CHAPTER XXI
THE next day--it was just a week before their proposed trip to theTyrol--Marcia accompanied her uncle into Rome for the sake of one ortwo important errands which might not be intrusted to a man's uncertainmemory. Mr. Copley found himself unready to return to the villa on thetrain they had planned to take, and, somewhat to Marcia'sconsternation, he carried her off to the Embassy for tea. She mountedthe steps with a fast-beating heart. Would Laurence Sybert be there?She had not so much as seen him since the night of her birthday ball,and the thought of facing him before a crowd, with no chance to explainaway that awful moment by the fountain, was more than disconcerting.
Her first glance about the room assured her that he was not in it, andthe knowledge carried with it a mingled feeling of relief anddisappointment. The air was filled with an excited buzz ofconversation, the talk being all of riots and rumours of riots. Marciadrifted from one group to another, and finally found herself sitting ona window-seat beside a woman whose face was familiar, but whom for themoment she could not place.
'You don't remember me, Miss Copley?' her companion smiled.
Marcia looked puzzled. 'I was trying to place you,' she confessed. 'Iremember your face.'
'One day, early this spring, at Mr. Dessart's studio----'
'To be sure! The lady who writes!' she laughed. 'I never caught yourname.'
'And the worst gossip in Rome? Ah, well, they slandered me, MissCopley. One is naturally interested in the lives of the people one isinterested in--but for the others! They may make their fortunes andlose them again, and get married, and elope and die, for all theattention I ever give.'
Marcia smiled at her concise summary of the activities of life, and puther down as a Frenchwoman.
'And the villa in the hills?' she asked. 'How did it go? And the ghostof the Wicked Prince? Did Monsieur Benoit paint him?'
'The ghost was a grievous disappointment. He turned out to be thebutler.'
'Ah--poor Monsieur Benoit! He has many disappointments. _C'est triste,n'est-ce pas?_'
'Many disappointments?' queried Marcia, quite in the dark.
'The Miss Roystons, Mr. Dessart's relatives,' pursued the lady; 'theyare friends of yours. I met them at the Melvilles' a few weeks ago.They are charming, are they not?'
'Very,' said Marcia, wondering slightly at the turn the conversationhad taken.
'And this poor Monsieur Benoit--he has gone, all alone, to paintmoonlight in Venice. _Ce que c'est que l'amour!_'
'Ah!' breathed Marcia. She was beginning to have an inkling. Had hebeen added to the collection? It was too bad of Eleanor!
'Miss Royston is charming, like all Americans,' reiterated the lady.'But, I fear, a little cruel. _Mais n'importe._ He is young, and whenone is young one's heart is made of india-rubber, is it not so?' Hereyes rested on Marcia for a moment.
Marcia's glance had wandered toward the door. Laurence Sybert had justcome in and joined the group about her uncle, and she noted the factwith a quick thrill of excitement. Would he come and speak to her? Whatwould he say? How would he act? She felt a strong desire to study hisface, but she was aware that the eyes of 'the greatest gossip in Rome'were upon her, and she rallied herself to answer. Monsieur Benoit wascommiserated for the third time.
'Ah, well,' finished the lady, philosophically, 'perhaps it is for thebest. A young man _avec le coeur brise_ is far more interesting than onewho is heart-whole. There is that Laurence Sybert over there.' Shenodded toward the group on the other side of the room. 'For the lastten years, when the _forestieri_ in Rome haven't had anything else totalk about, they've talked about him. And all because they think thatunder that manner of his he's carrying around a broken heart for thepretty little Contessa Torrenieri.'
Marcia laughed lightly. 'Mr. Sybert at least carries his broken hearteasily. One would never suspect its presence.'
The lady's eyes rested upon her an appreciable instant before sheanswered: '_Che vuole?_ People must have something to talk about, and agood many girls--yes, and with _dots_--have sighed in vain for a smilefrom his dark eyes. Between you and me, I don't believe the man's gotany heart--either broken or whole. But I mustn't be slandering him,'she laughed. 'I remember he's a friend at Casa Copley.'
'Mr. Sybert is my uncle's friend; the rest of us see very little ofhim,' Marcia returned as she endeavoured to think of a new theme. Hercompanion, however, saved her the trouble.
'And were you not surprised at Mr. Dessart's desertion?'
'Mr. Dessart's desertion?' Marcia repeated the question with a slightquiver of the eyelids.
'Exchanging Rome for Pittsburg. You Americans do things so suddenly!One loses one's breath.'
'But his father was ill and they sent for him.'
'Yes; but the surprising part is that he goes for good. The picturesand carvings and curios are packed; there is a card in the windowsaying the studio is for rent--he is giving up art to mine coalinstead.'
Marcia laughed. 'It is a seven-league step from art to coal,' sheacknowledged. 'I had thought myself that he was an artist to the end.'
'Ah--he was an artist because he was young, not because he was called,and I suppose he got tired of the play. The real artist for you--it isthat poor young man painting moonlight in Venice.' The lady tappedMarcia's arm gently with her fan. 'But you and I know, Miss Copley,that Paul Dessart never went back to America just from homesickness;when a young man hasn't reached thirty yet, you may be pretty sure offinding a woman behind most of his motives.'
Marcia had the uncomfortable feeling that the lady's eyes were fixedupon her with a speculative light in their depths. She endeavoured tolook disinterested as she again cast about for a more propitious topic.Glancing up, she saw that her uncle, accompanied by Laurence Sybert andMr. and Mrs. Melville, was crossing the room in their direction.Sybert, who was laughing and chatting easily with Mrs. Melville,apparently did not feel that there was any awkwardness in the moment.He delivered a cordially indifferent bow which was evidently meant tobe divided between Marcia and her companion. After a moment or so ofgeneral greetings, Marcia found herself talking with Mrs. Melville,while her uncle and the consul-general still discussed riots, and thelady who wrote appropriated Sybert.
'We are sorry to hear you are leaving the villa so early, though Isuppose we shall all be following in a week or so,' said Mrs. Melville.'One clings pretty closely to the shady side of the street even now.Aren't these riots dreadful?' she rambled on. 'Poor Laurence Sybert isworking himself thin over them. It is the only subject one hearsnowadays.'
Marcia achieved an intelligent reply, while at the same time she foundherself listening to the conversation on the other side. To her intensediscomfort, it was still of Paul Dessart.
'Yes, I heard that he had been suddenly called home; that was hardluck,' said Sybert quietly.
'Between you and me, Paul Dessart never gave up art and went back toPittsburg because he was tired of Rome. As I told Miss Copley, when ayoung man decides to settle down and be serious, you may mark my wordsthere's a woman in the case. Oh, I knew it all the time.' She loweredher tone. 'We'll be reading of an engagement in the Paris _Herald_ oneof these days.'
'I dare say, as usual, you're right,' Sybert said dryly; while Marcia,inwardly raging and outwardly smiling, gave ear to Mrs. Melville again.
'Oh, did I tell you,' Mrs. Melville asked, 'that we are coming out tothe villa next Saturday for "week-end"? It's a long-standinginvitation, that we've never found a chance to accept. But it's socharming out there that we can't bear to miss it, and so we arethrowing over all our other engagements in order to get out this weekbefore you break up.'
Marcia murmured some polite phrases while she tried to catch the gistof the conversation on the other side. It was not of Paul Dessart, shereassured herself. The woman who wrote was narrating an adventure withsome 'bread-tickets' of the anti-begging society, and the twomen--Melville and Sybert--were chaffing her uncle. The point of thestory appeared to be against him. He f
inally broke away, and with aglance at his watch turned back to his niece.
'Well, Marcia, if we are to catch that six-o'clock train, I think it istime that we were off.'
Sybert accompanied them to the door, talking riots to her uncle, whileshe went on ahead, feeling forgotten and overlooked. Melville joinedthem again in the vestibule, and the three fell to discussingbarricades and soldiers until Copley, with another look at his watch,laughingly declared that they must run.
Sybert for the first time, Marcia thought, gave any sign of being awareof her presence.
'Well, Miss Marcia,' he said, turning toward her with a friendly smile.'Your uncle says that you are talking of going back to America nextwinter. That is too bad, but we shall hope to see a little of you inthe autumn before you leave. You are going to the Tyrol for the summer,I hear. That will be pleasant, at least.'
'You talk as if America were a terrible hardship,' said Marcia, takingher tone from him.
Sybert laughed, with his old shrug. 'Ah, well, it depends on whereone's interests are, I suppose.'
She suddenly flushed again, with the thought that he was referring toPaul Dessart, and she plunged blindly into another subject to cover herconfusion.
'Did Uncle Howard tell you that we have decided to take Gervasio withus for the summer? He wanted to find a home for him in Rome; I wantedto take him with us; Aunt Katherine hadn't made up her mind untilGerald cried at the thought of parting with him, and, as usual,Gerald's tears decided the matter.'
'It was a most fortunate whipping for Gervasio the night that we droveby,' he returned as he held out his hand. 'Well, Miss Marcia, as youbreak up next week, I shall probably not see you again. I hope that youwill have a delightful summer.'
Marcia shook hands smilingly, with her heart sunk fathoms deep.
He followed them to the carriage for a last word with her uncle.
'You'd better change your mind, Sybert, and come out to the villaSaturday night with the Melvilles,' Copley called as the carriagestarted.
'I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there's too much excitement elsewhere for meto afford a vacation just now,' and he bowed a smiling good-bye toMarcia.