The Wheat Princess Page 16

  CHAPTER XV

  VILLA VIVALANTI was astir early in the morning--early, that is, for thevilla. Castel Vivalanti had been at work two hours and more when Pietrowent the rounds of the bedroom doors with his very obsequious, '_Buongiorno_, Excellency; if it suits your convenience, coffee will beserved in the ilex grove in half an hour.' Coffee in the ilex grove wasa new departure in accordance with Marcia's inspiration of the nightbefore. And the ilex grove to-day, as Bianca exclaimed with claspedhands, reminded one of paradise. The week of rain had left it a studyin green; the deep, rich tone of ilex leaves arching overhead, the bluegreen moss on dark tree trunks, the tender tint of young grasssprouting in the paths, and the yellow flickering sunlight glancingeverywhere. Out on the terrace the peacock was trailing his feathersover the marble pavement with a conscious air of being in tune with theday.

  Marcia was first to appear. She stepped on to the loggia with a littleexclamation of delight at the beauty of the morning. In a pale summergown, her hair burnished by the sun, she herself was not out of touchwith the scene. She crossed the terrace and stood by the balustrade,looking off through a golden and purple haze to the speck on thehorizon of Rome and St. Peter's. The peacock called her back, struttinginsistently with wide-spread tail.

  'You ridiculous bird!' she laughed. 'I suppose you have been posinghere for two hours, waiting for some one to come and admire,' and shehurried off to the grove to make sure that Pietro had carried out herorders.

  The table was spread by the fountain, where the green arched pathsconverged and the ilexes grew in an open circle. The sunlightflickering through on dainty linen and silver and glass and on littlecakes of golden honey--fresh from a farm in the Alban hills--made afeast which would not have been out of place in a Watteau painting.Marcia echoed Bianca's enthusiasm as her eyes fell upon the scene, andPietro flew about with an unprecedented ardour, placing rugs andcushions and wicker chairs.

  'It is perfect,' she cried, as she retreated down one of the paths toget a perspective. 'But there are no flowers,' she added. 'That willnever do; we must have some lilies-of-the-valley, Pietro. You fix abowl in the centre, while I run and pick them,' and she started offtoward the garden borders.

  Here Paul Dessart found her five minutes later. He greeted her with afriendly, '_Felicissimo giorno_, signorina!' The transient clouds ofyesterday had disappeared from his brow as well as from the sky, and hejoined gaily in her task.

  'There!' said Marcia as she rose to her feet and shook back the strayhair from her eyes. 'Could anything be more in keeping with a sylvanbreakfast than these?' She held at arm's length for him to admire agreat bunch of delicate transparent bells sheathed in glistening green.'Come,' she cried; 'the artist must arrange them'; and together theyturned toward the fountain.

  A spray of bluest forget-me-nots hung over one of the garden borders.The young man stooped and, breaking it, presented it with his hand onhis heart.

  'Signorina,' he begged in a tone of mock-Italian sentiment--'dearestsignorina, I am going where duty calls--far, far away to Perugia._Non-te-scordar-di-me!_'

  She laughed as she put the flowers in her belt, but with a slightlydeeper tinge on her cheek. Paul, in a mood like this, was veryattractive.

  As they entered the grove they heard the prattle of childish voices,and presently Gerald and Gervasio appeared down the walk, carrying eacha saucer of crumbs for their scaly friends of the fountain. Theystopped with big eyes at the sight of the table spread for breakfast.

  'Oh, Cousin Marcia!' Gerald squealed delightedly, 'are we doin' to eatout uv doors? May Gervas' an' me eat wif you? Please! Please!'

  Marcia feigned to consider.

  'Yes,' said she finally, 'this is my party, and if you'll be good boysand not talk, I'll invite you. And when you've finished your bread andmilk, if you've been _very_ good, you may have some--' she paused andlowered her voice dramatically while the two hung upon herwords--'honey!'

  Paul Dessart laughed at what struck him as an anticlimax, but the boysreceived the assurance with acclamation. Gervasio was presented to theyoung painter, and he acknowledged the introduction with a grace equalto Gerald's own. He had almost forgotten that he was not born a prince.As Gerald shook hands he invited the guest, with visible hesitancy, tothrow the crumbs; but Paul generously refused the invitation, and twominutes later the little fellows were kneeling side by side on thecoping of the fountain, while the arching pathways rang with theirlaughter.

  The rest of their excellencies soon appeared in a humour to fit themorning, and the usually uneventful 'first breakfast' partook of thenature of a fete. Gerald's and Gervasio's laughter rang free andunchecked. The two were sitting side by side on a stone garden-seat(the broken-nosed bust of a forgotten emperor brooding over them),engaged for the present with twin silver bowls of bread and milk, butwith speculative eyes turned honeyward. The ghost of overnight wasresurrected and jeered at, while the ghost himself gravely passed thecups. The sedately stepping peacock, who had joined the feastuninvited, became the point of many morals as he lowered his feathersin the dust to scramble for crumbs. Before the party ended, Sybert andDessart engaged in a good-natured bout on Sybert's theme of yesterdayconcerning Italy's baneful beauty.

  'Paul has missed his calling!' declared Eleanor Royston. 'He shouldhave been a ward politician in New York. It is a pity to see such agift for impromptu eloquence wasted in private life.'

  For a time Paul subsided, but their controversy closed with the laughon his side. Apropos of riots, his thesis was that they were on thewhole very jolly. And he upheld this shockingly barbaric view with theplea that he always liked to see people having a good time, and thatnext to sleeping in the sun and eating macaroni the Italians were neverso happy as when engaged in a row. For his part, he affirmed, heexpected to find them tearing up the golden paving-stones of paradiseto heave at each other!

  The image wrung a smile from even Sybert's gravity; It contained justenough of truth, and not too much, to make it funny. Pietro'sannouncement, at this point, that the carriages were ready to drivetheir excellencies to the festa dissolved the party in a scurry forhats and wraps. Sybert at first had declined the festa, on the pleathat he had business in Rome. Marcia had accepted his excuse with thesimply polite statement that they would be sorry not to have him, butEleanor Royston had refused to let him off.

  'I've known a great many diplomats,' she affirmed; 'and though they aresupposed to be engaged with the business of nations, I have never yetseen one who was too busy to attend a party. We shan't let you off onthat score.'

  Somewhat to Paul's secret annoyance, and not entirely to Marcia'sgratification, he finally consented to change his mind. As the carriagestarted, Marcia glanced back toward the loggia steps, where the twolittle boys, one with yellow curls and one with black, were standinghand in hand, wistfully watching the departure.

  'Good-bye, Gerald and Gervasio,' she called. 'If you are very good,I'll bring you something nice from the festa.'

  The Copley pilgrimage was not the only one bound for Genazzano thatday. They passed on the road countless bands of contadini, both on footand on donkey-back, journeying toward the festa, their babies andprovisions in baskets on their heads. Genazzano, on St Mark's day,wisely unites pleasure and piety, with masses in the cathedral andjugglers in the piazza. The party from the villa devoted the largershare of their time to the piazza, laughing good-naturedly at the'Inglese! which was shouted after them at every turn. They lunched onthe terrace of the very modest village inn, in company with a jovialparty of young Irish students from the Propaganda who seemed to treatthe miracles of the wonder-working Madonna in the light of anecclesiastical joke. The afternoon found the sight-seeing ardour of thetwo elder ladies somewhat damped. There was to be a function in thecathedral at three, and they stated their intention of stopping quietlyin the low-raftered parlour of the inn until it should commence.Eleanor Royston issued a frank invitation to Sybert to explore the oldColonna castle which surmounted the town, and he a
ccepted with whatstruck Marcia as a flattering show of interest.

  In regard to Laurence Sybert she herself was of many minds. A veryconsiderable amount of her old antagonism for him remained, mixed witha curiosity and interest in his movements out of all proportion to theinterest he had ever expended upon her. And to-day she was experiencinga fresh resentment in the feeling that his attitude toward Eleanor wasmore deferential than toward herself. It was a venturesome act for anyman to awaken Marcia's pique.

  Meanwhile she had Paul; and the slight cloud upon her brow vanishedquickly as she and Margaret and the young man turned toward the piazza.Paul was in holiday humour, and the contagion of his fun was impossibleto escape. He wore a favour in his hat and a gilt medal of the Madonnain his buttonhole; he laughed and joked with the people in the booths;he offered his assistance to a prestidigitator who called forvolunteers; he shot dolls with an air-rifle and carried off the prize,a gaudily decorated pipe, which he presented with a courtly bow to apretty peasant girl who, with frank admiration, had applauded the feat.Finally he brought to a triumphant close a bargain of Marcia's. She hadexpressed a desire for a peculiar style of head-dress--a long silverpin with a closed fist on the end--worn by the women from the Volscianvillages. Paul readily agreed to acquire one for her. The _spillo_ wasplucked from an astonished woman's head and the bargaining began.

  Sell it! But that was impossible. It was an heirloom! it had been inthe family for many generations; she could not think of parting withit--not perhaps for its weight in silver?--the money was jingled beforeher eyes. She wavered visibly. Paul demanded scales. They were broughtfrom the tobacco-shop, the tobacconist importantly presiding. The_spillo_ was placed on one side; lire on the other--six--seven--eight.The woman clasped her hands ecstatically as the pile grew.Nine--ten--the scales hesitated. At eleven they went down with a thud,and the bargain was completed. A pleased murmur rippled through thecrowd, and some one suggested, 'Now is the signorina _sposata_.' For,according to Volscian etiquette, only married woman might wear thehead-dress.

  Marcia shook her head with a laugh. She and Paul, standing side byside, made an effective couple, and the peasants noted it with pleasedappreciation. Italians are quick to sympathize with a romance.'_Promessi sposi_,' some one murmured, this time with an accent ofdelighted assurance. Paul cast a sidewise glance at Marcia to see howshe would accept this somewhat public betrothal. She repudiated thecharge again, but with a slightly heightened colour, and the crowdlaughed gaily. As the two turned up the steep street toward thecathedral, Paul held out his hand.

  'Give me the pin,' he said. 'I will carry it in my pocket for you,since you are not entitled--as yet--to wear it.'

  Marcia handed it over, trying not to look conscious of the undertone inhis voice. He was very convincing to-day; she was reconsidering herproblem.

  In the crowded little piazza before the cathedral they found the restof the party. They all mounted the steps and stood in a group, watchingthe processions of pilgrims with votive offerings. They came in bandsof fifty and a hundred, bearing banners and chanting litanies. As theyapproached the church they broke off their singing to shout 'AveMarias,' mounting on their knees and kissing the steps as they came.Marcia, looking down over the tossing mass of scarlet and yellowkerchiefs, compared it with the great function she had witnessed in St.Peter's. These peasants approaching the Madonna's shrine on theirknees, shouting themselves hoarse, their faces glowing with religiousardour, were to her mind far the more impressive sight of the two. Sheturned into the church, half carried away by the movement and colourand intensity of the scene. There was something contagious about thesimple energy of their devotion.

  The interior was packed with closely kneeling peasants, the air filledwith a blue haze of incense through which the candles on the altarglowed dimly. The Copley party wedged their way through and stood backat the shadow of one of the side chapels, watching the scene. Pauldropped on his knees with the peasants, and, sketch-book in hand, sethimself surreptitiously to copying the head of a girl in front. Marciawatched him for a few moments with an amused smile; then she glancedaway over the sea of kneeling figures. There was no mechanical devotionhere: it came from the heart, if any ever did. Ah, they were toobelieving! she thought suddenly. Their piety carried them too far; itrobbed them of dignity, of individuality, of self-reliance. Almost ather feet a woman was prostrate on the floor, kissing the stones of thepavement in a frenzy of devotion. She turned away in a quick revulsionof feeling such as she had experienced in St. Peter's. And as sheturned her eyes met Laurence Sybert's fixed upon her face. He wasstanding just behind her, and he bent over and whispered:

  'You've seen enough of this. Come, let's get out,' and he made a motiontoward the sacristy entrance behind them. They stepped back, and thecrowd closed into their places.

  Out in the piazza he squared his shoulders with a little laugh. 'Thechurch must make itself over a bit before I shall be ready to bereceived into the fold. How about you, Miss Marcia?'

  'It seemed so beautiful, their simple faith; and then suddenly--thathorrible woman--and you realize the ignorance and superstitionunderneath. Everything is alike!' she added. 'Just as you begin tothink how beautiful it is, you catch a glimpse below the surface. It'sawful to begin seeing hidden meanings; you can never stop.'

  'Look at that,' he laughed, nodding toward a house where a pig wasstretched asleep in the doorway. 'He's evidently been left to keepguard while the family are at the festa. I suppose you've noticed thatevery house is Genazzano has a separate door for the chickens cut inthe bottom of the big door. It's rather funny, isn't it?'

  Marcia regarded the pig with a laugh and a sigh.

  'Yes, it's funny; but then, the first thing you know, you begin tothink what a low standard of life the people must have who keep theirpigs and their chickens in the house with them, and it doesn't seemfunny any more.'

  'Ah,' he said. 'You're coming on.'

  'I'm afraid I am!' she agreed.

  As they strolled toward the upper part of the town, they came upon agroup of men and boys talking and smoking and throwing dice in aprolonged noonday rest. It was a part of the pilgrimage from thevillage of Castel Vivalanti, and the group instantly recognized Marcia.The festal spirit of the day, joined to a double portion of wine, hadmade them more boisterous than usual; and one ragged little urchin, whohad been playing the part of buffoon for the crowd, fell upon the twosignori as a fresh subject for pleasantries. He set up the usualbeggar's whine, asking for soldi. The two paying no attention, hechanged the form of his petition.

  'Signorina,' he implored, running along at Marcia's side and keeping adirty hand extended impudently in front of her, 'I have hunger,signorina; I have hunger. Spare me, for the love of God, a few grainsof wheat.'

  'That's a new formula,' Marcia laughed. 'It's usually bread they want;I never heard them ask for wheat before.'

  Sybert turned on the boy, with an air of threatening, and he hastilyscrambled out of reach, though he still persevered in his petition, tothe noisy amusement of the crowd.

  Marcia spread out empty hands.

  'I have no wheat,' she said, with a shake of her head.

  The youngster turned to his following, mimicking her.

  'The signorina has no wheat,' he cried. 'Will no one give to thesignorina? She is poor and she has hunger.'

  Some one tossed a soldo. The boy pounced upon it and extended it towardher.

  'Behold, signorina! This good man is poor, but he is generous. Heoffers you money to get some wheat.'

  Marcia laughed at the play in thorough enjoyment, while Sybert, with anangry light in his eye, seized the boy by the collar and cuffed himsoundly.

  'Mr. Sybert,' she cried, 'take care; you'll hurt him!'

  'I mean to hurt him,' he said grimly, as with a final cuff he droppedhim over the side of the bank.

  The crowd jeered at his downfall as loudly as they had jeered at hisimpudence, and the two turned a corner and left them behind.

  'You needn't have s
truck him,' Marcia said. 'The boy didn't meananything beyond being funny. He is one of my best friends; his name isBeppo, and he lives next door to the baker's shop.'

  'If that is a specimen of your friends,' Sybert answered dryly, 'myadvice is that you shake their acquaintance.'

  'I don't mind a little impertinence,' she said lightly. 'It's at leastbetter than whining.'

  'I told you yesterday, Miss Marcia, that I didn't think you ought to berunning about the country alone--I think it even less to-day. It isn'tsafe up here in the mountain towns, where the people aren't used toforeigners.'

  'Why don't you suggest to Uncle Howard that he engage a nurse for me?'

  'I begin to think you need one!'

  Marcia laid a light hand on his arm.

  'Mr. Sybert, please don't speak to me so harshly.'

  'I'll speak to your uncle--that's what I'll do,' he retorted.

  They had by this time reached the castle, and having crossed thedrawbridge and the stone courtyard, they came out on the other side,with the noisy little town left suddenly behind. The mountains roseabove them, the valley lay beneath, and before them a straight, grassyroad stretched into the hills, bordered by the tall arches of an oldaqueduct. They strolled along, talking idly, Marcia well in command ofthe situation. There was a touch of audacity, even of provocation,underneath her glance, and Sybert was amusedly aware of the fact thathe was being flirted with. Quite to Marcia's astonishment, he met heron her own ground; he accepted the half-challenge in her manner and wasnever the first to lower his eyes. They had come to a bank starred pinkwith cyclamen and backed by one of the tall arches of the aqueduct.

  'Suppose we sit down and look at the view,' he suggested.

  Marcia seated herself on a projecting block of masonry, while Sybertlounged on the grass at her side.

  'Mr. Melville told me the other day,' he remarked presently, 'that heremembers having seen your mother when she was a little girl.'

  Marcia nodded and laughed. 'He told me about it--he says she was theworst tom-boy he ever saw.'

  'It was a very pretty picture he drew--I wonder if you ever rode thecolts bareback?'

  'My mother was brought up on a Southern plantation; I, in a New Yorkhouse and a Paris convent--there weren't any colts to ride.'

  'And your mother died when you were a little girl?'

  'When I was twelve.'

  'Ah, that was hard,' he said, with quick sympathy.

  She glanced up in half surprise. It was the first time she had everheard him say anything so kindly.

  'And the convent in Paris?' he asked. 'How did that happen?'

  'Some one suggested it to my father, and I suppose it struck him as anexcellent way to dispose of me. Not that he isn't an appreciativeparent,' she added quickly, in response to an expression on his face;'but the education of a daughter is a problem to a business man.'

  'I should think it might be,' he agreed. 'And how did the convent go?'

  'Not very well. I didn't learn anything but prayers and French, and Iwas dreadfully homesick.'

  'And then?'

  'Oh, one or two governesses and a boarding-school, and after thatcollege.' Marcia laughed. 'You should have seen my father when Isuggested the college. He clutched at the idea like a drowning man; itwas another four years' reprieve.'

  'It's a pity,' he remarked, 'that the French method of marrying one'sdaughter offhand as soon as she gets out of school doesn't prevail inAmerica.'

  'I really did feel guilty when I graduated, the poor man looked sodazed through it all. He asked me if I would like to take a little tripinto Venezuela with him to look into some mines. It would have beenfun, wouldn't it?' she asked. 'I should have liked to go.'

  'But, being charitable, you declined?'

  'Yes, and having another plan in my head. It had been years since I hadseen Uncle Howard, and I thought it would be nice to come over and livewith him for a while.'

  'And so here you are in Genazzano.'

  'Here I am,' she agreed. 'But as soon as papa is ready to settle downrespectably like other people, I am going back to keep house for him,and I shall take with me some fourteenth-century Italian furniture, andsome nice Italian servants, and give nice little Italian dinners.'

  'And shall you invite me sometimes?'

  'Drop in whenever you wish.'

  Marcia began to laugh.

  'Well?' he inquired. 'What is so funny?'

  'To be talking to you this way--I shouldn't have issued that invitationa week ago. You couldn't help yourself yesterday,' she added; 'AuntKatherine made you come; but really it's your own fault to-day.'

  'Is that the impression I gave you? I am afraid I must have very badmanners.'

  'You have--rather bad,' she agreed.

  'You hit straight,' he laughed. 'No,' he added presently; 'AuntKatherine had nothing to do with our walk to-day. If you care to know,I'll tell you why I wanted to come. Yesterday afternoon I took a ridewith a most charming young woman, and I thought I'd like to renew theacquaintance.'

  'If that's intended for a compliment, it's of a very doubtful nature.You have known this same charming young woman for the last threemonths, and have never shown any marked desire for her company before.'

  'I was blind, but I have been made to see.'

  He commenced rolling a cigarette in a lazy, half-amused fashion, whileMarcia occupied an interval of silence by checking the progress of ablack beetle who found himself on the stone beside her, and who seemedin a great hurry to get somewhere else. In whichever way he turned, amountain of a green leaf sprang up in his path. He ran wildly in acircle, vainly seeking an outlet, his six little legs twittering withanxiety.

  Sybert stretched out a sympathetic hand and dropped him over the bankto a place of safety.

  'Now why must you do that?' Marcia inquired.

  'A sense of fellow-feeling--I've watched too many women playing withtoo many men not to know how the poor beast felt. His progress wasthwarted at every turn, without his being able to comprehend anyunderlying motive or reason or law.'

  'It was good for him,' she affirmed. 'I was giving him a newexperience--was widening his horizon. When I finally let him go hewould have been so thankful to think of the danger he had escaped, thathe would have been twice as happy a beetle as ever before.'

  'That is one way of looking at it,' Sybert agreed.

  Marcia watched him a moment speculatively. She was thinking about theContessa Torrenieri.

  'Mr. Sybert,' she suggested, 'there are a lot of things I should liketo know about you.'

  'I can think of nothing in my past that ought to be hidden.'

  'These are things that you wouldn't tell me.'

  'Try me and see.'

  'Anything I choose to ask?'

  'I am at your disposal.'

  'Have you ever been in love with any one?'

  He glanced up from his cigarette with an amused stare. 'What's this--aconfessional?'

  'Oh, no--only you don't look as if you'd ever done such a foolishthing, and I just wondered----'

  'Half a dozen times.'

  'Really?'

  'Oh, I dare say not--really,' he laughed. 'In my cub days I used tobe--well, interested sometimes.'

  'But you outgrew it?'

  'It would be a rash man who would affirm that! You never can tellwhat's waiting for you around the next corner.'

  She would have liked to put a question or so in regard to the contessa,but instead she remarked, 'There are some other things I'd like to askyou.'

  'I'm not so sure I'll answer if that's a specimen.'

  'Why were you carrying a revolver yesterday?'

  'You strike me as a very inquisitive young woman, Miss Marcia.'

  'You strike me as a very mysterious man, Mr. Sybert.'

  'Why was I carrying a revolver? For a very simple reason. I have beentravelling through the south, helping to quiet the rioters; and as thatis not a popular occupation, I thought it wisest to go armed. Arevolver is an excellent thing with which to p
ersuade people, though inall probability I shall never have any occasion to use it. I hope youare satisfied.'

  'Thank you,' said Marcia. 'Not that I believe you at all,' she addedwith a laugh.

  He regarded her a moment with a slightly perplexed frown. 'What onearth do you take me for, Miss Marcia? An anarchist, a bandit, a secondFra Diavolo in disguise? I am nothing so picturesque, I assureyou--merely a peaceful private citizen of the United States.'

  'How do you come to know the baker's son, Tarquinio, so well?'

  'I think I've answered questions enough. Suppose we have a confessionfrom you, Miss Marcia. Have you ever been in love?'

  Marcia rose. 'It's a quarter past four, and we ought to be going back.The Roystons have to catch the evening train into Rome.'