Wilson Harris - Black Marsden - A Tabula Rasa Comedy

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.