a noble gesture, at which Ferrati could not
help smiling.

"I must think of the future of the children! By the way," he added
almost shamefacedly, taking Ferrati's arm, "let us go to them and see
that they have taken no harm--you see I don't bear malice--"

"Let us finish all that there is to say first," said Ferrati, anxious to
wring some concession for Ragna from this unusually promising occasion.
"We were talking of your wife."

"Oh, well, yes, Ragna. She was most insolent to me last night, mad with
jealousy and perfectly insufferable--you don't know what it is, Rico, to
have a jealous wife! just think, she imagined some perfectly ridiculous
thing between me and that slattern, Carolina. It seems impossible to
have so little _criterio_. You wouldn't believe, Rico, the things she
said! She almost got the better of my patience!" Ferrati smiled grimly.
"We had more words this morning and in a fit of rage she said she would
leave me, and I told her to go--_a quel paese_. _Peggio per lei!_"

His voice rose as he found a vent for his repressed feelings, he almost
forgot Ferrati's presence in the joy of shifting to other shoulders the
blame which in his heart he knew to be his. He paused, drawn to his full
height, his eyes burning.

"It is always the same story 'put a beggar on horseback and he'll ride
to the Devil!' I married her out of the gutter--"

"I beg your pardon, Egidio," broke in Ferrati's stern voice, "you did no
such thing and if you set any value on my friendship, you will never
repeat those words."

Valentini cast a furtive side glance at him.

"Oh, well, have it as you will. I married her _colla camicia_--it
amounts to the same--she has nothing of her own, so the worse for her if
she goes off, as she will soon find out. Then she will beg to be taken
back and I won't, I swear I won't."

"What!" cried Ferrati horrified, "do you mean to say you have actually
driven away your wife, the mother of your child?"

"If she went it was of her own accord."

"Then she has gone?"

Had he come too late? Had Ragna actually found courage to throw off her
bondage?

"When I came in, Assunta told me that the padrona had Nando call her a
carriage just after luncheon, and she has not come back yet."

Suddenly he flung himself on a chair by the table, his fingers clutching
his hair, prey to a violent fit of self-pity.

"Oh, Rico, I am the unhappiest man on the earth! My wife, the woman for
whom I sacrificed my whole life, has deserted me! The base ingratitude,
the heartlessness of it! Think of a woman deserting her husband and
children! My head will burst with the strain of it all. Oh, why was I
such a fool as to marry? And a woman like that! All my life is sorrow
and disappointment and _gratta-capi_."

He was thoroughly unstrung. He had never thought that Ragna would take
him at his word when he bade her begone, but by now he had thoroughly
convinced himself that she was gone, and his little world rocked on its
foundations. Most of all, he was sorry for himself, he felt ill-used and
sore.

Ferrati seated himself, facing Valentini across the table; he spoke, and
his voice was incisive and authoritative.

"Do you realize what you have done? You have accused your wife of
jealousy, but I know, and all Florence knows, Egidio, that she has good
reason to be. However, she is patient and bears with it all until you
outrage every sense of decency by running after her own maid in her own
house--you need not deny it, I have seen the way you look at Carolina.
Then because she dares reproach you with your conduct you drive her
away, for that is what it amounts to. Do you realize what this means to
you? Your wife is loved and respected here, and when the story of her
leaving you comes out, as it surely will--what will the world say of
you?"

He had deliberately touched the chord of Egidio's susceptibility to
public opinion, the one to which he responded most readily.

"The world knows me, I am not afraid of the world--it is Ragna who will
be condemned."

"Ah, there you are wrong, the world is not so easily hoodwinked as you
choose to think; there are more whispers afloat as to your conduct than
you dream of. There are a number of people already, who accept you only
on your wife's account, and if that were not enough, _I_ am here," he
drew himself up, his stern eyes fixed on Valentini, "if I am
questioned, as I am sure to be, I shall answer the truth!"

Valentini bounded on his chair.

"I thought you were my friend--a nice one you are indeed! I have
nourished a viper in my bosom--I--"

"I am your friend, Egidio, your best friend, if you only knew it, for I
am the only one who dares speak the truth to you without fear or favour.
But my friendship cannot compel me to deceit to an unworthy end. I shall
tell the truth to the world, and you, Egidio, must make that truth such
that it may be told without shame to yourself. You must persuade your
wife to come back."

"Persuade her, humble myself to her? Never."

But Ferrati had seen the wavering in his eyes,

"Well, then, leave the 'persuasion' to me."

"You can tell her that I am willing to forgive her, if you like, that I
am willing to consider that nothing has come between us--See, I am ready
to make concessions, to add one more sacrifice--"

The battle was won, or at least as far as Valentini was concerned; the
vague stirring of regret for his violence, the fear of his friend's
judgment, the thought of his life without the comforts of a well-ordered
home--even the thought of losing Ragna herself, although she had come to
be but a _souffre douleur_, had undermined his obstinacy, and the threat
of the condemnation of society had been the finishing touch. His
declaration of his willingness to "forgive" his wife was, however, all
that he could be brought to admit, as Ferrati well knew. It must be
taken as the capitulation it signified, and acted upon without further
discussion. Remained the problem of Ragna; where was she? Would she
return? And, above all, could she be persuaded to resume the burden of
Valentini's ill-humour? At least Ferrati intended that she should have
the assurance of his friendship and his help in future, for now, after
this revealing scene with Valentini he had the weapons for her
protection ready to hand.

"Ebbene?" asked Valentini impatiently, anxious to put an end to the
interview. "Are you or are you not going to see the children?"

"Of course!" said Ferrati, rising, "poor little things, I had almost
forgotten them! But," he added, sharply, turning to the other who was
preparing to accompany him, "you must stop here, the sight of you might
throw them into convulsions. Wait here, Egidio, and I will come down and
report to you when I have seen them."

"Oh, very well," growled Egidio, his mouth twitching with discomfiture,
"have it your own way!"

He thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets and slouched moodily up
and down the studio. It had been a most unpleasant day for him, the
culminating point of many, and the worst of it was he had come out of it
with anything but flying colours. The curious part of it was that he
felt weak, back-boneless, his rage had burnt itself out--for the time.
He could not understand it. He lit a _toscano_ and chewed it
meditatively as he marched up and down. The fact was that the interview
with Ferrati had cowed him; like all bullies he was a coward at heart
and his friend's fearless condemnation had as effectually crushed him as
physical chastisement would have done. He had met one stronger than
himself, and was obliged to recognize the fact. In an astonishingly mild
humour, he awaited events.



CHAPTER XIII


Ferrati found the children in bed, reeking of the arnica with which
Carolina and Assunta had been bathing their bruises.

"Signor Dottore!" cried Carolina, as he entered, "their poor little
bodies are striped like zebras! If the Santissima Madonna and Gesù
Bambino had not protected them they would have been killed!"

Both children burst out sobbing at this rehearsal of their woes, and
Ferrati had some ado to make himself heard.

"Now then! Now then!" he said, "there will be a treat to-morrow for good
boys who don't cry! Be little men, don't let these women see you sobbing
like babies!" He waved his hand laughingly "Who's my good boy? Let us
see which of you can stop first!"

"I want my mammina!" sobbed Mimmo.

"I wants her too!" echoed Beppino.

"Ah, già, where is the Signora?" Ferrati asked turning to Assunta.

"_Ma chi lo sa_, Sor Dottore?" she answered in some confusion, busying
herself about Beppino's cot. "She has gone out."

"But where?"

"How should I know? The Signora's affairs are not mine! Nando said she
told the _fiaccheraio_ to drive to the Grand Hotel, but more than that I
do not know."

Ferrati knitted his brows--the Grand Hotel! She must have gone there to
meet someone, for it was too expensive and fashionable a hostelry as
well as too much in the public eye, for her to have chosen had she
merely been seeking other lodgings than her husband's house. The
children had ceased crying and were watching him intently as were also
the women.

He set about bandaging the little wrists where they had been cut, still
in silence. When he had finished he turned to Carolina:

"Keep the children quiet, you can go on with the arnica. In half an hour
you can give them a bowl of milk each, or a little broth. _Addio
bimbi!_" kissing them each in turn, "to-morrow Zia Virginia and I will
bring you a treat if you are good."

"Zio Rico!" called Mimmo as Ferrati reached the door.

"Yes, caro?"

"You won't let _him_ come up?"

"No, caro, he shan't come to-night."

"And Zio, I want my mammina."

"_Cuor mio_, I am going to look for your mammina now. When I find her I
shall fetch her to you."

"That's right, as soon as she knows we want her she'll come, won't she,
Zio?"

"_Sicuro!_" answered Ferrati cheerfully--Would he be able to find her
though, and would it be in time?

It seemed that the two women read his thoughts for they exchanged a
significant glance.

Ferrati, however, had not far to go, for as he descended the stairs he
met Ragna coming up, alarm and anxiety writ large on her face, though
her eyes were still starry and her cheeks aflame with the joy of the
afternoon.

"Are they--tell me, are they--?" she gasped.

"They are not badly hurt," he said soothingly.

"Let me by, let me go to them!" her breath came in swift pants, her
bosom heaved.

He took her arm firmly.

"Come now, Ragna, calm yourself. You can't go to them like this, you
would excite them and do them harm; you must not!"

"Ah, but you don't know how nearly I--" she exclaimed, and wrenching her
arm free sped up the stairs and into the nursery where she flung herself
between the cots, sobbing convulsively.

Ferrati stood on the stair gazing after her a moment, then followed her
slowly. He looked in through the nursery door and saw her, one arm
across either cot, her face hidden, her shoulders shaking with sobs, her
hat awry, and Mimmo patting her neck and stray locks of hair with his
little bandaged hand, while Beppino on the other side, cuddled close to
her protecting arm.

Carolina with fine intuition made a sign to Assunta, and they withdrew
noiselessly, leaving their mistress alone with her children.

"We knowed 'oo would come," said Beppino contentedly.

A great wave of emotion had Ragna on its crest, carrying her on,
unresisting. She felt dominant within her the powerful impulse of
renunciation, it overwhelmed all else. Words Ferrati had spoken to her
in Venice, long ago, rang in her ears. "Remember that you are not only a
woman, you are a mother, your duty is towards your child, you have no
right to cheat him of what should be his!" For the first time she
actually realised that Beppino too was her child, bone of her bone and
flesh of her flesh as was Mimmo. Hitherto she had always looked on him
as altogether his father's, as remote from her personally, and her
hatred of the father had been continued in indifference towards the
child. Now as she felt the helpless little body lying close within her
arm, as she heard the soft little voice lisp out words of confidence,
her innermost being stirred at recognition of his oneness with her. But
to renounce happiness, to renounce Angelescu! The dark waters of despair
engulfed her, she sank down and down--it had been bad enough before, but
what would be the torment of life now, without him? How could she give
him up, just as she had found him? Her entire being, body and spirit,
recoiled from the thought of re-entering that prison from which she had
so lately thought to escape forever. For one wild moment the impulse
seized her to wrap up the children and carry them off with her. Her
fingers twitched feverishly at the bed-clothes. Then the recollection
came to her of how Angelescu had involuntarily recoiled at mention of
the children. He had not meant her to see it, she knew that, she knew
also that he would be unfailingly kind and considerate--but at what cost
to himself, to their love? Would she not be preparing a worse torment
for both of them? A pale dawn broke on the night of her thoughts; she
saw herself no longer as an individual, as a personality warring against
circumstance, rebellious towards fate, but rather as an integral part of
Fate, a particle of elementary force given in the service of these young
lives for their guidance and protection. She saw her task as a mother as
she had not yet understood it and in the light of the new vision stood
prepared to strip herself of all selfish attributes, of pride and the
desire for happiness. Yet she saw it without exaltation, her sacrifice
stood in the cold light of the commonplace, a natural sequence of her
enlarged understanding. The chill weight of the years before her settled
down on her shoulders, but she accepted that weight, bent her neck
consciously and consentingly to the unwelcome yoke. Unwelcome it would
be, but no longer galling as in the past, she knew in her soul that in
the instant of her renunciation, she had passed beyond Egidio's power to
hurt her,--at least more than superficially, he had shrunk to
insignificance. Never again would she be afraid of him, or stirred to
anger on her own account by his vulgar insults.

Mimmo broke in upon her train of thought, she heard his sweet voice in
her ear:

"Mammina you have come back to us, you will never leave us again? _Di!
mammina, mai più?_"

She raised her head and kissing him, answered smiling:

"No, _cuoricino mio, mai più_."

She rose to her feet straightening her hat mechanically as she did so,
then as she became conscious of its existence, drew out the long pins,
folded up her veil, removed the hat and laid it on the table. There was
a finality in her action that struck Ferrati, and when she turned
towards him her face startled him, so pale was it, so calm, so stamped
with thoughtful decision.

"Ah, you are there, my friend," she said.

"Yes," he answered simply, adding, "I am going home now."

"Is _he_ downstairs?"

"Yes, in the studio, very much subdued. I shall see him on my way out.
Be as kind to him as you can--he is disposed to meet you half way."

A faint ironical smile crept over her face, then faded leaving it in its
former marble like calm. She made no direct answer.

"After all life is a question of compromises."

He started--this from Ragna!

"You look surprised, my friend--I have grown older, and let us hope,
wiser, since morning."

He made no comment, and turned to go.

"Wait a minute," she said, calling him back, "I should like you to leave
a note for me at the Grand Hotel, if it is not out of your way."

The Grand Hotel!

"Not at all," he answered, "Command me in any way, I am entirely at your
service."

The sincerity of the words pleased her, but she was past feeling much,
for the moment. She signed to him to wait so he sat down and watched
Carolina feeding the children with a bowl of milk she had just brought.

Presently Ragna returned and handed him an envelope; within were these
words:--

     "MY DEAR ONE,--

     "The children claim me, I cannot go,--if I were false to them I
     should be false to myself and to you. We were wrong to-day when we
     imagined that we could cut a path for ourselves in spite of
     circumstance. So we must part. I shall never see you again, but
     remember that as I was yours to-day, so shall I be throughout the
     years to come. Your love has set me free, the material world exists
     for me now but as a dream--I have achieved through you the ultimate
     emancipation, not death, but freedom from the material
     circumstances of life. What matters the fate of that charnel house,
     my body? My spirit is yours, nothing can prevent that. Good-bye,
     my soul, my life.

     "RAGNA."

The envelope was addressed to Count Angelescu, Grand Hotel, Città.

Ferrati, taking the letter, glanced at the superscription; his instinct
divined the truth, but like the wise man he was, he gave no sign. Only,
he lifted Ragna's hand and pressed his lips upon it with the reverence
he would have accorded a saint.

As he left the room he turned on the threshold, and the picture he saw:
Ragna very pale but consummately calm, leaning on the foot of one of the
cots, gazing down at the children, a faint smile parting her lips, her
dark-circled eyes shaded by the long lashes, remained with him to the
end of his life.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Ragna" ***

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