CHAPTER XXV
MR. COPLEY'S wounded arm was bandaged the best that they could manageand a soldier dispatched to Palestrina for a doctor. Gerald was put tobed and quieted for the third time that night, and the excitement inthe house was subsiding to a murmur when Marcia came downstairs again.Melville met her by the door of the loggia, evidently anxious that sheshould not go out. She had no desire to; she had seen more than shecared to see.
'We have caught two of the men,' he said; 'but I am afraid that therest have got off--that precious butler of yours among them.'
'Where is Mr. Sybert?' she asked. The thought of Tarquinio had suddenlyoccurred to her; she had forgotten him in the distraction of helpingwith her uncle.
'He's locking the house.'
'I will see if I can help him,' and she turned into the salon.
Melville looked after her with a momentary smile. He had a theory whichhis wife did not share.
Marcia passed through the empty salon and the little ante-room, andhesitated with her hand on the dining-room door. She had a premonitionthat he was within; she turned the knob softly and entered.
Sybert sprang up with a quick exclamation. 'Oh, it's you!' he said. 'Ithought I had locked the door. Draw the bolt, please. I brought him inhere and I'm trying to bring him round. If they find him he'll be sentto the galleys, and it seems a pity. He's got a wife and child tosupport.'
Marcia looked down on the floor where Tarquinio was lying. Sybert hadthrown the glass doors open again and the moonlight was flooding theroom. A towel, folded into a rough bandage, was wrapped around theyoung Italian's head, and his pale face beneath it had all the dark,tragic beauty of his race.
'Poor man!' she exclaimed as she bent over him. 'Are you sure he'salive?' she asked, starting back.
'Heavens, yes! It takes more than that knock to kill one of thesepeasants. He groaned when I carried him in. Here, let me give him somewhisky.'
He raised the man's head and pressed the flask to his lip. Tarquiniogroaned again, and presently he opened his eyes. Sybert raised him to asitting posture against the wall. For a moment his glance wanderedabout the room, uncomprehendingly, dully. Then, as it fixed uponSybert, a wild, fierce light suddenly sprang into his eyes. 'Traitor!'he gasped out, and he struggled to his feet.
Again Marcia saw that quick look of pain shoot over Sybert's face; heswallowed a couple of times before speaking, and when he did speak hisvoice was hard and cold.
'Can you walk? Then climb over that railing and get away as fast as youcan. The soldiers are here, and if they find you they will send you tothe galleys--not that it would be any great loss,' he added with acontemptuous laugh. 'Italy has no need of such men as you.'
Something of the fierceness faded from the young fellow's face, and helooked back with the pleading, child-like eyes of the Italian peasant.The two men watched each other a moment without speaking, thenTarquinio turned to the open door with a shrug of the shoulders--YoungItaly's philosophy of life.
They stood silently looking after him as he let himself down to theground and unsteadily crossed the open space to the shadow of thegrove. Sybert was the first to move. He turned aside with a tired sighthat was half a groan, and dropping into a chair, rested his elbows onhis knees and his head in his hands. All the wild buoyancy that hadkept him through the evening had left him, and there was nothing in itsplace but a dull, unreasoning despair. For the last few weeks he hadbeen glancing at the truth askance. To-night he was looking it full inthe face. The people no longer trusted him; he could do no more good inItaly; his work was at an end. Why had they not killed him? That wouldhave been the appropriate conclusion.
Marcia, watching his bowed figure, dimly divined what was going onwithin his mind. She hesitated a moment, and then with a quick impulselaid her arm about his neck. 'There isn't any one but you,' shewhispered.
He sat for a moment, motionless, and then he slowly raised his eyes tohers. 'What do you mean, Marcia?'
'I love you.'
'And--you're free to marry me?'
She nodded.
He sprang to his feet with a deep, shuddering breath of relief. 'I'velost Italy, Marcia, but I've found you!'
She smiled up at him through her tears, and he looked back with sombreeyes.
'You aren't getting much of a man,' he said brokenly. 'I--was justthinking of shooting myself.'
A quick tremor passed over her, and she drew his face down close tohers and kissed it.
They stood for a long time on the little balcony, hand in hand, facingthe 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 hispast--frankly, freely--and of Italy, his adopted land. He told her whathe had tried to do and wherein he had failed. And as she listened, manythings that had puzzled her, that had seemed enigmas in his character,assumed their right relations. The dark glass that had half hidden hismotives, that had contorted his actions, suddenly cleared before hereyes. She saw the inherent sweetness and strength of his nature beneathhis reserve, his apparent indifference. And as he told the story ofItaly, of the sacrifices and valour and singleness of purpose that hadgone to the making of the nation, there crept involuntarily atriumphant ring into his voice. The note of despondency that haddominated him for the past few months disappeared; for, as he dweltupon the positive things that had been accomplished, they seemed totake shape and stand out clearly against the dimmer background ofunaccomplished hopes. The remembrance of the nation's smaller mistakesand faults and crimes had vanished in the larger view. The story thathe had to tell was the story of a great people and a great land. Therehad been patriots in the past; there would be patriots in the future.The same strength that had made the nation would build it up and carryit 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 whisperedas they turned back into the hall.
'Here's a young gentleman calling for you, Miss Marcia.' Melville'shand rested on the shoulder of a barefooted little figure covered withthe white dust of the Roman road.
'Gervasio!' Marcia cried, with a quick spasm of self-reproach. She hadforgotten him.
The boy drew himself up proudly and pointed through the open door tothe soldiers pacing the length of the terrace.
'_Ecco!_ signorina. _I soldati!_'
Marcia dropped on her knees beside him with a little laugh. 'Youdarling!' 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 shouldbe proud of it--it's your birthright. We are Americani, and we aregoing--home. You may come with us and study and learn, but when you getto be a man you must come back to your own country. It will needyou--and now run to bed. And you too, Miss Marcia,' he added. 'You aretired and there's nothing to be done. Melville and I will attend tolocking up.'
'Locking up!' cried Melville. 'Good Lord, man, how many locking-upsdoes this house require?' He watched them a moment in silence, and thenhe added bluntly: 'Oh, see here, what's the good of secrets betweenfriends? I've known it all along.' He held out a hand to each of them.'It's eminently fitting; my congratulations come from my heart.'
'You're too discerning by far,' Sybert retorted, his hands fast in hispockets.
Marcia, with a laugh and a quick flush, held out both of hers. 'It's asecret,' she said. 'I don't know how you guessed it, but you mustpromise on your honour as a gentleman and a diplomat not to tell asingle soul!'
&nb
sp; 'I must tell my wife,' he pleaded. 'It's a case of "I told you so," andshe usually comes out ahead in such cases. You can't ask me to hidewhat little light I have under a bushel.'
'I don't care so much about Mrs. Melville,' Marcia gave a reluctantconsent. 'But promise me one thing: that you'll never, never breathe aword 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.
'Madame Laventi!' Melville laughed. 'You're too late, Miss Marcia. Sheknows it already. Madame Laventi does not get her news by word ofmouth; the birds carry it to her. Good night,' he added, and hestrolled discreetly into the salon. But his caution was unnecessary;their parting was blatantly innocent.
Sybert chose a tall brass candlestick from the row on the mantelpieceand handed it to her with a bow.
'Thank you,' said Marcia.
She paused on the landing and smiled down.
'_Buona notte_, Signor Siberti,' she murmured.
He smiled back from the foot of the stairs.
'_Buona notte_, signorina. Pleasant dreams!'
* * * * *
Hearing the sound of voices within, Marcia paused at Mrs. Copley's doorto ask about her uncle. She found the room strewn with the contents ofseveral wardrobes, and her aunt and Granton kneeling each before anopen trunk.
'Good gracious, Aunt Katherine!' she exclaimed in amazement. 'What_are_ you doing? It's one o'clock.'
'We are _packing_, my dear.'
Marcia sat down on the bed with a hysterical giggle. 'Aunt Katherine,if I didn't know the contrary, I should swear you were born a Copley.'
Mrs. Copley withdrew her head from the trunk and looked about forsomething further to fit in. In passing she cast her niece areproachful glance. 'I don't see how you can be so flippant, Marcia,after what we've been through to-night--and with your uncle lyingwounded in the next room! It's only one chance in a hundred that wearen't all in our graves by now. I shall not draw an easy breath untilwe have landed safely in the streets of New York. Just hand me thatpile of things on the chair there.' Her gaze rested upon aparti-coloured assortment of ribbons and laces and gloves.
Marcia suppressed another smile. 'I know it isn't the time to laugh,Aunt Katherine, but I can't help it. You're so--sort of businesslike.It never would have occurred to me to pack to-night.'
'We are going into Rome the first thing to-morrow morning, and withonly Granton to help there is no time to lose. We might as well beginwhile we are waiting for the doctor--he surely ought to be here bynow,' she added, her anxiety coming to the fore. 'What do you supposetakes him so long? It's been an hour since we sent.'
'It's four miles to Palestrina, Aunt Katherine. And you must rememberit's the middle of the night; the man was probably in bed and asleep.It will be another half hour at least before he can get here.'
'Yes, I suppose so'--Mrs. Copley turned back to her packing--'but Ican't help being worried! One suspects everybody after an experiencelike this. I am really feeling very nervous over your uncle's arm; hemakes light of it, but it may be more serious than any of us think.There's always so much danger of lockjaw or blood-poisoning from awound of that sort. I shall not feel satisfied about it until we canget into Rome and consult an American doctor.'
'May I see him?' Marcia asked, 'or is he asleep?'
'No, he's awake; but you must not excite him.'
Marcia tapped lightly on Mr. Copley's door and entered. He was proppedup on pillows, his arm in a sling. She crossed over and sat down on theedge of the bed. 'I'm so sorry, Uncle Howard,' she murmured.
'Oh, it's nothing to make a fuss over. I got off very easily.'
'I don't mean just your arm--I mean--everything.'
'Ah,' said Copley, and shut his eyes.
'But, after all,' she added, 'it may be for the best. The Italiansdon't understand what you are doing. I don't believe two such differentraces can understand each other.'
He opened his eyes with a humorous smile. 'It's rather a comic-operaending,' he agreed. 'I have a feeling that before the curtain goes downI should join hands with the bandits and come out and make my bow.'
'There are lots of things to be done in America, and they'll appreciateyou more at home.'
'I think I'll buy a yacht and go in for racing, as your aunt suggests.I may come off in that--if I have a captain.'
Marcia sat silent a moment, looking down on his finely lined, sensitiveface.
'Uncle Howard,' she said slowly, 'it seems as if the good you do issome way cast up to the credit side of the world's account and helpsjust so much to overcome the bad, whether any one knows about it ornot. You may go away and leave it all behind and never be appreciated,but it's a positive quantity just the same. It's so much accomplishedon the right side.'
Her uncle smiled again.
'I'm afraid that's rather too idealistic a philosophy for thisgeneration. We're living in a material age, and it takes something moresolid than good intentions to make much impression on it. I have asneaking suspicion that I wasn't born to set the world to rights. Manymen are reformers in their youth, but I'm reaching the age when a cluband a good dinner are excellent anodynes for my own and other people'stroubles.'
A shadow fell over her face and she looked down in her lap withoutanswering.
After a moment he asked suddenly, 'Where's Sybert, Marcia?'
'I think he's downstairs waiting for the doctor.'
'Ah!' said Copley again, with a little sigh.
Marcia slipped down on her knees beside the bed. 'Uncle Howard,' shewhispered, 'I want to tell you something. I'm--going to marry Mr.Sybert.'
Copley raised himself on his elbow and stared at her.
'You are going to marry Sybert?' he repeated incredulously.
'Yes, uncle,' she smiled. 'He asked me to.'
'Sybert!' Copley repeated, with an astonished laugh. 'Holy St. Francis!What a change is here!'
'I thought you would be pleased,' she said a little tremulously.
He stretched out his hand and laid it over hers. 'My dear Marcia,nothing could have pleased me more. He's the finest man I have everknown, and I begin to suspect that you are the finest girl. But--goodgracious! Marcia, I must be blind and deaf and dumb. I had a notion youdidn't like each other.'
'We've changed our minds,' she said; 'and I wanted you to know itbecause I thought it would make you feel better.'
'And so it does, Marcia,' he said heartily. 'The year has accomplishedsomething, after all; and I'm glad for Sybert's sake that he's got thisjust now, for, poor fellow, he's in a deeper hole than I.'
Marcia pressed his hand gratefully as her aunt came bustling in withher arms full of clothes.
'Howard,' she asked, 'shall I have Granton pack your heavy flannels, orshall you want them on the steamer?'
Her husband attempted a shrug and found the bandages would not permitit.
'I think perhaps I'd better leave them out. It's June, of course; butI've known very cold crossings even in July.'
Copley turned on his side and wrenched his arm again.
'Oh, for heaven's sake! Katherine,' he groaned, 'pack them, throw themaway, burn them, do anything you please.'
Mrs. Copley came to the bedside and bent over him anxiously. 'What'sthe matter, dear? Is your arm very painful? You don't suppose,' sheadded in sudden alarm, that the stiletto was poisoned, do you?'
'Lord, no!' he laughed. 'Poisoned daggers went out two centuriesago--it's a mere scratch, Katherine; don't worry about it. Go on withyour packing--I should hate to miss that first steamer.'
His wife patted the pillows and turned toward the door. 'Marcia,' shecalled over her shoulder, 'go to bed, child. You will be absolutelyworn out to-morrow--and don't talk to your uncle any more. I'm afraidyou will get him excited.'
Marcia bent over and lightly kissed him on the forehead. 'Good night,'she whispered. 'I hope you will feel better in the morning,'
and sheturned back to her own room.
She sat down on the couch by the open window and drew the muslincurtains back. The moon was low in the west, hanging over Rome. A coolnight breeze was stirring, and the little chill that precedes dawn wasin the air. She drew a rug about her and sat looking out, listening tothe shuffling tramp of the soldiers and thinking of the long day thathad passed. When she waked that morning it had been like any other day,and now everything was changed. This was her last night in the villa,and her heart was full of happiness and sorrow--sorrow for her uncleand Laurence Sybert and the poor peasants. It was Italy to theend--beauty and moonlight and love, mingled with tragedy and death anddisappointment. She had a great many things to think about, but she wasvery, very tired, and with a half-sigh and a half-smile her headdrooped on the cushions and she fell asleep.