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The Eternal City, a novel by Hall Caine |
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Part 3. Roma - Chapter 10 |
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_ PART THREE. ROMA CHAPTER 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. 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 Trinita 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. _ |
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