Roma went to her bedroom when the Baron left her, and remained there
until late in the afternoon. In spite of the bold front she had put on,
she was quaking with terror and tortured by remorse. Never before had
she realised David Rossi's peril with such awful vividness, and seen her
own position in relation to him in its hideous nakedness.
Was it her duty to confess to David Rossi that at the beginning of their
friendship she had set out to betray him? Only so could she be secure,
only so could she be honest, only so could she be true to the love he
gave her and the trust he reposed in her.
Yet why should she confess? The abominable impulse was gone. Something
sweet and tender had taken its place. To confess to him now would be
cruel. It would wound his beautiful faith in her.
And yet the seeds she had sown were beginning to fructify. They might
spring up anywhere at any moment, and choke the life that was dearer to
her than her own. Thank God, it was still impossible to injure him
except by her will and assistance. But her will might be broken and her
assistance might be forced, unless the law could be invoked to protect
her against itself. It could and it should be invoked! When she was
married to David Rossi no law in Italy would compel her to witness
against him.
But if Rossi hesitated from any cause, if he delayed their marriage, if
he replied unfavourably to the letter in which she had put aside all
modesty and asked him to marry her soon--what then? How was she to
explain his danger? How was she to tell him that he must marry her
before Parliament rose, or she might be the means of expelling him from
the Chamber, and perhaps casting him into prison for life? How was she
to say: "I was Delilah; I set out to betray you, and unless you marry me
the wicked work is done!"
The afternoon was far spent; she had eaten nothing since morning, and
was lying face down on the bed, when a knock came to the door.
"The person in the studio to see you," said Felice.
It was Bruno in Sunday attire, with little Joseph in top-boots, and more
than ever like the cub of a young lion.
"A letter from him," said Bruno.
It was from Rossi. She took it without a word of greeting, and went back
to her bedroom. But when she returned a moment afterwards her face was
transformed. The clouds had gone from it and the old radiance had
returned. All the brightness and gaiety of her usual expression were
there as she came swinging into the drawing-room and filling the air
with the glow of health and happiness.
"_That's_ all right," she said. "Tell Mr. Rossi I shall expect to see
him soon ... or no, don't say that ... say that as he is over head and
ears in work this week, he is not to think it necessary.... Oh, say
anything you like," she said, and the pearly teeth and lovely eyes
broke into an aurora of smiles.
Bruno, whose bushy face and shaggy head had never once been raised since
he came into the room, said:
"He's busy enough, anyway--what with this big meeting coming off on
Wednesday, and the stairs to his room as full of people as the Santa
Scala."
"So you've brought little Joseph to see me at last?" said Roma.
"He has bothered my life out to bring him ever since you said he was to
be your porter some day."
"And why not? Gentlemen ought to call on the ladies, oughtn't they,
Joseph?"
And Joseph, whose curly poll had been hiding behind the leg of his
father's trousers, showed half of a face that was shining all over.
"See! See here--do you know who _this_ is? This gentleman in the bust?"
"Uncle David," said the boy.
"What a clever boy you are, Joseph!"
"Doesn't want much cleverness to know that, though," said Bruno. "It's
wonderful! it's magnificent! And it will shut up all their damned ...
excuse me, miss, excuse _me_."
"And Joseph still intends to be a porter?"
"Dead set on it, and says he wouldn't change his profession to be a
king."
"Quite right, too! And now let us look at something a little birdie
brought me the other day. Come along, Joseph. Here it is. Down on your
knees, gentleman, and help me to drag it out. One--two--and away!"
From the knee-hole of the desk came a large cardboard box, and Joseph's
eyes glistened like big black beads.
"Now, what do you think is in this box, Joseph? Can't guess? Give it up?
Sure? Well, listen! Are you listening? Which do you think you would like
best--a porter's cocked hat, or a porter's long coat, or a porter's mace
with a gilt hat and a tassel?"
Joseph's face, which had gleamed at every item, clouded and cleared,
cleared and clouded at the cruel difficulty of choice, and finally
looked over at Bruno for help.
"Choose now--which?"
But Joseph only sidled over to his father, and whispered something which
Roma could not hear.
"What does he say?"
"He says it is his birthday on Wednesday," said Bruno.
"Bless him! He shall have them all, then," said Roma, and Joseph's legs
as well as his eyes began to dance.
The cords were cut, the box was opened, the wonderful hat and coat and
mace were taken out, and Joseph was duly invested. In the midst of this
ceremony Roma's black poodle came bounding into the room, and when
Joseph strutted out of the boudoir into the drawing-room the dog went
leaping and barking beside him.
"Dear little soul!" said Roma, looking after the child; but Bruno, who
was sitting with his head down, only answered with a groan.
"What is the matter, Bruno?" she asked.
Bruno brushed his coat-sleeve across his eyes, set his teeth, and said
with a savage fierceness:
"What's the matter? Treason's the matter, telling tales and taking away
a good woman's character--that's what is the matter! A man who has been
eating your bread for years has been lying about you, and he is a rascal
and a sneak and a damned scoundrel, and I would like to kick him out of
the house."
"And who has been doing all this, Bruno?"
"Myself! It was I who told Mr. Rossi the lies that made him speak
against you on the day of the Pope's Jubilee, and when you asked him to
come here, I warned him against you, and said you were only going to pay
him back and ruin him."
"So you said that, did you?"
"Yes, I did."
"And what did Mr. Rossi say to you?"
"Say to me? 'She's a good woman,' says he, 'and if I have ever said
otherwise, I take it all back, and am ashamed.'"
Roma, who had turned to the window, heaved a sigh and said: "It has all
come out right in the end, Bruno. If you hadn't spoken against me to Mr.
Rossi, he wouldn't have spoken against me in the piazza, and then he and
I should never have met and known each other and been friends. All's
well that ends well, you know."
"Perhaps so, but the miracle doesn't make the saint, and you oughtn't to
keep me any longer."
"Do you mean that I ought to dismiss you?"
"Yes."
"Bruno," said Roma, "I am in trouble just now, and I may be in worse
trouble by-and-by. I don't know how long I may be able to keep you as a
servant, but I may want you as a friend, and if you leave me now...."
"Oh, put it like that, miss, and I'll never leave you, and as for your
enemies...."
Bruno was doubling up the sleeve of his right arm, when Joseph and the
poodle came back to the room. Roma received them with a merry cry, and
there was much noise and laughter. At length the gorgeous garments were
taken off, the cardboard box was corded, and Bruno and the boy prepared
to go.
"You'll come again, won't you, Joseph?" said Roma, and the boy's face
beamed.
"I suppose this little man means a good deal to his mother, Bruno?"
"Everything! I do believe she'd die, or disappear, or drown herself if
anything happened to that boy."
"And Mr. Rossi?"
"He's been a second father to the boy ever since the young monkey was
born."
"Well, Joseph must come here sometimes, and let me try and be a second
mother to him too.... What is he saying now?"
Joseph had dragged down his father's head to whisper something in his
ear.
"He says he's frightened of your big porter downstairs."
"Frightened of _him_! He is only a man, my precious! Tell him you are a
little Roman boy, and he'll _have_ to let you up. Will you remember? You
will? That's right! By-bye!"
Before going to sleep that night, Roma switched on the light that hung
above her head and read her letter again. She had been hoarding it up
for that secret hour, and now she was alone with it, and all the world
was still.
"_Saturday Night._
"MY DEAR ONE,--Your sweet letter brought me the intoxication of
delight, and the momentous matter you speak of is under way. It is
my turn to be ashamed of all the great to-do I made about the
obstacles to our union when I see how courageous you can be. Oh,
how brave women are--every woman who ever marries a man! To take
her heart into her hands, and face the unknown in the fate of
another being, to trust her life into his keeping, knowing that if
he falls she falls too, and will never be the same again! What
_man_ could do it? Not one who was ever born into the world. Yet
some woman does it every day, promising some man that she
will--let me finish your quotation--
"'Meet, if thou require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and
spirit In thy hands.'
"Don't think I am too much troubled about the Minghelli matter,
and yet it is pitiful to think how merciless the world can be even
in the matter of a man's name. A name is only a word, but it is
everything to the man who bears it--honour or dishonour, poverty
or wealth, a blessing or a curse. If it is a good name, everybody
tries to take it away from him, but if it's a bad name and he has
attempted to drop it, everybody tries to fix it on him afresh.
"The name I was compelled to leave behind me when I returned to
Italy was a bad name in nothing except that it was the name of my
father, and if the spies and ferrets of authority ever fix it upon
me God only knows what mischief they may do. But one thing _I_
know--that if they do fix my father's name upon me, and bring me
to the penalties which the law has imposed on it, it will not be
by help of my darling, my beloved, my brave, brave girl with the
heart of gold.
"Dearest, I wrote to the Capitol immediately on receiving your
letter, and to-morrow morning I will go down myself to see that
everything is in train. I don't yet know how many days are
necessary to the preparations, but earlier than Thursday it would
not be wise to fix the event, seeing that Wednesday is the day of
the great mass meeting in the Coliseum, and, although the police
have proclaimed it, I have told the people they are to come. There
is some risk at the outset, which it would be reckless to run, and
in any case the time is short.
"Good-night! I can't take my pen off the paper. Writing to you is
like talking to you, and every now and then I stop and shut my
eyes, and hear your voice replying. Only it is myself who make the
answers, and they are not half so sweet as they would be in
reality. Ah, dear heart, if you only knew how my life was full of
silence until you came into it, and now it is full of music!
Good-night, again! "D. R.
"_Sunday Morning._
"Just returned from the Capitol. The legal notice for the
celebration of a marriage is longer than I expected. It seems that
the ordinary term must be twelve days at least, covering two
successive Sundays (on which the act of publication is posted on
the board outside the office) and three days over. Only twelve
days more, my dear one, and you will be mine, mine, mine, and
all the world will know!"
It took Roma a good three-quarters of an hour to read this letter, for
nearly every word seemed to be written out of a lover's lexicon, which
bore secret meanings of delicious import, and imperiously demanded their
physical response from the reader's lips. At length she put it between
the pillow and her cheek, to help the sweet delusion that she was cheek
to cheek with some one and had his strong, protecting arms about her.
Then she lay a long time, with eyes open and shining in the darkness,
trying in vain to piece together the features of his face. But in the
first dream of her first sleep she saw him plainly, and then she ran,
she raced, she rushed to his embrace.
Next day brought a message from the Baron:
"DEAR ROMA,--Come to the Palazzo Braschi to-morrow (Tuesday)
morning at eleven o'clock. Don't refuse, and don't hesitate. If
you do not come, you will regret it as long as you live, and
reproach yourself for ever afterwards.--Yours,
"BONELLI."