"Obedience is for children and the feeble-minded," said Astrid. The old lady gasped and raised her mittened hand.
"My dear, my dear, a wife should always obey her husband!"
"Well, I shan't when I'm married."
Fröken Hagerup interposed:
"You'll find that you'll have to, to keep the peace."
"Keep the peace indeed! That will be Edvard's business. Ragna, why don't you say something?"
Ragna had been sitting silent; on being addressed she started and dropped her fork.
"I—I have a headache." Her cheeks flamed at the lie. Fru Bjork looked at her anxiously.
"I do hope you are not going to be ill, child! I am sure you have been tiring yourself out with all this going about alone, I don't half like it!"
"Stuff and nonsense," said Estelle, "she never looked better in her life! A night's rest and she will be all right again. You should not walk in the sun," she said to Ragna; "it is dangerous at this season of the year. It is probably that that gave you your headache."
"I believe Ragna's in love with somebody," said Astrid, "all this mooning about alone is a symptom, and she's losing her appetite, too."
"Nonsense!" said Ragna angrily. "I am a bit tired, but as Estelle says, a night's rest will set me right. I think I shall go to bed now."
"I think you are right, Ragna," said Fru Bjork. "Take some quinine and cover yourself well. I shall come a little later to see if you are comfortable."
"Oh, please don't," said Ragna. "I feel quite sleepy already. I assure you there is nothing to worry about, I had rather no one came, it might wake me up."
Fru Bjork looked hurt.
"As you like," she said, and Ragna hated herself for her ungraciousness.
"Oh, why wasn't I born diplomatic?" she thought.
Astrid was looking at her rather maliciously through her lashes. The headache had not deceived her, but she had no suspicion of the truth; she thought that absence might have played advocate for some despised Christiania swain; she wondered who it might be, and promised herself that she would find out at the first opportunity.
When they rose from the table, Ragna went to her room and ostentatiously called for hot water. The others repaired to the drawing-room, where the old Swedish lady established herself with alacrity in the most comfortable armchair. A lady of uncertain nationality opened the pianoforte and played with faultless technique and absolutely no expression, selections from Beethoven and Chopin, and the rest of the company disposed themselves about the room, some reading, some sewing, some talking in small groups. Astrid withdrew to a window-recess with the art-student, with whom she had begun a mild flirtation. Fru Bjork settled herself near the fire and took out her knitting; her brow was furrowed and she puckered up her mouth. She was more worried about Ragna than she cared to admit; certainly the girl looked the picture of health, but she had been oddly absent-minded of late, and had seemed so evidently to prefer going about alone that gradually the other members of the party had given up offering to accompany her. Then her headache of this evening—.
"I do hope the child is not going to be ill," repeated the good woman to herself; she drew out a needle at the end of the row and meditatively scratched her head with it.
Ragna, meanwhile, was devoured by a fever of excitement. Unable to sit still she paced up and down her room; her hands trembled and she felt curious nervous qualms through her body. She pinned on her hat with unsteady fingers, drew on her gloves and threw a long dark cloak about her. When enough time had elapsed for all to be well settled in the drawing-room, she cautiously opened her door and locking it behind her, stole down the passage, at the end of which a chambermaid was crocheting lace by the light of an oil lamp.
"Rosa," said Ragna in a low voice, "I am going out but I don't wish anyone to know of it. If you will let me in very quietly when I come back—I shan't be late—I will give you a present. I shall knock on the door with my knuckles three times,—like this. Do you understand?"
"Si, Signorina," answered the maid, showing her white teeth in a smile. It was a sly understanding smile that made Ragna hot and uncomfortable. She felt Rosa's curious eyes upon her as she went on down the passageway to the door. In another minute she was flying down the poorly-lit stairs; at the foot of the last flight a dark figure detached itself from the surrounding gloom and came towards her.
"I thought you were never coming," said Mirko. His voice had an odd triumphant note, but Ragna in her excitement failed to notice it. He drew her arm through his and hurried her out and across the shadow side of the Piazza, to where a carriage was waiting.
"Al Coliseo!" he said to the driver.
Ragna sat in a constrained attitude, her eyes cast down.
"Now," said Mirko, "you look as though you were embarking on a crime. I ask you what harm is there in this little escapade?"
"I do so hate to deceive them all! What would Fru Bjork say if she knew?"
"Has she never been young herself? If you knew, Ragna, the memories that half these good and prudish ladies carry under their starched fronts, you would be surprised. There is a proverb that says, 'when you are too old to give yourself to the Devil it is time to turn to God!'" Then seeing she looked shocked; "there, don't mind what I say,—I am so glad you have come that I am not half responsible. You can take my word for it that you are doing nothing very terrible. Do you think for a moment I would ask you to?"
"No," she answered.
"And you are glad you came?"
"I feel as if I were being carried off by a brigand," said Ragna.
The Prince wore a broad-brimmed soft felt hat casting the upper part of his face into deep shadow, he had thrown round him an Italian military cloak, the folds of which flung up and over his left shoulder had the grace of a toga. He really looked not unlike the gallant brigand of romance.
"Oh, indeed!" he laughed, "and supposing I were to carry you off, far away across the Campagne to a castle in the hills and hold you for ransom, what then?"
"What ransom would you set on me?"
"A ransom no one could pay but yourself—a king's ransom: your love. And the day you give it you would be free to go—if you so wished." He spoke jestingly but his voice had a deep undertone that thrilled the girl.
"Would you pay the ransom, oh, captive?"
"Even a captive lady could not love to order," laughed Ragna.
"But could you not love a man, who for love of you carried you away from all the world and made you his by force? I think you would—every woman is really a Sabine at heart!"
Ragna was spared the necessity of answering by the carriage drawing up at the entrance to the Colosseum.
"Shall we keep him?" asked Mirko, as he helped her to alight.
"No! no. Let us walk back."
Mirko dismissed the vetturino, who with much cracking of his whip, made his way to the nearest osteria there to drink the health of the mad forestieri who would risk any sort of "malanno" to see an old ruin by moonlight.
The moon rode high in the heavens and the great building stood out clear and sharp in the silvery light, the inky shadows seemed pregnant with mystery. Ragna almost looked to see the ghosts of martyrs in horrid procession, threading the gloomy archways. A shadow in the arena seemed a pool of blood. Above, in the tribunes, bloodthirsty multitudes had watched, breathless, the matchless show,—and well might the Vestal-virgins cover their faces, of what avail the fate deciding thumb when maidens and lions meet in the amphitheatre?
"Is it not wonderful?" asked Mirko.
"Wonderful, but horrible," said Ragna, "if ghosts walk anywhere on earth, surely they must walk here! Think of all these walls have looked down on!"
"Yes, the Games, the glorious Games!" he replied eagerly. "Oh, to have seen it in its pomp and pride! Think of it, Ragna,—the people, the colours in the sunlight, the purple velarium up there against the sky, the Cæsar, the Senate, the Vestals,—and the gladiators in the ring!"
"I was thinking of the martyrs," said Ragna.
"Oh, the martyrs! Poor fools! After all it was their own fault."
His slight sneer grated on the girl's mood.
"They were glorious," she said indignantly, "they had the courage of their convictions. They proved their strength,—they were stronger than Cæsar, stronger than Rome,—their death was their victory!"
Her eyes shone, and Mirko, looking at her face upturned in the moonlight, thought he had never seen her so beautiful, transfigured as she was, by her enthusiasm.
"Would you have the courage of your convictions?" he asked suddenly.
"I—I don't know. Which convictions, for instance?"
"Well, if you did not believe in marriage, would you have the courage to override public opinion?"
"But I do believe in marriage," she said simply.
"Do you believe that love can be bound with a chain, then?"
"There should be no question of binding—A marriage without love is no marriage at all in my eyes."
He smiled at her earnest simplicity.
"That is all very well—for you," he said, "but for me? I may not marry to please myself."
His voice had a caressing cadence, charged with regret, his eyes were mournful under the long lashes. Perhaps for the moment he was really a victim to self pity. Like most emotional people, he was apt to believe in the sincerity of a passing feeling, even the appropriate pose of the hour investing him with a fleeting reality of sentiment.
"No," said Ragna, "that is true. You cannot be free to follow your heart, it is part of the price you must pay."
"The price is heavy."
They stood silent a time, then Mirko spoke again in a deep voice.
"I love you, Ragna, you know it—you must have seen it. I did not mean to tell you, I have been fighting it down, but here in the moonlight it is too strong for me. I love you, and it is not within my power to marry you. I must go away, and perhaps never see you again; I have loved you ever since those days on theNorje"—this was untrue but he said it with conviction, even felt it—"and you love me darling, you can't deny it. Oh,cara,carissima, look at me, let me see your eyes!"
His arm had stolen round her, she raised her head, and he saw that bright drops glittered on her lashes. In a flash his mouth was on hers and she returned his kiss. She stood unresisting in his embrace, leaning against him, her whole form quivering, then after a moment, gently freed herself and walked a few paces away, her head bent, clasping and unclasping her hands. He followed her and would have taken her in his arms again but she stopped him.
"What's the use?" she asked in a hoarse voice, "we have no right,—you can't marry me. You must not—" her voice broke.
"But you love me," cried Mirko, a passionate gladness ringing in his voice. "You do love me! Surely we have the right to a little happiness!"
"No," she answered slowly, "no, it is impossible. You must go away. This is not your destiny. You will be King some day, your country, your people, claim you."
"I will give it all up for you, Ragna!" He knew that he would not, but promises come easily, by moonlight.
"No," she repeated, "you must go; we must part."
"But if you love me—"
"If I love you?"
"What need is there to part? If you loved me enough."
"Oh," she cried, suffocating, as his meaning dawned on her, "Oh! Do you take me for that?"
She sprang back, her breast heaving, tears rising to her eyes.
"Take you for what, dear? For a woman who would love me better than all the world beside? Do you think that an insult?"
"You—you would make me your—," she could not bring herself to say the word.
Prince Mirko executed a masterly retreat.
"My child!" he cried in a horrified voice. "What do you imagine? I mean that where true love is, there can be no parting. Far or near, those who love are always united."
"Oh," said Ragna dubiously, "I thought you meant—"
Mirko fixed his mournful eyes upon her.
"Did I not tell you yesterday that I would rather die than harm you?" he asked reproachfully.
Ragna hung her head, ashamed.
"You have no confidence in me—and yet I deserve it," he said bitterly.
"I have confidence in you; it was only that I did not understand, I was afraid—"
"Do you wish to give me a proof of your confidence, dear one?"
"Yes," said Ragna, "what shall I do?" she was ashamed of her suspicion and eager to atone.
"We have so little time left to us—only a few days, then our ways part,—let us be lovers for that little time, as if we were betrothed, as if we were to marry like ordinary people. Will you, dear? It can do no harm—just a game of 'pretend' as the children say, and we shall have those days to look back on all our lives!"
He sank to one knee, holding her clasped hands in his own, the folds of his long cloak sweeping the ground. That, and the felt hat gave him the appearance of a cavalier of romance. It was splendidly theatrical—but it harmonized with the setting and the hour. His eyes, soft and burning, held hers.
Why not? thought Ragna, a little romance,—a little happiness, a gorgeous illusion, and the light would go out. Why not make the most of the golden hours—there would be enough grey ones in the future to compensate amply for the delicious fraud. Instinct warned her of hidden danger—but had he not said:
"I would rather die than harm you!"
The pressure of his hand was insistent.
"Very well," she said faintly, "I will."
He sprang to his feet and clasped her in his arms, covering her face with kisses.
"Oh!" she cried struggling, "you must not! It is not right!"
"Are you not my fiancée, my little love?" he asked in a pained voice. "What hurt can my kisses do you? Oh, Ragna!"
He kissed her again, and this time she did not resist.
When he released her she was breathless and her head swam; she could feel her heart leaping in her bosom and she pressed her hands upon it to still its wild beating. Her face was white as marble and her eyes shone strangely as though illuminated by fires within. In that moment, Mirko really loved her; her confidence appealed to all that was best in him, so realizing that he would not trust himself further he made the move to go.
"It is lateAnima mia, I must take you home now."
He encircled her waist with his arm under cover of her cloak and they walked slowly back through the dark streets to the Piazza Montecitorio, talking as they went. Or rather it was Mirko who talked and Ragna listened, held in thrall by the musical voice of her lover. It did not occur to her that to make love with suchmæstriapresupposes a large and varied experience.
He left her with a kiss under the gloomyportone, and she sped up the stairs, wondering how she should explain her absence in case of discovery. There was no need, however, for Rosa promptly answered her timid knocking, and at a sign from her followed her to her room.
"Here," said Ragna, taking a little brooch from its case and tendering it to the maid, "take this, Rosa,—it is the little present I spoke of."
"Ma Signorina, che le pare?" exclaimed Rosa with great deprecation, "it is much too fine for me,—I will take nothing for so small a service. It is a night made by the good God for lovers, do I not understand that? I also have aninnamorato, Signorina!"
Ragna, who two hours earlier would have felt unspeakably humiliated by such a speech, now was conscious of a fellow feeling for the girl—such is the freemasonry of love. She smiled and tucking the trinket into Rosa's hand, said:
"Then you will wear this to remember me by, and also to look well in the eyes of yourfidanzato."
"Grazie Signorina, a thousand thanks! And may yourinnamoratobe as faithful as you are beautiful."
"Faithful," repeated Ragna to herself when she had closed the door behind the retreating form of the maid. "What is faithlessness,—memory? For us there can be no other."
It pleased her to think of her romance as set apart from the common lot.
"It is an oasis in the desert," she thought,—"it will be as he says, something to look back on all our lives."
For a long time she lay awake, gazing into the dark, her pulses throbbing as she thought of his kisses.
The end of Carnival was approaching and many shops displayed dominoes, masks and various disguises and travesties in their windows. The merry madness was in the air and all Rome was keyed up to a pitch of wild gaiety, so soon to relapse into devotional gloom.
Fru Bjork had taken tickets to theveglionein the Costanzi Theatre, and Astrid was wild with anticipation. She raged at the indifference displayed by Ragna, who was so absorbed in her fool's Paradise that theveglionemight as well not have existed. Her detachment was the more noticeable as even Estelle Hagerup had caught the contagion of excitement and was feverishly weighing the rival advantages of a pea-green domino and a purple one. Astrid had chosen pale blue, but Ragna when pressed decided on black.
She had promised to spend the day of theveglionewith Prince Mirko. They were to drive out into the country, far from the noisy merry-making, and though he had not said so, she felt that it was to be their last day together—the time for separation was approaching, the end of the idyll at hand.
So on the morning of that fatefulmardi grasshe met him, as arranged, by the Pantheon. He was waiting with abotte, drawn by two strong little Maremmano horses with pheasant feathers stuck in their head-stalls and tinkling bells on the harness. The driver, a bronzed aquiline featured Roman, beamed on her as she approached, having often driven them on shorter excursions.
Mirko helped her in and took his place beside her, laying on her lap a huge bunch of fragrant white narcissus and violets. She buried her face in the flowers, breathing the perfume voluptuously.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Oh, quite out, over the Campagna, away from everything and everybody."
He squeezed her hand and she smiled happily.
It was warm for the season, almost sultry, as the Scirocco was blowing. The sun was comfortably hot, but heavy clouds banking the horizon promised rain before night-fall.
They drove out the Via Appia past the tomb of Cecilia Metella; the green grass springing fresh between the mortuary tablets bordering the way, and from the walls showed the rapid advance of spring, and as they left the city farther behind, the whole Campagna in new radiance of colour appeared to them as a bride arrayed for her wedding day. The pale pink of the almond blossom in delicate tracery against the deep blue of the sky, the rich dark ilexes with light green tender shoots, the silvery grey of the olives, all looked more like a fairy picture than anything that could possibly be real. This awakening of Nature, this decking out of all the Earth in bridal array, could not but have its effect on the lovers. All creation was breaking into bud and blossom, the spirit of love permeated the very air with the mysterious intoxication of the new running sap in the trees, the awakening to life of the flowers, the song of the birds. It was the mating season.
Mirko and Ragna sat in silence, his right hand closed on her left; she felt strong vibrations passing from his hand to hers, she was burning with a vague mysterious excitement too deep for expression.
Mirko's eyes were fixed on her face; he watched her colour come and go, noted the soft shadow of her lashes on her cheek; the impulse of spring flamed in his blood. The tantalising nearness of the girl was too much for his fiery southern temperament, he was rapidly losing his head.
They drove far out over the Campagna, until the city behind them was swallowed up in the undulations of the great grassy plain. Groups of people bound citywards passed them, many of them enlivening the way with snatches of song. A soft damp breeze laden with the composite spring fragrance blew up from the sea. Presently a turn of the road brought them to an old acqueduct; many of the arches lay in ruins, but here and there groups of them still intact, stood upright in the sunshine. Ragna looking at them suddenly remembered her dream on board theNorje, and Ingeborg's prediction. Were these the actual stone arches of her dream? She glanced at Mirko; his eyes were devouring her, they had a wolfish expression; a shiver of fear passed over her and she drew her hand from his in a quick gesture of alarm.
"Oh, don't look at me like that! You frighten me. Your eyes look like the eyes of a wild beast, as if you wanted to tear me limb from limb."
Mirko flushed and his expression changed.
"Silly!" he said, but his voice was hoarse and sounded strange in her ears. "Silly! May I not look at you? Do you know that you are very beautiful to-day? I must fill my eyes with your dear image, so that I may have you with me always,—even when you are far away."
Ragna partially reassured, glanced at him shyly through her lashes.
"You really did frighten me, you looked so fierce, so—so hungry!"
He laughed. "I am hungry—hungry for you. But that is nothing new!"
They relapsed into silence again, but there was a strange constraint upon them. The sun's rays were very hot with that sickly heat felt just before a shower. The scent of the narcissus rose insistent and too sweet. Ragna felt uneasy; although Mirko was outwardly the same as he had always been, she divined a change in him, a mysterious subtle change that set him over against her as an enemy from whom she must defend herself. She could not explain to herself this newborn antagonism, she only felt it dimly,—and at the same time there arose riotous within her the call of the springtide, urging her towards him.
The vetturino drew up jingling before the door of anosteria,—that of the "Sora Nanna," the sign proclaimed. Some deal tables and benches stood under the budding pergola, and at them a fewcontadinion their way to the festa were indulging in modest libations of "vino dei Castelli"—advertised at thirty, forty and fiftycentesimithe measure, on placards hanging at the entrance.
As thebottedrew up to the door, the hostess, a stout, wholesome looking woman appeared, bowing and wiping her hands on her apron.
"The Signori would descend? Luncheon? Most certainly,—their Excellencies should be served immediately—Maria! wring the neck of a chicken! Would their Excellencies eat in the common room, in the sala, with contadini? There was a most clean andconvenientechamber above, where they would be much better,non è vero?"
She bustled in ahead of them, shooing chickens as she went, and chattering volubly. They followed her through the brick-paved kitchen, gloomy, after the bright light outside. One end of it was taken up by an immense brick stove, in which were sunk numerous wells for charcoal. A large pot bubbled merrily on one of these and most savoury odours arose from a collection of copper stew-pans of all sizes. Hams, salami and bunches of herbs hung from the smoky rafters. A girl with large hoop earrings and a bright kerchief about her neck was sitting on a low stool peeling potatoes and singing lustily the song of the "Ciociara"—"E quando la Ciociara si marita"—she sang to the rollicking air. A ray of sunlight coming through the window gilded her hair and touched the coral beads on her round brown throat.
Sora Nanna led the way up a stone stair to a large light upper chamber. The floor like that of the kitchen was of bare brick well scrubbed, a table stood in the centre with some straight-backed chairs. On the walls hung prints of Garibaldi, King Umberto and Queen Margherita taken at the time of their marriage, and Vittorio Emanuele II with a fierce moustache and a truculent eye. A couch stood against the wall, and in the far corner a large white bed flanked by a primitive dressing-table. Ragna shrank back, but the hostess bustled cheerfully forward.
"Manycacciatori, Signori of Rome andforestierihave I entertained here," she said, throwing open the windows. "Ah, they all know the Sora Nanna's cellar and thefrittata. Afrittatawith artichokes, that is what I shall give your Excellencies!"
"I would rather go downstairs," whispered Ragna.
"Come now," said Mirko, "you can't sit in the kitchen with the contadini! This room is clean and it will do very well."
"Can't we sit outside under the pergola?"
Mirko pointed to the clouds fast obscuring the sunshine. "It will be raining in a few minutes."
Ragna thought it would be foolish to object further, and she tried to throw off the uneasy feeling that possessed her.
"Your Excellencies shall be served in half an hour," said the hostess, as she bustled out, shaking her head at the madness of people who came out to the country when they might be enjoying the Carnival in Rome.
Ragna went to one of the windows and leaned on the sill, looking out. The vetturino was leading his horses to a shed in the rear, and Maria, the girl who had been singing in the kitchen, was displaying a generous expanse of red stocking as she pursued an elusive chicken. The contadini under the arbour below made merry at her expense and praised her well-developed charms and neat ankles.
The Campagna rolled away as far as the eye could reach, an inland sea of grass, dotted here and there with trees; far away the broken acqueduct straggled across it. The fleeting shadows chased each other over the rolling surface as the clouds gathered, and the air was damp and sultry, charged with the sweet scent of spring, stealing over the senses like mellow wine. Mirko came up behind Ragna as she stood and kissed her neck behind the ear where the short hairs made golden tendrils. She thrilled at the touch of his lips but did not turn her head. During these days of their pseudo betrothal, she had gradually grown accustomed to various loverlike familiarities, which from day to day had become more daring, and she had come to accept as natural, liberties on the part of her lover, from which she would have recoiled, shocked and horrified, ten days earlier. In love as in everything else, it is the first step that costs.
"Why do you not take off your hat, dear?" said Mirko. "It will be so much cosier if you take off your hat. We will pretend we are on our honeymoon.—Come! let us be quite mad and gay—remember it is Carnival!"
The words suited her mood; suddenly she felt reckless, she smiled her answer.
"Wait here a minute," said Mirko and he bounded down the stair. Ragna quickly unpinned her hat, and laid it on the dressing table, she fluffed up her hair where it had been crushed, and went back to the window, watching with amused sympathy the merry party below. Her spirits had recovered from the depression of a few moments since, she felt daring, buoyed up by a strange sensation of irresponsibility—the spring was having its effect on her also.
Presently Mirko returned, followed by the bouncing Maria who set the table still humming her song. Ragna caught the words.
"E se vuoi la robba mia, è certo che caro la devi pagar!"
"That is a very jolly song," said Ragna.
"Si, signora," said Maria showing her even white teeth in a broad smile.—"It is sung all through Ciociaria and everywhere!" She ran down to the kitchen and reappeared bearing a large bowl of steaminggnocchiand two cobwebby bottles of gold-coloured wine.
"Come," said Mirko, "your Ladyship is served."
Ragna laughingly took her place at the table and they both fell to with healthy appetites. Mirko saw that Ragna's glass was kept replenished with the wine. "Proprio di dietro i fagotti," the hostess had declared it. After the gnocchi came stewed chicken and potatoes, then the famousfrittatawith artichokes and a salad, then cheese, and finally, Maria having asked if the Signori wished anything more, retired, closing the door after her.
The wine was singing in Ragna's ears, and her face was flushed, it seemed to her that she was in a dream in which she had become two distinct persons,—one a long way off, watching as at a play, what the other Ragna did. Mirko rose from his chair and led her to the couch where he seated himself beside her. He drew her head down on his shoulder and holding her close to him murmured his love in her ear. His nearness, his kisses and the low, passionate vibration of his voice overpowered her; she felt all power of resistance slip from her, his personality, his desire dominated her entirely; her lips parted, she closed her eyes, her senses swam. As in a dream, his lips found hers, she felt the heat of his breath scorching her face, a wild flame surged through her veins,—a brief almost unconscious struggle and she lay unresisting in his arms.
When she came to herself again a sudden gloom pervaded the place. Large drops of rain splashed on the window-sill. She watched them idly a moment, then her eyes wandered to the other window where Mirko stood leaning, pulling at his moustache, then down to herself. Suddenly a gulf of realization and shame overwhelmed her. With a hasty hand she straightened out her skirts, then flung herself down, sobbing, her burning face hidden in the cushion.
At the sound Mirko turned and came towards her, an exceedingly sheepish expression on his handsome face.
"Don't, love!" he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. She writhed away from him.
"Don't, dear," he repeated awkwardly, and as the girl paid no attention, he knelt at her side and kissed all that was visible of one ear. She sat up, wild-eyed and disheveled.
"Oh, how could you?" she sobbed, "oh, why did you do it? Oh, how can I ever look anyone in the face again!"
She flung herself down again, her voice lost in a paroxysm of grief.
Mirko bit his moustache; scenes of this kind annoyed him terribly and now that his fever had passed he could think of nothing to say. Presently Ragna faced him once more.
"You despise me, don't you?" she asked.
"Never! Never in the world, my darling!" he cried but his voice carried no conviction. "I owe you all gratitude!"
"Oh!" she said, her eyes widening, a hard look coming over her face, "oh!"
He lifted her limp hand and kissed it.
"I am your devoted slave,—you have given me the greatest proof of love—"
"What are you going to do about it?" she interrupted.
"Do about it. What is there to do? The memory of this—"
"Ah, so it is already a memory to you! To me it is dishonour."
"My dear child, nothing of the sort! We loved each other, we lost our heads,—there is no dishonour, no one need know."
His ineffectual manner struck her like a blow. Covering her face with her hands she burst into fresh sobs.
Mirko like all men, hated above all things a scene; he began to feel angry, revengeful even, the more so as his conscience reproached him. He said in a hard voice:
"Look here, Ragna, you are not a fool, you knew I could not marry you—"
Her scornful eyes stopped him; he shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear girl, if you had not wished—I have never taken a woman against her will—"
"You coward!" she said her eyes blazing.
He rose and strolling to the window carefully chose a cigarette from his case and as carefully lit it, but in spite of himself his hands trembled. Ragna sat immovable on the sofa as though turned to stone. The rain pattered softly on the window-sill and the warm heavy dampness invaded the room. Below, in the kitchen, someone was clattering pots and pans, and Maria's voice took up the refrain of the "Ciociara." The lively tune rose, a ghastly mockery, and Ragna smiled at the irony of it, then a fresh wave of despair swept over her, her shaken nerves gave way, and dropping her head on her folded hands she wept disconsolately and brokenly. The forlornness of her attitude, the bowed head with its dishevelled mass of golden hair, the slender shoulders heaving with noiseless sobs touched Mirko; he threw his cigarette out of the window with an angry gesture and paced up and down the long narrow room, tugging at his moustache and knitting his brows. The mood of brutality like that of a sated animal had passed and a reaction of something very like shame, set in—shame be it said, not for having taken advantage of a confiding girl, but for the unchivalrous cynicism of his subsequent conduct which he could see no way of glossing over. A woman may forgive passion, brutality even, but not the poisoned barb of cynicism. His vanity refused to consider the situation irretrievable notwithstanding, and he paused beside the weeping girl.
"Ragna," he said, "forgive me! I have behaved like a brute and I deserve to be kicked."
The accent of sincere regret in his voice was like balm to the girl's wounds; by his self-abasement she might recover a semblance, at least, of self-respect that would help her to tide over the present necessity. In a half subconscious way she realized that death does not come through the wishing for it, that a situation no matter how terrible must be lived through somehow,—but oh, to be alone!
"Poor child," said Mirko, stroking the silky waves of her hair, "I must have been mad! Will you not believe that I was mad, dear,—and forget all that I would have you forget?"
He knelt beside her putting one arm about her; with his free hand he forced her head up from her locked fingers and would have kissed the tears away, but she drew back with horror.
"Oh, no! Never again!"
"Ragna," he pleaded, "but you love me?"
"I did love you—once," she said in a toneless voice. "I did love you—too much."
"No, dearest, not too much—" he started but stopped silenced by the expression of her eyes.
"God knows," he said impulsively, "that I would give my life not to have hurt you! You were too beautiful,—you maddened me!"
She smiled a little scornfully, very sadly, and the smile condemned him in his own consciousness; in her eyes he saw reflected for the first time the futility of his declarations, the shallow selfishness of his nature. It seemed to him that he shrivelled morally under her gaze. To Ragna he had become a stranger, the dream hero was shattered irremediably; the scales had fallen from her eyes and with a pitilessly clear vision she had seen the paltry egoism of the man's soul. Something had snapped within her,—a light had gone out; she wondered dully if anything could matter very much again.
Mirko rose to his feet rather unsteadily and poured himself a glass of wine; as he raised it to his lips someone knocked on the door and he started, spilling half the contents of the glass. Maria's voice called cheerfully.
"The vetturino wants to know at what hour the Signori will start, it is getting late."
"Tell him we will start as soon as he is ready and send me theaddizione," answered Mirko. He gulped down his wine, and then poured out another glass and carried it over to Ragna.
"Drink this," he ordered and she obeyed mechanically.
"Now," he said, "put on your hat and smooth your hair a little; don't let these people guess anything."
Ragna flushed, but her pride was touched as he had meant it to be. She rose with an effort and walked lifelessly over to the dressing-table. She wet the corner of her handkerchief in the jug and dabbled it on her dark-ringed reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks; taking out a little comb from the back of her hair she straightened up her stray locks and resettled her heavy plaits. She put on her hat and tied over it a thick blue veil she found in the pocket of her ulster. When she had finished, she walked to a chair, passing the couch with a shudder, and sat down dully.
Maria entered presently, carrying the bill on a plate; she looked curiously from the apathetic girl, shrouded in her heavy veil, to the self-possessed young man,—they were not like any lovers she had seen. "They must have quarreled," was her reflection. Mirko paid the modest bill and added a generous mancia at which the girl's eyes sparkled, and she thanked him effusively.
"Is the carriage ready?" he inquired.
"Sissignore, eccola quà!" As she spoke they heard the little trap rattling and jingling as it drew up outside. Mirko turned to Ragna:
"If you are ready, we will go."
She rose and avoiding his proffered hand, preceded him quickly down the stair and across the kitchen, walking head down, with a furtive air as though trying to escape observation. Maria and the hostess smiled significantly at each other as she passed.
She climbed unaided into the carriage and drew her skirts aside as Mirko entered. The hood was drawn up and a large water-proof apron covered their knees, another water-proof strip was fastened at one end to the hood and at the other to the large umbrella that sheltered the driver, so that they were almost in the dark and entirely shielded from the curious gaze of passers-by.
They sat in an oppressive silence; Ragna, her hands clasped on her knees, her eyes looking straight before her, her mouth set in a hard line, barely discernible through the thick veil. Mirko was most uncomfortable, and could think of nothing to say or do to relieve the situation. Finally, in desperation, he asked her permission to light a cigarette; she shrugged her shoulders in complete indifference and made no answer; he lit one and puffed away moodily, every now and again casting furtive glances at the girl's averted profile. She sat quite motionless, only shuddering slightly as they passed the ruined acqueduct. "The hare is run to earth," she thought bitterly. The drive seemed interminable; the carriage bumped on endlessly over the bad roads, the rain pattered unceasingly on the lowered hood, the driver urged on his steaming beasts in endless monotone—and so on and on and on. It was like a long bad dream.
As they came into the city, the rain stopped, but the air was heavy with a damp, soggy mist through which the street lamps glowed, each set in a luminous halo. The streets were full of a noisy merry crowd and the carriage made slow progress. Once it stopped altogether and a masked Pierrot climbed up on one step, a gay Harlequin on the other while a very masculineballerinain draggled pink tarletan installed herself or himself beside the driver.
"Tò!" said the Pierrot, and blew out a long paper sausage that squeaked as it collapsed; the Harlequin emptied a shovelful of confetti over the silent pair.
"Who is the mysterious princess?" squeaked the Pierrot, "Unveil! unveil, fair one!"
As Ragna paid no attention he snatched her veil from her face and fell into a pose of ecstatic mock admiration. Ragna threw herself back, alarmed.
"Here!" said Mirko, starting up angrily, "I won't have this! Let the lady alone, will you? Get down!"
"Pray, be more courteous!" mouthed Arlecchino, "In carnevale ogni scherzo vale." The crowd shrieked approval.
"Here, then," said Mirko, diving into his pocket and bestowing a gold piece on each masker, "go and drink to the health of your 'carnevale' with this."
Theballerinapoked a long red cardboard nose down under the hood, squeaking in high falsetto.
"And poor Colombina? Don't forget poor Colombina!"
Mirko found another gold piece for Colombina and the three masks jumped down shouting joyously.
"Evviva gli sposi!"
The crowd took up the cry and it rang after the retreating carriage.
Mirko looked at Ragna deprecatingly, but meeting her scornful eyes, turned his own away.
When at last they reached the Piazza Montecitorio he insisted on helping her out, and holding her fast by the hand, asked her:
"Do you really hate me then, after all?"
She drew her hand away from him, and without looking at him said "Good-bye" with a finality of accent not to be mistaken; then theportoneswallowed her up. Mirko, with a muttered oath clambered back into the carriage and drove to his hotel. As he entered the lobby he encountered the unexpected form of Angelescu.
"When did you come?" he asked in surprise.
"At noon, and I have been waiting for you ever since. I have a message for you from the King—" he spoke the last word in a whisper.
"The devil you have! What's up?"
"You'll know soon enough," said the other significantly.
"Am I to be restored to grace?"
"Oh, yes, but there is a certain amount of humble-pie to be eaten first. Also they are determined to clip your wings for the future—there is question of a marriage."
"Marriage—whew! Who is the lady, may I ask?"
Angelescu named a princess, Mirko's senior by several years and not renowned for her good looks. Mirko made a wry face.
"His Majesty is awfully keen on it, and if you were to upset the arrangement by any fresh escapades, I fancy your bed would not be of roses for some time to come—I hope you haven't been getting into any scrapes here?" He looked suspiciously at Mirko's tell-tale countenance.
"Come along, old man," said Mirko putting his arm through Angelescu's. "There is nothing very terrible—and nothing to be very proud of either; I'll tell you all about it presently. By the way I want you to do something for me to-night. I want you to take a message to a lady at theveglione."
"Why don't you go yourself?"
"I would rather not,—it might be embarrassing for both of us." He laughed uneasily. "Do you remember that little Andersen girl we met on a steamer the year we went to St. Petersburg?"
He felt Angelescu's arm stiffen under his, and had the light been stronger, he would have seen the bronzed cheek pale. They had reached Mirko's room and entered, closing the door after them.
As Ragna entered the pension Astrid came out of the drawing-room to meet her.
"Oh, Ragna, where on earth have you been all day? We have been so anxious! We were afraid you were lost or kidnapped or something. And the dominoes have come, do come and try yours on!"
"The dominoes?" asked Ragna dully.
"Why Ragna Andersen! The dominoes for theveglione!" She turned and looked at Ragna attentively as they passed under a swinging lamp in the passage.
"Ragna, you are ill!" she cried, "you are as white as a sheet! What has happened?"
"Nothing," said Ragna, "I got caught in the carnival crowd and pushed about—that's all, and I am tired out."
"Well, in the name of common sense, what made you stay out all day when you knew we were going to theveglioneto-night? I believe you won't be able to go at all!"
"Oh, yes I shall," said Ragna, making a desperate effort to pull herself together—no one must know, no one guess her secret! "Astrid, do be an angel—if I rest quietly for two or three hours I shall be as fit as ever—do explain it to your mother and Hagerup, and have some dinner sent me in my room. I want to lie down, and I won't have time if I have to dress for dinner. Do now, there's a dear!"
"Very well," assented Astrid, "you do look done up, you poor thing!"
But she shook her head as she turned away from Ragna's door. "I don't like this business," she said to herself; "there's something wrong, she's not a bit like her old self!" She was thinking of Ragna's calm assurance and self-sufficiency in Christiania, so far removed from her present almost apologetic manner.
Ragna, alone at last, turned the key in the door; she swept to the floor the black domino laid on her bed, and flinging herself face-downward among the pillows, writhed in a frenzy of grief and shame, the fruit of long hours of suppression. It seemed to her that her very soul must be contaminated. "Oh, fool! Oh, blind fool that I was!" she moaned, and strained her arms till shoulder and elbow cracked. Suddenly she rose, and marching over to the dressing-table, gazed long and searchingly at herself in the glass. The redness and puffiness of her eyelids had disappeared during the long drive, but there were dark purple circles under the eyes, she was terribly pale and her mouth and features generally, had a hard, drawn look. "Fool!" she cried again and burying her face in her hands, began to weep. It did not last long however, she soon dashed the tears away, angrily. "It's no use crying over spilt milk!" With a sort of rage she tore off her clothes, trampling them on the floor,—were they not witnesses, accomplices almost? Then she washed, and it seemed to her that she hated her beautiful white body; all that she was, all that she had become, sickened her.
She slipped on a dressing gown and lay down on the bed, quite motionless, staring miserably into space. Nothing was left to her, nothing! If only Mirko had not been so horrible—afterwards! She shuddered and ground her teeth. Oh, the shame of it, the bitter humiliation! Her eyes burned, her throat was dry as though seared by a hot iron, her head throbbed painfully.
Presently the maid knocked and when Ragna had unlocked the door, brought in a tray with dinner, which she set on the table. She surveyed Ragna with sympathy and curiosity.
"Does not the Signorina feel well? What a pity, the night of theveglione!"
"Thank you, Rosa, I am a little tired; I daresay I shall be quite rested in an hour or so," answered Ragna bitterly.
"Shall I not bring the Signorina a glass of Marsala?"
"No, thank you," said Ragna, but the maid had already flown off and returned very quickly with a glass of the topaz-coloured wine.
"Here, drink this, Signorina, it is very good when one is tired, it will warm you up!" She was not to be denied, and to please her Ragna drained the little glass. Rosa was right, she felt it warming her veins; a tinge of colour crept to her cheeks, and she managed to swallow a little food. Then she lay down again, and what with the wine and the fatigue fell asleep, and slept until Rosa returned to help her dress.
Rosa, as she watched the Signorina's purple shadowed eyes, said to herself.
"Macchè fatigue!Displeasure of love, that is what it is!" She prided herself on her perspicacity where affairs of the heart were concerned, and sighed deeply to show her sympathy.
Ragna stood apathetically while the maid hooked up her bodice. She wore a simple white frock, very youthful and girlish, and the low neck and short sleeves displayed her pretty shoulders and rounded, slender arms to advantage.
She had thought with pleasure of Mirko's seeing her in it, for she had told him by what sign to recognise her, and he was to have come masked to the ball to dance with her.
"The Signorina lacks but the veil to be a bride!" said Rosa admiringly.
Ragna shuddered and grew paler than before, if that were possible.
"The Signorina is beautiful, as she is, but if she will take my advice, she should put on a little rouge, she is too pale."
Ragna looked at herself in the mirror,—she was heavy eyed and white, far too white. The virginal whiteness of her frock, the pure pale face and pale gold hair seemed a pitiful mockery to her. She was glad when Rosa laid the black domino about her shoulders though it made her face look ghastly.
There was a sound of voices and laughter in the passage, and Ragna quickly snatched up her black mask and adjusted it as Astrid and Estelle entered the room.
"Ready, Ragna?"
"Yes," she answered, bending for Rosa to draw the domino hood over her head and fasten it with a pin.
Estelle turned herself about before the cheval-glass; her green domino, trimmed with black lace, was too short for her, and showed a good three inches of grey skirt at the hem; it was too full and made awkward bunchy folds about her and she wore a green mask with a frill of black lace, which fluttered as she breathed through her mouth,—however, she was quite satisfied with her appearance.
Astrid wore her light blue domino with coquettish grace and the small white loup hardly disguised her features; she had not yet pulled up the hood, and her fair hair curled prettily over her small head. Ragna also wore aloup, a black velvet one: she wished now that she had chosen a mask like Estelle's—anything to hide her, for her chin would quiver in spite of all her efforts.
Fru Bjork followed the girls into the room, very imposing in heliotrope, and grumbling at the necessity of wearing a mask.
"So hot! So stuffy! I can't breathe now, and I imagine what it will be in that place!" She was already fanning herself vigorously. "I'm quite as excited as you girls! Dear me, I hope it will be all just right—I should be more comfortable though, I admit, if we had a gentleman with us."
"You might have asked the man with the striped trousers, Mother,—I should think those stripes would carry him through anything!"
"Why should you make fun of the poor man?" asked Estelle. "I am sure he has been most polite. He has taken a great deal of trouble in inquiring about singing lessons for me, and he sings so sweetly himself. Didn't you like that song of his last evening about some 'Paese lontano dal mar'?"
"He has a good voice," said Ragna.
"But his trousers drown it!" laughed Astrid. "Come on, all of you, it is time to start!"
Fru Bjork led the way, burly in her domino, Estelle after her, and the other two followed, Astrid keeping up a gay chatter which saved Ragna the effort of conversation. They packed themselves into the waiting carriage, and in a few minutes alighted at the Costanzi.
It was early as yet and the crowd was thin, but more people were arriving all the time, some in fancy costume, but most of them in dominoes. Fru Bjork marshalled her party to the box she had taken,—it was in the second tier, near the stage, and there was a table in it as they were to have supper served from Aragno's. Estelle and Astrid pressed to the front of the box, and Ragna sat down on the little bench at the side, behind Astrid.
"Why, Ragna, child," said Fru Bjork, "don't you want to see what's going on, now you're here?"
"I am still a little tired," she answered, "and there is not much to see now, by and by it will be more interesting."
Astrid turned her head.
"What on earth made you such a fool as to tire yourself all out in the crowd to-day?"
Ragna thought she detected a note of suspicion in the question and a wave of terror swept over her,—suppose someone were to guess? She made an effort and answered jestingly, forcing the note. Fortunately the attention of the party was soon taken up with the scene below, leaving her to her own thoughts. The boxes were rapidly filling, and on the floor below a variegated crowd surged to and fro. Near the entrance a number of young men in evening dress and without masks, scanned curiously the entering dominoes, sometimes accosting them, and sometimes being accosted in the conventional falsetto. Marguérites, Columbines, peasant-girls, flower-girls abounded, and the air seemed thick with Pierrots. All the women, without exception, were masked, and it gave them an assurance, not to say audacity of manner very different from that of ordinary occasions. They were daring,provocantes, insolent even, and the young men enjoyed it hugely. A babel of voices and laughter rose from the throng, almost drowning the orchestra, but as yet all was orderly and quiet. Women in dominoes walked about in pairs, stopping to talk to men, often separating, and joining other groups. It was a human kaleidescope.
Ragna leaned over Estelle's shoulder and gazed apprehensively about; she did not see the face she feared, however, and sank back into her place.
"Surely he would not have the courage to come here—now," she thought. He was to have come masked, wearing a tuberose in his button-hole and carrying one in his left hand. If he should come notwithstanding, what should she do? At least, she thought, her mask was a protection,—there would be no necessity for recognising him.
The door of the box opened and an attaché of the Swedish-Norwegian Legation entered, bowing. He was a distant connection of Fru Bjork's, and had come to offer his services to the ladies. His attentions to Astrid had long been joked about by the others, and it may be said that Astrid did not discourage them. "So convenient to have him about,—besides he is a sort of cousin," she had said to her Mother, when that lady remonstrated with her on the subject. So Count Lotten was made welcome and Fru Bjork invited him to sup with them. He promptly accepted and set about earning his salt by pointing out such well-known people as he recognised.
As the time passed the scene grew livelier, dancers filled the centre of the floor, cutting the most surprising capers, one Pierrot in particular drawing the applause of the spectators by his daring antics. No one seemed to resent the liberties he took, the whisper having gone about that he was the young Prince C—— a spoilt darling of the Roman aristocracy, Count Lotten told the ladies, and Astrid sighed.
"I do wish I knew a prince, if they are like that! It must be awfully amusing." Ragna's lip curled, but she said nothing.
Supper was being served in the boxes, and presently the waiters laid the table and set out the oysters and gallantine and the other good things Fru Bjork had ordered. Ragna could not eat, but the champagne did her good, and she clinked glasses with the others and joked in so lively a way as to set Fru Bjork's mind quite at rest on her account. Gaiety was in the air, the merry din became deafening. As the girl looked about she interpreted it to herself. "Let us eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die!" A feverish excitement seized her; her lips burned and her eyes glittered through the mask, she had unhooked her domino at the neck on account of the heat, and her white throat throbbed in its black frame. Astrid expressed a desire to walk about below and Ragna seconded her—she felt that she must get up and move about, or she must scream. Count Lotten offered himself as escort.
"It will be quite proper," he assured Fru Bjork, "I shall be responsible for the young ladies' safety,—in half an hour we shall be back here again."
He told Astrid to take his arm and let Ragna take hers,—"and be sure to stick together."
Down on the floor they pushed as best they could through the excited, perspiring crowd, laughing, shrieking, gesticulating, mad with the Carnival. Astrid laughed excitedly.
"I should like one turn, just one turn of this valse," she pleaded.
Lotten smiled down at her.
"But it is impossible, we can't leave Fröken Ragna!"
"Oh," said Ragna, "please don't stop on my account! I shall stand against the side here, under this box, and be quite safe. You can come back for me here!"
The Count hesitated but the desire for a dance with Astrid overcame his scruples and he acquiesced. Ragna took up her position under the box, as she had said, and Lotten and Astrid whirled past, then were swallowed up in the crowd.
Ragna stood watching the brilliant scene. The noise and the recurrent rhythm of the dance music aroused a certain wildness within her,—the latent savagery hidden in the hearts of all of us. As the tide rose within her she grew defiant and reckless—she had lost that which a girl holds most precious, why should she observe any restraint, had not the bonds of conventionality been snapped for her? Would she not be justified in flinging all constraint to the winds, in giving free rein to the wildest impulses of her nature? "It's of no use keeping the stable-door locked when the horse is stolen," she reflected bitterly. Her foot tapped the floor in time to the music, the whirling crowd fascinated her, drew her as to a vortex, it was a critical moment. "Hehad no scruples, why should I have any henceforward?" she asked herself. "'Carpe diem,' he used to say,—well, I say it now and I mean it!" She stepped out from the wall.
Suddenly a band of maskers emerged from the crowd, thrown from it like the spray from the crest of a wave, they surrounded Ragna, holding one another by the hand, forming a chain about her. One of them, a tall man disguised as Mephistopheles, stepped into the ring and the others capered about them, gibbering.
"Bella mascherina!" squeaked the Mephisto. Ragna smiled at the challenge and the masker thus encouraged, came close to her.
"Ti conosco, mascherina!" he said.
Ragna shook her head laughingly.
"Impossible!"
"What, not recognise the most beautiful mouth in Rome! Già!" The man's tone was insolent.
"Go away!" said Ragna.
"Don't be rude,mascherina! I won't betray you—I can keep a secret as well as anyone!"
"Go away!" repeated Ragna, her defiant feeling of a few moments earlier giving way to nervous apprehension. Why had she left the shelter of the wall, why exposed herself to the impertinence of half-tipsy maskers?
Impertinence,—her position of a young woman apparently alone at a masked ball invited it!
"You really want me to go away? Very well, my little dove,—when you have given me a kiss. A favour for a favour, you know!" He crooked his arm and minced nearer. The dancing circle of red imps burst into laughter.
Ragna turned and tried to break through the ring.
"No, you don't," said Mephisto with a leer, laying his hand on her arm, "not so fast, sweet one! You shall give me that little kiss first!"
Ragna, really frightened, threw herself away from her tormentor; he was clutching a fold of her domino and the fastenings at the neck gave way; he pulled it back baring her white shoulder and her fair head.
"Bella! Bella! give us each a kiss!" shrieked the imps, and Mephistopheles, leaning forward pressed his lips on the smooth shoulder nearest him.
At that moment a tall figure burst through the ring, scattering the imps right and left, and seizing the Mephisto by the collar dragged him back and flung him aside. The masker turned with an oath but seeing the height and strength of his assailant and realizing that discretion is sometimes the better part of valour, bowed low with a mocking laugh and disappeared into the crowd followed by his attendant demons in search of fresh amusement.
Ragna, clutching her domino about her, raised her eyes to her rescuer's face and uttered an involuntary exclamation:
"Count Angelescu! You here!"
"Mademoiselle Andersen!" he said, "I had been watching you for some time, but I was not sure, there are so many black dominoes. Then when those devils—but never mind, since I have found you. Take my arm and let me get you out of this; I must talk to you and it is impossible here!"
It was quite true, he could hardly make himself heard above the din; the fun was fast and furious, pandemonium reigned.
She took his arm and he piloted her skilfully through the crowd and round the corridor to an empty box, where he set a chair for her with its back to the house, and closed the door. She paused a moment to rearrange her hood and sat down; Angelescu took a chair facing her. There was a moment's embarrassed silence, then Angelescu moistened his lips and began.
"I do not exactly know how to put what I have to say, it is very difficult for me. A certain person asked me to come here on his behalf—"
"Then you know—all?"
"Is it true?"
She bowed her head.
"It is?"
"Yes."
A groan escaped him.
"Oh, the infernal blackguard! I would not believe it until I had heard it from your own lips. Oh, why was I not in time—I might have saved you! And now it is too late."
Ragna was silent.
"But that is not the message I was told to deliver. He wishes to offer you compensation,—any sum you care to name."
"Compensation! To me!" Ragna half rose from her chair.
"Wait! wait! I beg of you! It is an insult, I know that—but it is not from me, it is an order. I had to get it over! Oh, don't!"
Ragna had dropped her face in her hands and was weeping as though her heart were broken, but the tears were of rage rather than of grief.
"Compensation! How dare he!"
"Listen, Mademoiselle, listen! Ragna, don't cry like that! Listen to what I have to say to you! That was my official message, but this is what I really come to say." His face was pale and his eyes blazed. "Ragna I have loved you ever since we first met,—I love you still—"
She interrupted him with an hysterical laugh.
"What, you too! This is too funny!"
"Ragna, don't! I love you—"
"Don't talk to me about love, I have learned what that means!" She now sat stiffly, her head held upright.
"Poor child," he said gravely, "my love is not of that kind, I want to marry you, Ragna."
"But you don't understand," she cried, "surely you can't know, or you would not say that!"
"I do know," he said, still very gravely, "I know all, and because I realize that you are a victim, because I love you really and want to have the power to protect you, I ask you plainly: will you be my wife?"
She smiled cynically. It was too much. In the light of her terrible disillusionment she could not understand the sincerity of the man. Her whole world had fallen in ruins about her and the dust of her broken idol obscured her vision. Angelescu had made the fatal mistake of delivering Mirko's message, and Ragna having found one man so utterly vile, could not, for the moment, believe generosity or magnanimity possible in any other. "He thinks it would be convenient to have me married to his aide," she thought. "Find the girl a husband, and all is comfortably arranged!" She despised Angelescu for lending himself to such a scheme.
"I think not, thank you," she said in a hard voice.
"You are in love with him?"
"Love him? I despise him!"
"Then think well if you are doing right," he said earnestly, "in refusing a man who not only loves you but respects you, who is, above all things, anxious for your welfare."
"I see, you mean that beggars should not be choosers!"
He considered her compassionately, and it was in a very gentle voice that he said:
"I know that I have not chosen a good time for this—but I had no choice. To-morrow I must accompany the Prince," his mouth twisted as he said it, "back to Montegria, but before going I had to see you, I had to tell you that I love you, that I shall stand by you, that I am at your disposal, to take, or to leave."
"Very kind of you," she answered in that cold, hard voice, so unlike her own.
"I see that you are determined to misconstrue me," he said sadly, "and I am sorry, for surely no man ever offered a woman a more sincere or whole-hearted devotion than that I lay at your feet. Oh, little Ragna, if only you would come to me, I should make you forget."
"I think, Count," interrupted Ragna, rising, "that I will go back to my friends. Will you be good enough—"
"One moment, let me finish," said Angelescu, rising also, "will you not, at least, hear me out?"
Ragna stopped, but did not reseat herself, so both remained standing.
"I should make it the business of my life to give you happiness, to wipe from your memory all trace—" She made an impatient gesture. "Forgive my clumsiness! You will not consider it? To-night you are tired, you are worn out, perhaps you may think differently later. At least promise me that if you change your mind you will let me know—I shall come to you anywhere, at any time. Remember, I love you,—you need only to make the sign and I will come. And if there ever is anything I can do to help you, at any time,—if ever you are in trouble, remember that I am there."
"You are very kind," she said wearily, and again moved towards the door. This time he made no effort to detain her, but giving her his arm, conducted her to the door of her ownpalco. She turned to take leave of him and gave him her hand which he raised to his lips.
"Thank you for your kindness, Count," she said, adding in a clear, hard voice: "And tell the Prince that I despise him for his message. Tell him that no proposition he might make would be accepted."
He saw that although her voice was hard, her eyes were bright with unshed tears,—another moment and he might have won his cause, or at least have broken down the barrier of ice she had built about herself,—but Ragna was afraid to trust herself further; she quickly entered the box, closing the door behind her.
"Poor child," he murmured, "poor, poor child!"
He returned to his box, the one that Mirko had engaged for the evening, and throwing on his greatcoat took his hat and hurried out.
It was drizzling but he did not call a cab; thrusting his hands into his pockets, he strode up the shining, wet street, his head sunk forward. It was true that he had loved Ragna ever since the trip on theNorje; her fair head had been ever before his eyes; shining like a lode star from afar, though he had had no thought of ever seeing her again. In his pocketbook he carried the little pencil sketch he had made of her, and her notes with the brief words of thanks for his New Year's cards. He was not a sentimental man, but his mind was of a rather dogged quality. Ragna's girlish innocence and charm had made a profound impression on him, and that impression persisted with a curious tenacity; she had become his ideal woman, and stood to him for all that sisters might have been, all that he desired in the wife never to be his. To think of her now, hurt and hardened, her innocence trampled and crushed, her girlhood soiled beyond remedy, to think of her morally alone, stripped of the protection of maidenhood, her wounded and suspicious pride refusing the help of his strong arm, maddened him.
He entered the hotel and went straight to Mirko's room. The Prince was lying on a couch, smoking, the picture of lazy comfort; the contrast between his appearance and the visible wretchedness of the girl he had just left added fuel to the flame of Angelescu's indignation.
"Well, Otto, what did she say?"
"She refused, as I told you she would."
"Did she? Oh, well, she'll probably console herself," he growled.
Angelescu took a step forward, his brow drawn menacingly over his blazing eyes.
"Have you no shame?"
"My good Otto, what a question! Of course, I am overcome with shame! I am glad the girl had the spirit to go to the ball and amuse herself—"