"How dare you—"
"Don't excite yourself, Otto, I beg! Let us say, then, she went to the ball without amusing herself. She shows a fine, independent spirit too, in refusing—"
"I shall forget that you are my Prince presently, and then—"
"Don't, Otto, it would be so unwise! Now what else did she have to say? Accused me all round, eh?"
"She said nothing of you except that she despised you."
"And then? I suppose you agreed with her?"
"I asked her to be my wife."
"And she jumped at the chance?"
"She refused."
"By Jove! Refused your noble offer?"
Angelescu's face was livid, a muscle worked in his thin cheeks, his eyes looked like a lion's about to spring; his hand crept to his side where the hilt of his sabre should have been, but he was not in uniform; his short hair bristled on his head; with a supreme effort he held himself in check. His impulse was to throw himself on the other and silence his sarcastic tongue forever, but his military discipline stood him in good stead; the man before him was his Prince and therefore inviolable. Mirko watched him curiously, as though measuring the strength of his endurance. When he was able to regain control of his voice it was tense and hard; he jerked out his sentences as though each one represented a struggle.
"I have known you, Prince, ever since you were a baby, I have played with you, worked with you, served you faithfully and well. I knew you to be wild, reckless, selfish—but I never thought you would sink to this; to ruin an innocent young girl and then turn it into a jest. I am older than you, at your father's wish I have been brought up like a brother to you. I have stood by you through thick and thin, no man has had a more loyal friend and servant than I have been to you—but this is the end. You are no longer my Prince, I shall wear your uniform no longer. To-night we stand here, not as Prince and subject, but as man to man."
The Prince sat up.
"Nonsense, Otto! Do you mean to say that after all these years, you would desert me on account of a girl?"
"I shall send in my papers to-morrow," said Otto, and looking the Prince in the eyes he added, "if I were wearing my sabre now, I should break it in your presence—you are not worthy of the service of a true blade!" His hands made the gesture of snapping the blade over his knee; he turned on his heel.
Mirko sprang from the couch, upsetting the little table standing by it, with its box of cigarettes, decanter and glass. The bottle crashed to the floor and a sticky stream of liqueur crept over the carpet.
"Otto!" he cried. The other turned stiffly.
"Otto, you are right, I don't deserve a friend like you,—I have behaved like a blackguard. You may believe me or not,—I didn't mean to do the girl any harm. She—she went to my head, she maddened me! Hang it all! Why didn't she keep me at arm's length?"
"She trusted you," said Angelescu accusingly.
"Now look here, Otto, as man to man, if that girl in her heart of hearts hadn't wished me—"
"You damned cur," flashed Angelescu, "youto lay the blame on a woman! If you say another word I shall choke you where you stand. I—"
He threw out his arm, then realizing that he could control himself no longer, he wrenched open the door and strode out, flinging it to behind him.
Mirko flushed angrily. That he should have humbled himself to meet this response!
"You'll pay for that, my friend," he snarled. He turned thinking to pour himself a glass of liqueur and the sight of the broken decanter and its wasted contents completed his discomfiture. He was furious with Angelescu, furious with Ragna, all the more so as he was distinctly conscious of having played a very ugly role.
"Damn the girl, I wish I had never seen her!"
His servant, coming in response to his furious summons, met with a most unpleasant reception; he was used, however, to acting assouffre douleurin his Royal Master's fits of anger and philosophically bore the storm of invective hurled at his defenceless head.
The outburst had its usual calming effect on Mirko, who to do him justice, soon felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. Most of all he regretted the estrangement of Angelescu; from boyhood up he had always depended on Otto's devotion and clear judgment, and to have lost such a friend over such a foolish affair would be much too hard luck, a punishment far in excess of his fault. The wrong done to Ragna was much less important in his eyes; like every Don Juan, he had a contempt for women, and now that his passion had subsided he wondered what had attracted him in the girl, who after all was no great beauty.
"I will see what can be done to-morrow," he promised himself; he felt even ready to humble himself if necessary, to draw Otto back to him again, never doubting that by some means he would succeed in doing so. But alas for his plans! When he awoke late the next morning and sent his valet to inquire for the aide, the man came back with the announcement that Count Angelescu had left by the early train.
Ragna was awakened by the maid knocking at her door. She sat up holding her throbbing head between her hands, trying to marshal in her mind the fragmentary memories of yesterday, that seemed like bits of a bad dream. They fell into their places, one by one,—the drive, the terrible evening at theveglione, her conversation with Angelescu, the return to her box, and the joyous welcome from her party, who were growing anxious for her—especially Astrid, consumed by remorse, for having deserted her in the crowd—
"And for that fool of a Lotten, who dances like a knitting-machine, anyhow, and let me get bumped and trampled on, and dragged to pieces in the crush!" Then the sleepy return home.
"Why don't you stop knocking, Rosa? I don't want to get up yet!" she called fretfully.
"I have a letter for you, Signorina, it is marked 'urgent.'"
Ragna rose wearily, and unlocked the door; Rosa brought in the breakfast tray and set it down, then fished an envelope out of her apron pocket, and having handed it to Ragna, left the room. She would willingly have lingered to chatter about theveglione, but Ragna's manner did not invite conversation.
Ragna relocked the door, and returned to bed to read her letter; it was from Angelescu, and ran as follows:
"My Dear Child,"I shall be leaving Rome in a few hours. After what has happened. I cannot remain any longer as aide-de-camp to H. R. H. and I am returning home to resign my commission in the service, and to see that it takes effect immediately. After that, my plans are undecided."I meant what I said to you last evening, and I refuse to consider your answer as definite. I beg of you to take some time to think over the proposition. I shall wait patiently for your ultimate decision, which I hope may be in my favour. In any case, should you ever stand in need of a friend, remember that now and always, I shall be at your service. Unfortunately for myself, perhaps, I am not a man who changes, and ten years from now I shall still be the same towards you as I am to-day. A letter sent to the address in the lower left-hand corner will find me always."Believe me,"Your devoted friend and servant,"(here followed the signature and address.)
"My Dear Child,
"I shall be leaving Rome in a few hours. After what has happened. I cannot remain any longer as aide-de-camp to H. R. H. and I am returning home to resign my commission in the service, and to see that it takes effect immediately. After that, my plans are undecided.
"I meant what I said to you last evening, and I refuse to consider your answer as definite. I beg of you to take some time to think over the proposition. I shall wait patiently for your ultimate decision, which I hope may be in my favour. In any case, should you ever stand in need of a friend, remember that now and always, I shall be at your service. Unfortunately for myself, perhaps, I am not a man who changes, and ten years from now I shall still be the same towards you as I am to-day. A letter sent to the address in the lower left-hand corner will find me always.
"Believe me,
"Your devoted friend and servant,"
(here followed the signature and address.)
Ragna read the letter through twice, thoughtfully. Its intentional restraint she took for coldness. Angelescu, in his effort to suit his language to her manner of the night before, and to avoid antagonizing her by any untimely warmth of expression, had overreached himself for, with her, the inevitable reaction had set in and the formality of the letter froze the feelings in her that a greater tenderness might have called forth. She misconstrued the delicacy of his intention, taking it for the ceremonious chivalry of a man, who, while repenting of his impulsive and quixotic offer, feels that he cannot withdraw it, and is prepared to abide by it, regardless of inclination.
Going to her writing table, she answered at once.
"Dear Count Angelescu,"I appreciate fully the kindness and generosity of your offer, but do not feel that I can accept it. I sincerely hope that you will not think of breaking off your career on my account, it would seem to me most unnecessary, as there is no real reason why you should take up the cudgels on my behalf—especially, since I desire you not to."Thanking you with all my heart for your kindness,"I remain,"Sincerely yours,"Ragna Andersen."
"Dear Count Angelescu,
"I appreciate fully the kindness and generosity of your offer, but do not feel that I can accept it. I sincerely hope that you will not think of breaking off your career on my account, it would seem to me most unnecessary, as there is no real reason why you should take up the cudgels on my behalf—especially, since I desire you not to.
"Thanking you with all my heart for your kindness,
"I remain,
"Sincerely yours,
"Ragna Andersen."
She folded the sheet, put it in an envelope, which she addressed as directed in Angelescu's letter, gummed down the flap, and sealed it. She sat weighing the letter meditatively in her hand, a moment or two before she rang the bell to call Rosa. Did something tell her that she was throwing away her own chance of happiness, and wounding the one heart that could really love and understand her?
After the letter had gone, she sat on at the table, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. It was a wet, gloomy morning, the cold light gave the shabby pension room a dreary look; on the floor lay her clothes as she had stepped out of them the evening before; the black domino lay over the back of a chair, and the mask swung rakishly by one of its elastics, from a knob of the dressing glass.
On the mantel-shelf stood a vase of half-withered flowers, whose dropping petals littered the hearth below. Ragna took a miserable delight in the untidiness of the room; it seemed of a piece with the confusion of her life, a fit setting for her misery of mind and body.
Rosa entered quietly, with an armful of wood and a pine cone, and kneeling before the fireplace, soon had a merry little blaze. Seeing that Ragna had not touched her breakfast, she poured out a cup of coffee, and taking it over to the girl, obliged her to drink it.
"Go back to bed, Signorina, you are still tired from theveglione."
Ragna shook her head, but Rosa took her by the arm, and led her gently over, putting her to bed as though she were a child. This done, she proceeded to straighten up the room, folding the clothes neatly and laying them in the cupboard.
"Ecco!" she said, "that is better! You shall not get up for luncheon, Signorina, I will bring you a tray here."
"You are a good soul, Rosa," said Ragna, touched by the maid's kindly attentions.
Rosa smiled cheerfully, and went out, closing the door gently behind her.
The fire had given Ragna an idea; she crept out of bed and took from her writing case Angelescu's sketch of Prince Mirko, and the portraits of him she had cut from illustrated journals. She looked at them in turn, the handsome, smiling, indifferent face looked out from the slips of paper, as it always had, but to her it was changed. She saw now, as she had not before, the selfish hardness of the sensual mouth, the nonchalant boldness of the almond-shaped eyes, the impress of self-indulgence over the whole face. This, then, was her dream-hero, this! Have all idols clay feet, she wondered? It was more than love she had lost, more than innocence,—it was the ideal of all her girlhood, all her maiden hopes and dreams. Tears filled her eyes; suddenly she lifted the pictures to her lips, and kissed them passionately, then dashing the tears away, she laid them, one by one on the fire, watched them flame up and shrivel to fluttering black rags,—and crept back to bed.
"It is over," she thought, "all over. I will put the past behind me, as though nothing had been; it is destroyed, as the flames destroyed the pictures. It is idiotic to pretend that one little hour of weakness can ruin one's whole life! I shall put it behind me, I shall forget it all, I shall wipe it from my memory. It shall not influence my life—except that I shall be wiser in the future."
So said Ragna; she had yet to realize that the future is made up of the past—of a thousand pasts, that one can no more wipe a past event out of one's life, than one can discard all one's past personality, the growth of years and of circumstance, and put on a new one. Every act has it consequence, and the complex interweaving of these consequences build up what men call fate,—also we are bound as much by the consequences of the acts of others, as by those of our own,—we are bound by the acts of countless generations past. Every day that passes, we dislodge stones that shall rebound, we know not where, or when, in the years to come, stones that shall wound men and women we will never know, who will be unconscious of our existence.
The whole party was dull as a result of theveglione, following in that the general relaxation in the surrounding atmosphere.
With the evening ofMardi Gras, the carnival gaiety had reached its highest pitch, the flame had burnt itself out with themoccoliand the reaction precipitated the city from an orgy of light and colour into the grey asceticism of fasting and prayer. Rome, for six weeks, turned her back on the World, the Flesh and the Devil. The gay crowds who had paraded the streets in mask and domino now flocked to the churches for early Mass, the charming sinner sought the confessional, and if, on Sundays, irrepressible Frivolity lifted a corner of the pall of Piety, giving the outer world a glimpse of twinkling eyes and flashing teeth, Monday promptly replaced the black veil. Even the sun was keeping Lent; day after day the dawn rose on grey, sodden skies. Draggled black-robed priests plodded unceasingly through the rain, and dripping multitudes thronged the churches tramping the slime of the streets in over the marble floors.
"I've had enough of this!" Astrid complained over and over again, "for Heaven's sake let us get to some place where the sun shines!"
Estelle Hagerup had lost her enthusiasm for the Eternal City, with all the pictures covered up in the churches, and the awful weather that kept one from getting about there was nothing left to do, she declared. Even listening to a sweet-voiced gentleman in striped trousers, singing "Lontano del mar" is apt to pall on one, especially if the said gentleman happens to know no other song.
To Ragna the penitential weeks were most irksome, as above all else she wished to forget, and the very spirit of the season, imbued as it was with introspection, examination of conscience, and the reviewing of past days, would, in spite of her efforts, insistently present to her mental vision that which she most desired to blot from her memory. She shunned the churches for the very reiteration of the endless litanies seemed to take possession of her thoughts and drive them in a vicious circle, round and round and ever back again to the same old theme. Pagan Rome was no better; filled as it was, with painful association it could afford her no relief. It was with unfeigned joy then, that she greeted Fru Bjork's decision to leave the Eternal City for Florence.
So they packed their boxes and set their faces Northward. Estelle Hagerup had proposed a stop at Assisi and a deviation to Perugia, but Astrid yawningly declared she had seen enough churches to last her the rest of her life, and Ragna was too indifferent to care, so the proposition was overruled and it was decided to take the journey direct.
They drove to the railway station through a steady downpour, the rain dripped from the roofs, spattered up from the pavements, ran in streams from the umbrellas of the few passers-by in the streets.
"Well," said Astrid, "if this is Sunny Italy, give me Christiania!"
They had installed themselves in an empty second-class compartment and thought to keep it to themselves, but just as the guard was vociferating for the third time "Pronti!" and "Partenza!" the door was flung open and a man got in. He was of middle height, neither stout nor thin, and might have been of any age between thirty and fifty. His dark grizzled hair was brushed back from a high, rather prominent forehead, and his dark grey eyes looked out with a kindly expression from behind a gold-mounted pince-nez. He had a good nose and his mouth was firm and well modelled, though partially hid by his short moustache and dark beard. He bowed to the ladies and having bestowed a heavy valise in the rack above his head, settled himself to read a newspaper which he drew from his pocket. Ragna noticed his hands which were well-shaped and had the suppleness and delicacy of touch belonging to medical men, especially surgeons—also they were scrupulously well-kept.
The train moved out slowly over the Campagna, towards the hills, and Ragna leaned out the window, taking a last look at the city where she had left faith and innocence. As the city receded in the misty distance, the Pagan relics disappeared; the dome of St. Peter's towered mystically above the town, drawing the eye irresistibly, seeming to say: "All else passes, but I the Faith of the Ages, I remain." Then a heavy curtain of rain swept down, obscuring the view, and she sank back in her seat. The train swerved round a curve, and with the change of direction the rain blew in at the open window; Ragna tugged at the strap, trying to raise it, but it resisted her efforts.
"Allow me," said a voice over her shoulder, in French; it was the man of the newspaper. He took the strap from her hands, and with a jerk sent the refractory pane into place.
"It is a wet day," he remarked as though he felt called upon to apologise for the climate. "I regret thatces damesshould be seeing Italy in such unfavourable circumstances."
Fru Bjork answered him. "Indeed, we cannot complain, we have had such beautiful weather until quite recently."
"Mesdames have been long in Rome?"
"Three months."
"And you enjoyed the Carnival?"
"It was great fun!" interposed Astrid.
"Too much fun," said Estelle, lowering the guide-ook she had been reading, and peering out over the rims of her spectacles. "You look a perfect rag, Astrid, and Ragna too. Too much dissipation!"
"Ah!" exclaimed the gentleman, deprecatingly, glancing from one girl to another, adjusting his pince-nez the while, "mademoiselles are tired, then—from too much sight-seeing, perhaps?"
Ragna flushed and made no reply, but Astrid, throwing an angry glance at Estelle, answered:
"Everyone is not as strong as a horse, and the stairs in Rome are simply awful."
"Mademoiselle is perhaps a little anæmic?" Then as the girl looked surprised he added, "I beg your pardon, but I am a physician and have seen too strenuous sight-seeing have that effect on many young lady travellers. Allow me to present myself: Dr. Ferrari, of Florence." He bowed in the direction of Fru Bjork who responded, naming herself, and the others of her party.
The Doctor bowed to each in turn but his eyes rested longest on Ragna—their kindly penetration could give no offence, however, one instinctively trusted the man. The girl puzzled him, her gravity seemed unnatural in one so young; she seemed consciously keyed up to a certain pitch of conduct, her smile was forced, and when the tension was relaxed owing to her thinking herself unobserved, or to a moment of forgetfulness, the corners of her mouth drooped and her eyes fixed their gaze on a point in space, as though visualizing something of ineffable sadness. In this state she would start on being spoken to and a flash, almost of fear, would pass in her eyes.
As the day passed he studied her more and more. "She has had some terrible experience," he said to himself, "but she is fighting it down, and will succeed." He also observed that whatever might be haunting her secret thoughts, it was unknown to the others of the party. He set himself to distract her mind, to amuse her, and was rewarded by her instant response to his efforts; she brightened perceptibly under the influence of his respectfully friendly manner.
Fru Bjork was charmed by this acquaintance chance had thrown in their way; never a suspicious woman, looking for good rather than evil, she succumbed readily to her instinctive confidence in him. Before the journey was over, she had tentatively sounded him as to his opinion on Astrid's health, promising herself a regular consultation when a more favourable opportunity should offer. Astrid liked him, and even Estelle Hagerup, though in her estimation men were but poor things at best, and only deserving of consideration in proportion to their scientific or artistic attainments.
Fru Bjork offered the Doctor a share of the substantial luncheon provided for the party, and he accepted, insisting on contributing as his share in the picnic, somefiaschettiofvinod'Orveito. He filled the little travelling glasses of each in turn, and handed them about, overriding Ragna's objection that she did not care for wine, laughingly ordering her to drink it by virtue of his professional authority. She raised the glass to her lips, but as she tasted the wine, the colour left her cheeks and the glass slipping from her hand was shattered on the floor of the compartment. There was a general outcry from all but Ferrati, who watched her with a grave, almost worried expression.
"How clumsy I am!" said Ragna, blushing and laughing nervously. "I can't imagine how I came to drop it!"
The Doctor carefully gathered up the pieces of glass, wrapped them in a paper, and threw them out the window. He forebore to offer the girl another glass of wine and she was grateful to him for his intuitive consideration.
"The wine reminds her of something," he thought.
Estelle presently spoke of the singing lessons she expected to take in Florence, and Astrid also said she would like to cultivate her voice.
"Does Mademoiselle Andersen also sing?" inquired Ferrati.
Ragna shook her head.
"But you would like to take up something to pass the time?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Ragna with evident eagerness.
"Why not try painting then, or drawing?"
"Oh, I do not think I could."
"All the more reason for learning, then—and you will at least gain the advantage of being able to appreciate the work of our great Masters, in a way that a person who knows nothing of painting never can."
"I should love to have drawing lessons," said Astrid, always eager for anything new. "We used to like them at the convent, do you remember, Ragna?"
"Yes, but they were so silly, nothing but set copies."
"I think it would be a good thing for both you girls," said Fru Bjork. "Perhaps Dr. Ferrati may be able to recommend me a good drawing-master for you?"
"I think I can, Madame. There is a young artist, a friend of mine, who, owing to reverses of fortune in his family, has been thrown on his own resources, and would be glad of the lessons. He is an excellent draughtsman, and I am sure the young ladies would learn more with him in a short time, than with a professor of the classic school."
"I like that idea," said Fru Bjork.
She felt that it would be good for both girls to have some interest. Astrid's light-hearted flirtations in Rome, and Ragna's long solitary rambles appeared almost equally reprehensible, besides, drawing was a harmless, ladylike pursuit. She determined to push the matter and after some further discussion it was arranged that Dr. Ferrati should bring his artist friend to meet the ladies, the second evening after their arrival in Florence.
Ragna listened to it all, taking no part in the conversation, assenting listlessly to Fru Bjork's good-natured questions; her first eagerness had passed and she had fallen again into the slough of indifference. Ferrati had not failed to notice her too eager assent to his random suggestion, and her subsequent apathy. "She needs some occupation," he thought, and urged the project more than with his habitual prudence, he would have thought advisable. "It will be an excellent thing for Valentini, too," he said to himself; "it will give him an interest and take him out of himself."
Egidio Valentini was a young man of about thirty, a Roman born, full of the civic pride that even now stirs the bosom of those who can say: "Civis Romanus sum"—flaunting the superiority conferred on her children by the Eternal City, in the face of less fortunate mortals.
Educated by the Jesuit Fathers, spoiled by an indulgent family, he knew no law but his own pleasure, no restraint but that imposed by policy or incontrovertible circumstance. Endowed with a high degree of cleverness, and with a dominant personality, he was one who would undoubtedly mould his surroundings. Of medium stature with small hands and feet, muscular and well proportioned, he yet lacked the careless grace characteristic of his countrymen. His head, well set on broad shoulders had a nobility of modelling about the forehead curiously belied by the sensual mouth and obstinate chin. His eyes were dark and of a peculiar brilliance, shaded by beetling black brows which almost met at the base of his well shaped nose—slightly twisted to the right, however. This slight crookedness of the nose gave to his face, in certain aspects, an expression of low cunning. In spite of these defects, his appearance was distinctly pleasing, and if, to the close observer, faults of character corresponding to those of feature might be apparent, the blunt bonhomie of his manner, and its too insistent sincerity conveyed to most people the impression of sturdy honesty, while his carefully timed and placed liberality gave him the reputation of open-handed generosity. He never gave or lent where the transaction would not redound to his credit or interest, but the public could not know that. He lived for the house tops and whatever his own closet may have seen of him, there was none to repeat.
People said of him: "His bark is worse than his bite," and showed him an indulgence not always accorded to brusquerie.
He had come to Florence a few months previously, his family having lost the greater part of a fortune in unsuccessful speculations. Cast on his own resources, he turned to account the decided artistic talent he possessed, and even in so short a time had succeeded in winning recognition as one of the foremost rising young artists of the time. This was not accomplished without hard work, but a love of work, and especially of his chosen profession, with a tenacity of purpose rarely equalled, were among Egidio's best qualities. One would have thought that the congenial occupation and the promise of success would have brought contentment, but Valentini never ceased to lament the change in his fortunes and his lost inheritance, which growing daily in his imagination soon increased from the modest competency it had been, to a princely fortune. He never tired of repeating the story.
"My friends, it was terrible! In one day, from being a prince to become a beggar!"
Let it be said, however, that his pride kept him from asking the assistance of any man, and if he rose, it was by his own unaided effort. It was this quality of independence that, as much as anything, had drawn to him the friendship of Enrico Ferrati. They had been at school together as boys, but for years their lives had laid apart. Ferrati, on taking his degree, had settled in Florence, where a flourishing practice rewarded his effort, and it was to Florence that Egidio also betook himself, his pride rebelling against life in Rome in the changed conditions of his fortunes. Ferrati at once seized the opportunity of renewing the old intimacy and his sympathy and respect were as balm to the wounds of Valentini. Ferrati, on his part, attributed to the severe disappointment undergone, the changes he could not fail to remark in his friend, though indeed in his company Valentini was at his best; the devoted friendship of Ferrati called out all that was best in his nature, and Enrico never saw the depths underlying the surface manner. It would, perhaps, be better to say that in the company of Ferrati, the underlying meannesses vanished; the affection Valentini had for him was the one pure, disinterested love of his selfish nature.
Valentini heard with slight enthusiasm Ferrati's plan of a course of drawing lessons to two young Norwegian girls.
"Carissimo," he said, "pot-hooks are not in my line." He was sitting with Ferrati, over a glass of wine at the end of their dinner in a modesttrattoria.
"I think you will teach them more than pot-hooks, Egidio; one of them, at least could be taught to see and appreciate, besides you must keep the pot boiling, you know."
"It would be a loss of time. Why should I lose my time teaching girls what they should have learnt at school? Let them get a governess, or a guide-book!"
"I had thought it would interest you."
"Are they pretty, at least?"
"One is pretty, the other is something more," said Ferrati, lighting with care a black Tuscan cigar. Valentini followed suit, and they puffed away in silence some moments.
"One of them is more than pretty, you said?"
"Yes, she suggests possibilities, she has an interesting face. But I was thinking of you, really, more than of the girls. It would do you the world of good, Egidio, it would take you out of yourself. You need humanising, disinfecting, if I may say so. How do you pass your time? You paint all day, you eat a bad dinner, and sometimes work all evening, or else you go to the Circolo degli Artisti and play billiards and smoke more 'Toscani' than is good for you—and all the time you mope. Now these lessons will give you something else to think about, they will bring in some money which is a consideration, and moreover, I believe you will be doing a good action, for I think that one of these girls has had some trouble and needs distraction quite as much as you do."
"Is that the pretty one?" asked Valentini. "I don't mind consoling pretty girls. It is easier than teaching them to draw. They all want to do sweet things like Raphael's cherubs, and when you won't hear of it they sulk."
Ferrati drew out his watch.
"Well, will you take them on as pupils or will you not? I must be getting home."
"There's no hurry, your wife's away."
"Still, I must get back, I have some work to do. Tell me, Egidio, will you give these lessons?"
"Oh, I suppose I shall—"
"Then you will come with me to the pension to-morrow evening to be presented to the ladies?"
Egidio yawned and stretched his arms. "How insistent you are! I'll come and have a look at them,e poi vedremo! Understand, I reserve the right to withdraw if they don't please me."
Ferrati laughed.
"You might be the Great Mogul from the way you talk instead of a struggling painter! Your airs may impress the ladies but they don't me."
They went out into the clear, cool air, and walked up the Via Calzaioli towards the Piazza della Signoria. The street was brilliantly lit, and thronged by a mixed crowd of young men of the town, officers, tradespeople, and women. It was a good-humoured crowd, out for amusement. Groups of girls with linked arms smiled saucily at the young men they met, meeting impudent remarks with equally impudent retorts,—thecianeof Florence have always been celebrated for their mordant wit. Others caught up the jests and quips and bandied them about, tossed them farther afield with additions and modifications. Now and again a snatch of song rose and bands of young men of thebeceroclass, a soft felt hat jammed on the back of the head, thumbs in armholes, rolled along sliding their feet and intoning a chorus, "E se la vuoi regirar la ruota."
Ferrati sauntered slowly up the street, absorbed in thought; Egidio's eyes wandered restlessly from side to side, scrutinizing the glances turned on him, seeking to read approval of his person in the eyes of the women, curiosity, recognition or admiration in those of the men. By the church of Orsammichele they parted, Egidio going to his little apartment consisting of a studio and a small bedroom, on the top floor of one of the grim old tower-like houses of which there are many in that part of the city. He climbed up the long stair leading to his floor and letting himself into his rooms with a cumbrous latchkey locked the door behind him. It was the studio he had entered, a large bare room, the ceiling rather lower than is usual in Italian houses, being just under the roof. The moonlight falling on a livid patch from the sky-light showed a disordered litter of sketches and painting materials, a model's throne, on which stood a lay figure, some ordinary wooden chairs, a table, and near the window, an easel with a picture on it, a chair and a small Turkish stool supporting the palette and brushes. A small doorway at the farther side opened into the bedroom.
Valentini lit the hanging lamp and drawing the upright easel under it settled himself to work. He was preparing the drawing of a water colour study of costume. He worked steadily for half an hour or so, then pushed back the easel with an expression of disgust and walked to the window, lighting atoscanoas he did so. The moonlight lay clear and cold over the city roofs, throwing the endless variety of chimney-pots into bold relief. As he stood looking out the clocks of the city struck ten—not in unison, each striking in turn and making the most of it. The bells of S. Spirito across the river pealed the hour. A carriage rattled over the stone pavements a street or two away, but just below all was dark and silent, from the Via Calzaioli around the corner came the subdued hubbub of the promenading crowd.
The young man closed the window and went back to his seat, passing his hand wearily over his forehead.
"Another of those headaches, and this thing must be finished by to-morrow noon!" he groaned, and set resolutely to work.
At the same hour, Ragna was leaning out of her window, gazing at the silvery Arno, bordered by its golden chain of lamps and barred by its light crowned bridges.
The pension was on the Lung Arno Acciajoli between the Ponte Vecchio, and the St. Trinità bridge, so that to the right she saw the Carraja bridge, and beyond that the long sweeping curve of the river towards the Cascini, and on the other hand above the Ponte Vecchio, the cypress crowned height of S. Miniato shadowy against the star-powdered sky.
"Here I shall find peace," she said to herself.
The dark spire of S. Spirito across the river drew her gaze, and beyond and behind it, on Bellosguardo, a white house stood out softly in the moonlight. The river rippled by gently, slipping past the stained walls of the gloomy old houses opposite overhung by the mystery of their forbidding black height, and out again into the light, reflecting the brightness of moon and stars, in a thousand flickering wavelets; from thepescajafar below came the muffled sound of the water flowing over the dam.
Down on the street some men were playing mandolins and guitars, and singing in mellow passionate voices; the plaintive minor refrain of thestornellirose in the still night, and the girl's heart ached with the beauty of it all. Then silently, slowly, tears fell from her eyes; she suddenly felt lonely, miserable, shut out from love, shorn of the illusions that should be hers by right. The hated face of Mirko interposed itself between her and the beauty of the night, and the old shame gripped her by the throat. With a choking sob she flung the casement to and crept into bed. From below the words of the song, swelling in the soft spring air, floated up to her: "Metti anche tu, la veste bianca—"
Ah, yes, the bride's dress of virgin white was indeed for her!
The day had been a tiring one, for Estelle Hagerup had obliged the girls to spend it with her, sight-seeing, and the Uffizi and Pitti galleries stretched in endless dreary miles of painted canvas and chilly statuary in Ragna's tired head. Dinner was over and the motley collection of old maids, mothers with bevies of plain daughters and travelling clergymen had settled themselves for the evening in the tawdry drawing-room. Fru Bjork had taken out her knitting, Estelle was setting down in her diary the doings of the day. Astrid was deep in a book, only Ragna sat idle, her hands lightly clasped in her lap, her head resting against the back of the chair, the eyes half closed, the lips slightly parted. Ferrati nudged Valentini's arm as they entered thesalotto.
"That is she, in that armchair in the corner."
"She is like a Botticelli," Valentini answered as they moved towards Fru Bjork, who rose to greet them. She was pleased by Valentini and delighted to see Ferrati again. Valentini drew up a chair by Ragna, on being presented, and asked her in a brusque way, what were her impressions of Italy. She felt slightly uneasy under the bold scrutiny of his eyes, but the abruptness of his manner pleased her—it was a contrast to that of Mirko! Ferrati, seeing that they both seemed interested in each other, congratulated himself on his brilliant idea.
When the men took their departure they left the most favourable impression with all the party, and the drawing lessons had been definitely arranged. They took place in Egidio's study, the girls going together, otherwise unaccompanied, as it never entered Fru Bjork's innocent mind that a chaperone might be advisable. The lessons were supplemented by visits to the galleries, and these visits opened a new world to Ragna's wondering eyes. She awoke to colour and form as with Mirko she had become aware of the life of antiquity, its fulness and beauty. Here she learned the wonders of applied imagination, of purity of vision and power in execution. Valentini led her especially to appreciate the earlier artists, Ghirlandajo, Botticelli, Pollaiuolo, Francia, Filippo and Filippino Lippi, and many were the pleasant pilgrimages taken to the various churches and galleries to see this or that example of the Master under study. The tentative charm of the Primitives had pleased Ragna, but it was the pagan spirit of Botticelli that really appealed to her, the charm of his Graces dancing their round on the flower starred grass under over-arching boughs, the nymph-like grace and free forward swing of the Flora, the wonderful sinuous outline of the Venus, light as the shell on which she stands,—all of these things, as apart from life, as truly unmoral as the flowers themselves, soothed her with the suggestion of the futility of a conventional moral standard. She found the angels of the Beato Angelico irritating; in their own way they seemed as apart from morality, as flowerlike as the nymphs, the innocence of their faces was something non-terrestrial, they were as radiant visions seen in dreams; yes that was it, they lacked the frank paganism, the pure humanity, that is the charm of Botticelli; their unsullied innocence implying a corresponding ignorance of evil, appeared to her almost an insult. How could these celestial beings, whose faces reflect the constant vision of the Crystal Sea and the Great White Throne, be fairly compared to poor mortals who bear the burthen and heat of the day? They were as incorporeal as any bodiless cherubim.
Astrid did not take much interest in these artistic pilgrimages and she soon tired of the lessons. Although unwilling to work regularly or steadily her natural aptitude soon enabled her to make pretty little sketches, in which the delicacy of colour and facility of treatment atoned to some extent for the faulty drawing. Incapable of prolonged or serious effort, she was pleased with the progress made and could see no reason for hard work. She was capricious and flighty, and Valentini, seeing her complete inability for application ceased to urge her, letting her take her own easy way, since she was so evidently satisfied with it and the results. Ragna, on the contrary, could not be satisfied with what was merely pleasing; she was both conscientious and thorough and consequently had less to show for her labours than her friend. Her drawings were almost painful in the evident struggle for exactitude, they had a grim, almost Dutch character. Her work looked "tight"—she was one who would never attain to facility of execution. Still she persevered and her work if not exactly pleasing, was interesting, and showed promise of talent.
Easter had passed with the usual quaint ceremonial of the Scoppio del Carro, and afterwards the weather grew rapidly warm—a continuous succession of soft spring days, the crown of the year in Tuscany, celebrated in earlier times with thefeste del Calendi maggio. About this time Ragna began to suffer from headaches, as well as vague physical discomfort, and on several occasions was obliged to absent herself from the studio.
Egidio had been observing her closely. Something that Ferrati had said of her manner suggesting some unpleasant experience in the past, had stuck in his mind, and as he watched her, returned to him again and again.
That would explain the girl's fits of despondency, and her almost feverish application to her work. The more he observed her, the greater grew his curiosity. It must have been a love affair he decided, first because an Italian can imagine no other cause for the inexplicable in a woman's character, and then because she objected so unmistakably to their conversation ever taking a sentimental turn. She was curiously reticent too, he thought, as to her impressions of Rome, indeed it was impossible to get her to talk at any length about Rome at all. Now, Egidio was young and a Latin, and in spite of the self-control of which he boasted, it was clearly impossible that he should continue to be for so long and almost constantly in the company of a pretty girl, whose dazzlingly white skin and golden hair were to his Italian eyes as the fair fruit of some Garden of the Hesperides, without feeling the effects of it. His prudence forbade him, however, to make any advances of a compromising nature until he had assured himself of the material advantages to be obtained. To this end he availed himself of the opportunity offered on those occasions when Ragna was unable to come to the studio, by leading Astrid to talk of her friend. Astrid, nothing loath, chattered on in a light-hearted fashion, talking of their days together at the Paris Convent, of the life in Christiania, of Ragna's incomprehensible dislike of society in general and of men in particular, of Fru Boyesen,—and this interested Valentini most of all.
"Madame la tante must be rich to do all that she does for her niece," he observed.
"Oh, yes," answered Astrid carelessly. "They say she is the richest woman in Christiania, and she has always said she will leave her fortune to Ragna, as she has no children of her own."
Egidio flushed with pleasure, and to hide the gleam in his eyes stooped to pick up a brush that had fallen on the floor.
"Then Mademoiselle Ragna is quite an heiress?"
"Yes, Ragna will be very well off, some day, but she is such a queer girl,—I don't think she ever thinks of it at all."
"She is engaged to be married?"
"Oh, no!"
"Yet, she can have no lack of suitors?"
"She had half Christiania at her heels, but there,—I tell you she is not like other girls, I doubt if she will ever marry. Ragna is queer, sometimes you know, in Rome now,—" she stopped suddenly.
"Well, what of Rome?"
"Oh, nothing, I don't know!"
"But there must be something, since you say it in that tone of voice. I am curious, who was there in Rome?" His eyes interrogated her stealthily over his lowered palette.
It came to Astrid with a shock that perhaps she had not been altogether discreet—the man's too evident curiosity put her on her guard. She assumed an air of kittenish dignity.
"No one at all, Signor Valentini, and even if there had been, do you think I would gossip about my friend's private affairs? I only meant that in Rome Ragna was curious, more serious than ever perhaps, and very absorbed in her sight-seeing."
"I suppose you accompanied her, Mademoiselle?"
"Sometimes, other times she went alone."
"Ah!" said Egidio. He saw that Astrid either could not or would not tell him more than that, and while what might have happened to Ragna in Rome strongly aroused his curiosity, he yet considered that part as an issue of little relative importance; on the other hand, he had learned what it most concerned him to know, Ragna's future prospects.
He had not seen much of Ferrati lately, as the latter had been more than usually busy, and had had additional work at home, owing to the illness of his two children, also he did not wish to betray his half-formed intentions with regard to Ragna, and was afraid that his friend might guess something. Ferrati had seen more of Ragna, however, than he had of Egidio, as he was treating Astrid for anæmia, and from what he could see of Ragna, but principally from what Astrid told him of her and of Valentini he had a good idea as to what was in the air. He was more worried than he cared to admit, feeling that he was responsible for the situation insomuch as he had made it possible by bringing the two young people together, and his observations of the girl had forced upon him the recognition of other possibilities as well. He had guessed the position in which Ragna might probably be placed, but could not penetrate her attitude towards Valentini, and as she had not seen fit to give him her confidence he could not presume to sound the state of her feelings, or to extend a helping hand, much as he longed to do so. It seemed to him that at all costs he must manage to prolong the actual situation as long as he could, so as to allow for the development of possibilities he suspected, for he realized that the most complicated twists of circumstance have a way of unravelling themselves, and it was above all things essential to gain time.
He was thankful at least, that Valentini had not come to him for advice, which he would find it impossible to give, but recognising that the slightest occurrence would serve as a pretext to precipitate events, and the season being far advanced, he advised Fru Bjork to take her party to Venice for the month of June, urging the sea-air of the Lido for Astrid. Fru Bjork fell in at once with this suggestion, and as Dr. Ferrati's wife and children were going to the Lido the first week in June, they agreed to take the journey together. This involved a separation with Fröken Hagerup who decided to remain on in Florence for a few weeks, and then join some friends in Switzerland. They were all sorry to part with her, as in spite of her peculiarities of dress and temperament she had been an invaluable travelling companion, always full of resource and enthusiasm. Fru Bjork, however, thought that Astrid's health should be the first consideration—and after all, they would soon see Estelle again in Christiania.
Ragna, on her part, was not sorry to leave Florence. The latter part of the time she had been feeling not quite herself, besides the headaches, she suffered from the most annoying spells of faintness, which she put down to the increasing heat and to the many hours she spent in work. Fru Bjork had suggested her consulting Dr. Ferrati, but she thought it useless to trouble him for so small a matter, quite sure that the change of air would be sufficient in itself. As to her feelings concerning Valentini, she admired his talent and his unconcealed admiration of herself was as balm to her self-respect—it reinstated her in her own eyes. She was not in the smallest degree in love with him, nor was she likely to be, her sentimental disillusion had been too thorough, and her physical awakening insufficient. It was perhaps the fact that he had never attempted to make love to her that drew her to him. His bluntness pleased her as a contrast to Prince Mirko's polish of manner, and she attributed to him, as a natural consequence, the virtues of constancy and sincerity,—the reverse of the medal shown her by the Prince. She had not thought of the possibility of his wishing to marry her, as he had told her at the beginning of their acquaintance that his actual position practically forbade him the thought of marriage. His presence helped her to drown recollection and under his guidance she was rapidly acquiring fresh interests by her increasing knowledge of the world of art. The past at times, seemed like a bad dream, and she was already congratulating herself on the ease with which she was leaving it behind her. She was sorry to break off her lessons, sorry to leave her beloved view of S. Miniato and the river, but the siren charm of Venice called to her imagination, and it was with a comparatively light heart that she packed her boxes.
Valentini was disagreeably surprised by Fru Bjork's plan; he had been counting on several weeks more to conduct his siege of the girl's heart, and this sudden departure dashed the untasted cup from his lips. In vain he tried to make an occasion for a declaration, although he was aware from Ragna's attitude that to force the situation in such a way would probably mean irremediable failure. He was willing to risk all for all, but during these last days he found no chance of speaking to her alone. Finally he went to Ferrati and poured out his hopes and disappointment. Ferrati listened judicially concealing his satisfaction that nothing definite had as yet occurred, and he counselled Egidio to be patient.
"Mio caro," he said, "if you were to declare yourself now, you would spoil all. The Signorina is certainly not thinking of marriage at the present moment. Wait!"
"But if I wait," objected Egidio, "she will be gone and my chance with her!"
"Is this girl the only fish in the sea, then, that you should be so set on her? Let her go, Egidio! You told me only a few weeks since that you had no thought of marrying, that women were nothing to you. Let the girl go, she is not extraordinarily beautiful, she is not rich," (Egidio has not mentioned Ragna's expectations) "after all is said and done she is a stranger—believe me, it will be far better for all concerned if you put her out of your mind."
Egidio looked at his friend suspiciously.
"If you were not already married, I should think—"
Ferrati interrupted him with a laugh.
"No, my friend, personally it is nothing to me, it is for your own sake and for the sake of the girl herself that I ask you to give up the idea."
"Why?"
"I don't think it would make for happiness."
"But I do, Rico. I want the girl, she appeals to me, I—I love her."
"Well, wait then, there is no reason for precipitating things."
"But she is going away, I shall lose my chance."
"She may be coming back to Florence, or you could go to Venice later on. In any case she is not in love with you now, and a few months may change much."
"What do you mean? Why do you talk in riddles? You know I can't run all over the country just now, that I have those orders for the London Society and as for her coming back here you know perfectly well that Fru Bjork will not return to Florence, she has said so."
"The Signora has said that she will not return, but she may change her mind, or the Signorina might come back without her—if you love me, Egidio, do nothing now, wait awhile!
"In any case, even if she were to consent, I don't think the Signorina's health would permit of her marrying just now—unless—" He broke off suddenly as if afraid to say more, and rose from the café table where they were sitting.
"Look here, Egidio, promise me that you won't force the situation now."
"Va bene, va bene," said Egidio, and made no effort to detain him. A light had broken in upon his mystification at Ferrati's last speech.
"So it is that, is it?" he said to himself. "Poor old Rico, he was in rather a tight place! Ah, well, if it is that she should prove amenable to reason, and grateful too, and the longer one waits—yes, perhaps Rico is right after all, about waiting. Vedremo!"
The Signora Ferrati made a pleasant travelling companion, and her two little girls were unusually quiet and well-behaved, for Italian children, who are generally allowed far more of their elders' society and privileges, especially as regards eating and sitting up until late hours, than is at all good for them.
Dr. Ferrati was unable to accompany his family, but had promised to come to Venice in a fortnight's time. The journey up was uneventful, and the two parties separated at the railway station, the Signora taking avaporettodirectly to the Lido, while Fru Bjork and the girls, went to a small, but comfortable, hotel on the Grand Canal.
That evening Astrid and Ragna hung over the balcony of the latter's room, gazing in ecstasy at the fairyland spread before their eyes. Nearly opposite, rose the white dome of S. Maria della Salute, gleaming shadowy pale against a star-powdered sky; the dark water below, fretted with silver ripples, flowed silently by, and over its surface sped the slim dark shapes of gondolas, the gondolier swaying to the rhythm of his oar, each gondola bearing its little lamp behind the tall steel prow. Down the canal, from the Rialto, came thebarchefull of musicians, gay with Japanese lanterns, and the high transparent emblem "S. Mareo" or the "Sirena," and surrounded by a growing flotilla of gondolas. The still air throbbed with the haunting strains of voices, mandolins and guitars. A strong, clear tenor voice, rose above the others, the notes vibrating with passion, as they rose and fell.
Astrid squeezed Ragna's hand.
"Oh, isn't it just too heavenly for words!" she murmured.
The charm of it all, in its setting of soft, luminous Italian night, penetrated both the girls, but in different ways. To Astrid, it was a delightfully romantic impression, to be recalled with pleasure; to Ragna, the poignancy of the beauty was tinged with bitterness, and the very loveliness of it was as a two-edged sword, recalling other Italian nights and their associations. Try as she would, she could not banish the past, nor had custom yet made her callous to the memory of what had happened.
The girls stood on the balcony, until the music stopped, and the boats drifted away, then they kissed one another good-night, and Astrid went to her own room.
Ragna, although tired out by the long day's journey, could not sleep; instead, she lay watching through her mosquito netting the white patch of light on the floor, and the shadow of the balcony balustrade with its fretted pattern. She was thinking of Valentini. He had been at the station that morning to see her off, and his farewell had been so loverlike as to bring a look of surprised inquiry to Fru Bjork's face. The flowers he had given her were in a vase on the balcony, as their strong perfume made it impossible to keep them in the room. She turned uneasily as she thought of his pressure of her hand, of the intensity of his dark burning eyes on hers, of the words he had said to her when, for an instant, he had managed to draw her aside from the others of the party.
"Signorina, this is not good-bye, but au revoir. You will come back, I know it, I feel it, and when you come back, it will be tome. Remember," he added with solemnity, "if ever you are in trouble, if ever you need a friend, I am here!"
At the time, his manner had struck her as curious, and even more so now, as she thought it over.
"If ever I should be in trouble—" she murmured, "but, why should he think of my being in trouble? Surely, my trouble is over and done with! Can he know, can he suspect?—But no, that is quite impossible. I wonder what he supposes and what he means? Go back to Florence to him? No, I am not going back."
She wondered if his words might have the virtue of a prophecy, then laughed at herself. Presently, she turned her hot pillow and threw back the sheet, for the night was close.
The change of air gave fresh energy to the whole party except Ragna, who continued pale and languid. Fru Bjork worried over it, and longed for the coming of Dr. Ferrati whose advice she intended to ask, whether Ragna wished it or no. As the Doctor had recommended sea-bathing for Astrid, the three ladies made daily trips to the Lido, and the girls thoroughly enjoyed their dips in the warm Adriatic. Ragna had always been a strong swimmer, but here, to her surprise, found that she tired almost at once, but set it down to the heat. After the long delicious bath was over the girls wrapped themselves in bath-robes, and lay on the sands to bake, their heads shielded from the sun by broad-brimmed straw hats. The strong soft heat and the salt air made them sleepy, the sands seemed to vibrate in the sunshine, a delightful weariness weighted their limbs, a drowsy consciousness of complete physical well-being filled them. It was to Ragna the happiest moment of the day.
The atmosphere alone of Venice gave her a feeling of rest and peace; the silent gliding of gondolas through the canals, the long drawn-out sonorous cries of the gondoliers, the soft wash of the water against the richly tinted walls, all lulled her senses. She realized that afternoon is the time to see Venice, the strong light of morning throws into intolerable relief the decay of the city; the St. Martin's Summer of the glorious Republic requires the mellow haze of the hours before sunset, as a fading beauty is best seen by candle light, and often in the afternoon, she would slip away to some old church, and in solitary musing to steep herself in the wonderful atmosphere of golden autumn. Most often of all, she went to S. Maria Formosa, and would sit for hours in contemplation of Palma Vecchio's Santa Barbara. She loved the strong, voluptuous, calm woman, beautiful with the beauty of the corn-harvest, standing clear-eyed and self-possessed in her rich russet draperies. All the richness and fulness of the earth seemed symbolized in this glorious creature, this Woman of women. "Ceres," the girl called her, for in her appearance, there is nothing of the saintly, nothing of the ascetic, rather the promise of abundant voluptuous joy—not pleasure, but something deeper, graver, more fundamental, the earnest of a bounteous harvest of life.
She sought the mellow golden glow of S. Mereo, at that hour, when the level rays of the declining sun fill the air with a mystic radiance, seemingly the golden impalpable dust of centuries of prayer. The softened splendour filled her soul, and warmed it, as generous wine warms the veins, and the heavy odour of the incense drugged her restless memory to temporary oblivion. She followed from afar, the offices, and once was tempted to make the sacred sign with the holy water at the door, as she left. She dipped her fingers in the stoup, then smiled and wiped them on her handkerchief, ashamed of the impulse; did not her reason tell her that all these observances were mere foolishness? Still she could not deny the craving of her heart for some sort of mystic communion with the souls of the simple worshippers about her. She loved to watch the rays mount until they touched, with a fleeting radiance, the gold mosaics of the domes, then disappeared, carrying the glory with them. But afterwards, in the sudden darkness, the star-like tapers about the high altar gained a mystic significance, and the little floating lights in glasses, like glow-worms in the dusk, before the smaller shrines, seemed tiny beacons set for the wandering soul, or were they merely will-o'-the-wisps, luring one to a sense of false security? The spirit of it all breathed consolation and peace, but she saw it as through a glass; she longed to enter the sanctuary, but felt herself barred out by impalpable barriers. The haven seemed to lie before her eyes, but the path was hidden. "There was the door to which I found no key," she quoted to herself.
One afternoon, as she sat there in a side chapel, a girl entered, and disregarding the kneeling benches, threw herself against the altar itself, clutching the edge of the Sacred Table with straining clasped hands, her head bowed between her arms, her long, dark shawl dragging down the steps behind her, like a black trail of despair. The faint light from the tapers shone on the girl's auburn hair, following the burnished waves and tendrils. Her slender shoulders were heaving with sobs.
Ragna watched her awhile, then rose from her chair and put her hand softly on the girl's shoulder.
"What is it?" she asked. "Let me help you. Tell me what your trouble is."
The girl raised her head, and her streaming dark eyes met Ragna's. Seeing the sympathy in the fair face bent over her, she rose and let herself be led away to a corner near the entrance where there were some chairs.
"What is the matter?" asked Ragna.
"Oh, Signorina, it is very great," sobbed the girl, "but it is nothing a young lady like you could understand."
"What is it? Tell me," said Ragna gently.
"Oh, Signorina, I can't! I should be ashamed, you would despise me. What can a young lady like you know of—"
"Come, tell me, I shall not despise you," said Ragna; she was conscious already of an odd sense of fellowship. The girl raised her head, and looked at her steadily, as though testing the sincerity of the words.
"Signorina, my lover, Zuan, he is—he is going away, to America—he no longer wishes to marry me, and—" she drew aside the shawl, showing the altered lines of her figure.
"Oh!" said Ragna pitifully.
"And Signorina, my father turns me out of his house, he says I have brought disgrace on him, that no one will marry me now. I have nowhere to go. But that is nothing. I can work. It is Zuan—he doesn't love me any more, he is tired of me—" her voice trailed off into a wail. Ragna stroked her hand.
"Signorina, why should he cease to love me when I love him as much as ever? It must be another woman who has taken him from me! If I find her, I will kill her, I swear it! I will kill him too, and then I will kill myself!"
"But your child?" said Ragna, "have you thought of it?"
"Thecreatura? Poor little lamb to be wronged by its father before it is born! See you, Signorina," she turned defiantly, "it is his child, and he shall recognize it or die! No other woman shall have him!" Her eyes flashed.
Ragna tried another tack.
"If you are patient, and wait, he may come back to you; what would you gain by killing him? They will send you to prison, and your child will be born in disgrace."
"Perhaps you are right, Signorina," returned the girl doubtfully. "But how can I wait? Where can I go? My father has turned me out of his house, and no one will give me work now. No, it is better that I make an end of it."
She rose, but Ragna caught her hand, and pulled her down.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Carolina, Signorina, Carolina Manin di Guiseppe."
"Listen to me, Carolina, I will do something for you, I will see that you get work, but you must promise me to do nothing foolish. I can help you as long as you are only unfortunate, but I can't help a murderess."
"A murderess, Signorina?" The girl's eyes dilated.
"A murderess, yes, that is what you would be if you killed your lover. Would you like people to say that your child's mother was a murderess?"
"Madonna santissima, no!"
"Well, then, you will promise me?"
"I will swear it by the Madonna, Signorina."
"Take this money then," she emptied the contents of her purse into the girl's hand, "it will keep you for some days, until I can find something for you to do." She scribbled her name and address on a leaf torn from her note book. "Here, this is my address—you can come to see me—let me see, this is Monday—come to see me Sunday. You know how to find the Hotel Roma?"
"Oh, Signorina, you are an Angel of God, whom the blessed Madonna has sent me in my need!" She seized Ragna's hands, and covered them with kisses. "God will reward you, Signorina!"
"No, I am not an angel, Carolina, indeed I am very far from being one,"—she smiled sadly. "Come to see me next Sunday then, and we will see what can be done."
Interrupting the girl's protestations of gratitude and devotion, she freed herself, and walked quickly away, wondering what she should do to carry out her impulsive promise.
"I suppose I am a foolish idiot," she said to herself, "but I simply could not help it. Poor thing—I wonder what I can do for her?" Instinctively, her thoughts turned to Dr. Ferrati, he would be sure to find some way of arranging the matter. She said nothing to Fru Bjork or Astrid, they would only be shocked, and blame her for her impulsiveness. Fru Bjork was kind-hearted, but narrow-minded, and in common with many "good" women, would have shunned Carolina and her like, as she would the plague.
Dr. Ferrati arrived a week later than the day he had set. He had travelled by a night train, and chance had it, that he took the samevaporettethat carried Fru Bjork and the girls to the Lido. When they got on at the Piazzetta, they hailed him with joy, and bade him bring his campstool to the bow, where they usually sat. When they were all comfortably settled, he put on his pince-nez, and looked at the girls in turn, noting with satisfaction Astrid's delicate bronze colour, so becoming to her fair curls and greenish eyes, but he started at Ragna's pallor, and drawn features. They were speaking of the Lido, and Ragna said:
"The bathing is delightful, especially when there is a little surf, I love to swim through it, to feel the waves buffet me about. But I get tired so soon now."
"But surely, Signorina, you are not bathing?"
"Why not?" asked Ragna, astonished, and the others echoed her.
"It is most unwise for you just now," said Ferrati, adjusting his pince-nez to hide his dismay and embarrassment. "You are anæmic, you are not strong enough—it is most unwise."
"Yes," agreed Fru Bjork, "I have told her so, but she won't listen to me. She really is not at all well. I wish you would advise her, Doctor, indeed I do. The child worries me, what with her pale looks, and no appetite, and headaches and fainting fits."
Ragna anxiously met the Doctor's scrutinizing gaze.
"I wish you would prescribe for me; Fru Bjork is right. I am really not myself," she said simply.
Ferrati skilfully changed the subject and they chatted on gaily enough, until the Lido was reached. The little tram took them across the island, and while the others went to the dressing-rooms to change for the bath, the Doctor and Ragna walked out on to the terrace fronting the sea. They found two chairs, a little apart from the groups of smiling, chattering people, and when they had seated themselves, Ragna opened the conversation.
"Tell me the truth, Doctor, why should I not bathe?"
Ferrati met her question with a searching glance; was she in good faith, or feigning?
"Do you not know, then, Signorina, what is the matter with you?"
"You say I am anæmic, I have headaches, and dizzy spells—" a horrible doubt suddenly thrust itself upwards in her mind. "For God's sake, Doctor, tell me what it is?"
"Surely you must have an idea—" He hesitated, then in answer to the appeal for frankness in her eyes, he continued in a lower tone. "Signorina, you areenceinte. Is it possible that you have not guessed it?"
Ragna paled, and her head fell back against the wooden support of the awning. Ferrati hastily summoned a waiter, and bade him bring a glass of cognac, which he made the girl take. The colour slowly crept back to her lips and cheeks; she made one or two efforts to speak, but was only able to swallow convulsively; finally in a husky voice she asked:
"How long have you known, suspected—this?"
"For about two months now—suspected, I say—but when I saw you on the boat, I was sure. Of course I may be mistaken, an examination would be necessary to be quite certain—there are tumours—"
"Will you examine me then—to-day? I must know, I must be sure—Oh, my God, I never thought of this!"
He gazed at her curiously, half cynically, yet impressed by her sincerity of manner.
"But surely, you must have known? You are young, Signorina, but you are not a child."
Her eyes fell before his.
"I did not know—I never thought of this!" she repeated dully.
His doubting expression faded before the despairing misery of her pale face.
"No," he thought, "she did not know or she could not look like this."
The girl's attitude was not one of discovered shame, but that of a person felled by a sudden blow. She looked dazed, stricken. People in bright summer dress were laughing, and joking all about; some were drinking Vermouth. From the sands below came the voices of happy children, and bathers in gay costumes made merry in the sparkling blue water.
"You are sure, quite sure?" Ragna asked suddenly, in a low, terrible voice.
"I told you that there can be no absolute certainty without an examination. Do not distress yourself so, my child," he added, touched to the heart by her misery, "after all, it may be a false alarm!"
The words seemed to give Ragna strength; though still deadly pale, she rose from her chair, saying:
"Come with me now, then; let us have it over at once. Come!"
"But, Signorina," he remonstrated, "your people, what will they think?"
"I can leave a message for Fru Bjork; I shall say I felt ill, and that you took me home. See! there comes your wife—tell her and she will see the others!"
She was already moving towards the Signora, who was crossing the terrace with her little girls, all three greeting Ferrati with smiles of welcome. The children ran to him, and throwing their arms about him, shrieked with joy.
"Babbo has come! Babbo has come!"
Ferrati embraced them, and put them down; he kissed his wife who was holding Ragna's hand, and said to her,
"Virginia cara, the Signorina has a bad headache, and feels faint, so I am taking her home. Tell the others not to be alarmed; it is only that I think the glare here is too much for her, and she ought not to go all the way home alone."