Her safety had been in flight; and here in Rome, she had found
herself, like a long-tossed little ship, suddenly brought up to firm
anchorage. The vast peace and melancholy grandeur of the slowly
dying "Mother of Nations", enveloped her as with a sheltering cloak
from the tempest of her own heart and senses, and being of an
exquisitely refined and dainty nature in herself, she had, while
employing her time in beautifying, furnishing and arranging her
apartments in the casa D'Angeli, righted her mind, so to speak, and
cleared it from the mists of illusion which had begun to envelop it,
so that she could now think of Fontenelle quietly and with something
of a tender compassion,--she could pray for him and wish him all
things good,--but she could not be quite sure that she loved him.
And this was well. For we should all be very sure indeed that we do
love, before we crucify ourselves to the cross of sacrifice.
Inasmuch as if the love in us be truly Love, we shall not feel the
nails, we shall be unconscious of the blood that flows, and the
thorns that prick and sting,--we shall but see the great light of
Resurrection springing glorious out of death! But if we only THINK
we love,--when our feeling is the mere attraction of the senses and
the lighter impulses--then our crucifixion is in vain, and our death
is death indeed.
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