It would be disastrous! Marcia agreed.
She crossed the loggia to the terrace and silently fell into step beside her uncle. It was almost dark, and a crescent moon was hanging low over the top of Guadagnolo. A faint lemon light still tinged the west, throwing into misty relief the outline of the Alban hills. The ilex grove was blackgruesomely blackand the happy song of the nightingales and the splashing of the fountain sounded uncanny coming from the darkness; but the white, irregular mass of the villa formed a cheerful contrast, with its shining lights, which threw squares of brightness on the marble terrace and the trees.
Marcia looked about with a deep breath. Its beautiful, isnt it, Uncle Howard? They paused a moment by the parapet and stood looking down over the plain. Isnt the Campagna lovely, she added, half covered with mist?
Yes, its lovelyand the mist means death to the peasants who live beneath it.
She exclaimed half impatiently:
Uncle Howard, why cant you let anything be beautiful here without spoiling it by pointing out an ugliness beneath?
Im sorry; it isnt my fault that the ugliness exists. Look upon the mist as a blessed dew from heaven, if it makes you any happier.
Of course I should rather know the truth, but it seems as if the Italians are happy in spite of things. They strike me as the happiest people I have ever seen.
Ah, well, perhaps they are happier than we think.
Im sure they are, said Marcia, comfortably. Anglo-Saxons, particularly New Englanders, and most particularly Mr. Howard Copley, worry too much.
Its at least a fault the Italians havent learned, he replied. But, after all, as you say, it may be the better fortune to have less and worry lessId like to believe it.
CHAPTER VI
On the morning after their arrival, Marcia had risen early and set out on horseback to explore the neighbourhood. As Castel Vivalanti, accordingly, was engaged in its usual Saturday-morning sweeping, a clatter of horses hoofs suddenly sounded on the tiny Corso (the paving is so villainous that a single horse, however daintily it may step, sounds like a cavalcade), and running to the door, the inhabitants of the village beheld the new signorina Americana gaily riding up the narrow way and smiling to the right and left, for all the world like the queen herself. The women contented themselves with standing in the doorways and staring open-mouthed, but the children ran boldly after, until the signorina presently dismounted and bidding the groom hold her horse, sat down upon a door-step and talked to them with as much friendliness as though she had known them all her life. She ended by asking them what in the world they liked best to eat, and they declared in a single voice for Cioccolata.
Accordingly they moved in a body to the bakers, and, to Domenicos astonishment, ordered all of the chocolate in the shop. And while he was excitedly counting it out the signorina kept talking to him about the weather and the scenery and the olive crop until he was so overcome by the honour that he could do nothing but bob his head and murmur, Si, si, eccelenza; si, si, eccelenza, to everything she said.
And as soon as she had mounted her horse again and ridden away, with a final wave of her hand to the little black-eyed children, Domenico hurried to the Croce dOro to inform the landlord that he also had had the honour of entertaining the signorina Americana, who had bought chocolate to the amount of five lirefive lire! And had given it all away! The blacksmiths wife, who had followed Domenico to hear the news, remarked that, for her part, she thought it a sin to spend so much for chocolate; the signorina might have given the money just as well, and they could have had meat for Sunday. But Domenico was more ready this time to condone the fault. Si, si, he returned, with a nod of his head: the signorina meant well, no doubt, but she could not understand the needs of poor people. He supposed that they lived on chocolate all the time at the villa, and naturally did not realize that persons who worked for their living found meat more nourishing.
When Marcia returned home with the announcement that she had visited Castel Vivalanti, her uncle replied, with an elaborate frown, I suppose you scattered soldi broadcast through the streets, and have started fifty young Italians on the broad road to Pauperism.
Not a single soldo! she reassured him. I distributed nothing more demoralizing than a few cakes of chocolate.
Youll make a scientific philanthropist if you keep on, Mr. Copley laughed, but his inner reflections coincided somewhat with those of the blacksmiths wife.
Marcias explorations were likewise extended in other directions, and before the first week was over she had visited most of the villages from Palestrina to Subiaco. As a result, the chief article of diet in the Sabine mountains bade fair to become sweet chocolate; while Domenico, the baker, instead of being grateful for this unexpected flow of custom, complained to his friends of the trouble it caused. No sooner would he send into Rome for a fresh supply than the signorina would come and carry the whole of it off. At that rate, it was clearly impossible to keep it in stock.
By means of largesses of chocolate to the children, or possibly by a smile and a friendly air, Marcia had established in a very short time a speaking acquaintance with the whole neighbourhood. And on sunny mornings, as she rode between the olive orchards and the wheat fields, more than one worker straightened his back to call a pleased Buona passeggiata, signorina, to the fair-haired stranger princess, who came from the land across the water where, it was rumoured, gold could be dug from the ground like potatoes and every one was rich.
All about that region the advent of the foreigners was the subject of chief interestespecially because they were Americani, for many of the people were thinking of becoming Americani themselves. The servants of the villa, when they condescended to drink a glass of wine at the inn of the Croce dOro, were almost objects of veneration, because they could talk so intimately of the life these stranger princes ledthe stranger princes would have been astonished could they have heard some of the details of these recitals.
And so the Copley dynasty began at Castel Vivalanti. The life soon fell into a daily routine, as life in even the best of places will. Three meals and tea, a book in the shadiness of the ilex grove to the tune of the splashing fountain, a siesta at noon, a drive in the afternoon, and a long nights sleep were the sum of Vivalantis resources. Marcia liked it. Italy had got its hold upon her, and for the present she was content to drift. But Mr. Copley, after a few days of lounging on the balustrade, smoking countless cigarettes and hungrily reading such newspapers as drifted out on the somewhat casual mails, had his horse saddled one morning and rode to Palestrina to the station. After that he went into Rome almost every day, and the peasants in the wayside vineyards came to know him as well as his niece; but they did not take off their hats and smile as they did to her, for he rode past with unseeing eyes. Rich men, they said, had no thought for such as they, and they turned back to their work with a sullen scowl. Work at the best is hard enough, and it is a pity when the smile that makes it lighter is withheld; Howard Copley would have been the last to do it had he realized. But his thoughts were bent on other things, and how could the peasants know that while he galloped by so carelessly his mind was planning a way to get them bread?
Marcia spent many half-hours the first few weeks in loitering about the ruins of the old villa. It was a dream-haunted spot which spoke pathetically of a bygone time with bygone ideals. She could never quite reconcile the crumbling arches, the fantastic rock-work, and the grass-grown terraces with the Young Italy of Monte Citorio thirty miles away. To eyes fresh from the New World it seemed half unreal.
One afternoon she had started to walk across the fields to Castel Vivalanti, but the fields had proved too sunny and she had stopped in the shade of the cypresses instead. Even the ruins seemed to be revivified by the warm touch of spring. Blue and white anemones, rose-coloured cyclamen, yellow laburnum, burst from every cranny of the stones. Marcia glanced about with an air of delighted approval. A Pan with his pipes was all that was needed to make the picture complete. She dropped down on the coping of the fountain, and with her chin in her hands gazed dreamily at the moss-bearded merman who, two centuries before, had spouted water from his twisted conch-shell. She was suddenly startled from her reverie by hearing a voice exclaim, Buon giorno, signorina! and she looked up quickly to find Paul Dessart.
Mr. Dessart! she cried in amazement. Where in the world did you come from?
The inn of Sant Agapito at Palestrina. Benoit and I are making it the centre of a sketching expedition. We get a sort of hill fever every spring, and when the disease reaches a certain point we pack up and set out for the Sabines.
And how did you manage to find us?
Purely chance, he returned more or less truthfully. I picked out this road as a promising field, and when I came to the gateway, being an artist, I couldnt resist the temptation of coming in. I didnt know that it was Villa Vivalanti or that I should find you here. He sat down on the edge of the fountain and looked about.
Well? Marcia inquired.
I dont wonder that you wanted to exchange Rome for this! May I make a little sketch, and will you stay and talk to me until it is finished?
That depends upon how long it takes you to make a little sketch. I shall subscribe to no carte-blanche promises.
He got out a box of water-colours from one pocket of his Norfolk jacket and a large pad from the other, and having filled his cup at the little rush-choked stream which once had fed the fountain, set to work without more ado.
I heard from the Roystons this morning, said Marcia, presently, and immediately she was sorry that she had not started some other subject. In their former conversations Pauls relations with his family had never proved a very fortunate topic.
Any bad news? he inquired flippantly.
They will reach Rome in a week or so.
Holy WeekI might have known it! Miss Copley, he looked at her appealingly, you know what an indefatigable woman my aunt is. She will make me escort her to every religious function that blessed city offers; it isnt her way to miss anything.
Marcia smiled slightly at the picture; it was lifelike.
I shall be stopping in Palestrina when they come, he added.
She let this observation pass in a disapproving silence.
Oh, well, he sighed, Ill stay and tote them around if you think I ought. The Bible says, you know, Love your relatives and show mercy unto them that despitefully use you.
Marcia flashed a sudden laugh and then looked grave.
Paul glanced up at her quickly. I suppose my aunt told you no end of bad things about me?
Was there anything to tell?
He shrugged his shoulders. Ive committed the unpardonable sin of preferring art in Rome to coal in Pittsburg.
He dropped the subject and turned back to his picture, and Marcia sat watching him as he industriously splashed in colour. Occasionally their eyes met when he raised his head, and if his own lingered a moment longer than convention warrantedbeing an artist, he was excusable, for she was distinctly an addition to the moss-covered fountain. The young man may have prolonged the situation somewhat; in any case, the suns rays were beginning to slant when he finally pocketed his colours and presented the picture with a bow. It was a dainty little sketch of a ruined grotto and a broken statue, with the sunlight flickering through the trees on the flower-sprinkled grass.
Really, is it for me? she asked. Its lovely, Mr. Dessart; and when I go away from Rome I can remember both you and the villa by it.
When you go away? he asked, with an audible note of anxiety in his voice. But I thought you had come to live with your uncle.
Oh, for the present, she returned. But Im going back to America in the indefinite future.
He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief.
The indefinite future doesnt bother me. Before it comes youll change your mindeverybody does. Its merely the present I want to be sure of.
Marcia glanced at him a moment with a half-provocative laugh; and then, without responding, she turned her head and appeared to study the stone village up on the height. She was quite conscious that he was watching her, and she was equally conscious that her pale-blue muslin gown and her rosebud hat formed an admirable contrast to the frowning old merman. When she turned back there was a shade of amusement in her glance. Paul did not speak, but he did not lower his eyes nor in any degree veil his visible admiration. She rose with a half-shrug and brushed back a stray lock of hair that was blowing in her eyes.
Im hungry, she remarked in an exasperatingly matter-of-fact tone. Lets go back and get some tea.
Will Mrs. Copley receive a jacket and knickerbockers?
Mrs. Copley will be delighted. Visitors are a godsend at Villa Vivalanti.
They passed from the deep shade of the cypresses to the sun-flecked laurel path that skirted the wheat field. As they strolled along, in no great hurry to reach the villa, they laughed and chatted lightly; but the most important things they said occurred in the pauses when no words were spoken. The young man carried his hat in his hand, carelessly switching the branches with it as he passed. His shining light-brown hairalmost the colour of Marcias ownlay on his forehead in a tangled mass and stirred gently in the wind. She noted it in an approving sidewise glance, and quickly turned away again lest he should look up and catch her eyes upon him.
In the ilex grove they paused for a moment as the sound of mingled voices reached them from the terrace.
Listen, Marcia whispered, with her finger on her lips; and as she recognized the tones she made a slight grimace. My two enemies! The Contessa Torrenieri and Mr. Sybert. The contessa has a villa at Tivoli. This is very kind of her, is it not? Nine miles is a long distance just to pay a call.
As they advanced toward the tea-table, placed under the trees at the end of the terrace, they found an unexpectedly august partynot only the Contessa Torrenieri and the secretary of the Embassy, but the American consul-general as well. The men had evidently but just arrived, as Mrs. Copley was still engaged with their welcome.
Mr. Melville, you come at exactly the right time. We are having mushroom ragoût to-night, which, if I remember, is your favourite dishbut why didnt you bring your wife?
My wife, my dear lady, is at present in Capri and shows no intention of coming home. Your husband, pitying my loneliness, insisted on bringing me out for the night.
I am glad that he didwe shall hope to see you later, however, when Mrs. Melville can come too. Mr. Sybert, she added, turning toward the younger man, you cant know how we miss not having you drop in at all hours of the day. We didnt realize what a necessary member of the family you had become until we had to do without you.