They were poor, very poor; Ragna did the best she could in restricting expense, but the bills crept up in spite of her, and Egidio's reproaches for her extravagance hurt her bitterly. Was all her life to be a failure, she wondered drearily? She had always acted for the best, she told herself; she had only consented to marry because Egidio had begged her to, and on her child's account, and now all was misery. She could see from day to day her husband's affection for the child slowly waning.

What would become of them all? In these reflections she did not dare to be quite honest with herself,--she had acted for the best, yes, but as others saw it for her, she had lacked the courage to be true to herself, to her instinct. So, because she had gone counter to her nature, because she had denied the essential truth in her soul, and surrendered her life to the guidance of others, in giving to her motherhood the shield of what she expected to be but an empty social contract, a sham, she had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage. Even the love of her child, which should have been her consolation, was to become as dust and ashes in her mouth. It seemed cruel, as she did not err consciously, and it was not her fault if the arguments with which society and custom supplied her, proved specious. But she was not one who could live on the surface, buoyed up by a succession of more or less agreeable occurrences and material facts, therefore the Law, the first commandment of which is, "This above all, to thine own self be true," bore heavily on her.

She grew desperate, and driven by Egidio's moodiness and fits of temper, finally wrote to her father begging him for help, announcing herself about to become a mother, and giving as an excuse for her appeal her husband's extraordinary ill luck and the extra expense occasioned by her condition. Lars Andersen replied affectionately. His daughter's marriage had been a grief to him, and his national pride had been hurt that she should have preferred a foreigner to one of her own countrymen, but except for that she had become almost a stranger to him. The years she had spent at school and with her Aunt Gitta had taken her out of his life, and the knowledge that by her choice of a husband she had definitely separated herself from her own family and country had brought no such sharp pang to him as it had to her mother and to her aunt.

He wrote that he was sorry not to be able to do more for her, his limited income being barely sufficient for home needs, and that she must take the will for the deed.

Tears rose to Ragna's eyes as she read the letter; her memory conjured up the cosy, low house, sheltered by pine-trees, nestled at the foot of the steep bare promontory overlooking the fjord; she recalled one by one the happy times of her childhood. Now, Lotte was the only one left at home, the old grandmother gone, Ingeborg in Christiania, she herself far away,--what was there left of the old life save yearnings and vain regrets?

Egidio came in and found her sitting, the letter lying on her lap, her eyes far away.

"See, Egidio!" she cried, starting up, "Father has sent us a present."

He took the enclosed draft eagerly, but his face fell as he read the figure of the modest sum it represented, and he cast it scornfully on the table.

"A beggar's dole!"

"Oh, Egidio," she remonstrated, "poor Father can't afford more. I didn't expect so much. He has sent all he could spare."

He turned on his heel, his hands in his pockets, the black felt hat which he had neglected to remove still on his head.

"I am glad to find that I have married into such a princely family!"

With a lump in her throat she gathered up the letter and the draft and left the room, afraid to trust herself to speak. That her Father's kindness should meet with such disdain! True, Egidio could not know the self-denial the gift represented,--but at least he need not have sneered!

Small as it was the gift helped her for some time, and she used the utmost ingenuity in making it last as long as possible. But when it was gone? The inspiration came to her, and she wondered that she had not thought of it sooner, to write some descriptive articles for a Norwegian review to which she had contributed as a girl. They were accepted, and she supplemented them by a few stories for children, which were taken by a children's magazine. So she helped tide over the period of depression.

If she had looked to her husband for encouragement or grat.i.tude, she was disappointed; he was angry at her success, jealous even and he mentally compared the small sums her work brought in with the expectations he had entertained and which seemed as far from realization as ever.

She gained though in other ways, first through the restoration of her self-respect--she was still worth something in the world, even if unappreciated by those nearest her; then the interest of her occupation gave her new life, and as she worked her strength came back to her, the colour returned to her cheeks and the spring to her step.

Egidio, coming home to dinner one evening, paused in the doorway to look at her, surprised at the change, patent at last, even to his eyes, and a feeling long in abeyance reawoke in him as he watched the rosy, graceful woman, sewing in the warm radiance of the lamp. She raised her head, and as her eyes met his, realized with a thrill of horror that her chains were in that moment, rivetted afresh. She had almost given up thinking of the probability of a return of the early days of their marriage; she had hoped, nay, almost believed them over for ever. She had even encouraged Egidio's long evenings out, thinking that the pleasures he found away from home would keep him from her and spare her the return of the slavery she most dreaded. But as she saw the admiration in his look, her heart sank.

He moved over to her, something cat-like in his tread and as she turned her head away, kissed her on the ear, murmuring,

"I am tired of my little room, _mogliettina cara_, I am coming back to you again. I shall tell Carolina to move the crib into her own room."

He moved off towards the kitchen, and she heard his voice raised in peremptory command as, sick at heart, she folded up her sewing with shaking hands.

CHAPTER V

"Well, Ragna, for a young lady who could not make up her mind whether to be married or not, you are doing well," said Dr. Ferrati, jokingly.

The baby kicked on the knees of the _levatrice_, who was dressing it, and Ragna, pale and worn out lay back on her pillows; Egidio stood by the window, looking out and from the adjoining room came the voices of Virginia and Mimmo, now a lively child of nearly two.

Ragna made no answer, her eyelashes barely quivered on her pale cheeks.

She wished they would all go away and leave her to rest, to rest for ever. Ferrati looking at her, understood, and beckoning to Egidio, motioned him from the room.

"We must let her sleep now, she needs rest."

Egidio paused by the bed on his way out. Now that she was the mother of a child of his, he felt an odd sort of tenderness for her. Stooping awkwardly he kissed her pale forehead; she shivered slightly, and made no response.

"Come away," said Ferrati, "she must rest, she is worn out," and together they left the room.

Virginia raised her head from the game of blocks she was playing with Mimmo.

"Well!" she asked.

"She is doing well," said Ferrati, "but she is very tired and must sleep. You ought to be a proud man, Egidio," he continued, turning to his friend, "to have a pair of boys like this rogue and the little one in there--one of the finest children I have ever seen, he weighs five kilos if he weighs an ounce, a fine straight limbed youngster he is, too!"

Valentini smiled; then as his eyes rested on Mimmo, the smile vanished.

The child scrambled to his feet and toddled up to him, holding out a block.

"See, babbo, the pretty birdie!"

He pushed the boy away roughly, jealous of this usurper who had taken and must always keep the place of the eldest, the place of his own son.

The childish lip quivered and tears rolled down over the round rosy cheeks.

"Be quiet!" said Egidio gruffly, "if you cry or make a noise I shall beat you!"

Mimmo dropped the block and ran to Virginia; he hid his face in her skirt and sobbed loud and long.

"For shame, Valentini!" she said sharply.

For answer he made an angry gesture and left the room, slamming the door to, after him. Virginia and Ferrati stared at each other in consternation.

"He hates the child," said Virginia, "he never liked him but now that the other has come, he hates him! G.o.d knows it was hard enough before, for that poor thing," she waved her hand towards the door of Ragna's room, "but it will be an Inferno now. I always told you, Rico _mio_, that this marriage would turn out badly."

Then as little Mimmo's sobs continued she kissed him and caressed his fair curly head.

"There, there, Mimmo caro, be a good boy! Babbo didn't mean to frighten his little man! Look up! There is only Zia Virginia who loves you. You must be a good boy and help take care of poor mammina who is ill. Hush now! If you are good, I will show you your new little brother, such a dear little baby boy, just come from heaven!"

"I don't want a little brother," said Mimmo suddenly, "wants my mammina, wants to go to her! Take little brother away, Mimmo doesn't want to see him."

Ferrati's eyes again sought those of his wife; he was very grave.

"I'm afraid you are right, Virginia," he said.

A few hours later, when Ragna awoke from a deep refreshing sleep, the _levatrice_ laid the baby in her arms. She looked curiously at the little head covered with a dark down, it hardly seemed possible that it could be her child, its presence, the little weight of it on her arm gave her no such thrill as had Mimmo. This child was altogether his father's, not hers, she felt, conceived with intense revolt of spirit, he must inevitably be antagonistic to her and hers. The mystery of this little being, born of her, yet a stranger to her, flesh of her flesh, yet divided from her by the spirit, oppressed her heart and mind. She tried to think it out, to understand, but the problem was too great for her tired head, and she drifted slowly away on a dreamless sea of sleep, unvexed by the worries of life.

CHAPTER VI