“Why couldn’t you tell me first what the doctor said? Why couldn’t you wait to hear from me first before telling him?” He pointed at Marsden. “It was a secret between us, remember? How could you take me for granted like this? How could you take anyone for granted like this? Why couldn’t you come to me first and hear my decision …?”
“But it’s Mardie. I told only him. Don’t you understand? No one else. There are no secrets from him. Don’t you see that? Don’t you know that?”
As she stood before him, accusing him, remonstrating with him, wholly oblivious to him it seemed (as if even when she looked at him she saw only Marsden), Goodrich could no longer suppress the words which burst from him: “Get out! Get out! Both of you. I don’t want to see either of you again.”
There was dead silence. And it seemed now to Clive that the beating of his heart was the only sound in the world. After a moment Jennifer cried, like one who had been struck a blow, “How can you be so cruel? What’s the matter with you? I want …”
Goodrich cut her short. “Get out. Get out I tell you. You want — you want — you want….” He felt almost consumed — on the brink of peril and fire. At this instant his gaze locked into Marsden’s. And a feverish pressure mounted in him to yield his ground. He was conscious also of Jennifer’s trembling accusing lips and a desire arose in him to subjugate himself to her — to them both. Then it passed and his anger and sense of betrayal kept him from moving towards them. A lifetime passed in that curious tableau of figures until Marsden and Jennifer began slowly to make their way to the door.
Before they actually left the room Black Marsden turned and looked back for the last time at Goodrich. He was still clad in his garment of consort, as if he were — for all the world to see — the faces of the pale young rider in the Royal Mile and Ralph the mechanic lover; and other faces Goodrich could not guess at, except to know that at some stage or other they too had been Jennifer’s lovers. Goodrich had the sensation that at the last moment Marsden had been defeated in securing another face — the face of Clive Goodrich….
It was such an alarming irrational idea (that Marsden had come so close to acquiring this face—his face—) that Goodrich felt a sense of guilt — a sense of illusion born of his violent temper. He felt constrained in some degree to try and remedy the situation. He could at least have given them money — parted from them on better terms — not on such drastic uncompromising terms. He rushed out and up to their rooms to talk with them. Surely not more than five minutes could have passed and yet it seemed another lifetime.
Their doors were flung wide as to a fierce draught. No one was within. He rushed down again to the front door to find Mrs. Glenwearie on the point of entering.
“Oh Mr. Goodrich dear,” she cried, “I’m so glad to be back. My sister’s taken a turn for the better. But what’s been happening? I’ve just seen Dr. Marsden and Miss Gorgon racing like the wind up the street. It was almost as if they were flying. I could hardly believe my eyes. They were in a terrible hurry and no mistake.”
“Yes,” said Goodrich.
“When are they coming back?”
“They won’t be returning, Mrs. Glenwearie.”
“Not at all, sir?”
“Not at all.”
For a moment a veil seemed to cover Mrs. Glenwearie’s eyes. She looked away into space and then back at him. “Ah well,” she said, “maybe it’s all for the best.” She closed the door. “Why, what a lovely shirt and tie. You are looking smart, Mr. Goodrich.”
He was relieved at her return, but though he welcomed her presence and felt armed by a strange inner tide of decision, a strange inner fire of secret resolution, he felt alone, utterly alone, as upon a post-hypnotic threshold at the heart of one of the oldest cities in Europe.