FOR the next week or so Marcia steadfastly avoided meeting people.
There were no visitors at the villa, and it was easy to find pretexts
for not going into Rome. She felt an overwhelming reluctance to meeting
any of her friends—to meeting any one, in truth, who even knew her
name. It seemed to her that beneath their smiles and pleasant speeches
she could read their thoughts; that the words ‘wheat, wheat, wheat’
rang as an undertone to every sentence that was spoken. Her horseback
rides were ridden in the direction away from Castel Vivalanti, and if,
by chance, she did meet any of her former friends the villagers, she
galloped past, looking the other way.
Mrs. Copley was engaged with preparations for the coming ball. It was
to be partially in honour of the Roystons, partially in honour of
Marcia’s birthday, and all of Rome—or as much of it as existed for the
Copleys—was to be asked to stop the night either at Villa Vivalanti or
at the contessa’s villa in Tivoli. Marcia, her aunt complained, showed
an inordinate lack of interest in these absorbing preparations. She was
usually ready enough with suggestions, and her listlessness did not
pass unnoticed. Mr. Copley’s eyes occasionally rested upon her with a
guiltily worried expression, and if she caught the look she immediately
assumed an air of gaiety. Neither had made the slightest reference to
the subject of that evening’s scene, except upon the arrival of a
characteristic cablegram from Willard Copley, in which he informed his
daughter that he was sending her a transport of wheat as a birthday
present.
‘You see, Uncle Howard,’ she had said as she handed him the message,
‘it is possible to do good as well as harm by telegraph.’
Copley read it with a slight smile. ‘After all, I’m afraid he’s no
worse than the rest of us!’ and with that, wheat was a tabooed subject.
For the future, however, he was particularly thoughtful toward his
niece to show that he was sorry, and she met his advances more than
half-way to show that she had forgiven; and, all in all, they came to a
better understanding because of their momentary falling out. Mrs.
Copley accounted for Marcia’s apathy (and possibly nearest the truth)
on the ground that she had taken a touch of malaria in the old
wine-cellar, and she dosed her with quinine until the poor girl’s head
rang.
It happened therefore that when the evening came to attend a musicale
at the Contessa Torrenieri’s villa, Marcia could very gracefully
decline. The occasion of the function was the count’s return from the
Riviera; and although Marcia had some little curiosity in regard to the
count, still it did not mount to such proportions that she was ready to
face the rest of the world for its sake.
Tivoli and Villa Torrenieri were a long nine miles away, and Villa
Vivalanti that evening dined earlier than usual. As Marcia came
downstairs in response to Pietro’s summons, she paused a moment on the
landing; she had caught the sound of Sybert’s low voice in the salon.
She had not seen him since the tempestuous ending of the San Marco
festa, and she had not yet determined on just what footing their
relations were. She stood hesitating with a very slight quickening of
the pulse, and then with a decided thrill of annoyance as an
explanation for his unexpected visit presented itself—he had returned
from Naples and come out to Villa Vivalanti for the purpose of
attending the contessa’s musicale. Marcia went on downstairs more
slowly, and entered the salon with a none too cordial air. Sybert’s own
greeting was in his usual vein of polite indifference. His manner
contained not the slightest suggestion of any misunderstanding in the
past. It transpired that he knew nothing of the impending party; he was
clothed in an unpretentious dinner-jacket. But he expressed his
willingness to attend, in spite of the lack of invitation—it was
doubtless waiting for him in Naples, he declared—provided his host
would lend him a coat. His host grumblingly assented, and Sybert
inquired, with a glance from Mrs. Copley’s velvet and jewels to
Marcia’s simple white woollen gown, what time they were planning to
start.
‘About eight; it takes almost two hours to get there,’ said Mrs.
Copley. ‘Marcia is not going,’ she added.
‘Why not, Miss Marcia?’
She looked a trifle self-conscious as she put forth her excuse. ‘I’ve
been having a little touch of malaria, and Aunt Katherine thought
perhaps the night air——’
‘I remember, when I was a boy in school, I used frequently to have
headaches on Monday mornings,’ said Sybert, with a show of sympathy.
Marcia sat in her room till she heard the carriage drive away, then she
dragged a wicker chair out to the balcony which overlooked the eastern
hills, already darkened into silhouettes against the sky. She sat
leaning back with her hands clasped in her lap, watching the outlines
of the old monastery fade into the night. She thought of the pale young
monk with his questioning eyes, and wondered what sort of troubles
people who lived in monasteries had. They were at least not her
troubles, she smiled, as she thought of Paul Dessart.
Suddenly she leaned over the railing and sniffed the light breeze as it
floated up from the garden. Mingled with the sweet scent of lilies and
oleanders was the heavy odour of a cigar. Her pulses suddenly
quickened. Could——? She pushed her chair back and rose with an
impatient movement. Pietro was holding a rendezvous with his friends
again, and entertaining them with her uncle’s tobacco. The night was
chilly and she was cold. She turned into the dark room with a little
laugh at herself: she was staying away from the contessa’s musicale to
avoid the night air?
She groped about the table for a book and started downstairs with the
half-hearted intention of reading out the evening in the salon. A wood
fire had been kindled that afternoon, to dispel the slight dampness
which the stone walls seemed to exude at the slightest suggestion of an
eastern wind. It had burned low now, and the embers gave out a slight
glow which was not obliterated by the two flickering candles on the
table—Pietro’s frugal soul evidently looked upon the lamp as
unnecessary when Mr. and Mrs. Copley were away. Marcia piled on more
sticks, with a shake of her head at Italian servants. The one thing in
the world that they cannot learn is to build a fire; generations of
economy having ingrained within them a notion that fuel is too precious
to burn.
The blaze once more started, instead of ringing for a lamp and settling
down to her book, she dropped into a chair and sat lazily watching the
flames. Italy had got its hold upon her, with its spell of Lethian
inertia. She wished only to close her eyes and drift idly with the
current.
Presently she heard the outer door open and close, and steps cross the
hall. She looked up with a start to see Laurence Sybert in the doorway.
‘What’s the matter—did I surprise you?’ he inquired.
‘Yes; I thought you had gone to the party.’
‘I was in the wine-cellar just as much as you,’ he returned, with a
little laugh, as he drew up a chair beside her. ‘Why can’t I have
malaria too?’
His sudden appearance had been disconcerting, and her usual
self-assurance seemed to be wandering to-night. She did not know what
to say, and she half rose.
‘I was just going to ring for the lamp when you came. Pietro must have
forgotten it. Would you mind——’
Sybert glanced lazily across the room at the bell. ‘Oh, sit still. We
have light enough to talk by, and you surely aren’t intending to read
when you have a guest.’ He stretched out his hand and took possession
of her book.
‘I don’t flatter myself that you stayed away from the contessa’s to
talk to me,’ she returned as she leaned back again with a slight shrug.
‘Why else should I have stayed?’ he inquired. ‘Do you think, when it
came to the point, your uncle wouldn’t give me a coat?’
‘Probably you found that it didn’t fit.’
Sybert laughed. ‘No, Miss Marcia; I didn’t even try. I stayed
because—I wanted to talk with you.’
She let the statement pass in silence, and Sybert addressed himself to
a careful rearrangement of the burning wood. When he finally laid down
the tongs he remarked in a casual tone, ‘I owe you an apology—will you
accept it?’
‘What for?’
‘You appear to have several counts against me—suppose we don’t go into
details. I offer a collective apology.’
‘Because you called me “the Wheat Princess”? Oh, yes, I’ll excuse it; I
dare say you were justified.’
He leaned forward with a slight frown.
‘Certainly I was not justified; it was neither kind nor gentlemanly,
and I am sorry that I said it. I can only promise to have better
manners in the future.’
Marcia dismissed the subject with a gesture.
‘Let me tell you about the good your money has done.’
‘No, please don’t! I don’t want to hear. I know that it’s horrible, and
that you did the best with it possible. I’m glad if it helped. My
father is sending some wheat that will be here in a few weeks.’
‘Miss Marcia,’ he said slowly, ‘I wish you wouldn’t take this matter so
badly. Your uncle was out of his senses when he talked to you, and he
didn’t realize what he was saying. He feels awfully cut up about it. He
told me to-night that he was afraid he had spoiled your summer, and
that he wouldn’t have hurt you for the world.’
Marcia’s eyes suddenly filled with tears and she bit her lip. Sybert
leaned forward and poked the fire.
‘I should like to talk to you about your uncle,’ he said, with his eyes
fixed on the embers. ‘He is one of the finest men I have ever known.
And it is not often that a man in his position amounts to much—that
is, as a human being; the temptations are all the other way. Most men,
you know, with leisure and his tastes would—well, go in for collecting
carved ivory and hammered silver and all that rubbish. Nobody
understands what he is trying to do, least of all the people he is
doing it for. He does it very quietly and in his own way, and he
doesn’t ask for thanks. Still, just a little appreciation would be
grateful; and, instead of that, he is abused at every turn. This wheat
business increased the feeling against him, and naturally he feels
sore. The other evening he’d just been reading some articles about the
trouble in a Roman paper, and I had been telling him about your
encounter with the village people when you came in. It was an
unfortunate moment you chose, and he forgot himself. I wish you would
be as kind to him as you can, for he has a good many critics outside,
and—’ Sybert hesitated an instant—‘he needs a little sympathy at
home.’
Marcia drew a deep breath.
‘I understand about Uncle Howard,’ she said. ‘I used to think
sometimes—’ she hesitated too—‘that he wasn’t very happy, but I
didn’t know the reason. Of course I don’t blame him for what he said; I
know he was worried, and I know he didn’t mean it. In any case, I
should rather know the truth. But about the wheat,’ she continued, ‘my
father is not to blame the way you think he is. He and Uncle Howard
don’t understand each other, but I understand them both, and if I had
known sooner I could have stopped it. He didn’t have the remotest idea
of harming Italy or any other country. He just thought about getting
ahead of a lot of others, and—you know what men are like—making
people look up to him. He’s very quick; he sees things faster than
other men; he knows what’s going to happen ahead of time, and you can’t
expect him not to take advantage of it. Of course’—she flushed—‘he
wants to make money, too; but it isn’t all that, for he doesn’t use it
after he gets it made. It’s the beating others that he likes—the power
it gives him. I’m afraid,’ she added, with a slightly pathetic smile,
‘that I shall have to go home and look after him.’
‘Oh, certainly, Miss Marcia, we all know that your father had no
thought of deliberately harming Italy or any other country. And, as a
matter of fact, the American wheat corner has not had so much to do
with the trouble as the Italian government would have us believe. The
simple truth is that your father has been used as a scapegoat. While
the Roman papers have been suggestively silent on many points, they
have had much to say of the American Wheat King.’
‘Have the things they said been very bad?’
Sybert smiled a trifle.
‘There’s not been much, to tell the truth, that he will care to cut out
and paste in his scrap-book.’
‘Our party, next week, seems heartless, doesn’t it—sort of like giving
a ball while the people next door are having a funeral? I wanted to
give it up, but Uncle Howard looked so hurt when I proposed it that I
didn’t say anything more about it.’
‘No, certainly not. That would be foolish and useless. Because some
people have to be unhappy is no reason why all should be.’
‘I suppose not,’ she agreed slowly; and then she added, ‘The world used
to be so much pleasanter to live in before I knew there was any misery
in it—I wish I didn’t have to know!’
‘Miss Marcia, I told you the other day that it was a relief sometimes
to see people who are thoroughly, irresponsibly happy; who dance over
the pit without knowing it’s there. A man who has been in the pit, who
knows all its horrors—who feels as if he reeked with them—likes
occasionally to see some one who doesn’t even know of its existence.
And yet in the end do you think he can thoroughly respect such
blindness? Don’t you feel that you are happier in a worthier sense when
you look at life with your eyes open; when you honestly take the bad
along with the good?’
She sat silent for a few minutes, apparently considering his words.
Presently he added—
‘As for your party, I think you may dance with a free conscience.
You’ve done what you could to help matters on, and you’ll do a great
deal more in the future.’
‘I’m afraid that my conscience didn’t have much to do with wanting to
give up the ball,’ she acknowledged, with a slightly guilty laugh.
‘It’s simply that I can’t bear to meet people, and feel that all the
time they’re talking to me they’re calling me in their minds “the Wheat
Princess.”’
‘That, I suppose you know, is very silly. It’s the price you have to
pay, and I haven’t much sympathy to offer. However, you need not let it
bother you; for, as a matter of fact, there will not be many men here,
who would not be wheat kings themselves if they had the chance—even
knowing beforehand all the suffering it was going to bring to this
trouble-ridden country. And now, suppose we don’t talk about wheat any
more. You’ve thought about it a good deal too much.’
‘You’re not very optimistic,’ she said.
‘Oh, well, I’m not blind. It takes an Italian to be optimistic in this
country.’
‘Do you like the Italians, or don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Sometimes you
seem to, and sometimes you act as if you despised them.’
‘Yes, certainly I like them; I was born in Italy.’
‘But you’re an American,’ she said quickly.
He laughed at her tone.
‘You surely want to be an American,’ she insisted.
‘As Henry James says, Miss Marcia, one’s country, like one’s
grandmother, is antecedent to choice.’
She studied the fire for some time without speaking, and Sybert,
leaning back lazily, studied her. Her next observation surprised him.
‘You said the other day, Mr. Sybert, that every man lived for some
idea, and I’ve been wondering what yours was.’
A curious expression flashed over his face.
‘You couldn’t expect me to tell; I’m a diplomatist.’
‘I have an idea that it is not very much connected with diplomacy.’
‘In which case it would be poor diplomacy for me to give it away.’
‘Mr. Sybert, you give a person a queer impression, as if you were
acting a part all the time, and didn’t want people to know what you
were really like.’
‘An anarchist must be careful; the police——’
‘I believe you are one!’ she cried.
‘Don’t be alarmed. I assure you I am not. But,’ he added, with a little
flash of fire, ‘I swear, in a country like this, one would like to
be—anything for action! Oh, I’m not a fool,’ he added, in response to
her smile. ‘We’re living in the nineteenth century, and not in the
thirteenth. Anarchy belongs to the dark ages as much as feudalism.’
‘You’re so difficult to place! I like to know whether people are
Democrats or Republicans, and whether they are Presbyterians or
Episcopalians. Then one always knows where to find them, and is not in
danger of hurting their feelings.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t claim any such respectable connexions as those,’
Sybert laughed.
‘Half the time one would think you were a Catholic by the way you stand
up for the priests; the other half one would think you weren’t anything
by the way you abuse them.’
‘This mania for classifying! What difference if a person calls himself
a Catholic or a Baptist, a Unitarian or a Buddhist? It’s all one. A man
is not necessarily irreligious because he doesn’t subscribe to any
cut-and-dried formulae.’
‘Mr. Sybert,’ she dared, ‘I used to be terribly suspicious of you. I
knew you weren’t just the way you appeared, and I thought you were
really rather bad; but I’m beginning to believe you’re unusually good.’
‘Oh, I say, Miss Marcia! What are you trying to get at? Do you want me
to confess to a hair shirt underneath my dinner-jacket?—I am afraid
you must leave that to our friend the monk, up on his mountain-top.’
‘No, I didn’t mean just that. Flagellations and hair shirts strike me
as a pretty useless sort of goodness.’
‘It does seem a poor business,’ he agreed, ‘for a strong young fellow
like that to give up his whole life to the work of getting his soul
into paradise.’
‘Still, if he wants paradise that much, and is willing to make the
sacrifice——’
‘It’s setting a pretty high value on his own soul. I should never rate
mine as being worth a lifetime of effort.’
‘I suppose a person’s soul is worth whatever price he chooses to set.’
‘Oh, of course, if a man keeps his soul in a bandbox he can produce it
immaculate in the end; but what’s a soul for if it’s not for use? He
would much better live in the world with his fellow-men, and help them
keep their souls clean, even at the risk of getting his own a little
dusty.’
‘Yes, perhaps that’s true,’ she conceded. ‘Such dust will doubtless
brush off in the end.’
‘It certainly ought, if things are managed right.’
‘I can’t help feeling sorry, though, for the poor young monk; he will
be so disappointed, when he brings out his shiny new soul, to find that
it doesn’t rank any higher than some of the dusty ones that have been
dragged through the world.’
‘It will serve him right,’ Sybert declared. ‘He ought to have been
thinking of other people’s souls instead of his own.’
‘“‘Tis a dangerous thing to play with souls, and matter enough to save
one’s own,”’ quoted Marcia.
‘Oh, well,’ he shrugged, ‘I won’t argue, with the poet and the priests
both against me; but still——’
‘You think that your speckled soul is exactly as good at other people’s
white souls?’
‘It all depends,’ he demurred, ‘upon how they kept theirs white and how
I got mine speckled.’
‘Our frate has afforded a long moral,’ she laughed.
‘Ah—and I suspect he didn’t deserve it. He looks, poor devil, as if
his heart were still in the world, in spite of the fact that he himself
is in the cloister.’
‘In that case,’ she returned, ‘he’s lost the world for nothing, for his
prayers will not be answered unless his heart is in them.’
‘There’s a tragedy!’ said Sybert—‘to have lost the world, and then, in
spite of it, to turn up in the end with a dusty soul!’
They looked at each other soberly, and then they both laughed.
‘Philosophy is a queer thing,’ said Marcia. ‘You may go as far as you
please, but you always end where you started.’
‘“Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break on vain philosophy’s
aye-bubbling spring,”’ he repeated softly, with his eyes on the fire;
and then he leaned toward her and laughed again. ‘Miss Marcia, do you
know I have an idea?’
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘It’s about you and me—I have a theory that we might be pretty good
friends.’
‘I thought we’d been friends for some time,’ she returned evasively. ‘I
am sure my uncle’s friends are mine.’
‘Really, I hadn’t suspected it! But it’s the same with friends as with
politics and religion: they don’t amount to much until you find them
for yourself.’
She considered this in silence.
‘I should say,’ he added, ‘that we’d been pretty good enemies all this
time. What do you say to our being friends, for a change?’
Marcia glanced away in a sudden spasm of shyness.
‘Shall we try it?’ he asked in a low tone, bending toward her and
laying his hand palm upward on the arm of her chair.
She dropped her hand into his hesitatingly, and his fingers closed upon
it. He looked at the fire a moment, and then back in her face.
‘Marcia,’ he said softly, ‘did you ever hear the Tuscan proverb, “The
foes of yesterday become the friends of to-day and the lovers of
to-morrow”?’
A quick wave of colour swept over her face, and a faint answering flush
appeared in his. She drew her hand away and rose to her feet, with a
light laugh that put the last few minutes ages away.
‘I’m afraid it’s getting late, and Aunt Katherine would be scandalized
if she found her malaria patient waiting up for her. I will leave you
to smoke in peace.’
Sybert rose and followed her into the hall. He chose a tall brass
candlestick from the row on the chimney-piece, lighted it, and handed
it to her with a silent bow.
‘Thank you,’ said Marcia, with a brief glance at his face. She paused
on the landing and looked down. He was standing on the rug at the foot
of the stairs, watching her with an amused smile.
‘_Buona notte_, Signor Siberti,’ she murmured.
‘_Buona notte_, signorina,’ he returned, with a little laugh. ‘Pleasant
dreams!’