“I married three years ago and—two years later—my wife died,” Rendell said simply.
“I felt it wasn’t wholly successful. Just one minute!”
The tea had arrived. It was inspected minutely—and eventually accepted.
“Since then,” Wrayburn continued, as if no interruption had occurred, “you’ve found yourself in a world of which you know nothing—the interior world. You were only familiar with the external one.” A pause, then he added: “Mr. Peter Marsden told me that a book of Trent’s had interested you. That fact, and your going to Number 77, and your appearance makes what I’ve told you very obvious.”
Rendell put his cigarette in the ash-tray, then stared uneasily at his companion. Wrayburn’s analysis compelled respect.
“Look here,” he said at last, “I may as well admit——”
But Wrayburn waved him into silence.
“Confirmation is of no interest. It’s all very obvious—and rather tedious. I merely wanted to demonstrate that how long one person has known another is not remotely to do with anything. That had to be established before we could discuss Trent productively.”
Rendell realised that he must surrender all hope of gaining the initiative in this conversation unless he could produce an analysis of Wrayburn as penetrating as the one just delivered by that psychologist. Recognising his inability, he said slowly:
“Couldn’t say much about you, I’m afraid. Nothing positive, anyway. I could only say what you’re not.”
“That’s intelligent—quite intelligent,” Wrayburn replied, a sudden flush invading his countenance and vanishing instantly. “Just one minute! This tea is not right.”
“Have some black coffee?”
“If I had one cup of black coffee, my good man, I should suffer certain peculiar physical disabilities for a fairly extensive period.”
He had the tea removed, then, having asked Rendell, who was about to light another cigarette, whether this was an essential proceeding on his part and, if not, whether he would refrain—he proceeded to give a brief account of himself, which was a miracle of lucidity and detachment.
Wrayburn did not remember his parents, did not admit the existence of relatives, had no money, but had, nevertheless, acquired an extensive education by means of scholarships, and a clairvoyant faculty for detecting anything that was going for nothing. On coming down from Cambridge, this faculty—and a gift for organisation—had enabled him to make what he referred to as a “tight-rope” living in a series of miscellaneous activities. He had served as a courier to a rich American family. He had been a lecturer, an interpreter, a translator, and a reviewer. He had travelled as a tutor with several distinguished families. He had catalogued private libraries, organised a medical conference, and generally held a bewildering number of appointments—all of a transitory nature.
Rendell watched him as he listened, amazed at the will of this fragile-looking man who narrated his experiences with the detachment of an onlooker. There was heroism and pathos in this creature pitting himself against the world and wresting from it a precarious and solitary existence. For Rendell was convinced that Wrayburn was solitary, although it transpired that he had numerous acquaintances. Also, it was very obvious that, physically, Wrayburn lived on the frontier of life. His references to his health, and to the many and involved precautions necessary “to enable him to function,” were too numerous and detailed to leave a remnant of doubt. Finally, Rendell decided that only his eyes were alive, but in them shone the light of a cold implacable will. He had no illusions about himself, and none concerning the world outside him.
“I am a completely negative and wholly conscious person,” he announced in conclusion, his right hand coaxing his beard to its maximum dimension. “I am outside life as it is lived. I know it. I accept it. People like me have to come to terms with actuality, once and finally. I have looked at life through the dirty windows of innumerable bed-sitting-rooms in many cities. My destiny is to observe. That’s why your appearance told me a good deal.”
“Told you a damned lot, in my opinion,” Rendell admitted grudgingly.
Wrayburn regarded him intently.
“And—be frank, you understand—do you mean that my appearance doesn’t tell you a good deal?”
“No, not particularly. Of course——”
But Wrayburn leaned towards him, then asked quickly, indicating his clothes with a swift gesture:
“This suit—for instance—tie, shirt, and so on. Wouldn’t you guess, from their general neatness and all that—that this rig-out is the only one I possess? Wouldn’t you—wouldn’t you?” he asked, with lightning rapidity, the sudden flush invading his features and vanishing instantly. “You wouldn’t! Really! If you happened to notice me in the street, you’d think—would you?—that I was more or less a normal person? Would you? Say if you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, of course,” Rendell lied. “Why not?”
“That’s all right, then. I only wanted to know. So, if you saw me in the street, you’d think—there’s a student, rather a neat student. You would? That’s all right then.”
Rendell moved uneasily. Wrayburn was regarding him intently, although his right hand continued to supplicate his beard to greater endeavours. As Rendell saw it, this desire to be regarded as normal was significant. And it was pathetic.
Wrayburn made a swift motion of his hand, which was his method of indicating that another phase of their conversation had come to an end. Then he glanced at his watch.
“It’s still early, but, nevertheless, I propose to go now. I am not very well. It’s nothing. I know exactly how to deal with it. But, still, I think I shall go. I will meet you to discuss Trent shortly. Just one minute! I must think which day will suit me.”
He withdrew into himself and remained motionless for some moments with closed eyes.
“Next Sunday. No! next Monday. After dinner. It will probably be wet, so you had better come to my room. I am at 4, Waldegrave Road, Fulham—for the minute. No, don’t remember it—write it down. Here’s a pencil and a piece of paper.”
Rendell wrote it down.
Again Wrayburn’s fingers snapped like revolver-shots—till the waiter brought his coat and hat. He made entirely certain that they were dry, then put on his overcoat, refusing the waiter’s proffered assistance.
“Now, sir!” the latter exclaimed genially, turning to Rendell, who was waiting for his bill. “What shall we say? Three bob?”
“Very well,” Rendell replied. “Three bob.”
He gave the man three shillings and sixpence.
“I thank you. And now, you, sir——” the waiter went on. “Your bill is——”
“One and ninepence,” Wrayburn interrupted in a tone of finality. “I did not have that extra pat of butter.”
He gave the man one and elevenpence. Directly the waiter had retired, he turned to Rendell and said.
“Your bill was three shillings. Did you give the waiter sixpence?”
“I did. Why?”
“Fourpence would have been rather more than ten per cent. It’s people like you who spoil waiters for people like me.”
Rendell pondered this statement as he followed Wrayburn down the corkscrew stairway.
When they reached the pavement they discovered that it was raining heavily.
By a miracle, there was a taxi on the rank opposite. Rendell hailed it, then said to Wrayburn: “Could I take you as far as——”