“I am quite sure, really. What is all the fuss about? Where is Andrea?”
He returned at that moment and came to my side.
“The rug will be burned,” he said, addressing Miss Perkins. “Is she—did it—”
“I will scream in a minute if you don’t explain.” I shouted. “Good heavens, you are all talking as if it were really….”
Miss Perkins and Andrea exchanged glances. “Tell her, if you think it wise,” he said.
“It had hydrophobia,” Miss Perkins said, “If even a drop of its saliva had touched you….”
Then I did feel faint. Andrea smiled reassuringly.
“The danger is over, Cousin. You were almost the victim of a rare and unusual accident. I can only recall one other case of a bat having this dreadful disease. As you know, it is more common in dogs, but occasionally other creatures are afflicted by it. Only occasionally; you will never see such a thing again in your lifetime, I am sure.”
“Good God.” I said faintly. Again I put out my hand and touched Teresa. “She saved my life, then. If she had not struck it with my brush…. Ask her, Miss Perkins, make sure she was not hurt. She is the one who took the risk.”
Miss Perkins insisted on examining the girl, but her plump bare arms and round face were free of punctures. The color had returned to her face and she was about to get to her feet when suddenly she let out a shriek and fell back, her eyes staring.
The Contessa had just come in accompanied by Miss Rhoda and the ever-present Bianca. They had been attracted by the noise and confusion; now Andrea explained the situation, and both expressed their horror and their relief. Then the Contessa went in search of Galiana, who had returned to her room, overcome. Bianca followed her, as a matter of course, and as they left I saw that Teresa had extended one hand in a strange gesture, her fingers rigid.
Andrea saw it too. With an angry exclamation he struck at the girl’s hand.
“Andrea,” I cried. “What are you doing? After what she has done for me—”
“Forgive me.” Andrea muttered. “You don’t understand. I—you had better rest now. I will have the servants remove the rug.” And he ran from the room.
“Send Teresa away,” said Miss Perkins. “She should rest too she has had a shock.”
I did so. When we were alone I turned a look of bewilderment on my friend.
“I don’t understand.”
“It is simple enough,” Miss Perkins said with a sigh. “Superstition; the curse of the uneducated. These poor peasants explain everything that is uncommon as supernatural. The gesture Teresa made was the ancient defense against the evil eye. Afflicted persons such as hunchbacks and cripples are often regarded by the ignorant as agents of the devil. In medieval times women like Bianca were burned as witches. This country is still in the Middle Ages in many respects. I understand that the Contessa actually saved the poor creature from persecution in her home village. I think she is weak-witted, perhaps as a result of her affliction. It is no wonder that she regards the Contessa as a saint.”
“I still don’t understand why Teresa should have made that gesture.”
“It is only a theory, of course,” said Miss Perkins modestly. “But I suspect that Teresa, like her ancestors, believes in a world which is infested by malevolent spirits. There is no such thing as accident. Therefore the rabid bat was a demon in animal form, a sort of witch’s familiar. And since Bianca is regarded as a witch.…”
“That is ridiculous,” I said. “I must talk to Teresa. But I can’t forget, Miss P., how brave she was in defending me.”
“She deserves even more credit for facing what she believed to be an emissary of Satan,” said Miss Perkins with a smile. “Well, thank God it turned out as it did. We can forget the incident and go down to supper.”
We went down, but I did not quickly forget the incident. Of course I did not believe in witches or curses or vampires. It was equally impossible that any human agent could have sent the infected creature to attack me. All the same—three “accidents”…it was surely stretching coincidence rather far.
III
Some day—if I should live to see it—I will probably tell my grandchildren that the accident of little Giovanni was the turning point in the development of my youthful character. It may be so. But I suspect the change was more gradual, the result of a series of incidents, each one of which wrought a small but meaningful alteration, until finally the accumulated influence exploded into my consciousness.
I well remember the day when the explosion occurred. It was a hot afternoon in August, and I was drowsing over a book in the rose garden when the summons from the village reached me.
I had been to the village several times, driven by I know not what vague impulse; I hesitate to call it kindness or charity, for charity should be more courageous. I crept there surreptitiously, fearing Galiana’s mockery; and the things I took, small baskets of food, worn-out clothing, were pilfered from the kitchens and storerooms, though I might have asked Grandfather for anything in the castle. The villagers were so poor that they accepted anything gratefully, and even as I was handing out my scraps I felt guilty for not doing more.
I spent most of my store on little Giovanni and his family, since I had a particular interest in them, and also because of the mother’s delicate condition. Heaven knows there was nothing delicate about the conditions of her life; she worked like a man, hoeing and harvesting in the fields when she was not working in the house. In spite of my contributions she did not look in good health, so when the messenger—one of Giovanni’s innumerable brothers—came running to me, I had a premonition of what had gone wrong. The child was gray-faced and incoherent in his alarm, but Piero, who was ubiquitous in those days, popped out from behind the shrubbery and explained enough to make me anxious to leave at once.
With Piero to accompany me I needed no other escort, and I wanted none. I did not even want to search for Miss Perkins; time was already of the essence, if the urchin was to be believed, and I was afraid—oh, God, my stupid vanity!—I was afraid of being found out by the others. As I was mounting my horse, however, I remembered Miss Perkins’ skill in nursing, and paused long enough to scribble a hasty note, which I gave to one of the stablemen—who would hand it to one of the scullery maids, who would hand it to an upper maid, who would pass it to a footman…. Eventually it would reach the recipient, and I urged haste with as much eloquence as I could command.
With Piero behind me and the child on his saddlebow, I galloped to the village. The main street was drowsing in the heat of afternoon; most of the dwellers were taking the siesta that is common in this country. But there was a group of silent watchers before the door of the house where Giovanni lived, and they all turned, their faces brightening, as I dismounted and flung my reins to Piero.
I had been inside the house before, and had found it hard to conquer my aversion to the foul filth of the interior of what had once been a comfortable medieval townhouse. But never had the abysmal poverty of the place struck me so forcibly as when I entered the darkened chamber where the mother lay. The windows were tightly shut and the stifling heat was enough to make me giddy. I tried to tell the hovering women to open the shutters (there was, needless to say, no glass in any of these houses); but they only stared blankly.
I managed to get one of the shutters open. The rush of clean air was unbelievably welcome. It roused the sick woman; as I knelt beside her, she opened her sunken eyes and smiled feebly. But I had seen death before. I knew its signs, and I saw them on the bloodless face.
Then I cursed my selfishness. If I had brought Miss Perkins, she might have been able to do something. I was helpless. I could only take the woman’s gnarled hand in mine. That seemed to please her. She was beyond speech; but she tried to raise my hand to her lips. That gesture broke me down. I knelt, sobbing, with bowed head, while the woman died.
Miss Perkins found me there, only minutes later. Her firm hands on my shoulders roused me and lifted me to my feet. She sent me out of the room. One of the women had to go with me, I was so blinded by tears.
It was considerably later when Miss Perkins came out of the house. Her shoulders were bowed and she looked more than her actual age; but when she saw me she straightened up and tried to smile.
“Come now, Francesca, tears accomplish nothing. You did your best for the poor soul. You did what she wanted.”
“I could do nothing,” I exclaimed angrily.
“You came when she called. I don’t think you realize how these simple folk think of you; your presence gave that woman comfort. No one could have done more.”
My eyes were so swollen I had difficulty in seeing. The sunlight made them ache. I covered them with my hand, and heard myself saying,
“It is not right. They shouldn’t live this way. I want to do something, Miss Perkins. Show me how to help! I have been selfish and stupid, but I will be different from now on.”
Miss Perkins was far too sensible to respond to this outburst—genuine though it was—with sympathy or sentimentality.
