To Ragna her Aunt's letter was a shock and a grief, but not unexpected. She had warned Egidio that something of the kind was to be looked for and as Ingeborg's letter arrived at the same time bidding Ragna be patient and hope for the best, promising that she, Ingeborg, would bend all her efforts to winning their Aunt over, Valentini was not really disappointed. Ingeborg, however, had made the mistake of advising Ragna strongly against writing to Fru Boyesen in the existing state of affairs. The poor woman in spite of her plainly expressed wish to the contrary, was secretly hoping for a letter from Ragna, a dutifully humble letter which might permit of her abating somewhat of her wrath. But Ragna followed her sister's advice, and no letter came. So the misunderstanding deepened.

It has been said that one can accustom one's self to anything, and it is certain that after the first few days of her marriage Ragna lost, to a great extent, the feeling of moral and physical degradation which at first had made her wish to cover her face forever from the eyes of mankind. Or rather, as some feelings are too poignant to be born long, there ensued a deadening of the fibres, and the daily torment became a burden to which she learned to bend her back. She even took a bitter satisfaction in saying to herself that she was paying her debt to the full, earning her salt of outward respectability as it were, by the prostitution of her soul. As for her body, it seemed to her a thing to leave out of account henceforward, a temple profaned beyond all hope of purification.

Respite came to her though, after some time, by Dr. Ferrati's dissatisfaction with her state of health, and his consequent prescription of complete rest.

He even took Valentini aside and berated him soundly.

"Have you no sense at all, Egidio, you who know your wife's condition, that you take so little care of her? If you keep on in this way, I tell you, I won't be answerable for the consequences!"

Virginia watched the course of events but refrained from comment, much to her husband's relief, for there was something in the expression of Ragna's eyes, a miserable, hunted look that made him most uncomfortable. She never complained and when he tried to sound her, she fenced as before her marriage; once even, when he went so far as to put a direct question, she resolutely denied any cause for unhappiness.

Virginia had received Astrid's letter, and had answered it, but could not give any information as she did not feel free to disclose Ragna's secret, the real reason of her marriage. Instead she insinuated her doubts of Valentini's disinterestedness, leaving Ragna as much out of the question as she could. The letter, such as it was, carried a great light to Astrid, who recalled her indiscreet confidences to Valentini, in his studio. His motive, she saw clearly enough—but Ragna's? Here all was still mystery. She re-read the letter and understood that the Signora's reticence was intentional, and that she might hope to learn nothing more from that source.

Ingeborg, to whom she took the letter, remained as much in the dark as ever, for Astrid naturally omitted to tell of her own conversation with Valentini on the subject of Ragna's prospects.

"She is a friend of Ragna's, I can see that," said Ingeborg, folding and unfolding the letter, "and I am sure that if she can help her she will. As for the rest, the reasons for this marriage, perhaps Ragna does not wish her to speak of them, or else she is too good a friend to pry and spy. I like her, I wish I could have a talk with her."

As time went on, the Valentinis became rather pinched for means. Shortly after the birth of Ragna's son, whom they called "Egidio," they removed to a smaller and cheaper apartment on the other side of the river. Carolina, whose baby had been born a month before her mistress's, served as balia and so avoided the expense of a professional wet-nurse, for Ragna's health was at this time too delicate and her recovery too slow, to permit of her nursing the child herself. The long strain had told on her severely, and for some time she was obliged to spend most of the day in her rattan reclining-chair. She welcomed this weakness—it was good just to lie there set apart from the everyday worries, and to let life slip past unresistingly. Egidio, to be just to him, was kind to her at this period, bringing her flowers and fruit and any little dainty he could afford. Her pale face and listless hands appealed to him, also he had a sort of vicarious pride in the plump sturdy child, and graciously accepted as his due the compliments that such of his friends as were admitted to his intimacy, lavished on his first born. As he had always been of a secretive nature as to his own affairs, the sudden appearance on the scene of a wife and child, surprised no one particularly,—the only wonder was that after keeping his marriage secret so long, he should have divulged it at all,—but again the birth of a son explained that.

Virginia often came to sit with Ragna during these days of languor, and the girl welcomed her as she never had before. Virginia was touched by the affectionate warmth of Ragna's manner towards her and during these visits her busy fingers fashioned many little garments for the baby. He was fair, like his mother, round and rosy, with great blue eyes, and from the first moment they had laid him in her arms she had loved him with a fierce tenderness that was almost aggressive in its intensity. She looked to the child for compensation for all she had been through. Virginia often observed the change in the young mother's expression, when Carolina left the baby with her; all the languor, all the listlessness disappeared, the thin pale cheeks took on the colour and the eyes the brightness that was natural to them. Virginia said to her one day:

"I am sure that if you made an effort, Ragna cara, you could overcome this weakness. It is because you voluntarily let yourself go that you get no better. Tell me, why is it that you don't want to get well and strong?"

Ragna lifted her head. She was dressing little Egidio. Her eyes, torn from the contemplation of his plump rosy body had a startled expression.

"How did you guess that, Virginia?"

The other smiled.

"It was not very difficult to guess. But seriously, carissima, you should make an effort,—for the child's sake, at least."

"I suppose I ought to, for the child's sake," said Ragna slowly, caressing the coral-pink feet and dimpled legs, "but I can't somehow, I can't make the effort. I—I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what, cara?"

"That when I am stronger, Egidio—"

The blood rose in Ragna's cheek; Virginia leaned forward and patted her hand.

"I understand, poverina,—but what would you have? We married women are not our own mistresses,—it is the way of the world. The Creator has willed that some of us serve our Purgatory on earth."

Before she left, she kissed Ragna tenderly, and murmured, "Poverina, I am sorry—but you have the bimbo! Let that make up to you for the rest!"

She was thinking of Egidio with his mouth like that of a beast.

After the Valentinis moved, Virginia was not able to come so often; they lived further apart, and her visits in consequence became less frequent. Indeed, this had been part of Valentini's intention in going so far. He wished, partly from jealousy, and partly from mingled dislike and fear of Virginia to remove Ragna from her close companionship and the moving offered a good pretext for this, without the risk of offending the susceptibilities of his friend Ferrati.

Ragna missed Virginia greatly, she had grown to depend on her society, and as she had few friends and but little opportunity for making new acquaintances, her lonely days became singularly dull and empty.

Egidio had had a run of bad luck and had sold no pictures for some time and the expenses of Ragna's confinement had been a heavy drain on his resources. As week after week passed, bringing no sign from Fru Boyesen, he grew impatient, although he had told himself to expect nothing for some time. The confinement had cost more than he expected, and he thought that Ragna's family might have helped him out, though realizing at the same time the absurdity of the idea, as they could and must know nothing of the birth of a child for some months to come. He grew moody and taciturn, and without speaking directly on the subject, gave Ragna to understand that her faulty diplomacy was to blame for their discomfort. This bewildered her, as she had even yet, no inkling of his real motive in marrying her.

She withdrew more and more into herself, realizing as time went on, how vain had been the hopes of a friendly comradeship on which she had founded her expectations of married life. Egidio no longer cared to talk with her about his work and his interests, and when she proposed a visit to his studio and a resumption of her lessons, he received the suggestion with such coldness and evident lack of pleasure, that she let the subject drop and never revived it again. He nearly always spent the evenings out now and when, by chance, he remained at home, his sour, forbidding expression and the aura of gloom that hung about him, effectually choked any conversation. Ragna felt a distinct relief in his absence for Carolina's cheery song rang out unreproved in the kitchen, little Egidio, or "Mimmo," as they called him, cooed and prattled in his crib—the whole household, in fact, seemed to stretch its cramped limbs and breathe freely, relieved of the oppressive presence of the master.

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 gratitude, 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.