‘We have caught two of the men,’ he said; ‘but I am afraid that the rest have got off—that precious butler of yours among them.’
‘Where is Mr. Sybert?’ she asked. The thought of Tarquinio had suddenly occurred to her; she had forgotten him in the of with her uncle.
‘He’s locking the house.’
‘I will see if I can help him,’ and she turned into the .
Melville looked after her with a smile. He had a theory which his wife did not share.
Marcia passed through the empty salon and the little ante-room, and hesitated with her hand on the dining-room door. She had a premonition that he was within; she turned the knob softly and entered.
Sybert sprang up with a quick . ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he said. ‘I thought I had locked the door. Draw the bolt, please. I brought him in here and I’m trying to bring him round. If they find him he’ll be sent to the , and it seems a pity. He’s got a wife and child to support.’
Marcia looked down on the floor where Tarquinio was lying. Sybert had thrown the glass doors open again and the moonlight was flooding the room. A towel, folded into a rough bandage, was wrapped around the young Italian’s head, and his pale face beneath it had all the dark, beauty of his race.
‘Poor man!’ she exclaimed as she over him. ‘Are you sure he’s alive?’ she asked, starting back.
‘Heavens, yes! It takes more than that knock to kill 243 one of these peasants. He when I carried him in. Here, let me give him some whisky.’
He raised the man’s head and pressed the to his lip. Tarquinio groaned again, and presently he opened his eyes. Sybert raised him to a sitting against the wall. For a moment his glance wandered about the room, uncomprehendingly, dully. Then, as it upon Sybert, a wild, fierce light suddenly sprang into his eyes. ‘Traitor!’ he out, and he struggled to his feet.
Again Marcia saw that quick look of pain shoot over Sybert’s face; he swallowed a couple of times before speaking, and when he did speak his voice was hard and cold.
‘Can you walk? Then climb over that railing and get away as fast as you can. The soldiers are here, and if they find you they will send you to the galleys—not that it would be any great loss,’ he added with a contemptuous laugh. ‘Italy has no need of such men as you.’
Something of the fierceness faded from the young fellow’s face, and he looked back with the pleading, child-like eyes of the Italian peasant. The two men watched each other a moment without speaking, then Tarquinio turned to the open door with a of the shoulders—Young Italy’s philosophy of life.
They stood silently looking after him as he let himself down to the ground and unsteadily crossed the open space to the shadow of the . Sybert was the first to move. He turned aside with a tired sigh that was half a , and dropping into a chair, rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. All the wild buoyancy that had kept him through the evening had left him, and there was nothing in its place but a dull, unreasoning despair. For the last few weeks he had been glancing at the truth askance. To-night he was looking it full in the face. The people no longer trusted him; he could do no more good in Italy; his work was at an end. Why had they not killed him? That would have been the appropriate conclusion.
Marcia, watching his bowed figure, dimly divined what was going on within his mind. She hesitated a moment, and then with a quick impulse laid her arm about his neck. ‘There isn’t any one but you,’ she whispered.
He sat for a moment, motionless, and then he slowly raised his eyes to hers. ‘What do you mean, Marcia?’
244 ‘I love you.’
‘And—you’re free to marry me?’
She nodded.
He sprang to his feet with a deep, breath of relief. ‘I’ve lost Italy, Marcia, but I’ve found you!’
She smiled up at him through her tears, and he looked back with sombre eyes.
‘You aren’t getting much of a man,’ he said brokenly. ‘I—was just thinking of shooting myself.’
A quick passed over her, and she drew his face down close to hers and kissed it.
They stood for a long time on the little balcony, hand in hand, facing the shadows of the ilex grove; but the shadows no longer seemed black, because of the light in their own souls. He talked to her of his past—frankly, freely—and of Italy, his adopted land. He told her what he had tried to do and wherein he had failed. And as she listened, many things that had puzzled her, that had seemed in his character, assumed their right relations. The dark glass that had half hidden his , that had contorted his actions, suddenly cleared before her eyes. She saw the inherent sweetness and strength of his nature beneath his reserve, his apparent . And as he told the story of Italy, of the sacrifices and valour and singleness of purpose that had gone to the making of the nation, there crept involuntarily a ring into his voice. The note of despondency that had dominated him for the past few months disappeared; for, as he dwelt upon the positive things that had been , they seemed to take shape and stand out clearly against the dimmer background of unaccomplished hopes. The remembrance of the nation’s smaller mistakes and faults and crimes had vanished in the larger view. The story that he had to tell was the story of a great people and a great land. There had been in the past; there would be patriots in the future. The same strength that had made the nation would build it up and carry it on.
‘Ah, Sybert! Miss Marcia!’ Melville’s voice rang through the house.
‘I’d forgotten there was any one in the world but us,’ Marcia whispered as they turned back into the hall.
245 ‘Here’s a young gentleman calling for you, Miss Marcia.’ Melville’s hand rested on the shoulder of a barefooted little figure covered with the white dust of the Roman road.
‘Gervasio!’ Marcia cried, with a quick of self-reproach. She had forgotten him.
The boy drew himself up proudly and through the open door to the soldiers pacing the length of the terrace.
‘Ecco! signorina. I soldati!’
Marcia dropped on her knees beside him with a little laugh. ‘You darling!’ she cried as she gathered him into her arms and kissed him.
Sybert bent over him and shook his hand. ‘You’re a brave boy, Gervasio,’ he said; ‘and you’ve probably saved our lives to-night.’
‘Am I going to live with you now,’ he asked, ‘like Gerald?’
‘Always,’ said Marcia, ‘just like Gerald.’
He opened his eyes wide. ‘And will I be an Americano then?’
‘No, Gervasio,’ said Sybert, quickly. ‘You’ll never be an Americano. You were born Italiano, and you’ll be Italiano till you die. You should be proud of it—it’s your birthright. We are Americani, and we are going—home. You may come with us and study and learn, but when you get to be a man you must come back to your own country. It will need you—and now run to bed. And you too, Miss Marcia,’ he added. ‘You are tired and there’s nothing to be done. Melville and I will attend to locking up.’
‘Locking up!’ cried Melville. ‘Good Lord, man, how many locking-ups does this house require?’ He watched them a moment in silence, and then he added bluntly: ‘Oh, see here, what’s the good of secrets between friends? I’ve known it all along.’ He held out a hand to each of them. ‘It’s fitting; my congratulations come from my heart.’
‘You’re too discerning by far,’ Sybert retorted, his hands fast in his pockets.
Marcia, with a laugh and a quick flush, held out both of hers. ‘It’s a secret,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you guessed it, but you must promise on your honour as a gentleman and a not to tell a single soul!’
‘I must tell my wife,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s a case of “I 246 told you so,” and she usually comes out ahead in such cases. You can’t ask me to hide what little light I have under a bushel.’
‘I don’t care so much about Mrs. Melville,’ Marcia gave a reluctant consent. ‘But promise me one thing: that you’ll never, never breathe a word to—I don’t know her name—the Lady who Writes.’
‘The Lady who Writes? Who on earth is she talking about, Sybert?’
‘The greatest gossip in Rome,’ appended Marcia.
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
