by Ann Bridge
“That,” Countess Aspasia pursued firmly, “is why I think it desirable that Miss Prestwich should remain with us for the present. Indeed at the moment she is quite unfit to travel; the shock— both shocks,” she said with emphasis, “have affected her severely. I have had the Doctor; he has given her sedatives; he thinks she will do.” She paused, and then said—“Do you agree that this is the right course to pursue, Marchesa?”
“But certainly!” the old lady said, with energy. “We have reason to be extremely grateful to you, my dear Aspasia. You have averted a tragedy. One tragedy, anyhow,” she amended. “As to her remaining, you are perfectly right; she cannot go home.” She considered, tapping the fingers of her left hand on her knee, so that the diamonds winked briskly, even in the shaded room. “You are satisfied that she really did go to Roffredo in order to borrow money?” she asked, rather sharply.
“When she woke in the morning and found him gone, leaving no note, she asked Alba if he had left no money! To that point she was reduced!” Aspasia said; for the first time she allowed the bitterness of her indignation to come into her voice. “I am satisfied that she went for no other reason. Dear Marchesa, consider her situation! For this dismissal was wholly unexpected. She would hardly have cared to go to Odredo for help, in the circumstances—and to whom else could she apply?”
“É vero—è vero,” the old woman murmured, half to herself. Again she considered. Then she raised her white head and looked straight at the Countess Aspasia, her black eyes full of intelligence, and spoke briskly. “Contessa, this is an unhappy business,” she said frankly. “Something must be allowed to Suzy for the distress of Nadia’s death—she was. very fond of her; fonder than I was! I found that intensity very fatiguing!—and for the shock of finding this—entanglement—going on in her house. For I gather Miss Prestwich admitted that it had been going on for some time. But it was not well handled—not well handled!” She paused. “We are all very much in your debt. You have saved us from one disaster. As to the other, we must hope for the best. The first time is often—in somma, nothing results! I could have wished that some other shelter could have been found for that poor child, but—let it be. It is most good of you. But— for her sake—the less said the better. I feel this strongly!” she said, with great energy.
“Marchesa, I agree,” Aspasia said. She meant it—she was, as always, disarmed by the old Marchesa’s courage and frankness. But for all her intelligence and clear sight, she never recognised the ungovernable quality of her own tongue; it never occurred to her that her concurrence now meant exactly nothing, and that in her heart she fully intended to spread this superlative story far and wide.
“As to Roffredo—” the old lady went on. “T have no patience with him! Though he is no worse than all the rest. What did he need to rush off for, like that?”
“This invention! It seems it has been accepted. Roffredo has no stability, in any case,” Aspasia said, dismissing him. She rose.
The old lady rose too. Then another idea occurred to her. “That letter,” she said. “What became of it?”
“I have burnt it,” Aspasia said.
“You are perfectly right. Do not let her write to her Mother about all this—there is no necessity, for the present,” the old lady said. She held out her hand, and for the first time that afternoon she gave her little, old, detached, wise smile. “Goodbye, my dear Aspasia. I think we understand each other.”
But when the Countess Aspasia had gone, she sat for a long time in her chair, singularly conscious once more of that pain of whose origin she could not be sure. Was it only in her heart, or physically in her breast as well? What an imbroglio, what a foolish, needless, wretched business it all was. O Suzy, Suzy! She thought of Miss Prestwich, with her bright face and ardent devotion to her task and her pupil—and she thought then of Miss Prestwich’s pupil herself, her loss, and her horror if she ever learned the truth of all this. “My darling, my treasure”—the severe old lips shaped the tender words; and a tear, bright as the diamonds on the hand she still held to her heart, slipped down the deeply etched lines of her cheek. Then, quite suddenly, still sitting in her chair, she dropped off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-one
On that same Tuesday afternoon, Elena and Marietta, after the siesta, were sitting out by the round marble table under the stone pine at Odredo, Elena sewing, Marietta faithfully and laboriously ploughing her way through Pride and Prejudice, a dictionary by her side. It was very hot; the scent of the larches on the slope below, with its curious sweet tang, like the smell of apples, came up to them and mingled with the strong resinous scent of the stone pine —by the track leading down to the park a group of young plane trees stood out in the afternoon sunshine, their thick yellowing leaves so motionless that it was as if they were embedded, beyond power of movement, in the solid golden air. Once or twice Marietta laughed. “What is it?” Elena asked at length.
“Questa Elisabetta! She is so sensible, it comes out as comic,” Marietta said. “Oh, I wish Postiche was here!” She pushed the book away, and sat looking in front of her.
“Is there something you do not understand?”
“Yes—lots! None of it! I can’t make them out. They love, it says, and they seem to suffer; but it is all done by writing, and bowing, and clever words, and thinking in your room! That is part of love, no doubt,” the child said thoughtfully, “but surely there is also more. This Darcy shall be a galantuomo, I gather; would he not sometimes take her in his arms?”
Elena laughed. “You want Postiche to expound love à l’anglaise?” she said.
“I suppose. Oh, I want her for everything! I do miss her so,” the child said simply.
“You’ve only been away from her twenty-four hours, and you will soon have her again,” Elena said sensibly.
“You are like Elisabetta!” Marietta replied.
A peacock’s harsh cry, distant but loud, rang through the still air. Marietta sprang up.
“There it is again!” she said. “I wish they would not.”
“You are absurd,” Elena said, good-temperedly. “What harm do they do you?”
“I don’t like them—they make me think of destruction and disaster,” the child answered sombrely. “Oh, there’s Gela! Good.”
Fräulein Gelsicher’s spare figure was indeed visible, sheltered by a green-lined tussore sunshade, crossing the hot space of gravel between the shade of the tree and the house. Elena welcomed her with her customary vivacity.
“Gela, it is time you came! Marietta is fussing about the peacocks again. You remember how silly she was about them yesterday afternoon? Now she says they are a presage of disaster!”
“I did not say they were—I said they made me think of it,” Marietta said, still seriously. “Oh!”—as the long-drawn melancholy cry came again, she put her small brown hands to her ears. “Shut up!” she said menacingly, to the direction of Vill’ Alta.
Fräulein Gelsicher however did not embark, with her usual friendly readiness, on the subject of peacocks. Her face was serious and rather drawn. “Elena, I should like to speak to you,” she said, with unusual gravity in her voice.
“I will go! I will go! I am sick of sitting still!” Marietta cried, and moved off towards the ridge that led to Vill’ Alta.
“Marietta! You are not going far, are you?” Fräulein Gelsicher called after her.
“No—nowhere in particular,” the child said. Responsive to some unspoken hint in the voice, she turned back, and made towards the house.
“She must not go there” Fräulein Gelsicher said, also moving her head in the direction of Vill’ Alta, as she sat down.
“What is the matter?” Elena asked.
“A very—a most distressing thing has happened,” the governess said. “We have all been too late. I ought to have spoken yesterday, or even the day before; but with the Marchesa’s death, it seemed so difficult”—she spoke as much to herself as to Elena. “And La Vecchia Marchesa too, it seems, did not—“ She
broke off, and sat looking distressfully at the pointed toes of her tight shoes, slightly dusty from the gravel.
Elena rose, took a wicker foot-stool, scooped up her governess’s thin slate-coloured ankles with one hand, and with the other pushed the foot-stool under her feet. Then, returning to her chair, “Do stop blaming yourself, Gela, and tell me what has happened,” she said.
“Merci, mon enfant. In the ordinary way it is not a thing I should wish to tell you,” Fräulein Gelsicher said; “but with Marietta here, I think I must, for I shall need your help.”
“Is it about Suzy?” Elena asked calmly, taking up her sewing again.
“Not exactly. Partly. She has dismissed Miss Prestwich,” Fräulein Gelsicher said.
“How monstrous!” Elena exclaimed. “What on earth for?”
“I do not know. I have heard nothing from there. But —Elena, would you be quiet and listen?” Fräulein Gelsicher said, almost imploringly, as the girl made an impatient movement. “Remember, it may not be—it may sound worse than it is, for I have only heard through the servants. But it seems that she was sent away last night, and without much money; in any case, she persuaded the diligence driver to take her to Roffredo’s house.”
“The diligence? Where was the carriage?”
“It appears that the carriage took her only to the diligence stop,” Fräulein Gelsicher said, unhappily.
“That woman! All right, Gela—I will be quiet. Goon.”
“Roffredo certainly meant to take her on to the night train, because Antonio was told to get out the automobile,” Fräulein Gelsicher pursued, “but naturally he gave her dinner first, and —” she stopped, her face full of wretchedness.
“He kept her there and seduced her, I suppose?” Elena said, in the calm tones of cold fury. “Brute! I told you he wasn’t to be trusted. And I told you Zia Suzy was capable de tout. Now we see!” she said, getting up and walking up and down. “Now we see her as she is! And that is why Marietta was to come here, to be out of the way—but Postiche must stay, to help with the flowers and the letters! Oh, la-!” she used an unprintable word. “And all this, with Zia Nadia, her own sister-in-law, lying unburied, hardly cold! Quelle ardure!”
“Elena, Elena, do not speak so loud! Try to control yourself!” the governess said, firmly. “You will be of no help unless you can behave reasonably.”
“Where is she now, the poor little thing? Is she gone, or does he keep her there still?” the girl asked abruptly.
“They are both gone, He had a telegram from Milan, about his invention, and went off very early; and she, it appears, is gone to Castellone.”
“To Castellone? Why on earth there?”
“The two Countesses drove over and fetched her, soon after ten, in the pony-cart. How they came to do so, I can’t say,” Fräulein Gelsicher said, in a tone of weary bewilderment. “But they did—and there she is.”
Elena first stared, then broke into a laugh.
“The Sorellone to the rescue!” she said. “That is perfect! They would! They know everything, always. And Aspidistra would adore such a chance of putting a spoke in Suzy’s wheel. I don’t blame her!” Her face grew sombre again.
“The important thing, and that you can help me in, is to keep it from Marietta,” Fräulein Gelsicher said.
“That’s impossible! It will resound all over the Province, especially since the Sorellone have taken a hand in it.”
Fräulein Gelsicher sighed. “True. But we must try, at least for the present. She is in mourning, and we can remain very quiet. Consider the effect on her!”
“Zia Suzy might have thought of all that before! Oh, the poor little worm! I can’t imagine what she will feel,” Elena said. “And that wretched harmless little Postiche!”
“Remember, Elena, as to Miss Prestwich, it is all guesswork—about last night; we know nothing.”
“Oh no! And we don’t know Roffredo! And it is only occasionally that two and two make four!” the girl broke out impatiently.
The governess sighed again. “I thought that perhaps I would ask Countess Aspasia if she could come over and see me,” she said. “Then I should learn the facts, and it might be easier.”
“I doubt if you get any facts to make it more bearable for Marietta,” said Elena. “Still, try.”
“Very well. I will go and write the note,” Fräulein Gelsicher said; and rose, and resumed her green and white sunshade, and walked back to the house.
Marietta, restless and listless, had roamed off to the back yard, where she first watched the wine-pressing going on for some time; the Count was there, in an alpaca suit, superintending operations. Then she amused herself by feeding a pair of the bullocks with carrots, and stroking their soft creamy noses. She felt slightly puzzled and uncomfortable. She missed Postiche, and she did not quite see why she had been sent to Odredo without her. When Zio Ascanio died, three years ago, she was not sent away. And Postiche had promised to write every day, and she had not written yet. She could easily have sent a note over this morning! She was still vaguely concerned, too, about Postiche and Roffredo— whenever she began to think about Postiche, she could not help thinking also about that. She had a curious feeling that so long as Postiche was with her, she was safe—but now they were parted, and she experienced a vague disquiet on her governess’s account. And what was this which had so upset Gela? She had looked as if something awful had happened, just now.
It occurred to her presently that she had not been in to the house for over an hour; the post was due, and there might be a letter or a note from Postiche. Her feet winged by the thought, she flew across the yard, up on to the terrace where on her last visit the plums had been drying, swung over the balustrade and ran in by the back door. In the great flagged passage outside the kitchen a group of maids were clustered together, whispering and nodding in eager conversation; they fell silent at her approach. She went through the heavy doors into the hall, with its huge painted beams, and carved and inlaid chests standing between the high square-barred windows; Umberto was at the front door, in earnest conference with the postman—at the sound of her feet he turned, saw her, and made a warning gesture. They too stopped talking. And there was no letter. Marietta turned away and went upstairs, tears of disappointment welling up in her eyes. Oh, she did so want to hear from Postiche! She did so want Postiche! It was cruel of her not to write. No—it was not cruel—she would never be cruel. There must be some reason. But what was it?
To reach her room she had to go through Elena’s. The door was open, and she walked in. Annina, Elena’s and Fräulein Gelsicher’s maid, was in close conference with the laundress, who had brought up some clean linen; they did not hear her light feet on the carpet, and she caught some words— “Yes, at the villa; and then they took her to Castellone, and—” When the women saw her they started, and broke off in mid-sentence, with an obvious air of confusion.
“Who has gone to Castellone, Annina?” Marietta asked, half idly, half irritated by this universal air of mystery.
“Oh, no one of importance, Marchesina. I was talking to Marta,” the maid replied, laughing foolishly.
“That, I saw,” Marietta said, rather haughtily, and went on into her room. There she went over to the delicate marquetry escritoire and sitting down, wrote to Miss Prestwich. It was a dull little letter, describing every one of her actions since they parted; none of her vague disquiets, and hardly any of her secret longing got into it—just three sentences at the end: “I wish you were with me. Nothing is very nice without you. I do not think Mama can really want you so badly as I do!
I embrace you tenderly
Marietta.”
That evening, when the two girls went to bed, Marietta assailed Elena. “What are the servants whispering about? They are all chattering together, and when I come, they stop, and look like fools. And Gela had that long talk with Zio Carlo after dinner. Is something wrong?”
“Not that I know of,” Elena said. “Look, would you like me to brush your hair?
”
“Oh, thank you. But I can. Elena, I do not want to pry,” she pursued, fixing her great serious eyes on her cousin’s face, “but surely if the servants can know it, I can.”
Elena again assured her that it was nothing—“Servants are always chattering; they think of nothing but their lovers! Here, they are not like your Darcy and Elisabetta!” she said. Marietta laughed at that, but she went to bed with an unsatisfied look on her small face.
Next day a number of things happened. The Sorellone duly came over, in response to Fräulein Gelsicher’s note, but so late that they had to be asked to remain to lunch. Countess Aspasia was annexed by Fräulein Gelsicher and carried off to a small sitting-room downstairs, where the latter heard, for the first time, the full story of Suzy’s reckless cruelty and its consequences. She sat with a face of misery, thinking, once or twice, how appallingly right Elena had been in her bald surmises of the day before. Both her mercifulness and her good sense were forced to approve Countess Aspasia’s action; but, like the old Marchesa, she felt that it added to the general difficulty and complications. How, for instance, was she to keep Marietta away from Castellone, if the child once learned that her beloved Postiche was there? And some further news which the Countess brought added to this feeling. After giving a full and dramatic account of the affair—Aspasia was a born raconteuse—she proceeded—“And imagine, Roffredo is now back! Yes, it occurred to him suddenly, at Milan, the featherhead! how he had left her, plantée, at his house; and for all that his invention has been accepted, he turned straight round and came tearing home by the night express! He arrived this morning on the same train as Francesco. Si, si, Francesco is back too; the funeral was yesterday. She is under the earth now, povera Nadia, and Pipo will be able to carry on his amours in perfect freedom!” She laughed her harsh cackling laugh. “Anastasia has taken the little Francesca, for the moment; she came to the funeral, and carried her off to Rome the moment afterwards.” She paused to draw breath. “But, cara Signorina, imagine what Roffredo has done! The moment he heard from Alba where the little one was, he got into his automobile and rushed over to Castellone! Ma si! That is why we are so late. The pony was at the door, we were about to start, when we heard quella macchina! And in he came, quite distraught. He must see her—and here was her money! He had left it after all, on the mantelpiece—yes, yes, the notes were under a vase, but of course no one saw them. I told him that he was a little late, with this thoughtful kindness! And that she now had all she needed.”