CHAPTER XXVI
MARCIA woke at dawn with the sun in her eyes. She started up dazedly atfinding herself dressed in her white evening gown, lying on the couchinstead of in bed. Then in a moment the events of yesterday flashedback. The floor was covered with broken glass, and on the wall oppositea dark spot among the rose-garlands showed where Pietro's misaimedbullet had lodged. On the terrace balustrade below her window twosoldiers were sitting, busily throwing dice. They lent an absurd air ofunreality to the scene. She stepped to the open doors of the balconyand drew a deep, delighted breath of the fresh morning air. Rome in thewest was still sleeping, but every separate crag of the Sabines wasglowing a soft pink, and the newly risen sun was hanging like a halobehind the old monastery. It was a day filled with promise.
The next moment she had brought her thoughts back from the distanthorizon to the contemplation of homelier matters nearer at hand.Mingled with the early fragrance of roses and dew was the subtlypenetrating odour of boiling coffee. Marcia sniffed and considered.Some one was making coffee for the soldiers, who were to be relieved atthe 'Ave Maria.' She reviewed the possible cooks. Not Granton. Thesoldiers were Italians, and, for all Granton cared, they could perishfrom hunger on their way back to Palestrina. Not her aunt. In allprobability, she did not know how to make coffee. Not her uncle. He was_hors de concours_ with his wounded arm. The Melvilles! They would nothave known where to look for the kitchen. She interrupted herspeculations to exchange last night's evening gown for a fresh bluemuslin, and her hasty glance at the mirror as she stole out on tiptoetold her that the slight pallor which comes from three hours' sleep wasnot unbecoming. She crept downstairs through the dim hall and paused asecond by the open door of the loggia; her eyes involuntarily soughtthe spot outside the salon window. The rug was back in its place again,and everything was in its usual order. She felt thankful to some one;it was easier so to throw the matter from her mind.
She approached the kitchen softly and paused on the threshold with areconnoitring glance. The big stone-floored room, with its smokyrafters overhead, was dark always, but especially so at the sunrisehour; its deep-embrasured windows looked to the west. In the farthest,darkest corner, before the big, brick-walled stove, some one wasstanding with his back turned toward her, and her heart quickened itsbeating perceptibly. She stood very still for several minutes, watchinghim; she would hypnotise him to turn around; but before she had fairlycommenced with the business, he had picked up the poker by the wrongend and dropped it again. The observation which he made in Italian wasquite untranslatable. Marcia tittered and he wheeled about.
'That's not fair,' he objected. 'I shouldn't have said anything so badif I had known you were listening.'
'Do you know what we do with Gerald when he swears in Italian?'
He shook his head.
'We wash his mouth with soap.'
'I hope it doesn't happen often,' he shuddered.
'He speaks very fluent Italian--nearly as fluent as yours.'
'Suppose we change the subject.'
'Very well,' she agreed, advancing to the opposite side of the longcentral table. 'What shall we talk about?'
'We haven't said good morning.'
She dropped him a smiling curtsy. 'Good morning, Mr. Sybert.'
'Mr. Sybert! You haven't changed your mind overnight, have you?'
Her eyes were more reassuring than her speech. 'N-no.'
'No what?'
'_Sir!_' She laughed.
He came around to her side of the table, and faced her with his handsin his jacket pockets.
'You've never in your life pronounced my name. I don't believe you knowit!'
She whispered.
'Say it louder.'
'It sounds too familiar,' she objected, backing against the wall withimpudently laughing eyes. 'You're so--so sort of old--like UncleHoward.'
'Oh, I know you're young, but you needn't put on such airs about it.You don't own all the youth in the world.'
'Thirty-five!' she murmured, with a wondering shake of her head.
'Ah--thirty-five. A very nice age. Just the right age, in fact, to makeyou mind me. Oh, you needn't laugh; I'm going to do it fast enough. Andright here we'll begin.' He folded his arms with a very fierce frown,but with a smile on his lips, quizzical, humorous, comprehending,kindly--the finished result of so many smiles that had gone before.'The business in hand, my dear young woman, is to find out whether ornot you happen to know the name of the man you've promised to marry.Come, let me hear it; say it out loud.'
Marcia looked back tantalizingly a moment, and then, after an inquiringglance about the room as if she were searching to recall it, shedropped her lids and pronounced it with her eyes on the floor.
'Laurence.'
He unfolded his arms.
'The coffee's boiling over!' Marcia exclaimed.
'Kiss me good morning.'
'The coffee's boiling over.'
'I don't care if it is.'
The coffee boiled over with an angry spurt that deluged the stove withhissing steam. Marcia was patently too anxious for its safety to giveher attention to anything else. Sybert stalked over and viciouslyjerked it back, and she picked up the plate of rolls and ran for thedoor. He caught up with her in the hall.
'I know why you discharged Marietta,' he threw out.
'Why?'
'If I were a French cook with a moustache and a goatee and a fetchingwhite cap, and you were a black-eyed little Italian nursemaid with goldear-rings in your ears, I should very frequently let things burn.'
'Oh,' Marcia laughed. 'And I should probably let the little boy I oughtto be looking after fall over the balustrade and break his front toothwhile I was sitting on the door-step smiling at you.'
'And so we should be torn apart--_there_ was a tragedy!' he musedcompassionately. 'I hadn't realized it before. It proves that you mustsuffer yourself before you can appreciate the sufferings of others.'
'French cooks with fetching caps have elastic hearts.'
'Ah,' said he, 'and so have black-eyed little Italian nursemaids--I'mglad you're not an Italian nursemaid, Marcia.'
'I'm glad you're not a French cook--Laurence.' And then she laughed.'Will you tell me something?'
'Anything you wish.'
'Were you ever in love with the Contessa Torrenieri?'
'I used to fancy I was something of the sort nine or ten years ago.But, thank heaven, she was looking for a count.'
'I'm glad she found him!' Marcia breathed.
As they crossed the terrace to the little table at the corner of thegrove where the afternoon before--it seemed a century--Mrs. Copley andMarcia had taken tea, one of the soldiers came hastily forward. 'Permitme, signorina,' he said with a bow, taking the plate from her hands.Marcia relinquished it with a '_Grazia tanto_' and a friendly smile.They were so polite, so good-natured, these Italians! Cups werebrought, the table was spread, and Marcia poured the coffee with asmuch ceremony as if she were presiding at an afternoon reception. Thetwo, at the soldiers' invitation, stayed and shared the meal with them.Marcia never forgot that sunrise breakfast-party on the terrace--it wasVilla Vivalanti's last social function.
She watched Sybert's intercourse with these men with something likeamazement, feeling that she had still to know him, that, his characterwas in the end the mystery it had seemed. With his hand on theirshoulders, he was chatting to the group as if he had known them all hislife, cordial, friendly, intimate, with an air of good-comradeship, ofperfect comprehension, that she had never seen him employ toward evenhis staunchest friends of the Embassy. One of the soldiers, noticingthe direction of her glance, informed her that the signore had been upall night, alternately talking to them and pacing the walks of the ilexgrove, and he added that the signore was a _galantuomo_--a gentlemanand a good fellow.
'What did he talk about?' she asked.
'Many, many things,' said the man. 'Italia, and the people's _miseria_,and the priests, and the wine of Sicily, and
the King and the Camorra,and (he looked a trifle conscious) our sweethearts. He is not likeother _forestieri_, the signore; he understands. He is a good fellow.'
And then the young soldier--he was most confiding--told her about hisown sweetheart. Her name was Lucia and she lived in Lucca. She waswaiting for him to finish his service, and then they would be marriedand keep a carved-wood shop in Florence. That was his trade--carvingwood to sell to the _forestieri_. It was a beautiful trade; he hadlearned it in Switzerland, and he had learned it well. The signorinashould judge if she ever came to Florence. How much longer did he haveto serve? Four months, and then!--He rolled his eyes in the directionwhere Lucca might be supposed to lie.
Marcia smiled sympathetically. Lucia was a beautiful name, she said.
Was it not a beautiful name? he returned in an ecstasy. But thesignorina should see Lucia herself! Words failed him at this point.'Santa Lucia,' he murmured softly, and he hummed the tune under hisbreath.
Marcia unclasped a chain of gold beads from her neck and slipped itinto his hand. 'When you go back to Lucca give this to Lucia fromme--_con amore_.'
'Here, here! what is this?' said Sybert in English, coming up behind.'Do I find you giving love-tokens to a strange young man?'
Marcia flushed guiltily at the detection. 'It's for a friend of mine inLucca,' she said, nodding over her shoulder to the young soldier asthey turned back toward the loggia.
Sybert laughed softly.
'What are you laughing at?' she asked.
'I sent a wedding present to Lucia myself.'
They strolled to the end of the loggia and stood by the balustrade,looking off into the hills. The fresh, dewy scents of early morningwere in the air, and all the world seemed beautiful and young. Marciathought of Sybert pacing up and down the dark ilex walks while thevilla slept, and of the dreadful thing he had spoken last night in thatwild moment of despair. She searched his face questioningly. There wereshadows under his eyes, the marks of last night's vigil; but in hiseyes a steady calm. He caught the look and read her thoughts.
'That's all over, Marcia,' he said quietly. 'I've fought it out. Youmustn't think of it again. I don't very often lose control of myself,but I did last night. Once in thirty-five years,' he smiled, 'a manought to be forgiven for being a little melodramatic.'
'Will you--really be happy?' she asked.
'Marcia, America is for me, as for so many poor Italians, the promisedland. I'm going home to you.'
She shook her head sadly. 'That--won't be enough.'
'It's all I have, and it's all I want. There's not room in my heart foranything but you, Marcia.'
'Don't say that,' she cried. 'That's why I love you--because there'sroom in your heart for so many other people. America is your owncountry. Let it take the place of Italy.'
He studied the Campagna, silent, a moment, while a shadow crossed hisface. He shook his head slowly and looked back with melancholy eyes.
'I don't know, Marcia. That may come later--but--not just now. Youcan't understand what Italy means to me. I was born here; I learned tospeak the language before I did English; all that other men feel fortheir country, for their homes, I feel for Italy. And these poor,hard-working, patient people--I've done them harm instead of good. Oh,I see the truth; Italy must do for herself. The foreigners can't help,and I'm a foreigner like the rest.'
'Ah, Laurence,' she pleaded, 'don't you see that you're an American,and that nothing, nothing can stamp it out? It's all a mistake; yourplace isn't here--it's at home. Every man can surely do his best workin his own country, and America needs good men. Do you remember whatyou said at Uncle Howard's dinner that last night we were in Rome? Thatto be a loyal citizen of the world was the best a man could do? But youcan't be a loyal citizen of the world unless you are first of all aloyal citizen of your own country. America may be crude and it may havea good many faults, but it's our country just the same, and we ought tolove it better than any other. You do love it, don't you? Tell me youdo. Tell me you're glad that you're an American.'
She put her hands on his shoulders and looked up with glowing eyes andcheeks that burned.
As he watched her a picture flashed over him of what it meant. Hethought of the vast country, with its richness, its possibilities, itscontrasts. He thought of its vitality and force; its energy andnervousness and daring. And for a brief instant he felt himself a partof it. A sudden wave swept over him of that strange, irrational,romantic love of fatherland which is fundamental underneath the polish,underneath the wickedness, in every man in every land. For a second hethrilled with it too; and then, as his eye wandered to the great plainbeneath them, the old love--his first love--rushed back. He bent overand kissed her with sudden tears in his eyes.
'Some day, Marcia, I will tell you that I'm proud to be an American.Don't ask me just yet.'
And as they stood there, hand in hand, there was borne to them from themountain-top above the sweet, prophetic sound of the bells of CastelVivalanti ringing the Angelus; while below them on the horizon, like agreat, far-reaching sea, stretched the Campagna, haunting, mysterious,insatiable--the Roman Campagna, that has demanded as sacrifice thelives of so many miserable peasants, that has lured from distant homesso many strangers and held them prisoners to its spell--the beautiful,deadly, desolate land that has inspired more passionate love than anyland on earth.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E. 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
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Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained.
Page 12, "Father" changed to "Farther" (Farther away than)
Page 41, "Vhandeliers" changed to "chandeliers" (chandeliers of thelatter)
Page 49, "isesta" changed to "siesta" (siesta at noon)
Page 105, "peeple" changed to "people" (stirring up the people)
Page 119,
'"Jammo ncappa, jammo, ja . . . Funiclui--funicula."'
changed to
'"Jammo 'ncoppa, jammo ja . . . Funiculi--funicula."'
Page 150, "Heathcliffe" changed to "Heathcliff" (he's exactly likeHeathcliff)
Page 248, "other's" changed to "other" (other people's troubles)
Page 254, "mind" changed to "mind" (of mine in Lucca)
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