Dr. Ferrati was unable to accompany his family, but had promised to come to Venice in a fortnight's time. The journey up was uneventful, and the two parties separated at the railway station, the Signora taking a vaporetto directly to the Lido, while Fru Bjork and the girls, went to a small, but comfortable, hotel on the Grand Canal.
That evening Astrid and Ragna hung over the balcony of the latter's room, gazing in ecstasy at the fairyland spread before their eyes. Nearly opposite, rose the white dome of S. Maria della Salute, gleaming shadowy pale against a star-powdered sky; the dark water below, fretted with silver ripples, flowed silently by, and over its surface sped the slim dark shapes of gondolas, the gondolier swaying to the rhythm of his oar, each gondola bearing its little lamp behind the tall steel prow. Down the canal, from the Rialto, came the barche full of musicians, gay with Japanese lanterns, and the high transparent emblem "S. Mareo" or the "Sirena," and surrounded by a growing flotilla of gondolas. The still air throbbed with the haunting strains of voices, mandolins and guitars. A strong, clear tenor voice, rose above the others, the notes vibrating with passion, as they rose and fell.
Astrid squeezed Ragna's hand.
"Oh, isn't it just too heavenly for words!" she murmured.
The charm of it all, in its setting of soft, luminous Italian night, penetrated both the girls, but in different ways. To Astrid, it was a delightfully romantic impression, to be recalled with pleasure; to Ragna, the poignancy of the beauty was tinged with bitterness, and the very loveliness of it was as a two-edged sword, recalling other Italian nights and their associations. Try as she would, she could not banish the past, nor had custom yet made her callous to the memory of what had happened.
The girls stood on the balcony, until the music stopped, and the boats drifted away, then they kissed one another good-night, and Astrid went to her own room.
Ragna, although tired out by the long day's journey, could not sleep; instead, she lay watching through her mosquito netting the white patch of light on the floor, and the shadow of the balcony balustrade with its fretted pattern. She was thinking of Valentini. He had been at the station that morning to see her off, and his farewell had been so loverlike as to bring a look of surprised inquiry to Fru Bjork's face. The flowers he had given her were in a vase on the balcony, as their strong perfume made it impossible to keep them in the room. She turned uneasily as she thought of his pressure of her hand, of the intensity of his dark burning eyes on hers, of the words he had said to her when, for an instant, he had managed to draw her aside from the others of the party.
"Signorina, this is not good-bye, but au revoir. You will come back, I know it, I feel it, and when you come back, it will be to me. Remember," he added with solemnity, "if ever you are in trouble, if ever you need a friend, I am here!"
At the time, his manner had struck her as curious, and even more so now, as she thought it over.
"If ever I should be in trouble—" she murmured, "but, why should he think of my being in trouble? Surely, my trouble is over and done with! Can he know, can he suspect?—But no, that is quite impossible. I wonder what he supposes and what he means? Go back to Florence to him? No, I am not going back."