‘I suspect,’ said Eleanor, ‘that it’s time for you to go back to America and be naturalized, Mr. Sybert.’
‘Oh, well, Miss Royston,’ he objected, ‘I suppose in time one outgrows his college, just as one outgrows his kindergarten.’
‘And his country,’ Marcia added, as much for Paul Dessart’s benefit as for his own.
Margaret, searching for diversion, presently suggested that they visit the ghost. Marcia objected that the ghost was visible only during the full moon, but the objection was overruled. There was some moon at least, and a wild night like this, with flying clouds and waving branches, was just the time for a ghost to think of his sins. Mr. Copley, in the office of chaperon, remonstrated that the grass would be damp; but there were rubbers, he was told. Marcia acquiesced in the expedition without any marked enthusiasm; she foresaw a possible tête-à-tête with Paul Dessart. As they set out, however, she found herself walking beside M. Benoit, with Paul contentedly strolling on ahead at the side of his younger cousin, while Eleanor and the two chaperons brought up the rear. As they came to the end of the laurel path and approached the region of the ruins, Margaret paused with her finger on her lips and in a conspiratorial whisper impressed silence on the group. They laughingly fell into the spirit of the play, and the whole party stole along with the elaborate caution of ten-year-old boys ambuscading Indians.
The ruins in the dim light looked a fit harbour for ghosts. The crumbling piles of masonry were almost hidden by the dark foliage, but the empty fountain stood out clearly in a little open space between the trees.
The group paused on the edge of the trees and stood with eyes turned half expectantly toward the fountain. As they looked, they saw, with a tremor of surprise, the dim figure of a man rise from the coping and dissolve into the surrounding shadows. For a moment no one uttered a sound beyond a quick gasp of astonishment, and an excited giggle from Margaret Royston. Paul was the first to rise to the occasion with the muffled assertion that he recognized the fair and warlike form in which the majesty of buried Denmark did sometime march. Before any of them had recovered sufficiently to follow the apparition, a second ghost rose from the coping and stood wavering in apparent hesitancy whether to recede or advance. This was more than tradition demanded, and with a quick exclamation both Copley and Sybert sprang forward to solve the mystery.
A babble of noisy expostulation burst forth. The ghost was vociferous in his apologies. He had finished his work and had desired to take the air. It was a beautiful night. He came to talk with a friend. He did not know that the signore ever came here, or he would never have ventured.
The tones were familiar, and a little sigh of disillusionment swept through the group. The two men came back laughing, and Paul apostrophized tragically:
‘Another lost illusion! If all the ghosts turned out to be butlers, how unromantic the world would be!’
The young Frenchman took up the tale of mourning.
‘But the true ghost, Monsieur le Prince, whom I was preparing to paint; after this he will not deign to poke his nose from the grave. It is an infamy! An infamy!’ he declared.
They laughingly turned back toward the villa, and Marcia discovered that she was walking beside Paul. It had come about quite naturally, without any apparent interposition on his part; but she did not doubt, since he had the chance, that he would take advantage of it to demand an answer, and she prepared herself to parry what he might choose to say. He strolled along, whistling softly, apparently in no hurry to say anything. When he did break the silence it was to remark that the tree-toads were infernally noisy to-night. He went on to observe that he wasn’t particularly taken with her butler; the fellow protested too much in the wrong place, and not enough in the right. From that he passed to a flying criticism of villa architecture. Villa Vivalanti was a daisy except for the eastern wing, and that was ‘way off in style and broke the lines. Those gingerbread French villas at Frascati, he thought, ought to be razed to the ground by act of parliament.
Marcia responded rather lamely to his remarks, as she puzzled her brains to think whether she had done anything to offend him. He seemed entirely good-humoured, however, and chatted along as genially as the first time they had met. She could not comprehend this new attitude, and though it was just what she had wished for—such is the contrariness of human nature—she vaguely resented it. Had M. Benoit seen her just then he might have accused her, for the third time, of being distraite.
The ghost-hunters, upon their return, shortly retired for the night, as the festa at Genazzano would demand an early start. Before going upstairs, Marcia waited to give orders about an open-air breakfast-party she was planning for the morrow. In searching for Pietro she also found her uncle. Mr. Copley, very stern, was engaged in telling the butler that if it occurred again he would be discharged; and the butler, very humble, was assuring the signore that in the future his commands should be implicitly obeyed.
‘Uncle Howard,’ Marcia remonstrated, ‘you surely aren’t scolding the poor fellow because of to-night? What difference does it make if he does entertain his friends in the grounds of the old villa? We never go near the place.’
‘It is this particular friend I am objecting to.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Gervasio’s stepfather.’
‘Oh, you don’t suppose,’ she cried, ‘that he is trying to steal the child back again?’
‘I should like to see him do it!’ said Mr. Copley, with decision. ‘He doesn’t want the boy,’ he added. ‘What he wants is money, but he isn’t going to get any. I won’t have him hanging about the place, and the servants may as well understand it first as last.’
Marcia, having outlined her plan for the breakfast to a somewhat unresponsive Pietro, finally gained her room; and setting her candle down on the table, she dropped into the first chair she came to with a sigh of relief that the evening was over. She was tired, not only in body, but in mind as well.
The evening was not quite ended, however. A gentle tap came on the door, and she opened it to find Eleanor and Margaret in loose silk dressing-gowns. ‘Let us in quick,’ said Margaret. ‘We’ve just met a man in the hall.’
‘The ubiquitous Pietro shutting up windows,’ added Eleanor. ‘If I were you, I’d discharge that man and get a more companionable butler. It’s uncanny for an Italian servant to be as grave as an English one.’
‘Poor Pietro has just had a scolding, which, I suppose, accounts for his gravity. It’s funny,’ she added, ‘that’s exactly the advice that Paul gave me to-night.’ The ‘Paul’ was out before she could catch it, and she reddened apprehensively, but the girls let it pass without challenging.
‘We’ve come to talk,’ said Margaret, possessing herself of the couch and settling the cushions behind her. ‘I hope you’re not sleepy.’
‘Very,’ said Marcia; ‘but I dare say I shan’t be ten minutes from now.’
‘You needn’t worry; this isn’t going to be an all-night session,’ drawled Eleanor from the lazy depths of an easy-chair. ‘We start at nine for the Madonna’s festa.’
‘You’d better appreciate us now that you’ve got us,’ added Margaret. ‘We should by rights have slept in Rome to-night.’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘Paul took mamma down to the Forum to look at some inscriptions they’ve just dug up; and while she was gone Eleanor and I scrambled around and packed the trunks for Perugia. By the time she came back we had everything ready to come out here, and our hats on waiting to start. She didn’t recover her breath until we were in the train, and then she couldn’t say anything before Mr. Copley. When it comes to starting on Journeys,’ Margaret added, ‘mamma is not what you’d call impulsive.’