by Ann Bridge
At the spinney she got out, and dismissed Agostino; he turned his horses precisely where old Tommaso, earlier in the afternoon, had turned when he brought the Marchese Francesco and the two girls in the brougham. When the carriage had disappeared round a bend of the road, Suzy began to make her way into the wood.
It was very dark in there. Dusk was already fallen, and the overcast sky made the gloom deeper still, even out on the road; in the thick shadow of the trees and bushes it was almost pitch dark. Suzy had a rough idea of where the little ruin was, but it was years since she had been to it. She began to push her way cautiously through the dense undergrowth, trying to avoid too much damage to her frail clothes; but in the darkness she could really see nothing, and boughs and leaves pushed against her, sprang back and whipped at her arms and face. Really, Roffredo might have chosen a more convenient place, she thought, turning round to free her wrap, which had caught on something; fumbling awkwardly with the invisible obstacle, she comforted herself with the thought that in a few moments, at most, she would be with him, being restored and commiserated with; hearing his voice, touching his hands— and then, presently, knowing the penetrating wonder of his mouth on hers. She pushed on.
But what was this? A spray of leaves touched her arm, cold and damp—she drew her arm away, but the spray stuck to it. Startled and disgusted, she put out her left hand to free her right, and touched another bough, which also stuck; stepping sideways to avoid the revolting contact with this invisible nastiness, she found that the whole of the left side of her dress was caught—when she moved she seemed to be pulling half the wood after her. It was incredibly disgusting, this unseen slime which clung to her clothes and hands; sickened, she tore at her dress to free it, but the flimsy lace and chiffon stuck obstinately to the leaves and to her hands; as she stooped to draw her skirts away, a damp spray caught her full in the face —and that too stuck.
At that she screamed—not very loud. “Roffredo!” she called—disagreeable as it was to be found in this state, she must get him to help her. She pulled the loathsome spray from her face, breaking the twig, and wiped it off her hand onto her dress—it stuck there, but she could not help that; feeling for her pocket handkerchief, she listened, with a thudding heart, for his reply. There was none. When she wiped her face, the handkerchief stuck to it. Shuddering with disgust, she called again, louder—”Roffredo! Here! Help!” Still not a sound came but the note of a sleepy bird, which, startled by her cries, went whooping away through the wood. It was very extraordinary—the ruin must be quite close, and she had been careful not to be too early; he must have heard the carriage on the road, and know that she was there. She called again and again, louder than ever, forgetting all caution in her disturbance—what could have happened to him? It wasn’t possible—an icy pang of fear and anger went through her at the thought—it wasn’t possible that he had failed to come? And in panic at the idea she called again, her voice strained now with anxiety—“Roffredo! Here, quick! It is not a joke! Help! It is I—Suzy.” This time not even a bird answered; the high notes of her voice were followed by absolute silence.
It was probably the realisation that he had really not come, that something had gone fatally wrong with the meeting which precipitated Suzy’s collapse. With the curious incredulity which always accompanies a disappointment as bitter as that, she felt that she must reach the ruin and see for herself whether he was there or not; for an instant the pain of his absence almost made her forget the nightmare of the sticky boughs, and she started wildly forward again. She was actually quite close to the ruin, though in the dark she could not see it, and just on the edge of the gummy area; if she had gone back to the road then she would have escaped with a ruined dress. But she went on, and soon she was hopelessly involved. A bough, swinging back after her passage, caught her on the bare nape of her neck, and clung there; as she backed desperately to break it and free herself, another caught her hair, and pulled out the elaborate mass of puffs and curls; the loathsome stuff was everywhere—on her hands, on her clothes; and every part of her dress stuck and clung to some other part In the darkness this suddenly became a horror that could not be borne—she lost her head completely, and began to run this way and that, screaming, calling for Roffredo, and struggling frantically among the sticky bushes. The experience of actual horror is like a sort of insanity; once a human being really surrenders to it the mind quickly loses its control, not only of the body but of itself, and a sort of dementia supervenes. This happened to Suzy now—she ran and screamed in that black thicket like a mad-woman.
Even before this happened, she had forgotten the very existence of the well—plunging wildly, in her frenzied efforts to escape, now in this direction, now in that, she came on it without warning in the darkness, and pitched in head-foremost.
The so-called well was not of any great depth; it was only a pool, a couple of yards across and three or four feet deep, with mud at the bottom and mossy remnants of masonry round the edge, but there was enough water in it to soak Suzy from head to foot. The shock of the cold plunge brought her to her senses to some extent; when she had struggled to her feet, and stood holding on by the bank, dripping and shivering, for the first time she attempted to think what to do next. She could now see the little ruin close in front of her, a solid black mass among the shadowy dark shapes of the trees; she thought she remembered that it was quite near the edge of the wood on that side, and that if she went straight out past it, she would come onto the smugglers’ path. After some unsuccessful efforts—for Suzy was not athletic, and the sides of the pool, though low, were steep and slippery with moss—she managed to struggle out onto the bank. She made her way to the ruin, and felt round it with her hands—it was too dark to see, but there was no sign of rugs or cushions; dry sticks, dead leaves, earth and broken fragments of stone were all that her searching fingers touched. With a little choking sob she left the place, and pushed out through the bushes behind it. The slimy stuff was here too, but on her wet dress and hands it no longer stuck. Now she was clear of the wood, and here was the smugglers’ path; she turned right along it, and soon reached the road.
Here she paused, and again considered what to do. From where she stood to Vill’ Alta was nearly five miles, a longer walk than she had attempted for years, even when stoutly shod and prepared for exercise; now she had only her soaked and flimsy evening shoes, and she felt weak and exhausted. But she had told Agostino not to come back, as Roffredo had suggested, so that now she was left without any means of return except on foot, unless she applied to Roffredo for a lift —the villa was only a few hundred yards away. But that she could not do. Turn to him now, after he had treated her like this! she thought, with an angry sob—no, never. And supposing that there was some mistake, that she had misread the date, how fatal to let him see her in this state—her clothes ruined and clinging to her all over, her hair pulled down and dripping with wet, her hands and face scratched—she could feel the scratches—and dirty with water and that foul slime. It must be bird-lime—the thought suddenly occurred to her —but how crazy of old Trino to put it in such a place, and in such quantities. She must speak to Carlo about it. But— her thought went back to Roffredo again —no; anything was better than to let him see her like this, with all that was at stake between them. And she began to walk along the road in the direction of Vill’ Alta, hobbling rather in the clinging constriction of her wet clothes, her high-heeled shoes turning over now and then in the rutted dust; as she walked, she •thought of this meeting, of how carefully and gladly she had prepared and beautified herself for it, of the sweetness of reconciliation and tender joy she had hoped it might bring, and the tears, unseen and unheeded, ran down her stained face.
The road seemed endless. The severity of her experience in the wood had left her almost exhausted, the plunge into the pool had made her cold; her teeth began to chatter, and though she tried to hurry, in fact she walked very slowly indeed. Once or twice she stopped to rest for a few minutes, leaning against
a roadside tree. After what seemed to her an immense time she reached a cross-roads; she realised with a shock that she was only at the diligence stop—there were still nearly four more miles between her and home. She began to wonder if she could do it—besides feeling cold, she now felt ill as well. But there was nothing for it but to persevere, and she struggled on.
Soon after the diligence stop a fresh misfortune overtook her. She heard footsteps approaching, and then a burst of song—a man’s figure loomed up in the darkness, which here on the road was not so deep as it had been in the wood; he lurched unsteadily as he walked. Suzy stepped off the road, hoping to escape observation, but she was not quick enough; the peasant saw her white arms and her dark figure, reeled across to her, and made to embrace her, with a coarse endearment. She stood her ground, trembling, and bade him begone, firmly—but he caught her by the shoulders and planted a winy kiss on her neck before the dampness of her clothes and hair struck through, with a shock, to his fuddled senses. “By God, she’s all wet! By God, it’s a perditioned mermaid!” the drunken creature shouted, recoiling in tipsy horror, and lurched off down the road, calling on the Saints to protect him. Suzy’s shock and fright were even greater than his; she scrambled madly through the looped strands of the vines that bordered the road, and hid herself in some bushes in the meadow beyond. There she cowered, trembling and shivering violently; it was a long time before she could bring herself to venture out onto the road again. And even then, every time she heard or thought she heard a step—and several more peasants passed, for the vintage is a time of work at a distance, and of revelry afterwards—she left the road and hid. And each time that she did so, she found it harder to get up and go on again, walked with more difficulty. Her homeward progress was very slow indeed.
Chapter Twenty-four
Agnese, the Marchesa Suzy’s maid, had been in her service for many years, and was far too well-trained, and too much accustomed to her manner of life ot be worried by her absence at night for a reasonable length of time, still less to raise what she called a how-do-you-do about it. On such occasions she dozed, fully dressed, on a couch in the small room adjoining that of her mistress—where by day she sewed, washed gloves, and pressed out scarves and dresses—till such time as her employer should return; Suzy frequently told her that tonight she need not bother, but Agnese had learned to sleep well, if lightly, on the couch, and felt more satisfied if she was at hand in case she was wanted. On this particular Sunday evening she was unusually wakeful. She never really liked it if the Marchesa was not returning in her own carriage; the fact of her mistress keeping a manservant up half the night seemed somehow, to Agnese’s ideas, to confer a certain respectability on the whole proceeding; moreover she was a little anxious because on such a cloudy evening, threatening rain, her employer had persisted in going out with no better protection than that thin chiffon wrap. So she roused up constantly to strike a match, look at her watch, and then go and peer out of the window. The Marchesa Suzy was seldom very late, and this evening she had gone out early; by midnight Agnese was distinctly surprised that she had not returned. By twelve-fifty she was anxious; she lit the lamp, did up her stays and re-fastened her bodice, and sat listening near the window. By one o’clock she became certain that something was wrong, and after some hesitation, she tiptoed off presently to the servants’ quarters and roused Valentino. Valentino came shuffling out, sleepy and cross, into the passage, with an old dressing-gown of the Marchese Francesco’s over his nightshirt—he was a taller man than the Marchese, and his bare shanks, knotted with varicose veins, projected some distance below the faded flowered silk. “What is it?” he asked. “Is the Old One ill?”
“No, but She has not returned.”
“Well, there is nothing to worry about in that, is there?”
“Yes there is. It is past one. She is never so late as this.”
Valentino yawned, stretched, and then scratched the back of his neck. “One is sometimes delayed,” he said. “Who took Her?”
“Agostino—but he was sent back. And it is much later than usual. She is never after the midnight and a half.”
Valentino yawned again, hitting his mouth with the flat of his hand, and then scratched once more, this time his head. “What should be done?” he said.
“Send for Tommaso. We could seek her.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“I can find out.” Like all ladies’ maids, Agnese was perfectly familiar with the various hiding-places in which her mistress believed her more private correspondence to be securely concealed, and while Tommaso was sent for she slipped off, candle in hand, to the boudoir, and ferreted among the receipt files till she came on the latest note from Count Roffredo. She read it, replaced it, and returned. Tommaso, shirtless, and wearing a discarded livery top-coat over a pair of ancient trousers, had been produced, and standing there in the passage, the three servants embarked on a sort of consiglio di famiglia on their own account. Agnese, armed with the information that the Marchesa had gone, not to the villa but to the ruin in the wood, was emphatic that she must be sought— “She is not even under a roof!” Tommaso was more doubtful; the orders to Agostino about not returning had been precise—“and if one goes against orders, and arrives at an awkward moment—well, that is not very suitable!” Agnese was persistent—it was far later than usual, it was altogether too late, and the young Signor Conte was “unreliable as a squirrel.” “Look how he left our Signorina, on that occasion!” In the end she had her way; Tommaso hustled off to put the horses to, Valentino routed out the cook to get water heated—“She will be frozen after all these hours, in that thin wrap!” the maid insisted; and Agnese herself collected a cloak, scarves and rugs, and slipped down with them to the stable. She made the old coachman light and bring a stable lantern, and they set off.
It was by now a quarter to two, and even Tommaso was beginning to be infected with some of the maid’s anxiety. As he drove along he peered into the shadows beyond the two faint yellow circles of moving light cast by the carriage lamps. He had put on a shirt and a proper coat, but, per Bacco, the night air was cold! She would not be too warm, la Marchesa, by this time, unless she were in a house. He whipped up his horses.
They came on her about a mile from Vill’ Alta, out on a level stretch of road, with no trees near it but the low clipped mulberries supporting the roadside vines. Agnese, who had her head out of the carriage window, saw her first, before the carriage lights reached her—the white arms against the shadowy black figure, on the pale road. She was staggering along with the uncertain steps of complete exhaustion—when she saw the lights coming she made a feeble effort to leave the road and creep through the vines; but the ditch was too much for her—she fell, and lay where she fell. As the carriage drew up Agnese sprang out, lantern in hand, and ran to her; when she reached her side, she almost recoiled, so shocked was she at what the lantern-light revealed. The Marchesa’s face was ghastly: white, scratched, and dirty, and ravaged with those peculiar deep marks which are left by fatigue, exposure, or a violent emotional experience—she looked twenty years older than when she had left the house a few hours before. To the maid’s horror even the thin wrap had vanished, and much of the frail dress itself was torn away, leaving the neck and arms quite bare; what was left of it was damp and clammy, as was the pitiful hair, which hung down loose and wet, with no pads, or puffs, or curls left anywhere. All this was alarming enough, but when she tried to get her into the carriage, her mistress’s state alarmed the servant still more; she was icy cold to the touch, and shivering violently—when Agnese tried to raise her to her feet she collapsed again, moaning, and asking to be left alone; she seemed to have no strength or wits left. Agnese shrouded her in the cloak, but had to get Tommaso to leave his horses and help; between them they managed to bundle her into the carriage. There Agnese muffled the chilled woman still further with the rug, and sat chafing her icy hands while Tommaso drove on till he found a lane’s mouth to turn in. “Hurry, you—she
is cold as a corpse!” the maid said in a piercing whisper from the window, as the horses backed the vehicle awkwardly out into the road again. Tommaso had seen enough to make him realise the need for haste; he took the level stretch and the lower half of the hill almost at a gallop. But when he came just below the house he slowed down to a walk, and at a walk drove in along the drive—pulling up just short of the house—“It won’t do to disturb the Old One,” he said in an explanatory whisper; “Which door?”