CHAPTER XXIII
MARCIA passed the afternoon in a state of nervous impatience for heruncle's return. She said nothing to Mrs. Copley of the man she hadfound asleep in the grotto, and the effort to preserve an outwardserenity added no little to her inner trepidation. In vain she tried toreason with her fear; it was not a subject which responded to logic.She assured herself over and over again that the man could not be thesame Neapolitan who had warned her uncle; that he was safely in prison;and that the tattooed crucifix was only the general mark of a secretsociety. The assurance did not carry conviction. Her first startledimpression had been too deep to be thrown off lightly, and coming justthen, in the midst of the rioting and lawlessness, the incident carriedadditional force. She had lately heard many stories of lonely villasbeing broken into, of travellers on the Campagna being waylaid androbbed, of the vindictiveness of the Camorra, which her uncle hadopposed. The stories were not reassuring; and though she resolutely putthem out of her mind, she found herself thinking of them again andagain. Italy's elaborate police system, she knew, was not merely forshow.
Mr. Copley and the Melvilles were due at five, but as they had notappeared by half-past, Mrs. Copley decided that they had missed theirtrain, and she and Marcia sat down to tea--or, more accurately, to icedlemonade--without waiting. The table was set under the shade of theilex trees where the grove met the upper end of the terrace, and whereany slight breeze that chanced to be stirring would find them out.Gerald and Gervasio swallowed their allotted glassful and two_brioches_ with dispatch, and withdrew to the cool shadows of the ilexgrove to play at horse with poor, patient Bianca and the streamingribbons of her cap. Mrs. Copley and Marcia took the repast in moreleisurely fashion, with snatches of very intermittent conversation.Marcia's eyes wandered in the pauses to the poppy-sprinkled wheat fieldand the cypresses beyond.
'I believe they are coming, after all!' Mrs. Copley finally exclaimed,as she shaded her eyes with her hands and looked down across the openstretch of vineyards to where the Roman road, a yellow ribbon of dust,divided the fields. 'Yes, that is the carriage!'
Marcia looked at the moving speck and shook her head. 'Your eyes arebetter than mine, Aunt Katherine, if you can recognize Uncle Howard atthis distance.'
'The carriage is turning up our road. I am sure it is they. Poorthings! I am afraid they will be nearly dead after the drive in thisheat. Rome must have been unbearable to-day.' And she hastilydispatched Pietro to prepare more iced drinks.
Ten minutes later, however, the carriage had resolved itself into ajangling Campagna wine-cart, and the two resigned themselves to waitingagain. By half-past seven Marcia was growing frankly nervous. Couldanything have happened to her uncle? Should she have told her aunt andsent some one to meet him with a warning message? Surely no one woulddare to stop the carriage on the open road in broad daylight. A hundredwild imaginings were chasing through her brain, when finally, closeupon eight, the rumble of wheels sounded on the avenue.
Both Mrs. Copley and Marcia uttered an exclamation of relief. Mrs.Copley had been worried on the score of the dinner, and Marcia for anynumber of reasons which disappeared with the knowledge that her unclewas safe. They hurried out to the loggia to meet the new-comers, and asthe carriage drew up, not only did the Melvilles and Mr. Copleydescend, but Laurence Sybert as well. At sight of him Marcia hung back,asking herself, with a quickly beating heart, why he had come.
Mrs. Copley, with the first glance at their faces, interrupted her owngraceful words of welcome to cry: 'Has anything happened? Why are youso late?'
They were visibly excited, and did not wait for greetings beforepouring out their news--an attempted assassination of King Humbert onthe Pincian hill that afternoon--Rome under martial law--a plotdiscovered to assassinate the premier and other leaders in control.
The two asked questions which no one answered, and all talked atonce--all but Sybert. Marcia noticed that he was unusually silent, andit struck her that his face had a haggard look. He did not so much asglance in her direction, except for a bare nod of greeting on hisarrival.
'Well, well,' Copley broke into the general babel, 'it's a terriblebusiness. You should see the excitement in Rome! The city is simplydemoralized; but we'll give you the particulars later. Let us get intosomething cool first--we're all nearly dead. Has it been hot out here?Rome has been a foretaste of the inferno.'
'And this young man,' Melville added, laying a hand on Sybert's arm,'just got back from the Milan riots. Hadn't slept, any to speak of forfour days, and what does he do this afternoon but sit down at his desk,determined to make up his back work, Sunday or no Sunday, with thethermometer where it pleases. Your husband and I had to drag him off bymain force.'
'Poor Mr. Sybert! you do look worn out. Not slept for four days? Why,you must be nearly dead! You may go to bed immediately after dinner,and I shall not have you called till Monday morning.'
'I've been sleeping for the last twenty-four hours, Mrs. Copley, and Ireally don't need any more sleep at present,' he protested laughingly,but with a slight air of embarrassment. It was a peculiar trait ofSybert's that he never liked to be made the subject of conversation,which was possibly the reason why he had been made the subject of somany conversations. This reticence when speaking of himself or his ownfeelings, struck the beholder as somewhat puzzling. It had alwayspuzzled Marcia, and had been one reason why she had been so persistentin her desire to find out what he was really like.
The party shortly assembled for dinner, the women in the coolest oflight summer gowns, the men in white linen instead of evening dress.They went into the dining-room without affording Marcia a chance tocatch her uncle alone. The meal did not pass off very gaily.Assassinations were served with the soup, bread riots with the fish,and hypothetical robberies and plots with the further courses; whilePietro presided with a sinister obsequiousness which added darkly tothe effect. In vain Mrs. Copley tried to turn the conversation intopleasanter channels. The men were too stirred up to talk of anythingelse, and the threatened tragedy of the day was rehearsed in all itsbearings.
The assassin had dashed out from the crowd that lined the driveway andsprung to the side of the royal carriage before any of the bystandershad realized what was happening. The white-haired aide-de-camp sittingat his Majesty's side was the first to see, and springing to his feet,he struck the man fiercely in the face just as he raised his arm. Hadit not been for the aide-de-camp's quick action, the man would haveplunged his stiletto into the King's heart.
Mrs. Copley and Mrs. Melville shuddered, and Marcia leaned forwardlistening with wide eyes.
'Right on the Pincio, mind you.' Melville in his excitement thumped thetable until the glasses rang. 'Not a chance of the fellow's gettingoff. Scarcely a chance of his accomplishing his purpose. He knew hewould be taken. Shouted, "_Viva liberta!_" as the soldiers grabbedhim--I swear it beats me what these fellows are after. "_Vivaliberta!_" That's what they cried when they put the House of Savoy onthe throne, and now they're trying to pull it off again with the samecry.'
'I fear the seeds of revolution are sown pretty thick in Italy,' saidCopley.
'Where aren't there the seeds of revolution to-day?' Melville groaned.'Central Africa is only waiting a government in order to overturn it.'
'By the way,' interpolated Copley, 'the assassin is a friend ofSybert's.'
'A friend of Sybert's!' Marcia echoed the words before she consideredtheir form.
Sybert caught the expression and smiled slightly.
'Not a very dear friend, Miss Marcia. I first made his acquaintance, Ibelieve, on the day that you discovered Marcellus.'
'How did that happen?' Mrs. Copley asked.
'I heard him talking in a cafe.'
'It's a pity you didn't hand him over,' said Melville. 'You would havesaved the police considerable trouble. It seems they have been watchinghim for some time.'
'I wasn't handing people over just then,' Sybert returned dryly.'However, I don't see that the polic
e need complain. It strikes me thathe has handed himself over in about as effectual a way as he possiblycould; he won't go about any more sticking stilettos into kings. TheItalians are an excitable lot when they once get aroused; they talkmore than is wise--but when it comes to doing they usually back down.It seems, however, that this fellow had the courage of his convictions.After all, it was, in a way, rather fine of him, you know.'
'A pretty poor way,' Melville frowned.
'Oh, certainly,' Sybert acquiesced carelessly. 'Umberto's a gentleman.I don't care to see him knifed.'
'What I can't understand,' reiterated Melville, 'is the fellow's pointof view. No matter how much he may object to kings, he must know thathe can never rid the country of them through assassination; as soon asone king is out of the way, another stands in line to take his place.No possible good could come to the man through Humbert's death, and hemust have known that he had not one chance in a hundred of escapinghimself--I confess his motive is beyond me. The only thing thatexplains it to my mind is that the fellow's crazy, but the police seemto think he's entirely sane.'
Sybert leaned back in his chair and studied the flowers in the centreof the table with a speculative frown.
'No,' he said slowly, 'the man was not crazy. I understand his motive,though I don't know that I can make it clear. It was probably in partmistaken patriotism--but not entirely that. I heard him state it veryclearly, and it struck me at the time that it was doubtless, at bottom,the motive for most assassinations. His words, as I remember them, weresomething like this: "Who is the King? He is only a man. Why is he sodifferent from me? Am I not a man, too? I am, and before I die the Kingshall know it."'
Sybert raised his eyes and glanced about the table. Copley nodded andMelville frowned thoughtfully. The two elder ladies were listening withpolite attention, and Marcia was leaning forward with her eyes on hisface. Sybert immediately dropped his own eyes to the flowers again.
'There you have the matter in a nutshell. Why did he wish toassassinate the King? As an expression of his own identity. Through aperfectly natural egotistical impulse for self-assertion. The man hadbeen oppressed and trampled on all his life. He was conscious of powersthat were undeveloped, of force that he could not use. He was ragingblindly against the weight that was crushing him down. The weight wassociety, but its outward symbol was the King. The King had only onelife to lose, and this despised, obscure Neapolitan peasant, the verylowest of the King's subjects, had it in his power to take that lifeaway. It was the man's one chance of utterance--his one chance ofbecoming an individual, of leaving his mark on the age. And, in actingas he did, he acted not for himself alone, but for the people; for theinarticulate thousands who are struggling for some mode of expression,but are bound by cowardice and ignorance and inertia.'
Sybert paused and raised his eyes to Melville's with a sort ofchallenge.
'If that man had been able to obtain congenial work--work in which hecould take an interest, could express his own identity; if he couldhave become a little prosperous, so that he need not fear for hisfamily's support; why, then--the King's life would not have been indanger to-day. And as long as there is any man left in this kingdom ofItaly,' he added, 'who, in spite of honest endeavour, cannot earnenough to support his family, just so long is the King's life indanger.'
'And there are thousands of such men,' put in Copley.
Melville uttered a short laugh. 'By heavens, it's true!' he said. 'Theposition of American consul may not carry much glory, but I don't knowthat I care to trade it with Umberto for his kingdom.'
'Do you suppose the King was scared?' inquired Marcia. 'I wonder whatit feels like to wake up every morning and think that maybe beforenight you'll be assassinated.'
'He didn't appear to be scared,' said her uncle. 'He shrugged hisshoulders when they caught the man, and remarked that this was one ofthe perquisites of his trade.'
'Really?' she asked. 'Good for Umberto!'
'Oh, he's no coward,' said Sybert. 'He knows the price of crowns thesedays.'
'It's terrible!' Mrs. Melville breathed. 'I am thankful they caught theassassin at least. Society ought to sleep better to-night for havinghim removed.'
'Ah,' said Sybert, 'Society can't be protected that way. The point isthat he leaves others behind to do his work.'
'The man was from Naples, you say?' Mrs. Copley asked suddenly.
Her husband read her thoughts and smiled reassuringly. 'So far as Ihave heard, my dear, there was no crucifix tattooed upon his breast.'
Marcia raised her head quickly. 'Uncle Howard,' she asked, 'is that themark of a society or of just that special man?'
'I can't say, I'm sure, Marcia,' he returned with a laugh. 'I suspectthat it's an original piece of blasphemy on his part, though it maybelong to a cult.'
'When is his time up?' she persisted. 'To get out of prison, I mean.'
'I don't know; I really haven't figured it up. There are enough thingsto worry about without troubling over him.'
In her excitement over the King's attempted assassination she hadalmost forgotten the man of the grotto, but her uncle's careless laughbrought back her terror. The man might at that very moment be watchingthem from the ilex grove. She cast a quick glance over her shouldertoward the open glass doors which led to the balcony. It was moonlightagain. In contrast to the soft radiance of the marble-paved terrace,the ilex shadows were black with the sinister blackness of a pall. Shelooked down at her plate with a little shiver, and she sat through therest of the meal in an agony of impatience to get up and move about.
Once she roused herself to listen to the conversation. They weretalking of the soldiers; a large detachment of carabinieri had beenstationed at Palestrina, and the mountain roads were being patrolled.The carriage that night had passed two men on horseback stationed atthe turning where the road to Castel Vivalanti branches off from theVia Praenestina. Mrs. Copley said something about its giving them afeeling of security at the villa to have so many soldiers near, andMelville replied that whatever the crimes of the Italian government, itat least looked after the safety of its guests, Marcia listened with asigh of relief, and she rose from the table with an almost easy mind.They all adjourned to the salon for coffee, and as soon as she couldspeak to her uncle without attracting attention she touched him on thearm.
'Come out on the loggia just a moment, Uncle Howard; I want to tell yousomething.'
He followed her in some surprise. She went down the steps and paused onthe terrace, well out of ear-shot of the salon windows.
'Uncle Howard, I saw the tattooed man to-day.'
Mr. Copley paused with a match in one hand and a cigar in the other.'Whereabouts?' he asked.
'Asleep in the ruined grotto.'
'Are you sure?'
'There was a crucifix tattooed upside down on his breast.'
'So!'
He examined the pavement in silence a moment, then he raised his headwith an excited little laugh such as a hunter might give when hot onthe scent.
'Well! I thought I had done for him, but it appears not.' He strodeover to the salon windows. 'Sybert--ah, Sybert,' he called in a lowtone, 'just step out here a moment.'
Sybert joined them with a questioning look. Copley very deliberatelyscratched his match on the balustrade and lighted his cigar. 'Tell yourstory, Marcia,' he said between puffs.
She felt a load of anxiety roll from her shoulders; if he could takethe information as casually as this, it could not be very serious. Sherepeated the account of what she had seen, and the two men exchanged asilent glance. Copley gave another short laugh.
'It appears that his Majesty and I are in the same boat.'
'I warned you that if you let that wheat be sold in your name you couldexpect the honour,' Sybert growled.
'What do you mean?' Marcia asked quickly.
'Just at present, Miss Marcia, I'm afraid that neither your uncle normyself is as popular as our virtues demand.'
'Oh, there's no danger,' said Copley. 'They wouldn't dare b
reak intothe house, and of course I sha'n't be fool enough to walk thecountry-side unarmed. The first thing in the morning, I shall send intoPalestrina for some carabinieri to patrol the place. And on Monday thefamily can move into Rome instead of waiting till Wednesday. There'snothing to be afraid of,' he added, with a reassuring glance at Marcia.'Forewarned is forearmed--we'll see that the house is locked to-night.'
'Can you trust the servants?' Sybert asked.
Copley looked up quickly as a thought struck him.
'By Jove! I don't know that I can. Come to think of it, I shouldn'ttrust that Pietro as far as I could see him. He's been acting mightyqueer lately.'
Marcia's eyes suddenly widened in terror, and she recalled oneafternoon when she had caught Pietro in the village talking toGervasio's stepfather, as well as a dozen other little things that shehad not thought of at the time, but which now seemed to have a secretmeaning.
Sybert saw her look of fear and he said lightly: 'There's not theslightest danger, Miss Marcia. We'll get the soldiers here in themorning; and for to-night, even if we can't put much trust in thebutler, there are at least three men in the house who are abovesuspicion and who are armed.' He touched his pocket with a laugh. 'Whenit comes to the point I am a very fair shot, and so is your uncle. Youwere wishing a little while ago that something exciting wouldhappen--if it gives you any pleasure, you can pretend that this is anadventure.'
'Oh, yes, Marcia,' her uncle rejoined. 'Don't let the thought of thetattooed man disturb your sleep. He's more spectacular than dangerous.'
The others had come out on to the loggia and were exclaiming at thebeauty of the night.
'Howard,' Mrs. Copley called, 'don't you want to come and make a fourthat whist?'
'In a moment,' he returned. 'We won't say anything to the others,' hesaid in a low tone to Marcia and Sybert.
'There's no use raising any unnecessary excitement.'
'Marcia, if you and Mr. Sybert would like to play, we can make itsix-handed euchre instead of whist.'
Sybert glanced down to see that her hand was trembling, and he decidedthat to make her sit through a game of cards would be too great a testof her nerves.
'Thank you, Mrs. Copley,' he called back; 'it's too fine a night topass indoors. Miss Marcia and I will stay out here.'
The proposal was a test of his own nerves, but he had schooled himselffor a good many years to hide his feelings; it was an ordeal he wasused to.
With final exclamations on the beauty of the night, the whist partyreturned to the salon. Sybert brought a wicker chair from the loggiafor Marcia, and seated himself on the parapet while he lighted a cigarwith a nonchalance she could not help but admire. Did she but know it,his nonchalance was only surface deep, though the cause for his inwardtumult had nothing to do with the man of the ruined grotto. They sat insilence for a time, looking down on the shimmering Campagna. The scenewas as beautiful as on that other night of the early spring, but now itwas full summer. It was so peaceful, so idyllic, so thoroughly theItaly of poetry and romance, that it seemed absurd to think of plotsand riots in connexion with that landscape. At least Marcia was notthinking of them now; she was willing to take her uncle at his word andleave the responsibility to him. The thing that was still burning inher mind was that unexplained moment by the fountain. It was the firsttime she had been alone with Sybert since. How would he act? Would hesimply ignore it, as if it had never happened? He would, of course; andthat would be far worse than if he apologized or congratulated her, forthen she would have a chance to explain. What did he think? she askedherself for the hundredth time as she covertly scanned his dark,impassive face. Did he think her engaged to Paul Dessart, or did hedivine the real reason why the young man had so suddenly sailed forAmerica? Even so, it would not put her in a much better light in hiseyes. He would think she had been playing with Paul and--her faceflushed at the thought--had tried to play with him.
Sybert was the one who broke the silence. 'I think,' he said slowly,'that I could spot your man with the crucifix this very moment.' Hepointed with his cigar toward the hill above them, where littlestone-walled Castel Vivalanti was outlined against the sky. 'If I amnot mistaken, he is in the back room of a _trattoria_ up there, incompany with our friend Tarquinio of the Bed-quilt, who,' he addedmeditatively, 'is a fool. Those carabinieri are not guarding the roadsfor nothing. A number of Neapolitans have come north lately who mightbetter have stayed at home--Camorrists for the most part--and thegovernment is after them. This fellow with the crucifix is withoutdoubt one of them, and in all probability he just happened into theruins this afternoon to rest, without having an idea who lived here. Atany rate, I strongly suspect that your uncle it not the hare he'shunting. Italy is too busy just at present to take time for privaterevenge--though,' he smiled, 'I have no wish to spoil your adventure.'
Marcia breathed a little sigh by way of answer, and another silencefell between them.
'On such a night as this,' he said dreamily, 'did you and I, MissMarcia, once take a drive together.'
'And we didn't speak a word!'
'I don't know that we did,' he laughed. 'At least I don't recall theconversation.'
From the valley below them there came the sound of a man's voicesinging a familiar serenade. Only the tune was audible, but the wordsthey knew:
'Open your casement, love. I come as a robber to steal your heart.'
Sybert, listening, watched her from under drooping lids. He wasstruggling with a sudden temptation which almost overmastered him. Hethought her engaged to another man, but--why not come as a robber andsteal her heart? In the past few weeks he had seen lifelong hopes cometo nothing; he was wounded and discouraged and in need of humansympathy, and he had fought his battles alone. During that time ofstruggle Marcia had come to occupy a large part of his consciousness.He had seen in her character undeveloped possibilities--a promise forthe future--and the desire had subtly taken hold of him to be the oneto watch and direct her growth. The new feeling was the more intense,in that it had taken the place of hopes and interests that were dying.And then that, too, had been snatched away. Since the night of herbirthday ball he had not doubted for a moment that she was engaged toPaul Dessart. It had never occurred to him that the scene he hadinterrupted was merely her sympathetic fashion of dismissing the youngman. A dozen little things had come back to him that before had had nosignificance, and he had accepted the fact without questioning. Itseemed of a piece with the rest of his fate that this should be addedjust when it was hardest for him to bear. It was the final touch ofNemesis that made her work rounded and complete.
And now, as he watched her, he was filled with a sudden fiercerebellion, an impulse to fight against the fate that was robbing him,to snatch her away from Paul Dessart. Every instinct of his natureurged him forward; only honour held him back. He turned away and withtroubled eyes studied the distance. She had chosen freely--whetherwisely or not, the future would prove. He knew that he could nothonourably stretch out so much as his little finger to call her back.
Presently he pulled himself together and began to talk fluently andeasily on purely impersonal themes--of the superiority of the Tyrolover the Swiss lakes as a summer resort, of the character of the peoplein Sicily, of books and art and European politics, and of a dozendifferent subjects that Marcia had never heard him mention before. Itwas the small talk of the diplomat, of the man who must always be readyto meet every one on his own ground. Marcia had known that Sybert couldtalk on other subjects than Italian politics when he chose, for she hadoverheard him at dinners and receptions, but he had never chosen whenwith her. In their early intercourse he had scarcely taken the troubleto talk to her in any but the most perfunctory way, and then suddenlytheir relations had no longer demanded formal conversation. They hadsomehow jumped over the preliminary period of getting acquainted andhad reached the stage where they could understand each other withouttalking. And here he was conversing with her as politely andimpersonally as if they had known each oth
er only half an hour. Shekept up her end of the conversation with monosyllables. She feltchilled and hurt; he might at least be frank. Whatever he thought ofher, there was no need for this elaborate dissimulation. She had noneed to ask herself to-night if he were watching her. His eyes neverfor a moment left the moonlit campagna.
After half an hour or so Mrs. Copley stepped to the window of the salonto ask Marcia if she did not wish a wrap. It was warm, of course, butthe evening dews were heavy. Marcia scoffed at the absurdity of a wrapon such an evening, but she rose obediently. They strolled into thehouse and paused at the door of the salon. The whist-players werestudying their cards again with anxious brows; it appeared to be ascientific game.
Marcia shook her head and laughed. 'On such a night as this to beplaying whist!'
Melville glanced up at her with a little smile. 'Ah, well, Miss Marcia,we're growing old--moonlight and romance were made for the young.'
Sybert smiled rather coldly as he turned away. It struck him that theremark was singularly malapropos.
Marcia went on up to her room, and throwing about her shoulders achiffon scarf, an absurd apology for a wrap, she paused a moment by theopen glass doors of the balcony and stood looking down upon the moonlitlandscape. She felt sore and bruised and hopeless. Sybert was beyondher; she did not understand him. He had evidently made up his mind, andnothing would move him; he would give her no chance to put herselfright. She suddenly threw back her head and stiffened her shoulders. Ifthat were the line he chose to take--very well! She would meet him onhis own ground. She turned back, and on her way downstairs paused asecond at Gerald's door. It was a family habit to look in on him at allhours of the night to make sure that he was sleeping and duly coveredup, though to-night it could scarcely be claimed that cover wasnecessary. She glanced in, and then, with a quickening of her breath,took a step farther to make sure. The bed was empty. She stood staringa moment, not knowing what to think, and the next she was hurrying downthe hall toward the servants' quarters. She knocked on Bianca's door,and finding no one within, called up Granton.
There was no cause for worry, Granton assured her. Master Gerald andthat little Italian brat were probably in the scullery, stealingraisins and chocolate.
'Oh,' said Marcia, with a sigh of relief; 'but where's Bianca? Sheought to sit by Gerald till he goes to sleep.
Bianca!--Granton sniffed disdainfully--no one could make head or tailof Bianca. Her opinion was that the girl was half crazy. She had beenin there that night crying, and telling her how much she liked thesignora and the signorina, and how she hated to leave them.
'But she isn't going to leave,' said Marcia. 'We've decided to take herwith us.'
Granton responded with a disdainful English shrug and the reiteratedopinion that the girl was crazy. Marcia did not stop to argue thepoint, but set out for the kitchen by way of the 'middle staircase,'creeping along quietly, determined to catch the marauders unawares. Hercaution was superfluous. The rear of the house was entirely deserted.No sign of a boy, no sign of a servant anywhere about. The doors wereopen and the rooms were vacant. She hurried upstairs again in growingmystification, and turned toward Gervasio's room. The little fellow wasin bed and sound asleep. What did it mean? she asked herself. Whatcould have become of Gerald, and where had all the servants gone?
Suddenly a horrible suspicion flashed over her. Gervasio'sstepfather--could he have stolen Gerald by way of revenge? That was whyBianca was crying! It was a plot. She had overheard, and they hadthreatened to kill her if she told. Perhaps they would hold him for aransom. Perhaps--as the sound of her uncle's careless laugh floated upfrom below she caught her breath in a convulsive sob and stretched outher hand against the wall to steady herself.