Matilde received on the following morning a curious letter which
surprised and startled her. She had risen at last, grey and weary of
face, with heavy eyes and drawn lips, to face the deed she meant to do.
The sky was overcast, but it was not raining yet, though it soon would.
She had risen before ringing for her maid, and had carefully removed the
paper from the three little cakes of white stuff which she had made. It
had to be done cleverly, for the smaller ones seemed likely to crumble;
but the large one was quite consistent. She had hidden them all in the
drawer she kept locked; then she had unfastened her door and had rung
the bell. It was past nine o'clock, and her maid had brought her a
letter with her coffee.
It was very short, but the few words it contained were exceedingly
disquieting. It was accompanied by a card on which Matilde read
'Giuditta Astarita, Sonnambula,' and the address was below, in one
corner. The few words of the letter, written in a subtle, sloping,
feminine handwriting, correctly spelt and grammatically well expressed,
ran as follows:--
"The spirit of B.M. wishes to make you an important communication and
torments me continually. I pray you to come to me soon, on any day
between ten and three o'clock. In order that you may be assured that it
is really the spirit of B.M., and not a deceiving spirit, I am to remind
you that on the evening of the ninth of this month, when you and he were
alone together in a room which is all yellow, you laid your hand upon
his head and stroked his hair and said: 'It is to save me.' The spirit
tells me that you will remember this and understand it, and know that he
is not a deceiving spirit."
Matilde read the short letter many times over, and her hands trembled
when she at last folded it and returned it to its envelope. A sensation
of curiosity and of ghastly horror ran through her hair, more than once,
like a cool breeze, and with it came the infinite desire for some one
word of truth out of the black beyond, from the one being whom she had
loved so fiercely.
But in such things she was sceptical, and she sought to make some theory
which should explain the writer of the letter into a common impostor.
She could find none. She remembered the act and the words that had gone
with it. Only she and Bosio had known, and he was dead--he had died
four-and-twenty hours after she had touched his hair and had said: 'It
is to save me.' And she knew him well. He was not, under any
circumstances, a man to speak of such things to a third person. Then,
how did this Giuditta Astarita know what Matilde had said and done? It
was not natural, and not natural meant supernatural--supernatural meant
the possibility of communication, and she had loved the dead man with
all her big, sinful soul.
It would be long before the time came for the deed, in the late
afternoon, and the terrible day must be disposed of in some way or
other. She was not afraid of going mad, nor of losing her nerve, nor of
making a mistake at the last moment, but even to her courage and
strength the hours before her were hours of fear.
She planned her day. The doctor would come, in the first place, at about
ten o'clock. He would recommend her to be quiet, to take a little broth
for luncheon, and a little more broth for dinner. She smiled grimly, as
she thought of his probable instructions, and she knew what she could do
and bear at pinch of pressing need. He would also tell her that the
powder contained only just the right quantity of medicine, and that she
must have been poisoned in some other way. She knew that.
Afterwards, Gregorio would need his instructions. He was to be at home
in the afternoon, and to come and drink his tea in Veronica's room when
Matilde sent for him. Just when Matilde was pouring out the tea, he was
to distract Veronica's attention from the tea-table for a moment. She
would not tell him that she intended to half poison him, too, for he was
a coward, and at the last minute, dreading pain, he would not drink from
his cup. She knew that well enough. She would tell him when he began to
suffer the effects, and assure him that he was not going to die. Again
she smiled grimly, and chancing to be just then before the mirror, she
saw that her face had all at once grown old since yesterday. And in
spite of her strength of body and will, she felt weak and exhausted, and
hated the hours that were to be between.
But when she had spoken to Gregorio, she would go out alone, on foot.
And she knew that she should find the address given on Giuditta
Astarita's card, and enter the house and see the woman who had written
to her, and hear the message that was promised. If she left her own
house, her feet must take her that way, whether she would or not.
And so it all happened just as she foresaw. But she had not known that
in threading the intricate, dark streets she would almost forget what
she was to do that day, in the mad hope of the one more word from
beyond. She had not known that at the thought her eyes would brighten
eagerly, the colour would come back to her cheeks, and the strength to
her limbs as she walked. After all, the strongest thing that had ever
been in her, or ever could be, was that passionate, dominating,
despotic devotion to one being; and the merest suggestion that he might
not be gone quite beyond the reach of spiritual touch had power to veil
the awful future of the day, when her hand was already uplifted to kill.
She was not a woman to hesitate at the last moment, unstrung and
womanishly trembling because the victim was young, and smiled, and had
innocent eyes. And yet, perhaps, had she not gone that day to answer the
spirit-seer's summons and to catch at the straw thrown to her from
beyond the grave, she might have seen a reason for changing her mind,
and all might have happened very differently. But Fate does not sleep,
though she seems sometimes to nod and forget to kill.
Matilde came to the house as the clock struck eleven, and entered by the
dark, arched door, and went up the damp, stone steps, as Bosio had done
a fortnight earlier. She was admitted by the decent woman whose one eye
was of a china blue, and she waited for Giuditta in the same small
sitting-room, of which the one heavily curtained window looked out upon
an inner court. She did not know that Bosio had ever been there, but in
her thoughts of him she felt his presence, and turned, with a shiver
under her hair, to look behind her as she stood waiting before the
window, just where he had stood. The day was dark, and the room was all
dim and cold, with its stiff, ugly furniture and its bare, tiled floor.
The corners were shadowy, and her eyes searched in them uneasily, and
she would not turn her back upon them again and look out of the windows.
Then the door opened noiselessly, and Giuditta Astarita entered, in her
loose black silk gown, with her little bunch of charms against the evil
eye, hanging by a chain from a button hole.
The china blue eyes looked steadily at Matilde, out of the unhealthy
face, but the woman gave no sign to show that she knew who her visitor
was. Her hoarse voice pronounced the usual words: "You wish to consult
me?"
"You wrote to me. I am the Countess Macomer," answered Matilde, lifting
her veil, which was a thick one.
The expression in the woman's eyes did not change, but she still looked
steadily at Matilde for three or four seconds.
"Yes," she said. "I thought so. I am glad that you have come, for I have
suffered much on your account."
She looked as though she were suffering, Matilde thought. Then she placed
the chairs, made the countess sit down, and drew the curtains, just as
she had done for Bosio.
Then, in the dark, there was silence. It seemed to Matilde a long time,
and she grew nervous, and moved uneasily. Then, without warning, she
heard that other voice, clear, deep, and bell-like, which Bosio had
heard, and she trembled.
"I see a name written on your breast,--Bosio Macomer."
The darkness, the voice, the shiver of anticipation, unnerved the strong
woman.
"What does he say to me?" she asked unsteadily.
Again there was a long silence, longer than the first, and by many
degrees more disturbing to Matilda, as she waited for the answer.
"Bosio loves you," said the voice. "He is watching over you. He tells
you to remember what you promised each other in the room that is all
yellow, long ago,--that the one that should die first would visit the
other. He tells you that it is possible, and that he has kept his
promise. He loves you always, and you will be spirits together."
Matilde felt that in the darkness she was horribly pale, but she was no
longer frightened.
"Will he come to me when I am alone?" she asked, and her voice did not
shake.
"I will ask him," answered the clear voice, and again there was silence,
but only for a few seconds. "This is his answer," continued the voice.
"He cannot come to you when you are alone, as yet. By and by he will
come. But he watches over you. For the present he can only speak with
you through Giuditta Astarita, who is now asleep."
"Is she asleep?" asked Matilde.
"She is in a trance," the voice replied. "I speak through her, but when
she awakes, she will not know what I have said. The spirits come to her
directly sometimes, when she is awake, and they torment her. Bosio has
been coming to her often, and has made her suffer, until she wrote to
you. The spirits themselves suffer when they wish to communicate with
the living, and cannot."
"What are you?" inquired Matilda.
"I am Giuditta's familiar. The spirits generally speak, through me, to
her, when she is in the trance."
"And she knows nothing of what you say?"
"Nothing, after she is awake."
"Is Bosio suffering now?" asked Matilde, gravely but eagerly, after a
moment's pause.
"I will ask him." And another brief pause followed. "Yes," continued the
voice. "He is suffering because he has left you. He suffers remorse. He
cannot be happy unless he can communicate with you."
"Can you see him? Can you see his face?"
"Yes," replied the voice, without hesitation. "He is very pale. His hair
is soft, brown, and silky, with a few grey streaks in it. His eyes are
gentle and tender, and his beard is like his hair, soft and like silk.
He is as you last saw him alive, when you kissed him by the fireplace in
the room that is yellow, just before he died. He loves you, as he did
then."
Such evidence of unnatural knowledge might have convinced a more
sceptical mind than Matilde's of the fact that the somnambulist could at
least read her thoughts and memories from her mind as from a book. It
was impossible that any one but herself could know how, and in what
room, she had kissed him for the last time, a few minutes before his
end. Again the cold shiver ran under her hair, and she could not speak
again for a few moments.
"Does he know what I am going to do to-day?" she asked at last, in a
very low voice.
"I will ask him."
The silence which followed was the longest of all that there had been.
"I cannot see him any more," said the voice, speaking more faintly. "He
is gone. He will communicate with you again. I cannot find him. Giuditta
is tired--she will--" The last words were hardly audible, and the voice
died away altogether.
In the dark, Matilde heard something like a yawn, as of a person waking
from sleep. Then Giuditta's croaking voice spoke to her.
"I am tired," she said. "The spirits have kept me a long time. Did you
hear anything that you wished to hear?"
"Yes. I heard much."
While Matilde was speaking, the woman drew the curtain back, and the
dull steel light of the gloomy day filled the small room. But after the
darkness it was almost dazzling. Matilde looked at Giuditta's face, and
saw the same staring, china eyes, and the same listless expression in
the unhealthy features. She had felt a sensation of relief when the
voice had been unable to answer the last question she had asked; for she
still thought that there might be a doubt as to Giuditta's total
forgetfulness on waking. But that doubt was greatly diminished by the
woman's indifferent and weary look.
"I hope that he will not torment me so much after this," said Giuditta.
"I have lost my sleep for several nights."
Matilde, believing that the somnambulist was one person when awake and
quite another when asleep, did not care to enter into conversation with
her in her present state. The vivid, terrible future of the day returned
to her mind, too. She had been momentarily unstrung and was in haste to
be gone and to be alone. She had her purse in her hand, and stood still
a moment, hesitating.
"I generally ask twenty-five francs for a consultation," said Giuditta.
"But I am so much obliged to you for coming to free me from this
obsession, that I shall not charge anything to-day."
"No," answered Matilde, quietly. "I am not accustomed to receiving
anything without paying for it. But I thank you."
She laid the money upon the polished table, beside the volumes in their
gilt bindings.
"Very well," said Giuditta. "If you desire it, I thank you. If you
should wish to come again, I am always to be found between ten and three
o'clock."
"I will come again," answered Matilde.
She passed through the door while Giuditta held it open for her, and in
the passage she was met by the one-eyed woman. But she was more unnerved
and less observant than Bosio had been, and she did not notice the
extraordinary resemblance between the colour of the woman's one eye and
that of Giuditta's two. She descended the stairs slowly, feeling dizzy
at the turnings, but steadying herself as she went down each straight
flight. She made her way quickly to the nearest large thoroughfare and
took the first passing cab to get home, for she felt that she had not
strength left to walk much more on that day.
She had a moment of weakness and doubt, as she went up her own stairs,
knowing that in half an hour she must sit down to table with Gregorio
and with Veronica. It would be the last time, for Veronica would never
sit down with them again. She had not realized exactly how it was to be.
Henceforth, at that table, two places were to be vacant, of two persons
dead within a fortnight, the one by his own hand, the other by hers; and
from that day, when she and her husband sat there, the shadows of those
two would be between them always.
She paused on the staircase, and steadied herself with her hand against
the wall. She knew that from now until it was done, she should have no
moment in which she could allow herself the pitiful luxury of feeling
weak. And as she stood there, and thought of the strange messages she
had but now received from beyond the grave, she felt the terror of what
the dead man's spirit might say to her when all was done, and Veronica
lay dead in her own room upstairs--in this coming night.
The fear followed her up the steps like a living thing, its hand on her
shoulder, its cold lips close to her ears, breathing fright and
whispering terror. And it went in with her to her own room, and kept
freezing company with her throughout a long half-hour of mental agony.
It could not bend her, but it almost broke her. If she could stand and
walk and see, she would go to Veronica's room that afternoon and kill
her. She hated her, too. She hated her all the more bitterly because she
felt afraid to kill her, and knew that she must conquer her fear before
she could do it. She hated her most savagely because, but for her, Bosio
Macomer would still have been alive. As though she had been herself
about to die, the great pictures of her own past rose in fierce colours,
and faced her with vivid life in the very midst of death. And with them
came the clear echo of that bell-like voice she had heard speaking
message for message between her and the man she had lost.
Her soul was not in the balance, for the die was cast and the deed was
to be done. But she suffered then, as though she had still been free to
choose. She was not. The atrocious vision of an infamous disgrace stood
between her and all possibility of relenting. She saw again the coarse
striped clothes, the cropped hair, the hands and feet shackled in irons,
the hideous faces of women murderers and thieves around her. Well, that
was the alternative, if she let Veronica live--all that, or death.
Of course, in such a case she would have chosen death. But it was
characteristic of her that from beginning to end she never thought of
taking her own life. She was too vital by nature. She had loved life
long and well; she loved it even now that it was not worth living. She
never even asked herself the question, whether it would not be better
and easier to end all and leave Gregorio to his fate. Gregorio! Her
smooth lip curled in contempt. A coward, a thief, a fool--why should she
care what became of him? Coldly and sincerely she wished that she were
going to kill him, and not Veronica. She despised the one, and hated the
other; of the two, she would rather have let the hated one live. But to
die herself seemed absurd to her, because she really feared death with
all her heart, and clung to life with all her strong, vital nature. If
the lives of all Naples could have saved her own, death should have had
them all, rather than take hers. To live was a passion of itself--even
to live lonely, with a despicable and hated companion in the
consciousness of the enormous and irrevocable crime by which that living
was to be secured to her.
There was a common, straight-backed chair in the room, between the chest
of drawers and the wall. Through that interminable half-hour she sat
upright upon it, her hands folded upon her knees, quite cold and
motionless, her eyes closed, and her lips parted in an expression of
bodily pain. Then she rose suddenly, all straight at once, tall and
unbending, and stood still while one might have counted ten, and she
opened and shut her eyes slowly, two or three times, as though she were
comparing the outer world with that within her. So Clytemnestra might
have stood, before she laid her hands to the axe.
She did not mean to be alone again until all was over. It would be
easier then. She would have her own bodily pain to bear. There would be
confusion in the house--doctors--screaming women--trembling
men-servants--her husband's groans; for he was a coward, and would bear
ill the little suffering which would help to save him. Then they would
tell her that Veronica was dead; and then--then she could sleep for
hours, nights, days, calmly, and at rest.
She bathed her tired face in cold water, and went to face them at
luncheon. With iron will, she ate and drank and talked, bearing herself
bravely, as some great actresses have acted out their parts, while death
waited for them at the stage door.
Had the weather been fine, she would have persuaded Veronica to drive
with her, as on the previous day. But it was dark and gloomy, and there
would be rain before night. She talked with the young girl, and began to
make plans with her for going away. Gregorio ate nothing, and looked on,
uttering a monosyllable now and then, and laughing frantically, two or
three times. Nobody paid any attention to his laughter, now, for the
household had grown used to it. It might break out just when a servant
was handing him something; the man would merely draw back a step, and
wait until the count was quiet again, before offering the dish.
Over their coffee, Matilde read fragments of news from the day's paper,
and made comments on what was happening in the world. Veronica thought
her unnaturally talkative and excited, but put it down to the reaction
after the poisoning of the previous night. Matilde drank two cups of
coffee instead of one. Macomer smoked one cigarette after another, and
sent for a sweet liqueur, of which he swallowed two glasses. He did not
look at Veronica, when he could avoid doing so.
At last Matilde rose and asked Veronica to allow her to bring her work
and sit with her in her room, to which the young girl of course
assented.
"By and by, we will have tea there," said Matilde. "Perhaps you will let
your uncle come and have a cup with us--he always drinks tea in the
afternoon."
"Certainly," answered Veronica, quietly. "Will you come at four o'clock,
Uncle Gregorio? Or is that too early?"
"Thank you. I will come at four, my dear," said Gregorio; and Matilde
saw that his knees shook as he moved.
In Veronica's room the two women sat through the early part of the
afternoon, and still Matilde talked almost continuously. That was the
only outward sign that she was not in her usual state, and Veronica
scarcely noticed it, for as the time wore on, she spoke less excitedly,
and more often waited for an answer to what she said. Of course, the
conversation turned for some time upon what had occurred on the
preceding evening. Matilde scouted the idea that any one had attempted
to poison her. It was perfectly clear, she said, that, although the
paper which the doctor had carried away to examine only contained
exactly the right amount of medicine, the one from which Matilda had
taken her dose must have had too much in it. She was quite out of the
habit of taking arsenic, too, and a very slight overdose would always
produce the symptoms of poisoning. Veronica could see that she had felt
no serious ill effects from the accident. As for thinking that any one
had given her poison intentionally, it was utterly and entirely absurd.
Matilde refused to entertain the idea even for a moment, and presently
she went on to speak of other things, and soon fell back upon making
plans for the winter. She did not allow the conversation to flag, for
she feared lest Veronica should be tired of sitting in her room and
suddenly propose to go somewhere else, just for the sake of the change.
It was essential to Matilde's plan that Elettra should bring the things
for tea.
She did not allow herself to think, and she succeeded in staving off
silence. Now that the deed was so near, it seemed unreal. Once she
touched her handkerchief in her pocket, and felt the three prepared
lumps concealed in it, to assure herself that she was not imagining all
she had done, and meant to do. Then, suddenly, she felt that her brow
was moist, a thing she could hardly remember having noticed before in
her life. But the moisture disappeared almost instantly, and her skin
was dry and burning.
Then the time came, and it was four o'clock.
Elettra opened the door and brought in the tea things on a large silver
tray, set them down, and went to get the little tea-table, that was made
with a shelf below, between the four legs, as a table with two stories.
"Let me make it," said Matilde, cheerfully; "I like to do it."
She laid down her work, and Elettra set the table before her knees, with
its high silver urn, and all the necessary little implements. Veronica
found herself on the other side of it, for Matilde had carefully chosen
her seat when she had first come, placing herself in such a way with
regard to Veronica as to make the present result almost inevitable
unless the girl moved into a very inconvenient position.
The big grey Maltese cat came in through the still open door, in the
hope of cream at the tea hour, as usual. The creature rubbed itself
along Elettra's skirt while she was lighting the spirit lamp under the
urn, which contained water already almost boiling.
"Will you kindly call the count?" said Matilde, addressing the maid.
Elettra left the room, and Matilde settled herself to make the tea, as
women do, raising her elbow a little on each side and then dropping them
again, bending her face down to see whether the lamp were burning well,
opening the teapot, pouring a little hot water into it, opening and
shutting the tea-caddy, and settling each spoon in each saucer in a
dainty and utterly futile way.
The cat rubbed its grey sides against Veronica's skirt and against her
little slipper, as she sat there, one knee crossed over the other. The
young girl bent down and stroked it, and hesitated, looking at the
tea-table, and not wishing to disturb the things to take a saucer for
the cat until the tea was made. As she bent down, Matilde took her
handkerchief quietly from her pocket and laid it quite naturally in her
lap. Veronica, being on the other side of the table and the urn, could
not possibly see what she did.
Gregorio came in. Elettra had opened the door from without, for him to
pass. She stood on the threshold a moment, and looked towards the table,
to see whether anything had been forgotten. Then she closed the door,
and went away, leaving the three together. The water boiled almost
immediately; and Gregorio was just sitting down when Matilde poured the
water out of the teapot, and part in the tea. She filled the pot, and
leaned back in her chair to allow it to draw a few moments.
The silence was intense during several seconds. Only the purring of the
cat was heard, as Veronica, letting her arm hang down without stooping,
gently rubbed its broad head. It pushed itself under her hand, bending
its back to her caress, turned quickly, and pushed its head under her
hand once more, doing the same thing again and again.
Matilde sat upright, lifted the cover of the teapot an instant, and then
began to move the cups. Veronica, whose thoughts were intent upon the
animal she was touching, and which, as she knew, was begging for cream,
immediately leaned forward, and took from under the silver cream jug a
saucer which Elettra had especially brought for the purpose. She poured
a little cream into it, and, bending down, placed it on the lower shelf
of the tea-table, and gently pushed the cat towards it.
Matilde saw her opportunity, while Veronica was stooping; and in that
moment she distributed the three lumps from her handkerchief in the
three cups before her, and at once began to pour tea into the one
containing the largest lump. The cat, for some reason, wished the saucer
to be set upon the floor; and Veronica still bent down, until it sprang
lightly upon the lower shelf, and began the slow and dainty operation of
lapping the cream.
During all this, Gregorio, anxious to seem unaware of anything
extraordinary, and not really knowing how his wife meant to put the
poison into the tea, was nervously looking away from her, sometimes
towards the window, at the fast-fading light of the grey afternoon on
the opposite house, and sometimes at Veronica's head as she bent down.
When she looked up, Matilde was holding out her cup to her, having put
some cream into it and a lump of real sugar to really sweeten the tea.
Veronica thanked her, drew a little nearer to the table, held her cup on
her knee, and took a thin slice of bread and butter, which she proceeded
to eat, stirring the tea slowly with her left hand.
Matilde meanwhile filled the other two cups, and handed one to her
husband, who took it in silence, unsuspectingly.
"I can never understand why the tea we make here is better than mine,"
she said, smiling. "It is the same tea, of course. But it certainly is
better in your room."
"Is it?" asked Veronica, carelessly and looking down at the cup she held
on her knee, while she slowly stirred the contents.
As though to verify Matilde's assertion, she bent a little, raised the
cup, and tasted the liquid. It was still too hot to drink, and she
stirred it again on her knee. She noticed that although it had been
sweet enough to her taste, there was a lump of sugar, not yet dissolved,
still in the cup: she never took but one piece, and her aunt had
evidently put in two.
Still holding the cup on her knee, where Matilde could not possibly see
it, she quietly fished the superfluous piece of sugar out with her
teaspoon, and bending down again she deposited it in the saucer from
which the cat was lapping the last drops of cream. She noticed that it
was only dissolved at the corners, but she had observed before that one
sometimes finds a lump of sugar which remains hard a long time. The cat
would eat it, for it liked sugar, as some cats do.
Then she filled the cat's saucer again. By that time what she had was
cooler, and she drank some of it.
"It is certainly very good tea," she said thoughtfully. "I think you
probably make it better than I do."
As she drank again, Gregorio's unearthly laugh cracked and jarred in the
room. But neither he nor his wife had seen what Veronica had done. They
were staring hard at each other, and for the second time Matilde felt
that her brow was moist.