Enchanter's Nightshade

by Ann Bridge

  “Did he see her?” Fräulein Gelsicher asked.

  “Dio mio, no! She is still in bed—it has been a great shock; the Doctor will not let let her rise at present. He gives her soporifics. She lies dozing most of the time. I told Roffredo not to bring that noisy machine over again, disturbing her with the sound. Indeed, I told him a number of things! And then, just as he was leaving, looking like a whipped puppy”—again she gave a little laugh —“who should come in but Livia! I thought we should never get off. She too had heard the automobile, and came trailing across. I suggested that they should perhaps repair to her house for their conversation! And she took the hint. Livia is furious —I heard her beginning as they went. Our young Roffredo has not had a very pleasant morning!” she concluded, and laughed again.

  Meanwhile Elena had been left to entertain Countess Roma. Now Roma had received strict injunctions from her sister not to touch on the ‘affaire Prestwich’ with either of the young girls, and it is just possible (though far from certain) that if Elena had been ignorant of it, she might have done as she was told and held her peace. But Elena, naturally, began instantly to ask questions, and well-informed questions at that; and finding that she already knew so much, Roma was delighted with the liberty which she felt this gave her to tell all she knew. She had already disobeyed her instructions on the previous afternoon, when Aspasia had gone to Vill’ Alta to see the old Marchesa; making some excuse to look in on Miss Prestwich, and finding her awake, though drowsy and unguarded with the drug, she had “chattered to her”, and to some purpose; she had amongst other things extracted from her the full story of her departure from Vill’ Alta, the solitary wait at the diligence stop, and the vicious insult of the teamster with the whip. And all this she now passed on, with a wealth of detail, to the girl. She also, under pressure, confirmed Elena’s shrewd guess as to what had happened at the Villa Gemignana, to which indeed the revolver episode, eloquently related by the foolish woman, bore its own sufficing testimony.

  This ill-considered loquacity of Countess Roma’s had farreaching results, as ill-considered speech is apt to have. The petty details of Suzy’s cruelty, and the depths to which it had borne the English girl carried Elena’s indignation, already vehement, beyond all bounds of reason, prudence, or justice. Her lively mind at once flew ahead to schemes of vengeance; in the meantime she was so angry that she quite lost sight of her duty to her neighbour, in the persons of Marietta and Fräulein Gelsicher. She sat seething all through lunch—a difficult meal, with four out of the six persons present bursting with one subject, which owing to the presence of the two others could not be discussed. The success of Roffredo’s invention, however, and his return from Milan, were considered by Countess Aspasia to be suitable matter for general conversation and, initiated by her, were liberally dealt with: even hung on to, as people do hang on to a subject in such circumstances, to avoid awkward silences. But after coffee, when the Sorellone had driven off in their little pony-carriage, and Fräulein Gelsicher had retired for her afternoon rest, Elena was in no state to resist the second onslaught made on her by Marietta.

  The young girl’s vague suspicions and fears had deepened during a morning which, for her, had been rather wretched. There had been no letter, no note from Postiche in reply to her outpouring of the previous afternoon, and a suggestion to Fräulein Gelsicher that she and Elena might walk over to Vill’ Alta to see her had been vetoed with a brusqueness which surprised her; moreover the two separate confabulations before lunch, between Countess Aspasia and Gela, and Elena and Countess Roma, had not escaped her observation. And the servants’ whisperings had been even more pronounced than on the previous evening—“she”, “the Young Conte,” “the villa”, “Yes, to Castellone” had recurred so often that she was now, putting all these things together, definitely convinced that something was up, and vaguely suspicious that it might concern her darling Postiche. Accordingly, as soon as the two girls were alone, she turned firmly on her cousin.

  “Senta, Elena, I think you must tell me now what the matter is. I know there is something, with all these conversations; besides, if there were not, I should be allowed to go across to Vill’ Alta, and also Postiche”—her voice fell away a little— “would write to me. So now—what is it? If you do not tell me,” the child said, very quietly, “I shall go to Zio Carlo. I shall be able, easily, to get it out of him, for he will make mistakes. And I must know.”

  This demand put the match to Elena’s superfluous store of gunpowder. She had all along believed that it would be impossible to keep the thing from her little cousin, and now that her suspicions were aroused, the game, she considered, was up. And her anger at Roma’s tidings obscured any lingering compunction she might have felt. Briefly, baldly, she poured the whole thing out—Postiche had been dismissed, the day before yesterday, and without enough money to get home with; she had gone to Roffredo to borrow some—“he was in love with her, you see”—and he had promised it, but he kept her there all night, and in the morning this telegram came, and he had rushed off to Milan, leaving her, everything! “It seems he did leave Some money for her, but in a silly place, where it was not found. And then the Sorellone heard of it, as they alone would, and went poking over to see what was happening, and took her back with them to Castellone, and there she is.” Some belated feeling of compunction, aroused by the expression on the child’s face, made even Elena slur over the night at the villa, and suppress the revolver.

  Marietta listened to the tale in complete silence, her face once more that of a small Medusa. Her silence continued for some time after Elena had finished; she sat looking, not at her cousin, nor exactly away from her, but over her shoulder, as if what she had heard were set out in the distance beyond Elena’s head, and she was reviewing it there. At last, speaking with a great effort, she said “ You have not told me why Mama dismissed her.”

  Again Elena’s anger got the better of her judgement.

  “Ma, because she found out that Roffredo was in love with her. She saw them at Meden. And she wanted him for herself, you see,” Elena explained with airy crudeness. “She saia it was because Postiche was carrying on an intrigue with Roffredo! But there cannot have been much in that, or La Vecchia would not have made her send all that money to Postiche, yesterday. No, the real reason was the other thing —I have seen it for a long time, and so has Gela; and Aspidistra is convinced of it too.” She paused; the extreme whiteness of her little cousin’s face made her, belatedly, regret her words. “Marietta, I am sorry to say this,” she said more gently. “But it is true, and you may as well hear it from me, for you would be bound to learn it sooner or later,” she added, with an unwonted movement of self-justification.

  Only four days before, when the three girls were discussing the Marchesa Nadia’s suicide, Marietta had said “It is better to know things.” She had not then learned that knowledge can be both an intolerable burden and a crippling wound. She was to learn it now. This information which she had so determinedly demanded from Elena was like a blow between the eyes—it is true to say that her mind staggered under its impact. It had so many ramifications and implications, this set of facts: her dual loyalties, to her Mother and to Miss Prestwich, were plunged into violent conflict; recoiling, she saw an abyss opening almost under her feet, which had seemed of late to stand so firmly and gladly on the safe ground of love and goodness and a new happy comprehension of life. She would lose her Postiche, that was certain, to whom she owed so much of this fresh feeling of confidence and security; in a sense she realised that she had lost her Mother too. Her mind sought to grapple with these calamities, and then as it were fell back, appalled by their magnitude—for a moment she covered her face with her hands. But she quickly raised it again—even at this moment she was determined to understand, to know; and there were lacunae in Elena’s narrative, all was not yet clear.

  “And why?” she asked in a strained little voice, “have they taken her to Castellone? Why did they not let her go home, when the mon
ey came?”

  About this, too, Roma had been greedily precise, confirming Elena’s first swift and knowledgeable guess. And again the violence of her anger about the whole thing robbed Elena of the restraint she might at another time have shown in dealing with Marietta.

  “Ma, they will keep her for a month, to see whether she is going to have a baby or not,” she said, with her usual incisive bluntness; “you see, she spent the night there with him. He made her very drunk,” she added in extenuation—“I am sure it would not have happened otherwise, with Postiche.”

  This time Marietta did not look away, at first. She sat staring at Elena’s face, as though she had seen a monster issue from her mouth. Then, quite suddenly, she dropped her head between her arms on the marble table, and broke into low but violent sobbing. “Oh, Miss Prestwich!” she murmured between her sobs. “Oh, my dear dear Postiche! That is why you did not write! Oh, OH!”

  Elena was seriously disturbed by this result of her reckless handiwork. She rose, and put her hand on the child’s shoulder. “Marietta, cara, do not cry so,” she said, for once uncertain what to say.

  After a moment or two the girl raised her head, checking her sobs with a violent effort, and looked at her cousin.

  “That was not really Mama,” she said, speaking very fast. “Not to do that! That is not like her—it is not her Either there is some mistake, or she was under some obsession. That is not Mama, Elena.”

  “No, cara,” Elena said soothingly—though in fact she felt that it had been precisely Suzy. But Marietta’s reactions to the whole business had frightened her. “No,” she said, and stroked her shoulder again.

  Suddenly Marietta sat very upright. “Elena, Giulio must not know! Not that” she said, with immense emphasis.

  “Not what?” For once Elena was entirely at a loss.

  “Not about—Postiche. And Roffredo. He must not! He must not!” she said, her voice rising to a high strained note.

  “Very well. But why not?”

  “Because—he loves her. So much—not like Roffredo! It is with his soul. Elena, promise me that he shall not know this!”

  “Cara, from me he shall not. And I will tell Gela, and she will tell Papa. It ought to be all right—Giulio talks to so few people, and he does not listen,” Elena said consolingly.

  “You promise?”

  “Ma si, I promise! But how did you know this?” Elena asked, her invincible curiosity even now emerging, with the true Italian detachment from the misfortunes of others. She was quite unaccustomed not to be first in the field of local love-affairs with her sharp guesses.

  Marietta did not trouble to answer. Having got Elena’s promise, which she knew she would keep, she sat again staring in front of her. At last she got up.

  “You see that I was right,” she said.

  “About what?” Elena asked.

  “About the peacock’s cry. Here is disaster.” She turned away, and went slowly indoors, leaving her cousin staring after her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Elena was quite right about Giulio’s normal inattentiveness to what went on around him. He had been completely oblivious, for instance, to the general atmosphere of mystery and gossip in the household during the previous twenty-four hours. But he did occasionally pay attention to matters which concerned people whom he cared about, and during lunch he had registered, with real pleasure, the fact that Roffredo had been to Milan, had had his cherished invention accepted, and was now returned. It occurred to him that he had not seen Roffredo since the picnic at Meden, and that it would be extraordinarily pleasant to see him again. Accordingly, in the middle of the afternoon he set off, with his long mouching stride, to walk to the Villa. He told no one where he was going; it was not Giulio’s custom to advertise his movements, and indeed there was no one about to tell, since Fräulein Gelsicher was resting, the Count was out in the yard watching one lot of wine being piped carefully into barrels, and Elena and Marietta were talking under the stone pine. Unwarned and unwitting, he strode off across the Park to meet his private tragedy.

  Roffredo was delighted to see him. His morning had been fully as unpleasant as Countess Aspasia had delightedly deduced—verbally trounced by her, angrily upbraided by his Mother, and realising that this would be the general attitude for some time to come, he had retired, half hurt, half sulky, to the Villa. He felt a strong need for sympathy from some one, and saw small chance of getting it. After all, he had not done any of this intentionally; he had simply been overtaken by the situation—by both situations. He had really meant to take that darling little thing to the train—he adored her, when all was said. But he had drunk so much, and she was so adorable—well, there it was! He was like that. And next morning when the telegram came—well, again, it was the crowning of two years of work, of research and struggle, of what had for so long appeared to be fruitless calculation and experiment. Surely at such a moment, if ever, a man might be pardoned for losing his wits a little? And it was hardly his fault that she had not found the money—in his hurry there had been no time to find an envelope, write a note. It was only by a combination that all this had happened. And he was bitterly sorry. But no one seemed to believe that, nor even to be willing to listen to his explanations.

  So he was charmed to see Giulio. He took him into his sitting-room, which was pleasantly cool in the afternoons, offered him Marsala and brandy-and-soda, both of which Giulio refused, took a brandy-and-soda himself, and showed his cousin, on the tracing-cloth, the salient features of the new invention. And then he threw himself back in the armchair in which Almina had sat to drink her brandy, and embarked upon his own troubles. Giulio was always interested, always sympathetic and affectionate, even though they cared about such different things, and though in some ways he was almost more like a girl than a man—one could count on Giulio.

  Blowing out a cloud of smoke, “My Mother,” he began, “is a most difficult woman, sa. It is impossible to make her understand the most obvious things; she has her own partipris, always, and she will not even listen to what one has to say.”

  “What will she not listen to this time?” Giulio asked, sympathetically—he could readily believe in any amount of tiresomeness on Countess Livia’s part; he himself always found her poco simpatica to a degree.

  “Oh, this business about the little Miss Prestwich. You know that Suzy has dismissed her?”

  “What? No, I did not know it. No,” Giulio said in some agitation, which he at once strove to conceal. With everyone but Marietta, he was as shy as a girl about his feeling for Almina.

  “Yes, she did. A couple of days ago. And without much money. So the poor little thing came here to borrow some,” Roffredo went on, affecting an airiness he did not really feel.

  “Why did she come to you?” Giulio asked, with nervous abruptness.

  “Well, because—in somma, we were on very good terms,” Roffredo said, with great naturalness. “And of course I was delighted to let her have whatever she wanted, and I promised to drive her in to the train, because that miserable Suzy would only let the carriage take her as far as the diligence.”

  “She is gone, then? Gone back to England?” Giulio interrupted.

  “No—in a way I wish she were! That is the devil of it. As you know, the night express does not leave till eleven, so I had to give her dinner first; and she was so upset at being sacked, that to cheer her up I gave her champagne.” Roffredo began to feel rather expansive; this reconstruction of his actions, this establishment of the purity of his intentions to someone who would listen sympathetically was giving him the peculiar satisfaction that it gives to us all. He sat looking up at the clouds of smoke which he exhaled, as he talked, and so did not notice the peculiar tautness which was coming over Giulio’s expression. “One way and another, we both drank rather a lot,” he pursued, “only she was so quiet with it that I did not realise how much effect it was taking on her. And when we came in here afterwards, she was so adorable, tenera e appassionata com’ è mai stata,
that I lost my head altogether, and we never went to the train at all. What is it, Giulio?” he asked in slight surprise, for his cousin had risen from where he sat on the divan and was standing in front of him.

  “She spent the night here, with you?” Giulio asked, in a voice perfectly quiet, but with a curious vibration in it.

  “Yes—here, on the divan. She is divine, like that! I had not in the least meant to, but you see I am very much in love with her, and I think I was probably rather drunk myself. Anyhow—Giulio, per l’amor di Dio, what is wrong with you?” he ejaculated, as the young man caught him a swinging blow on the side of the head.

  “Stand up!” Giulio said—“stand up, stand up!” Roffredo was in any case rising to his feet, too utterly astonished even to be angry. As he got up his cousin came at him again, his face now quite distorted; Roffredo parried the blow, and then caught his wrists and held them firmly—he was by far the more powerful of the two. “I won’t fight with you, Giulio,” he said. “What is all this? What the devil is wrong?”

  “Let me go—don’t touch me,” Giulio said, panting. “Wrong? You ask what is wrong? When you did that to her? When she came to you for help, you made her drunk, and then took her for your pleasure! She, purity itself! Oh, God in Heaven! Let me go!” he said, his voice rising almost to a scream. “Take your hands away! Don’t touch me! I hate your hands—I hate to see you! Let me go!”