The Wheat Princess Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  ON the morning after their arrival, Marcia had risen early and set outon horseback to explore the neighbourhood. As Castel Vivalanti,accordingly, was engaged in its usual Saturday-morning sweeping, aclatter of horses' hoofs suddenly sounded on the tiny Corso (the pavingis so villainous that a single horse, however daintily it may step,sounds like a cavalcade), and running to the door, the inhabitants ofthe village beheld the new _signorina Americana_ gaily riding up thenarrow way and smiling to the right and left, for all the world likethe queen herself. The women contented themselves with standing in thedoorways and staring open-mouthed, but the children ran boldly after,until the signorina presently dismounted and bidding the groom hold herhorse, sat down upon a door-step and talked to them with as muchfriendliness as though she had known them all her life. She ended byasking them what in the world they liked best to eat, and they declaredin a single voice for '_Cioccolata_.'

  Accordingly they moved in a body to the baker's, and, to Domenico'sastonishment, ordered all of the chocolate in the shop. And while hewas excitedly counting it out the signorina kept talking to him aboutthe weather and the scenery and the olive crop until he was so overcomeby the honour that he could do nothing but bob his head and murmur,'_Si, si, eccelenza; si, si, eccelenza_,' to everything she said.

  And as soon as she had mounted her horse again and ridden away, with afinal wave of her hand to the little black-eyed children, Domenicohurried to the _Croce d'Oro_ to inform the landlord that he also hadhad the honour of entertaining the _signorina Americana_, who hadbought chocolate to the amount of five lire--five lire! And had givenit all away! The blacksmith's wife, who had followed Domenico to hearthe news, remarked that, for her part, she thought it a sin to spend somuch for chocolate; the signorina might have given the money just aswell, and they could have had meat for Sunday. But Domenico was moreready this time to condone the fault. '_Si, si_,' he returned, with anod of his head: 'the signorina meant well, no doubt, but she could notunderstand the needs of poor people. He supposed that they lived onchocolate all the time at the villa, and naturally did not realize thatpersons who worked for their living found meat more nourishing.

  When Marcia returned home with the announcement that she had visitedCastel Vivalanti, her uncle replied, with an elaborate frown, 'Isuppose you scattered soldi broadcast through the streets, and havestarted fifty young Italians on the broad road to Pauperism.'

  'Not a single soldo!' she reassured him. 'I distributed nothing moredemoralizing than a few cakes of chocolate.'

  'You'll make a scientific philanthropist if you keep on,' Mr. Copleylaughed, but his inner reflections coincided somewhat with those of theblacksmith's wife.

  Marcia's explorations were likewise extended in other directions, andbefore the first week was over she had visited most of the villagesfrom Palestrina to Subiaco. As a result, the chief article of diet inthe Sabine mountains bade fair to become sweet chocolate; whileDomenico, the baker, instead of being grateful for this unexpected flowof custom, complained to his friends of the trouble it caused. Nosooner would he send into Rome for a fresh supply than the signorinawould come and carry the whole of it off. At that rate, it was clearlyimpossible to keep it in stock.

  By means of largesses of chocolate to the children, or possibly by asmile and a friendly air, Marcia had established in a very short time aspeaking acquaintance with the whole neighbourhood. And on sunnymornings, as she rode between the olive orchards and the wheat fields,more than one worker straightened his back to call a pleased '_Buonapasseggiata_, signorina,' to the fair-haired stranger princess, whocame from the land across the water where, it was rumoured, gold couldbe dug from the ground like potatoes and every one was rich.

  All about that region the advent of the foreigners was the subject ofchief interest--especially because they were Americani, for many of thepeople were thinking of becoming Americani themselves. The servants ofthe villa, when they condescended to drink a glass of wine at the innof the _Croce d'Oro_, were almost objects of veneration, because theycould talk so intimately of the life these 'stranger princes' led--thestranger princes would have been astonished could they have heard someof the details of these recitals.

  * * * * *

  And so the Copley dynasty began at Castel Vivalanti. The life soon fellinto a daily routine, as life in even the best of places will. Threemeals and tea, a book in the shadiness of the ilex grove to the tune ofthe splashing fountain, a siesta at noon, a drive in the afternoon, anda long night's sleep were the sum of Vivalanti's resources. Marcialiked it. Italy had got its hold upon her, and for the present she wascontent to drift. But Mr. Copley, after a few days of lounging on thebalustrade, smoking countless cigarettes and hungrily reading suchnewspapers as drifted out on the somewhat casual mails, had his horsesaddled one morning and rode to Palestrina to the station. After thathe went into Rome almost every day, and the peasants in the waysidevineyards came to know him as well as his niece; but they did not takeoff their hats and smile as they did to her, for he rode past withunseeing eyes. Rich men, they said, had no thought for such as they,and they turned back to their work with a sullen scowl. Work at thebest is hard enough, and it is a pity when the smile that makes itlighter is withheld; Howard Copley would have been the last to do ithad he realized. But his thoughts were bent on other things, and howcould the peasants know that while he galloped by so carelessly hismind was planning a way to get them bread?

  Marcia spent many half-hours the first few weeks in loitering about theruins of the old villa. It was a dream-haunted spot which spokepathetically of a bygone time with bygone ideals. She could never quitereconcile the crumbling arches, the fantastic rock-work, and thegrass-grown terraces with the 'Young Italy' of Monte Citorio thirtymiles away. To eyes fresh from the New World it seemed half unreal.

  One afternoon she had started to walk across the fields to CastelVivalanti, but the fields had proved too sunny and she had stopped inthe shade of the cypresses instead. Even the ruins seemed to berevivified by the warm touch of spring. Blue and white anemones,rose-coloured cyclamen, yellow laburnum, burst from every cranny of thestones. Marcia glanced about with an air of delighted approval. A Panwith his pipes was all that was needed to make the picture complete.She dropped down on the coping of the fountain, and with her chin inher hands gazed dreamily at the moss-bearded merman who, two centuriesbefore, had spouted water from his twisted conch-shell. She wassuddenly startled from her reverie by hearing a voice exclaim, '_Buongiorno_, signorina!' and she looked up quickly to find Paul Dessart.

  'Mr. Dessart!' she cried in amazement. 'Where in the world did you comefrom?'

  'The inn of _Sant' Agapito_ at Palestrina. Benoit and I are making itthe centre of a sketching expedition. We get a sort of hill fever everyspring, and when the disease reaches a certain point we pack up and setout for the Sabines.'

  'And how did you manage to find us?'

  'Purely chance,' he returned more or less truthfully. 'I picked outthis road as a promising field, and when I came to the gateway, beingan artist, I couldn't resist the temptation of coming in. I didn't knowthat it was Villa Vivalanti or that I should find you here.' He satdown on the edge of the fountain and looked about.

  'Well?' Marcia inquired.

  'I don't wonder that you wanted to exchange Rome for this! May I make alittle sketch, and will you stay and talk to me until it is finished?'

  'That depends upon how long it takes you to make a little sketch. Ishall subscribe to no _carte-blanche_ promises.'

  He got out a box of water-colours from one pocket of his Norfolk jacketand a large pad from the other, and having filled his cup at the littlerush-choked stream which once had fed the fountain, set to work withoutmore ado.

  'I heard from the Roystons this morning,' said Marcia, presently, andimmediately she was sorry that she had not started some other subject.In their former conversations Paul's relations with his family hadnever pr
oved a very fortunate topic.

  'Any bad news?' he inquired flippantly.

  'They will reach Rome in a week or so.'

  'Holy Week--I might have known it! Miss Copley,' he looked at herappealingly, 'you know what an indefatigable woman my aunt is. She willmake me escort her to every religious function that blessed cityoffers; it isn't her way to miss anything.'

  Marcia smiled slightly at the picture; it was lifelike.

  'I shall be stopping in Palestrina when they come,' he added.

  She let this observation pass in a disapproving silence.

  'Oh, well,' he sighed, 'I'll stay and tote them around if you think Iought. The Bible says, you know, "Love your relatives and show mercyunto them that despitefully use you."'

  Marcia flashed a sudden laugh and then looked grave.

  Paul glanced up at her quickly. 'I suppose my aunt told you no end ofbad things about me?'

  'Was there anything to tell?'

  He shrugged his shoulders. 'I've committed the unpardonable sin ofpreferring art in Rome to coal in Pittsburg.'

  He dropped the subject and turned back to his picture, and Marcia satwatching him as he industriously splashed in colour. Occasionally theireyes met when he raised his head, and if his own lingered a momentlonger than convention warranted--being an artist, he was excusable,for she was distinctly an addition to the moss-covered fountain. Theyoung man may have prolonged the situation somewhat; in any case, thesun's rays were beginning to slant when he finally pocketed his coloursand presented the picture with a bow. It was a dainty little sketch ofa ruined grotto and a broken statue, with the sunlight flickeringthrough the trees on the flower-sprinkled grass.

  'Really, is it for me?' she asked. 'It's lovely, Mr. Dessart; and whenI go away from Rome I can remember both you and the villa by it.'

  'When you go away?' he asked, with an audible note of anxiety in hisvoice. 'But I thought you had come to live with your uncle.'

  'Oh, for the present,' she returned. 'But I'm going back to America inthe indefinite future.'

  He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief.

  'The indefinite future doesn't bother me. Before it comes you'll changeyour mind--everybody does. It's merely the present I want to be sureof.'

  Marcia glanced at him a moment with a half-provocative laugh; and then,without responding, she turned her head and appeared to study the stonevillage up on the height. She was quite conscious that he was watchingher, and she was equally conscious that her pale-blue muslin gown andher rosebud hat formed an admirable contrast to the frowning oldmerman. When she turned back there was a shade of amusement in herglance. Paul did not speak, but he did not lower his eyes nor in anydegree veil his visible admiration. She rose with a half-shrug andbrushed back a stray lock of hair that was blowing in her eyes.

  'I'm hungry,' she remarked in an exasperatingly matter-of-fact tone.'Let's go back and get some tea.'

  'Will Mrs. Copley receive a jacket and knickerbockers?'

  'Mrs. Copley will be delighted. Visitors are a godsend at VillaVivalanti.'

  They passed from the deep shade of the cypresses to the sun-fleckedlaurel path that skirted the wheat field. As they strolled along, in nogreat hurry to reach the villa, they laughed and chatted lightly; butthe most important things they said occurred in the pauses when nowords were spoken. The young man carried his hat in his hand,carelessly switching the branches with it as he passed. His shininglight-brown hair--almost the colour of Marcia's own--lay on hisforehead in a tangled mass and stirred gently in the wind. She noted itin an approving sidewise glance, and quickly turned away again lest heshould look up and catch her eyes upon him.

  In the ilex grove they paused for a moment as the sound of mingledvoices reached them from the terrace.

  'Listen,' Marcia whispered, with her finger on her lips; and as sherecognized the tones she made a slight grimace. 'My two enemies! TheContessa Torrenieri and Mr. Sybert. The contessa has a villa at Tivoli.This is very kind of her, is it not? Nine miles is a long distance justto pay a call.'

  As they advanced toward the tea-table, placed under the trees at theend of the terrace, they found an unexpectedly august party--not onlythe Contessa Torrenieri and the secretary of the Embassy, but theAmerican consul-general as well. The men had evidently but justarrived, as Mrs. Copley was still engaged with their welcome.

  'Mr. Melville, you come at exactly the right time. We are havingmushroom ragout to-night, which, if I remember, is your favouritedish--but why didn't you bring your wife?'

  'My wife, my dear lady, is at present in Capri and shows no intentionof coming home. Your husband, pitying my loneliness, insisted onbringing me out for the night.'

  'I am glad that he did--we shall hope to see you later, however, whenMrs. Melville can come too. Mr. Sybert,' she added, turning toward theyounger man, 'you can't know how we miss not having you drop in at allhours of the day. We didn't realize what a necessary member of thefamily you had become until we had to do without you.'

  Marcia, overhearing this speech, politely suppressed a smile as shepresented the young painter. He was included in the general acclaim.

  'This is charming!' Mrs. Copley declared. 'I was just complaining tothe Contessa Torrenieri that not a soul had visited us since we cameout to the villa, and here are three almost before the words are out ofmy mouth!'

  Pietro, appearing with a trayful of cups, put an end to theseamenities; and, reinforced by Gerald, they had an unusually festivetea-party. Mr. Copley had once remarked concerning Paul Dessart that hewould be an ornament to any dinner-table, and he undoubtedly provedhimself an ornament to-day.

  Melville, introducing the subject of a famous monastery latelysuppressed by the government, gave rise to a discussion involving manyand various opinions. The contessa and Dessart hotly defended thehomeless monks; while the other men, from a political point of view,were inclined to applaud the action of the premier. Their argumentswere strong, but the little contessa, two slender hands gesticulatingexcitedly, stanchly held her own; though a 'White' in politics, hersympathies, on occasion, stuck persistently to the other side. Thechurch had owned the property for five centuries, the government for aquarter of a century. Which had the better right? And aside from thejustice of the question--Dessart backed her up--for ascetic reasonsalone, the monks should be allowed to stay. Who wished to have thebeauties of frescoed chapels and carved choir-stalls pointed out byblue-uniformed government officials whose coats didn't fit? It spoiledthe poetry. Names of cardinals and prelates and Italian princes passedglibly; and the politicians finally retired beaten. Marcia, listening,thought approvingly that the young artist was a match for thediplomats, and she could not help but acknowledge further that whateverfaults the contessa might possess, dullness was not among them.

  It was Gerald, however, who furnished the chief diversion thatafternoon. Upon being forbidden to take a third _maritozzo_, he rosereluctantly, shook the crumbs from his blouse, and drifted off towardthe ilex grove to occupy himself with the collection of lizards whichhe kept in a box under a stone garden seat. The group about thetea-table was shortly startled by a splash and a scream, and theyhastened with one accord to the scene of the disaster. Mr. Copley,arriving first, was in time to pluck his son from the fountain, likeAchilles, by a heel.

  'What's the matter, Howard?' Mrs. Copley called as the others anxiouslyhurried up.

  'Nothing serious,' he reassured her. 'Gerald has merely been trying toidentify himself with his environment.'

  Gerald, dripping and sputtering, came out at this point with theastounding assertion that Marietta had pushed him in. Marietta chimedinto the general confusion with a volley of Latin ejaculations. Shepush him in! _Madonna mia_, what a fib! Why should she do such a thingas that when it would only put her to the trouble of dressing himagain? She had told him repeatedly not to fall into the fountain, butthe moment her back was turned he disobeyed.

  Amid a chorus of laughter and suggestions, of wails and protestations,the nurse, the boy, and
his father and mother set out for the house tosettle the question, leaving the guests at the scene of the tragedy. Asthey strolled back to the terrace the contessa very adroitly heldSybert on one side and Dessart on the other, while with a great deal ofanimation and gesture she recounted a diverting bit of Roman gossip.Melville and Marcia followed after, the latter with a speculative eyeon the group in front, and an amused appreciation of the fact that theyoung artist would very much have preferred dropping behind. Possiblythe contessa divined this too; in any case, she held him fast. Theconsul-general was discussing a criticism he had recently read of theAmerican diplomatic service, and his opinion of the writer wasvigorous. Melville's views were likely to be both vigorously conceivedand vigorously expressed.

  'In any case,' he summed up his remarks, 'America has no call to beashamed of her representative to Italy. His Excellency is a fineexample of the right man in the right place.'

  'And his Excellency's nephew?' she inquired, her eyes on the loungingfigure in front of them.

  'Is an equally fine example of the right man in the wrong place.'

  'I thought you were one of the people who stood up for him.'

  'You thought I was one of the people who stood up for him? Well,certainly, why not?' Melville's tone contained the suggestion of achallenge; he had fought so many battles in Sybert's behalf that abelligerent attitude over the question had become subconscious.

  'Oh, I don't know,' said Marcia vaguely. 'Lots of people don't likehim.'

  Melville struck a match, lit a cigar, and vigorously puffed it into aglow; then he observed: 'Lots of people are idiots.'

  Marcia laughed and apologized--

  'Excuse me, but you are all so funny about Mr. Sybert. One day I hearthe most extravagant things in his praise, and the next, the mostdisparaging things in his dispraise. It's difficult to know what tobelieve of such a changeable person as that.'

  'Just let me tell you one thing, Miss Marcia, and that is, that in thisworld a man who has no enemies is not to be trusted--I don't know howit may be in the world to come. At for Sybert, you may safely believewhat his friends say of him.'

  'In that case he certainly does not show his best side to the world.'

  'He probably thinks his best side nobody's business but his own.' Andthen, as a thought re-occurred to him, he glanced at her a moment insilence, while a brief smile flickered across his aggressively forcefulface. She could not interpret the smile, but it was vaguely irritating,and as he did not have anything further to say, she pursued her themerough-shod.

  'When you see a person who doesn't take any interest in his owncountry; whose only aim is to be thought a cosmopolitan, a man of theworld; whose business in life is to attend social functions and makeafter-dinner speeches--well, naturally, you can't blame people for nottaking him very seriously.' She finished with a gesture of disdain.

  'You were telling me a little while ago, Miss Marcia, about some of thepeople in Castel Vivalanti. You appear to be rather proud of yourbroad-mindedness in occasionally being able to detect the real manunderneath the peasant--don't you think you might push your penetrationjust one step further and discover a real man, a personality, beneaththe man of the world? Once in a while it exists.'

  'You can't argue me into liking Mr. Sybert,' she laughed; 'Uncle Howardhas tried it and failed.'

  Mr. and Mrs. Copley returned shortly to their guests; and the contessa,bemoaning the nine miles, announced that she must go. Mr. Copleysuggested that nine miles would be no longer after dinner than before,but the lady was obdurate and her carriage was ordered. She took herdeparture amid a graceful flurry of farewell. The contessa had anunerring instinct for effect, and her exits and her entrances weredivertingly spectacular. She bade Mrs. Copley, Marcia, and theconsul-general good-bye upon the terrace, and trailed across the marbleflagging, attended--at a careful distance from her train--by the threeremaining men. Sybert handed her into the carriage, Dessart arrangedthe lap-robe, while Copley brought up the rear, gingerly bearing herlace parasol. With a gay little tilt of her white-plumed hat toward thegroup on the terrace and an all-inclusive flash of black eyes, she wasfinally off, followed by the courtly bows of her three cavaliers.

  Marcia, with Sybert and Dessart on either hand, continued to stroll upand down the terrace, while her aunt and uncle entertained Melvilleamid the furnished comfort of the loggia. Sybert would ordinarily havejoined the group on the loggia, but he happened to be in the middle ofa discussion with Dessart regarding the new and, according to mostpeople, scandalous proposition for levelling the Seven Hills. The twomen seemed to be diametrically opposed to all their views, and wereequally far apart in their methods of arguing. Dessart would lunge intoflights of exaggerated rhetoric, piling up adjectives and metaphorsuntil by sheer weight he had carried his listeners off their feet;while Sybert, with a curt phrase, would knock the corner-stone fromunder the finished edifice. The latter's method of fencing had alwaysirritated Marcia beyond measure. He had a fashion of stating his point,and then abandoning his adversary's eloquence in mid-air, as if it werenot worth his while to argue further. To-day, having come to a deadlockin the matter of the _piano regolatore_, they dropped the subject, andpausing by the terrace parapet, they stood looking down on the plainbelow.

  Dessart scanned it eagerly with eyes quick to catch every contrast andtone; he noted the varying purples of the distance, the narrow ribbonof glimmering gold where sky and plain met the sea, the misty whitenessof Rome, the sharply cut outline of Monte Soracte. It was perfect as apicture--composition, perspective, colour-scheme--nothing might bebettered. He sighed a contented sigh.

  'Even I,' he murmured, 'couldn't suggest a single change.'

  A slight smile crept over Sybert's sombre face.

  'I could suggest a number.'

  The young painter brought a reproachful gaze to bear upon him.

  'Ah,' he agreed, 'and I can imagine the direction they'd take! MissCopley,' he added, turning to Marcia, 'let me tell you of the thing Isaw the other day on the Roman Campagna: a sight which was enough tomake a right-minded man sick. I saw--' there was a tragic pause--aMcCormick reaper and binder!'

  Sybert uttered a short laugh.

  'I am glad that you did; and I only wish it were possible for one tosee more.'

  'Man! Man! You don't know what you are saying!' Paul cried. There weretears in his voice. 'A McCormick reaper, I tell you, painted red andyellow and blue--the man who did it should have been compelled to drinkhis paint.'

  Marcia laughed, and he added disgustedly: 'The thing sows and reaps andbinds all at once. One shudders to think of its activities--and that inthe Agra Romana, which picturesque peasants have spaded and planted andmowed by hand for thousands of years.'

  'Not, however, a particularly economical way of cultivating theCampagna,' Sybert observed.

  'Economical way of cultivating the Campagna!' Dessart repeated thewords with a groan. 'Is there no place in the world sacred to beauty?Must America flood every corner of the habitable globe with reapers andsewing-machines and trolley-cars? The way they're sophisticating theseadorably antique peasants is criminal.'

  'That's the way it seems to me,' Marcia agreed cordially. 'Uncle Howardsays they haven't enough to eat; but they certainly do look happy, andthey don't look thin. I can't help believing he exaggerates thetrouble.'

  'An Italian, Miss Copley, who doesn't know where his next meal iscoming from, will lie on his back in the sunshine, thinking how prettythe sky looks; and he will get as much pleasure from the prospect as hewould from his dinner. If that isn't the art of being happy, I don'tknow what is. And that is why I hate to have Italy spoiled.'

  'Well, Dessart, I fancy we all hate that,' Sybert returned. 'Though Iam afraid we should quarrel over definitions.' He stretched out hishand toward the west, where the plain joined the sea by the ruins ofOstia and the Pontine Marshes. It was a great, barren, desolate waste;unpeopled, uncultivated, fever-stricken.

  'Don't you think it would be rather a fine thing,' he asked,
'to seethat land drained and planted and lived on again as it was perhaps twothousand years ago?'

  Marcia shook her head. 'I should rather have it left just as it is.Possibly a few might gain, but think of the poetry and picturesquenessand romance that the many would lose! Once in a while, Mr. Sybert, itseems as if utility might give way to poetry--especially on the RomanCampagna. It is more fitting that it should be desolate and bare, withonly a few wandering shepherds and herds, and no buildings but ruinedtowers and Latin tombs--a sort of burial-place for Ancient Rome.'

  'The living have a few rights--even in Rome.'

  'They seem to have a good many,' Dessart agreed. 'Oh, I know what youreformers want! You'd like to see the city full of smoke-stacks andmachinery, and the Campagna laid out in garden plots, and everybodygetting good wages and six per cent. interest; with all the peopledressed alike in ready-made clothing instead of peasant costume, andnobody poor and nobody picturesque.'

  Sybert did not reply for a moment, as with half-shut eyes he studiedthe distance. He was thinking of a ride he had taken three days before.He had gone out with a hunting-party to one of the great Campagnaestates, owned by a Roman prince whose only interest in the land was todraw from it every possible _centesime_ of income. They had stopped towater their horses at a cluster of straw huts where the farm labourerslived, and Sybert had dismounted and gone into one of them to talk tothe people. It was dark and damp, with a dirt floor and rude bunksalong the sides. There, fifty human beings lived crowded together,breathing the heavy, pestilential air. They had come down to bands fromtheir mountain homes, searching for work, and had sold their lives tothe prince for thirty cents a day.

  The picture flashed across him now of their pale, apathetic faces, ofthe dumb reproach in their eyes, and for a second he felt tempted todescribe it. But with the reflection that neither of the two before himwould care any more about it than had the landlord prince, he changedhis expression into a careless shrug.

  'It will be some time before we'll see that,' he answered Dessart'sspeech.

  'But you'd like it, wouldn't you?' Marcia persisted.

  'Yes; wouldn't you?'

  'No,' she laughed, 'I can't say that I should! I decidedly prefer thepeasants as they are. They are far more attractive when they are poor,and since they are happy in spite of it, I don't see why it is ourplace to object.'

  Sybert eyed the pavement impassively a moment: then he raised his headand turned to Marcia. He swept her a glance from head to foot whichtook in every detail of her dainty gown, her careless grace as sheleaned against the balustrade, and he made no endeavour to conceal thelook of critically cold contempt in his eyes. Marcia returned hisglance with an air of angry challenge; not a word was spoken, but itwas an open declaration of war.