The Wheat Princess

  CHAPTER XVII

  FOR the next week or so Marcia steadfastly avoided meeting people.There were no visitors at the villa, and it was easy to find pretextsfor not going into Rome. She felt an overwhelming reluctance to meetingany of her friends--to meeting any one, in truth, who even knew hername. It seemed to her that beneath their smiles and pleasant speechesshe could read their thoughts; that the words 'wheat, wheat, wheat'rang as an undertone to every sentence that was spoken. Her horsebackrides were ridden in the direction away from Castel Vivalanti, and if,by chance, she did meet any of her former friends the villagers, shegalloped past, looking the other way.

  Mrs. Copley was engaged with preparations for the coming ball. It wasto be partially in honour of the Roystons, partially in honour ofMarcia's birthday, and all of Rome--or as much of it as existed for theCopleys--was to be asked to stop the night either at Villa Vivalanti orat the contessa's villa in Tivoli. Marcia, her aunt complained, showedan inordinate lack of interest in these absorbing preparations. She wasusually ready enough with suggestions, and her listlessness did notpass unnoticed. Mr. Copley's eyes occasionally rested upon her with aguiltily worried expression, and if she caught the look she immediatelyassumed an air of gaiety. Neither had made the slightest reference tothe subject of that evening's scene, except upon the arrival of acharacteristic cablegram from Willard Copley, in which he informed hisdaughter that he was sending her a transport of wheat as a birthdaypresent.

  'You see, Uncle Howard,' she had said as she handed him the message,'it is possible to do good as well as harm by telegraph.'

  Copley read it with a slight smile. 'After all, I'm afraid he's noworse than the rest of us!' and with that, wheat was a tabooed subject.

  For the future, however, he was particularly thoughtful toward hisniece to show that he was sorry, and she met his advances more thanhalf-way to show that she had forgiven; and, all in all, they came to abetter understanding because of their momentary falling out. Mrs.Copley accounted for Marcia's apathy (and possibly nearest the truth)on the ground that she had taken a touch of malaria in the oldwine-cellar, and she dosed her with quinine until the poor girl's headrang.

  It happened therefore that when the evening came to attend a musicaleat the Contessa Torrenieri's villa, Marcia could very gracefullydecline. The occasion of the function was the count's return from theRiviera; and although Marcia had some little curiosity in regard to thecount, still it did not mount to such proportions that she was ready toface the rest of the world for its sake.

  Tivoli and Villa Torrenieri were a long nine miles away, and VillaVivalanti that evening dined earlier than usual. As Marcia camedownstairs in response to Pietro's summons, she paused a moment on thelanding; she had caught the sound of Sybert's low voice in the salon.She had not seen him since the tempestuous ending of the San Marcofesta, and she had not yet determined on just what footing theirrelations were. She stood hesitating with a very slight quickening ofthe pulse, and then with a decided thrill of annoyance as anexplanation for his unexpected visit presented itself--he had returnedfrom Naples and come out to Villa Vivalanti for the purpose ofattending the contessa's musicale. Marcia went on downstairs moreslowly, and entered the salon with a none too cordial air. Sybert's owngreeting was in his usual vein of polite indifference. His mannercontained not the slightest suggestion of any misunderstanding in thepast. It transpired that he knew nothing of the impending party; he wasclothed in an unpretentious dinner-jacket. But he expressed hiswillingness to attend, in spite of the lack of invitation--it wasdoubtless waiting for him in Naples, he declared--provided his hostwould lend him a coat. His host grumblingly assented, and Sybertinquired, with a glance from Mrs. Copley's velvet and jewels toMarcia's simple white woollen gown, what time they were planning tostart.

  'About eight; it takes almost two hours to get there,' said Mrs.Copley. 'Marcia is not going,' she added.

  'Why not, Miss Marcia?'

  She looked a trifle self-conscious as she put forth her excuse. 'I'vebeen having a little touch of malaria, and Aunt Katherine thoughtperhaps the night air----'

  'I remember, when I was a boy in school, I used frequently to haveheadaches on Monday mornings,' said Sybert, with a show of sympathy.

  Marcia sat in her room till she heard the carriage drive away, then shedragged a wicker chair out to the balcony which overlooked the easternhills, already darkened into silhouettes against the sky. She satleaning back with her hands clasped in her lap, watching the outlinesof the old monastery fade into the night. She thought of the pale youngmonk with his questioning eyes, and wondered what sort of troublespeople who lived in monasteries had. They were at least not hertroubles, she smiled, as she thought of Paul Dessart.

  Suddenly she leaned over the railing and sniffed the light breeze as itfloated up from the garden. Mingled with the sweet scent of lilies andoleanders was the heavy odour of a cigar. Her pulses suddenlyquickened. Could----? She pushed her chair back and rose with animpatient movement. Pietro was holding a rendezvous with his friendsagain, and entertaining them with her uncle's tobacco. The night waschilly and she was cold. She turned into the dark room with a littlelaugh at herself: she was staying away from the contessa's musicale toavoid the night air?

  She groped about the table for a book and started downstairs with thehalf-hearted intention of reading out the evening in the salon. A woodfire had been kindled that afternoon, to dispel the slight dampnesswhich the stone walls seemed to exude at the slightest suggestion of aneastern wind. It had burned low now, and the embers gave out a slightglow which was not obliterated by the two flickering candles on thetable--Pietro's frugal soul evidently looked upon the lamp asunnecessary when Mr. and Mrs. Copley were away. Marcia piled on moresticks, with a shake of her head at Italian servants. The one thing inthe world that they cannot learn is to build a fire; generations ofeconomy having ingrained within them a notion that fuel is too preciousto burn.

  The blaze once more started, instead of ringing for a lamp and settlingdown to her book, she dropped into a chair and sat lazily watching theflames. Italy had got its hold upon her, with its spell of Lethianinertia. She wished only to close her eyes and drift idly with thecurrent.

  Presently she heard the outer door open and close, and steps cross thehall. She looked up with a start to see Laurence Sybert in the doorway.

  'What's the matter--did I surprise you?' he inquired.

  'Yes; I thought you had gone to the party.'

  'I was in the wine-cellar just as much as you,' he returned, with alittle laugh, as he drew up a chair beside her. 'Why can't I havemalaria too?'

  His sudden appearance had been disconcerting, and her usualself-assurance seemed to be wandering to-night. She did not know whatto say, and she half rose.

  'I was just going to ring for the lamp when you came. Pietro must haveforgotten it. Would you mind----'

  Sybert glanced lazily across the room at the bell. 'Oh, sit still. Wehave light enough to talk by, and you surely aren't intending to readwhen you have a guest.' He stretched out his hand and took possessionof her book.

  'I don't flatter myself that you stayed away from the contessa's totalk to me,' she returned as she leaned back again with a slight shrug.

  'Why else should I have stayed?' he inquired. 'Do you think, when itcame to the point, your uncle wouldn't give me a coat?'

  'Probably you found that it didn't fit.'

  Sybert laughed. 'No, Miss Marcia; I didn't even try. I stayedbecause--I wanted to talk with you.'

  She let the statement pass in silence, and Sybert addressed himself toa careful rearrangement of the burning wood. When he finally laid downthe tongs he remarked in a casual tone, 'I owe you an apology--will youaccept it?'

  'What for?'

  'You appear to have several counts against me--suppose we don't go intodetails. I offer a collective apology.'

  'Because you called me "the Wheat Princess"? Oh, yes, I'll excuse it; Idare say you were justified.'

&nbs
p; He leaned forward with a slight frown.

  'Certainly I was not justified; it was neither kind nor gentlemanly,and I am sorry that I said it. I can only promise to have bettermanners in the future.'

  Marcia dismissed the subject with a gesture.

  'Let me tell you about the good your money has done.'

  'No, please don't! I don't want to hear. I know that it's horrible, andthat you did the best with it possible. I'm glad if it helped. Myfather is sending some wheat that will be here in a few weeks.'

  'Miss Marcia,' he said slowly, 'I wish you wouldn't take this matter sobadly. Your uncle was out of his senses when he talked to you, and hedidn't realize what he was saying. He feels awfully cut up about it. Hetold me to-night that he was afraid he had spoiled your summer, andthat he wouldn't have hurt you for the world.'

  Marcia's eyes suddenly filled with tears and she bit her lip. Sybertleaned forward and poked the fire.

  'I should like to talk to you about your uncle,' he said, with his eyesfixed on the embers. 'He is one of the finest men I have ever known.And it is not often that a man in his position amounts to much--thatis, as a human being; the temptations are all the other way. Most men,you know, with leisure and his tastes would--well, go in for collectingcarved ivory and hammered silver and all that rubbish. Nobodyunderstands what he is trying to do, least of all the people he isdoing it for. He does it very quietly and in his own way, and hedoesn't ask for thanks. Still, just a little appreciation would begrateful; and, instead of that, he is abused at every turn. This wheatbusiness increased the feeling against him, and naturally he feelssore. The other evening he'd just been reading some articles about thetrouble in a Roman paper, and I had been telling him about yourencounter with the village people when you came in. It was anunfortunate moment you chose, and he forgot himself. I wish you wouldbe as kind to him as you can, for he has a good many critics outside,and--' Sybert hesitated an instant--'he needs a little sympathy athome.'

  Marcia drew a deep breath.

  'I understand about Uncle Howard,' she said. 'I used to thinksometimes--' she hesitated too--'that he wasn't very happy, but Ididn't know the reason. Of course I don't blame him for what he said; Iknow he was worried, and I know he didn't mean it. In any case, Ishould rather know the truth. But about the wheat,' she continued, 'myfather is not to blame the way you think he is. He and Uncle Howarddon't understand each other, but I understand them both, and if I hadknown sooner I could have stopped it. He didn't have the remotest ideaof harming Italy or any other country. He just thought about gettingahead of a lot of others, and--you know what men are like--makingpeople look up to him. He's very quick; he sees things faster thanother men; he knows what's going to happen ahead of time, and you can'texpect him not to take advantage of it. Of course'--she flushed--'hewants to make money, too; but it isn't all that, for he doesn't use itafter he gets it made. It's the beating others that he likes--the powerit gives him. I'm afraid,' she added, with a slightly pathetic smile,'that I shall have to go home and look after him.'

  'Oh, certainly, Miss Marcia, we all know that your father had nothought of deliberately harming Italy or any other country. And, as amatter of fact, the American wheat corner has not had so much to dowith the trouble as the Italian government would have us believe. Thesimple truth is that your father has been used as a scapegoat. Whilethe Roman papers have been suggestively silent on many points, theyhave had much to say of the American Wheat King.'

  'Have the things they said been very bad?'

  Sybert smiled a trifle.

  'There's not been much, to tell the truth, that he will care to cut outand paste in his scrap-book.'

  'Our party, next week, seems heartless, doesn't it--sort of like givinga ball while the people next door are having a funeral? I wanted togive it up, but Uncle Howard looked so hurt when I proposed it that Ididn't say anything more about it.'

  'No, certainly not. That would be foolish and useless. Because somepeople have to be unhappy is no reason why all should be.'

  'I suppose not,' she agreed slowly; and then she added, 'The world usedto be so much pleasanter to live in before I knew there was any miseryin it--I wish I didn't have to know!'

  'Miss Marcia, I told you the other day that it was a relief sometimesto see people who are thoroughly, irresponsibly happy; who dance overthe pit without knowing it's there. A man who has been in the pit, whoknows all its horrors--who feels as if he reeked with them--likesoccasionally to see some one who doesn't even know of its existence.And yet in the end do you think he can thoroughly respect suchblindness? Don't you feel that you are happier in a worthier sense whenyou look at life with your eyes open; when you honestly take the badalong with the good?'

  She sat silent for a few minutes, apparently considering his words.Presently he added--

  'As for your party, I think you may dance with a free conscience.You've done what you could to help matters on, and you'll do a greatdeal more in the future.'

  'I'm afraid that my conscience didn't have much to do with wanting togive up the ball,' she acknowledged, with a slightly guilty laugh.'It's simply that I can't bear to meet people, and feel that all thetime they're talking to me they're calling me in their minds "the WheatPrincess."'

  'That, I suppose you know, is very silly. It's the price you have topay, and I haven't much sympathy to offer. However, you need not let itbother you; for, as a matter of fact, there will not be many men here,who would not be wheat kings themselves if they had the chance--evenknowing beforehand all the suffering it was going to bring to thistrouble-ridden country. And now, suppose we don't talk about wheat anymore. You've thought about it a good deal too much.'

  'You're not very optimistic,' she said.

  'Oh, well, I'm not blind. It takes an Italian to be optimistic in thiscountry.'

  'Do you like the Italians, or don't you?' she asked. 'Sometimes youseem to, and sometimes you act as if you despised them.'

  'Yes, certainly I like them; I was born in Italy.'

  'But you're an American,' she said quickly.

  He laughed at her tone.

  'You surely want to be an American,' she insisted.

  'As Henry James says, Miss Marcia, one's country, like one'sgrandmother, is antecedent to choice.'

  She studied the fire for some time without speaking, and Sybert,leaning back lazily, studied her. Her next observation surprised him.

  'You said the other day, Mr. Sybert, that every man lived for someidea, and I've been wondering what yours was.'

  A curious expression flashed over his face.

  'You couldn't expect me to tell; I'm a diplomatist.'

  'I have an idea that it is not very much connected with diplomacy.'

  'In which case it would be poor diplomacy for me to give it away.'

  'Mr. Sybert, you give a person a queer impression, as if you wereacting a part all the time, and didn't want people to know what youwere really like.'

  'An anarchist must be careful; the police----'

  'I believe you are one!' she cried.

  'Don't be alarmed. I assure you I am not. But,' he added, with a littleflash of fire, 'I swear, in a country like this, one would like tobe--anything for action! Oh, I'm not a fool,' he added, in response toher smile. 'We're living in the nineteenth century, and not in thethirteenth. Anarchy belongs to the dark ages as much as feudalism.'

  'You're so difficult to place! I like to know whether people areDemocrats or Republicans, and whether they are Presbyterians orEpiscopalians. Then one always knows where to find them, and is not indanger of hurting their feelings.'

  'I'm afraid I can't claim any such respectable connexions as those,'Sybert laughed.

  'Half the time one would think you were a Catholic by the way you standup for the priests; the other half one would think you weren't anythingby the way you abuse them.'

  'This mania for classifying! What difference if a person calls himselfa Catholic or a Baptist, a Unitarian or a Buddhist? It's all one. A manis not necessarily ir
religious because he doesn't subscribe to anycut-and-dried formulae.'

  'Mr. Sybert,' she dared, 'I used to be terribly suspicious of you. Iknew you weren't just the way you appeared, and I thought you werereally rather bad; but I'm beginning to believe you're unusually good.'

  'Oh, I say, Miss Marcia! What are you trying to get at? Do you want meto confess to a hair shirt underneath my dinner-jacket?--I am afraidyou must leave that to our friend the monk, up on his mountain-top.'

  'No, I didn't mean just that. Flagellations and hair shirts strike meas a pretty useless sort of goodness.'

  'It does seem a poor business,' he agreed, 'for a strong young fellowlike that to give up his whole life to the work of getting his soulinto paradise.'

  'Still, if he wants paradise that much, and is willing to make thesacrifice----'

  'It's setting a pretty high value on his own soul. I should never ratemine as being worth a lifetime of effort.'

  'I suppose a person's soul is worth whatever price he chooses to set.'

  'Oh, of course, if a man keeps his soul in a bandbox he can produce itimmaculate in the end; but what's a soul for if it's not for use? Hewould much better live in the world with his fellow-men, and help themkeep their souls clean, even at the risk of getting his own a littledusty.'

  'Yes, perhaps that's true,' she conceded. 'Such dust will doubtlessbrush off in the end.'

  'It certainly ought, if things are managed right.'

  'I can't help feeling sorry, though, for the poor young monk; he willbe so disappointed, when he brings out his shiny new soul, to find thatit doesn't rank any higher than some of the dusty ones that have beendragged through the world.'

  'It will serve him right,' Sybert declared. 'He ought to have beenthinking of other people's souls instead of his own.'

  '"'Tis a dangerous thing to play with souls, and matter enough to saveone's own,"' quoted Marcia.

  'Oh, well,' he shrugged, 'I won't argue, with the poet and the priestsboth against me; but still----'

  'You think that your speckled soul is exactly as good at other people'swhite souls?'

  'It all depends,' he demurred, 'upon how they kept theirs white and howI got mine speckled.'

  'Our frate has afforded a long moral,' she laughed.

  'Ah--and I suspect he didn't deserve it. He looks, poor devil, as ifhis heart were still in the world, in spite of the fact that he himselfis in the cloister.'

  'In that case,' she returned, 'he's lost the world for nothing, for hisprayers will not be answered unless his heart is in them.'

  'There's a tragedy!' said Sybert--'to have lost the world, and then, inspite of it, to turn up in the end with a dusty soul!'

  They looked at each other soberly, and then they both laughed.

  'Philosophy is a queer thing,' said Marcia. 'You may go as far as youplease, but you always end where you started.'

  '"Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break on vain philosophy'saye-bubbling spring,"' he repeated softly, with his eyes on the fire;and then he leaned toward her and laughed again. 'Miss Marcia, do youknow I have an idea?'

  'What is it?' she asked.

  'It's about you and me--I have a theory that we might be pretty goodfriends.'

  'I thought we'd been friends for some time,' she returned evasively. 'Iam sure my uncle's friends are mine.'

  'Really, I hadn't suspected it! But it's the same with friends as withpolitics and religion: they don't amount to much until you find themfor yourself.'

  She considered this in silence.

  'I should say,' he added, 'that we'd been pretty good enemies all thistime. What do you say to our being friends, for a change?'

  Marcia glanced away in a sudden spasm of shyness.

  'Shall we try it?' he asked in a low tone, bending toward her andlaying his hand palm upward on the arm of her chair.

  She dropped her hand into his hesitatingly, and his fingers closed uponit. He looked at the fire a moment, and then back in her face.

  'Marcia,' he said softly, 'did you ever hear the Tuscan proverb, "Thefoes of yesterday become the friends of to-day and the lovers ofto-morrow"?'

  A quick wave of colour swept over her face, and a faint answering flushappeared in his. She drew her hand away and rose to her feet, with alight laugh that put the last few minutes ages away.

  'I'm afraid it's getting late, and Aunt Katherine would be scandalizedif she found her malaria patient waiting up for her. I will leave youto smoke in peace.'

  Sybert rose and followed her into the hall. He chose a tall brasscandlestick from the row on the chimney-piece, lighted it, and handedit to her with a silent bow.

  'Thank you,' said Marcia, with a brief glance at his face. She pausedon the landing and looked down. He was standing on the rug at the footof the stairs, watching her with an amused smile.

  '_Buona notte_, Signor Siberti,' she murmured.

  '_Buona notte_, signorina,' he returned, with a little laugh. 'Pleasantdreams!'