‘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 distraction3 of helping4 with her uncle.
‘He’s locking the house.’
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 exclamation7. ‘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 galleys8, 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, tragic9 beauty of his race.
‘Poor man!’ she exclaimed as she bent10 over him. ‘Are you sure he’s alive?’ she asked, starting back.
‘Heavens, yes! It takes more than that knock to kill 243 one of these peasants. He groaned12 when I carried him in. Here, let me give him some whisky.’
He raised the man’s head and pressed the flask13 to his lip. Tarquinio groaned again, and presently he opened his eyes. Sybert raised him to a sitting posture14 against the wall. For a moment his glance wandered about the room, uncomprehendingly, dully. Then, as it fixed15 upon Sybert, a wild, fierce light suddenly sprang into his eyes. ‘Traitor!’ he gasped16 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 shrug18 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 grove19. Sybert was the first to move. He turned aside with a tired sigh that was half a groan11, 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?’
244 ‘I love you.’
‘And—you’re free to marry me?’
She nodded.
He sprang to his feet with a deep, shuddering20 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.’
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 enigmas22 in his character, assumed their right relations. The dark glass that had half hidden his motives23, 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 indifference24. 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 triumphant25 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 accomplished26, 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 patriots27 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.
245 ‘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.
The boy drew himself up proudly and pointed29 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 eminently30 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 diplomat31 not to tell a single soul!’
‘I must tell my wife,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s a case of “I 246 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 discreetly32 into the salon. But his caution was unnecessary; their parting was blatantly33 innocent.
Sybert chose a tall brass34 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 amazement35. ‘What are you doing? It’s one o’clock.’
‘We are packing, my dear.’
Marcia sat down on the bed with a hysterical36 giggle37. ‘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. 247 Just hand me that pile of things on the chair there.’ Her gaze rested upon a parti-coloured assortment38 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 fore17. ‘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 propped39 up on pillows, his arm in a sling40. 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.’
248 ‘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 racing41, 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 sneaking42 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 249 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 heartily43. ‘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.’
‘Howard,’ she asked, ‘shall I have Granton pack your heavy flannels45, 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.’
‘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 daggers47 went out two centuries ago—it’s a mere48 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 250 air. She drew a rug about her and sat looking out, listening to the shuffling49 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 villa50, 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, mingled51 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 drooped52 on the cushions and she fell asleep.
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1
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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2
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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3
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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4
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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8
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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9
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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10
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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11
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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12
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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13
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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14
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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15
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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16
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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17
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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18
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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19
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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20
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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21
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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22
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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23
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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24
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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25
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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26
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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28
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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31
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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32
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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33
blatantly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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34
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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35
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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36
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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38
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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39
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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41
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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42
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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43
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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44
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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45
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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46
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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47
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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50
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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51
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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52
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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