The Wheat Princess Read online

  CHAPTER XI

  MARCIA was awakened the next morning by Bianca knocking at the door,with the information that Gervasio wished to get up, and that, as hisclothes were very ragged, she had taken the liberty the night before ofthrowing them away.

  For an instant Marcia blinked uncomprehendingly; then, as the events ofthe evening flashed through her mind, she sat up in bed, andsolicitously clasping her knees in her hands, considered the problem.She felt, and not without reason, that Gervasio's future success at thevilla depended largely on the impression he made at this, his firstformal appearance. She finally dispatched Bianca to try him with one ofGerald's suits, and to be very sure that his face was clean. Meanwhileshe hurried through with her own dressing in order to be the first toinspect his rehabilitation.

  As she was putting the last touches to her hair she heard a murmur ofvoices on the terrace, and peering out cautiously, beheld her uncle andSybert lounging on the parapet engaged with cigarettes. She had notbeen dreaming, then; those were Sybert's steps she had heard the nightbefore. She puckered her brow over the puzzle and peered out again.Whatever had happened last night, there was nothing electrical in theair this morning. The two had apparently shoved all inflammablesubjects behind them and were merely waiting idly until coffee shouldbe served.

  It was a beautifully peaceful spring morning that she looked out upon.The two men on the terrace appeared to be in mood with theday--careless, indifferent loungers, nothing more. And last night? Sherecalled their low, fierce, angry tones; and the lines in her foreheaddeepened. This was a chameleon world, she thought. As she stoodwatching them, Gervasio for the moment forgotten, Gerald ran up to thetwo with some childish prattle which called forth a quick, amusedlaugh. Sybert stretched out a lazy hand and drew the boy toward him.Carefully balancing his cigarette on the edge of one of the terra-cottavases, he rose to his feet and tossed the little fellow in the air fouror five times. Gerald screamed with delight and called for more. Sybertlaughingly declined, as he resumed his cigarette and his seat on thebalustrade.

  The little play recalled Marcia to her duty. With a shake of her headat matters in general, she gave them up, and turned her face towardGervasio's quarters. Bianca was on her knees before the boy, giving thelast touches to his sailor tie, and she turned him slowly around forinspection. His appearance was even more promising than Marcia hadhoped for. With his dark curls still damp from their unwontedablutions, clad in one of Gerald's baggiest sailor-suits of red linenwith a rampant white collar and tie, except for his bare feet (whichwould not be forced into Gerald's shoes) he might have been a littleprinceling himself, backed by a hundred noble ancestors.

  Marcia sank down on her knees beside him. 'You little dear!' sheexclaimed as she kissed him.

  Gervasio was not used to caresses, and for a moment he drew back, hisbrown eyes growing wide with wonder. Then a smile broke over his face,and he reached out a timid hand and patted her confidingly on thecheek. She kissed him again in pure delight, and taking him by thehand, set out forthwith for the loggia.

  '_Ecco!_ my friends. Isn't he beautiful?' she demanded.

  Mr. Copley and Sybert sprang to their feet and came forwardinterestedly.

  'Who denies now that it's clothes that make the man?'

  'I can't say but that he was as picturesque last night,' her unclereturned; 'but he's undoubtedly cleaner this morning.'

  'Where's Gerald?' asked Sybert. 'Let's see what he has to say of thenew arrival.'

  Gerald, who had but just discovered Marcellus, was delightedly rompingin the garden with him, and was dragged away under protest andconfronted with the stranger. He examined him in silence a moment andthen remarked, 'He's got my cloves on.' And suddenly, as a terribleidea dawned upon him, he burst out: 'Is he a new bruvver? 'Cause if heis you can take him away.'

  'Oh, my dear!' his mother remonstrated in horror. 'He's a littleItalian boy.'

  Gerald was visibly relieved. He examined Gervasio again from this newpoint of view.

  'I want to go wifout my shoes and socks,' he declared.

  'Oh, but he's going to wear shoes and socks, too, as soon we can getsome to fit him,' said Marcia.

  'Do you want to see my lizhyards?' Gerald asked insinuatingly, suddenlymaking up his mind and pulling Gervasio by the sleeve.

  Gervasio backed away.

  'You must talk to him in Italian, Gerald,' Sybert suggested. 'He's likeMarietta: he doesn't understand anything else. I should like to haveanother look at those lizards myself,' he added. 'Come on, Gervasio,'and taking a boy by each hand, he strode off toward the fountain.

  Mrs Copley looked after them dubiously, but Marcia interposed, 'He's adear little fellow, Aunt Katherine, and it will be good for Gerald tohave some one to play with.'

  'Marcia's right, Katherine; it won't hurt him any, and I doubt if theboy's Italian is much worse than Bianca's.'

  * * * * *

  Thus Gervasio's formal installation at the villa. For the first week orso his principal activity was eating, until he was in the way ofbecoming as rosy-cheeked as Gerald himself. During the early stages ofhis career he was consigned to the kitchen, where Francois served himwith soup and macaroni to the point of bursting. Later, having learnedto wield a knife and fork without disaster, he was advanced to thenursery, where he supped with Gerald under the watchful eye of Granton.

  Taken all in all, Gervasio proved a valuable addition to the household.He was sweet-tempered, eager to please, and pitifully grateful for theslightest kindness. He became Gerald's faithful henchman and implicitlyobeyed his commands, with only an occasional rebellion when they wereover-oppressive. He was quick to learn, and it was not long before hewas jabbering in a mixture of Italian and English with a vocabularynearly as varied as Gerald's own.

  The first week following Gervasio's advent was a period of comparativequiet at the villa, but one fairly disturbing little contretempsoccurred to break the monotony.

  The boy had been promised a reward of sweet chocolate as soon as heshould learn to wear shoes and stockings with a smiling face--shoes andstockings being, in his eyes, an objectionable feature of civilization.When it came time for payment, however, Marcia discovered that therewas no sweet chocolate in the house, and, not to disappoint him, sheordered Gerald's pony-carriage, and taking with her the two boys and agroom, set out for Castel Vivalanti and the baker's. Had she stopped tothink, she would have known that to take Gervasio to Castel Vivalantiin broad daylight was not a wise proceeding. But it was a frequentcharacteristic of the Copleys that they did their thinking afterward.The spectacle of Gervasio Delano in a carriage with the _principino_,and in new clothes, with his face washed, very nearly occasioned a mobamong his former playmates. The carriage was besieged, and Marcia foundit necessary to distribute a considerable largess of copper before shecould rid herself of her following.

  As she laughingly escaped from the crowd and drove out through thegateway a man stepped forward from the corner of the wall and motionedher to stop. For a moment a remembrance of her aunt's _rencontre_ withthe Camorrist flashed through her mind, and then she smiled as shereflected that it was broad daylight and in full sight of the town. Shepulled the pony to a standstill and asked him what he wanted. He wasGervasio's stepfather, he said. They were poor, hard-working people anddid not have enough to eat, but they were very lonely without the boyand wished to have him back. Even American princes, he added, couldn'ttake poor people's children away without their permission. And hefinished by insinuating that if he were paid enough he might reconsiderthe matter.

  Marcia did not understand all that he said, but as Gervasio began tocry, and at the same time clasped both hands firmly about the seat inan evident determination to resist all efforts to dislodge him, she sawwhat he meant, and replied that she would tell the police. But the manevidently thought that he had the upper hand of the situation, and thatshe would rather buy him off than let the boy go. With a threateningair, he reached out
and grasped Gervasio roughly by the arm. Gervasioscreamed, and Marcia, before she thought of possible consequences,struck the man a sharp blow with the whip and at the same time lashedthe pony into a gallop. They dashed down the stony road and around thecorners at a perilous rate, while the man shouted curses from the topof the hill.

  They reached the villa still bubbling with excitement over theadventure, and caused Mrs. Copley no little alarm. But when Marciagreeted her uncle's arrival that night with the story, he declared thatshe had done just right; and without waiting for dinner, he remountedhis horse, and galloping back to Castel Vivalanti, rode straight up tothe door of the little _trattoria_, where the fellow was engaged indrinking wine and cursing Americans. There he told him, before aninterested group of witnesses, that Gervasio was not his child; thatsince he could not treat him decently he had forfeited all claim tohim; and that if he tried to levy any further blackmail he would findhimself in prison. Wherewith he wheeled his horse's head about and madea spectacular exit from the town. If anything were needed to strengthenGervasio's position with Mr. Copley, this incident answered the purpose.

  As a result of the adventure, Marcia, for the time, dropped CastelVivalanti from her calling-list and extended her acquaintance in theother direction. She came to be well known as she galloped about thecountry-side on a satin-coated little sorrel (born and bred inKentucky), followed by a groom on a thumping cob, who alwaysrespectfully drew up behind her when she stopped. As often as she couldthink of any excuse, she visited the peasants in their houses, laughinggaily with them over her own queer grammar. It was an amused curiositywhich at first actuated her friendliness. Their ingenious comments andnaive questions in regard to America proved an ever-diverting source ofinterest; but after a little, as she understood them better, she grewto like them for their own stanch virtues. When she looked about theirgloomy little rooms, with almost no furnishing except a few copper potsand kettles and a tawdry picture of the Madonna, and saw what meagre,straitened lives they led, and yet how bravely they bore them, heramusement changed to respect. Their quick sympathy and warmfriendliness awakened an answering spark, and it was not long beforeshe had discovered for herself the lovable charm of the Italian peasant.

  She explored, in the course of her rides, many a forgotten littlemountain village topping a barren crag of the Sabines, and held by someRoman prince in almost the same feudal tenure as a thousand years ago.They were picturesque enough from below, these huddling grey-stonehamlets shooting up from the solid rock; but when she had climbed thesteeply winding path and had looked within, she found them miserableand desolate beyond belief. She was coming to see the under side of agreat deal of picturesqueness.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, though life was moving in an even groove at Villa Vivalanti,the same could not be said of the rest of Italy. Each day brought freshreports of rioting throughout the southern provinces, and travellershurrying north reported that every town of any size was under martiallaw. In spite of reassuring newspaper articles, written under the eyeof the police, it was evident that affairs were fast approaching acrisis. There was not much anxiety felt in the immediate neighbourhoodof Rome, for the capital was too great a stronghold of the army to bein actual danger from mobs. The affair, if anything, was regarded as awelcome diversion from the tediousness of Lent, and the embassies andlarge hotels where the foreigners congregated were animated by a notunpleasurable air of excitement.

  Conflicting opinions of every sort were current. Some shook their headswisely, and said that in their opinion the matter was much more seriousthan appeared on the surface. They should not be surprised to see thescenes of the French Commune enacted over again; and they intimatedfurther, that since it had to happen, they were very willing to be onhand in time to see the fun.

  Many expressed the belief that the trouble had nothing to do with theprice of bread; the wheat famine was merely a pretext for stirring upthe people. It was well known that the universities, the youngergeneration of writers and newspaper men, even the ranks of the army,were riddled with socialism. What more likely than that the socialistsand the church adherents had united to overthrow the government,intending as soon as their end was accomplished to turn upon each otherand fight it out for supremacy? It was the opinion of these that thegovernment should have adopted the most drastic measures possible, andwas doing very foolishly in catering to the populace by putting downthe _dazio_. Still others held that the government should haveabolished the _dazio_ long before, and that the people in the south didvery well to rise and demand their rights. And so the affairs of theunfortunate Neapolitans were the subject of conversation at every_table d'hote_ in Rome; and the _forestieri_ sojourning within thewalls derived a large amount of entertainment from the matter.

  Marcia Copley, however, had heard little of the gathering trouble. Shedid not read the papers, and her uncle did not mention the matter athome. He was too sick at heart to dwell on it uselessly, and it was nota subject he cared to discuss with his niece. His family, indeed, sawvery little of him, for he had thrown himself into the work of theForeign Relief Committee with characteristic energy, and he spent themost of his time in Rome. Marcia's interest in sight-seeing had come toa sudden halt since the afternoon of Tre Fontane. She had ventured intothe city only once, and then merely to attend to the purchase ofclothes for Gervasio. The Roystons, on that occasion, had been out whenshe called at their hotel, and her feeling of regret was mingledlargely with relief as she left her card and retired in safety to VillaVivalanti.

  She had not analysed her emotions very thoroughly, but she felt adecided trepidation at the thought of seeing Paul. The trepidation,however, was not altogether an unpleasant sensation. The scene in thecloisters had returned to her mind many times, and she had takenseveral brief excursions into the future. What would he say the nexttime they met? Would he renew the same subject, or would he tacitlyoverlook that afternoon, and for the time let everything be as it hadbeen before? She hoped that the latter would be the case. It would givea certain piquancy to their relations, and she was not ready--just atpresent--to make up her mind.

  Paul, on his side, had also pondered the question somewhat. Events werenot moving with the rapidity he wished. Marcia, evidently, would notcome into Rome, and he could think of no valid excuse for going out tothe villa. His pessimistic forecast of events had proved true. HolyWeek found the Roystons still in the city, treating themselves toorgies of church-going. As he followed his aunt from church to church(there are in the neighbourhood of three hundred and seventy-five inRome, and he says they visited them all that week) he indulged in manyspeculations as to the state of Marcia's mind in regard to himself. Attimes he feared he had been over-precipitate; at others, that he hadnot been precipitate enough.

  His aunt and cousins returned from a flying visit to the villa, withthe report that Marcia had adopted a boy and a dog and was solicitouslyengaged with their education. 'What did she say about me, Madge?' Paulboldly inquired.

  'She said you were a very impudent fellow,' Margaret retorted; and inresponse to his somewhat startled expression she added moremagnanimously: 'You needn't be so vain as to think she said anythingabout you. She never even mentioned your name.'

  Paul breathed a meditative 'Ah!' Marcia had not mentioned his name. Itwas not such a bad sign, that: she was thinking about him, then. Ifthere were no other man--and he was vain enough to take her at herword--nothing could be better for his cause than a solitary week in theSabine hills. He knew from present--and past--experience that anItalian spring is a powerful stimulant for the heart.

  On Tuesday of Holy Week Mrs. Royston wakened slightly from herspiritual trance to observe that she had scarcely seen Marcia for asmuch as a week, and that as soon as Lent was over they must have theCopleys in to luncheon at the hotel.

  'Where's the use of waiting till Lent's over?' Paul had inquired. 'Youneedn't make it a function. Just a sort of--family affair. If youinvite them for Thursday, we can all go
together to the tenebrae serviceat St. Peter's. As this is Miss Copley's first Easter in Rome, shemight be interested.'

  Accordingly a note arrived at the villa on Wednesday morning invitingthe family--Gerald included--to breakfast the next day with theRoystons in Rome. On Thursday morning an acceptance--Geraldexcluded--arrived at the _Hotel de Lourdres et Paris_, and was followedan hour later by the Copleys themselves.

  The breakfast went off gaily. Paul was his most expansive self, and thewhole table responded to his mood. It was with a sense of gratificationthat Marcia saw her uncle, who had lately been so grave, laughinglyexchanging nonsense with the young man. She felt, though she wouldscarcely have acknowledged it to herself, a certain property right inPaul, and it pleased her subtly when he pleased other people. She satnext to him at the table, and occasionally, beneath his laughter andpersiflage, she caught an undertone of meaning. So long as they werenot alone and he could not go beyond a certain point, she found theirrelations on a distinctly satisfying basis.

  In spite of Paul's manoeuvres, he did not find himself alone with Marciathat afternoon. There was always a cousin in attendance. Mr. and Mrs.Copley, declining the spectacle of the tenebrae in St. Peter's--they hadseen it before--left shortly after luncheon. As they were leaving, Mr.Copley remarked to Mrs. Royston--

  'I will entrust my niece to your care, and please do not lose sight ofher until you put her in my hands for the evening train. I wish no moresuch escapades as we had the other day.' And, to Marcia's discomfort,the adventures involving the rescue of Marcellus and Gervasio wererecounted in detail. For an unexplained reason, she would havepreferred the story of their origin to remain in darkness.

  Paul's face clouded slightly. 'My objections to Sybert grow rapidly,'he remarked in an undertone.

  Marcia laughed. 'If you could have seen him! He never spoke a word tome all the way out in the train. He sat with his arms folded and afrown on his brow, like--Napoleon at Moscow.'

  Paul's face brightened again. 'Oh, I begin to like him, after all,' hedeclared.

  * * * * *

  Toward five o'clock that evening every carriage in the city seemed tobe bent for the Ponte Sant' Angelo. A casual spectator would never havechosen a religious function as the end of all this confusion. In thetangle of narrow streets beyond the bridge the way was almost blocked,and such progress as was possible was made at a snail's pace. TheRoyston party, in two carriages, not unnaturally lost each other. Thecarriage containing Marcia, Margaret, and Paul, getting into the jam inthe narrow Borgo Nuovo, arrived in the piazza of St. Peter's withwheels locked with a cardinal's coach. The cardinal's coachman andtheirs exchanged an unclerical opinion of each other's ability asdrivers. The cardinal advanced his head from the window with a mildlystartled air of reproof, and the Americans laughed gaily at thesituation. After a moment of scrutiny the cardinal smiled back, and thefour disembarked and set out on foot across the piazza, leaving the mento sever the difficulty at their leisure. He proved an unexpectedlycordial person, and when they parted on the broad steps he held out ofhis hand with a friendly smile and after a moment of perplexedhesitation the three gravely shook it in turn.

  'Do you think we ought to have kissed it?' Marcia inquired. 'I wouldhave done it, only I didn't know how.'

  Paul laughed. 'He knew we weren't of the true faith. No right-mindedCatholic would laugh at nearly spilling a cardinal in the street.'

  They stood aside by the central door looking for Mrs. Royston andEleanor and watching the crowd surge past. Paul was quite insistentthat they should go in without the others, but Marcia was equallyinsistent that they wait. She had an intuitive feeling that there wassafety in numbers.

  For a wonder they presently espied Mrs. Royston bearing down upon them,a small camp-stool clutched to her portly bosom, and Eleanor pantingalong behind, a camp-stool in either hand.

  Mrs. Royston caught sight of them with an expression of relief.

  'My dears, I was afraid I had lost you,' she gasped. 'We remembered,just as we got to the bridge, that we hadn't brought any chairs, and sowe went back for them. Paul, you should have thought of them yourself.I suppose we'd better hurry in and get a good place.'

  Paul patiently possessed himself of the chairs and followed the ladies,with a glance at Marcia which seemed to say, 'Is there this day livinga more exemplary nephew and gentleman than I?'

  The tenebrae service on Holy Thursday is the one time in the year whenSt. Peter's may be seen at night. The great church looms vaster andemptier and more solemn then than at any other time. The eye cannotpenetrate to the distant dome hidden in shadows. The long navestretches interminably into space, the chapels deepen and broaden untilthey are churches themselves. The clustered pillars reach upward tillthey are lost in the darkness. What the eye cannot grasp theimagination seizes upon, and the vast interior grows and widens untilit seems to stretch out arms to inclose all Christendom itself. On thisone night it does inclose all Rome--nobility and peasants, Italians andforeigners: those who are of the faith, and those who are merelyspectators; those who come to worship; those who come to be amused--St.Peter's receives them all with the same impartiality.

  Standing outside, it had seemed to them that the whole city had flowedthrough the doors; but within, the church was still approximatelyempty. As they walked down the broad nave in the dimness of twilight,Marcia turned to the young man beside her.

  'At first I didn't think St. Peter's was impressive--that is, comparedto Milan and Cologne and some of the other cathedrals--but it's likethe rest of Rome, it grows and grows until----'

  'It comes to be the whole world,' he supplied.

  By the bronze baldacchino Mrs. Royston spread her camp-stools and satdown.

  'This is the best place we could choose,' she said contentedly as shefolded her hands. 'We shan't be very near the choir, but we can hearjust as well, and we shall have an excellent view of the altar-washingand the sacred relics.' She spoke in the tone of one who is picking outa stall for a theatrical performance.

  From time to time friends of either the Roystons or Marcia drifted upand, having paused to chat a few minutes, passed on, giving place toothers. As one group left them with smiles and friendly bows, Marciaturned to Paul, who was standing beside her.

  'It's really dreadful,' she said, 'the way the foreigners takepossession of Rome. This might as well be a reception at the Embassy.If I were the pope, I would put up a sign on the door of St. Peter'ssaying, "No _forestieri_ admitted."'

  'Ah, but there are no _forestieri_ in the case of St. Peter's; itbelongs to all nations.'

  Marcia smiled at the young man and turned away; and as she turned shecaught, across an intervening stream of heads, a face, looking in herdirection, wearing about the eyes a curiously quizzical expression. Itwas the face of a middle-aged woman--an interesting face--not exactlybeautiful, but sparkling with intelligence. It seemed very familiar toMarcia, and as her eyes lingered on it a moment the quizzicalexpression gave place to one of amused friendliness. The woman smiledand bowed and passed on. Marcia bowed vaguely, and then it flashedthrough her mind who it was--the lady who wrote, the 'greatest gossipin Rome,' whom she had met at the studio tea so many weeks before. Shehad forgotten all about her unknown friend of that day, and now sheturned quickly to Paul to ask her identity. Paul was engaged inanswering some question of his aunt's, and before she could gain hisattention again a hush swept over the great interior and everythingelse was forgotten in the opening chorus of the 'Miserere.'

  The twilight had deepened, and the great white dome shone dimly farabove the blackness of the crowd. The voices of the papal choir swelledlouder and louder in the solemn chant, and high and separate and alonerose the clear, flute-like treble of the 'Pope's Nightingale.' And asan undertone, an accompaniment to the music, the shuffle and murmur ofthirty thousand listeners rose and fell like the distant beat of surf.

  The candles on the altar showed dimly above their heads. As the servicecontinued, one by one the
lights were extinguished. After half an houror so, the waiting and intensity grew wearing. The crowd was pressingcloser, and Margaret Royston craned her neck, vainly trying to discoverhow many candles remained. Paul, with ready imagination, was answeringhis aunt's questions as to the meaning of the ceremonies. Margaretturned to Marcia.

  'Poke this young priest in front of me,' she whispered, and ask him inItalian how many candles are left.'

  The young priest, overhearing the words, turned around with an amusedsmile, obligingly stood on his tiptoes to look at the altar, andreplied in English that there were three.

  'Thank you,' said Margaret; 'I didn't suppose you could talk English.'

  'I was born in Troy, New York.'

  'Really?' she laughed, and the two fell to comparing the rival meritsof the Hudson and the Tiber.

  He proved most friendly, carefully explaining to the party thesignificance of the service and the meaning of the different symbols.Mrs. Royston looked reproachfully at her nephew, whose stories, ittranspired, did not accord with fact.

  'You really couldn't expect me to know as much as a professional, AuntEleanor,' he unblushingly expostulated. My explanations were morepicturesque than his, at any rate; and if they aren't true, they oughtto be.'

  The last candle was finally out, and for a moment the great interiorremained in darkness. Then a noise like the distant rattle of thundersymbolized the rending of the veil, and in an instant lights sprang outfrom every arch and pier and dome. A long procession of cardinals,choristers, and acolytes wound singing to the high altar--the 'Altar ofthe World.'

  Marcia stood by the railing and watched their faces as they filed past.They were such thoughtful, spiritual, kindly faces that her respect forthis great power--the greatest power in Christendom--increasedmomentarily. She felt a sort of shame to be there merely as aspectator. She looked about at the faces of the peasants, and thoughtwhat a barren, barren existence would be theirs without this church,which promised the only joy they could ever hope to have.

  When the ceremony of washing the altar with oil and wine was ended, theyoung priest bade them a friendly good evening. He could not wait forthe holy relics, he said; they had supper at the monastery at seveno'clock. He hastily added, however, in response to the smile tremblingon Margaret's lips, 'Not that they are not the true relics and veryholy, but I have seen them several times before.'

  The relics were exhibited to the multitude from St. Veronica's balconyfar above their heads. Paul whispered to Marcia with a little laugh:

  'Our friend the cardinal would be gratified, would he not, to see hisheretics bowing before St. Veronica's handkerchief? Look,' he added,'at that peasant woman in her blue skirt and scarlet kerchief. She hasprobably walked fifty miles, with her baby strapped to a board. Isuppose she thinks the child will have good fortune the rest of hislife If he just catches a glimpse of a splinter of the true cross.'

  Marcia looked at the woman standing beside her, a pilgrim from theAbruzzi, judging from her dress. She was raising an illumined face tothe little balcony where the priest was holding above their heads theholy relic. In her arms she held a baby whose face she was turningupward also, while she murmured prayers in his ears. Marcia's glancewandered away over the crowd--the poor pilgrim peasants whose upturnedfaces, worn by work and poverty, were softened for the moment into aholy awe. Then she raised her eyes to the balcony where the priest inhis white robes was holding high above his head the shining silvercross in which was incased St. Peter's dearest relic, the tiny splinterof the true cross. The light was centred on the little balcony; everyeye in the great concourse was fixed upon it. The priest was fat, hisface was red, his attitude theatrical. The whole spectacle wastheatrical. A quick revulsion of feeling passed over her. A few momentsbefore, as she watched the procession of cardinals, she had been readyto admit the spiritual significance of the scene; now she saw only itsspectacular side. It was merely a play, a delusion got up to dazzle thepoor peasants. This church was the only thing they had in life, and,after all, what did it do for them? What could St. Veronica'shandkerchief, what could a splinter of the true cross, do to brightentheir lives? It was superstition, not religion, that was being offeredto the peasants of Italy.

  She looked again across the sea of upturned faces and shook her head.'Isn't it pitiful?' she asked.

  'Isn't it picturesque?' echoed Paul.

  'That priest up there knows he's deluding all these people, and he'sjust as solemn as if he believed in the relics himself. The church isstill so hopelessly mediaeval!'

  'That's the beauty of the church,' Paul objected. 'It's stillmediaeval, while the rest of the world is so hopelesslynineteenth-century. I like to see these peasants believing in St.Veronica's handkerchief and the power of the sacred Bambino to curedisease. I think it's a beautiful exhibition of faith in a world wherefaith is out of fashion. I don't blame the priests in the least forkeeping it up. It's a protest against the age. They're about the onlyartists left. If I were a priest I'd learn prestidigitation, andsubstantiate the efficacy of the relics with a miracle or so.'

  'It's simply fostering superstition.'

  'Take their superstition away and you deprive them of their mostpicturesque quality.'

  'You don't care for anything but what's picturesque!' she exclaimed ina tone half scornful.

  Paul did not answer. The ceremony was over and the crowd was beginningto pour out. They turned with the stream and wedged their way towardthe right-hand entrance, near which their carriages were waiting. Paulmanoeuvred very adroitly so that the crowd should separate them from therest of the party at the door.

  'I will tell you what I care for most,' he said in her ear as theypushed out into the portico. 'I care for you.'

  She perceived his drift too late and looked back with an air of dismay.The others were lost in the moving mass of heads.

  Paul saw her glance and laughed. 'You're going to take good care thatwe shan't be alone together, aren't you?'

  Marcia echoed his laugh. 'Yes,' she acknowledged frankly; 'I'm tryingto.'

  'It doesn't matter. My time's coming; you can't put it off.' His handtouched hers hanging at her side and he clasped it firmly. 'Come here;we'll get out of this crowd,' and he pushed on outside and drew backinto a corner by one of the tall columns. The crowd surged past,flowing down the steps like a river widening to the sea. Below them thepiazza was black with a tossing, moving mass of carriages and people.The mass of the Vatican at their left loomed a black bulk in the night,its hundreds of windows shining in the reflected lights of the piazzalike the eyes of a great octopus. At another time Marcia might havelooked very curiously toward the palace. She might have wondered if inone of those dark windows Leo was not standing brooding over the throngof worshippers who had come that day. How must a pope feel to seethirty thousand people go out from under his roof--go out freely totheir homes--while he alone may not step across the threshold? Atanother time she would have paused to play a little with the thought,but now her attention was engaged. Paul still held her hand.

  He squared himself in front of her, with his back to the crowd. 'Haveyou been thinking about what I asked you?'

  Had she been thinking! She had been doing nothing else. She looked athim reproachfully. 'Let's not talk about it. The more I think, the moreI don't know.'

  'That's an unfortunate state to be in. Perhaps I can help you to makeup your mind. Are you going to be in love with me some day,Marcia--soon?' he persisted.

  'I--I don't know.'

  He leaned toward her, with his face very close to hers. She shrank backfurther into the shadow. 'There they are!' she exclaimed, as she caughtsight of Eleanor's head above the crowd, and she tried to draw her handaway.

  'Never mind them. They won't be here for three minutes. You've got timeenough to answer me.'

  'Please, not now--Paul,' she whispered.

  'When?' he insisted, keeping a firm hold of her hand. 'The next time Isee you?'

  'Yes--perhaps,' and she turned away to greet the others.r />