"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 the pescaja far 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 the stornelli rose 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!
CHAPTER IX
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 the salotto.