CHAPTER XII
THE week following Easter proved rainy and disagreeable. It was not acheerful period, for the villa turned out to be a fair-weather house.The stone walls seemed to absorb and retain the moisture like a vault,and a mortuary atmosphere hung about the rooms. Mr. Copley, withmasculine imperviousness to mud and water, succeeded in escaping fromthe dampness of his home by journeying daily to the ever-luringEmbassy. But his wife and niece, more solicitous on the subject of hairand clothes, remained storm-bound, and on the fourth day Mrs. Copley'sconversation turned frequently to malaria.
Marcia, who had taken the villa for better, for worse, steadfastlyendeavoured to approve of it in even this uncheerful mood. She dividedher time between romping through the big rooms with Gerald, Gervasio,and Marcellus, and shivering over a brazier full of coals in her ownroom, to the accompaniment of dripping ilex trees and the superfluoussplashing of the fountain. Her book was the _Egoist_, and the _Egoist_is an illuminating work to a young woman in Marcia's frame of mind. Itmakes her hesitate. She knew that Paul Dessart in no wise resembled themagnificent Sir Willoughby, and that it was unfair to make thecomparison, but still she made it.
As she stood by the window, gazing down on the rain-swept Campagna, shepondered the situation and pondered it again, and succeeded only inworking herself into a state of deeper indecision. Paul wasinteresting, attractive--as her uncle said, 'decorative'; but was heany 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 tothe dripping of the raindrops; and for all the thought she spent uponthe question, she wandered in a circle and finished where she hadstarted.
The Monday following Easter week dawned clear and bright again. Marciaopened her eyes to a bar of sunlight streaming in at the easternwindow, and the first sound that greeted her was a joyful chorus ofbird-voices. She sat up and viewed the weather with a sense ofre-awakened life, feeling as if her perplexities had somehow vanishedwith the rain. She was no nearer making up her mind than she had beenthe day before, but she was quite contented to let it stay unmade alittle longer. The sound of horses' hoofs beneath her window told herthat her uncle had started for the station. When he was away and therewere no guests in the house, Marcia and Mrs. Copley usually had thefirst breakfast served in their rooms. Accordingly, as she heard heruncle gallop off, she made a leisurely toilet, and then ate her coffeeand rolls and marmalade at a little table set on the balcony. It waslate when she joined her aunt on the loggia.
Mrs. Copley looked up from an intricate piece of embroidery. 'Goodmorning, Marcia,' she said, returning her niece's greeting. 'Yes, isn'tit 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 ofthese 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 gofor the mail.' She paused to rummage through the basket of silks. 'Ithought it was here, but no matter. She says that owing to thesedreadful riots they have changed all their plans. They have entirelygiven up Naples, and are going north instead, on a little trip of aweek or so to Assisi and Perugia. She wrote to say good-bye and to tellme that they would get back to Rome in time for your party; though theyare 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 sighof relief. Paul would go with them, probably; or, at any rate, she neednot see him; it would postpone the difficulty. 'But where is thesurprise?' she inquired.
'Oh, the surprise!' Mrs. Copley laughed. 'I entirely forgot it. I wasafraid they might think it strange that I hadn't answered thenote--though I really didn't get it in time--so I asked your uncle tostop at their hotel and invite them all to come out to the villa forthe night. I thought that since we were planning to drive to the festaat Genazzano to-morrow, it would be nice to have them with us. I amsure they would be interested in seeing the festa.'
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? Ithought 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 thebest of it. 'Suppose we send over to Palestrina and invite M. Benoitfor dinner,' she suggested presently. 'I think he is stopping therethis 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 groom, who returned with the information that hehad found the gentleman sitting on a rock in a field, painting aportrait of a sheep; that he had delivered the note, and got this inreturn.
'This' was a rapid sketch on bristol-board, representing the youngFrenchman 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 aclock in the corner pointed to eight.
Marcia looked at the sketch and laughed. 'Here's an originalacceptance, Aunt Katherine.'
Mrs. Copley smiled appreciatively. 'He seems to be a very originalyoung man,' she conceded.
'_Naturellement._ He's _a prix de Rome_.'
'When Frenchmen _are_ nice they are very nice,' said Mrs. Copley; 'butwhen they are not----' Words failed her, and she picked up herembroidery again.
At the mid-day breakfast Marcia announced rather hopefully that she didnot 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 forPerugia on Wednesday. Besides, Mrs. Royston never likes to do anythingon the spur of the moment. She likes to plan her programme a week aheadand 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. 'Iam thinking of driving over to the contessa's this afternoon--I mightinvite her to join us.'
'Oh, no, Aunt Katherine! Please, not to-day. If the Roystons shouldcome, there'll be a big enough party without her; and, anyway, shewouldn'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 asperity.
Marcia smiled into her cup of chocolate and said nothing.
* * * * *
While the sun was sunk in its noonday torpor, she stood by her window,gazing absently off toward the old monastery, engaged in a last valiantstruggle to make up her mind. She finally turned away with an impatientshrug which banished Paul Dessart and his importunities to the bottomof the Dead Sea. There was no use in bothering any more about it now;Mrs. Royston's mind at least was no weathercock. Marcia clungtenaciously to the hope that they would not come.
It was a beautiful afternoon, fresh and sparkling from the week ofrain, and she suddenly decided upon a horseback ride to brush from hermind all bothersome questions. She got out her riding-habit and jerkedthe bell-rope with a force which set bells jangling wildly through thehouse, and brought Granton as nearly on a run as was consonant with herdignity and years.
'It's nothing serious,' Marcia laughed in response to the maid'sanxious face; 'I just made up my mind to go for a ride, and in thefirst 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 asa horseback ride.'
'Yes, miss,' Granton agreed somewhat vaguely as she knelt down to helpwith a boot.
'How in the world do those soldiers in the King's guard ever get theirboots on?' Marcia asked.
'I don't know, miss,' said Granton, patiently.
>
Marcia laughed. 'Send word to the stables for Angelo to bring thehorses in fifteen minutes. I'm going to take a long ride, and I muststart immediately.'
'Very well, miss.'
'_Immediately_,' Marcia called after her. In dealing with Angeloreiteration was necessary. He was an Italian, and he had still to learnthe value of time.
She tied her stock before the glass in a very mannish fashion, adjustedher hat--with the least perceptible tilt--and catching up her whip andgloves, started out gaily, humming a snatch of a very much reiteratedNeapolitan street song.
'"Jammo 'ncoppa, jammo ja . . . Funiculi--funicula."'
It ended in a series of trills; she did not know the words. At the headof the stairs she met Granton returning. Granton stood primlyexpressionless, waiting patiently for her to have done before venturingto speak.
Marcia completed her measure and broke off with a laugh. 'Well,Granton, what's the matter?'
'Angelo has taken Master Gerald's pony to Palestrina to be shod andboth of the carriages are to be used, so the other men will be neededfor them, and there isn't any one left to ride with you.'
Marcia's smile changed to a frown. 'How stupid! Angelo has no businessto 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 gathering volume as sheproceeded. She wished to take a horseback ride, and she wished nothingelse for the moment. She foresaw that her aunt would propose that sheride into Tivoli and take tea with the contessa. If there was one thingshe hated, it was to ride at a steady jog-trot beside the carriage; andif there was a second thing, it was to take tea with the contessa.
She heard Mrs. Copley's and Gerald's voices in the salon and sheadvanced to the doorway.
'Aunt Katherine! I'm furious! This is the first time in four days thatit has stopped raining long enough for me to go out, and I'm _dying_ totake a gallop in the country. That miserable Angelo has gone off withGerald's pony, and there isn't another man on the place that can gowith me. You needn't propose my riding into Tivoli to take tea with thecontessa, for I won't do it.'
She delivered this outburst from the threshold, and as she advancedinto the room she was slightly disconcerted to see Laurence Sybertlazily pulling himself from a chair to greet her--if she ever showed ina particularly bad light, Sybert was sure to be at hand. He bowed, hisface politely grave, but there was the provoking suggestion of a smilenot far below the surface; and as she looked at him Marcia had theuncomfortable feeling that her own face was growing red.
'I'm sorry about Angelo, my dear,' said Mrs. Copley. 'I didn't knowthat you wanted to ride this afternoon. But here is Mr. Sybert who hascome 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 recreantAngelo's place,' he affirmed, but in a tone which to her ear did notexpress any undue eagerness.
'Thank you, Mr. Sybert,' she smiled sweetly; 'you are very kind, but Ishouldn't think of troubling you. I know that Aunt Katherine would liketo have you go with her to call on the contessa.'
'If you will permit it. Miss Marcia, I will ride with you instead; forthough I should be happy to call on Contessa Torrenieri with Mrs.Copley, I have just driven out from Tivoli, and by way of change Ishould prefer not driving back.'
'It's awfully kind of you to offer, but I don't really want to ride. Iwas just cross with Angelo for going off without saying anything.'
'Marcia,' remonstrated Mrs. Copley, 'that doesn't sound polite.'
Sybert laughed. 'There is nothing, Miss Marcia,' he declared, 'thatwould give me more pleasure this afternoon than a gallop with you; andwith your permission----' he touched the bell.
Marcia shrugged her shoulders and gave the order as Pietro appeared.
'Send word to the stables for Kentucky Lil and Triumvirate to besaddled at once.'
'You may go upstairs and borrow as much of Howard's wardrobe as youwish,' said Mrs. Copley. 'I dare say you did not come prepared to playthe part of groom.'
'I'll try not to get them muddier than necessary,' he promised as heturned toward the stairs.
He reappeared shortly in corduroys and leather puttees. Marcia wasleaning on the loggia balustrade, idly watching the hills, while adiminutive stable-boy slowly led the horses back and forth in thedriveway. Sybert helped her to mount without a word, and they gallopeddown the avenue in silence. He appreciated the fact that she would havepreferred staying at home to accepting his escort, and the situationpromised some slight entertainment. A man inclined to be a triflesardonic can find considerable amusement in the spectacle of a prettygirl who does not wish to talk to him, but finds herself in a positionwhere she cannot escape. As Sybert had been passing a very hard week,he was the more willing to enjoy a little relaxation at Marcia'sexpense.
They pulled their horses to a walk at the gateway, and Sybert looked ather interrogatively. She took the lead and turned to the left along thewinding roadway that led up into the mountains away from the ViaPraenestina. He rode up beside her again, and they galloped on withoutspeaking. Marcia did not propose to take the initiative in anyconversation; he could introduce a subject if he wished, otherwise theywould keep still. For the first mile or so he maintained the stolidreserve of a well-trained groom. But finally, as they slowed the horsesto 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 renewingthe conversation. Then, 'It is a pleasant day,' he observed.
Marcia regarded the landscape critically.
'Very pleasant,' she acquiesced.
'Looks a little like rain, however,' he added, anxiously fixing his eyeon 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?'
'He is simply a walking appetite!'
'I thought he showed a tendency that way. Mrs. Copley says that youhave been suffering persecution for his sake.'
'Did she tell you about his stepfather? That's my story; she ought tohave left it for me. I can tell it much more dramatically. It was quitean adventure, wasn't it?'
'It was. And you got off easily. It might have turned out to be more ofan adventure than you would have cared for.'
'Oh, I like adventures.'
'When they're ended safely, yes. But these Italian peasants are arevengeful lot when they get it into their heads that they have beenmistreated. I don't believe you ought to drive about the country thatway.'
'I should think that two boys and a groom might be escort enough--thepony-carriage doesn't accommodate many more.'
'Nevertheless, joking apart, I don't think it is safe. The country'spretty thoroughly stirred up just at present.'
'You're as bad as Aunt Katherine with her tattooed man! As for beingafraid of these peasants, I know every soul in Castel Vivalanti, andthey're all adorable--with the exception of Gervasio's relatives.'
'If I were your uncle,' he observed, 'I should prefer a niece readierto take suggestions.'
'I am ready to take his suggestions, but you're not my uncle.'
'No,' said Sybert, 'I am not; and----'
'And what?' Marcia asked.
He laughed.
'I believe we declared an amnesty, did we not? Do you think it is bestto reopen hostilities?'
; 'It strikes me that there has been more or less light skirmishing inspite of the amnesty.'
'At least there has been no serious damage done on either side. I wouldsuggest, if heavy firing is to be recommenced, that we postpone ituntil the ride home.'
'Very well. Let's talk some more about the weather. It seems to be theonly subject on which we can agree.'
Sybert bowed gravely.
'It's been rather rainy for the last week.'
'Very.'
'The villa must have been a little damp.'
'Very.'
'And rather monotonous?'
'Very!' Marcia laughed and gave the dialogue a new turn. 'I spent thetime reading.'
'Indeed?'
'The _Egoist_.'
'Meredith? Don't you find him a trifle--er--for rainy weather, youknow?'
'I found the _Egoist_,' she returned, 'a most suggestive work. Itthrows interesting side-lights on the men one knows.'
'Oh, come, Miss Marcia,' he remonstrated. 'That's hardly fair; youslander us.'
'You mustn't blame me--you must blame the author. It's a man who wroteit.'
'He should be regarded as a traitor. In case he is captured and broughtinto camp, I shall order him shot at sunrise.'
'He doesn't accuse all men of being Sir Willoughbys,' she returnedsoothingly. 'I hadn't thought of you in exactly that connexion. If youchoose to wear the coat, you have put it on yourself.'
'We'll say, then, that it doesn't fit, and I'll resemble the otherfellow--the Daniel Deronda one--what's his name, Whitfield, Whitford?'(Whitford, it will be remembered, was the dark horse who came in at thefinish and captured the heroine.)
Marcia laughed. 'I really can't say that the other fits any better. I'mafraid you're not in the book, Mr. Sybert.'
They came to a fork in the roads and drew rein again.
'Which way?' he asked.
She paused and looked about. They were already far up in the mountains,and towering ahead, nearer and clearer now, on the crest of a stillhigher ridge, rose the old monastery she could see from her window. Shepointed with her whip to the gaunt pile of grey stone against the sky.
'Is that your destination?' he asked.
'Is it too far? I've been wanting to see it closer ever since we cameto the villa.'
He studied the distance. 'I should judge it's about seven kilometres ina straight line, but there's no telling how long the road takes to getthere. We can try it, though; and if you're not in a hurry to get home,we may reach it.'
'At any rate, there's nothing to prevent our turning back if we findit's too far,' she suggested.
'Oh, yes; one can always turn back,' he agreed.
'One can always turn back.' The words caught Marcia's attention, andshe repeated them to herself. They seemed to carry an inner meaning,and she commenced weighing anew her feelings toward Paul. Could sheturn back? Was it not too late? No, if she were on the wrong road, thesooner the better; but was she on the wrong road? There were noguide-posts; the end was hidden by a turning. She rode on, forgettingto talk, with a shadow on her face and a serious light in her eyes.
'Well?' Sybert inquired, 'would you like my advice?'
'I'm afraid it's not a matter you can help me with,' she returned, witha quick laugh.
They pushed on farther up into the hills, between groves of twistedolive trees and sloping vineyards, through fields dyed blue and scarletwith forget-me-nots and poppies. All nature was green and glisteningafter the rain, and the mountain breeze blew fresh against their faces.Neither could be insensible to the influence of the day. Their talk waslight and free and glancing--mere badinage; but it occasionally strucka deeper note, and holding it for an instant, half reluctantly let itgo. Marcia had never known Sybert in this mood--she had not, as sherealized, known him in any. In all their casual intercourse of the pastfew months they had scarcely exchanged a single idea. He was anunexplored country, and his character held for her the attraction ofthe unknown.
Sybert, on his side, glanced at her curiously from time to time as sheflung back a quick reply. With him, first impressions died hard. He hadfirst seen Marcia at a tea, the centre of a laughing group, with allthe room paying court to her. She was pretty and attractive,faultlessly gowned, thoroughly at ease. He had, in his thirteenseasons, met many women who played many parts; and the somewhat cynicalconclusion he had carried away from the experience was that if a womanbe but young and fair she has the gift to know it. But as he watchedher now he wondered suddenly if she were quite what he had thought her.It struck him that what he had regarded as over-sophistication wasrather the pseudo-sophistication of youth; her occasional crudeness,but the crudeness that comes from lack of experience. She knew nothingof life outside the carefully closed confines of her own small world.And yet he recognized in her a certain reckless spirit of daring, ofcuriosity toward the world, that responded to a chord in his ownnature. He had seen it the night they found Gervasio. It was in herface now as she galloped along against the wind, with her eyes raisedto the half-ruined towers of the mediaeval monastery. He had not beenvery lenient toward her, he knew; and her scarcely veiled antagonismhad amused him. He felt now, as he watched her, a momentary impulse todraw her out, to mould the direction of her thoughts, to turn her facea new way.
After a wild gallop along the crest of a hill she drew up, laughing, tosteady her hair, which threatened to come tumbling down about her ears.She dropped the rein loosely on the horse's neck in order to leave bothhands free, and Sybert reached over and took it.
'See here, young lady,' he remonstrated, 'you're going to take acropper some day if you ride like that.'
She glanced back with a quick retort on her lips, but his expressiondisarmed her. He was not watching her with his usual critical look. Shechanged the words into a laugh.
'Do you know what you make me feel like doing, Mr. Sybert? Giving Lilthe reins and galloping down that hill there with my hands in the air.'
'Perhaps I would better keep the reins in my own hands,' was his coolproposition.
'I never knew any one who could rouse so much latent antagonism in aperson as you can! You never say a word but I feel like doing exactlythe opposite.'
'It's well to know it. I shall frame my future suggestions accordingly.'
Marcia settled her hat and stretched out her hand. He returned thereins with a show of doubt.
'Can I trust you to restrain your impulses?' he inquired, with his eyeson the declivity before them.
She gathered up the reins, but made no movement to go on. Instead shehalf-turned in the saddle and looked behind.
They were on the shoulder of a mountain. Below them smaller foothillsreceded, tier below tier, until they sank imperceptibly into the levelplain of the Campagna. Ahead of them the bare Sabines stretched inbroken ridges, backed in the distance by two snow-peaks of theApennines. Everywhere was the warmth of colouring, the brilliant huesof an Italian spring.
'Italy is beautiful, isn't it?' Marcia asked simply.
'Yes,' he agreed; 'Italy is cursed with beauty.'
She turned her eyes inquiringly from the landscape to him.
'A nation of artists' models!' he exclaimed half contemptuously.'Because of their fatal good looks, the Italians can't be allowed to beprosperous like any other people.'
'Perhaps,' she suggested, 'their beauty is a compensation. They arepoor, I know; but don't you think they know how to be happy in spite ofit?'
'They are too easily happy. That's another curse.'
'But you surely don't want them to be unhappy,' she remonstrated.'Since they have to be poor, shouldn't you rather see them contented?'
'Certainly not. They have nothing to be contented with.'
'But I don't see that it makes any difference _what_ you are contentedwith so long as you _are_ contented.'
He looked at her with a half-smile.
'Nonsense, Miss Marcia; you know better than that. When people arecontented with their lot, does their lot ever improve? Do you think theItalian people _
ought_ to be happy? You have seen the way they live,or--no,' he broke off, 'you don't know anything about it.'
'Yes, I do,' she returned. 'I know they're poor--horribly poor--butthey seem to get a good deal of pleasure out of life in spite of it.'
He shook his head. 'You can't convince me with that argument. Have younever heard of a holy discontent? That's what these people need--and,'he added grimly, 'some of them have got it.'
'A holy discontent,' she repeated. 'What a terrible thing to have! It'slike living for revenge.'
'Oh, well,' he shrugged, 'a man must live for something besides histhree meals a day.'
'He can live for his family,' she suggested.
'Yes, if he has one. Otherwise he must live for an idea.'
She glanced at him sidewise. She would have liked to ask what idea helived for, but it was a question she did not dare to put. Instead shecommented: 'It's queer, isn't it, how the ideas that men used to livefor have passed away? Chivalry and crusading and going to war andliving as hermits--I really don't see what's left.'
'The most of the old ideals are exploded,' he agreed. 'But we have newones to-day--sufficiently bad--to meet the needs of the presentcentury. A man can make a god of his business, for instance.'
Marcia shifted her seat a trifle uneasily as she thought of her father,who certainly did make a god of his business. It may have struck Sybertthat it was not a propitious subject, for he added almost instantly--
'And there's always art to fall back upon.'
'But you don't object to that,' she remonstrated.
'No, it's good enough in its way,' he agreed; 'but it doesn't go verydeep.'
'Artists would tell you then that it isn't the true art.'
'I dare say,' he shrugged; 'but at best there are a good many truerthings.'
'What, for instance?'
'Well, three meals a day.'
Marcia laughed, and then she inquired--
'Suppose you knew a person, Mr. Sybert, who didn't care for anythingbut art--who just wanted to have the world beautiful and nothing else,what would you think?'
'Not much,' he returned; 'what would you?'
'I think that you go a great deal farther in the other extreme!'
'Not at all,' he maintained. 'I am granting that art is a very finething; only there are so many more vital issues in life that onedoesn't have time to bother with it much. However, I suppose it's aphase one has to go through with in Italy. Oh, I've been through withit, too,' he added. 'I used to feel that Botticelli and Giorgione andthe rest of them were really important.'
'But you got over it?' she inquired.
'Yes, I got over it--one does.'
Marcia laughed again. 'Mr. Sybert,' she said, 'I think you are anawfully queer man. You are so sort of unfeeling in some respects andfeeling in others.'
'Miss Marcia, you strike me as an awfully queer young woman for exactlythe same reasons.'
They had come to a curve in the road, and under an over-hangingprecipice hollowed out of the rock was a little shrine to the Madonna,and beside it a rough iron cross.
'Some poor devil has met his fate here,' said Sybert, and he reined inhis horse and leaned from his saddle to make out the blurredinscription traced on the bars. 'Felice Buconi in the year 1840 at thisspot received death at the hand of an assassin. Pray for his soul,' hetranslated. 'Poor fellow! It's a tragedy in Italy to meet one's deathat the hands of an assassin.'
'Why more in Italy than in any other place?'
'Because one dies without receiving the sacrament, and has some troubleabout getting into heaven.'
'Oh!' she returned. 'I suppose when Gervasio's father wished that Imight die of an apoplexy he was not only damning me for this world, butfor the world to come.'
'Exactly. An apoplexy in Italy is a comprehensive curse.'
'I think,' she commented, 'that I prefer a religion which doesn't havea purgatory.'
'Purgatory,' he returned, 'has always struck me as quite superior toanything the Protestants offer. It really gives one something to diefor.'
'I should think, for the matter of that, that heaven direct would giveone something to die for.'
'What, for instance? Golden paving-stones, eternal sunshine, andsinging angels!'
'Oh, not necessarily just those things. They're merely symbolical.'
'At least,' said Sybert, 'perfect peace and beauty and happiness, andnothing beyond. You needn't tell me, Miss Marcia, that you want tospend an eternity in any such place as that. It might do for avacation--a villeggiatura--but for ever!'
'Probably angels' ideas of happiness are more settled than men's.'
'In that case angels must be infinitely lower than men. To be happy ina place that has reached the end, that stands still, would require avery selfish man--and I don't see why not a very selfish angel--tosettle down contentedly to an eternity of bliss while there's still somuch work to be done in the world.'
'I suppose,' she suggested, 'that when you get to be an angel, youforget about the world and leave all the sorrow and misery behind.'
'A fools' paradise!' he maintained.
They were suddenly aroused from their talk by a peal of thunder. Theylooked up to see that the sun had disappeared. Sybert's small cloud onthe horizon had grown until it covered the sky.
'Well, Miss Marcia,' he laughed, 'I am afraid we are going to get awetting to pay for our immersion in philosophy and art. Shall we turnback?'
'If we're going to get wet anyway,' she said, 'I should prefer seeingthe monastery first, since we've come so far.' She looked across thevalley in front of them, where, not half a mile away, the walls rosegrim and gaunt amid a cluster of cypresses.
'You can see about as much from here as you could if you went anynearer,' he returned. 'I should advise you to look and run.'
As he spoke a cool wind swept up the valley, swaying the olive treesand turning their leaves to silver. A flash of lightning followed, anda few big drops splashed in their faces.
'We're in for it!' Marcia exclaimed, as she struggled to controlKentucky Lil, who was quivering and plunging.
Sybert glanced about quickly. The flying clouds overhead, and anominous orange light that had suddenly settled down upon the landscape,betokened that a severe mountain storm was at hand. They would bedrenched through before they could reach the monastery--which, afterall, might not prove a hospitable order to ladies. He presently spied alow stone building nearer at hand on the slope of the hill they hadjust left behind. 'We'd better make for that,' he said, pointing it outwith his whip. 'Though it hasn't a very promising look, it will atleast be a shelter until the storm is over.'