They pulled their horses to a walk at the gateway, and Sybert looked at her interrogatively. She took the lead and turned to the left along the winding roadway that led up into the mountains away from the Via Prænestina. He rode up beside her again, and they galloped on without speaking. Marcia did not propose to take the initiative in any conversation; he could introduce a subject if he wished, otherwise they would keep still. For the first mile or so he maintained the stolid reserve of a well-trained groom. But finally, as they slowed the horses to 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 renewing the 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 eye on 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 you have been suffering persecution for his sake.’
‘Did she tell you about his stepfather? That’s my story; she ought to have left it for me. I can tell it much more dramatically. It was quite an adventure, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. And you got off easily. It might have turned out to be more of an adventure than you would have cared for.’
‘Oh, I like adventures.’
‘When they’re ended safely, yes. But these Italian peasants are a revengeful lot when they get it into their heads that they have been mistreated. I don’t believe you ought to drive about the country that way.’
‘I should think that two boys and a groom might be escort enough—the pony-carriage doesn’t accommodate many more.’
‘Nevertheless, joking apart, I don’t think it is safe. The country’s pretty thoroughly stirred up just at present.’
‘You’re as bad as Aunt Katherine with her tattooed man! As for being afraid of these peasants, I know every soul in Castel Vivalanti, and they’re all adorable—with the exception of Gervasio’s relatives.’
‘If I were your uncle,’ he observed, ‘I should prefer a niece readier to 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 best to reopen hostilities?’
‘It strikes me that there has been more or less light skirmishing in spite of the amnesty.’
‘At least there has been no serious damage done on either side. I would suggest, if heavy firing is to be recommenced, that we postpone it until the ride home.’
‘Very well. Let’s talk some more about the weather. It seems to be the only 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 the time reading.’
‘Indeed?’
‘The Egoist.’
‘Meredith? Don’t you find him a trifle—er—for rainy weather, you know?’
‘I found the Egoist,’ she returned, ‘a most suggestive work. It throws interesting side-lights on the men one knows.’
‘Oh, come, Miss Marcia,’ he remonstrated. ‘That’s hardly fair; you slander us.’
‘You mustn’t blame me—you must blame the author. It’s a man who wrote it.’
‘He should be regarded as a traitor. In case he is captured and brought into camp, I shall order him shot at sunrise.’
‘He doesn’t accuse all men of being Sir Willoughbys,’ she returned soothingly. ‘I hadn’t thought of you in exactly that connexion. If you choose to wear the coat, you have put it on yourself.’
‘We’ll say, then, that it doesn’t fit, and I’ll resemble the other fellow—the Daniel Deronda one—what’s his name, Whitfield, Whitford?’ (Whitford, it will be remembered, was the dark horse who came in at the finish and captured the heroine.)
Marcia laughed. ‘I really can’t say that the other fits any better. I’m afraid 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 still higher ridge, rose the old monastery she could see from her window. She pointed 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 came to the villa.’
He studied the distance. ‘I should judge it’s about seven kilometres in a straight line, but there’s no telling how long the road takes to get there. 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 find it’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, and she repeated them to herself. They seemed to carry an inner meaning, and she commenced weighing anew her feelings toward Paul. Could she turn back? Was it not too late? No, if she were on the wrong road, the sooner the better; but was she on the wrong road? There were no guide-posts; the end was hidden by a turning. She rode on, forgetting to 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, with a quick laugh.
They pushed on farther up into the hills, between groves of twisted olive trees and sloping vineyards, through fields dyed blue and scarlet with forget-me-nots and poppies. All nature was green and glistening after the rain, and the mountain breeze blew fresh against their faces. Neither could be insensible to the influence of the day. Their talk was light and free and glancing—mere badinage; but it occasionally struck a deeper note, and holding it for an instant, half reluctantly let it go. Marcia had never known Sybert in this mood—she had not, as she realized, known him in any. In all their casual intercourse of the past few months they had scarcely exchanged a single idea. He was an unexplored country, and his character held for her the attraction of the unknown.
Sybert, on his side, glanced at her curiously from time to time as she flung back a quick reply. With him, first impressions died hard. He had first seen Marcia at a tea, the centre of a laughing group, with all the room paying court to her. She was pretty and attractive, faultlessly gowned, thoroughly at ease. He had, in his thirteen seasons, met many women who played many parts; and the somewhat cynical conclusion he had carried away from the experience was that if a woman be but young and fair she has the gift to know it. But as he watched her now he wondered suddenly if she were quite what he had thought her. It struck him that what he had regarded as over-sophistication was rather the pseudo-sophistication of youth; her occasional crudeness, but the crudeness that comes from lack of experience. She knew nothing of life outside the carefully closed confines of her own small world. And yet he recognized in her a certain reckless spirit of daring, of curiosity toward the world, that responded to a chord in his own nature. He had seen it the night they found Gervasio. It was in her face now as she galloped along against the wind, with her eyes raised to the half-ruined towers of the mediæval monastery. He had not been very lenient toward her, he knew; and her scarcely veiled antagonism had amused him. He felt now, as he watched her, a momentary impulse to draw her out, to mould the direction of her thoughts, to turn her face a new way.