‘If you have quite finished, Mr. Sybert, will you answer my question?—Why do they call me “Signorina Wheat”?’
He was apparently engaged with his thoughts and did not hear.
‘Mr. Sybert, I asked you a question.’
‘Why do they shout “Wheat”?’ His tone was still sharp. ‘Well, I suppose because just at present wheat is a burning question in Italy, and the name of Copley is somewhat unpleasantly connected with it. Your uncle has just bought a large consignment of American wheat, which is on its way to Italy now. His only object is to relieve the suffering—he loses on every bushel he sells—but, as is usually the case with disinterested people, his motives have been misjudged. The newspapers have had a great deal to say about the matter, and the people, with their usual gratitude toward their benefactors, have turned against him.’
‘Mr. Sybert, you are not telling me the truth.’
Sybert did not see fit to answer this charge; he folded his arms and leaned against the cushions, with his eyes fixed on the two brass buttons on the back of Giovanni’s coat. And Marcia, the colour back in her cheeks, sat staring at the roadway with angry eyes. Neither spoke again till the carriage came to a stand before the loggia.
‘Well, Miss Marcia, are we friends?’ said Sybert.
‘No,’ said Marcia, ‘we are not.’
She turned up to her room and set about dressing in a very mingled frame of mind. She was still excited and hurt from her treatment in the village—and very much puzzled as to its motive. She was indignant at Sybert’s attitude, at his presuming to issue orders with no reason attached and expecting them to be obeyed. Instead of being grateful for his timely assistance, she was irritated that he should have happened by just in time to see the fulfilment of his warning. His superior ‘I told you so!’ attitude was exasperating to a degree. She ended by uniting her various wounded sensibilities into a single feeling of resentment toward him. The desire that was uppermost in her mind was a wish to pay him back, to make him feel sorry—though for exactly what, she was not quite clear.
She hung up in the wardrobe the simple dinner-dress that Granton had laid out on the bed, and chose in its place a particularly dignified gown with a particularly long train. Having piled her hair on the top of her head, she added a diamond star and a necklace with a diamond pendant. She did not often wear jewels, but they were supposedly ‘American’ and irritating to a man of Sybert’s cosmopolitan sensibilities.
‘Quite stately,’ she murmured, critically surveying the effect in the mirror. ‘One might almost say matronly.’
As she started downstairs she was waylaid at the nursery door by a small figure in a white nightgown.
‘Cousin Marcia, what did you bwing me from ve festa?’
‘Oh, Gerald! I brought you some chocolate and I left it in the carriage. But never mind, dear; it’s too late, anyway, for you to eat it to-night. I will send and get it, and you shall have it with your breakfast to-morrow morning. Be a good boy and go to sleep.’
She went downstairs with her mind bent upon chocolate, and crossed the empty salon to the little ante-room at the rear. She had opened the door and burst in before she realized that any one was inside; then before the apology had risen to her lips she had heard her uncle’s words.
‘Good heavens, Sybert, what can I do? You know my hands are tied. Willard Copley would let the last person in Italy starve if he could make one more dollar out of it!’
Marcia stood still, looking at her uncle in horror while the meaning of his words sank into her mind. He whirled around upon her. His face was whiter and sterner than she had ever seen it.
‘What do you want, Marcia?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why don’t you knock before you come into a room?’
Marcia’s face flushed hotly. ‘I am sorry, Uncle Howard; I was in a hurry, and didn’t know any one was in here.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Marcia! I spoke hastily.’
She hesitated in the doorway and then faced him again.
‘I heard what you said. Will you please tell me what you mean?’
Copley cast an annoyed glance at Sybert, who was standing in the embrasure by the window with his hands in his pockets and his eyes bent upon the floor. Sybert glanced up with a little frown, and then with a half-perceptible shrug turned away and looked out of the window.
‘I might as well tell you, I suppose—you appear to be hearing it from other sources. Your father has been the originator this spring of a very successful corner in wheat. He is, as you know, a keen judge of markets; and foreseeing that wheat for a number of reasons was likely to be scarce, he and one or two of his friends have purchased the whole of the visible supply. As Italy has had to import more than usual—and pay for it in gold when she hasn’t much but paper at her command—you can readily see that it places her in an awkward position. America is a great country, Marcia, when a single one of her citizens can bankrupt a whole kingdom.’
‘You don’t mean, Uncle Howard,’ she cried, aghast, ‘that my father has caused the wheat famine?’
‘There may be one or two minor causes, but I think he is deserving of most of the credit. The name of Copley, I assure you, is not beloved in Italy just now.’
‘And that is what the boys meant when they shouted “Grano”?’
‘Oh, it’s no secret. We’re celebrities in our small way. Two continents are ringing with the name of the American Wheat King, and we come in for a share of his fame. When you think about it,’ he added, ‘there is something beautifully fitting about our taking Villa Vivalanti this spring. We appear to be American editions of the “Bad Prince.” I fancy the old gentleman turned in his grave and smiled a trifle when I signed the lease.’
‘But, Uncle Howard, he doesn’t understand. He does it like a mathematical problem, just to show what he can do, just for the pleasure of winning. Why don’t you write to him? Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘Tell him!’ Copley laughed. ‘You have not been acquainted with your father for so many years as I have, Marcia. Why should he care for a lot of Italian peasants? There are too many of them in existence already. The food in this world has to be fought for, and those who are beaten deserve to die.’
Marcia’s face turned white as the meaning of a hundred petty incidents flashed through her mind that before had had no significance. She knew now why the people in Rome had stopped talking about the wheat famine when she entered the room. She understood Sybert’s attitude toward her all the year—his quizzical expression once or twice when she spent money over-lavishly. She recalled the newspaper the workman in Rome had thrust in her face—the Grido del Popolo—the Cry of the People. She did not have to ask now what it meant. The very beggars in the street had known of her shame, while she alone was ignorant.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she cried.
‘I did not wish to spoil your pleasure; there is no reason why you shouldn’t be happy. If all goes well, a year from now you will be one of the notable heiresses of America. I only hope, when you’re enjoying your wealth, that you’ll not think of the poor starving wretches in Italy who gave it to you.’
Copley’s tone was as brutal as his words. He had forgotten the girl before him; he was talking to the man in America.
Marcia turned away and, with a deep sob, sank down by the table and buried her face in her arms. Sybert threw up his head quickly with a glance of anger, and Copley suddenly came to his senses. He sprang forward and laid his hand on her shoulder.
‘For Heaven’s sake, Marcia, don’t cry about it! I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m nervous and excited and worried. It isn’t as bad as I told you.’
Marcia had a pitiable sense that she was acting like a child when, of all times, she ought to be calm and think. But the sudden revulsion of feeling had swept her away. She had indeed been living in a fools’ paradise the past few months! The poor people Sybert had told her of yesterday—the starving thousands in Naples—her own father was the cause. And the peasants of Castel Vivalanti—no wonder they hated her; while she distributed chocolate with such graceful condescension, her father was taking away their bread. She thought over her uncle’s words, and then, as she realized their content, she suddenly rose, and faced the two men.