Chapter 7. Company Comes

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_ CHAPTER SEVEN. COMPANY COMES

"I want to go out," said Marcus to himself, one morning, as he sat at the little table exclusively his.

There was a small volume, a double roll tied round by a band of silk, his tablets and stylus were before him, the latter quite blank, and the window was open, giving him a glorious view of the distant, sunlit mountains, while the air that was wafted in through the vine leaves was rich in delicious odours that came gratefully to his nostrils.

"But I can't go out," he said; "I have all that writing to do, and the first thing when father comes back will be to ask me how much I have done. And here have I been sitting for long enough and have not scratched a word. I wonder how soon he will come?"

The boy sat silently for a few minutes watching some twittering young birds that were playing in the garden trees, chasing one another from twig to twig in the full enjoyment of their life in the transparent atmosphere.

"I wish I were a bird!" sighed the boy, and then half passionately: "Oh, what a lazy dog I am! I am always longing to be or do something else than what I am. But look at that," he said, dropping into his dreamy way again. "How beautiful it must be to throw oneself off the very top of a tree and go floating and gliding about just where one likes, with no books to study, nothing to write, only play about in the sunshine, covered with clothes of the softest down; no bother about a house to live in or a bed, but just when the sun goes down sing a bit about how pleasant life is as one sits on a twig, and then tuck one's head under one's wing, stick one's feathers up till one looks like a ball, and go to sleep till the Sun rises again. Oh, how glorious to be a bird! Ha, ha, ha!" he cried, with a merry laugh, "Old Serge is right. He says I am a young fool, when he's in the grumps, and I suppose I am to think like that; but it seems a life so free from trouble to be a bird, till a cat comes, or a weasel, or perhaps a snake, and catches one on the ground, or a hawk when one's flying in the air, or one of the noisy old owls when one's roosting in the ivy at night. And then squeak-- scrunch--and there's no more bird. Everything has to work, I suppose, and nothing is able to do just as it pleases. That's what father says, and, of course, it's true; but somehow I should like to go out this morning, but I can't; I have to stick here and write. There's father gone off, and old Serge too. I wonder where he's gone. Right away into the forest, of course, to look after the swine, or else into the fields to see whether something's growing properly, and mind that the men keep to work and are not lying snoozing somewhere in the shade. Oh, how beautiful it looks out of doors!"

Marcus sat gazing longingly out of the window, and then apparently, for no reason at all, raised his right hand and gave himself a sharp slap on the side of the head.

"Take that, you lazy brute!" he cried. "Of course you can't do your work if you sit staring out of the window. Turn your back to it, sir, and look inside where you will only see the wall. No wonder you can't work."

He jumped up quickly, raised his stool, and was in the act of turning it round, giving a final glance through the window before he began to work in earnest, when he stopped short and set down the stool again.

"There's somebody coming along the road," he said. "Who's he? Dressed just like father, in his long, white toga. Wonder where he's going, and who he is? Some traveller, I suppose, seeing the country and enjoying himself."

The boy stood watching the stranger for a few moments.

"Why, where can he be going?" he said. "That path only leads here and to our fields. He can't be coming here, because nobody ever comes to see us, and father doesn't seem to have any friends. Perhaps he wants to see Serge about buying some pigs or corn, or to sell some young goats? Yes, that's it, I should think. He wants to sell something. No; it can't be that; he doesn't look the sort of man. Look at that smooth-shaven face and short-cut hair. He seems quite a patrician, just like father. What can he want? Here, how stupid!" cried the boy, as he saw the stranger stop short a little distance from the villa front and begin to look about him as if admiring the beauty of the place and the distant scene. "I know; he's a traveller, and he's lost his way."

Excited by his new thought, Marcus hurried out and down the garden, catching the attention of the stranger at once, who smiled as he looked with the eyes of curiosity at the bright, frank lad, while he took out a handkerchief and stood wiping his dewy face.

"Lost your way?" cried Marcus.

"Well, not quite," was the reply; "but I know very little of these parts."

"I do," said Marcus, "laughing always, and have. I'll show you if you tell me where you want to go."

"Thank you," said the stranger, gravely and quietly; and the boy thought to himself once more that he was no dealer or trader, but some patrician on his travels, and he noted more particularly the clear skin, and clean-cut features of a man thoughtful and strong of brain, who spoke quietly, but in the tones of one accustomed to command.

"You have a beautiful place here, my boy," he continued, as he looked round and seemed to take in everything; "fields, woodlands, garden. Fruit too--vines and figs. An attractive house too. The calm and quiet of the country--a tired man could live very happily here."

"Yes, of course," cried Marcus and with a merry laugh, "a boy too!"

"Hah! Yes," said the stranger, smiling also, as he gazed searchingly in the boy's clear eyes. "So you lead a very happy life here, do you?"

"Oh yes!"

"But not alone?" said the stranger.

"Oh no, of course not," cried Marcus. "There's father, and old Serge, and the labourers and servants."

"Yes, a very pleasant place," said the stranger, as he once more wiped his dewy face.

"You look hot," said the boy. "Come in and sit down for a while and rest. It's nice and shady in my room, and you get the cool breeze from the mountains."

"Thank you, my boy, I will," said the stranger, and he followed Marcus through the shady garden and into the lately vacated room, where the boy placed a chair, and his visitor sank into it with a sigh of relief.

"Have you walked far?" he asked.

"Yes, some distance," was the reply; "but the country is very beautiful, especially through the woodlands, and very pleasant to one who is fresh from the hot and crowded city."

"The city!" cried Marcus, eagerly. "You don't mean Rome?"

"I do mean Rome," said the visitor, leaning back smiling, and with his eyes half closed, but keenly reading the boy the while. "Have you ever been there?"

"Oh no," said Marcus, quickly, "but I know all about it. My father often used to tell me about Rome."

"Your father? May I ask who your father is?"

"Cracis," said the boy, drawing himself up proudly, as if he felt it an honour to speak of such a man. "He used to live in Rome. You've come from there. Did you ever hear of him?"

"Cracis? Cracis? Yes, I have heard the name. Is he at home?"

"No; he went out this morning; but I daresay he will be back soon. Serge is out too."

"Serge?" said the stranger.

"Yes; our man who superintends the farm. He was an old soldier, and knew Rome well. He was in the wars."

"Ha!" said the stranger. "And they are both away?"

"Yes; but you are tired, sir, and look faint. I'll come back directly."

Marcus hurried from the room, but returned almost immediately, laden with a cake of bread, a flask and cup, and a bunch or two of grapes lying in an open basket.

"Ha, ha!" said the visitor, smiling. "Then you mean to play the host to a tired stranger?"

"Of course," said the boy. "That is what father would do if he were at home."

"And the son follows his father's teaching, eh?"

Marcus smiled, and busied himself in pouring out a cup of wine and breaking the bread, which he pressed upon his guest, who partook of both sparingly, keenly watching the boy the while.

"The rest is good," he said, as he caught the boy's eye, "the room cool and pleasant, and these most refreshing. You will let me rest myself awhile? I might like to see your father when he comes."

"Oh, of course," cried the boy. "Father will be very glad, I am sure. We so seldom have anyone to see us here."

Quite unconsciously the boy went on chatting, little realising that he was literally answering his visitor's questions and giving him a full account of their life at the villa and farm.

He noted how sparingly his visitor ate and drank, and pressed him hospitably to partake of more, but, after a few minutes, the guest responded by smilingly waving the bread and wine aside.

"_Quantum sufficit_, my boy," he said; "but I will eat a few of your grapes."

He broke off a tiny bunch, and went on talking as he glanced around.

"Your studies?" he said, pointing to the tablets and stylus. "And you read?"

"Oh yes," said the boy. "My father teaches me. He is a great student."

"Indeed?" said the guest. "And are you a great student too?"

"No," cried Marcus, merrily; "only a great stupid boy!"

"Very," said the visitor, sarcastically. "Well, and what are you going to be when you grow up?"

"Oh, a student too, and a farmer, I suppose."

"Indeed! Why, a big, healthy, young lad like you ought to be a soldier, and learn to fight for his country, like a true son of Rome."

"Hah!" cried Marcus, flushing up and frowning, while the visitor watched him intently.

"I knew just such a boy as you who grew up to be a general, a great soldier as well as a student who could use his pen."

"Ah, that's what I should like to be," cried the boy, springing from his seat with his eyes flashing, as his imagination seemed fired. "That's what Serge says."

"What does Serge say?" asked the visitor.

"Just what you do," cried the boy, boldly; "that I might grow up to be a great soldier, and still read and use my pen."

"Well, why not?" said the guest, as he slowly broke off and ate a grape.

The boy frowned and shook his head.

"It is a man's duty to be ready to draw his sword for his country like a brave citizen, and that country's son," continued the guest, warmly, while the boy watched him eagerly, and leaned forward with one hand resting upon the table as if he was drinking in every word that fell from the other's lips.

"Yes, that's what Serge says," he cried, "and that it is a great and noble thing for a man to be ready to die for his country if there is any need."

"But it is pleasanter to live, my boy," said the visitor, smiling, "and to be happy with those we love, with those whom we are ready to defend against the enemy. You must be a soldier, then--a defender of your land."

"No," said the boy, quickly, and he gave his head a quick shake. "It can never be."

"Why?"

"Because my father says 'no.'"

The visitor raised his brows a little, and then, leaning forward slightly to gaze into the boy's eyes, he said, softly:

"Why does your father say that?"

"Because people are ungrateful and jealous and hard, and would ill-use me, the same as they did him and drove him away from Rome."

The visitor tightened his lips and was silent, sitting gazing past the boy and through the window, so full of thought that he broke off another grape, raised it to his lips, and then threw it through the opening into a tuft of flowers beyond.

"Ah!" he said, at last, as his eyes were turned again towards the boy. "And so you are going to live here then, and only be a student?"

"Of course," said the boy, proudly. "It is my father's wish."

"And you know nothing, then, about a soldier's life?"

"Oh, yes, I do," cried the boy, with his face lighting up.

"Hah! Then your father has taught you to be a soldier and man?"

"Oh, no; he has taught me to read and write. It was some one else who taught me how to use a sword and spear."

"Hah!" cried the visitor, quickly. "Then you are not all a student?"

"Oh, no."

"You know how to use a sword?"

"Yes," said Marcus, laughing, "and a spear and shield as well," and, warming up, the boy began to talk quickly about all he had learned, ending, to his visitor's great interest, with a full account of his training in secret and his father's discovery and ending of his pursuits.

"Well, boy," said the guest, at last, "it seems a pity."

"For me to tell you all this?" cried Marcus, whose face was still flushed with excitement. "Yes, I oughtn't to have spoken and said so much, but somehow you questioned me and seemed to make me talk."

"Did I?" said the visitor. "Well, I suppose I did; but what I meant was that it seems a pity that so promising a lad should only be kept to his books. But there, a good son is obedient to his father, and his duty is to follow out his commands."

"Yes," said the boy, stoutly, "and that's what Serge says."

"Then he doesn't want you to be a soldier now?"

"No," cried the boy. "He says one of the first things a soldier learns is to obey."

"Ah!" said the visitor, looking at the boy with his quiet smile. "I should like to know this old soldier, Serge."

"You soon can," said the boy, laughing. "Here he comes!" For at that moment there was the deep bark of a dog.

"The dog?" said the visitor.

"Oh, that's our wolf-hound, Lupe. It means that Serge is coming back."

The boy had hardly spoken when the man's step was heard outside, and, directly after, as Marcus' guest sat watching the door, it was thrust open, and the old soldier entered, saying: "Has the master come back, my lad?" and started back, staring at the sight of the stranger.

"Not yet, Serge. This is a gentleman, a traveller from Rome, who is sitting down to rest."

Serge drew himself up with a soldierly salute, which was received with dignity, and, as eyes met, the stranger looked the old warrior through and through, while Serge seemed puzzled and suspicious, as he slowly raised his hand and rubbed his head.

"Yes," said the visitor, "your young master has been playing the kindly host to a weary man. Why do you look at me so hard? You know my face?"

"No," said Serge, gruffly; "no. But I think I have seen someone like you before."

"And I," said the visitor, "have seen many such like you, but few who bear such a character as your young master gives."

"Eh?" cried Serge, sharply. "Why, what's he been saying about me?"

"Told me what a brave old soldier you have been."

"Oh! Oh! Stuff!" growled Serge, sourly.

"And of how carefully you have taught him the duties of a soldier, and told him all about the war."

"There!" cried Serge, angrily, stepping forward to bring his big, hairy fist down upon the table with a thump. "I don't know you, or who you are, but you have come here tired, and been given refreshment and rest, and, instead of being thankful, you have been putting all sorts of things in this boy's head again that he ought to have forgot."

"Serge! Serge!" cried Marcus, excitedly. "Mind what you are saying! This is a stranger, and a noble gentleman from Rome."

"I don't care who he is," replied the old soldier, fiercely. "He's no business to be coming here and talking like this. Now, look here, sir," he continued, turning upon the visitor, who sat smiling coldly with his eyes half closed, "this lad's father, my old officer--and a better never stepped or led men against Rome's enemies--gave me his commands, and they were these: that young Marcus here was to give up all thoughts of soldiering and war, and those commands, as his old follower, I am going to carry out. So, as you have eaten and are rested, the sooner you go on your journey the better, and leave us here at peace."

"Serge!" cried Marcus, firmly; and he drew himself up with his father's angry look, "you mean well, and wish to do your duty, but this is not the way to speak to a stranger and my father's guest."

"He's not your father's guest, my lad, but yours, and he's taken upon himself to say to you what he shouldn't say, and set you against your father's commands."

"Even if he has, Serge, he must be treated as a guest--I don't know your name, sir," continued the boy, turning to the visitor, "but in my father's name I ask you to forgive his true old servant's blunt, honest speech."

The visitor rose, grave and stern.

"It is forgiven, my boy," he said; "for after hearing what he has said I can only respect him for his straightforward honesty. My man, I am an old soldier too. I regret that I have spoken as I did, and I respect you more and more. Rome lost a brave soldier when you left her ranks. Will you shake hands?"

Serge drew back a little, and looked puzzled.

"Yes, give me your hand," said the visitor. "I am rested and refreshed, but I am not yet going away. I am going to stay and see Cracis, who was once my dear old friend."

"You knew my master?" cried Serge, with the puzzled look deepening in his eyes.

"Thoroughly," was the reply, "and we have fought together in the past. He will forgive me what I have said, as I do you, and I shall tell him when he comes how glad I am to see that he has such a son and is so bravely served."

For answer the old soldier hesitatingly took the proffered hand, and then gladly made his retreat, the pair following him slowly out into the shady piazza, where they stood watching till he disappeared, when the visitor, after glancing round, gathered his toga round him, and sank down into a stone seat, beside one of the shadow-flecked pillars, frowning heavily the while.

"He means well, sir," said Marcus, hastily; "but I'm sure my father would have been sorry if he had heard. I am glad, though, that I asked you in."

"Why?" said the visitor, with a peculiar look in his eyes.

"Because you say you are an old friend of his, and, of course, I didn't know. It was only out of civility that I did so."

"Yes, so I suppose," was the reply. "Poor fellow! Your man meant well," continued the visitor, with his whole manner changed, and he spoke in a half-mocking, cynical way which puzzled and annoyed the boy. "A poor, weak, foolish fellow, though, who hardly understands what he meant. Don't you think he was very weak, bull-headed and absurd?"

"Well--no," said the boy, quickly, and his face began to flush, and grew the deeper in tint as he noticed a supercilious, mocking smile playing upon the visitor's lips. "Serge is a very true, honest fellow, and thought he was doing right."

"Yes, of course," said the other, "but some people in meaning to do right often commit themselves and do great wrong."

"But you knew my father well?" said Marcus, hastily, to change the conversation. "I never heard him mention you."

"No, I suppose not," said the visitor, thoughtfully, but with a mocking smile upon his lip growing more marked as he went on. "I don't suppose he would ever mention me. A very good, true fellow, Cracis, and, as I said, we were once great friends. But a weak and foolish man who got into very great trouble with the Senate and with me. There was great trouble at the time, and I had to defend him."

"You had to defend my father?" said Marcus, turning pale, and with a strange sensation rising in his breast. "What for?"

"Why, there was that charge of cowardice--the retreat he headed from the Gaulish troops," continued the visitor, watching the boy intently all the while. "He was charged with being a coward, and--"

"It was a lie!" cried the boy, fiercely. "You know it was a lie. My father is the bravest, truest man that ever lived, and you who speak so can be no friend of his. Old Serge was right, for he saw at once what kind of man you are. How dare you speak to me like that! Go, sir! Leave this house at once."

"Go, boy?" said the visitor, coldly, and with a look of suppressed anger gathering in his eyes. "And suppose that I refuse to go at the bidding of such a boy as you?"

"Refuse?" cried Marcus, fiercely. "You dare to refuse?"

"Yes, boy, I refuse. And what then?"

"This!" cried the boy, overcome with rage, and, raising his hand, he made a dash as if about to strike, just as a step was heard, and, calmly and thoughtfully, Cracis walked out into the piazza. _

Read next: Chapter 8. That Great Man

Read previous: Chapter 6. Making The Best Of It

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