"He came to you from Santo Spirito and you got a hundred francs with him
at first, and then you built this pergola."
"If your Excellency is from the Foundling, you may tell them again, as I
told the priest who came before, that we never took a boy from there,
and we had no money from the people who sent him to London."
"You don't remember him, then?"
"Certainly not."
"Nor you?"
The old woman hesitated, and the old man made mouths at her.
"No, Excellency."
David Rossi took a long breath. "Here is the amount of your bill, and
something over. Good-bye!"
The timid lad brought round the horses and the riders prepared to mount.
Roma was looking at the boy with pitying eyes.
"How long have you been here?" she asked.
"Ten years, Excellency," he replied.
He was just twelve years of age and both his parents were dead.
"Poor little fellow!" said Roma, and before David Rossi could prevent
her she was emptying her purse into the boy's hand.
They set off at a trot, and for some time they did not exchange a word.
The sun was sinking and the golden day was dying down. Over the broad
swell of the Campagna, treeless, houseless, a dull haze was creeping
like a shroud, and the long knotted grass was swept by the chill breath
of evening. Nothing broke the wide silence of the desolate space except
the lowing of cattle, the bleat of sheep that were moving in masses like
the woolly waves of a sea, the bark of big white dogs, the shouts of
cowherds carrying long staves, and of shepherds riding on shaggy ponies.
Here and there were wretched straw huts, with groups of fever-stricken
people crouching over the embers of miserable fires, and here and there
were dirty pothouses, which alternated with wooden crosses of the Christ
and grass-covered shrines of the Madonna.
The rhythm of the saddles ceased and the horses walked.
"Was that the place where you were brought up?" said Roma.
"Yes."
"And those were the people who sold you into slavery, so to speak?"
"Yes."
"And you could have confounded them with one word, and did not!"
"What was the use? Besides, they were not the first offenders."
"No; your father was more to blame. Don't you feel sometimes as if you
could hate him for what he has made you suffer?"
David Rossi shook his head. "I was saved from that bitterness by the
saint who saved me from so much besides. 'Don't try to find out who
your father is, David,' he said, 'and if by chance you ever do find out,
don't return evil for evil, and don't avenge yourself on the world.
By-and-bye the world will know you for what you are yourself, not for
what your father is. Perhaps your father is a bad man, perhaps he isn't.
Leave him to God!'"
"It's a terrible thing to think evil of one's own father, isn't it?"
said Roma, but David Rossi did not reply.
"And then--who knows?--perhaps some day you may discover that your
father deserved your love and pity after all."
"Perhaps!"
They had drawn up at another house under a thick clump of eucalyptus
trees. It was the Trappist Monastery of Tre Fontane. Silence was
everywhere in this home of silence.
They went up on to the roof. From that height the whole world around
seemed to be invaded by silence.
It was the silence of all sacred things, the silence of the mass; and
the undying paganism in the hearts of the two that stood there had its
eloquent silence also.
Roma was leaning on the parapet with David Rossi behind her, when
suddenly she began to weep. She wept violently and sobbed.
"What is it?" he asked, but she did not answer.
After a while she grew calm and dried her eyes, called herself foolish,
and began to laugh. But the heart-beats were too audible without saying
something, and at length she tried to speak.
"It was the poor boy at the inn," she said; "the sight of his sweet face
brought back a scene I had quite forgotten," and then, in a faltering
voice, turning her head away, she told him everything.
"It was in London, and my father had found a little Roman boy in the
streets on a winter's night, carrying a squirrel and playing an
accordion. He wore a tattered suit of velveteens, and that was all that
sheltered his little body from the cold. His fingers were frozen stiff,
and he fainted when they brought him into the house. After a while he
opened his eyes, and gazed around at the fire and the faces about him,
and seemed to be looking for something. It was his squirrel, and it was
frozen dead. But he grasped it tight and big tears rolled on to his
cheeks, and he raised himself as if to escape. He was too weak for that,
and my father comforted him and he lay still. That was when I saw him
first; and looking at the poor boy at the inn I thought ... I thought
perhaps he was another ... perhaps my little friend of long ago...."
Her throat was throbbing, and her faltering voice was failing like a
pendulum that is about to stop.
"Roma!" he cried over her shoulder.
"David!"
Their eyes met, their hands clasped, their pent-up secret was out, and
in the dim-lit catacombs of love two souls stood face to face.
"How long have you known it?" she whispered.
"Since the night you came to the Piazza Navona. And you?"
"Since the moment I heard your voice." And then she shuddered and
laughed.
When they left the house of silence a blessed hush had fallen on them, a
great wonder which they had never known before, the wonder of the
everlasting miracle of human hearts.
The sun was sitting behind Rome in a glorious blaze of crimson, with the
domes of churches glistening in the horizontal rays, and the dark globe
of St. Peter's hovering over all. The mortal melancholy which had been
lying over the world seemed to be lifted away, and the earth smiled with
flowers and the heavens shone with gold.
Only the rhythmic cadence of the saddles broke the silence as they swung
to the movement of the horses. Sometimes they looked at each other, and
then they smiled, but they did not speak.
The sun went down, and there was a far-off ringing of bells. It was Ava
Maria. They drew up the horses for a moment and dropped their heads.
Then they started again.
The night chills were coming, and they rode hard. Roma bent over the
mane of her horse and looked proud and happy.
Grooms were waiting for them at the gate of St. Paul, and, giving up
their horses, they got into a carriage. When they reached Trinità de'
Monti the lamplighter was lighting the lamps on the steps of the piazza,
and Roma said in a low voice, with a blush and a smile:
"Don't come in to-night--not to-night, you know."
She wanted to be alone.