"DEAR GUARDIAN,--But I'm not--I'm not! I'm not in the least
anxious to hear of what Mr. Minghelli is doing in London, because
I know he is doing nothing, and whatever he says, either through
his own mouth or the mouth of his Italian baker in Soho, I shall
never believe a word he utters. As to Mr. Rossi, I am now
perfectly sure that he does not identify me at all. He believes my
father's daughter is dead, and he has just been telling me a
shocking story of how the body of a young girl was picked out of
the Thames (about the time you took me away from London) and
buried in the name of Roma Roselli. He actually saw the grave and
the tombstone! Some scoundrel has been at work somewhere. Who is
it, I wonder?--Yours,
"R. V."
Having written this letter in the heat and haste of the first moment
after David Rossi's departure, she gave it to Bruno to post immediately.
"Just so!" said Bruno to himself, as he glanced at the superscription.
Next morning she dressed carefully, as if expecting David Rossi as
usual, but when he did not come she told herself she was glad of it.
Things had happened too hurriedly; she wanted time to breathe and to
think.
All day long she worked on the bust. It was a new delight to model by
memory, to remember an expression and then try to reproduce it. The
greatest difficulty lay in the limitation of her beautiful art. There
were so many memories, so many expressions, and the clay would take but
one of them.
The next day after that she dressed herself as carefully as before, but
still David Rossi did not come. No matter! It would give her time to
think of all he had said, to go over his words and stories.
Did he know her? Certainly he knew her! He must have known from the
first that she was her father's daughter, or he would never have put
himself in her power. His belief in her was such a sweet thing. It was
delicious.
Next day also David Rossi did not come, and she began to torture herself
with misgivings. Was he indifferent? Had all her day-dreams been
delusions? Little as she wished to speak to Bruno, she was compelled to
do so.
Bruno hardly lifted his eyes from his chisel and soft iron hammer.
"Parliament is to meet soon," he said, "and when a man is leader of a
party he has enough to do, you know."
"Ask him to come to-morrow. Say I wish for one more sitting--only one."
"I'll tell him," said Bruno, with a bob of his head over the block of
marble.
But David Rossi did not come the next day either, and Bruno had no
better explanation.
"Busy with his new 'Republic' now, and no time to waste, I can tell
you."
"He will never come again," she thought, and then everything around and
within her grew dark and chill.
She was sleeping badly, and to tire herself at night she went out to
walk in the moonlight along the path under the convent wall. She walked
as far as the Pincio gates, where the path broadens to a circular space
under a table of clipped ilexes, beneath which there is a fountain and
a path going down to the Piazza di Spagna. The night was soft and very
quiet, and standing under the deep shadows of the trees, with only the
cruel stars shining through, and no sound in the air save the sobbing of
the fountain, she heard a man's footstep on the gravel coming up from
below.
It was David Rossi. He passed within a few yards, yet he did not see
her. She wanted to call to him, but she could not do so. For a moment he
stood by the deep wall that overlooks the city, and then turned down the
path which she had come by. A trembling thought that was afraid to take
shape held her back and kept her silent, but the stars beat kindly in an
instant and the blood in her veins ran warm. She watched him from where
she stood, and then with a light foot she followed him at a distance.
It was true! He stopped at the parapet before the church, and looked up
at her windows. There was a light in one of them, and his eyes seemed to
be steadfastly fixed on it. Then he turned to go down the steps. He went
down slowly, sometimes stopping and looking up, then going on again.
Once more she tried to call to him. "Mr. Rossi." But her voice seemed to
die in her throat. After a moment he was gone, the houses had hidden
him, and the church clock was striking twelve.
When she returned to her bedroom and looked at herself in the glass, her
face was flushed and her eyes were sparkling. She did not want to sleep
at all that night, for the beating of her heart was like music, and the
moon and stars were singing a song.
"If I could only be quite, quite sure!" she thought, and next morning
she tackled Bruno.
Bruno was no match for her now, but he put down his shaggy head, like a
bull facing a stone fence.
"Tell you the honest truth, Donna Roma," he said, "Mr. Rossi is one of
those who think that when a man has taken up a work for the world it is
best if he has no ties of family."
"Really? Is that so?" she answered. "But I don't understand. He can't
help having father and mother, can he?"
"He can help having a wife, though," said Bruno, "and Mr. Rossi thinks a
public man should be like a priest, giving up home and love and so
forth, that others may have them more abundantly."
"So for that reason...."
"For that reason he doesn't throw himself in the way of temptation."
"And you think that's why...."
"I think that's why he keeps out of the way of women."
"Perhaps he doesn't care for them--some men don't, you know."
"Care for them! Mr. Rossi is one of the men who think pearls and
diamonds of women, and if he had to be cast on a desert island with
anybody, he would rather have one woman than a hundred thousand men."
"Ah, yes, but perhaps there's no 'one woman' in the world for him yet,
Bruno."
"Perhaps there is, perhaps there isn't," said Bruno, and his hammer fell
on the chisel and the white sparks began to fly.
"_You_ would soon see if there were, wouldn't you, Bruno?"
"Perhaps I would, perhaps I wouldn't," said Bruno, and then he wagged
his wise head and growled, "In the battle of love he wins who flies."
"Does _he_ say that, Bruno?"
"He does. One day our old woman was trying to lead him on a bit. 'A
heart to share your joys and sorrows is something in this world,' says
she."
"And what did Mr. Rossi say?"
"'A woman's love is the sweetest thing in the world,' he said; 'but if I
found myself caring too much for anybody I should run away.'"
"Did Mr. Rossi really say that, Bruno?"
"He did--upon my life he did!"
Bruno had the air of a man who had achieved a moral victory, and Roma,
whose eyes were dancing with delight, wanted to fall on his stupid,
sulky face and kiss and kiss it.
During the afternoon of the day following, the Princess Bellini came in
with Don Camillo. "Here's Gi-gi!" she cried. "He comes to say there's to
be a meet of the foxhounds on the Campagna to-morrow. If you'd like to
come I'll take you, and if you think Mr. Rossi will come too...."
"If he rides and has time to spare," said Roma.
"Precisely," said Don Camillo. "The worst of being a prophet is that it
gives one so much trouble to agree with one's self, you know. Rumour
says that our illustrious Deputy has been a little out of odour with his
own people lately, and is now calling a meeting to tell the world what
his 'Creed and Charter' doesn't mean. Still a flight into the country
might do no harm even to the stormy petrel of politics, and if any one
could prevail with him...."
"Leave that to Roma, and see to everything else yourself," said the
Princess. "On the way to that tiresome tea-room in the Corso, my dear.
'Charity and Work,' you know. Committee for the protection of poor
girls, or something. But we must see the old aunt first, I suppose. Come
in, Gi-gi!"
Three minutes afterwards Roma was dressed for the street, and her dog
was leaping and barking beside her.
"Carriage, Eccellenza?"
"Not to-day, thank you! Down, Black, down! Keep the dog from following
me, Felice."
As she passed the lodge the porter handed her an envelope bearing the
seal of the Minister, but she did not stop to open it. With a light step
she tripped along the street, hailed a _coupé_, cried "Piazza Navona,"
and then composed herself to read her letter.
When the Princess and Don Camillo came out of the Countess's room Roma
was gone, and the dog was scratching at the inside of the outer door.
"Now where can she have gone to so suddenly, I wonder? And there's her
poor dog trying to follow her!"
"Is that the dog that goes to the Deputy's apartment?"
"Certainly it is! His name is Black. I'll hold him while you open the
door, Felice. There! Good dog! Good Black! Oh, the brute, he has broken
away from me."
"Black! Black! Black!"
"No use, Felice. He'll he half way through the streets by this time."
And going down the stairs the little Princess whispered to her
companion: "Now, if Black comes home with his mistress this evening it
will be easy to see where _she_ has been."