<h2 class='c009'>CHAPTER XXIII</h2></div>
<p class='c006' ><span class='sc'>Marcia</span> passed the afternoon in a state of nervous impatience
for her uncle’s return. She said nothing to Mrs. Copley of
the man she had found asleep in the grotto, and the effort to
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_214' id='Page_214'>214</SPAN></span>
preserve an outward serenity added no little to her inner
trepidation. In vain she tried to reason 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 the
same Neapolitan who had warned her uncle; that he was
safely in prison; and that the tattooed crucifix was only the
general mark of a secret society. The assurance did not
carry conviction. Her first startled impression had been
too deep to be thrown off lightly, and coming just then, in
the midst of the rioting and lawlessness, the incident carried
additional force. She had lately heard many stories of
lonely villas being broken into, of travellers on the Campagna
being waylaid and robbed, of the vindictiveness of the
Camorra, which her uncle had opposed. The stories were
not reassuring; and though she resolutely put them out of
her mind, she found herself thinking of them again and
again. Italy’s elaborate police system, she knew, was not
merely for show.</p>
<p class='c007' >Mr. Copley and the Melvilles were due at five, but as they
had not appeared by half-past, Mrs. Copley decided that
they had missed their train, and she and Marcia sat down to
tea—or, more accurately, to iced lemonade—without
waiting. The table was set under the shade of the ilex
trees where the grove met the upper end of the terrace, and
where any slight breeze that chanced to be stirring would
find them out. Gerald and Gervasio swallowed their
allotted glassful and two <i>brioches</i> with dispatch, and withdrew
to the cool shadows of the ilex grove to play at horse
with poor, patient Bianca and the streaming ribbons of her
cap. Mrs. Copley and Marcia took the repast in more
leisurely fashion, with snatches of very intermittent conversation.
Marcia’s eyes wandered in the pauses to the
poppy-sprinkled wheat field and the cypresses beyond.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I believe they are coming, after all!’ Mrs. Copley finally
exclaimed, as she shaded her eyes with her hands and looked
down across the open stretch of vineyards to where the
Roman road, a yellow ribbon of dust, divided the fields.
‘Yes, that is the carriage!’</p>
<p class='c007' >Marcia looked at the moving speck and shook her head.
‘Your eyes are better than mine, Aunt Katherine, if you
can recognize Uncle Howard at this distance.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘The carriage is turning up our road. I am sure it is
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_215' id='Page_215'>215</SPAN></span>
they. Poor things! I am afraid they will be nearly dead
after the drive in this heat. Rome must have been unbearable
to-day.’ And she hastily dispatched Pietro to prepare
more iced drinks.</p>
<p class='c007' >Ten minutes later, however, the carriage had resolved
itself into a jangling Campagna wine-cart, and the two
resigned themselves to waiting again. By half-past seven
Marcia was growing frankly nervous. Could anything have
happened to her uncle? Should she have told her aunt and
sent some one to meet him with a warning message?
Surely no one would dare to stop the carriage on the open
road in broad daylight. A hundred wild imaginings were
chasing through her brain, when finally, close upon eight,
the rumble of wheels sounded on the avenue.</p>
<p class='c007' >Both Mrs. Copley and Marcia uttered an exclamation of
relief. Mrs. Copley had been worried on the score of the
dinner, and Marcia for any number of reasons which disappeared
with the knowledge that her uncle was safe. They
hurried out to the loggia to meet the new-comers, and as the
carriage drew up, not only did the Melvilles and Mr. Copley
descend, but Laurence Sybert as well. At sight of him
Marcia hung back, asking herself, with a quickly beating
heart, why he had come.</p>
<p class='c007' >Mrs. Copley, with the first glance at their faces, interrupted
her own graceful words of welcome to cry: ‘Has
anything happened? Why are you so late?’</p>
<p class='c007' >They were visibly excited, and did not wait for greetings
before pouring out their news—an attempted assassination
of King Humbert on the Pincian hill that afternoon—Rome
under martial law—a plot discovered to assassinate the
premier and other leaders in control.</p>
<p class='c007' >The two asked questions which no one answered, and all
talked at once—all but Sybert. Marcia noticed that he was
unusually silent, and it struck her that his face had a
haggard look. He did not so much as glance in her direction,
except for a bare nod of greeting on his arrival.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Well, well,’ Copley broke into the general babel, ‘it’s a
terrible business. You should see the excitement in Rome!
The city is simply demoralized; but we’ll give you the
particulars later. Let us get into something cool first—we’re
all nearly dead. Has it been hot out here? Rome
has been a foretaste of the inferno.’</p>
<p class='c007' >
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_216' id='Page_216'>216</SPAN></span>
‘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 for four 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 the thermometer
where it pleases. Your husband and I had to drag him off
by main force.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘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.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I’ve been sleeping for the last twenty-four hours, Mrs.
Copley, and I really don’t need any more sleep at present,’
he protested laughingly, but with a slight air of embarrassment.
It was a peculiar trait of Sybert’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 so many
conversations. This reticence when speaking of himself or
his own feelings, struck the beholder as somewhat puzzling.
It had always puzzled Marcia, and had been one reason why
she had been so persistent in her desire to find out what he
was really like.</p>
<p class='c007' >The party shortly assembled for dinner, the women in the
coolest of light summer gowns, the men in white linen
instead of evening dress. They went into the dining-room
without affording Marcia a chance to catch 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; while
Pietro presided with a sinister obsequiousness which added
darkly to the effect. In vain Mrs. Copley tried to turn the
conversation into pleasanter channels. The men were too
stirred up to talk of anything else, and the threatened
tragedy of the day was rehearsed in all its bearings.</p>
<p class='c007' >The assassin had dashed out from the crowd that lined the
driveway and sprung to the side of the royal carriage before
any of the bystanders had realized what was happening.
The white-haired aide-de-camp sitting at 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. Had it
not been for the aide-de-camp’s quick action, the man
would have plunged his stiletto into the King’s heart.</p>
<p class='c007' >
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_217' id='Page_217'>217</SPAN></span>
Mrs. Copley and Mrs. Melville shuddered, and Marcia
leaned forward listening with wide eyes.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Right on the Pincio, mind you.’ Melville in his excitement
thumped the table until the glasses rang. ‘Not a
chance of the fellow’s getting off. Scarcely a chance of his
accomplishing his purpose. He knew he would be taken.
Shouted, “<i>Viva libertà!</i>” as the soldiers grabbed him—I
swear it beats me what these fellows are after. “<i>Viva
libertà!</i>” That’s what they cried when they put the House
of Savoy on the throne, and now they’re trying to pull it off
again with the same cry.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I fear the seeds of revolution are sown pretty thick in
Italy,’ said Copley.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Where aren’t there the seeds of revolution to-day?’
Melville groaned. ‘Central Africa is only waiting a government
in order to overturn it.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘By the way,’ interpolated Copley, ‘the assassin is a
friend of Sybert’s.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘A friend of Sybert’s!’ Marcia echoed the words before
she considered their form.</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert caught the expression and smiled slightly.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Not a very dear friend, Miss Marcia. I first made his
acquaintance, I believe, on the day that you discovered
Marcellus.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘How did that happen?’ Mrs. Copley asked.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I heard him talking in a café.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘It’s a pity you didn’t hand him over,’ said Melville.
‘You would have saved the police considerable trouble.
It seems they have been watching him for some time.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I wasn’t handing people over just then,’ Sybert returned
dryly. ‘However, I don’t see that the police need complain.
It strikes me that he has handed himself over in
about as effectual a way as he possibly could; he won’t go
about any more sticking stilettos into kings. The Italians
are an excitable lot when they once get aroused; they talk
more 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.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘A pretty poor way,’ Melville frowned.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Oh, certainly,’ Sybert acquiesced carelessly. ‘Umberto’s
a gentleman. I don’t care to see him knifed.’</p>
<p class='c007' >
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_218' id='Page_218'>218</SPAN></span>
‘What I can’t understand,’ reiterated Melville, ‘is the
fellow’s point of view. No matter how much he may object
to kings, he must know that he can never rid the country of
them through assassination; as soon as one 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 he must have known that he had not one chance
in a hundred of escaping himself—I confess his motive is
beyond me. The only thing that explains it to my mind is
that the fellow’s crazy, but the police seem to think he’s
entirely sane.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert leaned back in his chair and studied the flowers in
the centre of the table with a speculative frown.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘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 part mistaken patriotism—but
not entirely that. I heard him state it very clearly, and it
struck me at the time that it was doubtless, at bottom, the
motive for most assassinations. His words, as I remember
them, were something like this: “Who is the King? He is
only a man. Why is he so different from me? Am I not a
man, too? I am, and before I die the King shall know it.”’</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert raised his eyes and glanced about the table.
Copley nodded and Melville frowned thoughtfully. The
two elder ladies were listening with polite attention, and
Marcia was leaning forward with her eyes on his face.
Sybert immediately dropped his own eyes to the flowers
again.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘There you have the matter in a nutshell. Why did he
wish to assassinate the King? As an expression of his own
identity. Through a perfectly natural egotistical impulse
for self-assertion. The man had been oppressed and
trampled on all his life. He was conscious of powers that
were undeveloped, of force that he could not use. He was
raging blindly against the weight that was crushing him
down. The weight was society, but its outward symbol was
the King. The King had only one life to lose, and this
despised, obscure Neapolitan peasant, the very lowest of the
King’s subjects, had it in his power to take that life away.
It was the man’s one chance of utterance—his one chance of
becoming an individual, of leaving his mark on the age.
And, in acting as he did, he acted not for himself alone, but
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_219' id='Page_219'>219</SPAN></span>
for the people; for the inarticulate thousands who are
struggling for some mode of expression, but are bound by
cowardice and ignorance and inertia.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert paused and raised his eyes to Melville’s with a sort
of challenge.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘If that man had been able to obtain congenial work—work
in which he could take an interest, could express his
own identity; if he could have become a little prosperous,
so that he need not fear for his family’s support; why, then—the
King’s life would not have been in danger to-day.
And as long as there is any man left in this kingdom of
Italy,’ he added, ‘who, in spite of honest endeavour, cannot
earn enough to support his family, just so long is the King’s
life in danger.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘And there are thousands of such men,’ put in Copley.</p>
<p class='c007' >Melville uttered a short laugh. ‘By heavens, it’s true!’
he said. ‘The position of American consul may not carry
much glory, but I don’t know that I care to trade it with
Umberto for his kingdom.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Do you suppose the King was scared?’ inquired
Marcia. ‘I wonder what it feels like to wake up every
morning and think that maybe before night you’ll be
assassinated.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘He didn’t appear to be scared,’ said her uncle. ‘He
shrugged his shoulders when they caught the man, and
remarked that this was one of the perquisites of his trade.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Good for Umberto!’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Oh, he’s no coward,’ said Sybert. ‘He knows the price
of crowns these days.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘It’s terrible!’ Mrs. Melville breathed. ‘I am thankful
they caught the assassin at least. Society ought to sleep
better to-night for having him removed.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Ah,’ said Sybert, ‘Society can’t be protected that way.
The point is that he leaves others behind to do his work.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘The man was from Naples, you say?’ Mrs. Copley
asked suddenly.</p>
<p class='c007' >Her husband read her thoughts and smiled reassuringly.
‘So far as I have heard, my dear, there was no crucifix
tattooed upon his breast.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Marcia raised her head quickly. ‘Uncle Howard,’ she
asked, ‘is that the mark of a society or of just that special
man?’</p>
<p class='c007' >
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_220' id='Page_220'>220</SPAN></span>
‘I can’t say, I’m sure, Marcia,’ he returned with a laugh.
‘I suspect that it’s an original piece of blasphemy on his
part, though it may belong to a cult.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘When is his time up?’ she persisted. ‘To get out of
prison, I mean.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I don’t know; I really haven’t figured it up. There are
enough things to worry about without troubling over him.’</p>
<p class='c007' >In her excitement over the King’s attempted assassination
she had almost forgotten the man of the grotto, but her
uncle’s careless laugh brought back her terror. The man
might at that very moment be watching them from the ilex
grove. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward
the open glass doors which led to the balcony. It was
moonlight again. In contrast to the soft radiance of the
marble-paved terrace, the ilex shadows were black with the
sinister blackness of a pall. She looked down at her plate
with a little shiver, and she sat through the rest of the meal
in an agony of impatience to get up and move about.</p>
<p class='c007' >Once she roused herself to listen to the conversation.
They were talking of the soldiers; a large detachment of
carabinieri had been stationed at Palestrina, and the
mountain roads were being patrolled. The carriage that
night had passed two men on horseback stationed at the
turning where the road to Castel Vivalanti branches off
from the Via Prænestina. Mrs. Copley said something
about its giving them a feeling of security at the villa to
have so many soldiers near, and Melville replied that whatever
the crimes of the Italian government, it at least looked
after the safety of its guests, Marcia listened with a sigh 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
could speak to her uncle without attracting attention she
touched him on the arm.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Come out on the loggia just a moment, Uncle Howard;
I want to tell you something.’</p>
<p class='c007' >He followed her in some surprise. She went down the
steps and paused on the terrace, well out of ear-shot of the
salon windows.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Uncle Howard, I saw the tattooed man to-day.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Mr. Copley paused with a match in one hand and a cigar
in the other. ‘Whereabouts?’ he asked.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Asleep in the ruined grotto.’</p>
<p class='c007' >
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_221' id='Page_221'>221</SPAN></span>
‘Are you sure?’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘There was a crucifix tattooed upside down on his breast.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘So!’</p>
<p class='c007' >He examined the pavement in silence a moment, then he
raised his head with an excited little laugh such as a hunter
might give when hot on the scent.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Well! I thought I had done for him, but it appears
not.’ He strode over to the salon windows. ‘Sybert—ah,
Sybert,’ he called in a low tone, ‘just step out here a
moment.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert joined them with a questioning look. Copley very
deliberately scratched his match on the balustrade and
lighted his cigar. ‘Tell your story, Marcia,’ he said between
puffs.</p>
<p class='c007' >She felt a load of anxiety roll from her shoulders; if he
could take the information as casually as this, it could not be
very serious. She repeated the account of what she had
seen, and the two men exchanged a silent glance. Copley
gave another short laugh.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘It appears that his Majesty and I are in the same boat.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I warned you that if you let that wheat be sold in your
name you could expect the honour,’ Sybert growled.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘What do you mean?’ Marcia asked quickly.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Just at present, Miss Marcia, I’m afraid that neither
your uncle nor myself is as popular as our virtues demand.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Oh, there’s no danger,’ said Copley. ‘They wouldn’t
dare break into the house, and of course I sha’n’t be fool
enough to walk the country-side unarmed. The first thing
in the morning, I shall send into Palestrina for some
carabinieri to patrol the place. And on Monday the family
can move into Rome instead of waiting till Wednesday.
There’s nothing 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.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Can you trust the servants?’ Sybert asked.</p>
<p class='c007' >Copley looked up quickly as a thought struck him.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘By Jove! I don’t know that I can. Come to think
of it, I shouldn’t trust that Pietro as far as I could see him.
He’s been acting mighty queer lately.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Marcia’s eyes suddenly widened in terror, and she recalled
one afternoon when she had caught Pietro in the village
talking to Gervasio’s stepfather, as well as a dozen other
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_222' id='Page_222'>222</SPAN></span>
little things that she had not thought of at the time, but
which now seemed to have a secret meaning.</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert saw her look of fear and he said lightly: ‘There’s
not the slightest danger, Miss Marcia. We’ll get the
soldiers here in the morning; and for to-night, even if we
can’t put much trust in the butler, there are at least three
men in the house who are above suspicion and who are
armed.’ He touched his pocket with a laugh. ‘When it
comes to the point I am a very fair shot, and so is your
uncle. You were wishing a little while ago that something
exciting would happen—if it gives you any pleasure, you
can pretend that this is an adventure.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Oh, yes, Marcia,’ her uncle rejoined. ‘Don’t let the
thought of the tattooed man disturb your sleep. He’s more
spectacular than dangerous.’</p>
<p class='c007' >The others had come out on to the loggia and were
exclaiming at the beauty of the night.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Howard,’ Mrs. Copley called, ‘don’t you want to come
and make a fourth at whist?’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘In a moment,’ he returned. ‘We won’t say anything
to the others,’ he said in a low tone to Marcia and Sybert.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘There’s no use raising any unnecessary excitement.’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Marcia, if you and Mr. Sybert would like to play, we
can make it six-handed euchre instead of whist.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert glanced down to see that her hand was trembling,
and he decided that to make her sit through a game of
cards would be too great a test of her nerves.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Thank you, Mrs. Copley,’ he called back; ‘it’s too fine a
night to pass indoors. Miss Marcia and I will stay out here.’</p>
<p class='c007' >The proposal was a test of his own nerves, but he had
schooled himself for a good many years to hide his feelings;
it was an ordeal he was used to.</p>
<p class='c007' >With final exclamations on the beauty of the night, the
whist party returned to the salon. Sybert brought a wicker
chair from the loggia for Marcia, and seated himself on the
parapet while he lighted a cigar with a nonchalance she
could not help but admire. Did she but know it, his nonchalance
was only surface deep, though the cause for his
inward tumult had nothing to do with the man of the
ruined grotto. They sat in silence for a time, looking
down on the shimmering Campagna. The scene was as
beautiful as on that other night of the early spring, but
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_223' id='Page_223'>223</SPAN></span>
now it was full summer. It was so peaceful, so idyllic, so
thoroughly the Italy of poetry and romance, that it seemed
absurd to think of plots and riots in connexion with that
landscape. At least Marcia was not thinking of them now;
she was willing to take her uncle at his word and leave the
responsibility to him. The thing that was still burning in
her mind was that unexplained moment by the fountain.
It was the first time she had been alone with Sybert since.
How would he act? Would he simply ignore it, as if it
had never happened? He would, of course; and that
would be far worse than if he apologized or congratulated
her, for then she would have a chance to explain. What
did he think? she asked herself for the hundredth time as
she covertly scanned his dark, impassive face. Did he
think her engaged to Paul Dessart, or did he divine the real
reason why the young man had so suddenly sailed for
America? Even so, it would not put her in a much better
light in his eyes. He would think she had been playing
with Paul and—her face flushed at the thought—had tried
to play with him.</p>
<p class='c007' >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.’ He pointed with his cigar toward the
hill above them, where little stone-walled Castel Vivalanti
was outlined against the sky. ‘If I am not mistaken, he
is in the back room of a <i>trattoria</i> up there, in company with
our friend Tarquinio of the Bed-quilt, who,’ he added
meditatively, ‘is a fool. Those carabinieri are not guarding
the roads for nothing. A number of Neapolitans have
come north lately who might better have stayed at home—Camorrists
for the most part—and the government is after
them. This fellow with the crucifix is without doubt one
of them, and in all probability he just happened into the
ruins this afternoon to rest, without having an idea who
lived here. At any rate, I strongly suspect that your uncle
it not the hare he’s hunting. Italy is too busy just at
present to take time for private revenge—though,’ he
smiled, ‘I have no wish to spoil your adventure.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Marcia breathed a little sigh by way of answer, and
another silence fell between them.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘On such a night as this,’ he said dreamily, ‘did you and
I, Miss Marcia, once take a drive together.’</p>
<p class='c007' >
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_224' id='Page_224'>224</SPAN></span>
‘And we didn’t speak a word!’</p>
<p class='c007' >‘I don’t know that we did,’ he laughed. ‘At least I
don’t recall the conversation.’</p>
<p class='c007' >From the valley below them there came the sound of a
man’s voice singing a familiar serenade. Only the tune
was audible, but the words they knew:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>‘Open your casement, love.</div>
<div class='line in1'>I come as a robber to steal your heart.’</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c007' >Sybert, listening, watched her from under drooping lids.
He was struggling with a sudden temptation which almost
overmastered him. He thought her engaged to another man,
but—why not come as a robber and steal her heart? In
the past few weeks he had seen lifelong hopes come to
nothing; he was wounded and discouraged and in need
of human sympathy, and he had fought his battles alone.
During that time of struggle Marcia had come to occupy a
large part of his consciousness. He had seen in her character
undeveloped possibilities—a promise for the future—and
the desire had subtly taken hold of him to be the one to
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 her birthday ball he
had not doubted for a moment that she was engaged to
Paul Dessart. It had never occurred to him that the scene
he had interrupted was merely her sympathetic fashion of
dismissing the young man. A dozen little things had come
back to him that before had had no significance, and he
had accepted the fact without questioning. It seemed of
a piece with the rest of his fate that this should be added
just when it was hardest for him to bear. It was the final
touch of Nemesis that made her work rounded and complete.</p>
<p class='c007' >And now, as he watched her, he was filled with a sudden
fierce rebellion, an impulse to fight against the fate that
was robbing him, to snatch her away from Paul Dessart.
Every instinct of his nature urged him forward; only
honour held him back. He turned away and with troubled
eyes studied the distance. She had chosen freely—whether
wisely or not, the future would prove. He knew that he
could not honourably stretch out so much as his little finger
to call her back.</p>
<p class='c007' >Presently he pulled himself together and began to talk
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_225' id='Page_225'>225</SPAN></span>
fluently and easily on purely impersonal themes—of the
superiority of the Tyrol over the Swiss lakes as a summer
resort, of the character of the people in Sicily, of books and
art and European politics, and of a dozen different subjects
that Marcia had never heard him mention before. It was
the small talk of the diplomat, of the man who must always
be ready to meet every one on his own ground. Marcia
had known that Sybert could talk on other subjects than
Italian politics when he chose, for she had overheard him
at dinners and receptions, but he had never chosen when
with her. In their early intercourse he had scarcely taken
the trouble to talk to her in any but the most perfunctory
way, and then suddenly their relations had no longer
demanded formal conversation. They had somehow
jumped over the preliminary period of getting acquainted
and had reached the stage where they could understand
each other without talking. And here he was conversing
with her as politely and impersonally as if they had known
each other only half an hour. She kept up her end of the
conversation with monosyllables. She felt chilled and
hurt; he might at least be frank. Whatever he thought of
her, there was no need for this elaborate dissimulation.
She had no need to ask herself to-night if he were watching
her. His eyes never for a moment left the moonlit campagna.</p>
<p class='c007' >After half an hour or so Mrs. Copley stepped to the
window of the salon to ask Marcia if she did not wish a
wrap. It was warm, of course, but the evening dews were
heavy. Marcia scoffed at the absurdity of a wrap on such
an evening, but she rose obediently. They strolled into
the house and paused at the door of the salon. The whist-players
were studying their cards again with anxious brows;
it appeared to be a scientific game.</p>
<p class='c007' >Marcia shook her head and laughed. ‘On such a night
as this to be playing whist!’</p>
<p class='c007' >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.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Sybert smiled rather coldly as he turned away. It
struck him that the remark was singularly malapropos.</p>
<p class='c007' >Marcia went on up to her room, and throwing about her
shoulders a chiffon scarf, an absurd apology for a wrap,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_226' id='Page_226'>226</SPAN></span>
she paused a moment by the open glass doors of the balcony
and stood looking down upon the moonlit landscape. She
felt sore and bruised and hopeless. Sybert was beyond her;
she did not understand him. He had evidently made up
his mind, and nothing would move him; he would give
her no chance to put herself right. She suddenly threw
back her head and stiffened her shoulders. If that were
the line he chose to take—very well! She would meet him
on his own ground. She turned back, and on her way
downstairs paused a second at Gerald’s door. It was a
family habit to look in on him at all hours of the night to
make sure that he was sleeping and duly covered up, though
to-night it could scarcely be claimed that cover was necessary.
She glanced in, and then, with a quickening of her
breath, took a step farther to make sure. The bed was
empty. She stood staring a moment, not knowing what
to think, and the next she was hurrying down the hall
toward the servants’ quarters. She knocked on Bianca’s
door, and finding no one within, called up Granton.</p>
<p class='c007' >There was no cause for worry, Granton assured her.
Master Gerald and that little Italian brat were probably
in the scullery, stealing raisins and chocolate.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘Oh,’ said Marcia, with a sigh of relief; ‘but where’s
Bianca? She ought to sit by Gerald till he goes to sleep.</p>
<p class='c007' >Bianca!—Granton sniffed disdainfully—no one could
make head or tail of Bianca. Her opinion was that the girl
was half crazy. She had been in there that night crying,
and telling her how much she liked the signora and the
signorina, and how she hated to leave them.</p>
<p class='c007' >‘But she isn’t going to leave,’ said Marcia. ‘We’ve
decided to take her with us.’</p>
<p class='c007' >Granton responded with a disdainful English shrug and
the reiterated opinion that the girl was crazy. Marcia did
not stop to argue the point, but set out for the kitchen
by way of the ‘middle staircase,’ creeping along quietly,
determined to catch the marauders unawares. Her caution
was superfluous. The rear of the house was entirely
deserted. No sign of a boy, no sign of a servant anywhere
about. The doors were open and the rooms were vacant.
She hurried upstairs again in growing mystification, and
turned toward Gervasio’s room. The little fellow was in
bed and sound asleep. What did it mean? she asked herself.
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name='Page_227' id='Page_227'>227</SPAN></span>
What could have become of Gerald, and where had
all the servants gone?</p>
<p class='c007' >Suddenly a horrible suspicion flashed over her. Gervasio’s
stepfather—could he have stolen Gerald by way of
revenge? That was why Bianca was crying! It was a
plot. She had overheard, and they had threatened to kill
her if she told. Perhaps they would hold him for a ransom.
Perhaps—as the sound of her uncle’s careless laugh floated
up from below she caught her breath in a convulsive sob
and stretched out her hand against the wall to steady herself.</p>
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