“Of course, you’ve a job. Perhaps at the weekend?”
“Yes, but——”
“No one would know. You do everything I tell you—and it will be all right. I’ve had some expenses owing to all this, but you can send me a few pounds later on to cover that. Yes!”
He hesitated, but her attitude was so submissive that he went to her and put his arms round her.
“You’re all right, I take it?”
“Yes, I’m all right.”
He lowered his clasp and pressed her to him. She yielded herself so abjectly that victory intoxicated him and he kissed her on the lips.
Meanwhile, in Rendell’s room, Mrs. Frazer stated a number of facts, clearly and concisely.
The nurse had gone. She was going to attend to Trent, and a friend would take her place in the house. Her husband was going away. She implied that Trent wished these arrangements, and was paying the extra expenses involved. He continued to be very excited, slept most of the day, and the doctor still visited him. He could see no one, and all his letters remained unopened.
Also Mrs. Frazer was making other changes. Miss Ratcham, the lady journalist, was not well and was going to her people in Devonshire for some weeks. Incidentally, she was furious with Frazer for not giving her the paragraph about Trent—and was also furious with the latter owing to her failure to interview him.
Mr. Archibald Fortesque, the handsome student in the room opposite Miss Ratcham’s, had been summoned home to account for his extravagance and laziness—and Mrs. Frazer did not propose to have him back, in view of the number of complaints she had received concerning him.
Also, and finally, she had given notice to all undesirable tenants, every one of whom her husband had admitted when she was absent.
She ended by saying:
“I’d rather be empty than have such people. And the lady who calls herself a palmist is also leaving. I’m telling you all this because you are friends of Mr. Trent’s—and because you may know of respectable people who want rooms.”
Marsden instantly announced his intention of taking Mr. Archibald Fortesque’s apartment, when that restless and musical gentleman vacated it. Also he thought he could find some lodgers for Mrs. Frazer.
It was at this point that Vera and the Captain returned—the former very flushed and the latter very truculent.
“Now, my lady, I’m off. And I’m not coming back. That’s clear, I take it. So good-bye, Mrs. Basement, and——”
“Oh, shut up, Frazer!” Marsden exclaimed angrily. “We’re talking about important things. We’ve all had quite enough of you.”
The Captain drew himself to his full height, then looked down on Marsden with an air of triumph which astonished him.
“You said, I believe, that you had had enough of me. You are a wit, my good man, a wit!”
Marsden replied angrily, and Frazer became insulting. Then, when everyone in the room was shouting—except Wrayburn—the door opened and Rendell appeared.
“Hullo! A committee meeting!” he exclaimed. “I thought I’d come into the wrong room.”
Mrs. Frazer’s attempts at apologies were drowned by the Captain and Marsden, who continued to insult each other, while Vera—desperate—vainly tried to restore harmony.
This went on for some minutes, then Frazer, fearing to compromise his victory over Vera, diverted his anger to his wife and began a stormy tirade as to his wrongs and the shortcomings of No. 77.
Interruptions were frequent till eventually—when all were talking simultaneously—the servant opened the door and announced:
“A lady to see Mr. Rendell.”
A dramatic silence descended.
Then Rosalie Vivian came into the room.
III
She stopped on the threshold and looked round, greatly bewildered. Rendell, who was vaguely aware that her extreme pallor was not the only change in her, crossed the room swiftly and held out his hand.
“I’m so glad you’ve come. I was expecting you.”
The commonplace words recalled the others to the necessities of the situation. Mrs. Frazer went out of the room, murmuring apologies, followed by the model, who had contributed little to the discussion. Captain Frazer, who was impressed by Rosalie’s appearance, drew himself to his full height, shook hands with Rendell, saying that he was leaving town immediately. Then, with a glance at Vera, he marched out—Marsden and Vera following him.
Only Denis Wrayburn remained, who now rose, gave an almost imperceptible bow to Rosalie, then said to Rendelclass="underline"
“I came only to say that I find that Sunday after dinner will suit me better than Monday. You have the address? That’s all right, then. Sunday—early. That’s to-morrow, you understand.”
He looked at his watch, gave a peculiar kind of shiver, then went swiftly out of the room.
“Who are all these people? Why are they all here?”
“There’s been a bit of a disturbance,” Rendell replied, “and——”
“Are they friends of Ivor’s?”
“Yes, most of them.”
She looked up at him quickly.
“That very dark woman—why was she trembling?”
“Was she trembling? I didn’t notice. I’d only just arrived.”
“What is her name?”
“Vera Thornton.”
“And the woman with the red-gold hair—who is she?”
“She’s a model, I believe. I’ve never seen her before.”
Rosalie pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes as if to protect herself from all external impressions.
“I can’t stay,” she went on quickly. “I came because—because—wait! Yes! You said you’d be in every afternoon at three for a week. I cannot come here again for some days. Will you be in all next week at three? Could you do that?”
“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry all those people were here when you came.”
He paused, glanced at her, then exclaimed:
“But you’re in mourning!”
“My husband is dead.”
He stared at her.
“Which day was I here?” she asked.
“Tuesday.”
“He died on Tuesday. Last Saturday he was taken ill suddenly with influenza. He became worse every hour. He died on Tuesday—while I was here.”
“While you were here!”
“Yes—here.”
Rendell was about to speak, but she silenced him with a quick movement. When she spoke again her voice was a whisper.
“He was buried yesterday. . . . Gone! There’s his room, his clothes, his golf-clubs, my photograph on his writing-table—all waiting. But he’s gone. Shall I tell you something? Yes. I will tell you. When he was alive, I lived with him—I understood him. But, now he’s dead, he’s someone else. Do you know that? Someone else. He was commonplace, kind, indulgent, rather stupid—and always the same. And now he is—terrible! He’s become a part of every silence.”
“Now, listen to me,” Rendell said abruptly, in the manner of one about to make an authoritative statement, though he scarcely knew what he would say next. “You’ve had a dreadful shock. You loved him and——”
He got no further. She shook her head so decisively that he broke off.
“No. I did not love him.”
She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Ah, if you knew the relief of saying that—at last! I have never dared to say that to anyone, not even to myself. I have crushed that knowledge down—down into a dungeon. I dared not admit it. I told myself that I did love him. I repeated it—to prove it. I repeated it, hoping it would become true.”