"Now you know everything, dearest. I have kept nothing back. As
you see, I am not only my poor friend, but some one worse--myself.
Can you forgive me? I dare not ask it. But put me out of suspense.
Write. Or better still, telegraph. One word--only one. It will be
enough.
"I would love to send you my love, but to-night I dare not. I have
loved you from the first, and I can never do anything but love
you, whatever happens. I think you would forgive me if you could
realise that I am in the world only to love you, and that the
worst of my offences comes of loving you more than reason or
honour itself. Whatever you do, I am yours, and I can only
consecrate my life to you.
"It is daybreak, and the cross of St. Peter's is hanging spectral
white above the mists of morning. Is it a symbol of hope, I
wonder? The dawn is coming up from the south-east. It would travel
quicker to the north-west if it loved you as much as I do. I have
been writing this letter over and over again all night long. Do
you remember the letter you made me burn, the one containing all
your secrets? Here is a letter containing mine--but how much
meaner and more perilous! Your poor unhappy girl, ROMA."
XIV
Next day Roma removed into her new quarters. A few trunks containing her
personal belongings, the picture of her father and Elena's Madonna, were
all she took with her. A broker glanced at the rest of her goods and
gave a price for the lot. Most of the plaster casts in the studio were
broken up and carted away. The fountain, being of marble, had to be put
in a dark cellar under the lodge of the old Garibaldian. Only one part
of it was carried upstairs. This was the mould for the bust of Rossi and
the block of stone for the head of Christ.
Except for her dog, Roma went alone to the Piazza Navona, Felice having
returned to the Baron and Natalina being dismissed. The old woman was to
clean and cook for her and Roma was to shop for herself. It didn't take
the neighbours long to sum up the situation. She was Rossi's wife. They
began to call her Signora.
Coming to live in Rossi's home was a sweet experience. The room seemed
to be full of his presence. The sitting-room with its piano, its
phonograph, and its portraits brought back the very tones of his voice.
The bedroom was at first a sanctuary, and she could not bring herself to
occupy it until she had set upon the little Madonna. Then it became a
bower, and to sleep in it brought a tingling sense which she had never
felt before.