As Ave Maria approached, David Rossi became still more agitated. The sky had darkened, but there was no wind; the air was empty, and he listened with strained attention for every sound from the staircase and the street. At length he heard a cab stop at the door, and a moment afterwards a light hurrying footstep in the outer room seemed to beat upon his heart.
The door opened and Roma came in quickly, with a scarcely audible salutation. He saw her with her golden complexion and her large violet eyes, wearing a black hat and an astrachancoat, but his head was going round and his pulses were beating violently, and he could not control his eyes.
"I have come for a minute only," she said. "You received my letter?"
Rossi bent his head.
"David, I want the fulfilment of your promise."
"What promise?"
"The promise to come to me when I stand in need of you. I need you now. My fountain is practically finished, and to-morrow afternoon I am to have a reception to exhibit it. Everybody will be there, and I want you to be present also."
"Is that necessary?" he asked.
"For my purposes, yes. Don't ask me why. Don't question me at all. Only trust me and come."
She was speaking in a firm and rapid voice, and looking up he saw that her brows were contracted, her lips were set, her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her eyes were shining. He had never seen her like that before. "What is the secret of it?" he asked himself, but he only answered, after a brief pause:
"Very well, I will be there."
"That's all. I might have written, but I was afraid you might object, and I wished to make quite certain. Adieu!"
He had only bowed to her as she entered, and now she was going away without offering her hand.
"Roma," he said, in a voice that sounded choked.
She stopped but did not speak, and he felt himself growing hot all over.
"I'm relieved—so much relieved—to hear that you agree with what I said in my letter."
"The last—in which you wish me to forget you?"
"It is better so—far better. I am one of those who think that if either party to a marriage"—he was talking in a constrained way—"entertains beforehand any rational doubt about it, he is wiser to withdraw, even at the church door, rather than set out on a life-long voyage under doubtful auspices."
"Didn't we promise not to speak of this?" she said impatiently. Then their eyes met for a moment, and he knew that he was false to himself and that his talk of renunciation was a mockery.
"Roma," he said again, "if you want me in the future you must write."
Her face clouded over.
"For your own sake, you know...."
"Oh, that! That's nothing at all—nothing now."
"But people are insulting me about you, and...."
"Well—and you?"
The colour rushed to his cheeks and he smote the back of a chair with his clenched fist.
"I tell them...."
"I understand," she said, and her eyes began to shine again. But she only turned away, saying: "I'm sorry you are angry that I came."
"Angry!" he cried, and at the sound of his voice as he said the word their love for each other went thrilling through and through them.
The rain had begun to fall, and it was beating with smart strokes on the window panes.
"You can't go now," he said, "and since you are never to come here again there is something you ought to hear."
She took a seat immediately, unfastened her coat, and slipped it back on to her shoulders.
The thick-falling drops were drenching the piazza, and its pavement was bubbling like a lake.
"The rain will last for some time," said Rossi, looking out, "and the matter I speak of is one of some urgency, therefore it is better that you should hear it now."
Taking the pins out of her hat, Roma lifted it off and laid it in her lap, and began to pull off her gloves. The young head with its glossy hair and lovely face shone out with a new beauty.
Rossi hardly dared to look at her. He was afraid that if he allowed himself to do so he would fling himself at her feet. "How calm she is," he thought. "What is the meaning of it?"
He went to the bureau by the wall and took out a small round packet.
"Do you remember your father's voice?" he asked.
"That is all I do remember about my father. Why?"
"It is here in this cylinder."
She rose quickly and then slowly sat down again.
"Tell me," she said.
"When your father was deported to the Island of Elba, he was a prisoner at large, without personal restraint but under police supervision. The legal term ofdomicilio coattois from one year to five, but excuses were found and his banishment was made perpetual. He saw prisoners come and go, and in the sealed chamber of his tomb he heard echoes of the world outside."
"Did he ever hear of me?"
"Yes, and of myself as well. A prisoner brought him news of one David Rossi, and under that name and the opinions attached to it he recognised David Leone, the boy he had brought up and educated. He wished to send me a message."
"Was it about...."
"Yes. The letters of prisoners are read and copied, and to smuggle out by hand a written document is difficult or impossible. But at length a way was discovered. Some one sent a phonograph and a box of cylinders to one of the prisoners, and the little colony of exiled ones used to meet at your father's house to hear the music. Among the cylinders were certain blank ones. Your father spoke on to one of them, and when the time came for the owner of the phonograph to leave Elba, he brought the cylinder back with him. This is the cylinder your father spoke on to."
With an involuntary shudder she took out of his hands a circular cardboard-box, marked in print on the outside: "Selections from Faust," and in pencil on the inside of the lid: "For the hands of D. L. only—to be destroyed if Deputy David Rossi does not know where to find him."
The heavy rain had darkened the room, but by the red light of a dying fire he could see that her face had turned white.
"And this contains my father's voice?" she said.
"His last message."
"He is dead—two years dead—and yet...."
"Can you bear to hear it?"
"Go on," she said, hardly audibly.
He took back the cylinder, put it on the phonograph, wound up the instrument, and touched the lever. Through the strokes of the rain, lashing the window like a hundred whips, the whizzing noise of the machine began.
He was standing by her side, and he felt her hand on his arm.
Then through the sound of the rain and of the phonograph there came a clear, full voice:
"David Leone—your old friend Doctor Roselli sends you his dying message...."
The hand on Rossi's arm clutched it convulsively, and, in a choking whisper, Roma said:
"Wait! Give me one moment."
She was looking around the darkening room as if almost expecting a ghostly presence.
She bowed her head. Her breath came quick and fast.
"I am better now. Go on," she said.
The whirring noise began again, and after a moment the clear voice came as before:
"My son, the promise I made when we parted in London I fulfilled faithfully, but the letter I wrote you never came to your hands. It was meant to tell you who I was, and why I changed my name. That is too long a story now, and I must be brief. I am Prospero Volonna. My father was the last prince of that name. Except the authorities and their spies, nobody in Italy knows me as Roselli and nobody in EnglandasVolonna—nobody but one, my poor dear child, my daughter Roma."
The hand tightened on Rossi's arm, and his head began to swim.
"Little by little, in this grave of a living man, I have heard what has happened since I was banished from the world. The treacherous letter which called me back to Italy and decoyed me into the hands of the police was the work of a man who now holds my estates as the payment for his treachery."
"The Baron?"
Rossi had stopped the phonograph.
"Can you bear it?" he said.
The pale young face flushed with resolution.
"Go on," she said.
When the voice from the phonograph began again it was more tremulous and husky than before.
"After he had betrayed the father, what impulse of fear or humanity prompted him to take charge of the child, God alone, who reads all hearts, can say. He went to England to look for her, found her in the streets to which she had been abandoned by the faithlessness of the guardians to whom I left her, and shut their mouths by buying them to the perjury of burying the unknown body of an unfortunate being in the name of my beloved child."
The hand on Rossi's arm trembled feebly, and slipped down to his own hand. It was cold as ice. The voice from the phonograph was growing faint.
"She is now in Rome, living in the name that was mine in Italy, amid an atmosphere of danger and perhaps of shame. My son, save her from it. The man who betrayed the father may betray the daughter also. Take her from him. Rescue her. It is my dying prayer."
The hand in Rossi's hand was holding it tightly, and his blood was throbbing at his heart.
"David," the voice from the phonograph was failing rapidly, "when this shall come to your hands the darkness of the grave will be over me.... In my great distress of mind I torture myself with many terrors.... Do not trifle with my request. But whatever you decide to do ... be gentle with the child.... I dream of her every night, and send my heart's heart to her on the swelling tides of love.... Adieu, my son. The end is near. God be with you in all you do that I did ill or left undone. And if death's great sundering does not annihilate the memory of those who remain on earth, be sure you have a helper and an advocate in heaven."
The voice ceased, the whirring of the instrument came to an end, and an invisible spirit seemed to fade into the air. The pattering of the rain had stopped, and there was the crackle of cab wheels on the pavement below. Roma had dropped Rossi's hand, and was leaning forward on her knees with both hands over her face. After a moment, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and began to put on her hat.
"How long is it since you received this message?" she said.
"On the night you came here first."
"And when I asked you to come to my house on that ... that useless errand, you were thinking of ... of my father's request as well?"
"Yes."
"You have known all this about the Baron for a month, yet you have said nothing.Whyhave you said nothing?"
"You wouldn't have believed me at first, whatever I had said against him."
"But afterwards?"
"Afterwards I had another reason."
"Did it concern me?"
"Yes."
"And now?"
"Now that I have to part from you I am compelled to tell you what he is."
"But if you had known that all this time he has been trying to use somebody against you...."
"That would have made no difference."
She lifted her head, and a look of fire, almost of fierceness, came into her face, but she only said, with a little hysterical cry, as if her throat were swelling:
"Come to me to-morrow, David! Be sure you come! If you don't come I shall never, never forgive you! But you will come! You will! You will!"
And then, as if afraid of breaking out into sobs, she turned quickly and hurried away.
"She can never fall into that man's hands now," he thought. And then he lit his lamp and sat down to his work, but the light was gone, and the night had fallen on him.
Next morning David Rossi had not yet risen when some one knocked at his door. It was Bruno. The great fellow looked nervous and troubled, and he spoke in a husky whisper.
"You're not going to Donna Roma's to-day, sir?"
"Why not, Bruno?"
"Have you seen her bust of yourself?"
"Hardly at all."
"Just so. My case, too. She has taken care of that—locking it up every night, and getting another caster to cast it. But I saw it the first morning after she began, and I know what it is."
"What is it, Bruno?"
"You'll be angry again, sir."
"What is it?"
"Judas—that's what it is, sir; the study for Judas in the fountain for the Municipality."
"Is that all?"
"All?... But it's a caricature, a spiteful caricature! And you sat four days and never even looked at it! I tell you it's disgusting, sir. Simply disgusting. It's been done on purpose, too. When I think of it I forget all you said, and I hate the woman as much as ever. And now she is to have a reception, and you are going to it, just to help her to have her laugh. Don't go, sir! Take the advice of a fool, and don't go!"
"Bruno," said Rossi, lying with his head on his arm, "understand me once for all. Donna Roma may have used my head as a study for Judas—I cannot deny that since you say it is so—but if she had used it as a study for Satan, I would believe in her the same as ever."
"You would?"
"Yes, by God! So now, like a good fellow, go away and leave her alone."
The streets were more than usually full of people when Rossi set out for the reception. Thick groups were standing about the hoardings, reading a yellow placard, which was still wet with the paste of the bill-sticker. It was a proclamation, signed by the Minister of the Interior, and it ran:
"Romans,—It having come to the knowledge of the Government that a set of misguided men, the enemies of the throne and of society, known to be in league with the republican, atheist, and anarchist associations of foreign countries, are inciting the people to resist the just laws made by their duly elected Parliament, and sanctioned by their King, thus trying to lead them into outbreaks that would be unworthy of a cultivated and generous race, and would disgrace us in the view of other nations—the Government hereby give notice that they will not allow the laws to be insulted with impunity, and therefore they warn the public against the holding of all such mass meetings in public buildings, squares, and streets, as may lead to the possibility of serious disturbances."
The little Piazza of Trinità de' Monti was full of carriages, and Roma's rooms were thronged. David Rossi entered with the calmness of a man who is accustomed to personal observation, but Roma met him with an almost extravagant salutation.
"Ah, you have come at last," she said in a voice that was intended to be heard by all. And then, in a low tone, she added, "Stay near me, and don't go until I say you may."
Her face had the expression that had puzzled him the day before, but with the flushed cheeks, the firm mouth and the shining eyes, there was now a strange look of excitement, almost of hysteria.
The company was divided into four main groups. Thefirst of them consisted of Roma's aunt, powdered and perfumed, propped up with cushions on an invalid chair, and receiving the guests by the door, with the Baron Bonelli, silent and dignified, but smiling his icy smile, by her side. A second group consisted of Don Camillo and some ladies of fashion, who stood by the window and made little half-smothered trills of laughter. The third group included Lena and Olga, the journalists, with Madame Sella, the modiste; and the fourth group was made up of the English and American Ambassadors, Count Mario, and some other diplomatists.
The conversation was at first interrupted by the little pauses that follow fresh arrivals; and after it had settled down to the dull buzz of a beehive, when the old brood and her queen are being turned out, it consisted merely of hints, giving the impression of something in the air that was scandalous and amusing, but could not be talked about.
"Have you heard that" ... "Is it true that" ... "No?" "Can it be possible?" "How delicious!" and then inaudible questions and low replies, with tittering, tapping of fans, and insinuating glances.
But Roma seemed to hear everything that was said about her, and constantly broke in upon a whispered conversation with disconcerting openness.
"That man here!" said one of the journalists at Rossi's entrance. "In the same room with the Prime Minister!" said another. "After that disgraceful scene in the House, too!"
"I hear that he was abominably rude to the Baron the other day," said Madame Sella.
"Rude? He has blundered shockingly, and offended everybody. They tell me the Vatican is now up in arms against him, and is going to denounce him and all his ways."
"No wonder! He has made himself thoroughly disagreeable, and I'm only surprised that the Prime Minister...."
"Oh, leave the Prime Minister alone. He has something up his sleeve.... Haven't you heard why we are invited here to-day? No? Not heard that...."
"Really! So that explains ... I see, I see!" and then more tittering and tapping of fans.
"Certainly, he is an extraordinary man, and one of the first statesmen in Europe."
"It's so unselfish of you to say that," said Roma, flashinground suddenly, "for the Minister has never been a friend of journalists, and I've heard him say that there wasn't one of them who wouldn't sell his mother's honour if he thought he could make a sensation."
"Love?" said the voice of Don Camillo in the silence that followed Roma's remark. "What has marriage to do with love except to spoil it?" And then, amidst laughter, and the playful looks of the ladies by whom he was surrounded, he gave a gay picture of his own poverty, and the necessity of marrying to retrieve his fortunes.
"What would you have? Look at my position! A great name, as ancient as history, and no income. A gorgeous palace, as old as the pyramids, and no cook!"
"Don't be so conceited about your poverty, Gi-gi," said Roma. "Some of the Roman ladies are as poor as the men. As for me, Madame Sella could sell up every stick in my house to-morrow, and if the Municipality should throw up my fountain...."
"Senator Palomba," said Felice's sepulchral voice from the door.
The suave, oily little Mayor came in, twinkling his eyes and saying:
"Did I hear my name as I entered?"
"I was saying," said Roma, "that if the Municipality should throw up my fountain...."
The little man made an amusing gesture, and the constrained silence was broken by some awkward laughter.
"Roma," said the testy voice of the Countess, "I think I've done my duty by you, and now the Baron will take me back. Natalina! Where's Natalina?"
But half-a-dozen hands took hold of the invalid chair, and the Baron followed it into the bedroom.
"Wonderful man!" "Wonderful!" whispered various voices as the Minister's smile disappeared through the door.
The conversation had begun to languish when the Princess Bellini arrived, and then suddenly it became lively and general.
"I'm late, but do you know, my dear," she said, kissing Roma on both cheeks, "I've been nearly torn to pieces in coming. My carriage had to plough its way through crowds of people."
"Crowds?"
"Yes, indeed, and the streets are nearly impassable. Anotherdemonstration, I suppose! The poor must always be demonstrating."
"Ah! yes," said Don Camillo. "Haven't you heard the news, Roma?"
"I've been working all night and all day, and I have heard nothing," said Roma.
"Well, to prevent a recurrence of the disgraceful scene of yesterday, the King has promulgated the Public Security Act by royal decree, and the wonderful crisis is at an end."
"And now?"
"Now the Prime Minister is master of the situation, and has begun by proclaiming the mass meeting which was to have been held in the Coliseum."
"Good thing too," said Count Mario. "We've heard enough of liberal institutions lately."
"And of the scandalous speeches of professional agitators," said Madame Sella.
"And of the liberty of the press," said Senator Palomba. And then the effeminate old dandy, the fashionable dressmaker, and the oily little Mayor exchanged significant nods.
"Wait! Only wait!" said Roma, in a low voice, to Rossi, who was standing in silence by her side.
"Unhappy Italy!" said the American Ambassador. "With the largest array of titled nobility and the largest army of beggars. The one class sipping iced drinks in the piazzas during the playing of music, and the other class marching through the streets and conspiring against society."
"You judge us from a foreign standpoint, dear friend," said Don Camillo, "and forget our love of a pageant. The Princess says our poor are always demonstrating. We are all always demonstrating. Our favourite demonstration is a funeral, with drums beating and banners waving. If we cannot have a funeral we have a wedding, with flowers and favours and floods of tears. And when we cannot have either, we put up with a revolution, and let our Radical orators tell us of the wickedness of taxing the people's bread."
"Always their bread," said the Princess, with a laugh.
"In America, dear General, you are so tragically sincere, but in Italy we are a race of actors. The King, the Parliament, the Pope himself...."
"Shocking!" said the little Princess. "But if you had said as much of our professional agitators...."
"Oh, they are the most accomplished and successful actors,Princess. But we are all actors in Italy, from the greatest to the least, and the 'curtain' is to him who can score off everybody else."
"So," began the American, "to be Prime Minister in Rome...."
"Is to be the chief actor in Europe, and his leading part is that in which he puts an end to his adversary amidst a burst of inextinguishable laughter."
"What is he driving at?" said the English to the American Ambassador.
"Don't you know? Haven't you heard what is coming?" And then some further whispering.
"Wait, only wait!" said Roma.
"Gi-gi," said the Princess, "how stupid you are! You're all wrong about Roma. Look at her now. To think that men can be so blind! And the Baron is no better than the rest of you. He's too proud to believe what I tell him, but he'll learn the truth some day. He is here, of course? In the Countess's room, isn't he?... How do you like my dress?"
"It's perfect."
"Really? The black and the blue make a charming effect, don't they? They are the Baron's favourite colours. How agitated our hostess is! She seems to have all the world here. When are we to see the wonderful work? What's she waiting for? Ah, there's the Baron coming out at last!"
"They're all here, aren't they?" said Roma, looking round with flushed cheeks and flaming eyes at the jangling, slandering crew, who had insulted and degraded David Rossi.
"Take care," he answered, but she only threw up her head and laughed.
Then the company went down the circular iron staircase to the studio. Roma walked first with her rapid step, talking nervously and laughing frequently.
The fountain stood in the middle of the floor, and the guests gathered about it.
"Superb!" they exclaimed one after another. "Superb!" "Superb!"
The little Mayor was especially enthusiastic. He stood near the Baron, and holding up both hands he cried:
"Marvellous! Miraculous! Fit to take its place beside the masterpieces of old Rome!"
"But surely this is 'Hamlet' without the prince," saidthe Baron. "You set out to make a fountain representing Christ and His twelve apostles, and the only figure you leave unfinished is Christ Himself."
He pointed to the central figure above the dish, which was merely shaped out and indicated.
"Not only one, your Excellency," said Don Camillo. "Here is another unfinished figure—intended for Judas, apparently."
"I left them to the last on purpose," said Roma. "They were so important, and so difficult. But I have studies for both of them in the boudoir, and you shall give me your advice and opinion."
"The saint and the satyr, the God and the devil, the betrayed and the betrayer—what subjects for the chisel of the artist!" said Don Camillo.
"Just so," said the Mayor. "She must do the one with all the emotions of love, and the other with all the faculties of hate."
"Not that art," said Don Camillo, "has anything to do with life—that is to say, real life...."
"Why not?" said Roma sharply. "The artist has to live in the world, and he isn't blind. Therefore, why shouldn't he describe what he sees around him?"
"But is that art? If so, the artist is at liberty to give his views on religion and politics, and by the medium of his art he may even express his private feelings—return insults and wreak revenge."
"Certainly he may," said Roma; "the greatest artists have often done so." Saying this, she led the way upstairs, and the others followed with a chorus of hypocritical approval.
"It's only human, to say the least." "Of course it is!" "If she's a woman and can't speak out, or fight duels, it's a lady-like way, at all events." And then further tittering, tapping of fans, and significant nods at Rossi when his back was turned.
Two busts stood on pedestals in the boudoir. One of them was covered with a damp cloth, the other with a muslin veil. Going up to the latter first, Roma said, with a slightly quavering voice:
"It was so difficult to do justice to the Christ that I am almost sorry I made the attempt. But it came easier when I began to think of some one who was being reviled andhumiliated and degraded because he was poor and wasn't ashamed of it, and who was always standing up for the weak and the down-trodden, and never returning anybody's insult, however shameful and false and wicked, because he wasn't thinking of himself at all. So I got the best model I could in real life, and this is the result."
With that she pulled off the muslin veil and revealed the sculptured head of David Rossi, in a snow-white plaster cast. The features expressed pure nobility, and every touch was a touch of sympathy and love.
A moment of chilling silence was followed by an under-breath of gossip. "Who is it?" "Christ, of course." "Oh, certainly, but it reminds me of some one." "Who can it be?" "The Pope?" "Why, no; don't you see who it is?" "Is it really?" "How shameful!" "How blasphemous!"
Roma stood looking on with a face lighted up by two flaming eyes. "I'm afraid you don't think I've done justice to my model," she said. "That's quite true. But perhaps my Judas will please you better," and she stepped up to the bust that was covered by the wet cloth.
"I found this a difficult subject also, and it was not until yesterday evening that I felt able to begin on it."
Then, with a hand that trembled visibly, she took from the wall the portrait of her father, and offering it to the Minister, she said:
"Some one told me a story of duplicity and treachery—it was about this poor old gentleman, Baron—and then I knew what sort of person it was who betrayed his friend and master for thirty pieces of silver, and listened to the hypocrisy, and flattery, and lying of the miserable group of parasites who crowded round him because he was a traitor, and because he kept the purse."
With that she threw off the damp cloth, and revealed the clay model of a head. The face was unmistakable, but it expressed every baseness—cunning, arrogance, cruelty, and sensuality.
The silence was freezing, and the company began to turn away, and to mutter among themselves, in order to cover their confusion. "It's the Baron!" "No?" "Yes." "Disgraceful!" "Disgusting!" "Shocking!" "A scarecrow!"
Roma watched them for a moment, and then said: "You don't like my Judas? Neither do I. You're right—itisdisgusting."
And taking up in both hands a piece of thin wire, she cut the clay across, and the upper part of it fell face downward with a thud on to the floor.
The Princess, who stood by the side of the Baron, offered him her sympathy, and he answered in his icy smile:
"But these artists are all slightly insane, you know. That is an evil which must be patiently endured, without noticing too much the ludicrous side of it."
Then, stepping up to Roma, and handing back the portrait, the Baron said, with a slight frown:
"I must thank you for a very amusing afternoon, and bid you good-day."
The others looked after him, and interpreted his departure according to their own feelings. "He is done with her," they whispered. "He'll pay her out for this." And without more ado they began to follow him.
Roma, flushed and excited, bowed to them as they went out one by one, with a politeness that was demonstrative to the point of caricature. She was saying farewell to them for ever, and her face was lighted up with a look of triumphant joy. They tried to bear themselves bravely as they passed her, but her blazing eyes and sweeping curtseys made them feel as if they were being turned out of the house.
When they were all gone, she shut the door with a bang, and then turning to David Rossi, who alone remained, she burst into a flood of hysterical tears, and threw herself on to her knees at his feet.
"David!" she cried.
"Don't do that. Get up," he answered.
His thoughts were in a whirl. He had been standing aside, trembling for Roma as he had never trembled for himself in the hottest moments of his public life. And now he was alone with her, and his blood was beating in his breast in stabs.
"Haven't I done enough?" she cried. "You taunted me with my wealth, but I am as poor as you are now. Every penny I had in the world came from the Baron. He allowed me to use part of the revenues of my father's estates, but the income was under his control, and now he will stop it altogether. I am in debt. I have always been in debt. That wasmy benefactor's way of reminding me of my dependence on his bounty. And now allIhave will be sold to satisfy my creditors, and I shall be turned out homeless."
"Roma...." he began, but her tears and passion bore down everything.
"House, furniture, presents, carriages, horses, everything will go soon, and I shall have nothing whatever! No matter! You said a woman loved ease and wealth and luxury. Is that all a woman loves? Is there nothing else in the world for any of us? Aren't you satisfied with me at last?"
"Roma," he answered, breathing hard, "don't talk like that. I cannot bear it."
But she did not listen. "You taunted me with being a woman," she said through a fresh burst of tears. "A woman was incapable of friendship and sacrifices. She was intended to be a man's plaything. Do you think I want to be my husband's mistress? I want to be his wife, to share his fate, whatever it may be, for good or bad, for better or worse."
"For God's sake, Roma!" he cried. But she broke in on him again.
"You taunted me with the dangers you had to go through, as if a woman must needs be an impediment to her husband, and try to keep him back. Do you think I want my husband to do nothing? If he were content with that he would not be the man I had loved, and I should despise him and leave him."
"Roma!..."
"Thenyoutaunted me with the death that hangs over you. When you were gone I should be left to the mercy of the world. But that can never happen. Never! Do you think a woman can outlive the man she loves as I love you?... There! I've said it. You've shamed me into it."
He could not speak now. His words were choking in his throat, and she went on in a torrent of tears:
"The death that threatens you comes from no fault of yours, but only from your fidelity to my father. Therefore I have a right to share it, and I will not live when you are dead."
"If I give way now," he thought, "all is over."
And clenching his hands behind his back to keep himself from throwing his arms around her, he began in a low voice:
"Roma, you have broken your promise to me."
"Idon'tcare," she interrupted. "I would break tenthousand promises. I deceived you. I confess it. I pretended to be reconciled to your will, and I was not reconciled. I wanted you to see me strip myself of all I had, that you might have no answer and excuse. Well, you have seen me do it, and now ... what are you going to donow?"
"Roma," he began again, trembling all over, "there have been two men in me all this time, and one of them has been trying to protect you from the world and from yourself, while the other ... the other has been wanting you to despise all his objections, and trample them under your feet.... If I could only believe that you know all you are doing, all the risk you are running, and the fate you are willing to share ... but no, it is impossible."
"David," she cried, "you love me! If you didn't love me, I should know it now—at this moment. But I am braver than you are...."
"Let me go. I cannot answer for myself."
"I am braver than you are, for I have not only stripped myself of all my possessions, and of all my friends ... I have even compromised myself again and again, and been daring and audacious, and rude to everybody for your sake.... I, a woman ... while you, a man ... you are afraid ... yes, afraid ... you are a coward—that's it, a coward!... No, no, no! What am I saying?... David Leone!"
And with a cry of passion and remorse she flung both arms about his neck.
He had stood, during this fierce struggle of love and pain, holding himself in until his throbbing nerves could bear the strain no longer.
"Come to me, then—come to me," he cried, and at the moment when she threw herself upon him he stretched out his arms to receive her.
"You do love me?" she said.
"Indeed, yes! And you?"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
He clasped her in his arms with redoubled ardour, and pressed her to his breast and kissed her. The love so long pent up was bursting out like a liberated cataract that sweeps the snow and the ice before it.
All at once the girl who had been so brave in the great battle of her love became weak and womanish in the moment of her victory. Under the warmth of his tenderness shedropped her head on to his breast to conceal her face in her shame.
"You will never think the worse of me?" she faltered.
"The worse of you! For loving me?"
"For telling you so and forcing myself into your life?"
"My darling, no!"
She lifted her head, and he kissed away the tears that were shining in her eyes.
"But tell me," he said, "are you sure—quite sure? Do you know what is before you?"
"I only know I love you."
He folded her afresh in his strong embrace, and kissed her head as it lay on his breast.
"Think again," he said. "A man's enemies can be merciless. They may watch you and put pressure upon you, and even humiliate you for my sake."
"No matter, I am not afraid," she answered, and again he tightened his arms about her in a passionate embrace, and covered her hair and her neck and her hands and her finger-tips with kisses.
They did not speak for a long time after that. There was no need for words. He was conquered, yet he was conqueror, and she was happy and at peace. The long fight was over, and everything was well.
He put her to sit in a chair, and sat himself on the arm of it, with his face to her face, and her arms still round his neck. It was like a dream. She could scarcely believe it. He whom she had looked up to with adoration was caressing her. She was like a child in her joy, blushing and half afraid.
He ran his hand through her hair and kissed her forehead. She threw back her head that she might put her lips to his forehead in return, and he kissed her full, round throat.
Then they exchanged rings as the sign of their eternal union. When she put her diamond ring, set in gold, on to his finger, he looked grave and even sad; but when he put his plain silver one on to hers, she lifted up her glorified hand to the light, and kissed and kissed it.
They began to talk in low tones, as if some one had been listening. It was the whispering of their hearts, for the angel of happy love has no voice louder than a whisper. She asked him to say again that he loved her, but as soon as he began to say it she stopped his mouth with a kiss.
They talked of their love. She was sure she had loved him before he loved her, and when he said that he had loved her always, she protested in that case he did not love her at all.
They rose at length to close the windows, and side by side, his arm about her waist, her head leaning lightly on his shoulder, they stood for a moment looking out. The mother of cities lay below in its lightsome whiteness, and over the ridge of its encircling hills the glow of the departing sun was rising in vaporous tints of amber and crimson into the transparent blue, with the dome of St. Peter's, like a balloon ready to rise into a celestial sky.
"A storm is coming," he said, looking at the colours in the sunset.
"It has come and gone," she whispered, and then his arm folded closer about her waist.
It took him half-an-hour to say adieu. After the last kiss and the last handshake, their arms would stretch out to the utmost limit, and then close again for another and another and yet another embrace.
When at length Rossi was gone, Roma ran into her bedroom to look at her face in the glass. The golden complexion was heightened by a bright spot on either cheek, and a teardrop was glistening in the corner of each of her eyes.
She went back to the boudoir. David Rossi was no longer there, but the room seemed to be full of his presence. She sat in the chair again, and again she stood by the window. At length she opened her desk and wrote a letter:—
"Dearest,—You are only half-an-hour gone, and here I am sending this letter after you, like a handkerchief you had forgotten. I have one or two things to say, quite matter-of-fact and simple things, but I cannot think of them sensibly for joy of the certainty that you love me. Of course I knew it all the time, but I couldn't be at ease until I had heard it from your own lips; and now I feel almost afraid of my great happiness. How wonderful it seems! And, like all events that are long expected, how suddenly it has happened in the end. To think that a month ago—only a little month—youand I were both in Rome, within a mile of each other, breathing the same air, enclosed by the same cloud, kissed by the same sunshine, and yet we didn't know it!
"Soberly, though, I want you to understand that I meant all I said so savagely about going on with your work, and not letting your anxiety about my welfare interfere with you. I am really one of the women who think that a wife should further a man's aims in life if she can; and if she can't do that, she should stand aside and not impede him. So go on, dear heart, without fear for me. I will take care of myself, whatever occurs. Don't let one hour or one act of your life be troubled by the thought of what would happen to me if you should fall. Dearest, I am your beloved, but I am your soldier also, ready and waiting to follow where my captain calls:
"'Teach me, only teach, Love!As I oughtI will speak thy speech, Love!Think thy thought.'
"And if I was not half afraid that you would think it bolder than is modest in your bride to be, I would go on with the next lines of my sweet quotation.
"Another thing. You went away without saying you forgive me for the wicked duplicity I practised upon you. It was very wrong, I suppose, and yet for my life I cannot get up any real contrition on the subject. There's always some duplicity in a woman. It is the badge of every daughter of Eve, and it must come out somewhere. In my case it came out in loving you to all the lengths and ends of love, and drawing you on to loving me. I ought to be ashamed, but I'm not—I'm glad.
"Ididlove first, and, of course, I knew you from the beginning, and when you wrote about being in love with some one else, I knew quite well you meant me. But it was so delicious to pretend not to know, to come near and then to sheer off again, to touch and then to fly, to tempt you and then to run away, until a strong tide rushed at me and overwhelmed me, and I was swooning in your arms at last.
"Dearest, don't think I made light of the obstacles you urged against our union. I knew all the time that the risks of marriage were serious, though perhaps I am not in a position even yet to realise how serious they may be. Only I knew also that the dangers were greater still if we kept apart,and that gave me courage to be bold and to defy conventions.
"Which brings me to my last point, and please prepare to be serious, and bend your brow to that terrible furrow which comes when you are fearfully in earnest. What you said of your enemies being merciless, and perhaps watching me and putting pressure upon me to injure you, is only too imminent a danger. The truth is that I have all along known more than I had courage to tell, but I was hoping you would understand, and now I tremble to think how I have suffered myself to be silent.
"The Minghelli matter is an alarming affair, for I have reason to believe that the man has lit on the name you bore in England, and that when he returns to Rome he will try to fix it upon you by means of me. This is fearful to contemplate, and my heart quakes to think of it. But happily there is a way to checkmate such a devilish design, and it is within your own power to save me from life-long remorse.
"I don't think the laws of any civilized country compel a man'swifeto compromise him, and thinking of this gives me courage to be unmaidenly and say: Don't let it be long, dearest! I could die to bring it to pass in a moment. With all my great, great happiness, I shall have the heartache until it is done, and only when it is over shall I begin to live.
"There! You didn't know what a forward hussy I could be if I tried, and really I have been surprised at myself since I began to be in love with you. For weeks and weeks I have been thin and haggard and ugly, and only to-day I begin to be a little beautiful. I couldn't be anything but beautiful to-day, and I've been running to the glass to look at myself, as the only way to understand why you love me at all. And I'm glad—so glad for your sake.
"Good-bye, dearest! You cannot come to-morrow or the next day, and what a lot I shall have to live before I see you again! Shall I look older? No, for thinking of you makes me feel younger and younger every minute. How old are you? Thirty-four? I'm twenty-four and a half, and that is just right, but if you think I ought to be nearer your age I'll wear a bonnet and fasten it with a bow.
"Roma.
"P.S.—Don't delay the momentous matter. Don't! Don't! Don't!"
She dined alone that night that she might be undisturbed in her thoughts of Rossi. Ordinary existence had almost disappeared from her consciousness, and every time Felice spoke as he served the dishes his voice seemed to come from far away.
She went to bed early, but it was late before she slept. For a long time she lay awake to think over all that had happened, and, when the night was far gone, and she tried to fall asleep in order to dream of it also, she could not do so for sheer delight of the prospect. But at last amid the gathering clouds of sleep she said "Good-night," with the ghost of a kiss, and slept until morning.
When she awoke it was late, and the sun was shining into the room. She lay on her back and stretched out both arms for sheer sweetness of the sensation of health and love. Everything was well, and she was very happy. Thinking of yesterday, she was even sorry for the Baron, and told herself she had been too bold and daring.
But that thought was gone in a moment. Body and soul were suffused with joy, and she leapt out of bed with a spring.
A moment afterwards Natalina came with a letter. It was from the Baron himself, and it was dated the day before:—
"Minghelli has returned from London, and therefore I must see you to-morrow at eleven o'clock. Be so good as to be at home, and give orders that for half-an-hour at least we shall be quite undisturbed."
Then the sun went out, the air grew dull, and darkness fell over all the world.