It was a letter, and as the old woman produced it she was glowing with
happiness at the joy she was bringing to Roma.
"The porter from Trinità de' Monti brought it," she said, "and he told
me to tell you there's a lay sister called Sister Angelica at the
convent now, and he is afraid that other letters may go astray....
Aren't you glad you've got a letter, Signora? I thought Signora would
die of delight, and I gave the man six soldi."
Roma was turning the envelope over and over in her hands, thinking what
a call to joy a letter of Rossi's used to be, and wondering if she ought
to open this one.
"Well, that was the way with me too when Tommaso was at the wars. But
this is Easter, Signora, and the Blessed Virgin wouldn't bring you bad
news to-day. Listen! That's the Gloria. I can always hear the church
bells on Holy Saturday. The first time after I was deaf Joseph was a
baby, and I took the wrappings off his little feet while the bells were
ringing, and he walked straight away! Ah, my poor darling!... But I'm
making the Signora cry."
The letter was dated from Zürich. It ran:-"MY DEAR ROMA,--Your letters and I seem to be running a race which
shall return to you first. I was compelled to leave Berlin before
my long-delayed correspondence could arrive from London, and now
it seems probable that I must leave Zürich before it can follow me
from Berlin. As a consequence I have not heard from you for
weeks--not since your letter about your friend, you remember--and
I am in agonies of impatience to know what has happened to you in
the interval.
"I came to Switzerland the day before yesterday, pushed on by the
urgency of affairs at home. Here we hold the last meeting of our
international committee before I go back to Italy. This will be
to-morrow (Friday) night, and according to present plans I set out
for Rome on Saturday morning.
"How different my return will be from my flight a few weeks ago!
Then I was plunged in despair, now I am buoyed up with hope; then
my soul was furrowed by doubts, now it is braced up with
certainties; then my idea was a dream, now it is a practical
reality.
"O Roma, my Roma, it is a good thing to live. After all, the world
is no Gethsemane, and when a man has a beautiful life like yours
belonging to him he may be forgiven if he forgets the voices which
assail him with fears. They have come to me sometimes, dearest, in
this long and cruel silence, and I have asked myself hideous
questions. What is happening to my dear one in the midst of my
enemies? What sufferings are being inflicted upon her for my sake?
She is brave, and will bear anything, but did I do right to leave
her behind? Bruno died rather than betray me, and she will do
more--infinitely more in her eyes--she will see me die, rather
than imperil a cause which is a thousand times more dear to me
than my life.