by Ann Bridge
But on its return to Pisignacco it was at once evident that something had gone wrong. The occupants of the carriages which had already arrived were standing about, looking slightly disconcerted and irritated, as people do when a contretemps occurs at the end of a day’s pleasuring. The Caserta tumbril and Countess Livia’s victoria from Castellone had both failed to arrive, it appeared, and there were now not nearly enough carriages to take the party home to their various destinations.
This muddle gave Suzy her chance. She had resolved during the drive that she must deal with Roffredo at once. Even now she could hardly credit the fact of his defalcation—she clung to the belief that it was a mere fancy, and that if she applied her full powers, she could yet win him back to her; but her stormy resentment and her terrible anxiety alike could bear no delay. It was all quite easy, she said—if Count Carlo would give the Casertas and the Marchese Francesco a lift, sending the former on to Macerbo, the Vill’ Alta carriage could take back the Castellone party. “The children can perfectly well wait here a little, if Fräulein Gelsicher will stay with them, till we send somethings back to pick them up—and Roffredo will give me a lift, will you not?”
He would, of course—and so it was settled. The carriages rattled away out of the square, and Fräulein Gelsicher, Elena, Giulio, Marietta and Almina were left to wait, and to amuse themselves as best they could.
To the end of his life Giulio di Castellone remembered that evening at Pisignacco. The sun had set, and a glow from the West lit up the worn façade of the church—the square was full of shadow, and a hot smell of dust mingled with cool breaths of damp air coming up from the river. Elena and Fräulein Gelsicher settled down on the church steps, on cushions which Elena resourcefully borrowed from the sacristan. But Giulio was in a mood of exaltation, engendered by his climb and by the beauty he had seen that day—he insisted with unwonted firmness on taking Miss Prestwich down to the bridge to look at the church from there. And having once detached her from the others, he was in no mood to part from her again. They wandered rather aimlessly through the almost empty streets of the little town, their feet stirring up the still-warm dust, which gleamed pale before them in the twilight; pausing now and then to contemplate some old fragment of building, an arch, a staircase, or a stone balcony, embedded as it were in the more recent architecture—halfseen in the deepening dusk, these objects took on a fresh beauty and importance. But it was one of those rare hours when everything has beauty and importance. Giulio talked continuously, as Almina had never heard him talk before, on the meaning of life and the significance of beauty—moral and intellectual beauty as well as the beauty of things seen; some barrier was broken down in him, and his heart poured out. He never spoke of his immediate feeling for her, but, unaware still of that, she realised that his soul was being spread before her, and it moved her. Half drugged with love—for Roffredo had been more articulate than ever before, that afternoon in the hollow among the chestnut-trees, she was yet reached in her dream by this spiritual emotion, and answered with vital comprehension. In spite of his insistence, she had never yet read Croce, and did not recognise the source of much of what he said—and yet it was not pure Croce, it was Croce made living and his own by the boy’s recent experience. Both spoke, out of their ultimate depths of being, words which they hardly recognised as theirs; yet they had a truth beyond what is reached as a rule in daily life and speech.
To and fro, up and down they went, on the white dust in the shadowed streets, under the strengthening shining of the stars—and now and again, oblivious of onlookers, they crossed the square. Marietta had not joined the others on the church steps—seated alone in the shadow of a pillar, under the loggia of the town hall, she watched them pass and re-pass; she could barely see their faces, but something about their rapt unobservant movement, like that of a sleep-walker’s, told her quick intuition what was taking place. She watched, and when they were out of sight still brooded on them, in agony and exaltation. “Oh, for once he has what he wants,” she murmured to herself, as they moved out of sight up a side street.
Elena watched them too. She was amused and a little surprised, but her interest was wholly concentrated on the Suzy-Roffredo aspects of Miss Prestwich’s affairs, and Giulio’s feelings had entirely escaped her observation. Sitting on the steps of the church, munching Biscottini Delser, those nasty little over-sweet marzipanish affairs of Austrian importation which were the nearest approach to a biscuit then obtainable in the Province—“How bored she must be! I am sure Giulio is talking philosophy to her,” she observed airily to her companion—no fatigue, or miscarrying of plans, could check Elena’s use of her eyes and tongue. And getting no response —“Gela,” she began again, “did you notice how unpleasant Zia Suzy was to her at tea? Do you suppose she saw something? Because if so, there is going to be trouble.”
“I cannot tell,” the governess replied wearily; “but if there was anything to see, it was most unwise.”
“Poor Gela! You are tired. Pazienza! The carriage will be here in no time.” Then she was off again. “Anyhow, I think she is unwise, to seek a tête-à-tête with Roffredo at this moment! She was angry, and Roffredo has a temper too. It would not be a good occasion to lui faire la scène” She chuckled a little. “I wonder how they are getting on.” She chattered on, but Fräulein Gelsicher paid little attention. It was true that she was very weary, and her feet hurt terribly, after all that walking about in the heat; she was discouraged by her failure to get in her talk with Miss Prestwich, and more alarmed than she cared to admit at the possible repercussions of this first open indiscretion on the girl’s part. She must see her tomorrow, whatever happened. Meanwhile she was really too tired to think about it any more tonight. Oh, her feet! She sat dejectedly in the starlight, and thought about her corns.
Chapter Sixteen
Dunque, she committed suicide! Yes, with this revolver. They found her in her room, in the morning. It seems Zip Pipo telegraphed at once, but you see your Father and Mother and everyone was at the picnic, so they only heard last night, when they got back. Giacinta would not let a telegram be given to La Vecchia, so in the end Valentino opened it. I believe he sent a telegram to say Zio Francesco was away—so Roma said.”
“But are you sure? Mama only said that she had died suddenly,” Marietta said, still incredulous.
“Perfectly sure. Roma told us so only just now, at luncheon. She said she had heard it all from Zia Suzy.”
“Yes, they were here this morning—we saw the ponycarriage out of the window,” Marietta interjected.
“Well, there you are! I suppose Valentino let it out, and they will have heard something at Castellone, and come hurrying over to sniff it all out!” said Elena, inelegantly. “But Zio Francesco has gone to Bologna, no?”
“Yes, he went this morning. To be with Zio Pipo, and to see about the funeral, and all that, Mama said—she came and told us. But she has to stay with Bonne-Mama, because of the shock. And she said I was to wear this” Marietta said, indicating her white frock and black belt and ribbons, “till she could see about proper mourning. And that we were to come out for a walk. So we came. I am glad we met you.” She sighed—her small face was far from glad; a puzzled frown drew her delicate brows together. “It is better to know things, though they never think so.” She sighed again. “But why” she went on after a moment’s pause—”Elena, why should she do this, now? That is what I do not understand —I thought it was all settled, after the consiglio, and that Zio Pipo was to give up that other, and they were to be happy again.”
The two cousins and Miss Prestwich were sitting under one of the pines on the Odredo ridge, on the dry grass. Miss Prestwich and her pupil, obediently taking their walk, had headed for the park at Odredo, where there was more shade and more privacy than on the roads; but half-way they had met Elena, and settled down to discuss this shattering piece of news. Almina had been told no more than Marietta, and was greatly shocked by Elena’s tidings—at this point, however, she felt t
hat she must intervene.
“I do not think we had better discuss it too much, do you, Elena?” she said gently.
“Oh, nonsense, Postiche! Why not? Marietta is not a baby, though they always think so. She would have been bound to hear it anyhow, quite soon. There will be a tremendous lot of talk, and I expect it will be in the papers— Zia Roma said there would have to be a police report. The police had been—there was a letter as well this morning from Zio Pipo, and I believe she saw it; anyhow she heard what was in it. Zio Pipo was actually away that night, when it happened. As to why she did it,” Elena went on, “ I don’t suppose we shall ever know, unless she left a letter. They do, sometimes. Roma hadn’t heard of one, though. I suppose she felt that it was all more than she could bear,” she pursued, thoughtfully, “and that there was no other way out for her. There are situations that cannot be supported.”
Almina was struck by Elena’s words. She remembered with sudden force her last sight of the Marchesa Nadia—the last she would ever have, now—seated in that chair; the ceaseless movement of her fingers over the carved arms, and the sort of despairing immobility of the rest of her figure. She was saddened by the death of that beautiful gracious creature, and pained to think of the misery and hopelessness which must have brought her to it, little as she could envisage them.
Marietta sat silent for some time. At last—“Povera Zia Nadia,” she said, in a tone of indescribable sadness. “I suppose I shall have to wait to understand. No, don’t explain any more, Elena—I don’t want to know!” she said, with sudden passion. “Postiche, can’t we go home, now?”
“You are very changeable,” Elena said—“a moment ago you wanted to know.”
“Yes—but not now. Elena, I am not cross—forgive me! But it is too difficult,” the child said, her face working. “Oh, Pqstiche, can’t we go?” She burst into tears.
Fräulein Gelsicher, less than twenty-four hours before, had said to herself that ‘whatever happened’ she would speak to Miss Prestwich about Count Roffredo on the following day; and La Vecchia Marchesa, two days earlier, had also promised herself to deal faithfully with Suzy on the same subject as soon as the Meden picnic was over. But the Marchesa Nadia’s suicide was just one of those happenings, entirely outside human calculation, which prevent the carrying out of their intentions except by very determined and remorseless people. There was no real reason why Fräulein Gelsicher should not have contrived to see Almina, but the difficulty of intruding on the stricken household, the fear of being thought to come collecting gossip, like the Countesses Aspasia and Roma, and the general concern—which she shared—as to the effect of this shock on La Vecchia Marchesa combined to make her feel it impossible for the moment. As for La Vecchia Marchesa herself, for the time being the news put everything else out of her head. Of course she had to be told, and Suzy undertook this task, despite her private preoccupations, with her usual courage and insight. “Bonne-Mama cara, I have terribly bad news for you, from Bologna,” she had said simply, after she had sat with her for some minutes in her room. (She had risen early on purpose, and had Giacinta waiting outside with brandy and sal volatile.) “It is about Nadia.”
“She has left him after all?” the old lady asked.
“Yes—for ever.” She waited to see the effect of this announcement, and remained silent through the old lady’s first outburst of irritation. Her silence at last drew La Vecchia’s attention. “Where has she gone?” she asked, rather tremulously, a fresh idea dawning on her.
“She is dead, cara,” Suzy said, gently.
The old lady stared, at first incredulous, then with com* prehension.
“Elle s’est suicidée?” she asked, taking refuge in French from the bleakness of fact.
“Yes—quite quickly. His revolver. She did it well— it must have been over in a second.”
“Ma! She had courage, anyhow!” the old woman said. “But how needless! Was Pipo there?”
“Not that night—he came back next morning, soon after they found her. Francesco has gone to him.”
She spent most of the morning with La Vecchia, listening and discussing—psychology was little known then, but a shrewd instinct told Suzy that the best way to minimise a shock was to let anyone talk it out, on the principle of sucking the poison from the wound. The main burden of La Vecchia’s observations was the folly and impatience of young people, who always attached such senseless importance to things that happened, and would never wait to let Time bring its own solutions. By lunch-time, however, Suzy had the satisfaction of seeing the old lady reasonably tranquil; she ate a good meal, and settled quietly down for her siesta. She had stood it far better than anyone could have hoped.
But Suzy was one of the very determined and remorseless people, who carry out their plans regardless of the strokes of fate; and in this case the stroke of fate actually played into her hands. Her drive home with Roffredo the previous evening had been a humiliating failure. She had begun by rallying him, with as much tact and gaiety as she could summon, on the subject of Miss Prestwich; but the tact and gaiety were thin to start with, and wore thinner against his stiff chilly refusal to discuss her at all. They had just avoided an open breach, but she had done no good whatever; she had said far more than she meant, had come near indeed to giving herself away completely—and she reached home entirely lost, at last, in jealous fury. It was her first failure, and to fail in competition with one’s own governess would be galling to any woman at any time—to do so, as Suzy did, just when her heart was stir-ring into flower at the touch of late passion was a peculiar cruelty. Before Roffredo set her down, at her request, at the little gate at the foot of the steps, she had decided to get rid of Miss Prestwich, and at once.
The news of her sister-in-law’s suicide really helped this scheme. She realised, with an added sense of jealous irritation, Marietta’s devotion to her governess—to send her away while the child was in the house would mean scenes and difficulties of every sort. But confronted with a fait accompli, there would be less trouble. The same applied to Francesco; he too was sometimes tiresome about demanding inconveniently precise explanations for a course of action, and stubborn in his refusal to do what he did not approve of, as in the recent case—she had never quite followed his reasons there—of bringing pressure to bear on Pipo. But Francesco was now gone, for three or four days at least, and the old Marchesa, at her instance, was keeping her room—she had only to remove Marietta, and all would be easy. And the tragedy offered an ideal excuse for getting Marietta out of the house for a few days. At the very time when the three girls were discussing the news out on the stone pine ridge, Suzy, at the heavy ormolu escritoire in her boudoir was writing a note to Fräulein Gelsicher, asking her if it would be convenient to have Marietta to stay for a few days, alone? “This house is no place for her at the moment,” she wrote, “and I am constantly occupied with the Marchesa. She has stood it marvellously, but she will need great care. But Miss Prestwich had better remain here, I think—there is so much to be done; so many notes, and the flowers, and I have the mourning to see to.” She paused for a moment, after writing that, with suspended pen—that list of occupations for Miss Prestwich might look unpleasantly like a lie, later—and Suzy was always careful to cover her tracks. No—for she could let it be understood afterwards that the governess’s association with Roffredo had only come to her knowledge after she had made all these arrangements. She finished her letter, sealed and directed it with a firm hand, and gave orders for it to be sent to Odredo precisely at five o’clock, when Marietta would have returned for her English tea. And when the old Marchesa had finished her nap, and was fortified by a little glass of Marsala, she went and told her what she proposed. La Vecchia was pleased—it was a good idea to get the child away, and it showed a concern for the little one’s well-being which was rather unusual on Suzy’s part. She praised her daughter-in-law. “That was well thought of.”
So it was settled, and Marietta went off the following day immediately after lu
ncheon. Suzy was in a curious state of nervous tension till she had gone; it was as if she realised obscurely that the real danger, the most profound opposition to her will lay concealed in that small childish figure. She watched the little girl’s simple farewells to her governess with a keenness of impatience which surprised her. “Goodbye, cara Postiche,” the child said. “In two or three days, I shall see you again—and that will be all the nicer! Oh, à rive-derti!” she cried, and flung her arms round Miss Prestwich’s neck in a long straining hug. Even when the carriage had rolled out of the great entrance gates, Suzy did not feel really secure—she went up to her room, telling Miss Prestwich to remain in the house, as she would need her presently; and it was only when, three-quarters of an hour later, she heard it return and go round to the stables that she felt safe to embark upon her task. In the interval she now sat, now walked up and down, bracing herself to the coming interview—marshalling arguments to convince herself (and others) of the righteousness and necessity of her action, arranging phrases. She felt curiously shaken and insecure, whatever she did with her mind—it was probably the shock of Nadia, she told herself impatiently.
Miss Prestwich spent that three-quarters of an hour very differently. The Marchesa Nadia’s death had sobered her— it had not quenched her private joy altogether, but it had somehow put it out of focus; moreover it had revived her conscience, and this took effect in a newly-kindled desire to do right, to help, in every way that she could. Whatever the Marchesa Suzy might do in the way of flirtations, she had never been anything but kind to her, Almina, and she was after all her employer—she was in trouble now, she had looked quite white at luncheon. The girl had noticed that the flowers in the dining-room and the salone were not very fresh; she slipped out to the big flower-pantry leading off the hall— yes, as she had expected, the roses and sweet peas had been brought in by old Ugolino, but no one had done them. She set to, carrying out the faded vases, re-arranging them, and carrying them back; that would be a help, the Marchesa loved the flowers to be perfect. Happy-hearted, she worked away, glad to be of use—it was in the flower-pantry that Suzy found her when she came down in search of her, and the girl turned a bright expectant face on her employer as she came in.
