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 thepergola, the music on the terrace, the many tables of merry diners calling forpesciolini d' Arno,fritto mistoandChiantiall 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 thefiaccheraio'swhip, 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 apalazzo, Egidio paid the driver, and opened the heavyportonewith 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,thisis 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.
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."
"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.
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 asbaliaand 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.
"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 thelevatrice, 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, Ricomio, 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, thelevatricelaid 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.
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,mychildren—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 afacchino 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 theportone, 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.
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 thefait 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."