The Wheat Princess Read online

  CHAPTER II

  A CARRIAGE rumbled into the stone-paved courtyard of the PalazzoRosicorelli a good twenty minutes before six o'clock the next evening,and the Copleys descended and climbed the stairs, at peace with VillaVivalanti and its thirty miles. Though it was still light out of doors,inside the palace, with its deep-embrasured windows and heavy curtains,it was already quite dark. As they entered the long salon the onlylight in the room came from a seven-branch candlestick on thetea-table, which threw its reflection upon Gerald's white sailor-suitand little bare knees as he sat back solemnly in a carved Savonarolachair. At the sound of their arrival he wriggled down quickly andprecipitated himself against Mrs. Copley.

  'Oh, mamma! Sybert came to tea, an' I made it; an' he said it was lotsbetter van Marcia's tea, an' he dwank seven cups, an' I dwank four.'

  A chorus of laughter greeted this revelation, and a lazy voice calledfrom the depths of an easy chair, 'Oh, I say, Gerald, you mustn't tellsuch shocking tales, or your mother will never leave me alone with thetea-things again.' And the owner of the voice pulled himself togetherand walked across the room ta shake hands with the new-comers.

  Laurence Sybert, as he advanced toward his hostess, threw a long thinshadow against the wall. He had a spare, dark, clean-shaven face withdeep-set, sullen eyes; he was a delightfully perfected type of thecosmopolitan; it would have taken a second, or very possibly a third,glance to determine his nationality. But if the expression of his facewere Italian, Oriental, anything you please, his build was undoubtedlyAnglo-Saxon. Further, a certain wiriness beneath his movementsproclaimed him, to any one familiar with the loose-hung riders of theplains, unmistakably American.

  'Your son slanders me, Mrs. Copley,' he said as he held out his hand;'I didn't drink but six, upon my honour.'

  'Hello, Sybert! Anything happened in Rome to-day? What's the news onthe Rialto?' was Mr. Copley's greeting.

  Marcia regarded him with a laugh as she drew off her gloves and lightedthe spirit-lamp.

  'We've been away since nine this morning, and here's Uncle Howardthirsting for news already! What he will do when we really get out ofthe city, I can't imagine.'

  'Oh, and so you've taken the villa, have you?'

  Marcia nodded.

  'And you should see it! It looks like a papal palace. This is thefirst time that Prince Vivalanti has ever consented to rent it tostrangers; it's his official seat.'

  'Very condescending of him,' the young man laughed; 'and do you accepthis responsibilities along with the place?'

  'From the fattore's account I should say that his responsibilities restbut lightly on the Prince of Vivalanti.'

  'Ah--that's true enough.'

  'Do you know him?'

  'Only by hearsay. I know the village; and a more desperate little placeit would be hard to find in all the Sabine hills. The people's love fortheir prince is tempered by the need of a number of improvements whichhe doesn't supply.'

  'I dare say they are pretty poor,' she conceded; 'but they areunbelievably picturesque! Every person there looks as if he had justwalked out of a water-colour sketch. Even Uncle Howard was pleased, andhe has lived here so long that he is losing his enthusiasms.'

  'It is a pretty decent sort of a place,' Copley agreed, 'though I havea sneaking suspicion that we may find it rather far. But the rest ofthe family liked it, and my aim in life----'

  'Nonsense, Uncle Howard! you know you were crazy over it yourself. Yousigned the lease without a protest. Didn't he, Aunt Katherine?'

  'I signed the lease, my dear Marcia, at the point of the pistol.'

  'The point of the pistol?'

  'You threatened, if we got a mile--an inch, I believe you said--nearerRome, you would give a party every day; and if that isn't the point ofa pistol to a poor, worn-out man like me, I don't know what is.'

  'It would certainly seem like it,' Sybert agreed. And turning toMarcia, he added, 'I am afraid that you rule with a very despotic hand,Miss Marcia.'

  Marcia's eyebrows went up a barely perceptible trifle, but she laughedand returned: 'No, indeed, Mr. Sybert; you are mistaken there. It isnot I, but Gerald, who plays the part of despot in the Copleyhousehold.'

  At this point, Granton, Mrs. Copley's English maid, appeared in thedoorway. 'Marietta is waiting to give Master Gerald his supper,' sheannounced.

  Gerald fled to his mother and raised a cry of protest.

  'Mamma, please let me stay up to dinner wif you to-night.'

  For a moment Mrs. Copley looked as if she might consent, but catchingsight of Granton's relentless face, she returned: 'No, my dear, youhave had enough festivity for one evening. You must have your tea andgo to bed like a good little boy.'

  Gerald abandoned his mother and entrenched himself behind Sybert.''Cause Sybert's here, an' I like Sybert,' he wailed desperately.

  But Granton stormed even this fortress. 'Come, Master Gerald; yoursupper's getting cold,' and she laid a firm hand on his shoulder andmarched him away.

  'There's the real despot,' laughed Copley. 'I tremble before Grantonmyself.'

  Pietro appeared with a plate of toasted muffins and the evening mail.Mr. Copley settled himself in a wicker chair, with a pile of letters onthe arm at his right; and, as he ran his eyes over them one by one, hetore them in pieces and formed a new pile at his left. They werebegging letters for the most part. He received a great many, and thiswas his usual method of answering them: not that he was an ungenerousman; it was merely a matter of principle with him not to be generous inthis particular way.

  As he sat disposing of envelope after envelope with vigorous hands,Copley's appearance suggested a series of somewhat puzzling contrasts:seriousness and humour; sensitiveness and force--an active impulse toforge ahead and accomplish things, a counter-impulse to shrug hisshoulders and wonder why. He was a puzzle to most of his friends; attimes even one to his wife; but she had accepted his eccentricitiesalong with his millions, and though she did not always understandeither his motives of his actions, she made no complaint. To most men afortune is a blessing. To Copley it was rather in the nature of acurse. He might have amounted to almost anything had he had to work forit; but for the one field of activity which a fortune in America seemsto entail upon its owner--that of entering the arena and doubling andtripling it--he was singularly unfitted both by temperament andinclination. In this he differed from his elder brother. And there wasone other point in which the two were at variance. Though their fatherhad been in the eyes of the law a just and upright man, still, in thebattle of competition, many had fallen that he might stand, and theyounger son had grown up with the knowledge that from a humanitarianstandpoint the money was not irreproachable. He had the feeling--whichhis brother characterized as absurd--that with his share of the fortunehe would like, in a measure, to make it up to mankind.

  Howard Copley's first move in the game of benefiting humanity had been,not very originally, an attempt at solving the negro problem; but thenegroes were ever a leisurely race, and Copley was a man impatient forresults. He finally abandoned them to the course of evolution, andengaged in a spasmodic orgy of East Side politics. Becoming disgusted,and failing of an election, he looked aimlessly about for a furtherobject in life. It was at this point that Mrs. Copley breathlesslysuggested a year in Paris for the sake of Gerald's French; the childwas only four, but one could not, as she justly pointed out, begin thestudy of the languages too early. Her husband apathetically consenting,they embarked for Paris by the roundabout route of the Mediterranean,landed in Naples, and there they stayed. He had found a fascinatingoccupation ready to his hand--that of helping on the work of goodgovernment in this still turbulent portion of United Italy. After ayear the family drifted to Rome, and settled themselves in the _pianonobile_ of the Palazzo Rosicorelli with something of an air ofpermanence. Copley was at last thoroughly contented; he had no racialprejudices, and Rome was as fair a field of reform as New York--andinfinitely more diverting. If the Italians did not always understandhis
motives, still they accepted his services with a fair show ofgratitude.

  As for Mrs. Copley, she had by no means intended their sojourn to be anemigration, but she reflected that her husband had to be amused in someway, and that reforming Italian posterity was perhaps an harmless a wayas he could have devised. She settled herself very contentedly to theenjoyment of the somewhat shifting foreign society of the capital, withonly an occasional plaintive reference to her friends in New York andto Gerald's French.

  Marcia, leaning back in her chair, watched her uncle dispose of hiscorrespondence with a visible air of amusement. He had a thin nervousface traced with fine lines, a sharply cut jaw, and a mouth whichtwitched easily into a smile. To-night, however, as he ripped openenvelope after envelope, he frowned oftener than he smiled; andpresently, as he unfolded one letter, he suppressed a quick exclamationof anger.

  'Read that,' he said shortly, tossing it to the other man.

  Sybert perused it with no visible change of expression, and leaningover, he dropped it into the open grate.

  Marcia laughed outright. 'Your mail doesn't seem to afford you muchsatisfaction, Uncle Howard.'

  'A large share of it's anonymous, and not all of it's polite.'

  'That is what you must expect if you will hound those poor old beggarsto death.'

  The two men shot each other a look of rather grim amusement. The letterin question had nothing to do with beggars, but Mr. Copley had nointention of discussing its contents with his niece.

  'I find that the usual reward of virtue in this world is an anonymousletter,' he remarked, shrugging the matter from his mind and settlinghimself comfortably to his tea.

  The guest refused the cup proffered him.

  'I haven't the courage,' he declared, 'after Gerald's revelations.'

  'By the way, Sybert,' said Copley, 'I have been hearing some badstories about you to-day. My niece doesn't like to have me associatewith you.'

  Marcia looked at her uncle helplessly; when he once commenced teasingthere was no telling where he would stop.

  'I am sorry,' said Sybert humbly. 'What is the trouble?'

  'She has found out that you are an anarchist.'

  Both men laughed, and Marcia flushed slightly.

  'Please, Miss Marcia,' Sybert begged, 'give me time to get out of thecountry before you expose me to the police.'

  'There's no cause for fear,' she returned. 'I didn't believe the storywhen I heard it, for I knew that you haven't energy enough to run awayfrom a bomb, much less throw one. That's why it surprised me that otherpeople should believe it.'

  'But most people have a better opinion of me than you have,' heexpostulated.

  'No, indeed, Mr. Sybert; I have a better opinion of you than mostpeople. I really consider you harmless.'

  The young man laughed and bowed his thanks, while he turned hisattention to Mrs. Copley.

  'I hope that Villa Vivalanti will prove more successful than the one inNaples.'

  Mrs. Copley looked at him reproachfully. 'That horrible man! I neverthink of him without wishing we were safely back in America.'

  'Then please don't think of him,' her husband returned. 'He is where hewon't trouble you any more.'

  'What man?' asked Marcia, emerging from a dignified silence.

  'Is it possible Miss Marcia has never heard of the tattooed man?'Sybert inquired gravely.

  'The tattooed man! What _are_ you talking about?'

  'It has a somewhat theatrical ring,' Mr. Copley admitted.

  'It is nothing to make light of,' said his wife. 'It's a wonder to methat we escaped with our lives. Three years ago, while we were inNaples,' she added to her niece, 'your uncle, with his usualrecklessness, got mixed up with one of the secret societies. Our villawas out toward Posilipo, and one afternoon I was driving home at aboutdusk--I had been shopping in the city--and just as we reached a lonelyplace in the road, between two high walls----'

  Mr. Copley broke in: 'A masked man armed to the teeth sprang up in thepath, with a horrible oath.'

  'Not really!' Marcia cried, leaning forward delightedly. 'AuntKatherine, _did_ a masked man----'

  'He wasn't masked, but I wish he had been; he would have looked lessferocious. He came straight to the side of the carriage, and taking offhis hat with a very polite bow, he said that unless we left Naples inthree days your uncle's life would no longer be safe. His shirt wasopen at the throat, and there was a crucifix tattooed upside down onhis breast. You can imagine what a desperate character he must havebeen--here in Italy of all places, where the people are so religious.'

  The two men laughed at the climax.

  'What did you do?' Marcia asked.

  'I was too shocked to speak, and Gerald, poor child, screamed all theway home.'

  'And did you leave the city?'

  'As it happened, we were leaving anyway,' her uncle put in; 'but wepostponed our departure long enough for me to hunt the fellow down andput him in jail.'

  'You may be thankful that they had the decency to warn you,' Sybertremarked.

  'It's like a dime novel!' Marcia sighed. 'To be mixed up with murdersand warnings and tattooed men and secret societies----Why didn't yousend for me, Uncle Howard?'

  'Well, you see, I didn't know that you had grown up into such acharming person--though I am not sure that it would have made anydifference. I had all that I could do to take care of one woman.'

  'That's the way,' she complained. 'Just because one's a girl one isalways shut up in the house while there's anything exciting going on.'

  'If you are so fond of bloodshed,' Sybert suggested, 'you may possiblyhave a chance of seeing some this spring.'

  'This spring? Is the Camorra making trouble again?'

  'Oh, no; not the Camorra. But unless all signs fail, there is aprospect of some fairly exciting riots.'

  'Really? Here in Rome?'

  'Well, no; probably not in Rome--there are too many soldiers. Morelikely in the Neapolitan provinces. I am sorry,' he added, 'since youseem to find them so entertaining, that we can't promise you a riot onyour own door-step; but I dare say, when it comes to the point, you'llfind Naples near enough.'

  'I give you fair warning, Uncle Howard,' she said, 'if there are anyriots in Naples, I'm going down to see them. What is the trouble? Whatare they rioting about?'

  'If there are any riots,' said her uncle, 'you, my dear young lady,will amuse yourself at Villa Vivalanti until they are over,' and heabruptly changed the subject.

  The talk drifted back to the villa again. Mrs. Copley afforded theirguest a more detailed description.

  'Nineteen bedrooms aside from the servants' quarters, and room in thestable for thirty horses!' she finished.

  'The princes of Vivalanti must have kept up an establishment in theirpre-Riviera days.'

  'Mustn't they?' agreed Marcia cordially. The new villa was proving anunexpectedly soothing topic. 'We'll keep up an establishment too,' sheadded. 'We're going to give a house-party when the Roystons come downfrom Paris, and--I know what we'll do! We'll give a ball for mybirthday--won't we, Uncle Howard? And have everybody out from Rome, andthe ilex grove all lighted with coloured lamps!'

  'Not if I have anything to say about it,' said Mr. Copley.

  'But you won't have,' said Marcia.

  'The only reason that I consented to take this villa was that I thoughtit was far enough away to escape parties for a time. You said----'

  'I said if you got nearer Rome we'd give a party _every_ day, while asit is I'm only planning one party for all the three months.'

  'Sybert and I won't come to it,' he grumbled.

  'Perhaps you and Mr. Sybert won't be invited.'

  'I don't know where you'd find two such charming men,' said Mrs. Copley.

  'Rome's full of them,' returned Marcia imperturbably.

  'Who are the Roystons, Miss Marcia?' Sybert inquired.

  'They are the friends I came over with last fall. You know Mr. Dessart?'

  'The artist? Yes, I know him.'

&nb
sp; 'Well, Mrs. Royston is his aunt, and she has two daughters who----'

  'Are his cousins,' suggested Mr. Copley.

  'Yes; to be sure, and very charming girls. They spend a great deal oftime over here--at least Mrs. Royston and Eleanor do. Margaret has beenin college.'

  'And Mr. Royston,' asked Copley, 'stays in America and attends to hisbusiness?'

  'Yes; Mrs. Royston and Eleanor go over quite often to keep him fromgetting lonely.'

  'Very generous of them,' Sybert laughed.

  'They've spent winters in Cairo and Vienna and Paris and a lot ofdifferent places,' pursued Marcia. 'Eleanor,' she added ruminatingly,'has been out nine seasons, and she has had a good deal of--experience.'

  'Dear, dear!' said her uncle; 'and you are proposing to expose allRome----'

  'She's very attractive,' said Marcia, and then she glanced at Sybertand laughed. 'If she should happen to take a fancy to you, Mr.Sybert----'

  The young man rose to his feet and looked about for his hat.'Goodness!' he murmured, 'what would she do?'

  'There's no telling.' Marcia regarded him with a speculative light inher eyes.

  'A young woman who has been practising for nine seasons certainly oughtto have her hand in,' Copley agreed. 'Perhaps, after all, Sybert, it isbest we should not meet her.'

  Sybert found his hat and paused for a moment.

  'You can't frighten me that way, Miss Marcia,' he said, with a shake ofhis head. 'I have been out thirteen seasons myself.'