CHAPTER XVIII
'SHALL I do it high or low, ma'am?'
Marcia, who was sitting before the mirror in a lace camisole, fidgetedimpatiently.
'Oh, do it any way you please, Granton, only hurry--low, I think. Thatwill look best with my gown. But do be quick about it. I have to godownstairs.'
'There's plenty of time,' replied the maid, imperturbably. 'But I wouldbe a little faster if you would kindly sit still.'
'Very well, Granton; I won't move for five minute. I'm really gettingexcited, though; and I didn't care a bit for the party until it began.'
'Yes, ma'am. If you'll just turn your head a little more this way. It'svery early.'
'I know, but I have to go down and be sure that Pietro understandsabout the lights. He's so stupid, he has to be watched every minute.And, Granton, as soon as you get through with Mrs. Copley please go andhelp Bianca dress Miss Royston. Bianca doesn't know anything more aboutfixing hair than a rabbit.'
Granton's silence breathed acquiescence in this statement, and underimpulse of the implied compliment she became more sprightly in hermovements as she skilfully twisted Marcia's yellow-brown hair into aseemingly simple coil at the nape of her neck.
For the past three days the house had been full of guests and thoughMarcia had been somewhat cold in her anticipations of the time, shefound herself thoroughly enjoying it when it came. The days had beenfilled with rides and drives and impromptu gaiety. Paul Dessart hadbeen master of the revels, and he filled the office brilliantly. He hadsupplied the leaven of fun on every occasion, and had been sothoroughly tactful that his host and hostess had gratefully blessedhim, and Marcia had cast him more than one involuntary glance ofapproval. And this was her birthday and the night of the ball. All daylong she had been the centre of a congratulatory group, the recipientof prettily worded felicitations; and she not unnaturally found itpleasant. The afternoon train had brought still more guests from Rome,and Villa Vivalanti's nineteen bedrooms were none too many. Fiveo'clock tea on the terrace had in itself been in the nature of a festa,with gaily dressed groups coming and going amid the sound of laughterand low voices; while the excitable Italian servants scurried to andfro, placing tea-tables and carrying cups.
Marcia had been secretly disappointed that afternoon by the non-arrivalof one guest whom she had half expected--and Eleanor Royston had beenfrankly so.
'Mr. Copley,' Eleanor had inquired of her host, as he offered her a cupof tea, 'where's that friend of yours, Mr. Laurence Sybert?'
'Quelling rioters, I presume. It's more in his line just now thanattending balls.'
'As if anything could be more in a diplomat's line than attendingballs! With all the other diplomats here and off their guard, it's justthe time to learn state secrets. And he's the most interesting man inRome,' she complained. 'I wanted to add him to my collection.'
'Your collection?' Mr. Copley's startled expression approached a stare.
'Of interesting men,' she explained. 'Oh, don't be alarmed; I don'tscalp them. The collection is purely mental--it's small enough, so far,to be carried in my head. It's merely that I am a student of humannature and am constantly on the alert for fresh specimens. Your Mr.Sybert is puzzling; I don't know just how to classify him.'
'Ah, I see! It is merely a scientific interest you take in him.' Mr.Copley's tone was one of relief. 'If I can be of any assistance withthe label--I am sure that he would feel honoured to grace yourcollection.'
'I am not so sure,' said Marcia. 'Wait till you hear the others, UncleHoward! A Kansas politician who wants to be a poet, an engineer on theClaytons' yacht, a Russian prince who talks seven languages and can'texpress his thoughts in any, and--who were the others, Eleanor? Oh,yes! the blacksmith who married the maid and beats her.'
'You don't do them justice,' Eleanor remonstrated, 'Those are merelytheir accidental, extrinsic qualities. That which makes theminteresting is something intrinsic.'
Mr. Copley shot her an amused glance, and drawing up a chair, sat downbeside her, prepared to argue it out.
'The list has possibilities, Miss Royston,' he assured her, 'though ofcourse one can't judge without knowing the gentlemen personally. Withwhich one, may I ask, are you going to classify Mr. Sybert?'
'Oh, in a separate pigeonhole by himself. That is just what makes mycollection interesting.' It was evidently a subject that she discussedwith some relish. 'Most men, you know--you look them over andimmediately assign them to a group with a lot of others; but once in awhile you come across a man who goes entirely by himself--is what theFrench call an _original_--and he is worth studying.'
Mr. Copley took out a cigarette and regarded it speculatively. 'I see,'he said. 'The best study of mankind is man--and so you think Sybert aspecimen who deserves a pigeonhole by himself?'
'Yes, I think he does, though I haven't quite decided on the hole yet.That's why it worries me that he didn't come to the party. One hates toleave these little matters unsolved.'
'I am sincerely sorry for you to have lost the opportunity. I must tellhim your opinion.'
'No, indeed!' remonstrated Eleanor. 'I may meet him again some day, andif you tell him I shall never learn the truth. One's only chance is tocatch them unawares.'
'You're a very penetrating person, Miss Royston.'
'I've been out nine seasons,' she laughed. 'You can trust me to know aman when I see one!'
'I wish you'd teach Marcia some of your lore,' he murmured, as heturned toward the loggia to greet a fresh carriageful of guests.
Even though one man were missing, still a great many others were there,and it had only been an undercurrent of Marcia's consciousness in anycase that had considered the matter. The laughter and babel of voices,the gay preparations and hurrying servants, had had their effect. AsGranton clasped about her neck Mr. Copley's expiatory gift--a copy ofan old Etruscan necklace in pearls and uncut emeralds set in hammeredgold--she was as pleasurably excited as a young woman may legitimatelybe on the eve of a birthday ball.
'There, Granton; that's all,' she cried, catching up her very Parisianskirts and flying for the door. 'Hurry with the others, please, for itwon't be long before the guests begin coming.'
She started downstairs, pulling on her gloves as she went. She paused amoment on the landing to view the scene below, and she blinked once ortwice as it dawned upon her that Laurence Sybert was standing at thefoot of the stairs watching her, just as he had stood the last time shehad seen him when he bade her good-night. For a moment she felt anabsurd tremor run through her, and then with something like a gulp shecollected herself and went on down to greet him.
'Mr. Sybert! We were afraid you weren't coming. When did you get here?'
'On the late train. I have been in the south, and I didn't get back tothe city till this afternoon.'
'Your arrivals are always so spectacular,' she said. 'We entirely giveyou up, and then the first thing we know you are quietly standingbefore us on the rug.'
'I should call that the reverse of spectacular.'
'Have you seen Uncle Howard? Did they find any place to put you? Thehouse is _cram_ full.'
'Oh, yes, I've been officially welcomed. I have a bed in your uncle'sdressing-room.'
'You may be thankful for that. The next comer, I am afraid, will be putin the cellar.'
Sybert did not choose to prolong these amenities of welcome anyfurther, and he stood quietly watching her while she buttoned hergloves. She looked very radiant to-night, with the candle-lightgleaming on her hair and her hazel eyes shining with excitement. Hergown was the filmiest, shimmering white with an undertone of green.About her neck the pearls gleamed whitely, each separate jewel apulsing globe of light. Marcia glanced up and touched the necklace withher hand.
'This is Uncle Howard's birthday present,' she said. 'Isn't it lovely?It's a copy of an old, old necklace in Castellani's collection. Myuncle gives me pearls, and my father is sending wheat.'
She turned aside into the long salon, and Sybert f
ollowed her. IfMarcia had been momentarily jostled from her self-possession by hissudden appearance, she had completely regained her poise. She wasbuoyantly at her ease again. There was a touch of intimacy, almost ofcoquetry, about her manner as she talked; and yet--Sybert noted thefact with a sub-smile of comprehension--she avoided crossing eyes withhim. That moment by the fireside was still too vivid. They returned tothe hall, and Marcia stepped to the door leading on to the loggia. Thecornice was outlined with tiny coloured lamps, while a man was lightingothers by the terrace balustrade. She glanced back at Sybert, who wasstanding still in the hall.
'You aren't going out?' he asked.
'Just a moment. I want to see how it looks.'
He looked at her bare shoulders with a slight frown. 'Bring thesignorina a wrap,' he said to the servant at the door.
'I don't need a wrap,' said Marcia; 'it's a warm night.'
Sybert shook his head with an expression that was familiar.
'Oh, if you wish to say anything, say it!' she cried. 'Only pleasedon't look at me with that smile. It's the way you looked the firsttime I saw you--and I don't like it.'
'I have nothing to say. When a young woman threatened with malariaproposes to go out into an Italian night, bare-shouldered, a mere manis left speechless.'
'Pride would keep me warm.'
'I haven't a doubt of it; but in case it should for the momentfail----' He took the long white cloak from the man's arm and glancedat it with another expression as he placed it on her shoulders. It wascomposed mostly of chiffon and lace.
'All is vanity that comes from a Paris shop!' laughed Marcia.
Sybert lit a cigarette and followed her. 'Well?' he asked, as theypaused by the terrace balustrade. 'Does it meet with your approval?'
'It's lovely, isn't it?' she replied as she looked back at the broad,white facade with its gleaming windows. There was no moon, but a clear,star-sprinkled sky. In all the dark landscape the villa alone was athrobbing centre of life and light. Rows of coloured lanterns werebeginning to outline the avenue leading to the gate, and in the ilexgrove tiny red and blue and white bulbs glowed among the branches likethe blossoms of some tropical night-blooming cereus. Servants werehurrying past the windows, musicians were commencing to tune theirinstruments; everywhere was the excitement of preparation.
'And this is your birthday,' he said. 'I suppose you have received manypretty speeches to-day, Miss Marcia; I hope they may all come true.'She glanced up in his face, and he looked down with a smile.'Twenty-three is a great age!'
A shadow flitted across her face. 'Isn't it?' she sighed. 'I thoughttwenty-two was bad enough--but twenty-three! It won't be many yearsbefore I'll be really getting old.'
Sybert laughed. 'It's been a long time since I saw twenty-three--when Ifirst came back to Rome.'
'Twelve years,' said Marcia.
'It's an easy enough problem if you care to work it out. I don't careto, any more.'
'It's not bad for a man,' she said; 'but a woman grows old so young!'
'You need not worry over that just now. The grey hairs will not comefor some time yet.'
'I'm not worrying,' she laughed. 'I was just thinking--it isn't nice togrow old, is it?'
'Certainly not. It's the great tragedy of life; and it comes to all,Miss Marcia--to you as well as to the poorest peasant girl in CastelVivalanti. Life, after all, contains some justice.'
Marcia turned her back to the shining villa and looked down over thegreat Campagna stretching away darkly under the stars, with here andthere the gleam of a shepherd's fire, built to ward off the poison inthe air.
'Things are not very just,' she said slowly.
'Not very,' he agreed; 'and one has little faith that they ever willbe--either in this world or the next.'
'It would be comfortable, wouldn't it, if you could only believe thatpeople are unfortunate as a punishment--because they deserve to be.'
'It would be a beautiful belief, but one which you can scarcely hold inItaly.'
'Poor Italy!' she sighed.
'Ah--poor Italy!' he echoed.
With a sudden motion he threw away his cigarette over the balustradeand immediately lit another. Marcia watched his face in the flare ofthe match. The eyes seemed deeper-set than usual, the jaw more boldlymarked, and there were nervous lines about the mouth. His face seemedto have grown thinner in the last few weeks.
They turned away and sauntered toward the ilex grove.
'There are, however, compensations,' he went on presently. 'Our poorpeasants do not have all the pleasures, but they do not have all thepains, either. There are a great many girls in Castel Vivalanti whowill never have a birthday ball'--he glanced from the lighted villabehind them to the glowing vista in front, the green stretch of theilex walk with the shimmering fountain at the end--'whose lives will bevery bare, indeed. They will work and eat and sleep, and love andperhaps hate, and that is all. You have many other pleasures which theycould never understand. You enjoy the _Egoist_, for instance. Butalso'--he paused--'you can suffer many things they cannot understand.You are an individual, while they are merely human beings. Gervasio'sstepmother married a husband, and doubtless loved him very much andcried for him a week after he was dead. Then she married another, andsaw no difference between him and the first. She may have to work hard,and she may be hungry sometimes, but she will escape the worstsuffering in life, which you, with all your privileges, may not escape,Marcia.'
'One would rather not escape it,' she answered. 'I should rather feelwhat there is to feel.'
'Ah!' he breathed, 'so should we all! And these poor devils ofpeasants, who can't feel anything but their hunger and weariness, losethe most of life. They are not even human beings; they are merelybeasts of burden, hard-working, patient, unthinking oxen, who go theway they are driven, not dreaming of their strength. That is theunfairness; that is where society owes them a debt; they have no chanceto develop. However,' he broke off with a short laugh, 'it's not thetime to bother you with other people's troubles--on your birthdaynight. We will hope, after all, that you may not have any very graveones of your own.'
They had reached the fountain and they paused. They were alone in afairy grove, with a nightingale pouring out his soul in the branchesabove their heads. Marcia stood looking down the dim, green alley theyhad come by, breathing deeply. She knew that Sybert's eyes were on her,and slowly she raised her head and looked up in his face. For a momentthey stood in silence; then, as the sound of carriage wheels reachedthem from the avenue, she started and turned away.
'The people are beginning to come. I am afraid that Aunt Katherine willbe wondering where I am,' she said in a voice that trembled slightly.
Sybert followed her in silence.
Some one had once said to her that Sybert's silences meant more thanother men's words, and as they turned back she tried to think who ithad been. Ah--she remembered! It was the contessa.