As the _botte_ drew up to the door, the hostess, a stout, wholesome looking woman appeared, bowing and wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n.

"The Signori would descend? Luncheon? Most certainly,--their Excellencies should be served immediately--Maria! wring the neck of a chicken! Would their Excellencies eat in the common room, in the sala, with contadini? There was a most clean and _conveniente_ chamber above, where they would be much better, _non e 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 l.u.s.tily the song of the "_Ciociara_"--"_E quando la Ciociara si marita_"--she sang to the rollicking air. A ray of sunlight coming through the window gilded her hair and touched the coral beads on her round brown throat.

Sora Nanna led the way up a stone stair to a large light upper chamber.

The floor like that of the kitchen was of bare brick well scrubbed, a table stood in the centre with some straight-backed chairs. On the walls hung prints of Garibaldi, King Umberto and Queen Margherita taken at the time of their marriage, and Vittorio Emanuele II with a fierce moustache and a truculent eye. A couch stood against the wall, and in the far corner a large white bed flanked by a primitive dressing-table. Ragna shrank back, but the hostess bustled cheerfully forward.

"Many _cacciatori_, Signori of Rome and _forestieri_ have I entertained here," she said, throwing open the windows. "Ah, they all know the Sora Nanna's cellar and the _frittata_. A _frittata_ with artichokes, that is what I shall give your Excellencies!"

"I would rather go downstairs," whispered Ragna.

"Come now," said Mirko, "you can't sit in the kitchen with the contadini! This room is clean and it will do very well."

"Can't we sit outside under the pergola?"

Mirko pointed to the clouds fast obscuring the sunshine. "It will be raining in a few minutes."

Ragna thought it would be foolish to object further, and she tried to throw off the uneasy feeling that possessed her.

"Your Excellencies shall be served in half an hour," said the hostess, as she bustled out, shaking her head at the madness of people who came out to the country when they might be enjoying the Carnival in Rome.

Ragna went to one of the windows and leaned on the sill, looking out.

The vetturino was leading his horses to a shed in the rear, and Maria, the girl who had been singing in the kitchen, was displaying a generous expanse of red stocking as she pursued an elusive chicken. The contadini under the arbour below made merry at her expense and praised her well-developed charms and neat ankles.

The Campagna rolled away as far as the eye could reach, an inland sea of gra.s.s, 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, e certo che caro la devi pagar!_"

"That is a very jolly song," said Ragna.

"Si, signora," said Maria showing her even white teeth in a broad smile.--"It is sung all through Ciociaria and everywhere!" She ran down to the kitchen and reappeared bearing a large bowl of steaming _gnocchi_ and two cobwebby bottles of gold-coloured wine.

"Come," said Mirko, "your Ladyship is served."

Ragna laughingly took her place at the table and they both fell to with healthy appet.i.tes. Mirko saw that Ragna's gla.s.s was kept replenished with the wine. "_Proprio di dietro i f.a.gotti_," the hostess had declared it. After the gnocchi came stewed chicken and potatoes, then the famous _frittata_ with artichokes and a salad, then cheese, and finally, Maria having asked if the Signori wished anything more, retired, closing the door after her.

The wine was singing in Ragna's ears, and her face was flushed, it seemed to her that she was in a dream in which she had become two distinct persons,--one a long way off, watching as at a play, what the other Ragna did. Mirko rose from his chair and led her to the couch where he seated himself beside her. He drew her head down on his shoulder and holding her close to him murmured his love in her ear. His nearness, his kisses and the low, pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sed 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 grat.i.tude!"

"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 att.i.tude, the bowed head with its dishevelled ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion, 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-abas.e.m.e.nt 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!