THE Roystons approached Rome by easy stages along the Riviera, and as
their prospective movements were but vaguely outlined even to
themselves, they suffered their approach to remain unheralded. Paul
Dessart, since his talk with Marcia, had taken a little dip into the
future, with the result that he had decided to swallow any hurt
feelings he might possess and pay dutiful court to his relatives. The
immediate rewards of such a course were evident.
One sunny morning early in April (he had been right in his forecast of
the time: Palm Sunday loomed a week ahead) a carriage drew up before
the door of his studio, and Mrs. Royston and the Misses Royston
alighted, squabbled with the driver over the fare, and told him he need
not wait. They rang the bell, and during the pause that followed stood
upon the door-step, dubiously scanning the neighbourhood. It was one of
the narrow, tortuous streets between the Corso and the river; a street
of many colours and many smells, with party-coloured washings
fluttering from the windows, with pretty tumble-haired children in gold
ear-rings and shockingly scanty clothing sprawling underfoot. The house
itself presented a blank face of peeling stucco to the street, with
nothing but the heavily barred windows below and an ornamental cornice
four stories up to suggest that it had once been a palace and a
stronghold.
Mrs. Royston turned from her inspection of the street to ring the bell
again. There was, this time, a suggestion of impatience in her touch. A
second wait, and the door was finally opened by one of the fantastic
little shepherd models, who haunt the Spanish steps. He took off his
hat with a polite ‘_Permesso_, signore,’ as he darted up the stairs
ahead of them to point the way and open the door at the top. They
arrived at the end of the five flights somewhat short of breath, and
were ushered into a swept and garnished workroom, where Paul, in a
white blouse, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, was immersed in a large
canvas, almost too preoccupied to look up. He received his relatives
with an air of delighted surprise, stood quite still while his aunt
implanted a ponderous kiss upon his cheek, and after a glance at his
cousins, kissed them of his own accord.
Mrs. Royston sat down and surveyed the room. It was irreproachably
workmanlike, and had been so for a week. Visibly impressed, she
transferred her gaze to her nephew.
‘Paul, you _are_ improved,’ she said at length.
‘My dear aunt, I am five years older than I was five years ago.’
‘Well,’ with a sigh of relief, ‘I actually believe you are!’
‘Paul, I had no idea you were such a desirable cousin,’ was Margaret’s
frank comment, as she returned from an inspection of the room to a
reinspection of him. ‘Eleanor said you wore puffed velveteen trousers.
You don’t, do you?’
‘Never had a pair of puffed velveteen trousers in my life.’
‘Oh, yes, you did!’ said Eleanor. ‘You can’t fib down the past that
way. Mamma and I met you in the Luxembourg gardens in broad daylight
wearing puffed blue velveteen trousers, with a bottle of wine in one
pocket and a loaf of bread in the other.’
‘Let the dead past bury its dead!’ he pleaded. ‘I go to an English
tailor on the Corso now.’
‘Marcia Copley wrote that she was very much pleased with you, but she
didn’t tell us how good-looking you were,’ said Margaret, still frank.
Paul reddened a trifle as he repudiated the charge with a laughing
gesture.
‘Don’t you think Miss Copley’s nice?’ pursued Margaret. ‘You’d better
think so,’ she added, ‘for she’s one of our best friends.’
Paul reddened still more, as he replied indifferently that Miss Copley
appeared very nice. He hadn’t seen much of her, of course.
‘I hope,’ said his aunt, ‘that you have been polite.’
‘My dear aunt,’ he objected patiently, ‘I really don’t go out of my way
to be impolite to people,’ and he took the Baedeker from her hand and
sat down beside her. ‘What places do you want to see first?’ he
inquired.
They were soon deep in computations of the galleries, ruins, and
churches that should be visited in conjunction, and half an hour later,
Paul and Margaret in one carriage, with Mrs. Royston and Eleanor in a
second, were trotting toward the Colosseum; while Paul was reflecting
that the path of duty need not of necessity be a thorny one.
During the next week or so Villa Vivalanti saw little more of Marcia
than of her uncle. She spent the greater part of her time in Rome,
visiting galleries and churches, with studio teas and other Lenten
relaxations to lighten the rigour of sight-seeing. Paul Dessart proved
himself an attentive cicerone, and his devotion to duty was not
unrewarded; the dim crypts and chapels, the deep-embrasured windows of
galleries and palaces afforded many chances for stolen scraps of
conversation. And Paul was not one to waste his opportunities. The
spring was ideal; Rome was flooded with sunshine and flowers and the
Italian joy of being alive. The troubles of Italy’s paupers, which Mr.
Copley found so absorbing, received, during these days, little
consideration from his niece. Marcia was too busy living her own life
to have eyes for any but happy people. She looked at Italy through
rose-coloured glasses, and Italy, basking in the spring sunshine,
smiled back sympathetically.
* * * * *
One morning an accident happened at the villa, and though it may not
seem important to the world in general, still, as events turned out, it
proved to be the pivot upon which destiny turned. Gerald fell over the
parapet, landing eight feet below—butter-side down—with a bleeding
nose and a broken front tooth. He could not claim this time that
Marietta had pushed him over, as it was clearly proven that Marietta,
at the moment, was sitting in the scullery doorway, smiling at
François. In consequence Marietta received her wages, a ticket to Rome,
and fifty lire to dry her tears. A new nurse was hastily summoned from
Castel Vivalanti. She was a niece of Domenic, the baker, and had served
in the household of Prince Barberini at Palestrina, which was
recommendation enough.
As to the broken tooth, it was a first tooth and shaky at that. Most
people would have contented themselves with the reflection that the
matter would right itself in the course of nature. But Mrs. Copley, who
perhaps had a tendency to be over-solicitous on a question involving
her son’s health or beauty, decided that Gerald must go to the
dentist’s. Gerald demurred, and Marcia, who had previously had no
thought of going into Rome that afternoon, offered to accompany the
party, for the sake—she said—of keeping up his courage in the train.
As they were preparing to start, she informed Mrs. Copley that she
thought she would stay with the Roystons all night, since they had
planned to visit the Forum by moonlight some evening, and this appeared
a convenient time. In the Roman station she abandoned Gerald to his
fate, and drove to the _Hôtel de Londres et Paris_.
She found the ladies just sitting down to their midday breakfast and
delighted to see her. It developed, however, that they had an
unbreakable engagement for the evening, and the plan of visiting the
Forum was accordingly out of the question.
‘No matter,’ said Marcia, drawing off her gloves; ‘I can come in some
other day; it’s always moonlight in Rome’; and they settled themselves
to discussing plans for the afternoon. The hotel porter had given
Margaret a permesso for the royal palace and stables, and being
interested in the domestic arrangements of kings, she was insistent
that they visit the Quirinal. But Mrs. Royston, who was conscientiously
bent on first exhausting the heavier attractions set forth in Baedeker,
declared for the Lateran museum. The matter was still unsettled when
they rose from the table and were presented with the cards of Paul
Dessart and M. Adolphe Benoit.
Paul’s voice settled the question: the city was too full of pilgrims
for any pleasure to be had within the walls; why not take advantage of
the pleasant weather to drive out to the monastery of Tre Fontane? But
the matter did not eventually arrange itself as happily as he had
hoped, since he found himself in one carriage and Marcia in the other.
At the monastery the monks were saying office in the main chapel when
they arrived, and they paused a few minutes to listen to the deep rise
and fall of the Gregorian chant as it echoed through the long, bare
nave. The dim interior, the low, monotonous music, the unseen monks,
made an effective whole. Paul, awake to the possibilities of the
occasion, did his best to draw Marcia into conversation, but she was
tantalizingly unresponsive. The guide-book in Mrs. Royston’s hands and
the history of the order appeared to absorb her whole attention.
Fortune, however, was finally on his side. Mrs. Royston elected to
stop, on their way back to the city, at St. Paul’s without the Walls,
and the whole party once more alighted. Within the basilica, Mrs.
Royston, guide-book in hand, commenced her usual conscientious
inspection, while Eleanor and the young Frenchman strolled about,
commenting on the architecture. Margaret had heard that one of the
mosaic popes in the frieze had diamond eyes, and she was insistently
bent on finding him. Marcia and Paul followed her a few minutes, but
they had both seen the church many times before, and both were at
present but mildly interested in diamond-eyed popes.
The door of the cloisters stood ajar, and they presently left the
others and strolled into the peaceful enclosure with its brick-flagged
floor and quaintly twisted columns. It was tranquil and empty, with no
suggestion of the outside world. They turned and strolled down the
length of the flagging, where the shadow of the columns alternated with
gleaming bars of sunshine. The sleepy, old-world atmosphere cast its
spell about them; Marcia’s tantalizing humour and Paul’s impatience
fell away. They walked on in silence, until presently the silence made
itself awkward and Marcia began to talk about the carving of the
columns, the flowers in the garden, the monks who tended them. Paul
responded half abstractedly, and he finally broke out with what he was
thinking of: a talk they had had that afternoon several weeks before in
the Borghese gardens.
‘Most men wouldn’t care for this,’ he nodded toward the prim little
garden with its violets and roses framed in by the pillared cloister
and higher up by the dull grey walls of the church and monastery. ‘But
a few do. Since that is the case, why not let the majority mine their
coal and build their railroads, and the very small minority who do care
stay and appreciate it? It is fortunate that we don’t all like the same
things, for there’s a great variety of work to be done. Of course,’ he
added, ‘I know well enough I’m never going to do anything very great; I
don’t set up for a genius. But to do a few little things well—isn’t
that something?’
They had reached the opposite end of the cloisters, and paused by one
of the pillars, leaning against the balustrade.
‘You think it’s shirking one’s duty not to live in America?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Marcia smiled vaguely. ‘I think—perhaps I’m changing
my mind.’
‘I only know of one thing,’ he said in a low tone, ‘that would make me
want to be exiled from Italy.’
Marcia had a quick foreboding that she knew what he was going to say,
and for a moment she hesitated; then her eyes asked: ‘What is that?’
Paul looked down at the sun-barred pavement in silence, and then he
looked up in her face and smiled steadily. ‘If you lived out of Italy.’
Marcia received this in silence, while she dropped her eyes to the
effigy of a dead monk set in the pavement and commenced mechanically
following the Latin inscription. There was still time; she was still
mistress of the situation. By a laugh, an adroit turn, she could
overlook his words; could bring their relations back again to their
normal footing. But she was by no means sure that she wished to bring
them back to their normal footing; she felt a sudden, quite strong
curiosity to know what he would say next.
‘Hang it! Marcia,’ he exclaimed. ‘I suppose you want to marry a prince,
or something like that?’
‘A prince?’ she inquired. ‘Why a prince?’
‘Oh, it’s what you women are always after—having a coronet on your
carriage door, with all the servants bowing and saying, “_Si, si,
eccelenza_,” every time you turn around.’
‘It would be fun,’ she agreed. ‘Do you happen to know of any desirable
unmarried princes?’
‘There aren’t any.’
‘No? Why, I met one the other day that I thought quite charming. His
family is seven hundred years old, and he owns two castles and three
villages.’
‘He wouldn’t stay charming. You’d find the castles damp, and the
villages dirty, and the prince stupid.’ He dropped his hand over hers
where it rested on the balustrade. ‘You’d better take me, Marcia; in
the long run you’ll find me nicer.’
Marcia shook her head, but she did not draw away her hand. ‘Really,
Paul, I don’t know—and there’s nothing I hate so much in the world as
making up my mind. You shouldn’t ask such unanswerable things.’
‘Look, mamma! aren’t the cloisters lovely?’ Margaret’s voice suddenly
sounded across the little court. ‘Oh, there are Marcia and Paul over
there! We wondered where you had disappeared to.’
‘Oh, the deuce!’ Paul exclaimed as he put his hands in his pockets and
leaned back against the pillar. ‘I told you,’ he added, with a laugh,
‘that my family always arrived when they were not wanted!’
They all strolled about together, and Marcia scarcely glanced at him
again. But her consciousness was filled with his words, and it required
all her self-possession to keep up her part of the conversation. As
they started on, Mrs. Royston suggested that they stop a second time at
the English cemetery just within the gate. Marcia, looking at her
watch, saw with a feeling of relief that she would have to go straight
on if she were to catch Mrs. Copley and Gerald in time for the six
o’clock train. Bidding them good-bye at the Porta San Paolo, she
hastily and emphatically refused Paul’s proposition to drive to the
station with her.
‘No, indeed, Mr. Dessart,’ she called out, as he was making
arrangements with Mrs. Royston to meet later at the hotel, ‘I don’t
want you to come with me; I shouldn’t think of taking you away. My aunt
will be at the station, and I am perfectly capable of getting there
alone. Really, I don’t want to trouble you.’
He put his foot on the carriage-step.
‘It’s no trouble,’ he smiled.
‘No, no; I would rather go alone. I shall _really_ be angry if you
come,’ she insisted in a low tone.
The young man shrugged and removed his foot from the step.
‘As you please,’ he returned in a tone which carried an impression of
slightly wounded feelings. The driver looked back expectantly, waiting
for his directions. Paul hesitated a moment, and then turned toward her
again as if inquiring the way. ‘Is there any hope for me?’ he said.
She looked away without answering.
‘There’s no other man?’ he added quickly.
Marcia for a second looked up in his face. ‘No,’ she shook her head,
‘there’s no other man.’
He straightened up, with a happy laugh. ‘Then I’ll win,’ he whispered,
and he shook her hand as if on a compact.
‘_Stazione_,’ he called to the driver. And as the carriage started,
Marcia glanced back and nodded toward the Roystons, with a quick smile
for Paul.