Complete works of hall c.., p.343
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 343
“Hurrah! A piano!” said Roma, leaping up and seating herself at the instrument. “What shall I play for you, Joseph?”
Joseph was indifferent so long as it was a song, and with head aside, Roma touched the keys and pretended to think. After a moment of sweet duplicity she struck up the air she had come expressly to play.
It was the “British Grenadiers.” She sang a verse of it. She sang in English and with the broken pronunciation of a child —
“Some talk of Allisander, and some of Hergoles;
Of Hector and Eyesander, and such gate names as these...”
Suddenly she became aware that David Rossi was looking at her through the glass on the mantel-piece, and to keep herself from crying she began to laugh, and the song came to an end.
At the same moment the door burst open with a bang, and the dog came bounding into the room. Behind it came Elena, who said:
“It was scratching at the staircase door, and I thought it must have followed you.”
“Followed Mr. Rossi, you mean. He has stolen my dog’s heart away from me,” said Roma.
“That is what I say about my boy’s,” said Elena.
“But Joseph is going for a soldier, I see.”
“It’s a porter he wants to be.”
“Then so he shall — he shall be my porter some day,” said Roma, whereupon Joseph was frantic with delight, and Elena was saying to herself, “What wicked lies they tell of her — I wonder they are not ashamed!”
The fire was going down and the twilight was deepening.
“Shall I bring you the lamp, sir?” said Elena.
“Not for me,” said Roma. “I am going immediately.” But even when mother and child had gone she did not go. Unconsciously they drew nearer and nearer to each other in the gathering darkness, and as the daylight died their voices softened and there were quiet questions and low replies. The desire to speak out was struggling in the woman’s heart with the delight of silence. But she would reveal herself at last.
“I have been thinking a great deal about the story they told you in London — of Roma’s death and burial, I mean. Had you no reason to think it might be false?”
“None whatever.”
“It never occurred to you that it might be to anybody’s advantage to say that she was dead while she was still alive?”
“How could it? Who was to perpetrate a crime for the sake of the daughter of a poor doctor in Soho — a poor prisoner in Elba?”
“Then it was not until afterward that you heard that the poor doctor was a great prince?”
“Not until the night you were here before.”
“And you had never heard anything of his daughter in the interval?”
“Once I had! It was on the same day, though. A man came here from London on an infamous errand...”
“What was his name?”
“Charles Minghelli.”
“What did he say?”
“He said Roma Roselli was not dead at all, but worse than dead — that she had fallen into the hands of an evil man, and turned out badly.”
“Did you ... did you believe that story?”
“Not one word of it! I called the man a liar, and flung him out of the house.”
“Then you ... you think ... if she is still living....”
“My Roma is a good woman.”
Her face burned up to the roots of her hair. She choked with joy, she choked with pain. His belief in her purity stifled her. She could not speak now — she could not reveal herself. There was a moment of silence, and then in a tremulous voice she said:
“Will you not call me Roma, and try to think I am your little friend?”
When she came to herself after that she was back in her own apartment, in her aunt’s bedroom, and kissing the old lady’s angular face. And the Countess was breaking up the stupefaction of her enchantment with sighs and tears and words of counsel.
“I only want you to preserve yourself for your proper destiny, Roma. You are the fiancée of the Baron, as one might say, and the poor maniac can’t last long.”
Before dressing for dinner Roma replied to the Minister: —
“DEAR BARON BONELLI, — Didn’t I tell you that Minghelli would find out nothing? I am now more than ever sure that the whole idea is an error. Take my advice and drop it. Drop it! Drop it! I shall, at all events! — Yours,
“ROMA VOLONNA.
“Success to the dinner! Am sending Felice. He will give you this letter. — R. V.”
IX
It was the sweetest morning of the Roman winter. The sun shone with a gentle radiance, and the motionless air was fragrant with the odour of herbs and flowers. Outside the gate which leads to the old Appian Way grooms were waiting with horses, blanketed and hooded, and huntsmen in red coats, white breeches, pink waistcoats, and black boots, were walking their mounts to the place appointed for the meet. In a line of carriages were many ladies, some in riding-habits, and on foot there was a string of beggars, most of them deformed, with here and there, at little villages, a group of rosy children watching the procession as it passed.
The American and English Ambassadors were riding side by side behind a magnificent carriage with coachman and tiger in livery of scarlet and gold.
“Who would think, to look on a scene like this, that the city is seething with dissatisfaction?” said the Englishman.
“Rome?” said the American. “Its aristocratic indifference will not allow it to believe that here, as everywhere else in the world, great and fatal changes are going on all the time. These lands, for example — to whom do they belong? Nominally to the old Roman nobility, but really to the merchants of the Campagna — a company of middlemen who grew rich by leasing them from the princes and subletting them to the poor.”
“And the nobles themselves — how are they faring?”
“Badly! Already they are of no political significance, and the State knows them not.”
“They don’t appear to go into the army or navy — what do they go into?”
“Love!”
“And meantime the Italian people?”
“Meantime the great Italian people, like the great English people, the great German people, and the people of every country where the privileged classes still exist, are rising like a mighty wave to sweep all this sea-wrack high and dry on to the rocks.”
“And this wave of the people,” said the Englishman, inclining his head toward the carriage in front, “is represented by men like friend Rossi?”
“Would be, if he could keep himself straight,” said the American.
“And where is the Tarpeian rock of friend Rossi’s politics?”
The American slapped his glossy boot with his whip, lowered his voice, and said, “There!”
“Donna Roma?”
“A fortnight ago you heard his speech on the liveries of scarlet and gold, and look! He’s under them himself already.”
“You think there is no other inference?”
The American shook his head. “Always the way with these leaders of revolution. It’s Samson’s strength with Samson’s weakness in every mother’s son of them.”
“Good-morning, General Potter!” said a cheerful voice from the carriage in front.
It was Roma herself. She sat by the side of the little Princess, with David Rossi on the seat before them. Her eyes were bright, there was a glow in her cheeks, and she looked lovelier than ever in her close-fitting riding-habit.
At the meeting-place there was a vast crowd of on-lookers, chiefly foreigners, in cabs and carriages and four-in-hand coaches from the principal hotels. The Master of the Hunt was ready, with his impatient hounds at his feet, and around him was a brilliant scene. Officers in blue, huntsmen in red, ladies in black, jockeys in jackets, a sea of feathers and flowers and sunshades, with the neighing of the horses and yapping of the dogs, the vast undulating country, the smell of earth and herbs, and the morning sunlight over all.
Don Camillo was waiting with horses for his party, and they mounted immediately. The horse for Roma was a quiet bay mare with limpid eyes. General Potter helped her to the saddle, and she went cantering through the long lush grass.
“What has your charming young charge been doing with herself, Princess?” said the American. “She was always beautiful, but to-day she’s lovely.”
“She’s like Undine after she had found her soul,” said the Englishman.
The little Princess laughed. “Love and a cough cannot be hidden, gentlemen,” she whispered, with a look toward David Rossi.
“You don’t mean....”
“Hush!”
Meantime Rossi, in ordinary walking dress, was approaching the horse he was intended to ride. It was a high strong-limbed sorrel with wild eyes and panting nostrils. The English groom who held it was regarding the rider with a doubtful expression, and a group of booted and spurred huntsmen were closing around.
To everybody’s surprise, the deputy gathered up the reins and leaped lightly to the saddle, and at the next moment he was riding at Roma’s side. Then the horn was sounded, the pack broke into music, the horses beat their hoofs on the turf and the hunt began.
There was a wall to jump first, and everybody cleared it easily until it came to David Rossi’s turn, when the sorrel refused to jump. He patted the horse’s neck and tried it again, but it shied and went off with its head between its legs. A third time he brought the sorrel up to the wall, and a third time it swerved aside.
The hunters had waited to watch the result, and as the horse came up for a fourth trial, with its wild eyes flashing, its nostrils quivering, and its forelock tossed over one ear, it was seen that the bridle had broken and Rossi was riding with one rein.
“He’ll be lucky if he isn’t hurt,” said some one.
“Why doesn’t he give it the whip over its quarters?” said another.
But David Rossi only patted his horse until it came to the spot where it had shied before. Then he reached over its neck on the side of the broken rein, and with open hand struck it sharply across the nose. The horse reared, snorted, and jumped, and at the next moment it was standing quietly on the other side of the wall.
Roma, on her bay mare, was ashen pale, and the American Ambassador turned to her and said:
“Never knew but one man to do a thing like that, Donna Roma.”
Roma swallowed something in her throat and said: “Who was it, General Potter?”
“The present Pope when he was a Noble Guard.”
“He can ride, by Jove!” said Don Camillo.
“That sort of stuff has to be in a man’s blood. Born in him — must be!” said the Englishman.
And then David Rossi came up with a new bridle to his sorrel, and Sir Evelyn added: “You handle a horse like a man who began early, Mr. Rossi.”
“Yes,” said David Rossi; “I was a stable-boy two years in New York, your Excellency.”
At that moment the huntsman who was leading with two English terriers gave the signal that the fox was started, whereupon the hounds yelped, the whips whistled, and the horses broke into a canter.
Two hours afterwards the poor little creature that had been the origin of the holiday was tracked to earth and killed. Its head and tail were cut off, and the rest of its body was thrown to the dogs. After that flasks were taken out, healths were drunk, cheers were given, and then the hunt broke up, and the hunters began to return at an easy trot.
Roma and David Rossi were riding side by side, and the Princess was a pace or two behind them.
“Roma!” cried the Princess, “what a stretch for a gallop!”
“Isn’t it?” said Roma, and in a moment she was off.
“I believe her mare has mastered her,” said the Princess, and at the next instant David Rossi was gone too.
“Peace be with them! They’re a lovely pair!” said the Princess, laughing. “But we might as well go home. They are like Undine, and will return no more.”
X
Meantime, with the light breeze in her ears, and the beat of her horse’s hoofs echoing among the aqueducts and tombs, Roma galloped over the broad Campagna. After a moment she heard some one coming after her, and for joy of being pursued she whipped up and galloped faster. Without looking back she knew who was behind, and as her horse flew over the hillocks her heart leaped and sang. When the strong-limbed sorrel came up with the quiet bay mare, they were nearly two miles from their starting-place, and far out of the track of their fellow-hunters. Both were aglow from head to foot, and as they drew rein they looked at each other and laughed.
“Might as well go on now, and come out by the English cemetery,” said Roma.
“Good!” said David Rossi.
“But it’s half-past two,” said Roma, looking at her little watch, “and I’m as hungry as a hunter.”
“Naturally,” said David Rossi, and they laughed again. There was an osteria somewhere in that neighbourhood. He had known it when he was a boy. They would dine on yellow beans and macaroni.
Presently they saw a house smoking under a scraggy clump of eucalyptus. It was the osteria, half farmstead and half inn. A timid lad took their horses, an evil-looking old man bowed them into the porch, and an elderly woman, with a frightened expression and a face wrinkled like the bark of a cedar, brought them a bill of fare.
They laughed at everything — at the unfamiliar menu, because it was soiled enough to have served for a year; at the food, because it was so simple; and at the prices, because they were so cheap.
Roma looked over David Rossi’s shoulder as he read out the bill of fare, and they ordered the dinner together.
“Macaroni — threepence! Right! Trout — fourpence! Shall we have fourpennyworth of trout? Good! Lamb — sixpence! We’ll take two lambs — I mean two sixpenny-worths,” and then more laughter.
While the dinner was cooking they went out to walk among the eucalyptus, and came upon a beautiful dell surrounded by trees and carpeted with wild flowers.
“Carnival!” cried Roma. “Now if there was anybody here to throw a flower at one!”
He picked up a handful of violets and tossed them over her head.
“When I was a boy this was where men fought duels,” said David Rossi.
“The brutes! What a lovely spot! Must be the place where Pharaoh’s daughter found Moses in the bulrushes!”
“Or where Adam found Eve in the garden of Eden?”
They looked at each other and smiled.
“What a surprise that must have been to him,” said Roma. “Whatever did he think she was, I wonder?”
“An angel who had come down in the moonlight and forgotten to go up in the morning!”
“Nonsense! He would know in a moment she was a woman.”
“Think of it! She was the only woman in the world for him!”
“And fancy! He was the only man!”
The dinner was one long delight. Even its drawbacks were no disadvantage. The food was bad, and it was badly cooked and badly served, but nothing mattered.
“Only one fork for all these dishes?” asked David Rossi.
“That’s the best of it,” said Roma. “You only get one dirty one.”
Suddenly she dropped knife and fork, and held up both hands. “I forgot!”
“What?”
“I was to be little Roma all day to-day.”
“Why, so you are, and so you have been.”
“That cannot be, or you would call her by her name, you know.”
“I’ll do so the moment she calls me by mine.”
“That’s not fair,” said Roma, and her face flushed up, for the wine of life had risen to her eyes.
In a vineyard below a girl working among the orange trees was singing stornelli. It was a song of a mother to her son. He had gone away from the old roof-tree, but he would come back some day. His new home was bright and big, but the old hearthstone would draw him home. Beautiful ladies loved him, but the white-haired mother would kiss him again.
They listened for a short dreaming space, and their laughter ceased and their eyes grew moist. Then they called for the bill, and the old man with the evil face came up with a forced smile from a bank that had clearly no assets of that kind to draw upon.
“You’ve been a long time in this house, landlord,” said David Rossi.
“Very long time, Excellency,” said the man.
“You came from the Ciociaria.”
“Why, yes, I did,” said the man, with a look of surprise. “I was poor then, and later on I lived in the caves and grottoes of Monte Parioli.”
“But you knew how to cure the phylloxera in the vines, and when your master died you married his daughter and came into his vineyard.”
“Angelica! Here’s a gentleman who knows all about us,” said the old man, and then, grinning from ear to ear, he added:
“Perhaps your Excellency was the young gentleman who used to visit with his father at the Count’s palace on the hill twenty to thirty years ago?”
David Rossi looked him steadfastly in the face and said: “Do you remember the poor boy who lived with you at that time?”
The forced smile was gone in a moment. “We had no boy then, Excellency.”
“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.
