He did not reply. Her hand remained in his.
“You’ll come—in a month?” she repeated.
A whistle blew.
“Yes, I’ll come—and bring you back. Jump in! Quick!”
She got in a second before the train started.
As it began to move, she leaned from the window and beckoned him. He had to run to keep up with her.
“Don’t forget to go and look at that puppy.”
She waved her hand and vanished.
Rendell stood motionless till the train had disappeared.
At last he turned and walked slowly towards the barrier—a sentence of Wrayburn’s circling in his mind.
“Probably you’ll marry again—but it will be a dangerous sort of affair this time.”
VII
One result of Rosalie’s departure was Rendell’s rediscovery of Time.
During the last month, time had been an ally: now it re-emerged as an adversary. The hours no longer flitted past like dancers. Each seemed a cripple in a never-ending queue.
Rendell’s next discovery was the changes which had occurred at Potiphar Street. It is true that these had been effected some weeks ago, but as he had done little more than sleep in his room during the last month, he had remained unaware of them. Now he realised their extent and effects.
Captain Frazer was still at Ramsgate and no indication was obtainable as to the probable date of his return. Most of the undesirable lodgers had also departed. Mrs. Frazer continued to devote the whole of her time to Trent, her former duties being executed by Elsa, who, nevertheless, remained invisible—a feat which intrigued Rendell and one which continued to intrigue him. But, above all, Marsden was now a lodger. This fact had not affected Rendell during Rosalie’s regime, but, with her departure, it became increasingly prominent owing to Marsden’s importunity.
At first Rendell resented the casual manner in which Marsden assumed that his company would be welcome, but this resentment was short-lived, for Marsden was perplexed—and this perplexity began to interest Rendell.
In the first place, Marsden’s curiosity concerning Trent no longer existed. He seemed to have forgotten that Trent was still in his rooms at the top of the house. Marsden was obsessed by Vera, and to such a degree that to confide in Rendell was a psychological necessity.
The first night Rendell spent in his room, Marsden appeared soon after nine o’clock.
“So you are in—at last! What the devil have you been up to lately? I’ve been here well over a fortnight now, and haven’t caught a glimpse of you. I began to think you must have gone.”
“No, not yet—but I’m going in a month.”
Marsden lowered himself into a chair, then put his crutches on the floor.
There was a silence, then he announced abruptly.
“I’m worried.”
“What about?”
“Vera.”
Rendell moved uneasily, then began to fill a pipe. To discuss Vera with Marsden was a disturbing prospect—in view of his inside information concerning her. There are circumstances in which even to listen is hypocritical.
“To begin with,” Marsden went on, “I don’t mind telling you I’m in love with her.”
He shot an angry glance at Rendell, evidently fearing that the latter might regard this information as amusing. Marsden was morbidly sensitive concerning his physical disabilities.
Eventually he continued:
“I mean, really in love with her. I want to marry her.”
“Have you told her so?”
Marsden writhed with irritability.
“No, I have not! It’s not so simple as all that, my dear Rendell. You see——”
He broke off abruptly. When he went on, it was evident that he was not saying what he had originally intended.
“I mean—damn it all! you can’t ask a woman to marry you when you can see she’s ill and worried. But what bothers me is this—what the hell’s the matter with her.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Of course I’ve asked her! She says it’s only nerves. And that before long she thinks she’s going away for a week-end to get some air. It’s all damned unsatisfactory. But thank the Lord for one thing—she doesn’t care tuppence about Trent. Never mentions him. At one time I thought she cared quite a bit for him. But I was wrong. I fancy they were little more than acquaintances. In fact, I’m almost certain they were. After all, I only met her once at Trent’s flat.”
At this point Rendell discovered that his pipe wasn’t drawing properly. He knocked it out, cleaned it, and refilled it slowly. But Marsden was not expecting any comment from him. He was evidently considering whether or not to tell Rendell something, for he kept glancing at him, then at the fire, thereby revealing a state of considerable indecision.
“Look here, Rendell,” he burst out at last, “there’s something I’ve got to explain. I’ve meant to tell you before. It’s this. That foggy Sunday we dined together, you remember?”
“Of course I remember. The place was empty and we talked about Trent while we dined.”
“Yes—well—it’s not easy to explain. You see, it’s like this. I hadn’t seen you for some years and——”
“And you’d every reason to think it would be years before you saw me again,” Rendell cut in.
“Well, I don’t know. Still, perhaps you’re right. Yes, I think you are right. Well, what I mean is, I believe I talked as if I owed Trent quite a lot.”
“You certainly did.”
Marsden twisted uneasily on his chair.
“I—I was romanticising. That’s the point I want to make. I believe I told you some schoolboy incident about a bully. And—and one or two other things. Well, I exaggerated. I want you to know that.”
Rendell said nothing. Marsden’s manner irritated him even more than his remarks. He was convinced that Marsden had told the truth when they had dined together—and that now he regretted it. Why this should be so Rendell could not imagine, but it was very clear that the necessity for this conversation—whatever that necessity might be—was a whip to Marsden’s vanity.
“Why are you telling me all this, Marsden? What does it matter to you what I think about your relations with Trent?”
Marsden started a sentence, then abandoned it. He began another—and broke off. After which he fidgeted with his tie till Rendell’s patience exploded.
“Oh, for God’s sake say what you’ve got to say—or let’s cut the whole thing out!”
He almost shouted the words.
Marsden stared at him in astonishment, but there was a respectful note in his voice when he said:
“I say! You’ve altered. You used to be a collected person. What have you been doing lately?”
Rendell put his pipe down, then got up and took a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece.
“I don’t want you to tell me anything, Marsden. But, if you want to, then say it—or leave it alone. So I ask again: what does it matter what I think about you and Trent?”
“It does matter,” Marsden replied emphatically. Then, after a pause, he exclaimed angrily: “Do you think I want all that nonsense I told you repeated to Vera?”
“Oh, so that’s it?”
“Yes—that’s it! I don’t want her to think I’d be a nobody if I hadn’t met Trent.”
“You can count on me not to say anything to her.”
“Then you’ve not told her what I said that Sunday?” Marsden asked eagerly.
“Not a word of it.”
“Good! That’s all right. And you don’t think she’ll want to discuss Trent with me?”
“But you said she didn’t.”
“I know, but I mean in the future. Supposing we married, I don’t want to be cross-examined about Trent.”