The wheat princess

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wheat Princess, by Jean Webster This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook Title: The Wheat Princess Author: Jean Webster Release Date: September 3, 2014 [EBook #46761] Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHEAT PRINCESS *** Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Transcriber's Note: The cover image was created by the transcriber by adding text to the original cover and is placed in the public domain title BY THE SAME AUTHOR DEAR ENEMY DADDY LONG LEGS JUST PATTY PATTY AND PRISCILLA THE FOUR POOLS MYSTERY JERRY MUCH ADO ABOUT PETER LONDON HODDER AND STOUGHTON THE WHEAT PRINCESS By JEAN WEBSTER Author of ‘Daddy Long Legs,’ ‘Just Patty,’ ‘Dear Enemy’ HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED LONDON O HENRY “The time is coming, let us hope, when the whole Englishspeaking world will recognise in O HENRY one of the greatest masters of modern fiction.” STEPHEN LEACOCK HODDER & STOUGHTON publish all the books by O HENRY in their famous Popular Series THE FOUR MILLION THE TRIMMED LAMP SIXES AND SEVENS STRICTLY BUSINESS ROADS OF DESTINY CABBAGES AND KINGS HEART OF THE WEST THE GENTLE GRAFTER OPTIONS WHIRLIGIGS THE VOICE OF THE CITY ROLLING STONES Cloth LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON PROLOGUE IF you leave the city by the Porta Maggiore and take the Via Prænestina, which leads east into the Sabine hills, at some thirty-six kilometers’ distance from Rome you will pass on your left a grey-walled village climbing up the hillside This is Palestrina, the old Roman Præneste; and a short distance beyond—also on the left—you will find branching off from the straight Roman highway a steep mountain road, which, if you stick to it long enough, will take you, after many windings, to Castel Madama and Tivoli Several kilometers along this road you will see shooting up from a bare crag above you a little stone hamlet crowned by the ruins of a mediaeval fortress The town—Castel Vivalanti—was built in the days when a stronghold was more to be thought of than a water-supply, and its people, from habit or love, or perhaps sheer necessity, have lived on there ever since, going down in the morning to their work in the plain and toiling up at night to their homes on the hill So steep is its site that the doorway of one house looks down on the roof of the house below, and its narrow stone streets are in reality flights of stairs The only approach is from the front, by a road which winds and unwinds like a serpent and leads at last to the Porta della Luna, through which all of the traffic enters the town The gate is ornamented with the crest of the Vivalanti—a phoenix rising out of the flame, supported by a heavy machicolated top, from which, in the old days, stones and burning oil might be dropped upon the heads of the unwelcome guests The town is a picturesque little affair—it would be hard to find a place more so in the Sabine villages, it is very, very poor In the march of the centuries it has fallen out of step and been left far behind; to look at it, one would scarcely dream that on the clear days the walls and towers of modern Rome are in sight on the horizon But in its time Castel Vivalanti was not insignificant This little hamlet has entertained history within its walls It has bodily outfaced robber barons and papal troops It has been besieged and conquered, and, alas, betrayed —and that by its own prince Twice has it been razed to the ground and twice rebuilt In one way or another, though, it has weathered the centuries, and it stands to-day grey and forlorn, clustering about the walls of its donjon and keep Castel Vivalanti, as in the middle ages, still gives the title to a Roman prince The house of Vivalanti was powerful in its day, and the princes may often be met with—not always to their credit—in the history of the Papal States They were oftener at war than at peace with the holy see, and there is the story of one pope who spent four weary months watching the view from a very small window in Vivalanti’s donjon But, in spite of their unholy quarrels, they were at times devout enough, and twice a cardinal’s hat has been worn in the family The house of late years has dwindled somewhat, both in fortune and importance; but, nevertheless, Vivalanti is a name which is still spoken with respect among the old nobles of Rome The lower slopes of the hill on which the village stands are well wooded and green with stone-pines and cypresses, olive orchards and vineyards Here the princes built their villas when the wars with the popes were safely at an end and they could risk coming down from their stronghold on the mountain The old villa was built about a mile below the town, and the gardens were laid out in terraces and parterres along the slope of the hill It has long been in ruin, but its foundations still stand, and the plan of the gardens may easily be traced You will see the entrance at the left of the road—a massive stone gateway topped with moss-covered urns and a double row of cone-shaped cypresses bordering a once stately avenue now grown over with weeds If you pause for a moment—and you cannot help doing so—you will see, between the portals at the end of the avenue, some crumbling arches, and even, if your eyes are good, the fountain itself Any contadino that you meet on the road will tell you the story of the old Villa Vivalanti and the ‘Bad Prince’ who was (by the grace of God) murdered two centuries ago He will tell you—a story not uncommon in Italy—of storehouses bursting with grain while the peasants were starving, and of how, one moonlight night, as the prince was strolling on the terrace contentedly pondering his wickednesses of the day, a peasant from his own village up on the mountain, creeping behind him, quiet as a cat, stabbed him in the back and dropped his body in the fountain He will tell you how the light from the burning villa was seen as far as Rocca di Papa in the Alban hills; and he will add, with a laugh and a shrug, that some people say when the moon is full the old prince comes back and sits on the edge of the fountain and thinks of his sins, but that, for himself, he thinks it an old woman’s tale Whereupon he will cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the dark shadow of the cypresses and covertly cross himself as he wishes you, ‘A revederla.’ You cannot wonder that the young prince (two centuries ago) did not build his new villa on the site of the old; for even had he, like the brave contadino, cared nothing for ghosts, still it was scarcely a hallowed spot, and lovers would not care to stroll by the fountain So it happens that you must travel some distance further along the same road before you reach the gates of the new villa, built anno domini 1693, in the pontificate of his Holiness Innocent XII Here you will find no gloomy cypresses: the approach is bordered by spreading plane-trees The villa itself is a rambling affair, and, though slightly time-worn, is still decidedly imposing, with its various wings, its balconies and loggia and marble terrace The new villa—for such one must call it—faces west and north On the west it looks down over olive orchards and vineyards to the Roman Campagna, with the dome of St Peter’s a white speck in the distance, and, beyond it, to a narrow, shining ribbon of sea On the north it looks up to the Sabine mountains, with the height of Soracte rising like an island on the horizon For the rest, it is surrounded by laurel and ilex groves with long shady walks and leafy arbors, with fountains and cascades and broken statues all laid out in the stately formality of the seventeenth century But the trees are no longer so carefully trimmed as they were a century ago; the sun rarely shines in these green alleys, and the nightingales sing all day Through every season, but especially in the springtime, the garden-borders are glowing with colour Hedges of roses, oleanders and golden laburnum, scarlet pomegranate blossoms and red and white camellias, marguerites and lilies and purple irises, bloom together in flaming profusion And twice a year, in the spring and the autumn, the soft yellow walls of the villa are covered with lavender wistaria and pink climbing roses, and every breeze is filled with their fragrance It is a spot in which to dream of old Italy, of cardinals and pages and gorgeous lackeys, of gallant courtiers and beautiful ladies, of Romeos and Juliets trailing back and forth over the marble terrace and making love under the Italian moon But if there have been lovers, as is doubtless the case, there have also been haters among the Vivalanti, and you may read of more than one prince murdered by hands other than those of his peasants The walls of the new villa, in the course of their two hundred years, have looked down on their full share of tragedies, and the Vivalanti annals are grim reading withal And now, having pursued the Vivalanti so far, you may possibly be disappointed to hear that the story has nothing to do with them But if you are interested in learning more of the family you can find his Excellency Anastasio di Vivalanti, the present prince and the last of the line, any afternoon during the season in the casino at Monte Carlo He is a slight young man with a dark, sallow face and many fine lines under his eyes Then why, you may ask, if we are not concerned with the Vivalanti, have we lingered so long in their garden? Ah—but the garden does concern us, though the young prince may not; and it is a pleasant spot, you must acknowledge, in which to linger The people with whom we are concerned are (I hesitate to say it for fear of destroying the glamour) an American family Yes, it is best to confess it boldly—are American millionaires It is out—the worst is told! But why, may I ask in my turn, is there anything so inherently distressing in the idea of an American family (of millionaires) spending the summer in a seventeenth-century Italian villa up in the Sabine hills—especially when the rightful heir prefers trente-et-un at Monte Carlo? Must they of necessity spoil the romance? They are human, and have their passions like the rest of us; and one of them at least is young, and men have called her beautiful—yes, in this very garden CHAPTER I IT was late and the studio was already well filled when two new-comers were ushered into the room—one a woman still almost young, and still (in a kindly light) beautiful; the other a girl emphatically young, her youth riding triumphant over other qualities which in a few years would become significant A slight, almost portentous, hush had fallen over the room as they crossed the threshold and shook hands with their host In a group near the door a young man—it was Laurence Sybert, the first secretary of the American Embassy—broke off in the middle of a sentence with the ejaculation: ‘Ah, the Wheat Princess!’ ‘Be careful, Sybert! She will hear you,’ the grey-haired consul-general, who stood at his elbow, warned Sybert responded with a laugh and a half-shrug; but his tones, though low, had carried, and the girl flashed upon the group a pair of vivid hazel eyes containing a half-puzzled, half-questioning light, as though she had caught the words but not the meaning Her vague expression changed to one of recognition; she nodded to the two diplomats as she turned away to welcome a delegation of young lieutenants, brilliant in blue and gold and shining boots ‘Who is she?’ another member of the group inquired as he adjusted a pair of eye-glasses and turned to scrutinize the American girl—she was American to the most casual observer, from the piquant details of her gown to the masterly fashion in which she handled her four young men ‘Don’t you know?’ There was just a touch of irony in Sybert’s tone ‘Miss Marcia Copley, the daughter of the American Wheat King—I fancy you’ve seen his name mentioned in the papers.’ ‘Well, well! And so that’s Willard Copley’s daughter?’ He readjusted his glasses and examined her again from this new point of view ‘She isn’t badlooking,’ was his comment ‘The Wheat Princess!’ He repeated the phrase with a laugh ‘I suppose she has come over to marry an Italian prince and make the title good?’ The originator of the phrase shrugged anew, with the intimation that it was nothing to him who Miss Marcia Copley married ‘And who is the lady with her?’ could have pleased me more He’s the finest man I have ever known, and I begin to suspect 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 heartily ‘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.’ Marcia pressed his hand gratefully as her aunt came bustling in with her arms full of clothes ‘Howard,’ she asked, ‘shall I have Granton pack your heavy flannels, 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.’ Copley turned on his side and wrenched his arm again ‘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 daggers went out two centuries ago—it’s a mere 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 air She drew a rug about her and sat looking out, listening to the shuffling 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 villa, 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, mingled 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 drooped on the cushions and she fell asleep CHAPTER XXVI MARCIA woke at dawn with the sun in her eyes She started up dazedly at finding herself dressed in her white evening gown, lying on the couch instead of in bed Then in a moment the events of yesterday flashed back The floor was covered with broken glass, and on the wall opposite a dark spot among the rose-garlands showed where Pietro’s misaimed bullet had lodged On the terrace balustrade below her window two soldiers were sitting, busily throwing dice They lent an absurd air of unreality to the scene She stepped to the open doors of the balcony and drew a deep, delighted breath of the fresh morning air Rome in the west was still sleeping, but every separate crag of the Sabines was glowing a soft pink, and the newly risen sun was hanging like a halo behind the old monastery It was a day filled with promise The next moment she had brought her thoughts back from the distant horizon to the contemplation of homelier matters nearer at hand Mingled with the early fragrance of roses and dew was the subtly penetrating odour of boiling coffee Marcia sniffed and considered Some one was making coffee for the soldiers, who were to be relieved at the ‘Ave Maria.’ She reviewed the possible cooks Not Granton The soldiers were Italians, and, for all Granton cared, they could perish from hunger on their way back to Palestrina Not her aunt In all probability, she did not know how to make coffee Not her uncle He was hors de concours with his wounded arm The Melvilles! They would not have known where to look for the kitchen She interrupted her speculations to exchange last night’s evening gown for a fresh blue muslin, and her hasty glance at the mirror as she stole out on tiptoe told her that the slight pallor which comes from three hours’ sleep was not unbecoming She crept downstairs through the dim hall and paused a second by the open door of the loggia; her eyes involuntarily sought the spot outside the salon window The rug was back in its place again, and everything was in its usual order She felt thankful to some one; it was easier so to throw the matter from her mind She approached the kitchen softly and paused on the threshold with a reconnoitring glance The big stone-floored room, with its smoky rafters overhead, was dark always, but especially so at the sunrise hour; its deep- embrasured windows looked to the west In the farthest, darkest corner, before the big, brick-walled stove, some one was standing with his back turned toward her, and her heart quickened its beating perceptibly She stood very still for several minutes, watching him; she would hypnotise him to turn around; but before she had fairly commenced with the business, he had picked up the poker by the wrong end and dropped it again The observation which he made in Italian was quite untranslatable Marcia tittered and he wheeled about ‘That’s not fair,’ he objected ‘I shouldn’t have said anything so bad if I had known you were listening.’ ‘Do you know what we do with Gerald when he swears in Italian?’ He shook his head ‘We wash his mouth with soap.’ ‘I hope it doesn’t happen often,’ he shuddered ‘He speaks very fluent Italian—nearly as fluent as yours.’ ‘Suppose we change the subject.’ ‘Very well,’ she agreed, advancing to the opposite side of the long central table ‘What shall we talk about?’ ‘We haven’t said good morning.’ She dropped him a smiling curtsy ‘Good morning, Mr Sybert.’ ‘Mr Sybert! You haven’t changed your mind overnight, have you?’ Her eyes were more reassuring than her speech ‘N-no.’ ‘No what?’ ‘Sir!’ She laughed He came around to her side of the table, and faced her with his hands in his jacket pockets ‘You’ve never in your life pronounced my name I don’t believe you know it!’ She whispered ‘Say it louder.’ ‘It sounds too familiar,’ she objected, backing against the wall with impudently laughing eyes ‘You’re so—so sort of old—like Uncle Howard.’ ‘Oh, I know you’re young, but you needn’t put on such airs about it You don’t own all the youth in the world.’ ‘Thirty-five!’ she murmured, with a wondering shake of her head ‘Ah—thirty-five A very nice age Just the right age, in fact, to make you mind me Oh, you needn’t laugh; I’m going to do it fast enough And right here we’ll begin.’ He folded his arms with a very fierce frown, but with a smile on his lips, quizzical, humorous, comprehending, kindly—the finished result of so many smiles that had gone before ‘The business in hand, my dear young woman, is to find out whether or not you happen to know the name of the man you’ve promised to marry Come, let me hear it; say it out loud.’ Marcia looked back tantalizingly a moment, and then, after an inquiring glance about the room as if she were searching to recall it, she dropped her lids and pronounced it with her eyes on the floor ‘Laurence.’ He unfolded his arms ‘The coffee’s boiling over!’ Marcia exclaimed ‘Kiss me good morning.’ ‘The coffee’s boiling over.’ ‘I don’t care if it is.’ The coffee boiled over with an angry spurt that deluged the stove with hissing steam Marcia was patently too anxious for its safety to give her attention to anything else Sybert stalked over and viciously jerked it back, and she picked up the plate of rolls and ran for the door He caught up with her in the hall ‘I know why you discharged Marietta,’ he threw out ‘Why?’ ‘If I were a French cook with a moustache and a goatee and a fetching white cap, and you were a black-eyed little Italian nursemaid with gold ear-rings in your ears, I should very frequently let things burn.’ ‘Oh,’ Marcia laughed ‘And I should probably let the little boy I ought to be looking after fall over the balustrade and break his front tooth while I was sitting on the door-step smiling at you.’ ‘And so we should be torn apart—there was a tragedy!’ he mused compassionately ‘I hadn’t realized it before It proves that you must suffer yourself before you can appreciate the sufferings of others.’ ‘French cooks with fetching caps have elastic hearts.’ ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘and so have black-eyed little Italian nursemaids—I’m glad you’re not an Italian nursemaid, Marcia.’ ‘I’m glad you’re not a French cook—Laurence.’ And then she laughed ‘Will you tell me something?’ ‘Anything you wish.’ ‘Were you ever in love with the Contessa Torrenieri?’ ‘I used to fancy I was something of the sort nine or ten years ago But, thank heaven, she was looking for a count.’ ‘I’m glad she found him!’ Marcia breathed As they crossed the terrace to the little table at the corner of the grove where the afternoon before—it seemed a century—Mrs Copley and Marcia had taken tea, one of the soldiers came hastily forward ‘Permit me, signorina,’ he said with a bow, taking the plate from her hands Marcia relinquished it with a ‘Grazia tanto’ and a friendly smile They were so polite, so good-natured, these Italians! Cups were brought, the table was spread, and Marcia poured the coffee with as much ceremony as if she were presiding at an afternoon reception The two, at the soldiers’ invitation, stayed and shared the meal with them Marcia never forgot that sunrise breakfast-party on the terrace—it was Villa Vivalanti’s last social function She watched Sybert’s intercourse with these men with something like amazement, feeling that she had still to know him, that, his character was in the end the mystery it had seemed With his hand on their shoulders, he was chatting to the group as if he had known them all his life, cordial, friendly, intimate, with an air of good-comradeship, of perfect comprehension, that she had never seen him employ toward even his staunchest friends of the Embassy One of the soldiers, noticing the direction of her glance, informed her that the signore had been up all night, alternately talking to them and pacing the walks of the ilex grove, and he added that the signore was a galantuomo—a gentleman and a good fellow ‘What did he talk about?’ she asked ‘Many, many things,’ said the man ‘Italia, and the people’s miseria, and the priests, and the wine of Sicily, and the King and the Camorra, and (he looked a trifle conscious) our sweethearts He is not like other forestieri, the signore; he understands He is a good fellow.’ And then the young soldier—he was most confiding—told her about his own sweetheart Her name was Lucia and she lived in Lucca She was waiting for him to finish his service, and then they would be married and keep a carvedwood shop in Florence That was his trade—carving wood to sell to the forestieri It was a beautiful trade; he had learned it in Switzerland, and he had learned it well The signorina should judge if she ever came to Florence How much longer did he have to serve? Four months, and then!—He rolled his eyes in the direction where Lucca might be supposed to lie Marcia smiled sympathetically Lucia was a beautiful name, she said Was it not a beautiful name? he returned in an ecstasy But the signorina should see Lucia herself! Words failed him at this point ‘Santa Lucia,’ he murmured softly, and he hummed the tune under his breath Marcia unclasped a chain of gold beads from her neck and slipped it into his hand ‘When you go back to Lucca give this to Lucia from me—con amore.’ ‘Here, here! what is this?’ said Sybert in English, coming up behind ‘Do I find you giving love-tokens to a strange young man?’ Marcia flushed guiltily at the detection ‘It’s for a friend of mine in Lucca,’ she said, nodding over her shoulder to the young soldier as they turned back toward the loggia Sybert laughed softly ‘What are you laughing at?’ she asked ‘I sent a wedding present to Lucia myself.’ They strolled to the end of the loggia and stood by the balustrade, looking off into the hills The fresh, dewy scents of early morning were in the air, and all the world seemed beautiful and young Marcia thought of Sybert pacing up and down the dark ilex walks while the villa slept, and of the dreadful thing he had spoken last night in that wild moment of despair She searched his face questioningly There were shadows under his eyes, the marks of last night’s vigil; but in his eyes a steady calm He caught the look and read her thoughts ‘That’s all over, Marcia,’ he said quietly ‘I’ve fought it out You mustn’t think of it again I don’t very often lose control of myself, but I did last night Once in thirty-five years,’ he smiled, ‘a man ought to be forgiven for being a little melodramatic.’ ‘Will you—really be happy?’ she asked ‘Marcia, America is for me, as for so many poor Italians, the promised land I’m going home to you.’ She shook her head sadly ‘That—won’t be enough.’ ‘It’s all I have, and it’s all I want There’s not room in my heart for anything but you, Marcia.’ ‘Don’t say that,’ she cried ‘That’s why I love you—because there’s room in your heart for so many other people America is your own country Let it take the place of Italy.’ He studied the Campagna, silent, a moment, while a shadow crossed his face He shook his head slowly and looked back with melancholy eyes ‘I don’t know, Marcia That may come later—but—not just now You can’t understand what Italy means to me I was born here; I learned to speak the language before I did English; all that other men feel for their country, for their homes, I feel for Italy And these poor, hard-working, patient people—I’ve done them harm instead of good Oh, I see the truth; Italy must for herself The foreigners can’t help, and I’m a foreigner like the rest.’ ‘Ah, Laurence,’ she pleaded, ‘don’t you see that you’re an American, and that nothing, nothing can stamp it out? It’s all a mistake; your place isn’t here—it’s at home Every man can surely do his best work in his own country, and America needs good men Do you remember what you said at Uncle Howard’s dinner that last night we were in Rome? That to be a loyal citizen of the world was the best a man could do? But you can’t be a loyal citizen of the world unless you are first of all a loyal citizen of your own country America may be crude and it may have a good many faults, but it’s our country just the same, and we ought to love it better than any other You do love it, don’t you? Tell me you do Tell me you’re glad that you’re an American.’ She put her hands on his shoulders and looked up with glowing eyes and cheeks that burned As he watched her a picture flashed over him of what it meant He thought of the vast country, with its richness, its possibilities, its contrasts He thought of its vitality and force; its energy and nervousness and daring And for a brief instant he felt himself a part of it A sudden wave swept over him of that strange, irrational, romantic love of fatherland which is fundamental underneath the polish, underneath the wickedness, in every man in every land For a second he thrilled with it too; and then, as his eye wandered to the great plain beneath them, the old love—his first love—rushed back He bent over and kissed her with sudden tears in his eyes ‘Some day, Marcia, I will tell you that I’m proud to be an American Don’t ask me just yet.’ And as they stood there, hand in hand, there was borne to them from the mountain-top above the sweet, prophetic sound of the bells of Castel Vivalanti ringing the Angelus; while below them on the horizon, like a great, far-reaching sea, stretched the Campagna, haunting, mysterious, insatiable—the Roman Campagna, that has demanded as sacrifice the lives of so many miserable peasants, that has lured from distant homes so many strangers and held them prisoners to its spell—the beautiful, deadly, desolate land that has inspired more passionate love than any land on earth PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK Transcriber’s Notes: Punctuation errors repaired Varied hyphenation was retained Page 12, “Father” changed to “Farther” (Farther away than) Page 41, “Vhandeliers” changed to “chandeliers” (chandeliers of the latter) Page 49, “isesta” changed to “siesta” (siesta at noon) Page 105, “peeple” changed to “people” (stirring up the people) Page 119, ‘“Jammo ‘ncappa, jammo já Funiclui—funiculá.”’ changed to ‘“Jammo ‘ncoppa, jammo jà Funiculì—funiculà.”’ Page 150, “Heathcliffe” changed to “Heathcliff” (he’s exactly like Heathcliff) Page 248, “other’s” changed to “other” (other people’s troubles) Page 254, “mind” changed to “mind” (of mine in Lucca) End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wheat Princess, by Jean Webster *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHEAT PRINCESS *** ***** This file should be named 46761-h.htm or 46761-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/7/6/46761/ Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Updated editions will replace the previous one the old editions will be renamed Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy 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Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks ... I know from experience that it is a long subject.’ The two turned away, escorted to the carriage by Dessart and the Frenchman, while the rest of the group resettled themselves in the empty places The woman who wrote listened a moment to the badinage and... In this he differed from his elder brother And there was one other point in which the two were at variance Though their father had been in the eyes of the law a just and upright man, still, in the battle of competition, many had fallen that he might stand, and... and vineyards Here the princes built their villas when the wars with the popes were safely at an end and they could risk coming down from their stronghold on the mountain The old villa was built