The Wheat Princess Page 17

  CHAPTER XVI

  MARCIA drove to the station with the travellers, leaving the rest ofthe party to return to the villa in the other carriage. She had aslight feeling of compunction in regard to Paul, and it made her moreresponsive to his nonsense than she might otherwise have been. In therole of cicerone he naively explained the story of the ruins theypassed on the way, and the entire history of Rome, from Romulus andRemus to Garibaldi, unfolded itself upon that nine-mile stretch ofdusty road. Marcia gave herself up gaily enough to the spirit of theplay, forgetting for the time any troubling questions lurking in thebackground. When she bade him good-bye she smiled back, halflaughingly, half seriously, at his parting speech--a repetition of themorning's pretty phrase--'_non-te-scordar-di-me!_'

  As the carriage turned homeward she smiled to herself over heryesterday's state at the prospect of meeting Paul. The actuality hadnot been so disconcerting. She did not quite comprehend his newattitude, but she accepted it as a tacit recognition of her desire tolet matters stand, and was grateful. She felt very kindly toward himthis evening. He was such a care-free, optimistic young fellow; andeven supposing he were too ready to look on the bright side of things,was not Laurence Sybert, she asked herself, too ready also to look onthe dark side? Since his words of yesterday, in the old wine-cellar,she had felt an undertone of sadness to her thoughts which she vaguelyresented. As she rode along now between the fresh fields, glowing inthe soft light of the April sunset, she was dimly conscious of astruggle, a rebellion, going on within her own nature.

  She seemed pulled two ways. The beautiful sunshiny world of dreams wascalling to her. And Paul stood at the crossways--laughing, careless,happy Paul--holding out his hand with a winning smile to show the wayto Cytherea. But deep within her heart she felt the weight of the realworld--the world which means misery to so many people--dragging on herspirits and holding her back. And in the background she saw Sybertwatching her with folded arms and a half-quizzical smile--Sybert makingno move either to lure her on or to turn her back--merely watching withinscrutable eyes.

  Happiness seemed to be her portion. Why could she not accept it gladly,and shut her eyes to all else? If she once commenced seeing the miseryin the world, there would be no end. Until a few weeks before she hadscarcely realized that any existed outside of books, but she knew itnow; she had seen it face to face. She thought of the crowded, squalidlittle houses of Castel Vivalanti; of the women who went out at sunriseto work all day in the fields, of the hordes of children only half fed.Oh, yes, she knew now that there was misery outside of books, but sheasked herself, with an almost despairing cry, why need she know? Sinceshe could do nothing to help, since she was not to blame, why not closeher eyes and pretend it was not there? It was the shrinking cry of thesoul that for the first time has tasted of knowledge; that with openeyes is hesitating on the threshold of the real world, with a longingbackward glance toward the unreal world of dreams. But in life there isno going back; knowledge once gained may not be cancelled, and therewas further knowledge waiting for Marcia not very far ahead.

  Two little boys turning somersaults by the side of the carriagesuddenly recalled to her mind the boys at the villa, and her promise tobring them a present from the festa. Not once had she thought of themduring the day, and the only possible present now was the inevitablesweet chocolate of Castel Vivalanti. She glanced at her watch; therewas still an hour before dinner, and she ordered Giovanni to drive upthe hill to the town. Giovanni respectfully begged her pardon, with thesuggestion that the horses were tired; they had had a long journey andthe hill was steep. Marcia replied, with a touch of sharpness, that thehorses could rest all day to-morrow. They wound up the gradual ascentat a walk, in company with the procession coming home for the night. Itwas a sight which Marcia always watched with fresh interest:field-workers with mattocks on their shoulders trudging wearily back tosupper and bed; washerwomen, their clothes in baskets on their heads,calling cheery good-byes to one another; files of ragged little donkeysladen with brush, sheep and pigs and goats, and long-horned oxen--wherethey were all to be stowed for the night was an ever-recurring mystery.

  Under the smiling moons of the Porta della Luna the carriage came to ahalt, and the crowd of Castel Vivalanti boys, who were in the habit ofscouring the highway for coppers, fell upon it vociferously. Marcia hadexhausted her soldi in Genazzano, and with a laughing shake of her headshe motioned them away. But the boys would not be shaken off; theyswarmed about the carriage like little rats, shrilly demanding money.She continued to shake her head, and instantly their cries weretransferred to the taunts of the afternoon.

  'Grano! Grano!' they shouted in chorus; and Giovanni raised his whipand drove them away.

  Marcia paused with her foot on the carriage-step, puzzling over thisnew cry which was suddenly assailing her at every turn.

  'What is the matter, Giovanni? Why are they always shouting "Wheat"?'

  He waved his whip disdainfully. '_Chi sa_, signorina? They are of noaccount. Do not listen to their foolishness.'

  They were the same children to whom she had given chocolate not manydays before. 'They forget quickly!' she said to herself, 'perhaps,after all, Paul was right, and beauty is their strongest virtue.'

  The 'Ave Maria' was ringing as she turned into the crooked littlestreets, and the town was buzzing like a beehive over its eveningaffairs. Copper water-jars were coming home from the well, blue smokewas pouring out of every chimney, and yellow meal was being siftedoutside the doors. Owing to the festa, the streets were crowded withloungers, and in the tiny piazza groups of men were gathered about thedoor of the tobacco-shop, arguing and quarrelling and gesticulating intheir excitable Italian fashion. It had been a week or more sinceMarcia had visited the village, and now, as she threaded her waythrough the crowd, it struck her suddenly that the people's usualfriendly nods were a trifle churlish; she had the uncomfortable feelingthat group after group fell silent and turned to stare after her as thepassed. One little boy shouted 'Grano!' and was dragged indoors with abox on his ears.

  '_Madonna mia!_' cried his anxious mother. 'Are we not poor enoughalready, that you would bring down foreign curses upon the house?'

  In the bake-shop Domenico served her surlily, answering her friendlyinquiries as to the health of his family and the progress of hisvineyard with grunts rather than words. Amazed and indignant, sheshrank within herself; and with head erect and hotly burning cheeksturned back toward the gate, not so much as glancing at the people, whosilently made way for her.

  'Ah, you see,' they murmured to one another, 'the foreign signorinaplayed at having a kind heart for amusement. But what does she care forour _miseria_? No more than for the stones beneath her feet.'

  * * * * *

  Laurence Sybert, coming out from the village, was somewhat astonishedto find Giovanni drawn up before the gate. Giovanni hailed him with ananxious air.

  '_Scusi_, signore; have you seen the signorina? She is inside.' Henodded toward the porta. 'She has gone to the bake-shop alone. I toldher the horses were tired, but she paid no attention; and the _ragazzi_called "Wheat!" but she did not understand.'

  'They shouted "Wheat!" did they?'

  '_Si_, signore. They read the papers. The _Avanti_ yesterday----'

  Sybert nodded. 'I know what the _Avanti_ said.'

  He turned back under the archway and set out for the baker's--theplace, as it happened, from which he had just come. He had beenentertained there with some very plain comments on his friends in thevilla--as Giovanni suggested, they read their papers, and the truth ofwhatever was stated in printer's ink was not to be doubted. It wasscarcely the time that Marcia should have chosen for an evening strollthrough Castel Vivalanti; and Sybert was provoked that she should havepaid so little heed to his warning of the afternoon. The fact that shewas ignorant of the special causes for his warning did not at themoment present itself as an excuse. He had not gone far when he heardshouts ahead. The words wer
e unmistakable.

  'Wheat! Wheat! Signorina Wheat!'

  The volume of sound sent him hurrying forward in quick anxiety, almostfearing a riot. But his first glance, as he came out into the piazza,showed him that it was scarcely as serious as that. Marcia, lookinghurt and astonished and angry, was standing in the midst of afast-increasing crowd of dirty little street urchins, who wereshrieking and jumping and gesticulating about her. She was in nopossible danger, however; the boys meant no harm beyond being impudent.For a second Sybert hesitated, with the grim intention of teaching hera lesson, but the next moment he saw that she was already thoroughlyfrightened. She called out wildly to a group of men who had paused onthe outskirts of the crowd; they laughed insolently, and made no moveto drive the boys away. She closed her eyes and swayed slightly, whileSybert in quick compunction hurried forward. Pushing into the midst ofthe tumult, he cuffed the boys right and left out of the way. Marciaopened her eyes and regarded him dazedly.

  'Mr. Sybert!' she gasped. 'What's the matter? What are they saying?'

  'Can you walk?' he asked, stretching out a hand to steady her. 'Come,we'll get out of the piazza.'

  By this time other men had joined the crowd, and low mutterings ranfrom mouth to mouth. Many recognized Sybert, and his name was shoutedtauntingly. 'Wheat! Wheat!' however, was still the burden of the cry.One boy jostled against them impudently--it was Beppo of theafternoon--and Sybert struck him a sharp blow across the shoulders withhis cane, sending him sprawling on the pavement. Half the crowdlaughed, half called angrily, 'Hit him, Beppo, hit him. Don't let himknock you down,' while a half-drunken voice in the rear shouted,'Behold Signor Siberti, the friend of the poor!'

  'Here, let's get out of this,' he said. And clearing an opening with avigorous sweep of his cane, he hurried her down a narrow alley andaround a corner out of sight of the piazza. Leading the way into alittle _trattoria_, he drew a chair forward toward the door.

  'Giuseppe,' he called, 'bring the signorina some wine.'

  Marcia dropped into the chair and leaned her head on the back. She feltdazed and bewildered. Never before had she been treated with anythingbut friendliness and courtesy. Why had the people suddenly turnedagainst her? What had she done that they should hate her? In the backof the room she heard Sybert explaining something in a low tone toGiuseppe, and she caught, the words, 'she does not know.'

  '_Poverina_, she does not know,' the woman murmured.

  Sybert came across with a glass of wine.

  'Here, Marcia, drink this,' he said peremptorily.

  She received the glass with a hand that trembled, and took one or twoswallows and then set it down.

  'It's nothing. I shall be all right in a moment. They pressed around meso close that I couldn't breathe.'

  The wine brought some colour back to her face, and after a few minutesshe rose to her feet.

  'I'm sorry to have made so much commotion. I feel better now; let's goback to the carriage.'

  Skirting the piazza, they returned to the porta by a narrowside-street, the boys behind still shouting after, but none approachingwithin reach of Sybert's stick. They had regained the carriage andreached the bottom of the hill before either of them spoke. Marcia wasthe first to break the silence.

  'What is it, Mr. Sybert, that I don't know?'

  'A good many things, apparently,' he said coolly. 'For one, you don'tknow how to take a piece of friendly advice. I told you this afternoonthat the country-side was too stirred up to be safe, and I think youmight have paid just a little attention to my warning. RespectableItalian girls don't run around the streets alone, and they particularlydon't choose the evening of a festa for a solitary walk.'

  'If you have quite finished, Mr. Sybert, will you answer myquestion?--Why do they call me "Signorina Wheat"?'

  He was apparently engaged with his thoughts and did not hear.

  'Mr. Sybert, I asked you a question.'

  'Why do they shout "Wheat"?' His tone was still sharp. 'Well, I supposebecause just at present wheat is a burning question in Italy, and thename of Copley is somewhat unpleasantly connected with it. Your unclehas just bought a large consignment of American wheat, which is on itsway to Italy now. His only object is to relieve the suffering--he loseson every bushel he sells--but, as is usually the case withdisinterested people, his motives have been misjudged. The newspapershave had a great deal to say about the matter, and the people, withtheir usual gratitude toward their benefactors, have turned againsthim.'

  'Mr. Sybert, you are not telling me the truth.'

  Sybert did not see fit to answer this charge; he folded his arms andleaned against the cushions, with his eyes fixed on the two brassbuttons on the back of Giovanni's coat. And Marcia, the colour back inher cheeks, sat staring at the roadway with angry eyes. Neither spokeagain till the carriage came to a stand before the loggia.

  'Well, Miss Marcia, are we friends?' said Sybert.

  'No,' said Marcia, 'we are not.'

  She turned up to her room and set about dressing in a very mingledframe of mind. She was still excited and hurt from her treatment in thevillage--and very much puzzled as to its motive. She was indignant atSybert's attitude, at his presuming to issue orders with no reasonattached and expecting them to be obeyed. Instead of being grateful forhis timely assistance, she was irritated that he should have happenedby just in time to see the fulfilment of his warning. His superior 'Itold you so!' attitude was exasperating to a degree. She ended byuniting her various wounded sensibilities into a single feeling ofresentment toward him. The desire that was uppermost in her mind was awish to pay him back, to make him feel sorry--though for exactly what,she was not quite clear.

  She hung up in the wardrobe the simple dinner-dress that Granton hadlaid out on the bed, and chose in its place a particularly dignifiedgown with a particularly long train. Having piled her hair on the topof her head, she added a diamond star and a necklace with a diamondpendant. She did not often wear jewels, but they were supposedly'American' and irritating to a man of Sybert's cosmopolitansensibilities.

  'Quite stately,' she murmured, critically surveying the effect in themirror. 'One might almost say matronly.'

  As she started downstairs she was waylaid at the nursery door by asmall figure in a white nightgown.

  'Cousin Marcia, what did you bwing me from ve festa?'

  'Oh, Gerald! I brought you some chocolate and I left it in thecarriage. But never mind, dear; it's too late, anyway, for you to eatit to-night. I will send and get it, and you shall have it with yourbreakfast to-morrow morning. Be a good boy and go to sleep.'

  She went downstairs with her mind bent upon chocolate, and crossed theempty salon to the little ante-room at the rear. She had opened thedoor and burst in before she realized that any one was inside; thenbefore the apology had risen to her lips she had heard her uncle'swords.

  'Good heavens, Sybert, what can I do? You know my hands are tied.Willard Copley would let the last person in Italy starve if he couldmake one more dollar out of it!'

  Marcia stood still, looking at her uncle in horror while the meaning ofhis words sank into her mind. He whirled around upon her. His face waswhiter and sterner than she had ever seen it.

  'What do you want, Marcia?' he asked sharply. 'Why don't you knockbefore you come into a room?'

  Marcia's face flushed hotly. 'I am sorry, Uncle Howard; I was in ahurry, and didn't know any one was in here.'

  'Oh, I beg your pardon, Marcia! I spoke hastily.'

  She hesitated in the doorway and then faced him again.

  'I heard what you said. Will you please tell me what you mean?'

  Copley cast an annoyed glance at Sybert, who was standing in theembrasure by the window with his hands in his pockets and his eyes bentupon the floor. Sybert glanced up with a little frown, and then with ahalf-perceptible shrug turned away and looked out of the window.

  'I might as well tell you, I suppose--you appear to be hearing it fromother sources. Your father has been the originator this spring of aver
y successful corner in wheat. He is, as you know, a keen judge ofmarkets; and foreseeing that wheat for a number of reasons was likelyto be scarce, he and one or two of his friends have purchased the wholeof the visible supply. As Italy has had to import more than usual--andpay for it in gold when she hasn't much but paper at her command--youcan readily see that it places her in an awkward position. America is agreat country, Marcia, when a single one of her citizens can bankrupt awhole kingdom.'

  'You don't mean, Uncle Howard,' she cried, aghast, 'that my father hascaused the wheat famine?'

  'There may be one or two minor causes, but I think he is deserving ofmost of the credit. The name of Copley, I assure you, is not beloved inItaly just now.'

  'And that is what the boys meant when they shouted "Grano"?'

  'Oh, it's no secret. We're celebrities in our small way. Two continentsare ringing with the name of the American Wheat King, and we come infor a share of his fame. When you think about it,' he added, 'there issomething beautifully fitting about our taking Villa Vivalanti thisspring. We appear to be American editions of the "Bad Prince." I fancythe old gentleman turned in his grave and smiled a trifle when I signedthe lease.'

  'But, Uncle Howard, he doesn't understand. He does it like amathematical problem, just to show what he can do, just for thepleasure of winning. Why don't you write to him? Why didn't you tellhim?'

  'Tell him!' Copley laughed. 'You have not been acquainted with yourfather for so many years as I have, Marcia. Why should he care for alot of Italian peasants? There are too many of them in existencealready. The food in this world has to be fought for, and those who arebeaten deserve to die.'

  Marcia's face turned white as the meaning of a hundred petty incidentsflashed through her mind that before had had no significance. She knewnow why the people in Rome had stopped talking about the wheat faminewhen she entered the room. She understood Sybert's attitude toward herall the year--his quizzical expression once or twice when she spentmoney over-lavishly. She recalled the newspaper the workman in Rome hadthrust in her face--the _Grido del Popolo_--the Cry of the People. Shedid not have to ask now what it meant. The very beggars in the streethad known of her shame, while she alone was ignorant.

  'Why didn't you tell me?' she cried.

  'I did not wish to spoil your pleasure; there is no reason why youshouldn't be happy. If all goes well, a year from now you will be oneof the notable heiresses of America. I only hope, when you're enjoyingyour wealth, that you'll not think of the poor starving wretches inItaly who gave it to you.'

  Copley's tone was as brutal as his words. He had forgotten the girlbefore him; he was talking to the man in America.

  Marcia turned away and, with a deep sob, sank down by the table andburied her face in her arms. Sybert threw up his head quickly with aglance of anger, and Copley suddenly came to his senses. He sprangforward and laid his hand on her shoulder.

  'For Heaven's sake, Marcia, don't cry about it! I don't know what I'msaying. I'm nervous and excited and worried. It isn't as bad as I toldyou.'

  Marcia had a pitiable sense that she was acting like a child when, ofall times, she ought to be calm and think. But the sudden revulsion offeeling had swept her away. She had indeed been living in a fools'paradise the past few months! The poor people Sybert had told her ofyesterday--the starving thousands in Naples--her own father was thecause. And the peasants of Castel Vivalanti--no wonder they hated her;while she distributed chocolate with such graceful condescension, herfather was taking away their bread. She thought over her uncle's words,and then, as she realized their content, she suddenly rose, and facedthe two men.

  'Uncle Howard,' she said, 'I think you've done very wrong not to tellme this before. I had a right to know, and I could have helped it. Myfather loves his business, but he loves me better. It's true, as I say,he's just doing it as a sort of problem. He doesn't see the sufferinghe causes, and he doesn't really believe there is any. Of course heknows that some people lose when he gains, but he thinks that they gointo it with their eyes open, and that they must accept the chances ofwar. He's exactly as good a man as either of you.' And then, as asudden recollection flashed across her, she whirled about towardSybert, her glance divided between indignation and contempt. 'And youcalled me the "Wheat Princess" before every one in Paul Dessart'sstudio. You knew that it wasn't my fault; you knew that I didn't evenknow about the trouble, and you laughed when I told the story of theVivalanti ghost.'

  Her voice broke slightly, and, turning her back, she drew a piece ofpaper toward her on the table and began to write.

  'There,' she said, holding out a scrawled sheet toward her uncle.'There is a cablegram. Please see that it is sent immediately.'

  Copley ran his eyes over it in silence, and his mouth twitchedinvoluntarily into a smile.

  'Well, Marcia, I'll see that it goes. I don't know--it may do somegood, after all.' He paused awkwardly a moment and held out his hand.'Am I forgiven?' he asked. 'I shouldn't have said anything against yourfather; but he's my brother, remember, and while I abuse him myself Iwouldn't let an outsider do it. You are right; he doesn't know what heis doing. You must forget what I said. I have thought about it toomuch. Every one in Italy believes that I have an interest in the deal;and when I am doing my best to help things along, it is a little hard,you know, to be accused--by the very people I am giving to--of beingthe cause of their distress.'

  'Yes, Uncle Howard, I understand; I don't blame you,' she returned,with a note of weariness in her voice; 'but--papa is really the kindestman in the world.'

  'Ah, Marcia, a very kind-hearted man nowadays can do a great deal ofharm by telegraph without having to witness the results.'

  Sybert crossed the room toward her with a curious deep look in hiseyes. He half held out his hand, but Marcia turned away withoutappearing to notice, and picking up her uncle's cheque-book from thetable, she tore out a leaf and scrawled across the face.

  'There's some money for the Relief Committee,' she said, as she tossedthe slip of paper across the table toward him. 'That's all I have inthe bank just at present, but I will give some more as soon as I getit.'

  Sybert's face was equally impassive as he glanced from the paper backto her.

  'Thirteen thousand lire is a good deal. Do you think you ought----'

  'I do as I please with my own money--this _is_ my own,' she added inparenthesis. 'My mother left it to me.'

  'As you please,' he returned, pocketing the slip with a half-shrug. 'Iknow a village in Calabria that will be very grateful for a little helpuntil the olives ripen again.'

  'Dinner is served,' announced Pietro in the doorway.

  Marcia nodded to the two men.

  'I don't want any dinner to-night,' and she turned upstairs to herroom. She sat for half an hour staring out at the darkening Campagna;then she rose and lighted the candles, and commenced a letter to herfather. Her pen she dipped in blood. She told him everything she hadheard or seen or imagined about Italy--of the 'hunger madness' in thenorth and the starving peasants in the south; of the poor people ofCastel Vivalanti and little Gervasio. She told him what the people saidabout her uncle; that they called her the 'Wheat Princess'; and thatthe children in the streets taunted her as she went past. She told himthat the name of Copley was despised from end to end of Italy. All thecrimes that have ever been laid at the door of the government and thechurch and the ignorance of the people, Marcia heaped upon heroffending father's shoulders, but with the forgiving assurance that sheknew he didn't mean it. And would he please prove that he didn't meanit, by stopping the corner immediately and sending wheat to Italy? Itwas a letter to wring a father's heart--and a financier's.