The Wheat Princess Page 11

  CHAPTER X

  SYBERT presently returned and dropped into the seat opposite Marcia;the guard slammed the door and the train pulled slowly out into theCampagna. They were both occupied with their own thoughts, and asneither found much pleasure in talking to the other, and both knew it,they made little pretence at conversation.

  Marcia's excited mood had passed, and she leaned forward with her chinin her hand, watching rather pensively the soft Roman twilight as itcrept over the Campagna. What she really saw, however, was the sunlitcloister of St. Paul Without the Walls and Paul Dessart's face as hetalked to her. Was she really in love with him, she asked herself, orwas it just--Italy? She did not know and she did not want to think. Itwas so much pleasanter merely to drift, and so very difficult to makeup one's mind. Everything had been so care-free before, why must hebring the question to an issue? It was a question she did not wish todecide for a long, long time. Would he be willing to wait--to wait foran indefinite future that in the end might never come? Patience was notPaul's way. Suppose he refused to drift; suppose he insisted on hisanswer now--did she wish to give him up? No; quite frankly, she didnot. She pictured him as he stood there in the cloister, with the warmsunlight and shadow playing about him, with his laughing, boyish facefor the instant sober, his eager, insistent eyes bent upon her, hiswords for once stammering and halting. He was very attractive, veryconvincing; and yet she sighed. Life for her was still in the future.The world was new and full and varied, and experience was beckoning.There were many things to see and do, and she wanted to be free.

  The short southern twilight faded quickly and a full moon took itsplace in a cloudless turquoise sky. The light flooded the dimcompartment with a shimmering brilliancy, and outside it was almostdazzling in its glowing whiteness. Marcia leaned against the window,gazing out at the rolling plain. The tall arches of Aqua Felice weresilhouetted darkly against the sky, and in the distance the horizon wasbroken by the misty outline of the Sabine hills. Now and then theypassed a lonely group of farm-buildings set in a cluster of eucalyptustrees, planted against the fever; but for the most part the scene wasbarren and desolate, with scarcely a suggestion of actual, breathinghuman light. On the Appian Way were visible the gaunt outlines of Latintombs, and occasionally the ruined remains of a mediaeval watch-tower.The picture was almost too perfect in its beauty; it was like thepainted back drop for a spectacular play. Scarcely real, and yet one ofthe oldest things in the world--the rolling Campagna, the arches of theaqueducts, Rome behind and the Sabines before. So it had been forcenturies; thousands of human lives were wrapped up in it. That was itscharm. The picture was not inanimate, but pathetically human. As shelooked far off across the plain so mournfully beautiful in itsdesolation, a sudden rush of feeling swept over her, a rush of thatinsane love of Italy which has engulfed so many foreigners in thewaters of Lethe. She knew now how Paul felt. Italy! Italy! She loved ittoo.

  A half-sob rose in her throat and her eyes filled with tears. Shecaught herself quickly and shrank back in the corner, with a glance atthe man across to see if he were watching her. He was not. He satrigid, looking out at the Campagna under half-shut eyelids. One handwas plunged deep in his pocket and the other lay on the dog's head tokeep him quiet. Marcia noticed in surprise that while he appeared socalm, his fingers opened and shut nervously. She glanced up into hisface again. He was staring at the picture before him as impassively asat a blank wall; but his eyes seemed more deep-set than usual and theunder shadows darker. She half abstractedly fell to studying his face,wondering what was behind those eyes; what he could be thinking of.

  He suddenly looked up and caught her gaze.

  'I beg your pardon?' he asked.

  'I didn't say anything.'

  'You looked as if you did,' he said with a slight laugh, and turnedaway from the light. And now Marcia had the uncomfortable feeling thatfrom under his drooping lids he was watching her. She turned back tothe window again and tried to centre her attention on the shiftingscene outside, but she was oppressively conscious of her silentcompanion. His face was in the shadow and she could not tell whetherhis eyes were open or shut. She tried to think of something to talkabout, but no relevant subject presented itself. She experienced anervous sense of relief when the train finally stopped at Palestrina.

  The station-man, after some delay, found them a carriage with areasonably rested-looking horse. As Sybert helped Marcia in he asked ifshe would object to letting a poor fellow with an unbeautifully largebundle sit on the front seat with the driver.

  'We won't meet any one at this time of night,' he added. 'He's going toCastel Vivalanti and it's a long walk.'

  'Certainly he may ride,' Marcia returned. 'It makes no difference to mewhether we meet any one or not.'

  'Oh, I beg your pardon,' Sybert smiled. 'I didn't mean to bedisagreeable. Some ladies would object, you know. Tarquinio,' he calledas the Italian with the bed-quilt shuffled past. 'The signorina invitesyou to ride, since we are going the same way.'

  Tarquinio thanked the signorina with Italian courtesy, boosted up hisbundle, and climbed up after it. Marcellus stretched himselfcomfortably in the bottom of the carriage, and with a canine sigh ofcontent went peaceably to sleep. They set out between moonlit oliveorchards and vineyards with the familiar daytime details offarm-buildings and ruins softened into a romantic beauty. Behind themstretched the outline of the Alban mountains, the moonlight catchingthe white walls of two twin villages which crowned the heights; andbefore them rose the more desolate Sabines, standing fold upon foldagainst the sky. It was for the most part a silent drive. Sybert atfirst, aware that he was more silent than politeness permitted, made afew casual attempts at conversation, and then with an apparently easyconscience folded his arms and returned to his thoughts. Marcia, too,had her thoughts, and the romance of the flower-scented moonlit nightgave them their direction. Had Paul been there to urge his case anew,Italy would have helped in the pleading. But Paul had made a tinymistake that day--he had taken her at her word and let her goalone--and the tiniest of mistakes is often big with consequences.

  Once Sybert shifted his position and his hand accidentally touchedMarcia's on the seat between them. 'Pardon me,' he murmured, and foldedhis arms again. She looked up at him quickly. The touch had run throughher like an electric shock. Who was this man? she asked herselfsuddenly. What was he underneath? He seemed to be burning up inside;and she had always considered him apathetic, indifferent. She looked athim wide-eyed; she had never seen him like this. He reminded her of asuppressed volcano that would burst out some day with a suddenexplosion. She again set herself covertly to studying his face. Hischaracter seemed an anomaly; it contradicted itself. Was it good orbad, simple or complex? Marcia did not have the key. She put togetherall the things she knew of him, all the things she had heard--theresult was largely negative; the different pieces of evil cancelledeach other. She knew him in society--he was several different personsthere, but what was he when not in society? In his off hours? Thisafternoon, for example. Why should he be so at home by the Theatre ofMarcellus? It was a long distance from the Embassy. And the man on thefront seat, who was he? She suddenly interrupted the silence with aquestion. Sybert started at if he had forgotten she were there.

  She repeated it: 'Is that man on the front seat Tarquinio Paterno whokeeps a little _trattoria_ in Rome?'

  'Yes,' he returned, bringing a somewhat surprised gaze to rest uponher. 'How do you come to know his name?'

  'Oh, I just guessed. I know Domenico Paterno, the Castel Vivalantibaker, and he told me about his son, Tarquinio. It's not such a verycommon name; so when you said this man was going to the village, andwhen I heard you call him Tarquinio, I thought--why were yousurprised?' she broke off. 'Is there anything more to know about him?'

  'You seem to have his family history pretty straight,' Sybert shrugged.

  They lapsed into silence again, and Marcia did not attempt to break ita second time.

  When they came to the turning
where the steep road to Castel Vivalantibranches off from the highway, the driver halted to let Tarquinio getout. But Marcia remonstrated, that the bundle was too heavy for him tocarry up the hill, and she told the man to drive on up to the gates ofthe town.

  They jogged on up the winding ascent between orchards of olive andalmond trees fringed with the airy leafage of spring. Above them theclustering houses of the village clung to the hilltop, tier above tier,the jagged sky-line of roofs and towers cut out clearly against thelight.

  Marcia had never visited Castel Vivalanti except in the unequivocalglare of day, which shows the dilapidated little town in all itsdilapidation. But the moonlight changes all. The grey stone wallsstretched above them now like some grim fortress city of the middleages. And the old round tower, with its ruined drawbridge, looked as ifit had seen dark deeds and kept the secret. It was just such astronghold as the Cenci was murdered in.

  They came to a stand before the tall arch of the Porta della Luna.While Tarquinio was climbing down and hoisting the bundle to hisshoulder, Marcia's attention was momentarily attracted to a group ofboys quarrelling over a game of morro in the gateway.

  Suddenly, in the midst of Tarquinio's expressions of thanks to thesignorina for helping a poor man on his journey, a frightened shriekrang out in a child's high voice, followed by a succession oflong-drawn screams. The morro-players stopped their game and looked ateach other with startled eyes; and then, after a moment of hesitation,went on with the play. At the first cry Sybert had leaped from thecarriage, and seizing one of the boys by the shoulder, he demanded thecause.

  The boy wriggled himself free with a gesture of unconcern.

  'Gervasio Delano's mother is beating him. He always makes a great fussbecause he is afraid.'

  'What is it?' Marcia cried as she sprang from the carriage and ran upto Sybert.

  'Some child's mother is beating him.'

  The two, without waiting for any further explanations, turned in underthe gate and hurried along the narrow way to the left, in the directionof the sounds. People had gathered in little groups in the doorways,and were shaking their heads and talking excitedly. One woman, as shecaught sight of Marcia and Sybert, called out reassuringly that Teresawasn't hurting the boy; he always cried harder than he was struck.

  By the time they had reached the low doorway whence the sounds issued,the screams had died down to hysterical sobs. They plunged into theroom which opened from the street, and then paused. It was so dark thatfor a moment they could not see anything. The only light came from aflickering oil-lamp burning before an image of the Madonna. But astheir eyes became accustomed to the darkness they made out a stoutlybuilt peasant woman standing at one end of the room and grasping in herhand an ox-goad such as the herdsmen on the Campagna use. For a momentthey thought she was the only person there, until a low sob proclaimedthe presence of a child who was crouching in the farthest corner.

  'What do you want?' the woman asked, scowling angrily at the intruders.

  'Have you been striking the child with that goad?' Sybert demanded.

  'I strike the child with what I please,' the woman retorted. 'He is alazy good-for-nothing and he stole the soup.'

  Marcia drew the little fellow from the corner where he was sobbingsteadily with long catches in his breath. His tears had gained such amomentum that he could not stop, but he clung to her convulsively,realizing that a deliverer of some sort was at hand. She turned him tothe light and revealed a great red welt across his cheek where one ofthe blows had chanced to fall.

  'It's outrageous! The woman ought to be arrested!' said Marcia, angrily.

  Sybert took the lamp from the wall and bent over to look at him.

  'Poor little devil! He looks as if he needed soup,' he muttered.

  The woman broke in shrilly again to say that he was eleven years oldand never brought in a single soldo. She slaved night and day to keephim fed, and she had children enough of her own to give to.

  'Whose child is he?' Sybert demanded.

  'He was my husband's,' the woman returned; 'and that husband is deadand I have a new one. The boy is in the way. I can't be expected tosupport him forever. It is time he was earning something for himself.'

  Marcia sat down on a low stool and drew the boy to her.

  'What can we do?' she asked, looking helplessly at Sybert. 'It won't doto leave him here. She would simply beat him to death as soon as ourbacks are turned.'

  'I'm afraid she would,' he acknowledged. 'Of course I can threaten herwith the police, but I don't believe it will do much good.' He wasthinking that she might better adopt the boy than the dog, but he didnot care to put his thoughts into words.

  'I know!' she exclaimed as if in answer to his unspoken suggestion;'I'll take him home for an errand-boy. He will be very useful about theplace. Tell the woman, please, that I'm going to keep him, and make herunderstand that she has nothing to do with him any more.'

  'Would Mrs. Copley like to have him at the villa?' Sybert inquireddoubtfully. 'It's hardly fair----'

  'Oh, yes. She won't mind if I insist--and I shall insist. Tell thewoman, please.'

  Sybert told the woman rather curtly that she need not be at the expenseof feeding the boy any longer, the signorina would take him home to runerrands.

  The woman quickly changed her manner at this, and refused to part withhim. Since she had cared for him when he was little, it was time forhim to repay the debt now that she was growing old.

  Sybert succinctly explained that she had forfeited all right to thechild, and that if she made any trouble he would tell the police, who,he added parenthetically, were his dearest friends. Without furtherparleying, he picked up the boy and they walked out of the house,followed on the woman's part by angry prayers that 'apoplexies' mightfall upon them and their descendants.

  Curious groups of people had gathered outside the house, and theyseparated silently to let them pass. At the gateway the morro-playersstopped their game to crowd around the carriage with shrill inquiriesas to what was going to be done with Gervasio. The driver leaned fromhis seat and stared in stupid bewilderment at this rapid change offares. But he whipped up his horse and started with dispatch,apparently moved by the belief that if he gave them time enough theywould invite all Castel Vivalanti to drive.

  As they rattled down the hill Sybert broke out into an amused laugh. 'Ifear your aunt won't thank us, Miss Marcia, for turning Villa Vivalantiinto a foundling-asylum.'

  'She won't care when we tell her about it,' said Marcia, comfortably.She glanced down at the thin little face resting on Sybert's shoulder.'Poor little fellow! He looks hungrier than Marcellus. The woman saidhe was eleven, and he's scarcely bigger than Gerald.'

  Sybert closed his fingers around Gervasio's tiny brown wrist. 'He'spretty thin,' he remarked; 'but that can soon be remedied. Thesepeasant children are hardy little things when they have half a chance.'He looked down at the boy, who was watching their faces with wide-open,excited eyes, half frightened at the strange language. 'You mustn't beafraid, Gervasio,' he reassured him in Italian. 'The signorina istaking you home with her to Villa Vivalanti, where you won't be whippedany more and will have all you want to eat. You must be a good boy anddo everything she tells you.'

  Gervasio's eyes opened still wider. 'Will the signorina give mechocolate?' he asked.

  'He's one of the children I gave chocolate to, and he remembers it!'Marcia said delightedly. 'I thought his face was familiar. Yes,Gervasio,' she added in her very careful Italian. 'I will give youchocolate if you always do what you are told, but not every day,because chocolate is not good for little boys. You must eat bread andmeat and soup, and grow big and strong like--like Signor Siberti here.'

  Sybert laughed and Marcia joined him.

  'I begin to appreciate Aunt Katherine's anxiety for Gerald--do yousuppose there is any danger of malaria at Villa Vivalanti?'

  For the rest of the drive they chatted quite gaily over the adventure.Sybert for the time dismissed whatever he had on his mind; and
as forMarcia--St. Paul's cloisters were behind in Rome. As they turned intothe avenue the lights of the villa gleamed brightly through the trees.

  'See, Gervasio,' said Sybert. 'That is where you are going to live.'

  Gervasio nodded, too awed to speak. Presently he whispered, 'Shall Isee the little _principino_?'

  'The little _principino_? what does he mean?' Marcia asked.

  'The little principino with yellow hair,' Gervasio repeated.

  'Gerald!' Sybert laughed. 'The '_principino_' is good for a free-bornAmerican. Ah--and here is the old prince,' he added, as the carriagewheels grated on the gravel before the loggia and Copley stepped outfrom the hall to see who had come.

  'Hello! is that you, Sybert?' he called out in surprise. 'And, Marcia!I thought you had decided to stay in town--what in the deuce have youbrought with you?'

  'A boy and a dog, O Prince,' said Sybert, as he set Gervasio on hisfeet. 'Miss Marcia must plead guilty to the dog, but I will take halfthe blame for the boy.'

  Gervasio and Marcellus were conveyed into the hall, and it would bedifficult to say which was the more frightened of the two. Marcellusslunk under a chair and whined at the lights, and Gervasio looked afterhim as if he were tempted to follow. Mrs. Copley, attracted by thedisturbance, appeared from the salon, and a medley of questions andexplanations ensued. Gervasio, meanwhile, sat up very straight and veryscared, clutching the arms of the big carved chair in which Sybert hadplaced him.

  'We thought he might be useful to run errands,' Sybert suggested asthey finished the account of the boy's maltreatment.

  'Poor child!' said Mrs. Copley. 'We can find something for him to do.He is small, but he looks intelligent. I have always intended to have alittle page--or he might even do as a tiger for Gerald's pony-cart.'

  'No, Aunt Katherine,' expostulated Marcia. 'I shan't have him dressedin livery. I don't think it's right to turn him into a servant beforehe's old enough to choose.'

  'The position of a trained servant is a much higher one than he wouldever fill if left to himself. He is only a peasant child, my dear.'

  'He is a psychological problem,' she declared. 'I am going to provethat environment is everything and heredity's nothing, and I shan'thave him dressed in livery. I found him, and he's mine--at least halfmine.'

  She glanced across at Sybert and he nodded approval.

  'I will turn my share of the authority over to you, Miss Marcia, sinceit appears to be in such good hands.'

  'Marcia shall have her way,' said Mr. Copley. 'We'll let Gervasio be anunofficial page and postpone the question of livery for the present.'

  'He can play with Gerald,' she suggested. 'We were wishing the othernight that he had some one to play with, and Gervasio will be just theperson; it will be good for his Italian.'

  'I suspect that Gervasio's Italian may not be useful for drawing-roompurposes,' her uncle laughed.

  'I shall send him to college,' she added, her mind running ahead ofpresent difficulties, 'and prove that peasants are really as bright asprinces, if they have the same chance. He'll turn out a geniuslike--like Crispi.'

  'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed Sybert, but he examined Marcia with a newinterest in his eyes.

  'We can decide on the young man's career later,' Copley suggested. 'Heseems to be embarrassed by these personalities.'

  Gervasio, with all these august eyes upon him, was on the point ofbreaking out into one of his old-time wails when Mrs. Copleyfortunately diverted the attention by inquiring if they had dined.

  'Neither Mr. Sybert nor I have had any dinner,' Marcia returned, 'and Ishouldn't be surprised if Gervasio has missed several. But Marcellus,under the chair there, has had his,' she added.

  Mrs. Copley recalling her duties as hostess, a jangling of bellsensued. Pietro appeared, and stared at Gervasio with as muchastonishment as is compatible with the office of butler. Mrs. Copleyordered dinner for two in the dining-room and for one in the kitchen,and turned the boy over to Pietro's care.

  'Oh, let's have him eat with us, just for to-night.' Marcia pleaded.'You don't mind, do you, Mr. Sybert? He's so hungry; I love to watchhungry little boys eat.'

  'Marcia!' expostulated her aunt in disgust. 'How can you say suchthings? The child is barefooted.'

  'Since my own son and heir is banished from the dinner-table, I objectto an unwashed alien's taking his place,' Copley put in. 'Gervasio willdine with the cook.'

  To Gervasio's infinite relief, he was led off to the kitchen andconsigned to the care of Francois, who later in the evening confided toPietro that he didn't believe the boy had ever eaten before. Marcia'sand Sybert's dinner that night was an erratic affair and quite upsetthe traditions of the Copley menage. To Pietro's scandalization, thetwo followed him into the kitchen between every course to see how theirprotege was progressing.

  Gervasio sat perched on a three-legged stool before the long kitchentable, his little bare feet dangling in space, an ample towel about hisneck, while an interested scullery-maid plied him with viands. He wouldhave none of the strange dishes that were set before him, but with anexpression of settled purpose on his face was steadily eating his waythrough a bowl of macaroni. It was with a sigh that he had finally toacknowledge himself beaten by the Copley larder. Marcia called Bianca(Marietta's successor) and bade her give Gervasio a bath and a bed.Bianca had known the boy in his pre-villa days, and, if anything, wasmore wide-eyed than Pietro on his sudden promotion.

  * * * * *

  As Marcia was starting upstairs that night, Sybert strolled across thehall toward her and held out his hand.

  'How would it be if we declared an amnesty,' he inquired--'at leastuntil Gervasio is fairly started in his career?'

  She glanced up in his face a second, surprised, and then shook her headwith an air of scepticism. 'We can try,' she smiled, 'but I am afraidwe were meant to be enemies.'

  Her room was flooded with moonlight; she undressed without lighting hercandle, and slipping on a light woollen kimono, sat down on a cushionbeside the open window. She was too excited and restless to sleep. Sheleaned her chin on her hand, with her elbow resting on the lowwindow-sill, and let the cool breeze fan her face.

  After a time she heard some one strike a match on the loggia, and heruncle and Sybert came out to the terrace and paced back and forth,talking in low tones. She could hear the rise and fall of their voices,and every now and then the breeze wafted in the smell of their cigars.She grew wider and wider awake, and followed them with her eyes as theypassed and repassed in their tireless tramp. At the end of the terracetheir voices sank to a low murmur, and then by the loggia they roseagain until she could hear broken sentences. Sybert's voice soundedangry, excited, almost fierce, she thought; her uncle's, low, decisive,half contemptuous.

  Once, as they passed under the window, she heard her uncle say sharply:'Don't be a fool, Sybert. It will make a nasty story if it getsout--and nothing's gained.'

  She did not hear Sybert's reply, but she saw his angry gesture as heflung away the end of his cigar. The men paused by the farther end ofthe terrace and stood for several minutes arguing in lowered tones.Then, to Marcia's amazement, Sybert leaped the low parapet by the ilexgrove and struck out across the fields, while her uncle came backacross the terrace alone, entered the house, and closed the door. Shesat up straight with a quickly beating heart. What was the matter?Could they have quarrelled? Was Sybert going to the station? Surely hewould not walk. She leaned out of the window and looked after him, ablack speck in the moonlit wheat-field. No, he was going toward CastelVivalanti. Why Castel Vivalanti at this time of the night? Had itanything to do with Gervasio?--or perhaps Tarquinio, the baker's son?She recalled her uncle's words: 'Don't be a fool. It will make a nastystory if it gets out.' Perhaps people's suspicions against him weretrue, after all. She thought of his look that night in the train. Whatwas behind it? And then she thought of the picture of him in thecarriage with the little boy in his arms. A man who was so kind tochildren could not
be bad at heart. And yet, if he were all that heruncle had thought him, why did he have so many enemies--and so manydoubtful friends?

  The breeze had grown cold, and she rose with a quick shiver and went tobed. She lay a long time with wide-open eyes watching the muslincurtains sway in the wind. She thought again of Paul Dessart's words inthe warm, sleepy, sunlit cloister; of the little crowd of ragamuffinschasing the dog; of her long, silent ride with Sybert; of the moonlitgateway of Castel Vivalanti, with the dark, high walls towering above.Her thoughts were growing hazy and she was almost asleep when, mingledwith a half-waking dream, she heard footsteps cross the terrace and thehall door open softly.