The Lonely Lady of Dulwich Read online

  Zita had no further talk with Jean, but the Bertrands heard the news of her coming departure, and were loud in their regrets. Robert started for London the next morning.

  “I shall be back in three days,” he said. “I have written to Amelia and told her to look after you.”

  “But I’m coming with you to the station,” said Zita.

  “No, don’t bother,” said Robert. “I hate goodbyes at stations, and there won’t be time.”

  “But I’m ready,” said Zita. She had on her hat. “I am quite ready.”

  “No, dear,” said Robert. “I would rather you didn’t come.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  This was the first time she had not accompanied him to the station. It is true he had seldom gone away by himself.

  Robert then said goodbye to Zita and left at once. He liked being in good time for the train.

  “You’ll have a long time to wait,” Zita said, looking at the clock.

  “I don’t mind waiting, and I hate being rushed.”

  He had been gone about five minutes when a clerk from the bank arrived, much flustered, saying he had brought an important letter for M. Harmer, which it was essential he should take with him to London. He had been delayed and he had not thought M. Harmer would have started so soon, but, no matter, he would go straight to the station.

  “I shall have time to catch him,” he said.

  “I will take it,” said Zita; “there is something I have forgotten to tell him.”

  She had still got on her hat.

  She took the letter from the slightly reluctant clerk, and rang for a fiacre.

  She arrived at the Gare du Nord in plenty of time. She caught sight of Robert standing on the platform smoking a cigar. He was surprised to see her. She told him what had happened, and gave him the letter.

  “And I forgot to tell you I want you to bring me back a cake of spermaceti soap. This is where you can get it.”

  She gave him a piece of paper. He kissed her and said goodbye. There was still nearly ten minutes before the train was to start, but she thought it would irritate him if she stayed. As she walked down the platform she met Mrs Rylands arriving with a lot of hand luggage and engaged in voluble explanations to a porter and a maid. When she saw Zita she stopped.

  “I’m going to London,” she said, “by the same train as your husband. I’m going to see about getting a house. My niece whom I’m looking after is bent on living in London.”

  “You’ll find Robert further up,” said Zita, “we have said goodbye, and I must go home.”

  They said goodbye amicably. Zita drove back to her apartment in a fiacre.

  It was a lovely May morning; the chestnuts were in flower. Paris was radiant and gay.

  Zita was not jealous of Mrs Rylands, but it irritated her that her husband should treat Mrs Rylands with reverence. It irritated her that he had said nothing about her going to London, although she had heard she was going to London some time or other. When she got home she found a letter waiting for her on the table of the antechamber. She recognized the handwriting at once. It was from Jean de Bosis. So far she had only received brief notes from him, and these rarely – answers to invitations. This was a long letter – eight pages and more – in his sloping, clear and sensitive handwriting. It turned out to be longer than she had thought, more than eight pages. After reading the first page she sat down in an armchair. It was a love-letter, a declaration. He told her that he had always worshipped her from the very first moment he had seen her, but had not dared say anything; he just thought it hopeless. He had believed in her profound indifference. But gradually he had begun to have hopes. He had thought, after the night they went to Ruy Blas, that she cared a little. When she had left Paris for Scotland this last time he had nearly gone mad. Never had he been through anything like that. Never had he known a man could suffer what he had suffered. Then, when she came back, he thought she was so little pleased to see him that everything he had dreamt about her feelings had been a mistake: he was certain she did not care for him. He decided to go away. He would cure himself. He had ambitions – he wanted to be a poet, to do something with his life, to be someone; why should he waste his life, throw it away for someone who did not even know whether he was alive or dead? Then that day when they had met at Bertrand’s studio and she had said she was going away for good, he knew that he had looked into her soul and read the secret of her heart. She did care; she did mind going. She was unhappy. She was more than unhappy. She was desperate. He knew now that she loved him. He understood what she was feeling and what her life would be if she went to England with her husband now. He had a practical plan to suggest. She should leave her husband and go with him to Algiers. He had a little house there; it was all ready waiting; he was independent; they would have plenty to live on.

  He knew she loved him as much as he loved her. Why should she sacrifice herself? What for? and for whom? She would have no remorse about her husband. She knew only too well that he was fully occupied. When they got tired of Algiers they would go elsewhere. Would she mind the qu’en dira-t-on? He thought not. If they loved each other, what did all the rest matter? What did anything matter?

  He, at any rate, could not live without her. He was not threatening her. He would not do anything melodramatic, but he would simply cease to live. It would not be necessary for him to do anything. Nature would do it for him. It would just be impossible for him to go on living.

  He would be at Bertrand’s studio that afternoon at three. Bertrand would not be there. Would she come and leave the answer there for him? He begged her to come, whateverthe answer was to be, even if it was to say goodbye to himfor ever.

  Zita read the letter through twice. Jean’s words lit up her face. She sat down and wrote a letter. This is what she wrote.

  ‘You have guessed right. It is true. I will do what you ask me to do. I have thought about it and made up my mind. It is perhaps selfish what I am doing, perhaps bad for you. I love you too much to say “No”. I will have no deception of Robert. Robert and I are by way of leaving for London tomorrow week. It is all settled beforehand, as is always his habit. The night before that I will start with you for Algiers. All I ask you to do is to send me a telegram with the name of the station and the hour the train starts. I will be there and I shall leave a letter for Robert telling him, but till then I will neither see you nor read any letters from you. Please do not try to meet me in anyone else’s house.’

  She took this letter to the studio and left it there. That same evening she received a telegram telling her the name of the station and the hour at which the train started for the south.

  CHAPTER VII

  The afternoon following the day of Robert’s departure Zita had tea with Amelia, and after they had been talking of various things, she said:

  “I have got a piece of news for you, but you may have heard it already. Robert is going back to England for good.”

  She said this in a colourless, matter-of-fact way, as if it did not concern her. Amelia had not heard it. She had not been to the Bertrands, and Madeleine Laurent had left Paris for St Germain, where she was spending a few days. Amelia asked when they were going, and Zita told her all she knew. Amelia remembered afterwards that Zita had spoken throughout of Robert, and never of herself. Zita left. Amelia was bewildered. As soon as her husband came back that evening she talked it over with him.

  “I can’t understand Zita,” she said. “I should have thought she would be miserable at the idea of leaving Paris just now that she has made friends and is having such fun, and going back to Wallington, of all places.”

  “Will they go there?”

  “Zita will, unless Robert takes a house in London, which is unlikely. But instead of being miserable she seemed to me not only indifferent, but to be stifling excitement like a child that has been told it is going to be taken to the play.”

  “Will Jean mind?” said Cyril.

  “No,” said Amelia, “that is all ove
r. But, do you think,” she asked after a while, “that Robert could possibly have been jealous, a little green-eyed?”

  “I think Robert is a shrewd man,” said Cyril.

  “Yes, one can’t take him in, he can see through a brick wall, but I don’t imagine Zita trying to, do you?”

  “Then you think she never was in love with Jean?”

  “No, never. I did think so for a moment; I was sure aboutit; but I think I was wrong, at least, I suppose I was wrong. Madeleine is sure she never cared for him. I think Jean got tired – Madeleine thinks Zita is an icicle, and I don’t know whether she isn’t right. I don’t know what to think.”

  “I wonder why she married Robert?”

  “Oh, that is simple,” said Amelia, “it was the result of a first love affair that went wrong, and the wish not to disappoint her mother as her sisters had done, and to get away from pensions and hotels. And then I daresay she liked him. I think she does still like him.”

  “They never seem to me to speak to each other,” said Cyril. “I often wonder what on earth they talk about.”

  “I forgot to tell you – the other night when we dined there and you and Flora were singing after dinner, what do you think Robert was reading …?”

  “What?”

  “Jean de Bosis’ poems?”

  Cyril laughed.

  “He understands French,” said Amelia, “although he says he doesn’t, and I believe when we are not there he speaks it.”

  “I am sure he wouldn’t understand those poems,” said Cyril.

  “I suppose not,” said Amelia, “although he’s fond of nature; and the poems are about ploughed fields.”

  “I believe,” said Cyril, “he puts Zita on such a pedestal that he simply couldn’t imagine her giving a thought to anyone in the world.”

  “Whatever he thinks, he’s probably certain to be wrong, because men always are wrong.”

  “Are they, darling? I’m sure you know,” said Cyril, laughing. “We must have a farewell dinner for them,” said Amelia, “and ask Jean.”

  “Of course; Jean and the Bertrands.”

  Robert came back from England. Everything, he said, had been arranged. Wallington would be ready for them in September. The lease on which the present tenant held it came to an end then, and Robert would not extend it.

  The Harmers were to start on a Wednesday, and on the Sunday morning Zita went to Mass at Saint Philippe du Roule. Zita was not, or had not been until now, a religious woman. She was just pratiquante : that is to say, she went to Mass on Sundays and abstained on Fridays. She fulfilled her Easter duties. But that was all.

  The church was crowded and stuffy. Zita was a prey to distractions till a Dominican got into the pulpit and beganto preach. She found it was impossible not to listen to him, although she tried. He was eloquent and forcible, and he seemed to be speaking to her personally and individually, as if he was aware of her private difficulties and secret thoughts. He pointed out among other things how necessary it was that the individual should cheerfully accept sacrifice for the good of the community. The Church might seem hard on the individual; the hardness must be faced and accepted. He had spoken, too, of the stern necessity of duty, of the danger of illicit love. Zita listened to this eloquence unmoved. His words applied to her. They might have been directed at her personally and individually, but they did not affect her. She was determined to leave Robert; determined to go away with Jean. It was not that she was overwhelmingly swept away by passion for Jean; she could not say that. She was not really sure she loved him. But she was going. She said to herself that the eloquence of the Dominican’s words had no effect on her whatsoever.

  The Legges’ farewell dinner came off that evening. They had asked the Bertrands, Madeleine Laurent, Mrs Rylands, one of the secretaries from the Embassy and his wife. Jean de Bosis was asked, but excused himself.

  The guests could not take their eyes off Zita, as if they had been seeing her for the first time. She was dressed in black lace. On Amelia she made exactly the same impression as she had made when she had first told her Robert was going home. She was still like a child suffering from suppressed excitement, and so afraid of losing the coming treat that it does not dare even mention it.

  Robert, on the other hand, seemed in rather forced good spirits; he was not like a schoolboy going home for the holidays, but like a schoolboy going back to school and pretending to like it.

  When the guests were gone Amelia said to her husband:

  “Well, how do you think it went off?”

  “Robert doesn’t seem so pleased at going as I should have expected,” said Legge.

  “He will miss Mrs Rylands,” said Amelia.

  “She told me she was going to London soon.”

  “How lovely Zita looked!”

  “It’s extraordinary. She oughtn’t to be lovely on paper. Mrs Rylands said it was a pity she didn’t dress better.”

  Amelia laughed. “She knows what suits her. She is independent of fashion. She looks like a princess in disguise.”

  “It’s her expression that’s half the battle,” said Cyril.

  “Oh, it’s everything about her,” said Amelia; “the men’s faces were a study at dinner.”

  “And Robert seemed to be so proud of her.”

  “Oh yes, he is.”

  “I wonder what she feels?”

  “What about?” he asked.

  “About everything.”

  “I doubt if we shall ever know that.”

  “Well, you’ve known her for how many years? Four. Don’t you feel you know her?”

  “Not a bit better than the first day I set eyes on her.”

  When the Harmers got back to their flat that night the appearance of the apartment was depressing. The pictures were off the walls; the room was full of packed and half-packed packing-cases and trunks; the table strewn with old papers and old music, magazines, newspapers and every kind of junk. Near a half-packed box, Robert’s Airedale terrier, Tinker, was keeping a sullen watch. The door of the sitting-room opening into Robert’s study was open, and Robert’s study, Zita noticed, was bare. A waste-paper basket was near the writing-table overflowing with papers and photographs he had destroyed: among these she noticed at once a photograph of a group which had been taken of him and herself and her mother when they were engaged, at Nice. It had always been on his writing-table wherever they had been. It had been taken the day they were engaged. Robert had always been particularly fond of this photograph.

  She was on the verge of saying, “They’ve thrown away the Nice group,” but she reflected he must have done it himself. Why?

  Robert read a letter which he found waiting for him, and then said to Zita:

  “I shall have to start tomorrow.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes; tomorrow morning.”

  It was on Tuesday evening that she was to meet Jean at the station. Zita had not changed her mind.

  “But there’s no reason why you should come,” he wenton, “you won’t have time to pack; and you had better stay on a few more days,” he said. “You could stay on another week if you like, and I can come back and fetch you. That will be the best arrangement. I have sublet the apartment, but it is ours till the end of the month, and Amélie and Joseph can stay on another week.”

  Zita said nothing.

  “You can think it over and settle tomorrow,” said Robert. “But I’m sure you won’t want to hurry.”

  At that moment the dog, Tinker, came and put his paws on her lap and looked her in the face in an appealing manner, as if to say, “Don’t go away.” The dog was fond of her, and she loved him.

  “Tinker knows,” she said to herself.

  “Tinker will miss you,” said Robert, and as he looked at her his eyes seemed to see right through her. Zita could say nothing. “He must come with me tomorrow,” he added, as if explaining the remark and making it natural. “Did you write and thank Jean de Bosis,” Robert said, “
for sending you his book?”

  “No,” she said truthfully.

  “Well, you had better write to him tomorrow; he is going away: to Algiers.”

  Zita was startled.

  “I know because Williamson heard him order his tickets at Cook’s.” Robert stressed the plural. “He ordered,” he went on, “two sleeping-compartments with a place for his servant. So he is not going alone. He is taking either his mother…”

  “Or?” repeated Zita mechanically.

  “Or his mistress.”

  At that moment Zita, who was not, as a rule, a perceptive woman, knew, and knew for certain, that Robert knew. Knew that she meant to leave him; to go away with Jean de Bosis. How, she had no idea; but she had absolute faith in this sudden fit of lucidity. He not only knew, but he was making it easy for her; helping her; making it unnecessary for her to lie to him, or enabling her to lie as little as possible. She still felt no twinge of remorse, and no prick of conscience, but now, when Robert stood there in front of her looking at her with his far-seeing honest eyes, when he said the word ‘mistress’, revealing to her what she took to be his certain knowledge, the categoric imperative swept by her like a spirit. She knew she could not go away.

  “I shan’t want any more time for packing,” she said. “I shall be quite ready to come with you tomorrow. All my things are packed.” This was true.

  “Good night, Robert.”

  “Good night,” said Robert, lighting a cigar. “You must think over it, and don’t forget to write to Jean de Bosis.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Zita left Paris the next morning with Robert Harmer, and before starting she wrote two letters; one to Jean and one to Amelia Legge. To Amelia she said that they had been obliged to start a day earlier than they had expected, and she begged her to make her excuses where it was necessary.

  To Jean she wrote that she had found at the last moment she could not leave her husband; she had not changed, and did not think she would change, but she knew she would only make him, Jean, unhappy if she left Robert.