"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 werebarchetoo, 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 ofhis, 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, whilehewent 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 histoscano, 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.
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 afacchinowho 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 attitudeun 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 thecollegioCardinal 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.
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 thefait accomplishould 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 wishyouall 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 idlefacchiniand women of the people followed them up to theSala 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!"