Kitabı oku: «The Wheat Princess», sayfa 19

‘It’s the tattooed man!’ she gasped out, but as she felt Sybert’s restraining touch on her arm she calmed herself.

The man took off his hat with a polite bow and an impertinent smile.

‘Buona sera, signorina,’ he murmured. ‘Buona sera, Friend of the Poor. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I come on business molto urgente.’

‘What is your business?’ Sybert asked sharply.

‘My business is with Signor Copley.’

‘What is this? Some one to see me?’ Copley asked, appearing in the doorway. ‘Well, my man,’ he added in Italian, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Uncle Howard, don’t speak to him! It’s the tattooed man,’ Marcia cried. ‘There’s a plot. He wants to kill you.’

An expression approaching amusement flitted over Mr. Copley’s face as he looked his visitor over.

‘I wish to speak to the signore alone, in private, on urgent business,’ the man reiterated, looking scowlingly from one face to the other. He did not understand the foreign language they spoke among themselves, and he felt that it gave them an advantage.

‘Don’t speak to him alone,’ Sybert warned. ‘He’s dangerous.’

‘Well, what do you want?’ Copley demanded peremptorily. ‘Say whatever you have to say here.’

The man glanced at Marcia and Sybert, and then, shrugging his shoulders in true Italian fashion, turned to Copley.

‘I wish the money of the poor,’ he said.

‘The money of the poor? I haven’t any money of the poor.’

‘Si, si, signore. The money you stole from the mouths of the poor—the wheat money.’

Marcia shuddered at the word ‘wheat.’ It seemed to her that it would follow her to her dying day.

‘Ah! So it’s the wheat money, is it? Well, my good man, that happens to be my money. I didn’t steal it from the mouths of the poor. I bought the wheat myself to give to the poor, and I sold it for half as much as I paid for it; and with the money I intend to buy more wheat. In the meantime, however, I shall keep it in my own hands.’

‘You don’t remember me, signore, but I remember you. We met in Naples.’

Copley bowed. ‘On which occasion I put you in jail—a pleasure I shall avail myself of a second time if you trouble me any further.’

‘I have come for the money.’

‘You fool! Do you think I carry thirty thousand lire around in my pockets? The money is in the Banca d’Italia in Rome. You may call there if you wish it.’

The man put his hands to his mouth and whistled.

‘Ah! It’s a plot, is it!’ Copley exclaimed.

‘Si, signore. It is a plot, and there are those who will carry it out.’

He turned with an angry snarl, and before Sybert could spring forward to stop him he had snatched a stiletto from his girdle. Copley threw up his arm to protect himself, and received the blow in the shoulder. Before the man could strike again, Sybert was upon him and had thrown him backward across the balustrade. At the same moment half a dozen men burst from the ilex grove and ran across the terrace; and one of them—it was Pietro—levelled the stolen rifle as he ran.

‘Back into the house!’ Sybert shouted, ‘and bar the salon windows.’ He himself sprang back to the threshold and snatched out his revolver. ‘You fools!’ he cried to the Italians in front. ‘We’re all armed men. We’ll shoot you like dogs.’

For answer Pietro fired the rifle, and the glass of an upper window crashed.

Sybert closed the door and dropped the bar across it. He faced the excited group in the hall with a little laugh. ‘If that’s a specimen of his marksmanship, we haven’t much to fear from Pietro.’

He glanced quickly from one to the other. Marcia, in the salon, was slamming the shutters down. Mrs. Melville and Mrs. Copley were standing in the doorway with white faces, too amazed to move. Copley, in the middle of the hall, with his right arm hanging limp, was dripping blood on the marble pavement while he loudly called for a pistol; and Melville was standing on a chair hastily tearing from the wall a collection of fourteenth-century Florentine arms.

‘Pietro’s got your pistol,’ Sybert said. ‘But I’ve got five shots in mine, and we’ll do for the sixth man with one of those bludgeons. I ought to have shot that tattooed fellow when I had the chance—he’s the leader—but I’ll make up for it yet.’

A storm of blows on the door behind him brought out another laugh. ‘That door is as solid as the side of the house. They can hammer on it all night without getting in.’

The assailants had evidently arrived at the same conclusion, for the blows ceased while they consulted. A crash of glass in the salon followed, and Sybert sprang in there, calling to Melville to guard the hall window. The shutters held against the first impact of the men’s bodies, and they drew off for a minute and then redoubled the blows. They were evidently using the butt of the rifle as a battering-ram, and the stoutest of hinges could not long withstand such usage. With a groan one side of the shutter gave way and swung inward on a single hinge.

‘Put out the lights,’ Sybert called over his shoulder to Marcia, and he fired a shot through the aperture. The assailants fell back with groans and curses, but the next moment, raising the cry, ‘Avanti! Avanti!’ they came on with a rush, the Camorrist leading with the stolen revolver in his hand. Sybert took deliberate aim and fired. The man slowly sank to his knees and fell forward on his face. His comrades dragged him back.

Marcia, in the darkness behind, shut her eyes and clenched her hands. It was the first time she had ever seen a person die, and the sight was sickening. The men withdrew from the window and those waiting inside heard them consulting in low, angry guttural tones. The next moment there was a crash of glass at the hall window which opened into the loggia, and again the rifle as a battering-ram.

‘Ah!’ said Sybert under his breath, and he thrust the revolver into Marcia’s hand. ‘Quick, take that to Melville and bring me one of those spiked truncheons. We’ll make ’em think we’ve got a regular arsenal in here.’

Marcia obeyed without a word, and the next moment shots and cries rang out in the hall. She had scarcely placed the unwieldy weapon in Sybert’s hands when another man thrust himself into the salon opening. They had evidently determined to divide their forces and attack the two breaches at once. Both Marcia and Sybert recognized the man instantly. It was Tarquinio, the son of Domenico, the baker of Castel Vivalanti.

‘Tarquinio! You fool! Go back,’ Sybert cried.

‘Ah-h—Signor Siberti!’ the young fellow cried as he lunged forward with a stiletto. ‘You have betrayed us!’

Sybert shut his lips, and reversing the truncheon, struck him with the handle a ringing blow on the head. Tarquinio fell forward into the darkness of the room, and the moonlight streamed in on his bloody face.

Sybert bent over him a moment with white lips. ‘You poor fool!’ he muttered. ‘I had to do it.’

The next moment Marcia uttered a joyous cry that rang through the rooms.

‘Listen!’

A silence of ten seconds followed, while both besieged and besiegers held their breath. The sound was unmistakable—a shout far down the avenue and the beat of galloping hoofs.

‘The soldiers!’ she cried, and the men outside, as if they had understood the word, echoed the cry.

‘I soldati! I soldati!’

The next moment a dozen carabinieri swept into sight, the moonlight gleaming brightly on their white cross-belts and polished mountings. The men on the loggia dropped their weapons and dashed for cover, while the soldiers leaped from their horses and with spiked muskets chased them into the trees.

Sybert hastily bent over Tarquinio and dragged him back into the shadow.

‘Is he alive?’ Marcia whispered.

‘He’s only stunned. And, poor fellow, he doesn’t know any better; he was nothing but their dupe. It’s a pity to send him to the galleys for life.’

They dropped a rug over the man and turned into the hall, which was hot with the smell of powder and smoking candles. Sybert threw the door wide and let the moonlight stream in. It was a queer sight it looked upon. Copley, weak from his wound, had collapsed into a tall carved chair, while the two ladies, in blood-stained evening dresses, were anxiously bending over him. Melville, with the still smoking revolver in his hand and a jewelled dagger sticking from his pocket, was frenziedly inquiring, ‘For the Lord’s sake, has any one got any whisky?’ Gerald, in his white nightgown and little bare legs, was howling dismally on the stairway; while Granton, from the landing, looked grimly down upon the scene with the air of an avenging Nemesis. The next moment the soldiers had come trooping in, and everything was a babel of cries and ejaculations and excited questions. In the midst of the confusion Mrs. Copley suddenly drew herself up and pronounced her ultimatum.

‘On the very first steamer that sails, we are going back to America to live!’

Marcia uttered a little hysterical laugh, and Melville joined in.

‘And I think you’d better go with them, my boy,’ he said, laying a grimy hand on Sybert’s arm. ‘I suspect that your goose is pretty thoroughly cooked in Italy.’

Sybert shook the elder man’s hand off, with a short laugh that was not very mirthful.

‘I’ve suspected that for some time.’ And he turned on his heel and strode out to the loggia, where he began talking with the soldiers.

‘Poor fellow!’ Melville glanced at Marcia and shook his head. ‘It’s a bad dose!’ he murmured. ‘I have a curiosity to see with what grace he swallows it.’

Marcia looked after Sybert with eyes that were filled with sympathy. She realized that it was a bitter time for him, though she did not know just why; but she had seen the spasm that crossed his face at Tarquinio’s cry, ‘You have betrayed us!’ She half started to follow him, and then she drew back quickly. Through the open door she had caught a glimpse of Sybert and a soldier bending over the Camorrist’s body. They had opened his shirt in front, and she had seen the purple crucifix covered with blood. She leaned back against the wall, faint at the sight. It seemed as if the impressions of this dreadful day could never leave her!

CHAPTER XXV

Mr. Copley’s wounded arm was bandaged the best that they could manage and a soldier dispatched to Palestrina for a doctor. Gerald was put to bed and quieted for the third time that night, and the excitement in the house was subsiding to a murmur when Marcia came downstairs again. Melville met her by the door of the loggia, evidently anxious that she should not go out. She had no desire to; she had seen more than she cared to see.

‘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 distraction of helping with 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 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 exclamation. ‘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 galleys, 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, tragic beauty of his race.

‘Poor man!’ she exclaimed as she bent over him. ‘Are you sure he’s alive?’ she asked, starting back.

‘Heavens, yes! It takes more than that knock to kill one of these peasants. He groaned when I carried him in. Here, let me give him some whisky.’

He raised the man’s head and pressed the flask to his lip. Tarquinio groaned again, and presently he opened his eyes. Sybert raised him to a sitting posture against the wall. For a moment his glance wandered about the room, uncomprehendingly, dully. Then, as it fixed upon Sybert, 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; 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 shrug 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 grove. Sybert was the first to move. He turned aside with a tired sigh that was half a groan, 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?’

‘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’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 tremor 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 enigmas in his character, assumed their right relations. The dark glass that had half hidden his motives, 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 indifference. 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 triumphant 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 accomplished, 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 patriots 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.

‘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 spasm of self-reproach. She had forgotten him.

The boy drew himself up proudly and pointed 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 eminently 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 diplomat not to tell a single soul!’

‘I must tell my wife,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s a case of “I 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.

‘Madame Laventi!’ Melville laughed. ‘You’re too late, Miss Marcia. She knows it already. Madame Laventi does not get her news by word of mouth; the birds carry it to her. Good night,’ he added, and he strolled 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 mantelpiece and 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 door to ask about her uncle. She found the room strewn with the contents of several wardrobes, and her aunt and Granton kneeling each before an open 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 for something further to fit in. In passing she cast her niece a reproachful glance. ‘I don’t see how you can be so flippant, Marcia, after what we’ve been through to-night—and with your uncle lying wounded in the next room! It’s only one chance in a hundred that we aren’t all in our graves by now. I shall not draw an easy breath until we have landed safely in the streets of New York. Just hand me that pile of things on the chair there.’ Her gaze rested upon a parti-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 with only Granton to help there is no time to lose. We might as well begin while we are waiting for the doctor—he surely ought to be here by now,’ she added, her anxiety coming to the fore. ‘What do you suppose takes him so long? It’s been an hour since we sent.’

‘It’s four miles to Palestrina, Aunt Katherine. And you must remember it’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 I can’t help being worried! One suspects everybody after an experience like this. I am really feeling very nervous over your uncle’s arm; he makes 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 a wound of that sort. I shall not feel satisfied about it until we can get 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 propped up on pillows, his arm in a sling. She crossed over and sat down on the edge 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 Italians don’t understand what you are doing. I don’t believe two such different races can understand each other.’

He opened his eyes with a humorous smile. ‘It’s rather a comic-opera ending,’ he agreed. ‘I have a feeling that before the curtain goes down I 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 appreciate you 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, sensitive face.

‘Uncle Howard,’ she said slowly, ‘it seems as if the good you do is some way cast up to the credit side of the world’s account and helps just so much to overcome the bad, whether any one knows about it or not. 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 accomplished on the right side.’

Her uncle smiled again.

‘I’m afraid that’s rather too idealistic a philosophy for this generation. We’re living in a material age, and it takes something more solid than good intentions to make much impression on it. I have a sneaking suspicion that I wasn’t born to set the world to rights. Many men are reformers in their youth, but I’m reaching the age when a club and a good dinner are excellent anodynes for my own and other people’s troubles.’

A shadow fell over her face and she looked down in her lap without answering.

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,’ she whispered, ‘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 ever known, and I begin to suspect that you are the finest girl. But—good gracious! Marcia, I must be blind and deaf and dumb. I had a notion you didn’t like each other.’

‘We’ve changed our minds,’ she said; ‘and I wanted you to know it because I thought it would make you feel better.’

‘And so it does, Marcia,’ he said heartily. ‘The year has accomplished something, after all; and I’m glad for Sybert’s sake that he’s got this just now, for, poor fellow, he’s in a deeper hole than I.’

Marcia pressed his hand gratefully as her aunt came bustling in with her arms full of clothes.

‘Howard,’ she asked, ‘shall I have Granton pack your heavy flannels, or shall you want them on the steamer?’

Her husband attempted a shrug and found the bandages would not permit it.

‘I think perhaps I’d better leave them out. It’s June, of course; but I’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 them away, burn them, do anything you please.’

Mrs. Copley came to the bedside and bent over him anxiously. ‘What’s the matter, dear? Is your arm very painful? You don’t suppose,’ she added in sudden alarm, that the stiletto was poisoned, do you?’

‘Lord, no!’ he laughed. ‘Poisoned daggers went out two centuries ago—it’s a mere scratch, Katherine; don’t worry about it. Go on with your packing—I should hate to miss that first steamer.’

His wife patted the pillows and turned toward the door. ‘Marcia,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘go to bed, child. You will be absolutely worn out to-morrow—and don’t talk to your uncle any more. I’m afraid you 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 she turned back to her own room.

She sat down on the couch by the open window and drew the muslin curtains back. The moon was low in the west, hanging over Rome. A cool night breeze was stirring, and the little chill that precedes dawn was in the air. She drew a rug about her and sat looking out, listening to the shuffling tramp of the soldiers and thinking of the long day that had 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 uncle and Laurence Sybert and the poor peasants. It was Italy to the end—beauty and moonlight and love, mingled with tragedy and death and disappointment. She had a great many things to think about, but she was very, very tired, and with a half-sigh and a half-smile her head drooped on the cushions and she fell asleep.