The adulteress (42 page)

"When Dorinda came back that evening she was in a bad mood and it was then that I had the first real glimpse of the violence in her nature. She abused me in a loud and hectoring

manner. Then she threw a statuette at me. It missed and went into a mirror. I can still hear the sound of cracking glass as the splinters fell over the carpet. Then she picked up a paper knife and came at me. It was not a sharp weapon but there was murder in her eyes. She could have killed me. I was stronger than she was and managed to get the weapon away. She collapsed suddenly and I gave her a sedative.

"I was so disturbed that I went to a cousin of hers—her nearest relation—and he told me that I would have to take care. Her mother had had to be, as he said, 'put away.' There was madness in the family. Her grandmother had committed murder. There was a long tradition of insanity which seemed to be passed down through the women. They had hoped Do-rinda had escaped because the violence had not begun to show in her until she came into her teens and then the attacks were not frequent. They had thought marriage would cure her.

"I said: 'Why did no one warn me?'

"The cousin was silent. I think they had wanted someone to take the responsibility from them. Dorinda had a large fortune and I think they believed that that would be the compensation.

"You can imagine my feelings. I had already begun to know that my marriage was a great mistake. What I had felt for Dorinda was infatuation and I was not experienced enough to recognize it for what it was. And now to learn that I was married to a mad woman was the greatest blow imaginable.

" 'You are a doctor,' the cousin had said. 'We had thought that marriage with you was the very best thing that could happen to Dorinda. We thought you would be able to treat her and she would be under your constant supervision.'

"I cannot tell you the terrible depression I suffered at that time. I saw myself as a prisoner bound to this woman .. . this mad woman . . . for the rest of my life. Then I was presented with the most fearful dilemma. Dorinda was going to have a child. I pondered this; I spent sleepless nights asking myself what I should do. If Dorinda bore a girl that baby would be tainted . . . doomed to madness if the pattern persisted as it had for generations.

"I was a doctor. I had it in my power to terminate Dorinda's pregnancy. I wrestled with myself. It was in a way taking a life, but surely that was better than allowing some maimed creature to come into the world. What was I to do? I had

means at my disposal. I knew how. . . . The right dose of a certain medicine and the chances were that I could bring about a miscarriage.

"Well, I made the choice. I terminated the pregnancy .. . but I must have made a mistake for, at the same time, I terminated Dorinda's life.

"That's my story, Zipporah. I can never forget it. I could not let that child live. And yet . . . has anyone the right to take a life? I thought at the time I was doing what was best . . . what was right. I did not know that there would be complications . . . that Dorinda was not fit to bear children. ... I tell myself that had the child been allowed to be born in the normal way its birth would very likely have killed Dorinda. I don't know. All I do know is that the child died, that Dorinda died and that there was a scandal concerning her death."

"Oh, Charles, how you must have suffered! But you did right. I am sure you did right."

"You see, she had this large fortune . . . and it came to me. It was well known that Dorinda and I were not on good terms. Everyone understood that. So many of them knew of Dorinda's strange behavior. There was sympathy for me ... oh yes, I had that . . . but the smear was there. Dorinda was dead. I was a widower ... a very rich widower whose worldly possessions were far greater than that of the needy bachelor who had married Dorinda."

We were silent for a while. I was seeing so clearly the people who would whisper about him; the horrible suspicion that surrounded him and most terrible of all the fact that he had brought about Dorinda's death.

"My close friends knew that I had never been greatly interested in money, that the fact of Dorinda's wealth had been a surprise to me. But that did not stop the whispers. There might have been an inquiry but her cousin did not want that. He was naturally anxious that the fact that there was madness in the family should not be brought into the open. He managed as much as anyone to hush up the matter. But you can imagine how it was with me. There were times when I would rather they had investigated. I would have been ready to admit that I had attempted to kill the unborn child rather than condemn it to its inevitable inheritance. I did not know that Dorinda was not fit to bear a child. I was ready to stake my defense on that and the almost certainty that had the child

grown to its full size she would have died in giving normal birth to it. So I left London. . . . And the money came to me and with it, as you know, I built and maintained my hospital."

"I understand and I am glad you told me. I think you blame yourself too much. What you did may well have been right. You had to make a decision and you took that one."

"I took a life," he said, "two lives."

"But if it is better that a child should never be born . . ."

"Who is to be the judge of that?"

"Surely there are times when we have to make these decisions."

"I am sorry for anyone who does. Life is sacred. It is not for us to decide whether or not to destroy it."

"But we destroy flies, rats . . . vermin that carry disease. That is life surely."

"I am thinking of human life."

I said: "I am unsure. / think you did right. You acted out of no desire for personal gain. You did not know Dorinda would die. Your thought was to prevent a baby being born who was almost certainly doomed to madness. You were right."

"It is murder."

"The law commits murder ... on people whom it says are a menace to the community. Yours was the same sort of killing. You must see that."

"I never shall. All I can do is try to expiate my sin and . . . forget."

"How many lives have you saved in your hospital?"

He smiled tenderly at me. "You are trying to comfort me. I knew I should find comfort with you. You are in my thoughts all the time. I believe that one day . . ."

I shook my head. "Don't talk of it," I said. "I cannot betray Jean-Louis . . . twice."

Then I told him of that period when I was Gerard's mistress and how ever after I had been unable to forget.

It was his turn to comfort me. He was not shocked as I feared he might be. He said: "It was natural. You are a warmblooded woman. Do you think I don't know that? You need fulfillment of your emotions. . . . For a time you achieved that."

"I deceived my husband."

"And you loved him all the more because of it. You were

more tender, patient. Nobody could have been a better nurse to Jean-Louis. He knows it and is grateful."

I said: "You are trying to comfort me. You do not know that Lottie is not Jean-Louis's child."

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as a woman can be. Jean-Louis is incapable of begetting children. As soon as Gerard and I were together ... it happened. I could never bear Jean-Louis to know. . . . He adores Lottie. He is so proud of her. He wanted children always."

Charles took my hands and kissed them.

"We are a pair of sinners weighed down with guilt. Is that what makes us attractive to each other? What you did has in fact brought happiness to Jean-Louis."

"I am sure your action was right. But I know mine was wrong. 'Thou shalt not commit adultery.' How many times did I write that out in the schoolroom? The Ten Commandments. I had no idea what it meant. To me it was just number seven in those days."

"And thou shalt do no murder."

"It wasn't murder, Charles. You must stop saying that."

"How wonderful it would be if we could put the past behind us."

"Do you think we shall ever do that?"

"Yes," he said. "I will teach you how to . . . and you will teach me. We need each other, Zipporah, and one day we are going to be together."

Then he held me fast in his arms and I clung to him.

We heard a step in the hall. The housekeeper had returned.

I suppose it was inevitable. I think we both knew it. We fought against it until our resistance crumbled. Our need was too great and we both desperately wanted to be happy even for a brief moment. We wanted to escape together to that bliss which we knew we could give each other.

It was a matter of waiting for the opportunity and I knew it would come.

The housekeeper had gone to visit her sister and was to be away the entire day. He did not tell me this. The fact was that she paid these regular visits about once every two weeks so it was certain to happen that on one of her days of absence I should call to have my bottle replenished.

The house was silent. I knew as soon as I entered that we were alone.

There was an air of excitement about him—almost gaiety. It seemed as though he had cast away his cares. I found that I was doing the same.

In the world beyond this house I had my duties, my unsatisfactory life to lead, my fears, my sadness, my terrible pity when I sat beside my husband's bed . . . but here in this small house, in those rooms over those in which he saw his patients, I could be happy.

He said: "Zipporah ... we can't go on holding back what must be."

I shook my head. "I must go home," I said.

But he took off my cape and held me against him.

He said: "Surely we can have this."

I said again: "I must go." But there was no conviction in my voice.

I allowed myself to be led upstairs. I allowed myself to be disrobed not only of my clothes but of my honor. I shared with my lover that burning desire; again I knew the feeling that everything else must be forgotten, shut away to satisfy this need.

I was a deeply passionate woman; Charles was a deeply passionate man. We loved each other. I tell myself that what happened was inevitable.

And for the second time I became an adulteress.

Afterward we lay side by side on his bed and my thoughts went back over the years so that I could almost hear the sounds of the fair.

Gerard had been lighthearted, reaching out for pleasure. Charles was different. He was so serious. He would never have come to this if he had not cared deeply for me. He was serious-minded. This was not a lighthearted moment of joy. Was that what it had been with Gerard? This was solemn, binding. Charles and I were, apart from according to law, man and wife.

I felt that and so did he, I know.

"One day," he said, "all will be well. Won't it, Zippo-rah?"

It was in a way a promise ... a bond. We did not want to mention Jean-Louis for only his death could make our marriage possible. But as we lay together we were as one and we

knew that what had passed between us had bound us together for as long as we should live.

Now that we had become lovers our passionate need for each other had been sparked into a mighty conflagration. We no longer waited for opportunities: we made them. There were the days when the housekeeper visited her sister. But there were other occasions besides. We met sometimes in woods not too near the houses and we would lie together in secluded spots and talk endlessly and sometimes make love.

Charles had changed. There was a hopefulness about him which I felt must be noticeable. The gloom had lifted. He was like another man. I wondered if I had changed also.

Sometimes I noticed Isabel watching me covertly.

She said: "You're looking better, Zipporah. I'm so glad. You began to look quite seedy."

"I'm getting used to things," I answered. I hope there wasn't a lilt in my voice. I couldn't help it. I knew I was wrong, but I was so happy at times. At others I would sit by Jean-Louis's bed and then a terrible sense of guilt would weigh me down. Once he opened his eyes and I found him regarding me steadily.

"You're so good to me, Zipporah," he said. "You're so patient always. I'm afraid I get irritable. I'm always waiting for the pain. It's like a monster waiting to leap on me. Then I see you . . . and I feel I'm so lucky to have you."

"Oh, don't . . . don't," I cried. And I was near to breaking down. "What I do for you I want to do. I want to be with you ... to make you happy."

Then he closed his eyes, smiling, and I thought: Insincere woman, wicked Zipporah, adulteress!

Once when Charles and I were returning from the woods we met Evalina. She came upon us suddenly as we were brushing the leaves from our clothes. I trembled to think that she might have come a little sooner. She looked plump and contented.

She hailed us. "There'll be lots of blackberries later on," she said. "Look at these bushes."

We looked.

"Taking a stroll in the woods?" she said. "So was I. Beautiful this time of the year, aren't they?"

Was her gaze a little malicious? I told myself she had changed but she was still Evalina.

"And how is your husband?" she asked.

Was there a certain emphasis in her words?

I said he was as well as we could hope. If he had four days free from pain that was very good.

She nodded; then she smiled suddenly. "Nice for you to be able to get out a bit. We all need it. I'm expecting again. Well, not for some time . . . but it's so."

"Congratulations," I said.

"Well, good day to you . . . doctor . . . Mistress Ran-some."

"What's wrong?" said Charles when she had gone.

"I think she was spying on us."

"No, she was just walking."

"I remember her when she was at Eversleigh with her mother."

"She's changed now. She's become the lady of the house. She is a good mother to her little boy and she and Brent seem made for each other."

"But she saw us together."

"Why shouldn't we walk in the woods?"

"I suppose I feel guilty."

"Dearest Zipporah, please don't. You've made me so hap-

py-"

"I'm glad," I said. "I'm being foolish. I'm trying hard to forget what I've done. I want to be happy. Do you know, I think that the only way I can live through all this is by being happy for a time. It's like the laudanum ... it gives me respite and then I can go on and fight."