WHAT GIULIA SAW
Mr. Iverson’s Christmas party for his poorest, and some of his “blackest,” sheep was in full swing when Grace arrived there that evening.
Outside the Parish Hall a taxicab was standing, unattended, and she wondered for whom it might be waiting. She entered and stood for a time, unobserved, among the throng inside the door, for the place was crowded.
On the tiny stage was Maddelena Cacciola, a bewitching figure in a gay contadina costume, singing a merry, rollicking song to her own guitar accompaniment.
A roar of applause followed, the rough audience stamping, shrilling, whistling their delight, till the girl reappeared, beaming at them, and waved her hands to enjoin silence.
“Just a little dance now, my friends, and that must be the very last, please,” she announced; and forthwith Cacciola’s master touch brought forth real music, even from the old tinpotty piano. And Maddelena danced.
Grace watched her, fascinated. How charming, how versatile, how utterly unaffected she was; and what a consummate artiste! No wonder Austin had been attracted by her. Who could resist her? She was glad she had persuaded Winnie and him not to come on here with her to-night, but to get into “glad rags” and go to dine and dance at the Savoy. Her peacemaking effort had been entirely successful, and all was well with those two whom she loved. Winnie, the sapphire and diamond ring gleaming on her hand, had been radiant all through that tiring afternoon, had sung delightfully, had been her most lovable self; but it was just as well that she should not enter into rivalry with this irresistible Italian girl!
The end of the dance evoked another tumult of appreciation, but Maddelena had vanished, not to return, and the vicar’s jolly voice boomed out.
“We’d like to listen all night to the signorina, but we mustn’t be greedy and work her too hard. Now I vote we have some more tea and cakes—they’re all ready in the next room—and then we’ll clear for a dance.”
In the movement that followed he caught sight of Grace, and made his way towards her.
“My dear child, how long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes, just in time to help, padre.”
“Nothing of the sort; you look tired out. Come along; we’ll find a chair in a comparatively quiet corner.”
“I’m not tired, really; I’m happier at work.”
“I know that,” he said in his fatherly way. “But you mustn’t overdo it, you know. Where’s Miss Winston?”
“I persuaded her not to come. She’s been singing all the afternoon at one place and another; we’ve had quite a big day of it, padre.”
“Just so. And it’s all right here, as it happens. We’ve got the Cacciolas, as you see, and they’re a host in themselves—dear folk! Isn’t Miss Maddelena wonderful? Why didn’t you bring your little Miss Culpepper along?”
“She’s keeping house with Dear Brutus, and expected an old sweetheart to tea.”
“You don’t say so! Well, well. Now sit you down, child, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”
“I’ve got some here; and please, Mr. Iverson, do introduce me to Mrs. Carling.”
It was Maddelena herself who joined them, a dark wrap thrown over her picturesque dress, a big steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
He complied, and Maddelena smiled down at her, and tendered the coffee.
“It is for you; I saw how tired you were looking, and brought it on purpose. Now you must drink it,” she said in her charming, authoritative way. “And, oh, I am so glad to meet you at last, Mrs. Carling! I think of you so often.” She drew up another chair for herself, and the vicar slipped away to resume his duties as host. “You are so brave, so good—you set aside your so great sorrow and anxiety and think always of others; and padre has told me. It is wonderful,” Maddelena continued. “And, oh, I do so wish I could help you! I have so wanted to come and see you, but I did not like to, as we had never met.”
“Well, now we have met I hope you will come and see me some day soon, Miss Cacciola,” said Grace. “I have heard of you too, from my old friend Austin Starr.”
“Ah, yes—that nice Mr. Starr! He is seeking still for fresh evidence that might help your husband. Has he any success yet?” Grace shook her head sadly. “Alas! it is a terrible mystery. We sought to help him, my uncle and I, yes, and even Boris, as perhaps he told you, but we could discover nothing—nothing at all!”
“Yes, he did tell me, and indeed I am very grateful, Miss Cacciola. It is strange—terrible—that we can get no fresh light at all. But I am quite sure that the truth will be revealed. But for that faith I—I don’t think I could bear the suspense.”
“Do you know, at the first, Mrs. Carling, I thought—as Boris also and doubtless very many others did—that your husband must have been guilty, until I saw him in the police court that day, and then I knew—though how I knew I cannot tell you—that he was innocent; and I would do anything in the world that I could to help to prove it. But what can we do?”
Grace pressed her hand, keenly touched by the girl’s earnest, impulsive sympathy, but could find no words to reply. What, indeed could be said?
“I have wondered often of late,” Maddelena resumed, her dark brows contracted in thought, “whether our old Giulia would be able to tell you anything.”
“Your Giulia? Why, who is she?” asked Grace.
“My uncle’s housekeeper—in fact our only servant. She has been with him for many years and is devoted to us all. She is Italian, of course, a peasant, and quite uneducated, but she has—what do you call it?—clairvoyance, the ‘second sight,’ sometimes, and can see, oh, the most extraordinary things—for some people!”
“Really!” Grace exclaimed, almost in a whisper, her heart beginning to flutter, her eyes searching the girl’s vivid, thoughtful face.
“Yes. She can see nothing for herself—it is often so—only for others, and she tells me things that do come true. Many times of late, as I begged her to, she has tried to see what happened that day, but she has failed so far. She says she knew, when Paula Rawson left, that there was tragedy round her; she saw her depart as in a red cloud, and was half minded to follow her at the time. If only she had done so! But she disliked and feared her always. And she has never been able to see anything clearly about it—for me. She says it is because Paula really does not come into my life at all, except indirectly. It might be different with Boris, though she has never tried to ‘see’ for him. He does not know of her powers, and I do not want him to let her try with him—it might upset, unbalance him again, restore the terrible influence Paula had over him. You understand that, don’t you? Or you would if you knew him, and how terribly he has suffered! But I do believe she might be able to see something for you.”
“I wonder,” Grace murmured perplexedly. “I don’t know anything about such things, Miss Cacciola; of course I have heard of clairvoyants.”
“Yes, fortune tellers and charlatans most of them; but our Giulia is not like that. It is a real gift with her. Oh, if you would come to see her! Why not come now? She is all alone, and it will be quite quiet. Or are you too tired?”
“Tired? Oh, no, indeed,” Grace declared eagerly. “But I should be taking you away from here.”
“I’m quite ready to go. They’ll have to do without me for the rest of the evening,” said Maddelena rising. “We’ve a cab waiting outside, Mrs. Carling, so I will just find the chauffeur and tell my uncle we are going. Will you stay here till I return?”
She flitted away and disappeared among the noisy, merry crowd that was beginning to drift back from the refreshment-room, to return in a minute or two accompanied by the taxi-driver.
“Here we are. I have told the padre that I am going to start you off home, as I will after you have seen Giulia. Come along.”
They drove along the Mall, almost deserted on this Christmas night, a peaceful and beautiful scene with the river at full tide under the moonlight. The last time Grace had driven along here was on her way from church on that wedding day that seemed a lifetime ago. Now she felt as if she were bound on some strange, vague adventure in the world of dreams!
The cab turned up a narrow street on the left, and paused at the high road, held up by a couple of passing trams—paused just outside that fatal post office. The house was dark, the shop windows plastered with big posters announcing that the premises had been sold by private treaty.
“The horrible place is to be pulled down,” said Maddelena. “That is well. Mrs. Cave has got another shop about a quarter of a mile away, nearer the station. She moved there, post office and all, a few days ago. She is very glad. No wonder.”
As they crossed the road and drove down the quiet square, Grace, staring out of the window, could almost imagine that she saw the ghost-like figure of Paula Rawson gliding along in the shadow—gliding to her doom—and shivered involuntarily.
“You are cold!” exclaimed Maddelena solicitously.
“No. I was only—remembering,” she answered, and Maddelena pressed her arm with an impulsive gesture of sympathy.
“You can wait,” she told the chauffeur. “Go down and tell Mr. Withers you are to sit by his fire till I call you. Take my arm, Mrs. Carling. We will go slowly up these many stairs. They are trying to a stranger.”
Grace, indeed, was breathless when they reached the top, and Maddelena led her straight into the big drawing-room, where the cosy gas fire was aglow as usual—the Cacciolas loved warmth—switched on the lights, and pushed her guest into the easiest chair.
“Now you must have a glass of my uncle’s famous wine and a biscuit. Yes, yes, I insist, it is here—everybody has to do as I say; Mr. Starr calls me ‘she who must be obeyed.’ Has he told you that? He is very funny sometimes, that Mr. Starr, but he is right there. So, drink it up while I go and prepare Giulia.”
She found the old woman sitting in her old armchair in the spotless kitchen—placidly enjoying her Christmas evening playing “patience,” in company with a flask of Chianti and a dish of salted almonds—bestowed a hearty kiss upon her, and explained why she had returned so early.
“But who is it?” protested Giulia. “I do not know that I shall be able to see for her.”
“Thou wilt try, dear good Giulia,” coaxed Maddelena. “It will be kind indeed, for she is in deep distress over the fate of one whom she loves most dearly. Yes, she is a stranger. I will not even tell thee her name; it is not necessary: at least thou hast often said so. Let the light come if it will.”
“Well, well, thou wilt have thy way as usual, carissima,” said Giulia resignedly, pushing aside her cards. “But she must come to me here.”
“I will bring her on the instant,” said Maddelena, and returned to Grace.
“She is ready. Do you mind coming into the kitchen? She is always at her best in her own domain. Do you understand Italian? No? Then I must be with you to translate, for when she ‘sees’ she always speaks in her own tongue. I will write it down—that will be best. Ah, you have drunk the wine—that is good. You look just a little bit less like a ghost now, dear lady. This way.”
Giulia rose as they entered the kitchen, dropped a quaint little curtsey, and fixed her dark eyes earnestly on the visitor.
“Yes, I zink it vill be that I vill see. Zere is light all around you—ze great protecting light! Vill you sit here at my feet; take off your gloves and hold my hands—so! Vait now; do not speak!”
She pulled out a hassock, on which Grace obediently seated herself. Giulia took her hands, holding them lightly and moving her own wrinkled brown ones over them with a curious massage-like movement for a minute or more, while she continued to gaze searchingly at her. Maddelena, pencil and notebook in hand, leaned on the back of Giulia’s chair.
In the silence the slow tick of the clock sounded unnaturally loud; in Grace’s ears her own heartbeats sounded even louder.
Then Giulia ceased moving her hands and grasped those of her visitor closely and firmly, in a grip that occasionally, during the minutes that followed, became almost painful. Grace saw the light fade from the old woman’s eyes, leaving them fixed and glassy, like those of a corpse, till the lids drooped over them and she seemed to sleep, breathing deeply and heavily. Soon she began to speak, in Italian, slowly and with difficulty at first, then more fluently.
Grace, watching and listening with strained attention, could only understand a word here and there, but Maddelena later gave her the written translation.
“There is light all around you—a beautiful light; it is the great protection; but beyond there is gloom and within it I see a man; he is your beloved. I think he is young and handsome, but I cannot see him clearly. I could not see him at all but for the light around you that penetrates even to him. You stretch hands to each other, striving to meet—you in the light, he in the darkness—and sometimes the hands touch, just for a moment.
“Ah, the darkness passes a little. I see a large building; many people are there: it is a Court of Justice. The beloved is apart from you, from all, in a place by himself; there is but one beside him—I think he is an officer of police. The light streams from you to him, it gives him strength and courage.
“Alas! the darkness gathers; it shrouds you both now—black, black! The very Shadow of Doom—the Shadow of Death!”
Maddelena, still writing rapidly, almost mechanically, drew her breath with a little gasp of dismay, and Grace glanced at her with agonized eyes.
“What is she saying?” she whispered.
“S-sh—wait, it is not the end,” Maddelena whispered back hurriedly. It seemed a long time, though probably it was not more than a minute, before Giulia spoke again.
“The light comes once more, but it is a different light, and the air is full of the odour of flowers. Now I can see. It is a large, a beautiful room—larger than the maestro’s music-room. The hangings are green and the chairs of gold. There are many flowers. A clock strikes—it is the ninth hour. Hush, there are footsteps and voices, low voices; men come in softly; I do not know them; they look like great lords. Now two more enter—one is young and one older; I have seen them before, but I know not where. You are not there, nor your beloved. Someone is speaking; I cannot see him, there is a mist rising—a red mist; it hides all....
“But the end is not yet. Once more the light comes. It is another room now—a smaller one. A woman kneels beside a bed. She is very still, and I cannot see her face, but I think—nay, I am sure—it is thou thyself, signora; and the light is all radiant above thee—the light of the ‘great protection.’ There is a little table close by with a telephone. Listen, it is the bell ringing. The woman rises—yes, she is thou. It is news, good news. The tears come, but, ah, they are tears of joy.
“Here is thy beloved—at last I see him clearly. He is at thy side, he is free. The shadow has passed away. See, thou art in his arms, and the light—the glorious light is upon both!”
Silence once more. Slowly her grasp relaxed—for days afterwards Grace’s hands showed blue marks from the grip of those strong brown fingers—she drew a long sigh, shivered, and then slowly opened her eyes and gazed dreamily at the girl.
“Vat is it? Vat have I see?” she muttered in her broken English.
“Thou hast seen much that was very strange and very comforting; thou hast done well, dear Giulia,” said Maddelena, leaning forward and bestowing a hug and kiss on her from behind. “Rest now, thou art exhausted. So, thou shalt sleep for a while.”
Giulia leant back and closed her eyes again, and Maddelena turned to Grace, who had risen with difficulty.
“Come, Mrs. Carling, she will be all right in a few minutes. You are faint and trembling. No wonder! It was a marvellous séance.”
“What did she see? What did she say?” faltered Grace, glad of the support of Maddelena’s strong young arm as the girl led her along the passage.
“I will tell you directly. I have it all down, or nearly all, I think, but in Italian—there was no time to translate. I will do that and send it to you to-morrow.”
“It sounded so tragic, so terrible,” said Grace piteously. “I couldn’t understand, of course; but surely she said something about death—the shadow of death—when you seemed so upset!”
“Yes. I was afraid for a moment, but the shadow passed in the end. I am sure, quite sure, she has seen rightly, and that Mr. Carling will be saved, though how I don’t know and she doesn’t, but listen.”
Rapidly she turned over her scrawled notes, and read the last part only, from the description of the room with the flowers and the green hangings. She thought it kindest to suppress the earlier episodes, and as a matter of fact did not divulge them fully to Grace until weeks later.
“Do you recognize the rooms?”
“Not the large one,” said Grace perplexedly. “I cannot place it at all. But the other must be our—my—bedroom: the telephone is there, as she says. And you say she saw Roger there!”
“Yes, that’s the very last thing; you are to think of that, dear Mrs. Carling, whatever may happen. No matter how dark things may be, the light will come—the ‘great protection’ will be over you both all the time. So you will never lose courage, even for a moment, will you? Oh, I am so glad you came!”
“You dear child!” cried Grace, and kissed her.
“And now I am going to see you home—you are tired to death. Well, only to the station then, if you will have it so. And I may come and see you soon? We will be friends, real friends, won’t we?”
When she arrived home, still musing over this strange, almost incredible, episode, Grace found Miss Culpepper—also playing “patience”—with a cheerful fire, a dainty little supper, and a loving welcome.
“What a long day you’ve had, my dear. You must be worn out,” she said, fluttering round and helping her remove her wrap.
“Yes, it has been long, but very interesting. And how have you got on? Did Mr. Thomson come to tea?”
“Y-e-s—oh, yes, though he didn’t stay very long. Sir Robert is not so well, and he was anxious to return. He brought me this—a beautiful little bit of bigotry, isn’t it?”
“This” was an antique brooch, set with pearls, a really exquisite piece of workmanship.
“It’s lovely, and suits you perfectly in that lace fichu.”
“Yes. James always had excellent taste, and I really was very pleased, and very surprised. But do you know, dear Mrs. Carling, I see a great difference in him—naturally perhaps after all these years; but—oh, I don’t know what it is, something I cannot fathom! And Dear Brutus did behave so badly, spat and swore—swore at Mr. Thomson, till I actually had to take him out to the kitchen and shut him up there. It was quite upsetting!”