“Miss Dean,” Kitty said with a little catch of her breath. “She—she works here, doesn’t she?”
He bowed and motioned me forward. The shop was empty of customers at the time. I could see that Mr. Wentworth was intrigued by Kitty’s arrival, nobody had ever before come to Wentworth’s and asked for Miss Dean.
“Kitty, what is it?” I said.
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m in trouble!”
“In trouble?”
“Dreadful trouble. Where can I speak to you?”
“I shall be free in another hour,” I told her.
“I can’t wait,” she said. “I can’t wait—couldn’t you ask—couldn’t you come now?”
She was trembling in every limb. I didn’t know what to do with her. Mr. Wentworth was hovering in the background; he sensed that something was wrong.
“Miss Dean,” he said at last, “if you would care to take your friend into the office—I can see she is upset—a trifle faint, perhaps. The heat, the glare of the streets, I find it trying myself sometimes—or if you would rather go home—”
He was fussing about solicitously.
“Oh, thank you!” Kitty cried. “If you would let her come—that would be the best way—it is important, very important.”
I fetched my coat and hat; Kitty had a taxi waiting outside; I gave the man the address of my flat and we got in. It was years since I had driven in a taxi through the London streets, I would have enjoyed it if I had not been so anxious about Kitty. She sat forward on the seat twisting her gloves.
“How slowly he is going!” she exclaimed. “We shall never get there at this rate. They go slowly on purpose, these taxi-drivers, so as to get more money for their fare.”
“What has happened, Kitty?” I asked her.
“Oh God! How can I bear it?”
“What on earth has happened?”
“Wait,” she said. “I can’t tell you here.”
The taxi drew up at the block of flats and we climbed out. Kitty searched in her bag for money to pay the man, it rolled into the gutter out of her nerveless hand. I took her by the elbow and helped her up the stairs.
Mrs. Cope was still in the flat. She always came back in the afternoon to prepare my supper and leave it for me.
“Lor’, what a fright you give me!” she exclaimed, gazing at us as though we were apparitions from another world. Mrs. Cope was the type of woman who, at every deviation from the normal routine, is afflicted with “palpitations.” I was home early today, of course, more than an hour earlier than usual; I saw that the “palpitations” were imminent.
Kitty sank into the basket chair. “Send her away, Charlotte, for God’s sake!” she exclaimed irritably.
Mrs. Cope had followed us into the sitting room, she heard the careless words, was intended to hear them. Kitty never considered the feelings of servants; they existed only for the purpose of ministering to her needs. When she did not require them they ceased to exist. I saw that Mrs. Cope was hurt and offended—and I was sorry. I liked Mrs. Cope, she was a kindly woman and her chatter was amusing. She was a human being to me.
“Mrs. Wisdon is tired,” I said gently. “Don’t bother about tea, Mrs. Cope. I will get it myself.”
“Ho!” said Mrs. Cope. “So Mrs. Wisdon is tired, is she?” She looked at Kitty with a curious expression upon her small determined face.
“Yes,” I told her. “Mrs. Wisdon has had a tiring day.”
“Ho! She’s ’ad a tiring d’y, ’as she? Fancy that now!”
“You will be glad to get home a little earlier,” I insinuated.
She took off her apron and folded it up and fetched her battered old straw hat which hung on a peg behind the kitchen door.
“I knows when I’m not wanted,” she said in surly tones.
“What a frightful woman!” exclaimed Kitty, before the door had shut behind Mrs. Cope’s retreating figure. “How on earth do you bear her, Charlotte? It would kill me to have a woman like that in my house.”
I asked her if she would like some tea.
“Haven’t you got anything else?” she inquired. “Brandy or something—anything—I’m all in, Charlotte. Absolutely dead to the world.”
I gave her some brandy that I kept for medicinal purposes—it was all I had—and made some tea for myself. Kitty sipped the brandy slowly and with some distaste.
“I suppose it is brandy,” she said. “It isn’t the least like the brandy Garth has.”
“I never thought it was like Garth’s brandy,” I replied a trifle bitterly. “Garth can afford to pay for the best—I can’t.”
“Don’t be cross, Char,” she said. “You’re all I’ve got now. Garth has gone mad—stark staring mad.”
I paused and looked at her with the teapot in my hand.
“I should never have married Garth,” she continued. “He changed—you know—changed utterly. He wasn’t like the same man. We never got on, never from the first. He was always sneering at me, sneering at my friends. Oh, Charlotte, it’s been ghastly! What a life I’ve had! What a life! Never any fun, never any amusement with him.”
“But you went about—to theaters,” I said in a dazed way. Kitty had never spoken like this before. I had realized vaguely that she and Garth did not get on well together, but not that things were serious.
“Theaters!” cried Kitty. “Garth never took me. I went with—with other people. Why shouldn’t I? If he chose to live like a hermit, writing all day when he was at home, or starting off at a moment’s notice for some outlandish place that nobody ever heard of, was I to sacrifice everything to him? Was I to sit at home waiting for him to come back to me when he chose? I knew he hated my friends and despised them, but I didn’t care. They amused me. He never bothered to amuse me. I had to find my own amusement. And now—now this.”
“Now what?” I asked her. “What has happened?”
She took a long envelope from her bag and showed it to me—there were papers in it, typewritten papers, I drew them out of the envelope and gazed at them incredulously. The words upon them swam before my eyes—“In the High Court of Justice…Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division…In the Matter of the Petition of Mr. Garth Wisdon…”
“Kitty, what does it mean?”
“They’re Divorce Papers. Garth is trying to get a divorce from me,” she cried wildly. “That’s what it means. It has come to that…Do you hear, Char? He’s trying to divorce me—me.”
“But why?” I asked, stupidly.
“Why? Because I’ve been out to lunch with other men, and to a play occasionally. He’s so dull. He wants me to be dull too. He wants to spoil my whole life and make me old and dull like himself. He must be mad…you see that, don’t you? He must be mad.”
“But he can’t divorce you for that—for going out to lunch—”
“No, he can’t, he can’t do a thing. He’s got no proof…I shall fight it…he’ll see…he shan’t drag me through the mud…he’ll find I have something to say about it. He can’t prove anything wrong—not a thing—he’s mad. Garth is mad…I shall tell everyone he is mad…don’t look at me like that, Charlotte. What are you thinking about?”
“I’m just thinking how glad I am that father is dead.”
“Char! Oh, Char, don’t be a brute! It isn’t my fault; how could I help Garth going mad? There never was anything wrong, it’s all made up. He’s got to prove it and he can’t. You’ll see, Char, Garth will be the laughingstock of the—Char, speak to me, tell me it will be all right.”
“How can I, when I know nothing about it?” I asked her in a dazed way. “I don’t understand—anything.”
“Say it will be all right,” she cried, seizing my hand. “Comfort me, Char. You must comfort me and say everything will be all right. I’ve had a ghastly day—simply ghastly. I didn’t know what to do—my head is bursting—you might
be nice to me, Char.”
“Tell me more about it,” I said helplessly.
“I’ve told you all about it,” she replied. “I’ve told you the whole thing is made up—a tissue of lies—what more is there to tell you? Char, you must go and see Garth and tell him to withdraw it—or whatever it is they do—tell him he can’t divorce me. I can’t stand it; I shall go mad—tell him that. You must, Charlotte, I’ve got nobody else, you must help me.”
“Where is Garth?” I asked her.
“In Wales. He has been away for weeks, climbing mountains or something. He goes off and enjoys himself, he never thinks of me; he’s utterly selfish, utterly selfish. My God, he shall pay for this—this insult.”
She talked on wildly for a long time, wringing her hands and walking about the room. I could make no sense of what she said and I scarcely knew what questions to ask her to clarify matters, the whole thing was so unexpected, so bewildering, so absolutely incredible to me. The only coherent idea in Kitty’s head was that I should see Garth, that I should start off at once, for the outlandishly named Welsh village where he was staying, and persuade him to withdraw the petition.
“He’d do it if you asked him to,” she said confidently.
“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t.”
“He would, I know he would.”
“Why on earth should he?” I asked.
“Oh, you have always been friends,” she said, looking at me strangely. “That’s why I came to you. If you ask Garth to withdraw it, he will. It’s not much to ask—I think you might do that much for me—for your only sister.”
“My dear Kitty, you are quite mistaken. Garth and I…haven’t been friends for years. He doesn’t even like me now. Besides, we don’t know, it might be a foolish move. We ought to consult a solicitor first.”
“A solicitor,” cried Kitty. “Of course, I must go to a solicitor. I’ve been half mad with the worry of it or I would have thought of it before. Ring up and order a taxi at once.”
She took out a comb and began to tidy her hair in front of the little mirror in my sitting room, and to rouge her lips.
My idea was to take Kitty to father’s solicitors—an old-established firm—but Kitty declared they would be no use at all. She knew of somebody else, somebody I had never heard of.
“He’s clever,” she said. “I must have somebody with his head screwed on properly. These old-fashioned firms are no use at all. Mr. Corrieston is the very man. We met him out at a dinner at the Eltons’—Garth couldn’t bear him—Garth doesn’t like people who are clever and amusing. Mr. Corrieston’s the very man—you needn’t come, Charlotte.”
“Wouldn’t you like me to come?” I inquired in surprise.
“No,” she said. “It will be better for me to see him alone first. I know him, you see, so it will be quite all right. And I can explain better—there’s absolutely no need for you to come. I’ll go and see Mr. Corrieston now, this very minute—I can’t rest till I’ve seen him.”
She went.
I didn’t know the man’s name then, but I came to know it only too well in the weeks that followed. Kitty came up from Hinkleton constantly and had interminable interviews with him. She quoted what he said. “Mr. Corrieston said so,” was the last word in any discussion. Mr. Corrieston said I was not to go and see Garth; it would be a confession of weakness. Mr. Corrieston said that Garth’s neglect of Kitty must on no account be mentioned in court, it would create a wrong impression. Mr. Corrieston said it would be all right if Kitty said this, and that, and forbore to say the other.
I confess the whole affair was beyond my comprehension. I never felt that I understood it. I never got to the bottom of the matter. It was hopeless to question Kitty; she contradicted herself flatly again and again. I tried to find out what her feelings were. Deep down beneath the rage against Garth, which bubbled continually upon the surface, she must surely have some feelings about him. I tried to question her—did she still love him?
“Love him!” she cried. “How could I possibly love him? He was unbearable. He was always sneering at me in that horrid way—you know that sneering way he looks at you as if you were the greatest fool God ever made. (I was, of course, when I married him.) George was sorry for me; he used to take me to shows. I met him sometimes in town for lunch. I knew Garth was jealous of George Hamilton but I didn’t care. And then I found that I was being followed.”
“Followed?”
“Yes, followed by a detective—Garth had me followed. Did you ever hear of such a beastly thing? He was a horrible little man in a bowler, he followed me when I went to town and met George. He followed me to your flat the night I stayed with you—that’s why I was so upset. It was so dreadful for George—the whole thing is dreadful for George. I wish you could meet him, Charlotte, but Mr. Corrieston says it will be better if you don’t meet him, better if you don’t know him at all. George is so quiet and—and good-natured, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s amusing too; he’s not a dull, dreary creature like Garth.”
“Then why not let the divorce go through?” I asked her, bewildered by the whole thing. “If you like Mr. Hamilton, and your life with Garth is unbearable.”
“Good God!” she cried. “You must be mad to suggest such a thing, Charlotte. Do you think I should let Garth drag me through the mud? Do you think I should let him do what he likes without raising a finger to defend myself? And as for George, he would bore me in a month. He bores me already.”
“There’s Clementina, of course,” I said, thinking perhaps I had found the solution of Kitty’s attitude in her love for her child.
“Oh, Clem!” said Kitty, listless after her outburst. “Clem is a funny sort of creature—a dull, plain child. I don’t know how on earth I could ever have had a child like Clem. George says the same. She’s frightfully unattractive.”
I could make no sense of it, no sense at all.
Garth had returned from Wales and was staying at his flat in town. I met him one day in the park and he raised his hat to me with a grave smile and passed on. I thought he looked worn and unhappy. I thought he had aged. His new book had just come out and was causing quite a stir among a certain set of critical people. Garth’s books were not for everybody: his first had been the account of a hunting expedition in Africa; his second, a novel. They were alike in being well and carefully written, thoughtful, cynical and amusing. I did not care for the novel, the characters were unpleasing—there was not a pleasant character in the book—but I could see that it was clever, I could see that it had something vital in it, something that promised better things to come.
One day, Kitty took me to see Mr. Corrieston. I had heard so much about Mr. Corrieston by this time that I was sick of the man already, before I had seen him. I went to his office feeling sure that I should dislike him intensely and I found my foreboding correct. Mr. Corrieston was short and thick-set with sandy hair. I thought him like a fox—like a fat fox, if you can imagine such a loathsome animal. I had hoped that Mr. Corrieston would clear my mind for me, would make the whole thing plain and understandable, but he did no such thing. He talked a lot, and he answered my questions, but he never made anything clear. I see now, looking back, that he did not intend me to understand. He could have enlightened me if he had wanted, but he preferred to bewilder me with legal terms and vague contradictory allusions. He and Kitty understood each other perfectly. His manner to her was offensively familiar. He patted her arm with his pudgy hand and called her “my dear little lady.” He was the pawing type of man, a type I have always detested. Kitty seemed to like it; she smiled at him and laughed at his jokes which were not always in good taste.
“Oh, by the by,” he said, stretching out his hand for a file of papers, clipped together with a stud, “I’ve asked Frame to put his best man on to Mr. Wisdon—I told you I intended to have him shadowed, didn’t I ?”
Kitty nodded.
�
��You are having Garth shadowed?” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Quite a usual procedure, my dear lady,” Mr. Corrieston assured me. “Quite a usual procedure under the circumstances. If we could find the woman—there must be a woman, of course.”
“But why?” I inquired.
“There always is,” Mr. Corrieston replied airily. “The sudden determination of Mr. Wisdon to launch a petition for divorce points to a woman.”
It appeared hazily, through the fog which was clouding my brain, that if this woman could be found and produced, the proceedings would fall through. I could not see why this should be the case, but it was no use asking Mr. Corrieston to explain. The more he explained things the more muddled I became. I thought at the time that he was a stupid man, a man incapable of putting things clearly; I learned afterward that he was diabolically clever.
“There is nothing to worry about,” Mr. Corrieston said to me, smiling his fat foxy smile. “We shall have to call you, of course, but it is a mere formality.”
“Call me? Do you mean as a witness?” I asked, appalled at the idea.
“Yes, as a witness.”
“But why me? What do I know?”
Mr. Corrieston laughed. “It is merely a formality, Miss Dean. You remember the night that Mrs. Wisdon spent with you? We shall want your evidence that she spent it in your flat. You remember the occasion.”
“Of course I remember the occasion. She slept in my bed,” I said stupidly.
“That’s all we want,” said Mr. Corrieston, smiling more foxily than ever.
“It all hangs on you, Char,” Kitty put in eagerly.
“Not at all,” Mr. Corrieston interrupted her. “Very little hangs on Miss Dean. We must not make Miss Dean nervous by telling her that she is an important witness when she is nothing of the kind. Her evidence will be very simple, a mere formality.”
“Yes, of course,” Kitty agreed.
“Couldn’t you leave me out, if my evidence isn’t important?” I asked, grasping at any straw that could save me from an ordeal that I dreaded.
The Young Clementina Page 6