This Was Ivor Trent полностью

“He rang me up,” she repeated, “and asked me to go to his flat. I obeyed like a slave. He seemed to know everything about me without being told. I went again to his flat—and again—and again. And then he took me as easily as you could take a cigarette from that box.”

“But when was that—exactly?” Rendell asked involuntarily.

“Three years ago.”

He was glad she was not looking at him. The discovery that Trent had made Rosalie his mistress just at the time when Vera Thornton had entered his life, so bewildered Rendell that he dared not speak lest his tone should betray him. So, for a considerable period, Trent had been intimate with these two women—neither of whom was aware of the other’s existence.

“When I was with Ivor, I had no regrets, no remorse, nothing! It seemed inevitable that we should be lovers. I went to his flat every other day. If I had not met him I should have lost my reason. I know that is true! He saved me—and he saved my marriage. I know that sounds odd, but it’s the truth, all the same.”

Rendell was about to speak—but she sprang to her feet and stood before him, gesticulating wildly.

“But—Paul! You understand? Paul! Had he known about Ivor, his world would have flown to pieces. To live with him, day after day, night after night, knowing that! And he was happier than he had ever been because I was returning to life under his eyes. Was I to tell him that Ivor was the reason—that when Ivor took me in his arms I sobbed like a child because the ice round my heart was melting? Was I to tell him that?”

“Look here,” Rendell began, “you mustn’t excite yourself——” but she silenced him with a gesture.

“I made Ivor come to the flat. I—I liked the three of us to be together. I can’t explain. Paul wasn’t surprised by my friendship with Ivor. He knew I’d dabbled with the arts. Above all, he trusted me entirely. That’s a dreadful feeling—to be trusted entirely! No woman could stand it indefinitely.”

“But what about Trent?” Rendell asked. “How did he see it?”

Rosalie hesitated, then said slowly:

“He—well—he thought it was inevitable, and he made me feel it was. He’s a very powerful personality, you know that. No, of course, you don’t know that! Well, he is. He controlled me completely. If, when I was alone, a sudden fit of terror or remorse seized me, I telephoned him—or went to him—and he made me calm again.”

Rendell said nothing. The knowledge that Vera had also visited Trent during the first year of his liaison with Rosalie—and that he had treated her very differently—made Rendell feel that he was becoming Trent’s accomplice.

But, fortunately, Rosalie seemed to have forgotten him. She had sunk into a chair and was now gazing in front of her, seeing the memories she had evoked.

“How long were you lovers?” Rendell asked at last.

“Three years. He had just finished a book when I met him. Listen! Only a few days ago, he suddenly said he was going abroad to work again. I begged him not to go, but it was useless. He seemed not to listen. I was terrified of being left alone with our secret. I knew I’d become hysterical and tell Paul. But, almost immediately, Paul became ill. He got worse and worse. Then, on that Monday night, I saw that paragraph in the paper.”

She made a movement with her hands as if thrusting aside something she feared to face.

“If I had not met you, when I came to Potiphar Street, I should have gone mad. Do you know that? Ivor was delirious!, I was certain he would betray our secret to strangers. I was afraid of blackmail. I was afraid of everything. My God, that Monday night! I never dreamed that Paul was going to die. I thought he would discover everything. Ah, you don’t know what I went through that night!”

“I’d like to ask you one question,” Rendell said, after a silence, “though I suppose it’s an odd one.”

“Ask me anything. You know everything now.”

“When Trent is better, would you marry him—say, in a year?”

“No—not now. I thought I was everything to him, but I found I wasn’t.”

“Because he wouldn’t give up going away when you asked him?”

“Yes.” Then, suddenly: “Do you despise me?”

“No.”

“Not even if I tell you I am glad Paul is dead?”

“No. We all go through hell, sooner or later, and—afterwards—we don’t feel like judging others.”

She did not reply. Rendell glanced at her. She was lying back with closed eyes, looking like a child asleep in the firelight. He did not know which disturbed him more deeply—her pathos or her beauty.

“I’d better go,” he said gently. “You’re tired.”

“No, no! Please don’t go. You—you must have some sherry. I’ll get it.”

“No, really!” Rendell exclaimed. “I don’t want any. You are exhausted and need a rest, and so I’d better go.”

They had both risen. Suddenly she put her hand on his arm.

“Stay here and dine with me. I shall be alone otherwise. And I’m afraid of being alone. I’ve a maid with me—but she’s out to-night. Do stay. Please stay.”

The appeal in her eyes embarrassed Rendell, and he looked away.

“Very well, but——”