The week following Easter proved rainy and disagreeable. It was not a cheerful period, for the turned out to be a fair-weather house. The stone walls seemed to absorb and retain the moisture like a , and a mortuary atmosphere hung about the rooms. Mr. Copley, with masculine to mud and water, succeeded in escaping from the dampness of his home by journeying daily to the ever-luring Embassy. But his wife and niece, more on the subject of hair and clothes, remained storm-bound, and on the fourth day Mrs. Copley’s conversation turned frequently to .
Marcia, who had taken the villa for better, for worse, endeavoured to approve of it in even this uncheerful mood. She divided her time between through the big rooms with Gerald, Gervasio, and Marcellus, and shivering over a brazier full of coals in her own room, to the accompaniment of dripping ilex trees and the splashing of the fountain. Her book was the Egoist, and the Egoist is an work to a young woman in Marcia’s frame of mind. It makes her hesitate. She knew that Paul Dessart in no wise resembled the magnificent Sir Willoughby, and that it was unfair to make the comparison, but still she made it.
As she stood by the window, gazing down on the rain-swept Campagna, she pondered the situation and pondered it again, and succeeded only in working herself into a state of deeper indecision. Paul was interesting, attractive—as her uncle said, ‘decorative’; but was he any more, or was that enough? Should she be sorry if she said ‘no’? Should she be sorrier if she said ‘yes’? So her mind busied itself to the dripping of the raindrops; and for all the thought she spent upon the question, she wandered in a circle and finished where she had started.
The Monday following Easter week dawned clear and bright again. Marcia opened her eyes to a bar of sunlight streaming in at the eastern window, and the first sound that greeted her was a chorus of bird-voices. She sat up and viewed the weather with a sense of re-awakened life, feeling as if her perplexities had somehow vanished with the rain. She was no nearer making up her mind than she had been the day before, but she was quite to let it 116 stay unmade a little longer. The sound of horses’ beneath her window told her that her uncle had started for the station. When he was away and there were no guests in the house, Marcia and Mrs. Copley usually had the first breakfast served in their rooms. Accordingly, as she heard her uncle off, she made a toilet, and then ate her coffee and rolls and marmalade at a little table set on the balcony. It was late when she joined her aunt on the loggia.
Mrs. Copley looked up from an intricate piece of . ‘Good morning, Marcia,’ she said, returning her niece’s greeting. ‘Yes, isn’t it a relief to see some sunshine again!—I have a surprise for you,’ she added.
‘A surprise?’ asked Marcia. ‘My birthday isn’t coming for two weeks. But never mind; surprises are always welcome. What is it?’
‘It isn’t a very big surprise; just a tiny one to break the monotony of these four days of rain. I had a note from Mrs. Royston this morning. It should have come yesterday, only it was so wet that Angelo didn’t go for the mail.’ She paused to through the basket of silks. ‘I thought it was here, but no matter. She says that owing to these dreadful riots they have changed all their plans. They have given up Naples, and are going north instead, on a little trip of a week or so to Assisi and Perugia. She wrote to say good-bye and to tell me that they would get back to Rome in time for your party; though they are afraid they can’t spend more than two or three days with us then, as the change of plan involves some hurry. They leave on Wednesday.’
‘That is too bad,’ said Marcia, and with the words she uttered a sigh of relief. Paul would go with them, probably; or, at any rate, she need not see him; it would the difficulty. ‘But where is the surprise?’ she inquired.
‘Oh, the surprise!’ Mrs. Copley laughed. ‘I entirely forgot it. I was afraid they might think it strange that I hadn’t answered the note—though I really didn’t get it in time—so I asked your uncle to stop at their hotel and invite them all to come out to the villa for the night. I thought that since we were planning to drive to the festa at Genazzano to-morrow, it would be nice to have them with us. I am sure they would be interested in seeing the festa.’
117 Marcia dropped limply into a chair and looked at her aunt. ‘Is Mr. Dessart coming too?’
‘I invited him, certainly. What’s the matter? Aren’t you pleased? I thought you liked him.’
‘Oh, yes, I do; only—I wish I’d got up earlier!’ And then she laughed. The situation was rather funny, after all. She might as well make the best of it. ‘Suppose we send over to Palestrina and invite M. Benoit for dinner,’ she suggested presently. ‘I think he is stopping there this week, and it would be nice to have him. I suspect,’ she added, ‘that he is a tiny bit interested in Eleanor.’
A note was sent by a , who returned with the information that he had found the gentleman sitting on a rock in a field, painting a portrait of a sheep; that he had delivered the note, and got this in return.
‘This’ was a rapid on bristol-board, representing the young Frenchman in evening clothes making a bow, with his hand on his heart, to the two ladies, who received him on the steps of the loggia, while a clock in the corner to eight.
Marcia looked at the sketch and laughed. ‘Here’s an original acceptance, Aunt Katherine.’
Mrs. Copley smiled appreciatively. ‘He seems to be a very original young man,’ she conceded.
‘Naturellement. He’s a prix de Rome.’
‘When Frenchmen are nice they are very nice,’ said Mrs. Copley; ‘but when they are not——’ Words failed her, and she picked up her embroidery again.
At the mid-day breakfast Marcia announced rather hopefully that she did not think the Roystons would come.
‘Why not?’ her aunt inquired.
‘They’ve lost their maid, and there won’t be anybody to help them pack. If they come out to the villa to-night they won’t be ready to start for Perugia on Wednesday. Besides, Mrs. Royston never likes to do anything on the spur of the moment. She likes to plan her programme a week ahead and stick to it. Oh, I know they won’t come,’ she added with a laugh. ‘M. Benoit will be the only guest, after all.’
‘And I’ve ordered dinner for eight!’ said Mrs. Copley, pathetically. ‘I am thinking of driving over to the contessa’s this afternoon—I might invite her to join us.’
118 ‘Oh, no, Aunt Katherine! Please, not to-day. If the Roystons should come, there’ll be a big enough party without her; and, anyway, she wouldn’t be particularly interested—Mr. Sybert isn’t here.’
‘The contessa comes to see us, not Mr. Sybert,’ Mrs. Copley returned, with a touch of .
Marcia smiled into her cup of chocolate and said nothing.
While the sun was sunk in its noonday , she stood by her window, gazing absently off toward the old , engaged in a last struggle to make up her mind. She finally turned away with an impatient which Paul Dessart and his importunities to the bottom of the Dead Sea. There was no use in bothering any more about it now; Mrs. Royston’s mind at least was no weathercock. Marcia clung to the hope that they would not come.
It was a beautiful afternoon, fresh and sparkling from the week of rain, and she suddenly upon a horseback ride to brush from her mind all bothersome questions. She got out her riding-habit and jerked the bell-rope with a force which set bells jangling wildly through the house, and brought Granton as nearly on a run as was with her dignity and years.
‘It’s nothing serious,’ Marcia laughed in response to the maid’s anxious face; ‘I just made up my mind to go for a ride, and in the first flush of energy I rang louder than I meant. It’s a great thing, Granton, to get your mind made up about even so unimportant a matter as a horseback ride.’
‘Yes, miss,’ Granton agreed somewhat as she knelt down to help with a boot.
‘How in the world do those soldiers in the King’s guard ever get their boots on?’ Marcia asked.
‘I don’t know, miss,’ said Granton, patiently.
Marcia laughed. ‘Send word to the stables for Angelo to bring the horses in fifteen minutes. I’m going to take a long ride, and I must start immediately.’
‘Very well, miss.’
‘Immediately,’ Marcia called after her. In with Angelo was necessary. He was an Italian, and he had still to learn the value of time.
She tied her stock before the glass in a very mannish 119 fashion, adjusted her hat—with the least perceptible tilt—and up her whip and gloves, started out , humming a snatch of a very much Neapolitan street song.
‘“Jammo ‘ncoppa, jammo jà . . .
Funiculì—funiculà.”’
It ended in a series of trills; she did not know the words. At the head of the stairs she met Granton returning. Granton stood expressionless, waiting patiently for her to have done before venturing to speak.
Marcia completed her measure and broke off with a laugh. ‘Well, Granton, what’s the matter?’
‘Angelo has taken Master Gerald’s to Palestrina to be shod and both of the carriages are to be used, so the other men will be needed for them, and there isn’t any one left to ride with you.’
Marcia’s smile changed to a frown. ‘How stupid! Angelo has no business to go off without saying anything.’
‘Mr. Copley left orders for him to have the pony shod.’
‘He’s not Mr. Copley’s groom; he’s mine.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Granton.
Marcia went on slowly downstairs, her frown volume as she proceeded. She wished to take a horseback ride, and she wished nothing else for the moment. She foresaw that her aunt would propose that she ride into Tivoli and take tea with the contessa. If there was one thing she hated, it was to ride at a steady jog-trot beside the carriage; and if there was a second thing, it was to take tea with the contessa.
She heard Mrs. Copley’s and Gerald’s voices in the and she advanced to the .
‘Aunt Katherine! I’m furious! This is the first time in four days that it has stopped raining long enough for me to go out, and I’m dying to take a gallop in the country. That Angelo has gone off with Gerald’s pony, and there isn’t another man on the place that can go with me. You needn’t propose my riding into Tivoli to take tea with the contessa, for I won’t do it.’
She delivered this outburst from the threshold, and as she advanced into the room she was slightly disconcerted to see Laurence Sybert lazily pulling himself from a chair to greet 120 her—if she ever showed in a particularly bad light, Sybert was sure to be at hand. He bowed, his face politely grave, but there was the provoking suggestion of a smile not far below the surface; and as she looked at him Marcia had the uncomfortable feeling that her own face was growing red.
‘I’m sorry about Angelo, my dear,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘I didn’t know that you wanted to ride this afternoon. But here is Mr. Sybert who has come out to see your uncle, and your uncle won’t be back till evening. I’m sure he will be glad to go with you.’
Marcia glanced back at her aunt with an expression which said, ‘Oh, Aunt Katherine, wait till I get you alone!’
‘Certainly, Miss Marcia, I should be delighted to fill the Angelo’s place,’ he affirmed, but in a tone which to her ear did not express any eagerness.
‘Thank you, Mr. Sybert,’ she smiled sweetly; ‘you are very kind, but I shouldn’t think of troubling you. I know that Aunt Katherine would like to have you go with her to call on the contessa.’
‘If you will permit it. Miss Marcia, I will ride with you instead; for though I should be happy to call on Contessa Torrenieri with Mrs. Copley, I have just driven out from Tivoli, and by way of change I should prefer not driving back.’
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t really want to ride. I was just cross with Angelo for going off without saying anything.’
‘Marcia,’ Mrs. Copley, ‘that doesn’t sound polite.’
Sybert laughed. ‘There is nothing, Miss Marcia,’ he declared, ‘that would give me more pleasure this afternoon than a gallop with you; and with your permission——’ he touched the bell.
Marcia her shoulders and gave the order as Pietro appeared.
‘Send word to the stables for Kentucky Lil and Triumvirate to be saddled at once.’
‘You may go upstairs and borrow as much of Howard’s wardrobe as you wish,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘I dare say you did not come prepared to play the part of groom.’
‘I’ll try not to get them muddier than necessary,’ he promised as he turned toward the stairs.
121 He reappeared shortly in corduroys and leather puttees. Marcia was leaning on the loggia balustrade, idly watching the hills, while a stable-boy slowly led the horses back and in the driveway. Sybert helped her to mount without a word, and they down the avenue in silence. He appreciated the fact that she would have preferred staying at home to accepting his escort, and the situation promised some slight entertainment. A man inclined to be a trifle can find considerable amusement in the spectacle of a pretty girl who does not wish to talk to him, but finds herself in a position where she cannot escape. As Sybert had been passing a very hard week, he was the more willing to enjoy a little at Marcia’s expense.
They pulled their horses to a walk at the , and Sybert looked at her interrogatively. She took the lead and turned to the left along the roadway that led up into the mountains away from the Via Prænestina. He rode up beside her again, and they galloped on without speaking. Marcia did not propose to take the initiative in any conversation; he could introduce a subject if he wished, otherwise they would keep still. For the first mile or so he maintained the reserve of a well-trained groom. But finally, as they slowed the horses to a walk on a steep hill-side, he broke the silence.
‘Are we going anywhere, or just riding for pleasure?’
‘Just for pleasure.’
He waited until they had reached the top of the hill before renewing the conversation. Then, ‘It is a pleasant day,’ he observed.
Marcia regarded the landscape critically.
‘Very pleasant,’ she .
‘Looks a little like rain, however,’ he added, anxiously fixing his eye on a small cloud on the horizon.
Marcia studied the sky a moment with an heroic effort at seriousness, and then she began to laugh.
‘I suppose we might as well make the best of it,’ she remarked.
‘Philosophy is the wisest way,’ he agreed.
‘Have you seen Gervasio?’
‘I have not yet paid my respects to him. He is well, I trust?’
122 ‘He is simply a walking appetite!’
‘I thought he showed a tendency that way. Mrs. Copley says that you have been suffering for his sake.’
‘Did she tell you about his stepfather? That’s my story; she ought to have left it for me. I can tell it much more dramatically. It was quite an adventure, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. And you got off easily. It might have turned out to be more of an adventure than you would have cared for.’
‘Oh, I like adventures.’
‘When they’re ended safely, yes. But these Italian peasants are a revengeful lot when they get it into their heads that they have been mistreated. I don’t believe you ought to drive about the country that way.’
‘I should think that two boys and a groom might be escort enough—the pony-carriage doesn’t accommodate many more.’
‘Nevertheless, joking apart, I don’t think it is safe. The country’s pretty stirred up just at present.’
‘You’re as bad as Aunt Katherine with her man! As for being afraid of these peasants, I know every soul in Castel Vivalanti, and they’re all adorable&............