The day waned, the sky darkened, and the passengers in the train, who
had been talking incessantly, began to doze. Rossi returned to his seat,
and thought more seriously about Roma. All his soul went out to the
young wife who had shared his sufferings. In his mind's eye he was
reading between the lines of her letters, and beginning to reproach
himself in earnest. Why had he imposed his life's secret upon her,
seeing the risk she ran, and the burden of her responsibility?
The battle with his soul was short. If he had not trusted Roma, he would
never have loved her. If he had not stripped his heart naked before her,
he would never have known that she loved him. And if she had suffered in
his absence he would make it all up to her on his return. He thought of
their joyous day on the Campagna, and then of the unalloyed hours before
them. What would she be doing now? She would be sending off the telegram
he was to receive at Chiasso. God bless her! God bless everybody!
The thought of Roma's telegram filled the whole of the last hour before
he reached the frontier. He imagined the words it would contain: "Well
and waiting. Welcome home." But was she well? It was weeks since he had
heard from her, and so many things might have happened. If he had
managed his personal affairs with more thought for himself, he might
have received her letters.
Heavy clouds began to shut out the landscape. The temperature had fallen
suddenly, and the wind must have risen, for the trees, as they flashed
past, were being beaten about. Rossi stood in the corridor again,
feeling feverish and impatient.
At length the train slackened speed, the noise of the wheels and the
engine abated, and there came a clap of thunder. After a moment there
was a far-off sound of church bells which were being rung to avert the
lightning, and then came a downpour of rain. It was raining in torrents
when the train drew up at Chiasso, but the carriages were hardly under
cover of the platform when Rossi was ready to step out.
"All baggage ready!" "Hand baggage out!" "Chiasso!" "The Customs!"
The station hands and porters were shouting by the stopping train, and
Rossi's dark eyes with their long lashes were looking through the line
of men for some one who carried a yellow letter.
"Facchino!"
"Signore?"
"Seen the telegraph boy about?"
"No, Signore."
Rossi leapt down to the platform, and at the same moment three
Carabineers, who had been working their heads from right to left to peer
into the carriages as they passed, stepped up to him and offered a
folded white paper.