"I wish there was more I could do, my poor child! If you want to please me, be brave and gather up all your strength. We all have our hard times to live through, and we must do it as best we can. You are very young, remember, and life lies before you,--you will have many bright and happy days yet--"

Ragna smiled bitterly, and made no answer.

"I think you had better stop in bed, and I shall come again to-morrow. I will tell Fru Bjork that you are not to talk or be disturbed." He took her hand and stroked it gently. "Don't worry and reproach yourself, my child; regretting the past will undo none of the mischief, one must go forward and face the future. Looking backward never does any good; if all the strength wasted in repentance and vain regrets were turned into a wholesome resolve to make the future better than the past! Ah, my dear, the Church has much to be responsible for, in fostering introspection and useless repentance as virtues! Virtues indeed! they sap the strength and muddle the brain, and make one weak and mawkish!

Face the future, and make the best of it, that is the true morality!"

He smiled whimsically down at the girl. "See how my tongue runs away with me, when I mount one of my hobbies! We shall have long discussions in future, you and I,--and I think you will find that life is not such a bad affair after all!"

He left Ragna much benefited by his cheery optimism, and kindly manner.

"At least I have one real friend," she thought, and then her mind turned to Angelescu. He had meant well by her, he had tried to help her,--would he, if he could have foreseen all? His earnest face with the serious steadfast eyes rose before her mental vision, and she knew that nothing would have made any difference to him. The impulse seized her to write to him, to recall him--but no, that was impossible, she had refused his offer twice, and so decisively that reconsideration was impossible, even if present circ.u.mstances had not precluded such a thought. No, as she had made her bed, so must she lie in it. She fell into a state of self-pity, in which she saw herself the victim of adverse circ.u.mstance, about to be crushed by the juggernaut-car of fatality, broken and cast out! The flagrant injustice that she alone should suffer the penalty, while Mirko went scot free, seared her soul, but it caused her, nevertheless, a sort of pride. Her sufferings made him appear but a poor creature in his careless detachment from moral responsibility, and in the abstract, the idea of shouldering the whole of the burthen alone, gave her an odd sense of exhilaration. She said defiantly to herself:

"G.o.d has denied me the common joys of women. He has chosen me to wreak His vengeance upon; my lover has forsaken me, and mocked me, what matter? I will take up the load he has shirked. I will rise above the condemnation of society. I will prove myself mistress of my fate."

With this, calm came upon her, and she fell asleep.

Fortune favoured Ragna, or at least had for her that ambiguous smile, which for the time being, promises a smoothing of the way, but which, retrospectively, seems but an ironic mask. "Here is the way open before you," says Fate; but the path leads but to the deeper intricacies of the labyrinth, from which we would fain escape.

Fru Bjork received a telegram, announcing the illness of Astrid's fiance, and requesting their instant return.

Ragna was still in bed with a low fever, brought on by the shock and subsequent extreme nervous tension, resulting from her terrible discovery. Fru Bjork, poor woman, was in a quandary; she felt that she must take Astrid back to Christiania, while Dr. Ferrati positively forbade Ragna's undertaking the journey in her weak state of health, and gave his opinion, moreover, that several weeks must elapse before she might contemplate it. The good lady worried, and lost sleep at night, her fat rosy cheeks drooped in anxious curves, and her cap sat perpetually awry on her grey hair. She vacillated hopelessly, without arriving at any decision,--should she and Astrid stop on with Ragna, or should she bundle Ragna off with them, in defiance of Dr. Ferrati's orders? Astrid grew pale, and talked of setting off alone.

At this juncture, the Signora Ferrati stepped in, offering to receive Ragna into her care, and take her back to Florence, where she should remain under the Doctor's eye until he should declare her fit to travel. Fru Bjork, although loath to leave the girl, finally agreed to the arrangement,--indeed, there was nothing else to be done,--and with a heavy heart, set about her preparations for the return journey.

"I don't like it," she kept repeating to Astrid. "I don't like it at all. Something tells me that I should not leave Ragna behind. How shall I explain it to Gitta Boyesen?"

"But, Mother," Astrid would answer, "what else can you do? Ragna can't take a long journey, and she will be perfectly safe with the Ferratis--and I must get back to Edvard!"

"Let us hope that it will all work out for the best!" Fru Bjork would sigh.

Ragna's feelings during these days were mixed. Her relief was great that Fru Bjork and Astrid should leave without discovering her secret, yet she felt lonely and helpless at the prospect of being abandoned by her old and trusting friends,--abandoned to a fate, of which they could have no idea and which she herself could not foresee. When the time for leave-taking came, she broke down utterly, and wept in such a heartbroken fashion, that Fru Bjork untied her bonnet strings, and sitting down announced firmly:

"We will not go,--I cannot go and leave this child in such a state!"

Almost Ragna would have welcomed this change of decision, but the realization of what it would mean, the inevitable discovery, and subsequent shame, brought her to her senses.

"Oh, no, Fru Bjork!" she cried. "It is quite right that you should go! I would not think of letting you stay, I would not indeed! I shall soon get well under Dr. Ferrati's care, and you will see me back in Christiania before you think,"--her heart failed her with the last words, but she said them boldly. "Dear Fru Bjork, you have been so very, very kind to me, and I would not, for worlds, keep you now, when it is your duty to go. Astrid must go to Edvard at once, and she can't go alone."

"Do you really think that, Ragna? Are you quite sure, child, that you don't so very much mind being left alone?"

"But I shan't be alone. I shall be with the Signora Ferrati, and you know how pleasant and kind she is! Really, I don't mind at all.--I am only sorry at parting with you and Astrid, even if only for a short time!"

"I wish it could have been helped," said Fru Bjork regretfully. "I don't like at all leaving you in this way, but as you say, it seems that it must be so.--Well, good-bye my dear, I am glad you have the Ferratis anyway--do whatever they advise, and be sure you let me know how you get on. Good-bye!--Ragna, dear, it does grieve me to leave you!"

She kissed the girl in her motherly way, and followed Astrid to the door; as she went out, she turned once again to wave her plump hand to the pale girl lying on the bed, and the door closed behind her.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

Ragna sat at the window of a little apartment overlooking the Piazza S.

Spirito. The day was hot and the green Venetian shutters left the room in a refreshing dusk very grateful in comparison to the glare of sunshine outside, beating pitilessly on the light walls of the houses across the square and vibrating in waves of heat over the stunted palms in the garden below. In a shady corner a water-seller who had set up his little stand, gay with bottles and coloured gla.s.ses and was languidly chaffing a _facchino_ who had come to refresh himself with a gla.s.s of lemonade. The vendor of watermelons, whose stand nearly touched that of the acquaiolo, had gone to sleep under his lurid sign of firemen rushing to extinguish the fire simulated by a glorious red melon the size of a house. Flies droned in the stillness and the girl fanned herself languidly. The room where she sat was furnished in the usual shabby-genteel style of the furnished apartment. A table with a cheap tapestry cover on which stood a gla.s.s lamp and a folding case of books occupied the middle of the room; about it were ranged a few poorly carved chairs in the Florentine style. A sofa appeared to lean against the stencilled wall and over it hung a miserable bituminous copy of the Madonna della Seggiola, in a scaling gilt frame. A wooden shelf along one wall supported two vases of dried gra.s.ses and paper flowers and a few photographs. There were also yellowed prints of Garibaldi, King Umberto, Queen Margherita and Vittorio Emanuele II.

Ragna herself occupied a long invalid-chair of rattan and by her side stood a small table on which were a small vase of fresh flowers, a half-cut book and a gla.s.s of syrup and water.

She had been in Florence about three weeks and had settled herself at once in the small apartment chosen for her by Dr. Ferrati. She had with her Carolina her Venetian protegee and who had proved to be just the person to help her through the difficult time to come. Carolina, effusively grateful, was devoted to her young mistress and evinced a truly Latin sympathy, and tact to the delicate situation. To her, at least, Ragna was a superior person, unfortunate perhaps, but to be admired and respected none the less.

During the first few days, the newness of it all and the interest afforded by learning Italian ways of housekeeping and the work of arranging her belongings, had occupied Ragna's mind, but now that there was nothing more to do, only to live and wait, her spirits flagged and she became dull and unable to interest herself in the small details of her circ.u.mscribed existence. Her thoughts had freer scope and wandered far and wide, increasing in bitterness as the days crawled by. The first flush of her resolution to down the dictates of society at large by the arrogance of her individual will and strength of character, had died down, and she dragged through day after day in a state of dreary apathy.

Egidio Valentini had come to see her several times and was keeping careful watch over her state of mind in order to seize the psychological moment for the furtherance of his project. He observed with satisfaction her growing depression and discontent with herself and her immediate surroundings. Ferrati gave her as much of his time as he could, unfortunately, it was but little, absorbed as he was in his professional duties, and though Virginia was kind, Ragna did not yet feel quite at ease with her. With Valentini she had many long and interesting conversations; he could be fascinating when he chose and with her he did choose, also the consideration and respect of his manner soothed her irritated self-consciousness, ever on the alert for a slight. She grew more and more dependent on him and on his visits and he occupied a larger portion of her thoughts than she would have cared to admit. She wondered sometimes, if he had penetrated the reason of her return to Florence, or if he accepted the fable of her ill health. If he had guessed, nothing in his manner pointed to the fact, and there was nothing sufficiently marked as yet in Ragna's appearance to make her condition patent to the inexperienced eye. She thought with dread of the time when he must know, and wondered how the knowledge would affect him and their relations, for his good opinion was dear to her and her heart sank at thought of losing it. She did not often speak to him of Ferrati, and the latter was in ignorance of the frequency of Egidio's visits, as he had seen but little of him since the return to Florence and Egidio was careful to choose his hours with Ragna, when there would be little likelihood of encountering his friend, as he did not wish to submit himself to questioning or comment.

Ragna, as she lay in her chair was thinking of Valentini and expecting him. She was dressed in white pique and the severe lines of the frock suited her well. Her hair was arranged partly in plaits piled on the top of her head, and partly left loose, flowing over the dull blue cushion behind her head. At her breast she wore a bunch of scented geranium leaves.

Valentini had promised to bring for her inspection a water colour copy of one of Botticelli's paintings he was making for the Arundell Society of London. The continuance of her art studies was the pretext for their intercourse thinly veiling a loverlike intensity on his part that was not without its disquieting side to the girl, and on hers a pathetic dependence on his friendship and company.

She lay waiting, half drowsy with the heat, recollection in abeyance, idly afloat on a hazy sea of thought. Finally she heard the door-bell tinkle and Carolina ushered in the visitor. He had left his hat and stick in the outside pa.s.sage and entered the salotto carrying in one hand a bunch of gardenias, and in the other his picture wrapped in paper. His footsteps rang on the bare tile floor as he advanced to her side and laid his floral offering on her knees.

"How good of you to come so early," she said.

"Early? I thought the hour would never come! It seems such a long time, to me at least, since I saw you last. I have brought the picture you see,--I put the last touches to it this morning."

He unwrapped the picture as he spoke and gave it into her hands. It was a careful copy of exquisite delicacy of colour and finish and she gazed on it with a kind of wonder.

"How beautiful it is, and how wonderfully done!"

He flushed with pleasure at the note of genuine admiration in her voice.

"It's my business to do it well," he said simply. "I am glad you like it." He drew up a chair and seated himself beside her. "They will pay me well for it," he added, then as he saw the note jarred, "but it is not for the money I do it, though that is not to be despised--and the labourer is worthy of his hire. I love the work; it is the greatest pleasure in the world I think, to do the work one loves and do it well, to see it growing under one's touch. I lose myself quite and the time pa.s.ses without my knowing it. When you are stronger you must take up your work again and you will feel what a satisfaction it is."

"The lines are all so beautiful," said Ragna tracing them with her slender forefinger.

"Ah, that is where the old Masters are inimitable especially Botticelli and his school. Do you not remember what I was saying to you the other day, that the study of them and their methods is the foundation of all true art? What do your modern painters make of the use of the line and the science of draughtsmanship? They slosh on their colours with barely a thought for structure and the result, pah!"

He took the picture from her as he spoke and propped it up against the lamp on the centre table. Ragna smiled.

"You are hard on the moderns."

"Hard on them! But I am right to be! They take themselves seriously, not their work. And their training! Do they begin by grinding the colours and washing the brushes in the Master's studio and work slowly up from stage to stage until they become masters in their turn? Not they! They spend a few months or years in academies or studios or schools and then when they are tired of serious study, set up for themselves and with rockety technique and flashy design impress the imagination of the crowds. They spill pots of paint over their canvases and to hide their bad drawing, they do things in flat tones because they can't model and call it decorative art! They work for the commission, and a good price for a picture, a piece of scamped meretricious work, pure clap-trap, means more to them than all the traditions of art--yet they talk of Art for Art's sake! I tell you they are dirt! Dirt!"

He was carried away by his theme and marched up and down the small salotto, stamping his feet, gesticulating, threatening with annihilation the entire breed of modern artists. His enthusiasm impressed Ragna; she saw in it the expression of burning conviction, and its true character escaped her--that of a facile heat of prejudice easily aroused and incapable of cool or judicious comparison. Still he was at his best when talking of art, and his love of it was entirely sincere.

He looked at the girl with a critical eye.