Black Marsden (12 page)

He changed into dark trousers and sandals the colour of cedar which he had also bought that morning. All he needed now he thought vividly was an impressive turban to confirm his
metamorphosis
into an underground bridegroom of fate.

He made his way into the hall with a sensation of the swirling currents of life come to a controlled head in him at last. It was a curious intoxication, beautifully controlled, however, beautifully decisive. Yet, though controlled, not beyond allowing him a reckless latitude. He found himself humming a disjointed version of an ancient ballad:

There were voices in the sitting-room and when he entered Jennifer and Marsden were standing by the fireplace. He saw Marsden, in fact, first of all reflected in the mirror above. There was a look almost of satisfaction, a brooding calculating face upon him which registered quite distinctly upon Goodrich. Yet despite this a hang-dog almost Knife-like air possessed him too; above all, however, he was still steeped in the astonishing depletion of power which Goodrich had sensed over the past few days.

And now, perhaps because of this air of depletion, he seemed more than ever in line with Jennifer’s consorts—the pale young man and Ralph the mechanic and others perhaps who were nameless.

These impressions ran through Goodrich’s mind like sand. He looked away from the image in the mirror to confront Marsden and Jennifer who were both, in their turn, so astonished to see him in his new garb that they stood stock-still. Goodrich could not help noting that whatever depletion Marsden endured, Jennifer had become a creature of electric assurance and beauty.

Goodrich almost felt a hint of disapproval in their manner. Perhaps a hint of accusation—accusation that he—the world’s guinea pig—should turn peacock, a usurper of fire, of privileges. Or perhaps this was not the case. Perhaps they were a little disturbed that he appeared to be making a bid for—was it Salome’s child?

Then, as if to break the spell, Jennifer smiled. She took a few quick paces towards him and threw her arms around him.
Goodrich
was conscious of her perfume and the sensuous weight of her body, of the breath on her lips in the breath of his.

“Clive,” she cried before he could utter a word, “I’ve told Mardie everything. And look—” she flung one slender arm wide—“he isn’t mad. He isn’t furious with me at all. He approves of you—of my plans. I’ve told him everything—about you and me—everything….”

Goodrich felt a sudden constriction in his throat, the toppling of his body of intoxication, the toppling of his reckless ballad of intoxication. The air in the room became oppressive, choking. He pushed her away from him almost violently. “How … how …
could
you?” he stammered and choked.

“How could I what?” She looked at him with her brutal childlike candour. Then added urgently, “What is it, Clive? What have I done wrong?”

“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.