Complete works of hall c.., p.381
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 381
“But if it was done in self-defence it was no crime, and you must not and shall not suffer.”
Roma dropped the Pope’s cassock and took hold of his hand.
“Holy Father,” she said, “how can I wish to live when he who loved me loves me no longer? I know quite well it is better that I should go, and that when he comes it should be all over. I dreamt of it last night, your Holiness. I thought my husband had come back and all the church bells were ringing. Only a dream, and perhaps you do not believe in such foolishness. But it was very sweet to think that if I could not live for my love I could die for him, and so wipe out everything.”
The Pope’s white head was bent very low.
“And then I cannot suffer very much, your Holiness. I am ill, really ill, and my trouble will not last very long. And if God is using what has happened to bring out all things well, perhaps He intends that I shall give myself in the place of some one who is better and more necessary.”
The Pope could bear no more. His lip quivered and his voice shook, but his eyes were shining.
“It is not for me to gainsay you, my daughter. I came here to see Mary Magdalene, and find the soul of the saints themselves. The world’s judgment on a woman who has sinned is merciless and cruel, but if David Rossi is worthy of his mother and his name, he will come back to you on his knees.”
“Bless me, your Holiness.”
“I bless you, my daughter. May He in whose hands are the issues of life and death cover your transgressions with the vast wings of His gracious pardon and bring you joy and peace.”
The Pope went out with a brightening face, and Roma staggered back to her couch.
VII
David Rossi sat all day in his room in the Vatican reading the letters the Pope had left with him. They were the letters which Roma had addressed to him in London, Paris, and Berlin.
He read them again and again, and save for the tick of the clock there was no sound in the large gaunt room but his stifled moans. The most violently opposed feelings possessed him, and he hardly knew whether he was glad or sorry that thus late, and after a cruel fate had fallen, these messages of peace had reached him.
A spirit seemed to emanate from the thin transparent sheets of paper, and it penetrated his whole being. As he read the words, now gay, now sad, now glowing with joy, now wailing with sorrow, a world of fond and tender emotions swelled up and blotted out all darker passions.
He could see Roma herself, and his heart throbbed as of old under the influence of her sweet indescribable presence. Those dear features, those marvellous eyes, that voice, that smile — they swam up and tortured him with love and with remorse.
How bravely she had withstood his enemies! To think of that young, ardent, brilliant, happy life sacrificed to his sufferings! And then her poor, pathetic secret — how sweet and honest she had been about it! Only a pure and courageous woman could have done as she did; while he, in his blundering passion and mad wrath, had behaved like a foul-minded tyrant and a coward. What loud protestations of heroic love he had made when he imagined the matter affected another man! And when he had learned that it concerned himself, how his vaunted constancy had failed him, and he had cursed the poor soul whose confidence he had invited!
But above all the pangs of love and remorse, Rossi was conscious of an overpowering despair. It took the form of revolt against God, who had allowed such a blind and cruel sequence of events to wreck the lives of two of His innocent children. When he took refuge in the Vatican he must have been clinging to some waif and stray of hope. It was gone now, and there was no use struggling. The nothingness of man against the pitilessness of fate made all the world a blank.
Rossi had rung the bell to ask for an audience with his Holiness when the door opened and the Pope himself entered.
“Holy Father, I wished to speak to you.”
“What about, my son?”
“Myself. Now I see that I did wrong to ask for your protection. You thought I was innocent, and there was something I did not tell you. When I said I was guilty before God and man, you did not understand what I meant. Holy Father, I meant that I had committed murder.”
The Pope did not answer, and Rossi went on, his voice ringing with the baleful sentiments which possessed him.
“To tell you the truth, Holy Father, I hardly thought of it myself. What I had done was partly in self-defence, and I did not consider it a crime. And then, he whose life I had taken was an evil man, with the devil’s dues in him, and I felt no more remorse after killing him than if I had trodden on a poisonous adder. But now I see things differently. In coming here I exposed you to danger at the hands of the State. I ask your pardon, and I beg you to let me go.”
“Where will you go to?”
“Anywhere — nowhere — I don’t know yet.”
The Pope looked at the young face, cut deep with lines of despair, and his heart yearned over it.
“Sit down, my son. Let us think. Though you did not tell me of the assassination, I soon knew all about it.... Partly in self-defence, you say?”
“That is so, but I do not urge it as an excuse. And if I did, who else knows anything about it?”
“Is there nobody who knows?”
“One, perhaps. But it is my wife, and she could have no interest in saving me now, even if I wished to be saved.... I have read her letters.”
“If I were to tell you it is not so, my son — that your wife is still ready to sacrifice herself for your safety....”
“But that is impossible, your Holiness. There are so many things you do not know.”
“If I were to tell you that I have just seen her, and, notwithstanding your want of faith in her, she still has faith in you....”
The deep lines of despair began to pass from Rossi’s face, and he made a cry of joy.
“If I were to say that she loves you, and would give her life for you....”
“Is it possible? Do you tell me that? In spite of everything? And she — where is she? Let me go to her. Holy Father, if you only knew! I’ll go and beg her pardon. I cursed her! Yes, it is true that in my blind, mad passion I.... But let me go back to her on my knees. The rest of my life spent at her feet will not be enough to wipe out my fault.”
“Stay, my son. You shall see her presently.”
“Can it be possible that I shall see her? I thought I should never see her again; but I counted without God. Ah! God is good after all. And you, Holy Father, you are good too. I will beg her forgiveness, and she will forgive me. Then we’ll fly away somewhere — we’ll escape to Africa, India, anywhere. We’ll snatch a few years of happiness, and what more has anybody a right to expect in this miserable world?”
Exalted in the light of his imaginary future, he seemed to forget everything else — his crime, his work, his people.
“Is she at home still?”
“She is only a few paces from this place, my son.”
“Only a few paces! Oh, let me not lose a moment more. Where is she?”
“In the Castle of St. Angelo,” said the Pope.
A dark cloud crossed Rossi’s beaming face and his mouth opened as if to emit a startling cry.
“In ... in prison?”
The Pope bowed.
“What for?”
“The assassination of the Minister.”
“Roma?... But what a fool I was not to think of it as a thing that might happen! I left her with the dead man. Who was to believe her when she denied that she had killed him?”
“She did not deny it. She avowed it.”
“Avowed it? She said that she had....”
The Pope bowed again.
“Then ... then it was ... was it to shield me?”
“Yes.”
Rossi’s eyes grew moist. He was like another man.
“But the court ... surely no court will believe her.”
“She has been tried and sentenced, my son.”
“Sentenced? Do you say sentenced? For a crime she did not commit? And to shield me? Holy Father, would you believe that the last words I spoke to that woman ... but she is an angel. The authorities must be mad, though. Did nobody think of me? Didn’t it occur to any one that I had been there that night?”
“There was only one piece of evidence connecting you with the scene of the crime, my son. It was this.”
The Pope drew from his breast the warrant he had taken from Roma.
“She had it?”
“Yes.”
Rossi’s emotions whirled within him in a kind of hurricane. The despair which had clamoured so loud looked mean and contemptible in the presence of the mighty passion which had put it to shame. But after a while his swimming eyes began to shine, and he said:
“Holy Father, this paper belongs to me and you must permit me to keep it.”
“What do you intend to do, my son?”
“There is only one thing to do now.”
“What is that?”
“To save her.”
There was no need to ask how. The Pope understood, and his breast throbbed and swelled. But now that he had accomplished what he came for, now that he had awakened the sleeping soul and given it hope and faith and courage to face justice, and even death if need be, the Pope became suddenly conscious of a feeling in his own heart which he struggled in vain to suppress.
“Far be it from me to excuse a crime, my son, but the merciful God who employs our poor passions to His own great purposes has used your acts to great ends. The world is trembling on the verge of unknown events and nobody knows what a day may bring forth. Let us wait a while.”
Rossi shook his head.
“It is true that a crime will be the same to-morrow as to-day, but the dead man was a tyrant, a ferocious tyrant, and if he forced you in self-defence...”
Again Rossi shook his head, but still the Pope struggled on.
“You have your own life to think about, my son, and who knows but in God’s good service...”
“Let me go.”
“You intend to give yourself up?”
“Yes.”
The Pope could say no more. He rose to his feet. His saintly face was full of a dumb yearning love and pride, which his tongue might never tell. He thought of his years of dark searching, ending at length in this meeting and farewell, and an impulse came to him to clasp the young man to his swelling and throbbing breast. But after a moment, with something of his old courageous calm of voice, he said:
“I am not surprised at your decision, my son. It is worthy of your blood and name. And now that we are parting for the last time, I could wish to tell you something.”
David Rossi did not speak.
“I knew your mother, my son.”
“My mother?”
The Pope bowed and smiled.
“She was a great soul, too, and she suffered terribly. Such are the ways of God.”
Still Rossi did not speak. He was looking steadfastly into the Pope’s quivering face and making an effort to control himself.
The Pope’s voice shook and his lip trembled.
“Naturally, you think ill of your father, knowing how much your mother suffered. Isn’t that so?”
Rossi put one hand to his forehead as if to steady his reeling brain, and said, “Who am I to think ill of any one?”
The Pope smiled again, a timid smile.
“David....”
Rossi caught his breath.
“If, in the providence of God, you were to meet your father somewhere, and he held out his hand to you, would you ... wherever you met and whatever he might be ... would you shake hands with him?”
“Yes,” said Rossi; “if I were a King on his throne, and he were the lowest convict at the galleys.”
The Pope fetched a long breath, took a step forward, and silently held out his hand. At the next moment the young man and the old Pope were hand to hand and eye to eye.
They tried to speak and could not.
“Farewell!” said the Pope in a choking voice, and turning away he tottered out of the room.
VIII
The doctor of the Engineers, not entirely satisfied with his diagnosis of Roma’s illness, prescribed a remedy of unfailing virtue — hope. It was a happy treatment. The past of her life seemed to have disappeared from her consciousness and she lived entirely in the future. It was always shining in her eyes like a beautiful sunrise.
The sunrise Roma saw was beyond the veil of this life, but the good souls about her knew nothing of that. They brought every piece of worldly intelligence that was likely to be good news to her. By this time they imagined they knew where her heart lay, and such happiness was in her white face when as soldiers of the King they whispered treason that they thought themselves rewarded.
They told her of an attempted attack on the Vatican, with all its results and consequences — army disorganised, the Borgo Barracks shut up, soldiers wearing cockades and marching arm in arm, the Government helpless and the Quirinal in despair.
“I’m sorry for the young King,” she said, “but still....”
It was the higher power working with blind instruments. Rossi would come back. His hopes, so nearly laid waste, would at length be realised. And if, as she had told Elena, he had to return over her own dead body, so to speak, there would be justice even in that. It would be pitiful, but it would be glorious also. There were mysteries in life and death, and this was one of them.
She was as gentle and humble as ever, but every hour she grew more restless. This conveyed to her guards the idea that she was expecting something. Notwithstanding her plea of guilty, they thought perhaps she was looking for her liberty out of the prevailing turmoil.
“I will be very good and do everything you wish, doctor. But don’t forget to ask the Prefect to let me stay in Rome over to-morrow. And, Sister, do please remember to waken me early in the morning, because I’m certain that something is going to happen. I’ve dreamt of it three times, you know.”
“A pity!” thought the doctor. “Governments may fall and even dynasties may disappear, but judicial authorities remain the same as ever, and the judgment of the court must be carried out.”
Nevertheless he would speak to the Prefect. He would say that in the prisoner’s present condition the journey to Viterbo might have serious consequences. As he was setting out on this errand early the following morning, he met Elena in the anteroom, and heard that Roma was paying the most minute attention to the making of her toilet.
“Strange! You would think she was expecting some one,” said Elena.
“She is, too,” said the doctor. “And he is a visitor who will not keep her long.”
The soldier who brought Roma her breakfast that morning brought something else that she found infinitely more appetising. Rossi had returned to Rome! One of the men below had seen him in the street last night. He was going in the direction of the Piazza Navona, and nobody was attempting to arrest him.
Roma’s eyes flashed like stars, and she sent down a message to the Major, asking to be allowed to see the soldier who had seen Rossi.
He was a big ungainly fellow, but in Roma’s eyes who shall say how beautiful? She asked him a hundred questions. His dense head was utterly bewildered.
The doctor came back with a smiling face. The Prefect had agreed to postpone indefinitely the transfer of their prisoner to the penitentiary. The good man thought she would be very grateful.
“Ah, indefinitely? I only wished to remain over to-day! After that I shall be quite ready.”
But the doctor brought another piece of news which threw her into the wildest excitement. Both Senate and Chamber of Deputies had been convoked late last night for an early hour this morning. Rumour said they were to receive an urgent message from the King. There was the greatest commotion in the neighbourhood of the Houses of Parliament, and the public tribunes were densely crowded. The doctor himself had obtained a card for the Chamber, but he was unable to get beyond the corridors. Nevertheless, the doors being open owing to the heat and crush, he had heard something. Vaguely, for five minutes, he had heard one of their great speakers.
“Was it ... was it, perhaps....”
“It was.”
Again the big eyes flashed like stars.
“You heard him speak?”
“I heard his voice at all events.”
“It’s a wonderful voice, isn’t it? And you really heard him? Can it be possible?”
Elena, the sad figure in the background of these bright pathetic scenes, thought Roma was hoping for a reconciliation with Rossi. She hinted as much, and then the fierce joy in the white face faded away.
“Ah, no! I’m not thinking of that, Elena.”
Her love was too large for personal thoughts. It had risen higher than any selfish expectations.
They helped her on to the loggia. The day was warm, and the fresh air would do her good. She looked out over the city with a loving gaze, first towards the Piazza Navona, then towards the tower of Monte Citorio, and last of all towards Trinità de’ Monti and the House of the Four Winds. But she was seeing things as they would be when she was gone, not to Viterbo, but on a longer journey.
“Elena?”
“Well?”
“Do you think he will ever learn the truth?”
“About the denunciation?”
“Yes.”
“I should think he is certain to do so.”
“Why I did it, and what tempted me, and ... and everything?”
“Yes, indeed, everything.”
“Do you think he will think kindly of me then, and forgive me and be merciful?”
“I am sure he will.”
A mysterious glow came into the pallid face.
“Even if he never learns the truth here, he will learn it hereafter, won’t he? Don’t you believe in that, Elena — that the dead know all?”
“If I didn’t, how could I bear to think of Bruno?”
“True. How selfish I am! I hadn’t thought of that. We are in the same case in some things, Elena.”
The future was shining in the brilliant eyes with the radiance of an unseen sunrise.
“Dear Elena?”
“Ye-s.”
“Do you think it will seem long to wait until he comes?”
