The Wheat Princess Read online

  CHAPTER XIV

  AS they galloped up the long avenue under the arching trees, the villapresently came into view. The sound of laughing voices floated out fromthe open windows. Marcia drew rein with a half-involuntary cry ofdismay. The Roystons had come.

  'I'd forgotten!' she explained to her companion. 'We're giving adinner-party to-night.'

  At the sound of the clattering hoofs on the gravel of the driveway agay group poured out on to the loggia, welcoming the dilatory riderswith laughter and questions and greetings.

  'My dear child! Where have you been?'

  'Here, Pietro; call some one to take the horses.'

  'Is this the way you welcome guests? I shall never----'

  'Dinner's been waiting half an hour. We were beginning to think----'

  'I've been worried to death! You haven't caught cold, have you?'

  'No, Aunt Katherine,' she laughed as she pulled off her gloves andshook hands with the visitors. 'But we've been nearly drowned! Weshould have been wholly drowned if Mr. Sybert hadn't spied a very leakyark on the top of a hill.'

  'I'm relieved!' sighed her uncle as they passed into the hall. 'I wasbeginning to fear that you had had a disagreement on the way, and thatit was another case of the Kilkenny cats.'

  'Marcia, how you look! You're covered with mud!' cried Mrs. Copley.

  With a slightly apprehensive glance toward the mirror, Marciastraightened her hat and rubbed a daub of mud from her cheek. 'KentuckyLil and Triumvirate were in too much of a hurry to get home to turn outfor puddles,' she said. 'How much time may we have to dress, AuntKatherine?'

  'Just fifteen minutes,' returned her uncle; 'and that is a quarter ofan hour more than you deserve. If you are not down then, we shall eatwithout waiting for you.'

  'Fifteen minutes, remember!' cried Marcia to Sybert as they parted atthe top of the stairs. 'I'll race with you,' she added; 'though I thinkmyself that a girl ought to have a handicap.'

  She found Granton, a picture of prim disapproval, waiting with herdress spread out on the bed. Marcia dropped into a wicker chair with atired sigh.

  'You've ridden a long way,' Granton remarked as she removed a muddyboot.

  'Yes, Granton, I have; and dinner's already been waiting half an hour,and Pietro looks like a thunder-cloud, and Mrs. Copley looks worried,and the guests look hungry--what Francois looks like I don't dare tothink. We must _fly_; our reputations depend on it.'

  'Am I ready?' she inquired, not much more than fifteen minutes later,as she twisted her head to view the effect in the mirror.

  'You'll do very well,' said Granton.

  'I'm terribly tired,' she sighed; 'and I feel more like going to bedthan facing guests--but I suppose, in the natural order of events,dinner must be accomplished first.'

  'To be sure,' said the maid, critically adjusting her train.

  'Your philosophy is so comfortable, Granton! As we have done yesterday,so shall we do to-day and also to-morrow. It saves one the trouble ofmaking up one's mind.'

  She reached the salon just in time to take Paul Dessart's silentlyoffered arm to the dining-room. Sybert did not appear until the soupwas being removed. He possessed himself of the empty chair besideEleanor Royston, with a murmured apology to his hostess.

  'It's excusable, Sybert,' said Copley, with a frown. 'You should notallow a woman to beat you.'

  'The furniture in that room you gave me,' he complained gravely, 'wasbuilt as a trap for collar-buttons. The side of the bed comes to withinthree inches of the floor--I couldn't crawl under.'

  'What did you do?' Eleanor Royston asked.

  'I borrowed one of our host's--and I had a hard time finding it.'

  'I shall put my wardrobe under lock and key the next time you visitus,' Copley declared.

  Sybert was curiously inspecting a small white globule he found by hisplate.

  Marcia laughed and called from the other end of the table: 'It's yourown prescription, Mr. Sybert; drop it in your wine-glass and drink itlike a man. I've taken my dose.'

  During this exchange of badinage Paul Dessart said never a word. He satwith his eyes fixed moodily on the table-cloth, and--one hates to sayit of Paul--he sulked. For the first time since she had known him,Marcia found him _difficile_. He started no subject himself, and thosethat she started, after a brief career, fell lifeless. It may have beenthat she herself was somewhat ill at ease, but in any case severalawkward silences fell between them, which the young man made no attemptto break. Mr. Copley would never have said of him to-night that he wasan ornament to any dinner-table. It fell to the Frenchman across theway to keep the ball rolling.

  In an errant glance toward the other end of the table, Marcia sawSybert laughing softly at something Eleanor had said. She stayed herglance a second to note involuntarily how well they went together.Eleanor, with her white shoulders rising from a cloud of pale-bluegauze, looked fair and distinguished; and Sybert, with his dark faceand sullen eyes, made an esthetically satisfying contrast. He wasbending toward her with that air of easy politeness, that superiorself-sufficiency, which had always exasperated Marcia so. But Eleanorknew how to take it; she had been out nine seasons, and the smile withwhich she answered him was quite as mocking as his own.

  He looked to-night, through and through, what Marcia had always takenhim for--the finished cosmopolitan--the diplomat--the diner-out. But hewas not just that, she knew; she had seen him off his guard in themidst of the storm that afternoon, and she was still tingling with thesurprise of it. She recalled what Mr. Melville had said that afternoonin the ilex grove--she was always recalling what people said aboutSybert. The things seemed to stick in one's mind; he was a subject thatgave rise to many _mots_. 'You think you are very broad-minded becauseyou see the man underneath the peasant. Don't you think you could pushyour broad-mindedness one step further and see the man underneath theman of the world?' She had caught a glimpse that afternoon. It seemednow as if his air of super civilization were only a mask toconceal--she did not know what, underneath. She was searching for anapt description when she heard the young Frenchman laughingly inquire:'Mademoiselle Copley _est un peu distraite ce soir, n'est-ce pas_?'

  With a little start, she became aware that some one had asked her aquestion. For the remainder of the dinner she kept her eyes at her endof the table, and exerted herself to be gracious to her taciturncompanion. Paul's bad temper was not unbecoming, and he scarcely couldhave adopted a wiser course. Marcia had expected to find him sparkling,enthusiastic, convincing; and she had come down prepared to withstandhis charm. _Mais voila!_ there was no charm to withstand. He wassullen, moody, with a frown scarcely veiled enough for politeness. Someone had once compared him, not very originally, to a Greek god. Helooked it more than ever to-night, if one can imagine a Greek god inthe sulks. What was the matter with him, Marcia could only guess.Perhaps, as his cousin had affirmed, he was like a cat and neededstroking the right way of the fur. At any rate, she found the new moodrather taking, and she somewhat weakly allowed herself to stroke himthe right way. By the time they rose from the table he was, if notexactly purring, at least not showing his claws.

  At the Royston girls' suggestion, they put on evening wraps andrepaired to the terrace--except the two elder ladies, who preferred themore tempered atmosphere of the salon. Mrs. Copley delegated herhusband and Sybert to act as chaperons--a position which Sybertaccepted with a bow, to the accompaniment of a slightly puzzled smileon Eleanor's part. She could not exactly make out the gentleman'sfooting in the household. They seated themselves in a group about thebalustrade, with the exception of Eleanor and Sybert, who strolled backand forth the length of the flagging. Eleanor was doing her bestto-night, and her best was very good; she appeared to have wakened aspark in even his indifference. Marcia, with her eyes on the two,thought again how well they went together, and M. Benoit was a secondtime on the verge of calling her _distraite_.

  The two strollers after a time joined the group, Eleanor humming underher breath a little
French _chanson_ that had been going the rounds ofthe Paris cafes that spring.

  'Oh, sing something we all know,' said Margaret, and with a laughingcurtesy toward Sybert she struck into 'Fair Harvard.' The other girlsjoined her. Their voices, rising high and clear, filled the night withthe swinging melody. It seemed strangely out of place there, in themidst of the Sabine hills, with the old villa behind them and the RomanCampagna at their feet. As their voices died away Sybert laughed softly.

  'I swear I'd forgotten it!'

  Margaret shook her head in mock reproof. 'Forgotten it!' she cried. 'Aman ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it if he had forgotten his AlmaMater song. It's like forgetting his country.'

  'I suspect,' said Eleanor, 'that it's time for you to go back toAmerica and be naturalized, Mr. Sybert.'

  'Oh, well, Miss Royston,' he objected, 'I suppose in time one outgrowshis college, just as one outgrows his kindergarten.'

  'And his country,' Marcia added, as much for Paul Dessart's benefit asfor his own.

  * * * * *

  Margaret, searching for diversion, presently suggested that they visitthe ghost. Marcia objected that the ghost was visible only during thefull moon, but the objection was overruled. There was some moon atleast, and a wild night like this, with flying clouds and wavingbranches, was just the time for a ghost to think of his sins. Mr.Copley, in the office of chaperon, remonstrated that the grass would bedamp; but there were rubbers, he was told. Marcia acquiesced in theexpedition without any marked enthusiasm; she foresaw a possible_tete-a-tete_ with Paul Dessart. As they set out, however, she foundherself walking beside M. Benoit, with Paul contentedly strolling onahead at the side of his younger cousin, while Eleanor and the twochaperons brought up the rear. As they came to the end of the laurelpath and approached the region of the ruins, Margaret paused with herfinger on her lips and in a conspiratorial whisper impressed silence onthe group. They laughingly fell into the spirit of the play, and thewhole party stole along with the elaborate caution of ten-year-old boysambuscading Indians.

  The ruins in the dim light looked a fit harbour for ghosts. Thecrumbling piles of masonry were almost hidden by the dark foliage, butthe empty fountain stood out clearly in a little open space between thetrees.

  The group paused on the edge of the trees and stood with eyes turnedhalf expectantly toward the fountain. As they looked, they saw, with atremor of surprise, the dim figure of a man rise from the coping anddissolve into the surrounding shadows. For a moment no one uttered asound beyond a quick gasp of astonishment, and an excited giggle fromMargaret Royston. Paul was the first to rise to the occasion with themuffled assertion that he recognized the fair and warlike form in whichthe majesty of buried Denmark did sometime march. Before any of themhad recovered sufficiently to follow the apparition, a second ghostrose from the coping and stood wavering in apparent hesitancy whetherto recede or advance. This was more than tradition demanded, and with aquick exclamation both Copley and Sybert sprang forward to solve themystery.

  A babble of noisy expostulation burst forth. The ghost was vociferousin his apologies. He had finished his work and had desired to take theair. It was a beautiful night. He came to talk with a friend. He didnot know that the signore ever came here, or he would never haveventured.

  The tones were familiar, and a little sigh of disillusionment sweptthrough the group. The two men came back laughing, and Paulapostrophized tragically:

  'Another lost illusion! If all the ghosts turned out to be butlers, howunromantic the world would be!'

  The young Frenchman took up the tale of mourning.

  'But the true ghost, Monsieur le Prince, whom I was preparing to paint;after this he will not deign to poke his nose from the grave. It is aninfamy! An infamy!' he declared.

  They laughingly turned back toward the villa, and Marcia discoveredthat she was walking beside Paul. It had come about quite naturally,without any apparent interposition on his part; but she did not doubt,since he had the chance, that he would take advantage of it to demandan answer, and she prepared herself to parry what he might choose tosay. He strolled along, whistling softly, apparently in no hurry to sayanything. When he did break the silence it was to remark that thetree-toads were infernally noisy to-night. He went on to observe thathe wasn't particularly taken with her butler; the fellow protested toomuch in the wrong place, and not enough in the right. From that hepassed to a flying criticism of villa architecture. Villa Vivalanti wasa daisy except for the eastern wing, and that was 'way off in style andbroke the lines. Those gingerbread French villas at Frascati, hethought, ought to be razed to the ground by act of parliament.

  Marcia responded rather lamely to his remarks, as she puzzled herbrains to think whether she had done anything to offend him. He seemedentirely good-humoured, however, and chatted along as genially as thefirst time they had met. She could not comprehend this new attitude,and though it was just what she had wished for--such is thecontrariness of human nature--she vaguely resented it. Had M. Benoitseen her just then he might have accused her, for the third time, ofbeing _distraite_.

  The ghost-hunters, upon their return, shortly retired for the night, asthe festa at Genazzano would demand an early start. Before goingupstairs, Marcia waited to give orders about an open-airbreakfast-party she was planning for the morrow. In searching forPietro she also found her uncle. Mr. Copley, very stern, was engaged intelling the butler that if it occurred again he would be discharged;and the butler, very humble, was assuring the signore that in thefuture his commands should be implicitly obeyed.

  'Uncle Howard,' Marcia remonstrated, 'you surely aren't scolding thepoor fellow because of to-night? What difference does it make if hedoes entertain his friends in the grounds of the old villa? We never gonear the place.'

  'It is this particular friend I am objecting to.'

  'Who was it?'

  'Gervasio's stepfather.'

  'Oh, you don't suppose,' she cried, 'that he is trying to steal thechild back again?'

  'I should like to see him do it!' said Mr. Copley, with decision. 'Hedoesn't want the boy,' he added. 'What he wants is money, but he isn'tgoing to get any. I won't have him hanging about the place, and theservants may as well understand it first as last.'

  Marcia, having outlined her plan for the breakfast to a somewhatunresponsive Pietro, finally gained her room; and setting her candledown on the table, she dropped into the first chair she came to with asigh of relief that the evening was over. She was tired, not only inbody, but in mind as well.

  The evening was not quite ended, however. A gentle tap came on thedoor, and she opened it to find Eleanor and Margaret in loose silkdressing-gowns. 'Let us in quick,' said Margaret. 'We've just met a manin the hall.'

  'The ubiquitous Pietro shutting up windows,' added Eleanor. 'If I wereyou, I'd discharge that man and get a more companionable butler. It'suncanny for an Italian servant to be as grave as an English one.'

  'Poor Pietro has just had a scolding, which, I suppose, accounts forhis gravity. It's funny,' she added, 'that's exactly the advice thatPaul gave me to-night.' The 'Paul' was out before she could catch it,and she reddened apprehensively, but the girls let it pass withoutchallenging.

  'We've come to talk,' said Margaret, possessing herself of the couchand settling the cushions behind her. 'I hope you're not sleepy.'

  '_Very_,' said Marcia; 'but I dare say I shan't be ten minutes fromnow.'

  'You needn't worry; this isn't going to be an all-night session,'drawled Eleanor from the lazy depths of an easy-chair. 'We start atnine for the Madonna's festa.'

  'You'd better appreciate us now that you've got us,' added Margaret.'We should by rights have slept in Rome to-night.'

  'How did you manage it?'

  'Paul took mamma down to the Forum to look at some inscriptions they'vejust dug up; and while she was gone Eleanor and I scrambled around andpacked the trunks for Perugia. By the time she came back we hadeverything ready to come out here, and our
hats on waiting to start.She didn't recover her breath until we were in the train, and then shecouldn't say anything before Mr. Copley. When it comes to starting onJourneys,' Margaret added, 'mamma is not what you'd call impulsive.'

  'Not often,' assented Eleanor; 'but there have been instances. By theway,' she added, 'I wish you'd explain about Mr. Sybert; I confess Idon't quite grasp his standing in the family. How do you come to betaking such lengthy horseback rides with a young man and no groom? Younever did that when my mother was chaperoning you.'

  'No,' acquiesced Marcia; 'I didn't. But Mr. Sybert's a littledifferent. He's not exactly a young man, you know; he's a friend ofUncle Howard's. He happened to be available this afternoon, and Angelodidn't happen to be, so he came instead.'

  'As a sort of sub-groom?' Eleanor asked. 'I should think he mightobject to the position.'

  'He couldn't help himself!' she laughed. 'Aunt Katherine forced himinto it.'

  Eleanor regarded Marcia with a still puzzled smile. 'You talk about Mr.Sybert as if he were a contemporary of your grandfather. How old is he,may I ask?'

  'I don't know. He's nearly as old as Uncle Howard. Thirty-five orthirty-six, I should say.'

  'A man isn't worth talking to under thirty-five.'

  'Oh, nonsense!' Margaret objected. 'I never heard any one in my lifetalk better than Paul, and he's exactly twenty-five.'

  'Paul talks words; he doesn't talk ideas,' said her sister.

  There was a pause, in which Eleanor leaned forward to examine some bitsof green and blue iridescent glass lying in a little tray on the table.'What are these?' she inquired.

  'Pieces of perfume-bottles that the grave-digger in Palestrina found inan old Etruscan tomb. There were some bronze mirrors, and the mostwonderful gold necklace--I wanted it dreadfully, but he didn't daresell it; it's gone to a museum in Rome. Aren't these pieces of glasslovely, though? I am going to have them set in gold and made into pins.'

  'Here's a little bottle that's scarcely broken.' Eleanor held it upbefore the candle and let the light play upon its surface. 'Who do yousuppose owned it before you, Marcia?'

  'Some girl who turned to dust centuries ago.'

  'And her necklaces and mirrors and perfume-bottles still exist. What acommentary!'

  'Thank goodness, they don't put such things in one's coffin nowadays,'said Marcia; 'or twenty-five hundred years from now some other girlwould be saying the same of us.'

  'Twenty-five hundred years,' Eleanor murmured. 'I declare, my nineseasons sink into insignificance!' She dropped the bottle into its trayand leaned back in her chair with a little laugh. 'America is a bittame, isn't it, after Italy? One doesn't get so many emotions.'

  'I'm not sure but one gets too many in Italy,' said Marcia.

  'How long are you going to stay over?'

  'I don't know. It's so much easier not to make up one's mind. I shallprobably stay a year or so longer with Uncle Howard.'

  'I like your uncle, Marcia. He has a very taking way of saying funnythings without smiling.'

  'Ah,' sighed Marcia, 'he has!'

  'And as for Mr. Sybert----' Margaret put in mockingly.

  'I think he's about the most interesting man I've met in Europe,'Eleanor agreed imperturbably.

  'The most interesting man you've met in Europe?' Marcia opened hereyes. The statement was sweeping, and Eleanor had had experience. 'Howdo you mean?' she asked.

  'Well,' said Eleanor, with the judicial air of a connoisseur, 'for onething, he has a striking face. I don't know whether you ever noticedit, but he has eyes exactly like that portrait of Filippino Lippi inthe Uffizi. I kept thinking about it all the time I was talking tohim--sleepy sort of Italian eyes, you know--and an American mouth. Itmakes an interesting combination; you keep wondering what a man likethat will do.'

  As Marcia made no comment, she continued:

  'He has an awfully interesting history. We met him at a reception lastweek, and Mr. Melville told me all about him afterward. He was born inGenoa--his father was United States consul--and he was brought up inthe midst of the excitement during the fight for Italian unity.Politics was in the air he breathed. He knows more about the Italiansthan they know about themselves. He speaks the language like a native,and he never----'

  'Oh, I know what Mr. Melville told you,' Marcia interrupted. 'He likeshim.'

  'Don't most people?'

  'Ask your cousin about him. Ask Mr. Carthrope, the English sculptor.Ask anybody you please--barring my uncle--and see what you'll hear.'

  'What shall I hear?'

  'A different story from every person.'

  'Well, really! He's worth knowing.'

  'I detest him!' Marcia made the statement as much from habit asconviction.

  Eleanor regarded her a moment rather narrowly, and then she observed:'I will tell you one thing, Marcia Copley; and that is, thatinteresting men are mighty scarce in this world. I don't remember everhaving met more than half a dozen.'

  'And you've had experience,' suggested Marcia.

  'Nine seasons.'

  'Who were they--the half-dozen?'

  'One was a Kansas politician who wrote poetry. A most amazing mixtureof crudeness and tact--remarkably bright in some ways, but unexpectedlylacking in others. He'd never read _Hamlet_; said he'd heard of it,though. Another was a super-civilized Russian. I met him in Cairo. Hespoke seven languages, and didn't find any of them full enough toexpress his thoughts. Another was----'

  'The engineer,' suggested Marcia. She had heard of the engineer bothfrom Eleanor and her mother.

  'Yes,' agreed Eleanor, 'the chief engineer on the Claytons' yacht. Icruised around with them two years ago on the Mediterranean, and theonly interesting man on board was the engineer. He was English, andhe'd lived in India and Burma, and in--oh, hundreds of nameless places.I couldn't get much out of him at first; he was pretty shy. Englishpeople are, you know. But when he saw that one was really interested hewould tell the most astonishing tales. I didn't have much chance totalk to him--he didn't appeal to mamma. That was one of the times thatmamma was impetuous,' she added with a laugh. 'Instead of keeping on toPort Said with the boat, we disembarked at Alexandria and ran up toCairo for the rest of the winter. It was there I met the Russian. Hewas stopping at _Shepheard's_.'

  Eleanor paused, and her gaze became reminiscent as she sat toying withthe little Etruscan perfume-bottle.

  'And the others?' Marcia prompted.

  'Well, let me see,' Eleanor laughed. 'I once knew a professor ofpsychology in a little speck of a New England college. He spent hiswhole life in thinking, and he'd arrived at some very queerconclusions. He was most entertaining--he knew absolutely nothing aboutthe world.' A shade of something like remorse crossed her face, and shehastily abandoned the professor. 'Did I say there were any more? Ican't think who the fifth can be, unless I include the blacksmith whomarried my maid. I never knew him personally; I merely judge from herreport of him. He beats her, I believe, when he gets angry; but he's soapologetic afterward that she enjoys it. If you've ever read _WutheringHeights_ he's exactly like Heathcliff. I'd really like to know him.He'd be worth studying.'

  'That's the trouble,' complained Marcia. 'If you're a man you can goaround and get acquainted with any one you please, whether he's ablacksmith or a prince; but if you're a girl you have to wait tillyou're introduced at a tea. And the interesting ones never areintroduced at teas.'

  'Yes,' agreed Eleanor; 'that's partly true. But, on the other hand, Ithink you really get to know people better if you're a girl--whatthey're really like inside, I mean. Men are remarkably confidentialcreatures.'

  'Did you find Mr. Sybert confidential?'

  'N-no. I can't say that I did. He's queer, isn't he? You have thefeeling that he doesn't talk about what he thinks about--that's why Ishould like to know him. It's not what a man does that makes himinteresting; it's what he thinks. It's his potentialities.'

  Margaret rose with something of a yawn. 'If you're going to discusspotentialities, I'm going to bed. Come on,
Eleanor. To-morrow's thefesta of Our Lady of Good Counsel, and we start at nine o'clock.'

  Eleanor rose reluctantly. 'I wish we weren't going to Perugia onWednesday. I should much rather stay here with Marcia.'

  'And Mr. Sybert,' Margaret laughed.

  'Oh, yes, Mr. Sybert,' Eleanor acquiesced. 'He annoys you until you gethim settled.'

  'He's like one of those problems in algebra,' suggested Marcia. 'Givena lot of things, to find the value of x. You work it exactly right andx won't come.'

  Margaret paused by the door and gathered her wrapper around her like atoga.

  'While you're talking about interesting people,' she threw back, 'Iknow one who isn't appreciated, and that's Paul. He's a mighty niceboy.'

  'That's just what he is,' said Eleanor. 'A nice boy--_et c'est tout_.Good night, Marcia. When we come back from Perugia we'll sit up allnight talking about interesting men. It's an interesting subject.'