“To-morrow morning to begin with, if that is not too soon.”
“It will be years on years till then,” he said.
Her idea of revenge is entirely gone; she is at his feet, loving him, and aching to be loved in return. But he remembers his work: he must not allow worldly matters to interfere with its progress. So he will not see Roma again. Love is not for him; would that it were! And then follows a series of delightful letters: on his part serious, kind, and imbued with a high sense of duty; on her part, humorous, light, wistful, and sometimes sad. He tells her that he is in love, the object of his affections being a lady of beauty, wealth and virtue. The lady is herself, but the language is veiled, and at first she hardly guesses his meaning.
“My Dear, Dear Friend,—It’s all up! I’m done with her! My unknown and invisible sister that is to be, or rather that isn’t to be and oughtn’t to be, is not worth thinking about any longer. You tell me that she is good and brave, and noble-hearted, and yet you would have me believe that she loves wealth, and ease, and luxury, and that she could not give them up even for the sweetest thing that ever comes into a woman’s life. Out on her! What does she think a wife is? A pet to be pampered, a doll to be dressed up and danced on your knee? If that’s the sort of woman she is, I know what I should call her. A name is on the tip of my tongue, and the point of my finger, and the end of my pen, and I’m itching to have it out, but I suppose I must not write it. Only don’t talk to me any more about the bravery of a woman like that.
“The wife I call brave is a man’s friend, and if she knows what that means, to be the friend of her husband to all the limitless lengths of friendship, she thinks nothing about sacrifices between him and her, and differences of class do not exist for either of them. Her pride died the instant love looked out of her eyes at him, and if people taunt her with his poverty, or his birth, she answers and says, ‘It’s true he is poor, but his glory is that he was a workhouse boy who hadn’t father or mother to care for him, and now he is a great man, and I’m proud of him, and not all the wealth of the world shall take me away.’”
Eventually their love is confessed, and Baron Bonelli learns the truth. He sets to work immediately to compass the ruin or death of Rossi, and jealousy lives in his heart every minute of the day, and all the night through. It is true he is married, but his wife is a maniac, and he expects to hear of her death at any time. It becomes necessary for Rossi to leave Rome: he is surrounded by a host of enemies ready at any moment to clap him into prison. So he says “Good-bye” to Roma, but before he leaves they are “religiously” married—that is to say, they take part in a ceremony recognised by the Church as a substitute for the marriage service proper, but which the State refuses to acknowledge. But they are man and wife for all that, and the thought sustains them through all the trouble they have to undergo. The moment the ceremony is over he leaves her, and she is alone to face the cunning and duplicity of Baron Bonelli.
“That you should change your plans so entirely, and setting out a month ago to … to … shall I say betray … this man Rossi, you are now striving to save him, is a problem which admits of only one explanation, and that is that … that you …”
“That I love him—yes, that’s the truth,” said Roma boldly, but flushing up to the eyes and trembling with fear.
There was a death-like pause in the duel. Both dropped their heads, and the silent face in the bust seemed to be looking down on them. Then the Baron’s icy cheeks quivered visibly, and he said in a low, hoarse voice: