The Bond/Part 3/Chapter 3

by Neith Boyce

 

III

NINA had not yet got her establishment thoroughly settled when, preceded by several telegrams, Edith di Pepoli arrived, with a mountain-wagon full of luggage. She came late at night and went straight to bed, where she stayed till four the next afternoon.

"It looks as though she meant to stop with me all summer," said Nina in the morning. "She said she was too tired to talk last night, but I shall have it all to-day, I suppose. Of course it's the best thing she can do, coming to stay with us, and I daresay she expects me to make it up again with Egisto."

"And shall you try?" asked Teresa.

"I don't know. One hates a scandal like that in the family, but as for Edith—really I don't much care on her account. She promised me solemnly, she swore to me, last time, that she'd behave herself properly in future—and now you see. I've no patience with that sort of person. A woman like that is no better than—than a creature out of the streets. In fact she's worse—for she has her position and her family to think of. No, I won't have her in my house—I won't have her here with my children!"

Nina flushed suddenly with anger and she looked into the hall, where two men were struggling to get up the narrow stairs one of Edith's huge boxes. In this mood of righteous indignation Nina looked exactly like their mother, Teresa thought. All her puritan ancestry spoke in the cold flame of her blue eyes and the hardness of her mouth.

"Why did you make it up before?" asked Teresa in a low voice. The walls of the chalet were so thin, and noises echoed so through its low-ceilinged rooms, that she thought the visitor, in the room above, must almost have heard Nina's last incisive remark.

"Oh, because—because the family of course didn't want a scandal—and then Egisto is fond of her, in spite of everything—and she came and begged and pleaded—promised anything, if only I'd help her. But now I shall tell her—I really must tell her—that I can't have her here."

At tea-time that day Edith came down, and Teresa saw a tall, fair woman, very English in type, with a tea-rose complexion, large blue eyes, and light-brown hair curled elaborately over her forehead. She wore a loose, clinging dress of pale mauve crêpe, she was rather carelessly powdered, and her eyelids were pink. Her hands trembled nervously as she took her tea-cup, and she drank several cups of almost black tea, and then began to smoke. She pleaded fatigue as an excuse for not talking—a sleepless night in the train, and last night, she said, she had not slept at all well, because she had forgotten her sulphonal. Her eyes looked pathetic, and if she had not been overperfumed and overdecorated with bracelets and other trinkets, Teresa would have thought her rather attractive. Ernestine, who sat on a stool by her aunt's side, was evidently fascinated. She studied every detail of the mauve dress and the curling hair with intent, yearning eyes, and Edith's tea-rose skin was exactly what, as Ernestine had told Teresa, she had often prayed to have herself.

Teresa felt that her presence embarrassed Edith, who had evidently counted on finding Nina alone. Nina too was distrait and bothered, and put wrong amounts of cream and sugar into the tea, and finally poured the cream into the tea-pot, by mistake for hot water. They all laughed at that, but rather lamely, for the situation was too obvious. Teresa felt a sudden keen sympathy for Nina, as she looked at her worried face, and a resentment against the blonde woman whose nervous movements made a constant little noise of rustling silk and tinkling ornaments. Why should she come to bother Nina, who assuredly had worries enough of her own? Would Nina be able to tell her to go? Could one turn out anything as helpless as that, with its sentimental blue eyes and tremulous mouth?

The two sisters dined alone that night at the chalet, as usual. Edith had gone back to bed.

"I've had a talk with her," sighed Nina. "I've been trying to persuade her that she ought to go to her relatives in England, but she seems to think that would be giving up any hope of Egisto—and the children. She has two, you know, two little girls, and Egisto has declared she shall never see them again. She's been crying—bawling rather—for an hour. She swears that she's quite innocent this time, and that Egisto's morbid jealousy has trumped up a case against her. And then she maundered on about this man, whoever he is, some Italian, and their beautiful friendship, which people would misunderstand, and so on. Of course, if she tells the truth, it is pretty hard on her. But then she's been such an idiot—worse than that, criminal—and even if she's innocent in this case, she deserves it all, I really do think. I was wrong, I believe, to meddle with her affairs at all, or try to help her—and yet I don't know—what can you do when a person comes and goes on their knees to you——"

"And what does she want now?" asked Teresa absently.

"Why, she wants to get back what she's forfeited—her children, her position in society. She doesn't care anything about her husband, but of course she can't very well get on without him. She went on to me about his brutality—and it's true, Egisto is rather a savage. She's afraid of him, too—yet she wants him to take her back. I'm sure he won't, this time, however—so there it is."

"And what are you going to do, Nina?"

"I don't knows what to do," Nina confessed, and her capable face was dismally bewildered. "If she really is a misunderstood victim, and all that, one ought to help her, if possible. I don't see how I can say to her that I absolutely won't do anything. But the awful thing is, I'm afraid she's lying. If she isn't, it shows what a fearful mistake she made in the first place, putting herself at Egisto's mercy. If he suspects her wrongly now, it's because he knows about the other time. Oh, let's talk of something else—I've really got a headache from it all. And then her crying, and that perfume she wears! If you could see her room! Littered from top to bottom with trunkfuls of stuff—corsets on the table, stockings on the bureau, hats on the floor, cigarettes everywhere, and a thousand bottles and pill-boxes—heavens knows what she doesn't take. Her maid can't pick up things as fast as she drops them."

They talked of other things, but inevitably the subject of Edith came up again. Nina was preoccupied by it, in spite of herself.

"She's very pretty," said Teresa.

"Oh, she has that kind of attraction," Nina answered disdainfully. "She's always surrounded by men, wherever she is. Really she cares about nothing else. And she sentimentalises over them all—talks about their souls and the higher life and so on, when really all that she means … I know, because she stayed with us one summer, and the other affair was going on then. I saw it, but I couldn't do anything. I talked to her, though. I warned her about Egisto. There's a bottom of savagery in all Italians, and it's dangerous to touch it. But she thought she could always manage Egisto. And she always had some fine phrase ready—she would wrap everything up in cotton-wool and make it look pretty. She told me all American women were as cold as ice—no temperament, no feeling. Well, all I can say is, I'm glad I haven't a temperament. I can't see what use it is to women. A little common sense goes a long way further, considering what we have to do in the world. I shall telegraph to Ernesto to come at once. He really must come, now she's here, and take part of the responsibility."

••••••

A week later Ernesto appeared upon the scene, accompanied by four large trunks, his valet, and his usual air of bland content with the world, which recent heavy losses at Monte Carlo and even the domestic situation had not diminished in the least. Teresa had not seen him for five years, and she found him absolutely unchanged. His slim figure was as graceful as ever, his handsome face unmarked by a line of temper or dissipation or thought. He was as careful of his looks as any professional beauty, and apart from this interest and the problem of enjoying himself to the utmost, Teresa had not discovered that he had an idea in the world. His coming filled the house with commotion.

It was a thoroughly Italian establishment—the servants informal, loquacious, and always in evidence; the children generally sharing the hours, food, and conversation of their elders. Meals were long and elaborate, and all the household business was conducted with what appeared to Teresa an incredible amount of noise and bustle. Each day Nina seemed to accomplish the task of bringing something like order out of a chaos of rebellious wills. Meals were on time, the children had their lessons, their piano-practise was regulated so as not to disturb Ernesto's morning and afternoon siesta, the quarrels of the nurse and the governess were settled with a firm hand.

But the question of Edith had first to be discussed, and the reluctant Ernesto was called into council by his wife. It appeared that Egisto had gone off to Sicily to look after some property there, sending his children to the care of the old Countess di Pepoli at the family estate near Bologna. From Sicily he had written to Ernesto that he would receive no more letters from his wife, had requested that she should not be allowed to stay in his brother's family, and announced that on his return to Rome he should put the case into his lawyer's hands.

In the week that had elapsed before Ernesto's arrival, Teresa had seen that Nina was being gradually won over to Edith's side. She could not resist that desperate appeal; and the affair was something to manage, and Nina had stores of unused executive ability. Ernesto was non-committal, but with a bias in favour of doing what his brother wanted. He pronounced finally that Egisto, although a younger brother, ought to be allowed to manage his own domestic affairs, and that he did not think they should interfere. The affair was unpleasant, and Ernesto hated unpleasantness and bother. Nina began to argue strenuously with him, and several times Teresa was drawn into the debate.

As though she felt that her fate was on trial here, Edith levelled her batteries at Ernesto. Up to the time of his arrival, both she and Nina had come to dinner in tea-gowns. But now both dressed every night. Nina laced in her middle-aged waist and had her hair built up into an elaborate coiffure. And Edith appeared each night in a different dress, looking fragile and filmy and pathetic, and using her soft blue eyes most patently. Two days in succession, also, she took Ernesto off for a ramble in the woods, prolonged beyond the tea-hour. And this procedure came near to undoing her. As Ernesto warmed toward her, Nina cooled. The balance swung the other way, and now it was Nina who declared that they could not keep Edith on.

Then came the day when Nina braced herself to the ordeal of telling Edith that she must go to England. The unfortunate result was a fit of hysterics so violent that the French doctor had to be called in; and he, after a long interview, pronounced that Madame was on the verge of nervous prostration and must be kept perfectly quiet, with, above all, no mental disturbance. In despair, Nina wrote off to Egisto the state of the case and told him that he must come himself and take his wife away. Then there was a period of exhausted quiet. Edith, having gained her point—to stay where she was till an interview with her husband could be brought about—allowed her nervous crisis to be calmed. And Teresa, to whom she had begun to talk freely, good-naturedly gave her a hint as to Ernesto.

"If you want anything from, my sister, that isn't the way to get it," she explained. "It's Nina who decides things here, and to have Ernesto on your side will do more harm than good with her."

Edith's eyes widened slowly and she nodded.

"I see; jealous," she said after a moment. "Oh, what a frightful passion jealousy is! There's something so sordid, so mean about it! But I'll be careful—thank you."

And she was careful. She by no means gave up her intention of melting Ernesto, but she proceeded with a cleverness which Teresa saw and loathed. Ernesto was clever, too, after his initial mistake. He was fond of caressing his wife in public, and Nina liked this small change of affection. They were a rather oppressively domestic couple, on the surface. In Nina's place, Teresa reflected, she would have led Ernesto a life! She said as much to him one day when they strolled up into the woods together.

"I wish you had had the chance," was his prompt retort. "I shouldn't mind any sort of a life with you."

"Don't waste your gallantry on me!" she said, laughing. "Unless of course it's by way of keeping your hand in. I am cross with you, when I see what a slave you make of poor Nina."

"I make a slave of her! Dearest Teresa, it's she that makes the slave of herself. I've always wanted her to go into the world, to enjoy herself, to dress herself, to go about with me—but she will not."

"How can she, when you spend all the money?"

"But that's just it. If she spent more, I would spend less. She might spend at least half of it. If she were with me, I should not be so extravagant. But she always says she has no clothes to go to the places I go. Why doesn't she get the clothes? You see, she is what you call a frump."

"You horrid man! Why don't you try getting less for yourself and giving her the extra money?"

"She would only spend it on the house or the children. Besides it is not all a question of money. Your clothes—" he gave a critical glance at her white dress—"do not cost so very much. Yet you are always perfectly well dressed. That's what I mean by her being a frump. It's the way she puts on her clothes, and then of course she would not take care to keep her figure. It's a great mistake for a woman to lose her beauty. Nina was more beautiful than you—and now you are far more beautiful. You have gained greatly from your marriage. You have not made a slave of yourself, eh?"

"No. But then I have not five children and a husband like you."

"Like me? Why do you dislike me so much? I am like all other husbands, only better-tempered and handsomer."

"Conceited creature! What good does it do a man to be handsome like a doll? The ugly ones are much more interesting."

"I am not like a doll. And how do you know whether I'm interesting or not. You look upon me only as the bad husband of the good sister."

He cast a slightly sulky glance upon her from his dark eyes…eyes exactly like Ernestine's, deep and long-lashed. No, he was not doll-like. His forehead was broad and beautifully modelled, his nose strongly masculine; a short pointed beard and moustache hid the mouth and chin.

"No, not bad," she smiled. "Not serious enough to be bad. Only frivolous."

"Well, why not be frivolous, as you call it, though I am serious enough sometimes. … I suppose you mean I do no work, but what should I work at, and why work, anyway? What is there to do? Il ne faut pas beaucoup pour passer la vie."

"Beaucoup? Beaucoup des petites choses—pour vous …"

"Oh, well, what is the difference, after all—big things and little things? It is important to pass one's life as agreeably as possible—voilà tout."

"Even at the expense of other people."

"Somebody must pay the bills," said Ernesto blandly. "But after all one sees that they get something for their money, too. My pleasure is to give pleasure to other people. It is not my fault if the capacity for pleasure is limited."

"What a brute you sound when you talk, Ernesto!"

"No, no, it's only that you won't understand me! You know I am not a brute, a more kind person never lived than I am! I wish everybody to be happy, and so I am happy myself. What good would it do anybody if I were miserable? Why are you not happy, Teresa?"

She shook her head, smiling faintly.

"It's nothing you could understand, Ernesto," she said absently.

No man could understand—least of all could a Latin understand!

"I understand a good deal about men and women," he responded, nodding his head sagely. "Much more than you think. You have had a love-quarrel, and you're——"

"I'm what?" said Teresa, half offended.

"Don't be angry with me. I won't say it—I don't know you well enough yet. … Tell me, what is your husband like?"

"Oh, like all husbands, I suppose—only handsomer," said Teresa, laughing.

"Does he bully you?"

"No—perhaps I bully him."

"Ah, yes, you are a typical American! Now there is Nina, she bullies me out of my life. The worst of that is, one seeks to be consoled elsewhere. Eh?"

He cast a keen glance at Teresa, and she felt the colour rising to her cheeks. She shook her head.

"Not to be drawn that way," she said. "Besides, I don't really bully him—I nag him."

"And what is the difference, please? To be nagged is to be bullied—it's the worst kind of torment. No man can resist it—no man! He will sell his soul to get rid of the sound of that voice, forever going on, forever——"

Ernesto switched off the tops of a clump of fern with his stick.

"Yes, I suppose it is pretty bad," said Teresa meditatively. "But I daresay you get out of a good deal of it by deceit."

"Deceit? But one must deceive! Can one tell the truth to one's wife? Not to a woman like Nina, at any rate—she has no idea of the world, and she is religious. And remember this—'il faut la tromper, parceque'lle n'est pas de celles qu'on quitte."

Again the keen glance, again Teresa's rising colour answered. He had a diabolical sharpness, this simple man! And the phrase had struck her deeply.

"I am not of that sort," she said in a low voice.

"Of what sort—the sort one doesn't leave? Oh, but you are—absolutely. And therefore 'il faut vous tromper.'"

"It's the one thing I couldn't forgive—deceit," said Teresa, looking straight ahead.

"But why—when it is really a compliment to you? … For a man to tell his wife certain things, for example, he must be entirely indifferent to her, or she to him. Most things are not to be told. A man is foolish, he gets into situations where he can't help himself—or he gets fond of someone else—well, why should he tell his wife? It will only make her unhappy and make him deucedly uncomfortable. It can't be done."

"I said you couldn't understand," said Teresa.

"Oh, well, you will enlighten me sometime, won't you?"

"Never!"

"Oh, yes, you will—when we are really friends."

He took her hand and kissed it lightly.

"Charming Teresa! How pretty you are to-day! Don't wear black any more, I beg you, except in the evening. I love you in white. You look more alive now than you have since I came."

"You are enlivening, Ernesto—though I don't agree with a word you say."

"Oh—so long as you listen it is enough!"