As the carriage turned homeward she smiled to herself over her yesterday’s state at the of meeting Paul. The actuality had not been so disconcerting. She did not quite comprehend his new attitude, but she accepted it as a tacit recognition of her desire to let matters stand, and was grateful. She felt very toward him this evening. He was such a care-free, optimistic young fellow; and 164 even supposing he were too ready to look on the bright side of things, was not Laurence Sybert, she asked herself, too ready also to look on the dark side? Since his words of yesterday, in the old wine-cellar, she had felt an undertone of sadness to her thoughts which she resented. As she rode along now between the fresh fields, glowing in the soft light of the April sunset, she was dimly conscious of a struggle, a rebellion, going on within her own nature.
She seemed pulled two ways. The beautiful sunshiny world of dreams was calling to her. And Paul stood at the crossways—laughing, careless, happy Paul—holding out his hand with a winning smile to show the way to Cytherea. But deep within her heart she felt the weight of the real world—the world which means to so many people—dragging on her spirits and holding her back. And in the background she saw Sybert watching her with folded arms and a half-quizzical smile—Sybert making no move either to her on or to turn her back—merely watching with inscrutable eyes.
Happiness seemed to be her portion. Why could she not accept it gladly, and shut her eyes to all else? If she once commenced seeing the misery in the world, there would be no end. Until a few weeks before she had scarcely realized that any existed outside of books, but she knew it now; she had seen it face to face. She thought of the crowded, squalid little houses of Castel Vivalanti; of the women who went out at sunrise to work all day in the fields, of the of children only half fed. Oh, yes, she knew now that there was misery outside of books, but she asked herself, with an almost despairing cry, why need she know? Since she could do nothing to help, since she was not to blame, why not close her eyes and pretend it was not there? It was the shrinking cry of the soul that for the first time has tasted of knowledge; that with open eyes is hesitating on the threshold of the real world, with a backward glance toward the unreal world of dreams. But in life there is no going back; knowledge once gained may not be cancelled, and there was further knowledge waiting for Marcia not very far ahead.
Two little boys turning somersaults by the side of the carriage suddenly recalled to her mind the boys at the villa, and her promise to bring them a present from the 165 festa. Not once had she thought of them during the day, and the only possible present now was the sweet chocolate of Castel Vivalanti. She glanced at her watch; there was still an hour before dinner, and she ordered Giovanni to drive up the hill to the town. Giovanni respectfully begged her pardon, with the suggestion that the horses were tired; they had had a long journey and the hill was steep. Marcia replied, with a touch of sharpness, that the horses could rest all day to-morrow. They wound up the gradual at a walk, in company with the procession coming home for the night. It was a sight which Marcia always watched with fresh interest: field-workers with mattocks on their shoulders wearily back to supper and bed; washerwomen, their clothes in baskets on their heads, calling cheery good-byes to one another; files of little donkeys with brush, sheep and pigs and goats, and long-horned oxen—where they were all to be stowed for the night was an ever-recurring mystery.
Under the smiling moons of the Porta della Luna the carriage came to a halt, and the crowd of Castel Vivalanti boys, who were in the habit of the highway for , fell upon it . Marcia had her soldi in Genazzano, and with a laughing shake of her head she motioned them away. But the boys would not be shaken off; they about the carriage like little rats, demanding money. She continued to shake her head, and instantly their cries were transferred to the of the afternoon.
‘Grano! Grano!’ they shouted in chorus; and Giovanni raised his whip and drove them away.
Marcia paused with her foot on the carriage-step, puzzling over this new cry which was suddenly her at every turn.
‘What is the matter, Giovanni? Why are they always shouting “Wheat”?’
He waved his whip disdainfully. ‘Chi sa, signorina? They are of no account. Do not listen to their foolishness.’
They were the same children to whom she had given chocolate not many days before. ‘They forget quickly!’ she said to herself, ‘perhaps, after all, Paul was right, and beauty is their strongest .’
The ‘Ave Maria’ was ringing as she turned into the 166 little streets, and the town was buzzing like a beehive over its evening affairs. water-jars were coming home from the well, blue smoke was pouring out of every chimney, and yellow meal was being outside the doors. Owing to the festa, the streets were crowded with loungers, and in the tiny groups of men were gathered about the door of the tobacco-shop, arguing and quarrelling and gesticulating in their excitable Italian fashion. It had been a week or more since Marcia had visited the village, and now, as she threaded her way through the crowd, it struck her suddenly that the people’s usual friendly nods were a trifle churlish; she had the uncomfortable feeling that group after group fell silent and turned to stare after her as the passed. One little boy shouted ‘Grano!’ and was dragged indoors with a box on his ears.
‘Madonna mia!’ cried his anxious mother. ‘Are we not poor enough already, that you would bring down foreign curses upon the house?’
In the bake-shop Domenico served her surlily, answering her friendly as to the health of his family and the progress of his vineyard with rather than words. Amazed and indignant, she shrank within herself; and with head and hotly burning cheeks turned back toward the gate, not so much as glancing at the people, who silently made way for her.
‘Ah, you see,’ they murmured to one another, ‘the foreign signorina played at having a kind heart for amusement. But what does she care for our miseria? No more than for the stones beneath her feet.’
Laurence Sybert, coming out from the village, was somewhat astonished to find Giovanni up before the gate. Giovanni hailed him with an anxious air.
‘Scusi, signore; have you seen the signorina? She is inside.’ He nodded toward the porta. ‘She has gone to the bake-shop alone. I told her the horses were tired, but she paid no attention; and the ragazzi called “Wheat!” but she did not understand.’
‘They shouted “Wheat!” did they?’
‘Si, signore. They read the papers. The Avanti yesterday——’
167 Sybert nodded. ‘I know what the Avanti said.’
He turned back under the archway and set out for the baker’s—the place, as it happened, from which he had just come. He had been entertained there with some very plain comments on his friends in the villa—as Giovanni suggested, they read their papers, and the truth of whatever was stated in printer’s ink was not to be doubted. It was scarcely the time that Marcia should have chosen for an evening stroll through Castel Vivalanti; and Sybert was provoked that she should have paid so little to his warning of the afternoon. The fact that she was ignorant of the special causes for his warning did not at the moment present itself as an excuse. He had not gone far when he heard shouts ahead. The words were unmistakable.
‘Wheat! Wheat! Signorina Wheat!’
The volume of sound sent him hurrying forward in quick anxiety, almost fearing a riot. But his first glance, as he came out into the piazza, showed him that it was scarcely as serious as that. Marcia, looking hurt and astonished and angry, was in the midst of a fast-increasing crowd of dirty little street , who were and jumping and gesticulating about her. She was in no possible danger, however; the boys meant no harm beyond being . For a second Sybert hesitated, with the grim intention of teaching her a lesson, but the next moment he saw that she was already frightened. She called out wildly to a group of men who had paused on the of the crowd; they laughed , and made no move to drive the boys away. She closed her eyes and swayed slightly, while Sybert in quick compunction hurried forward. Pushing into the midst of the , he the boys right and left out of the way. Marcia opened her eyes and regarded him .
‘Mr. Sybert!’ she . ‘What’s the matter? What are they saying?’
‘Can you walk?’ he asked, stretching out a hand to steady her. ‘Come, we’ll get out of the piazza.’
By this time other men had joined the crowd, and low mutterings ran from mouth to mouth. Many recognized Sybert, and his name was shouted . ‘Wheat! Wheat!’ however, was still the burden of the cry. One boy jostled against them impudently—it was Beppo of the 168 afternoon—and Sybert struck him a sharp blow across the shoulders with his , sending him on the pavement. Half the crowd laughed, half called angrily, ‘Hit him, Beppo, hit him. Don’t let him knock you down,’ while a half-drunken voice in the rear shouted, ‘Behold Signor Siberti, the friend of the poor!’
‘Here, let’s get out of this,’ he said. And clearing an opening with a vigorous sweep of his cane, he hurried her down a narrow and around a corner out of sight of the piazza. Leading the way into a little trattoria, he drew a chair forward toward the door.
‘Giuseppe,’ he called, ‘bring the signorina some wine.’
Marcia dropped into the chair and leaned her head on the back. She felt dazed and bewildered. Never before had she been treated with anything but and courtesy. Why had the people suddenly turned against her? What had she done that they should hate her? In the back of the room she heard Sybert explaining something in a low tone to Giuseppe, and she caught, the words, ‘she does not know.’
‘Poverina, she does not know,’ the woman murmured.
Sybert came across with a glass of wine.
‘Here, Marcia, drink this,’ he said .
She received the glass with a hand that trembled, and took one or two swallows and then set it down.
‘It’s nothing. I shall be all right in a moment. They pressed around me so close that I couldn’t breathe.’
The wine brought some colour back to her face, and after a few minutes she rose to her feet.
‘I’m sorry to have made so much . I feel better now; let’s go back to the carriage.’
Skirting the piazza, they returned to the porta by a narrow side-street, the boys behind still shouting after, but none approaching within reach of Sybert’s stick. They had the carriage and reached the bottom of the hill before either of them . Marcia was the first to break the silence.
‘What is it, Mr. Sybert, that I don’t know?’
‘A good many things, ,’ he said coolly. ‘For one, you don’t know how to take a piece of friendly advice. I told you this afternoon that the country-side was too stirred up to be safe, and I think you might have paid 169 just a little attention to my warning. Respectable Italian girls don’t run around the streets alone, and they particularly don’t choose the evening of a festa for a walk.’
‘If you have quite finished, Mr. Sybert, will you answer my question?—Why do they call me “Signorina Wheat”?’
He was apparently engaged with his thoughts and did not hear.
‘Mr. Sybert, I asked you a question.’
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
