Marcia passed the afternoon in a state of nervous for her uncle’s return. She said nothing to Mrs. Copley of the man she had found asleep in the , and the effort to 214 preserve an outward added no little to her inner . In vain she tried to reason with her fear; it was not a subject which responded to . 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 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 being broken into, of travellers on the Campagna being and robbed, of the of the Camorra, which her uncle had opposed. The stories were not ; and though she 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.
Mr. Copley and the Melvilles were due at five, but as they had not appeared by half-past, Mrs. Copley that they had missed their train, and she and Marcia sat down to tea—or, more , to iced lemonade—without waiting. The table was set under the shade of the ilex trees where the 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 glassful and two brioches 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 fashion, with snatches of very conversation. Marcia’s eyes wandered in the pauses to the poppy-sprinkled wheat field and the 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 open stretch 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 and shook her head. ‘Your eyes are better than mine, Aunt Katherine, if you can recognize Uncle Howard at this distance.’
‘The carriage is turning up our road. I am sure it is 215 they. Poor things! I am afraid they will be nearly dead after the drive in this heat. Rome must have been to-day.’ And she hastily dispatched Pietro to prepare more iced drinks.
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 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 of wheels sounded on the avenue.
Both Mrs. Copley and Marcia uttered an 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 , 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 own words of welcome to cry: ‘Has anything happened? Why are you so late?’
They were visibly excited, and did not wait for greetings before pouring out their news—an attempted of King Humbert on the Pincian hill that afternoon—Rome under law—a plot discovered to the and other leaders in control.
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.
‘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 .’
216 ‘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, 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.’
‘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 I really don’t need any more sleep at present,’ he protested laughingly, but with a slight air of . It was a 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 when speaking of himself or his own feelings, struck the as somewhat puzzling. It had always puzzled Marcia, and had been one reason why she had been so in her desire to find out what he was really like.
The party shortly assembled for dinner, the women in the coolest of light summer gowns, the men in white 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 . were served with the soup, bread riots with the fish, and hypothetical robberies and plots with the further courses; while Pietro presided with a 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.
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 ’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 his stiletto into the King’s heart.
217 Mrs. Copley and Mrs. Melville , and Marcia leaned forward listening with wide eyes.
‘Right on the Pincio, mind you.’ Melville in his excitement 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, “Viva libertà!” as the soldiers grabbed him—I swear it beats me what these fellows are after. “Viva libertà!” 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.’
‘I fear the seeds of revolution are sown pretty thick in Italy,’ said Copley.
‘Where aren’t there the seeds of revolution to-day?’ Melville . ‘Central Africa is only waiting a government in order to overturn it.’
‘By the way,’ interpolated Copley, ‘the assassin is a friend of Sybert’s.’
‘A friend of Sybert’s!’ Marcia echoed the words before she considered their form.
Sybert caught the expression and smiled slightly.
‘Not a very dear friend, Miss Marcia. I first made his acquaintance, I believe, on the day that you discovered Marcellus.’
‘How did that happen?’ Mrs. Copley asked.
‘I heard him talking in a café.’
‘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.’
‘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.’
‘A pretty poor way,’ Melville frowned.
‘Oh, certainly,’ Sybert carelessly. ‘Umberto’s a gentleman. I don’t care to see him knifed.’
218 ‘What I can’t understand,’ 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 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 .’
Sybert leaned back in his chair and studied the flowers in the centre of the table with a 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 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.”’
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.
‘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 natural egotistical impulse for self-assertion. The man had been oppressed and 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 as he did, he acted not for himself alone, but 219 for the people; for the inarticulate thousands who are struggling for some mode of expression, but are bound by and ignorance and .’
Sybert paused and raised his eyes to Melville’s with a sort of challenge.
‘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.’
‘And there are thousands of such men,’ put in Copley.
Melville uttered a short laugh. ‘By heavens, it’s true!’ he said. ‘The position of American may not carry much glory, but I don’t know that I care to trade it with Umberto for his kingdom.’
‘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 .’
‘He didn’t appear to be scared,’ said her uncle. ‘He his shoulders when they caught the man, and remarked that this was one of the of his trade.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Good for Umberto!’
‘Oh, he’s no coward,’ said Sybert. ‘He knows the price of crowns these days.’
‘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.’
‘Ah,’ said Sybert, ‘Society can’t be protected that way. The point is that 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 . ‘So far as I have heard, my dear, there was no crucifix tattooed upon his breast.’
Marcia raised her head quickly. ‘Uncle Howard,’ she asked, ‘is that the mark of a society or of just that special man?’
220 ‘I can’t say, I’m sure, Marcia,’ he returned with a laugh. ‘I suspect that it’s an original piece of on his part, though it may belong to a .’
‘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 things to worry about without troubling over him.’
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 . 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.
Once she roused herself to listen to the conversation. They were talking............