Next morning David Rossi arrived early.
"Now we must get to work in earnest," said Roma. "I think I see my way
at last."
It was not John the beloved disciple, John who lay in the bosom of his
Lord. It was Peter, the devoted, stalwart, brave individual, human,
erring but glorious Peter. "Thou art Peter, and on this rock I build my
church."
"Same position as before. Eyes the other way. Thank you!... Afraid you
didn't enjoy yourself last night--no?"
"At the theatre? I was interested. But the human spectacle was perhaps
more to me than the artistic one. I am no artist, you see.... How did
_you_ become a sculptor?"
"Oh, I studied a little in the studios of Paris, where I went to school,
you see."
"But you were born in London?"
"Yes."
"Why did you come to Rome?"
"Rome was the home of my people, you know. And then there was my
name--Roma!"
"I knew a Roma long ago."
"Really? Another Roma?"
There was a tremor in her voice.
"It was the little daughter of the friend I've spoken about."
"How interest ... No, at the window, please--that will do."
Roma was choking with a sense of duplicity, but save for a turn of the
head David Rossi gave no sign.
"She was only seven when I saw her last."
"That was long ago, you say?"
"Seventeen years ago."
"Then she will be the same age as...."
"The first time I saw her she was only three, and she was in her
nightdress ready for bed."
Roma laughed a little, but she knew that every note in her voice was
confused and false.
"She said her prayers with a little lisp at that time. 'Our Fader oo art
in heben, alud be dy name.'"
He laughed a little now, as he mimicked the baby voice. They laughed
together, then they looked at each other, and then with serious eyes
they turned away.
"You'll think it strange, but I date my first conscious and definite
aspiration to the memory of that hour."
"Really?"
"Ten years afterward, when I was in America, the words of that prayer
came back to me in Roma's little lisp. 'Dy kingum tum. Dy will be done
on eard as it is in heben.'"
For some time after that Roma worked on without speaking, feeling
feverish and restless. But just as the silence was becoming painful, and
she could bear it no longer, Felice came to announce lunch.
"You'll stay? I want so much to work on while I'm in the mood," she
said.
"With pleasure," he replied.
She ate hardly at all, for she was troubled by many misgivings. Did he
know her? He did; he must; every word, every tone seemed to tell her
that. Then why did he not speak out plainly? Because, having revealed
himself to her, he was waiting for her to reveal herself to him. And why
had she not done so? Because she was enmeshed in the nets of the society
she lived in; because she was ashamed of the errand that had brought
them together; and most of all because she had not dared to lay bare
that secret of his life which, like an escaped convict, dragged behind
it the broken chain of the prison-house.
_David Leone is dead!_ To uncover, even to their own eyes only, the fact
that lay hidden behind those words was like personating the priest and
listening at the grating of the confessional!
No matter! She must do it! She must reveal herself as her heart and
instinct might direct. She must claim the parentage of the noblest soul
that ever died for liberty, and David Rossi must trust his secret to the
bond of blood which would make it impossible for her to betray the
foster-son of her own father.
Having come to this conclusion, the light seemed to break in her heavy
sky, but the clouds were charged with electricity. As they returned to
the studio she was excited and a little hysterical, for she thought the
time was near. At that moment a regiment of soldiers passed along under
the ilex trees to the Pincio, with their band of music playing as they
marched.
"Ah, the dear old days!" said David Rossi. "Everything reminds me of
them! I remember that when she was six...."
"Roma?"
"Yes--a regiment of troops returned from a glorious campaign, and the
doctor took us to see the illuminations and rejoicings. We came to a
great piazza almost as large as the piazza of St. Peter's, with
fountains and a tall column in the middle of it."
"I know--Trafalgar Square!"
"Dense crowds covered the square, but we found a place on the steps of a
church."
"I remember--St. Martin's Church. You see, I know London."
"The soldiers came in by the big railway station close by...."
"Charing Cross, isn't it."
"And they marched to the tune of the 'British Grenadiers' and the
thunder of fifty thousand throats. And as their general rode past, a
beacon of electric lights in the centre of the square blazed out like an
aureole about the statue of a great Englishman who had died long ago for
the cause which had then conquered."
"Gordon!" she cried--she was losing herself every moment.
"'Look, darling!' said the doctor to little Roma. And Roma said, 'Papa,
is it God?' I was a tall boy then, and stood beside him. 'She'll never
forget that, David,' he said."
"And she didn't ... she couldn't ... I mean.... Have you ever told me what
became of her?"
She would reveal herself in a moment--only a moment--after all, it was
delicious to play with this sweet duplicity.
"Have you?" she said in a tremulous voice.
His head was down. "Dead!" he answered, and the tool dropped out of her
hand on to the floor.
"I was five years in America after the police expelled me from London,
and when I returned to England I went back to the little shop in Soho."
She was staring at him and holding her breath. He was looking out of the
window.
"The same people were there, and their own daughter was a grown-up girl,
but Roma was gone."
She could hear the breath in her nostrils.
"They told me she had been missing for a week, and then ... her body had
been found in the river."
She felt like one struck dumb.
"The man took me to the grave. It was the grave of her mother in Kensal
Green, and under her mother's name I read her own inscription--'Sacred
also to the memory of Roma Roselli, found drowned in the Thames, aged
twelve years.'"
The warm blood which had tingled through her veins was suddenly frozen
with horror.
"Not to-day," she thought, and at that moment a faint sound of the band
on the Pincio came floating in by the open window.
"I must go," said David Rossi, rising.
Then she recovered herself and began to talk on other subjects. When
would he come again? He could not say. The parliamentary session opened
soon. He would be very busy.
When David Rossi was gone Roma went upstairs, and Natalina met her
carrying two letters. One of them was going to the post--it was from the
Countess to the Baron. The other was from the Baron to herself.
"MY DEAREST ROMA,--A thousand thanks for the valuable clue about
the Grand Hotel. Already we have followed up your lead, and we
find that the only David Rossi who was ever a waiter there gave as
reference the name of an Italian baker in Soho. Minghelli has gone
to London, and I am sending him this further information. Already
he is fishing in strange waters, and I am sure you are dying to
know if he has caught anything. So am I, but we must possess our
souls in patience.
"But, my dearest Roma, what is happening to your handwriting? It
is so shaky nowadays that I can scarcely decipher some of
it.--With love.
"B."