Enchanter's Nightshade

by Ann Bridge

  “Last night, about six,” she said.

  “How did she leave?”

  “In the carriage.”

  “And went where?”

  “To the diligence, credo.”

  “E poi? Speak up, woman—what is all this about the Conte Roffredo’s villa? You had plenty to say to Roberto about it!”

  By such means the old lady prized out of Giacinta all that the servants knew; once forced to speak, indeed, Giacinta gave the tale with a certain discreet gusto: the rumour of Miss Prestwich’s having gone to the villa and dined there—no. she had not gone in the carriage, the diligence took her round that way—Count Roffredo’s hurried departure for Milan early this this morning, and Roberto’s latest report from Castellone that the two Countesses had gone over to the young Count’s and brought her back, luggage and all, to Castellone. When she had heard it all, la Vecchia Marchesa, without comment, sent for Tommaso. While she awaited him she thought over the maid’s story with a certain discomfort. It looked as if Suzy had been most unwise, and her recent conversation with Fräulein Gelsicher gave her a clue to one reason for this lack of wisdom. Aspasia was shrewd—she would not have taken the girl in unless she were satisfied that there was a good deal to be said on her side. There was something behind all this— something which had not come out. Why had the girl gone to the Villa and stayed the night? It was not like her—she was a perfectly rangée little thing.

  Her meditations had carried her so far when Tommaso was announced. He stood, fat, sheepish, but extraordinarily sturdy, twisting his straw Homburg round and round in his blunt red hands. The old Marchesa dealt with him shortly. He had taken the Signorina to the diligence the previous evening? Yes. Not to Gardone? No. By the Marchesa’s orders? Yes. He went nowhere else? No. In all good faith, merely to establish one aspect of the servants’ story, which she did not yet wholly trust, the old Marchesa then asked—“You saw her get into the diligence, yourself?”

  Tommaso twisted his hat more violently than ever, and shifted from one fat foot to the other. “Marchesa, no,” he brought out at length.

  “Ma come? You did not leave her alone by the road to wait? Dio mio, you know your business better than that!” the impatient old woman broke out, in genuine surprise and irritation.

  Tommaso’s embarrassment became pitiful to see. “Si, la Marchesa. E vero, la Marchesa. But we were rather early, the Marchesa sees—and the young Marchesa had wished the carriage to return in good time. And the Marchesa will understand that the diligence was rather late—” his voice trailed away into a wretched silence. Tommaso knew as well as anyone else the disreputable nature of the instructions he had received; it was unheard-of for a coachman to leave a lady waiting by the roadside if, as seldom happened, she were using the diligence at all.

  The old Marchesa took it all in. Her mouth drew together in an almost bitter line. “Va bene—that will do,” she said quietly. When he had gone she rang her bell again—a little silver object which stood on a small table by her chair.

  Giacinta reappeared. “Comanda la Marchesa?”

  “Inform the young Marchesa that I wish to speak with her.”

  “It will be the colacione in ten minutes,” the woman said, exercising the habitual freedom of controversy with their employers so common among Italian domestics. “Will the Marchesa not first go downstairs? Roberto has all ready.”

  “Roberto can wait. The colacione can wait. Have the goodness to do as you are told,” the old lady fairly snapped. Tommaso’s evidence of Suzy’s venomous folly had made her really angry. But when her daughter-in-law came sweeping in, graceful, finished, beautiful, an expression of concern on her charming face, the old woman felt a pang of real pain for the suffering that could have made her so mistranslate her proper role and purpose in life, could have betrayed her into behaving in this crude and cruel way. That it was a betrayal of the willed personality she never doubted. But no pain or pity could ever turn la Vecchia Marchesa from a course which she felt to be necessary.

  “Figlia mia, is it true that you have dismissed Miss Prestwich?” she began, without any preamble.

  Suzy blanched a little. Obviously Bonne-Mama had found out somehow. “Yes, Bonne-Mama, I have. It was necessary,” she said in her charming caressing voice.

  “Why?”

  “She was carrying on an intrigue with Roffredo; it was needful to put a stop to it. Livia would have expected this of me—and in any case, she could not be a good influence on Marietta, in the circumstances. She admitted that it had been going on for some time, and that she had concealed it from me,” the young Marchesa said smoothly. “I feel sure you will agree with this, Bonne-Mama.”

  “It is possible,” said the old lady drily. “Though I myself should have considered Marietta’s feelings rather than Livia’s. The child loves Miss Prestwich. But one may agree with a course of action without agreeing as to the means of carrying it out. Was it not rather sudden? And if it had to be done so hastily, could not the carriage have taken Miss Prestwich to Gardone, at the proper time?”

  “Vedi, Bonne-Mama, that is so late for Tommaso! And the horses had already been to Odredo in the afternoon. Besides, in the circumstances I really did not feel called upon to show her quite the attention that would be shown to a guest.”

  “H’m. That might still have been preferable to her going to dine at Roffredo’s, and spending the night there,” the old lady said.

  No word of this had of course reached Suzy’s ears; she was the one person to whom nothing would be said on the subject. She drew in a sharp breath, and stood looking down incredulously at her Mother-in-law. At last with an effort,—“Well, that speaks for itself!” she said, very slightly shrugging her shoulders.

  Again that sharp sense of pain and pity assailed the old woman. Whatever she might think of her actions, she admired, even in this moment, her daughter-in-law’s graceful self-control. But she had to get this matter cleared up, even if it meant breaking down those skilful elegant defences. There was still that something behind, and she was sure now, from her whole manner, that Suzy knew it and meant to conceal it, whatever it was. A suspicion, which caused her an ever deeper discomfort, was gaining on her as to the possible nature of that something.

  “I am not sure what it speaks for,” she said. “It puzzles me —it is very unlike her. Why do you suppose she went there?”

  “Ma, to see him, of course. Surely it is evident?” the younger woman said, a note of scornful bitterness creeping into her voice at last.

  The old woman looked keenly at her. “Did you part in anger?” she asked. She was getting there—she was nearing the clue.

  “Naturally, it was not a pleasant interview,” Suzy answered, trying to speak lightly again.

  “How?”

  “Bonne-Mama cara, how could it be?” Really, the old lady was being most tiresomely persistent and uncomprehending. “She tried of course to justify herself.”

  “But did you part with mutual courtesy, or in anger? Suzy, I wish to know,” the old Marchesa repeatedly steadily.

  “To some extent in irritation. She was insolent,” Suzy said, a little colour coming into the warm matte pallor of her face at the recollection of that scene. “Does it matter?” she asked, a little wearily.

  La Vecchia had nearly got there. They had quarrelled, then, face to face! “You remembered, in your irritation, to pay her her fare?” she said, “to see that she had plenty of money for the journey?” There was actually a note of anxiety in her voice. Was it that?

  Suzy moved to the window and adjusted the fastening of the sunblind. For an intolerable moment she stood there, with her perfect figure in her black dress, and her soft elaborate fair head silhouetted against the glowing yellow oblong of the window; while her hands wrestled with the fastening, her mind wrestled with the impossible admission—she saw it now as impossible—that she had got, in a moment, to make. Seated in her chair, the old woman watched her, again feeling that pain—only now the pain was almost physical;
unconsciously, she put her hand to her left breast, to what seemed to be the seat of it.

  Slowly Suzy turned round, a bitter blank defiance in her face. But when she saw the position of that small frail hand on the little black figure, the consternation in the old woman’s eyes, her expression altered. With a swift impulsive movement she went over and stood close to the old Marchesa’s chair.

  “No, Bonne-Mama, I did not,” she said. “I—” her face worked for a moment. “I lost my temper completely, and I—I never went into it properly with her.” Even now she could not admit that she had been asked for money by that desperate child, and had refused it. She had been a fool! She might have foreseen all this. “I regret it very much,” she went on after a moment. “I was in fault.”

  The old Marchesa looked steadily at her. She could see it all now—Miss Prestwich’s actions, Suzy’s actions, and the reasons for them, were quite clear; in Suzy’s case, in particular, her mind and her own experience pieced the whole thing together. But what a betrayal! Oh, how foolish young people were! Sizy to do such a thing as this!

  “My child, you were,” she said very gravely. “This was most discreditable folly. Really, it is madness!” she said, her sense of the impropriety of the whole affair gaining on her, and surmounting her pity. “I do not know what evidence you had against Miss Prestwich, but nothing short of flagrante delitto could justify such behaviour! The girl is of good family, remember, and recommended by personal friends. And to send her away like this, at no notice, and without money—it is insanity!” She paused—she was not aware of fatigue, but somehow she felt the need to wait for a moment before continuing. “You will have to pay her a quarter’s salary, and her fare,” she said then, firmly.

  “Si, Bonne-Mama—I recognise that. I will,” Suzy said. She paused for a moment and then said—“But where is she? Is she still here?”

  “No. By some means which I do not understand, it seems that Aspasia heard of it, and went this morning and fetched her. At the moment she is at Castellone.”

  That had to be said. The old Marchesa was divided between her desire—an unwonted one for her, on the whole— to spare Suzy’s feelings, and her strong instinct to check and upbraid folly, which of all things she hated, wherever she met it. That conflict was making this conversation—yes, fatiguing was the word, after all. But Suzy’s involuntary expression of dismay at hearing that Miss Prestwich was still in the Province, on the tapis, and in the hands of the Sorellone, the most redoubtable of gossips, brought her pity to the fore again. She would help Suzy as far as she could.

  Again her daughter-in-law roused her admiration by her self-control. With a light movement of face and shoulders, as if somehow burying her concern, she said quietly—“Then we had better send the money there.”

  La Vecchia Marchesa considered in silence for a moment. “I think,” she then said, “that I will ask Aspasia to come and receive it on her behalf. That seems to me the most suitable course. Will you hand me my writing-board, my dear?” She did not say, what was very much in her thoughts, that by this means she might learn more precisely how matters stood —all sorts of uncomfortable possibilities stood round in her mind like menacing figures; she had heard only the barest outline, and Suzy had not been at all expansive with her. There might be worse to come, Roffredo being—well, what she knew her young countrymen to be with women. Nor did she give expression to another idea, that if she spoke with the Countess Aspasia it might be possible to set some sort of limit to the sisters’ tongues. But Suzy—it was the one flaw in her self-control during the whole of that difficult scene— made it clear that this contingency was present to her mind also. Handing the blotting-board, with paper and envelopes stuck under its dark green Morocco corners, to the old lady, she asked—“Did Roma go also to the villa?”

  “I believe so. Now I shall write this. And after all, Suzy, I think that I shall not come down to luncheon. It is late, and I am a little tired,” the old lady said.

  La Vecchia Marchesa’s courteous note brought the Countess Aspasia over that afternoon in Ernest’s wife’s smart brougham —the pony had done enough that morning to make it certain that he would be intolerably slow on the eight-mile stretch between Castellone and Vill’ Alta. But the Countess Ernest took no sides in the affair, and found Countess Aspasia better company than most of Ernest’s provincial relations; she was charmed to lend her brougham and her cockaded coachman. (Like so many Belgians, she affected English manners, and even in the Province of Gardone put her coachman and foot-men into hot dark liveries and cockades.) Countess Aspasia was quite ready to go, and in any case, La Vecchia Marchesa’s requests were regarded in the Province as something in the nature of Royal Commands. But she left Roma behind this time. Roma was not asked, and, as she pointed out, someone should be there to keep an eye on “quella piccola”. “Do not let anyone see her,” she said: “let her sleep. Do not, Roma, chatter to her.” And with Roma’s indignant protests in her ears, she set off.

  The old Marchesa received Countess Aspasia in her own sitting-room. Suzy was not visible. La Vecchia had not attempted to beat about the bush in her note. “I understand that Miss Prestwich is staying with you,” she had written. “There is some money still owing to her which in the hurry of her departure she did not take. I think possibly to procure you a satisfaction in affording you the opportunity of receiving it on her behalf.” Garlanded like a sacrificial calf, with civil phrases behind and before, there stood the meat, the admission of error, plain and bald. It was for such a manner of dealing that Aspasia so profoundly respected the old Marchesa. And it simplified the course of the interview considerably. A fat envelope lay on the little table beside the old lady, an earnest of what was to come. But neither was sure quite how much the other knew—Aspasia, for instance, though she had made a guess, was not certain whether Miss Prestwich had been dismissed with the old Marchesa’s sanction or without it—nor what line each was likely to take; accordingly, their opening moves were made with a certain circumspection. After the Marchesa had thanked Countess Aspasia for her goodness in coming, and Countess Aspasia had said what a pleasure it was, and how deeply distressed she and dear Roma had been at the news of the Marchesa Nadia’s death, and how well, in spite of it, the Marchesa looked; and had asked when dear Francesco would return, and learned that he was coming back tomorrow, Wednesday— and after a little glass of the syrupy Marsala had been offered and accepted, they at last made a beginning on the subject in hand.

  “So Miss Prestwich is with you, Contessa?” the old lady began.

  “Yes, Marchesa. She is not very well,” Aspasia replied, blandly.

  “Suzy has had occasion to dismiss her,” the old lady said, gravely, “but in all this confusion about Nadia, it was done in some haste, and mistakes were made.” She, for her part, did not know if Countess Aspasia had heard about that disastrous and culpable business of the carriage. She took up the envelope. “Here is a quarter’s salary in lieu of notice, and the month that was owing, and a full fare back to England, with all expenses. I think that that meets all obligations.” Countess Aspasia took the envelope, and signified assent. “And now, my dear Contessa,” she went on, “I do not know if you agree with me, but I am inclined to feel, much as I personally like and respect the girl”—she leaned a little on the word respect—“that the sooner she leaves the Province, the pleasanter for her, and indeed for everyone.” She spoke with perfect friendliness, but with a certain decision.

  “In other circumstances, dear Marchesa, I should be entirely of your opinion,” Countess Aspasia answered; “but, owing to this unfortunate mistake”—and she too leaned a little on the word—“a state of affairs has arisen which makes me regard it as desirable that Miss Prestwich should remain with us for a certain length of time.” She looked squarely at the old Marchesa, and the old Marchesa looked back at her. Better make sure, the old woman thought; and she said aloud— “Might I ask what those circumstances are, Contessa? I have great confidence in your judgement,
as you know, but at present I am a little in the dark.”

  “But certainly, Marchesa. Being without money, except for a few lire, and unable therefore to travel, Miss Prestwich —unwisely perhaps, but she was in a situation of great distress and difficulty—went to Roffredo with the intention of borrowing some. He had declared an attachment for her, and she relied on him. Beyond his deserts, as it proves. He did agree to lend her the money, and to drive her to the station, but as she left this house five hours”—again she leaned on the words—“before the express was due, there was unfortunately a considerable interval of time to wait for it, during which he gave her dinner, and so much wine as to render her practically unconscious, I gather. In any event, she spent the night at the villa with him.” She paused.

  “I see,” the old lady said. It was black enough. “And how did you hear of it?” she asked. There was no doubt more to come.

  “My chattering servant told me when she came with my coffee, thanks be to Heaven!” Countess Aspasia said—“that she was there, and that Roffredo had gone galloping off to Milan on the morning train. It seemed to me distinctly out of the ordinary, to say the least, and I decided to look into it. Mercifully I did not delay! I took Roma, and we drove over at once. We found that unfortunate young woman sitting in Roffredo’s room, with his revolver loaded, and a sealed letter to her Mother in front of her. That letter saved her life— without it, we could not have been in time.”

  The old Marchesa heard her in silence. Only her small wrinkled hand travelled up to her left side—that curious pain again! Suzy’s betrayal of her better self had been deep indeed, had almost plunged them in disaster. And that unhappy little creature, with her pretty face, her graceful good manners, and her devotion to Marietta—to have brought her to this!