She wondered if his words might have the virtue of a prophecy, then laughed at herself. Presently, she turned her hot pillow and threw back the sheet, for the night was close.
The change of air gave fresh energy to the whole party except Ragna, who continued pale and languid. Fru Bjork worried over it, and longed for the coming of Dr. Ferrati whose advice she intended to ask, whether Ragna wished it or no. As the Doctor had recommended sea-bathing for Astrid, the three ladies made daily trips to the Lido, and the girls thoroughly enjoyed their dips in the warm Adriatic. Ragna had always been a strong swimmer, but here, to her surprise, found that she tired almost at once, but set it down to the heat. After the long delicious bath was over the girls wrapped themselves in bath-robes, and lay on the sands to bake, their heads shielded from the sun by broad-brimmed straw hats. The strong soft heat and the salt air made them sleepy, the sands seemed to vibrate in the sunshine, a delightful weariness weighted their limbs, a drowsy consciousness of complete physical well-being filled them. It was to Ragna the happiest moment of the day.
The atmosphere alone of Venice gave her a feeling of rest and peace; the silent gliding of gondolas through the canals, the long drawn-out sonorous cries of the gondoliers, the soft wash of the water against the richly tinted walls, all lulled her senses. She realized that afternoon is the time to see Venice, the strong light of morning throws into intolerable relief the decay of the city; the St. Martin's Summer of the glorious Republic requires the mellow haze of the hours before sunset, as a fading beauty is best seen by candle light, and often in the afternoon, she would slip away to some old church, and in solitary musing to steep herself in the wonderful atmosphere of golden autumn. Most often of all, she went to S. Maria Formosa, and would sit for hours in contemplation of Palma Vecchio's Santa Barbara. She loved the strong, voluptuous, calm woman, beautiful with the beauty of the corn-harvest, standing clear-eyed and self-possessed in her rich russet draperies. All the richness and fulness of the earth seemed symbolized in this glorious creature, this Woman of women. "Ceres," the girl called her, for in her appearance, there is nothing of the saintly, nothing of the ascetic, rather the promise of abundant voluptuous joy—not pleasure, but something deeper, graver, more fundamental, the earnest of a bounteous harvest of life.
She sought the mellow golden glow of S. Mereo, at that hour, when the level rays of the declining sun fill the air with a mystic radiance, seemingly the golden impalpable dust of centuries of prayer. The softened splendour filled her soul, and warmed it, as generous wine warms the veins, and the heavy odour of the incense drugged her restless memory to temporary oblivion. She followed from afar, the offices, and once was tempted to make the sacred sign with the holy water at the door, as she left. She dipped her fingers in the stoup, then smiled and wiped them on her handkerchief, ashamed of the impulse; did not her reason tell her that all these observances were mere foolishness? Still she could not deny the craving of her heart for some sort of mystic communion with the souls of the simple worshippers about her. She loved to watch the rays mount until they touched, with a fleeting radiance, the gold mosaics of the domes, then disappeared, carrying the glory with them. But afterwards, in the sudden darkness, the star-like tapers about the high altar gained a mystic significance, and the little floating lights in glasses, like glow-worms in the dusk, before the smaller shrines, seemed tiny beacons set for the wandering soul, or were they merely will-o'-the-wisps, luring one to a sense of false security? The spirit of it all breathed consolation and peace, but she saw it as through a glass; she longed to enter the sanctuary, but felt herself barred out by impalpable barriers. The haven seemed to lie before her eyes, but the path was hidden. "There was the door to which I found no key," she quoted to herself.
One afternoon, as she sat there in a side chapel, a girl entered, and disregarding the kneeling benches, threw herself against the altar itself, clutching the edge of the Sacred Table with straining clasped hands, her head bowed between her arms, her long, dark shawl dragging down the steps behind her, like a black trail of despair. The faint light from the tapers shone on the girl's auburn hair, following the burnished waves and tendrils. Her slender shoulders were heaving with sobs.
Ragna watched her awhile, then rose from her chair and put her hand softly on the girl's shoulder.
"What is it?" she asked. "Let me help you. Tell me what your trouble is."
The girl raised her head, and her streaming dark eyes met Ragna's. Seeing the sympathy in the fair face bent over her, she rose and let herself be led away to a corner near the entrance where there were some chairs.
"What is the matter?" asked Ragna.
"Oh, Signorina, it is very great," sobbed the girl, "but it is nothing a young lady like you could understand."