The Wheat Princess

‘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.’

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.

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.

‘It appears that his Majesty and I are in the same boat.’

‘I warned you that if you let that wheat be sold in your name you could expect the honour,’ Sybert growled.

‘What do you mean?’ Marcia asked quickly.

‘Just at present, Miss Marcia, I’m afraid that neither your uncle nor myself is as popular as our virtues demand.’

‘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.’

‘Can you trust the servants?’ Sybert asked.

Copley looked up quickly as a thought struck him.

‘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.’

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 little things that she had not thought of at the time, but which now seemed to have a secret meaning.

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.’

‘Oh, yes, Marcia,’ her uncle rejoined. ‘Don’t let the thought of the tattooed man disturb your sleep. He’s more spectacular than dangerous.’

The others had come out on to the loggia and were exclaiming at the beauty of the night.

‘Howard,’ Mrs. Copley called, ‘don’t you want to come and make a fourth at whist?’

‘In a moment,’ he returned. ‘We won’t say anything to the others,’ he said in a low tone to Marcia and Sybert.

‘There’s no use raising any unnecessary excitement.’

‘Marcia, if you and Mr. Sybert would like to play, we can make it six-handed euchre instead of whist.’

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.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Copley,’ he called back; ‘it’s too fine a night to pass indoors. Miss Marcia and I will stay out here.’

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.

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 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.

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 trattoria 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.’

Marcia breathed a little sigh by way of answer, and another silence fell between them.

‘On such a night as this,’ he said dreamily, ‘did you and I, Miss Marcia, once take a drive together.’

‘And we didn’t speak a word!’

‘I don’t know that we did,’ he laughed. ‘At least I don’t recall the conversation.’

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:

‘Open your casement, love.I come as a robber to steal your heart.’

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.

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.

Presently he pulled himself together and began to talk 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.

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.

Marcia shook her head and laughed. ‘On such a night as this to be playing whist!’

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.’

Sybert smiled rather coldly as he turned away. It struck him that the remark was singularly malapropos.

Marcia went on up to her room, and throwing about her shoulders a chiffon scarf, an absurd apology for a wrap, 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.

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.

‘Oh,’ said Marcia, with a sigh of relief; ‘but where’s Bianca? She ought to sit by Gerald till he goes to sleep.

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.

‘But she isn’t going to leave,’ said Marcia. ‘We’ve decided to take her with us.’

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. What could have become of Gerald, and where had all the servants gone?

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.

CHAPTER XXIV

Collecting herself sufficiently to know that she must not cry out or alarm her aunt, Marcia hurried to the front staircase and stood a moment on the landing, hesitating what to do. Sybert was lounging in the doorway leading on to the loggia. She leaned over the balustrade and called to him softly so as not to attract the attention of the others. He turned with a start at the sound of his name, and in response to her summons crossed the hall in his usual leisurely stroll. But at the foot of the stairs, as he caught sight of her face in the dim candle-light, he came springing up three steps at a time.

‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ he cried.

‘Gerald!’ Marcia breathed in a sobbing whisper.

‘Gerald!’ he repeated, anxious lines showing in his face. ‘Good heavens, Marcia! What’s happened?’

‘I don’t know; he’s gone,’ she said wildly. ‘Come up here, where Aunt Katherine won’t hear us.’ She led the way up into the hall again and explained in broken sentences.

Sybert turned without a word and strode back to Gerald’s room. He stood upon the threshold, looking at the empty little crib and tossed pillows.

‘It will simply kill Uncle Howard and Aunt Katherina if anything has happened to him,’ Marcia faltered.

‘Nothing has happened to him,’ Sybert returned shortly. ‘The scoundrels wouldn’t dare steal a child. Every police spy in Italy would be after them. He must be with Bianca somewhere.’

He turned away from the room and went on down the stone passage toward the rear of the house. He paused at the head of the middle staircase, thinking the matter over with frowning brows, while Marcia anxiously studied his face. As they stood there in the dim moonlight that streamed in through the small square window over the stairs they suddenly heard the patter of bare feet in the passage below, and in another moment Gerald himself came scurrying up the winding stone stairway, looking like a little white rat in the dimness.

Marcia uttered a cry of joy, and Sybert squared his shoulders as if a weight had dropped from them. Their second glance at the child’s face, however, told them that something had happened. His little white nightgown was draggled with dew, his face was twitching nervously, and his eyes were wild with terror. He reached the top step and plunged into Marcia’s arms with a burst of sobbing.

‘Gerald, Gerald, what’s the matter? Don’t make such a noise. Hush, dear; you will frighten mamma. Marcia won’t let anything hurt you. Tell me what’s the matter.’

Gerald clung to her, crying and trembling and pouring out a torrent of unintelligible Italian. Sybert bent down, and taking him in his arms, carried him back to his own room. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. Stop crying and tell us what’s the matter,’ he said peremptorily.

Gerald caught his breath and told his story in a mixture of English and Italian and sobs. It had been so hot, and the nightingales had made such a noise, that he couldn’t go to sleep; and he had got up very softly so as not to disturb mamma, and had crept out the back way just to get some cherries. (A group of scrub trees, cherry, almond, and pomegranate, grew close to the villa walls in the rear.) While he was sitting under the tree eating cherries, some men came up and stopped in the bushes close by, and he could hear what they said, and one of them was Pietro. Here he began to cry again, and the soothing had to be done over.

‘Well, what did they say? Tell us what they said, Gerald,’ Sybert broke in, in his low, insistent tones.

‘Vey said my papa was a bad man, an’ vey was going to kill him ‘cause he had veir money in his pocket—an’ I don’t want my papa killed!’ he wailed.

Marcia’s eyes met Sybert’s in silence, and he emitted a low breath that was half a whistle.

‘What else did they say, Gerald? You needn’t be afraid. We won’t let them hurt your papa, but you must remember everything they said, so that we can catch them.’

‘Pietro said he was going to kill you, too, ‘cause you was here an’ was bad like papa,’ Gerald sobbed.

‘Go on,’ Sybert urged. ‘What else did they say?’

‘Vey didn’t say nuffin more, but went away in ve grove. An’ I was scared an’ kept still, an’ it was all nero under ve trees; an’ ven I cwept in pianissimo an’ I found you—an’ I don’t want you killed, an’ I don’t want papa killed.’

‘Don’t be afraid. We won’t let them hurt us. And now try to remember how many men there were.’

‘Pietro an’—some uvers, an’ vey went away in ve trees.’

They questioned him some more, but got merely a variation of the same story; it was evidently all he knew. Marcia called Granton to sit with him and tremulously explained the situation. Granton received the information calmly; it was all she had ever expected in Italy, she said.

Out in the hall again, Marcia looked at Sybert questioningly; she was quite composed. Gerald was safe at least, and they knew what was coming. She felt that her uncle and Sybert would bring things right.

‘What shall we do?’ she asked.

Sybert, with folded arms, was considering the question.

‘It’s evidently a mixture of robbery and revenge and mistaken patriotism all rolled into one. It would be convenient if we knew how many there were; Pietro and Gervasio’s stepfather and your man with the crucifix we may safely count upon, but just how many more we have no means of knowing. However, there’s no danger of their beginning operations till they think we’re asleep.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It is a quarter to ten. We have a good two hours still, and we’ll prepare to surprise them. We won’t tell the people downstairs just yet, for it won’t do any good, and their talk and laughter are the best protection we could have. You don’t know where your uncle keeps his revolver, do you?’

‘Yes; in the top drawer of his writing-table.’ She stepped into Mr. Copley’s room and pulled open the drawer. ‘Why, it’s gone!’

‘I say, the plot thickens!’ and Sybert, too, uttered a short, low laugh, as Copley had done on the terrace.

‘And the rifle’s gone,’ Marcia added, her glance wandering to the corner where the gun-case usually stood.

‘It’s evident that our friend Pietro has been helping himself; but if he thinks he’s going to shoot us with our own arms he’s mistaken. We must get word to the soldiers at Palestrina—did you tell me the servants were gone?’

‘I couldn’t find any one but Granton. The whole house is empty.’

‘It’s the Camorra!’ he exclaimed softly.

‘The Camorra?’ Marcia paled a trifle at the name.

‘Ah—it’s plain enough. We should have suspected it before. Pietro is a member and has been acting as a spy from the inside. It appears to be a very prettily worked out plot. They have waited until they think there’s money in the house; your uncle has just sold a big consignment of wheat. They have probably dismissed the servants with their usual formula: “Be silent, and you live; speak, and you die.” The servants would be more afraid of the Camorra than of the police.—How about the stablemen?’

‘Oh, I can’t believe they’d join a plot against us,’ Marcia cried. ‘Angelo and Giovanni I would trust anywhere.’

‘In that case they’ve been silenced; they are where they won’t give testimony until it is too late. I dare say the fellows are even planning to ride off on the horses themselves. By morning they would be well into the mountains of the Abruzzi, where the Camorrists are at home. We’ll have to get help from Palestrina. If we could reach those guards at the cross-roads, they would ride in with the message. It’s only two miles away, but–’ He frowned a trifle. ‘I suppose the house is closely watched, and it will be difficult to get out unseen. We’ll have to try it, though.’

‘Whom can we send?’

He was silent a moment. ‘I don’t like to leave you,’ he said slowly, ‘but I’m afraid I’ll have to go.’

‘Oh!’ said Marcia, with a little gasp. She stood looking down at the floor with troubled eyes, and Sybert watched her, careless that the time was passing.

Marcia suddenly raised her eyes, with an exclamation of relief. ‘Gervasio!’ she cried. ‘We can send Gervasio.’

‘Could we trust him?’ he doubted.

‘Anywhere! And he can get away without being seen easier than you could. I am sure he can do it; he is very intelligent.’

‘I’d forgotten him. Yes, I believe that is the best way. You go and wake him, and I’ll write a note to the soldiers.’ Sybert turned to the writing-table as he spoke, and Marcia hurried back to Gervasio’s room.

The boy was asleep, with the moonlight streaming across his pillow. She bent over him hesitatingly, while her heart reproached her at having to wake him and send him out on such an errand. But the next moment she had reflected that it might be the only chance for him as well as for the rest of them, and she laid her hand gently on his forehead.

‘Gervasio,’ she whispered. ‘Wake up, Gervasio. Sh—silenzio! Dress just as fast as you can. No, you haven’t done anything; don’t be frightened. Signor Siberti is going to tell you a secret—un segreto,’ she repeated impressively. ‘Put on these clothes,’ she added, hunting out a dark suit from his wardrobe. ‘And never mind your shoes and stockings. Dress subito, subito, and then come on tiptoe—pianissimo—to Signor Copley’s room.’

Gervasio was into his clothes and after her almost before she had got back. When undirected by Bianca, his dressing was a simple matter.

Sybert drew him across the threshold and closed the door. ‘What shall we tell him?’ he questioned Marcia.

‘Tell him the truth. He can understand, and we can trust him.’ And dropping on her knees beside the boy, she laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘Gervasio,’ she said in her slow Italian, ‘some bad, naughty men are coming here to-night to try to kill us and steal our things. Pietro is one of them’ (Pietro had that very afternoon boxed Gervasio’s ears for stealing sugar from the tea-table), ‘and your stepfather is one, and he will take you back to Castel Vivalanti, and you will never see us again.’

Gervasio listened, with his eyes on her face and his lips parted in horror. Sybert here broke in and explained about the soldiers, and how he was to reach the guard at the corners, and he ended by hiding the note in the front of his blouse. ‘Do you understand?’ he asked, ‘do you think you can do it?’

Gervasio nodded, his eyes now shining with excitement. ‘I’ll bring the soldiers,’ he whispered, ‘sicure, signore, sicurissimo! And if they catch me,’ he added, ‘I’ll say the padrone has whipped me and I’m running away.’

‘You’ll do,’ Sybert said with a half-laugh, and taking the boy by the hand, he led the way back to the middle staircase, and the three crept down with as little noise as possible.

They traversed on tiptoe the long brick passageway that led to the kitchen, and paused upon the threshold. The great stone-walled room was empty and quiet and echoing as on the first day they had come to the villa. The doors and windows were swinging wide and the moonlight was streaming in.