ACACIA GROVE, Kennington, was once upon a time, and not so many years
ago, the home of snug citizens, who loved to dwell on the borderland of
town and country. It is a wide road of two-storied houses, all alike:
three windows to the top floor; on the ground floor, two windows and a
hall door, painted green and approached by three steep steps; a front
garden, generally laid out in gravel with a circular bed of sooty shrubs
in the center and a narrow border of straggling flowers along each side,
spike-headed railings separating the garden from the pavement. Few of
the gates are there that do not creak shrilly, calling aloud for oil. In
one of these houses, distinguished only from its neighbors by its
number, lodged the Reverend Edward Squire, occupying the front “parlor,”
a small den at the back of the same, and the front bedroom and dressing
room on the upper floor. The furniture throughout was plain,
inoffensive, somber, entirely unhomelike; faded green curtains with
yellow fringe hung at the parlor windows, by one of which Marian sat in
the gloaming two days after her meeting with Maddison. The fire shed a
flickering light over the room and on the weary face of her husband, who
lay back asleep in a heavy horsehair armchair. She glanced at him now
and then, each time comparing his commonplace features with those of
George Maddison, her meeting with whom had stirred tumult in her already
mutinous blood.
Rousing himself at length, Squire looked at his watch.
“Half-past four! I must be off, Marian. Don’t you find it dismal sitting
there in the dark?”
“You can dream in the dark.”
“Dream?” he said, standing up and stretching his lanky limbs, stamping
his heavy feet as though cold. “Don’t you dream too much, dear? I wish
parish work had more interest for you; there is so much to do, and——”
“I don’t do much!” she broke in sharply.
“I wasn’t going to say that. Wouldn’t it make life brighter for you if
you spent more time in brightening it for others? However, I mustn’t
stop to talk now. There’s a meeting of the Boot Club at a quarter to
five, and several things after that. I can’t get back till about
half-past six: will that be too late for tea?”
He stood beside her, feeling clumsily helpless to express his sympathy
with her evident discontent, and unable to help her.
“No, I don’t mind what time,” she answered, turning her back toward him,
and looking out at the dreary prospect of leafless trees and dim gas
lamps.
He stooped to kiss her, but she pushed him away.
“Don’t be silly, Edward; everyone can see into the room. If you don’t
go, you’ll be late.”
With a sigh he turned away and went out.
For months past hatred of her home life had been growing in her, and it
had been intensified, brought to fever heat, by her meeting with
Maddison. His prosperity had emphasized the dunness of her own career.
Why had he ever made love to her, giving her a glimpse of brightness,
and then left her to be driven by circumstances to accept her husband’s
dogged love, to accept this life of struggle, to accept this daily round
of distasteful tasks and hateful duties? In the country days she had
accepted without energy to protest against the routine work of a
clergyman’s daughter; but here in London, her blood had caught afire,
the devil of revolt was astir, her whole heart and soul rebelled against
the wasting of her youth and beauty. In the old home there had been none
with whom to compare herself; but in town hundreds of women, with
smaller gifts of body and mind than her own, led a full and joyous life.
She raged to think that she should bloom and fade, never knowing the
glory of living.
She rose slowly, let the heavy venetian blind run down with a crash,
drew the curtains close, and lit the gas. She stood before the glass
over the mantelpiece, looking at her reflection. Then with growing
disgust she turned and glanced round the meager room. In a basket was a
pile of accumulated mending waiting for her; on the small writing
table—above which hung a crucifix—several account books, which would
have to be made up this evening. She stood there, tall, fair, throbbing
with rebellion, longing to escape. Again the question that she had so
often asked herself during the last two days came to her: was it
possible that George Maddison would offer to free her? He had nearly, if
not quite, loved her once; were there any means by which she could lure
him to her again?
A sharp knock at the house door startled but did not interest her, the
caller doubtless being for Edward, and his visitors did not amuse her.
Her conjecture was wrong. The neat little maid servant, who feared her
master and adored his wife, opened the parlor door, stammering out—
“A gentleman wants to know if you’re at home, mum. He wants to see
_you_, mum.”
“Are you sure he wanted to see _me_?”
“Yes, I do, if I may,” said Maddison, appearing in the doorway; “or are
you not ‘at home’?”
“Of course I’m at home; we don’t indulge even in conventional fibs in
Kennington. Do come in; I’m so glad to see you. I didn’t think you’d
really come.”
“Why not?” he asked, shaking hands with her. “Could I resist such a
persuasive description as you gave me? It was so alluring that I walked
the whole way, and, upon my word, I declare you have done the
neighborhood an injustice. I’ve been in worse.”
“Very likely it’s my fault.”
They sat at either side of the fire for some little while silent; he
noting the room, and furtively examining her face as she stared into the
fire. He could see the tears that hovered in the corners of her eyes.
“Your fault?” he said at length. “You look fagged; you want a change.”
“A change!” she exclaimed, laughing hardly.
She stood up, leaned her arm upon the mantelpiece, and looked down at
him.
“A change! You don’t know the irony of what you’ve said, Mr. Maddison. A
change! Do you realize that each day drags along just the same as the
days before have been, and the days after will be? Never a shadow of a
change! And so all the life is being crushed out of me. If I’d only
known; but what’s the good of talking this way, and why on earth should
I trouble you with my worries?”
She was a splendid rebel and Maddison’s pulse stirred with sympathy and
attraction. She looked to him like some fine, wild animal, caged, eating
out her heart for freedom.
“I almost wish I hadn’t met you the other day,” she continued. “I know
that sounds rude; what I mean is, it’s bad enough to be here, but it
makes it worse, ever so much worse, to realize what I’ve not got.”
“I wish I could help you,” he said.
She sat down again and again looked into the fire, which she stirred
into a roaring blaze.
“It would have been better had I stopped on in the country; I was only
half alive there. I just vegetated. Edward, my husband, had what he
thought was a ‘call’ to come up and work among the poor in London, so he
brought me here. I wonder do you know the kind of man he is?”
“I can guess.”
“He’s good, because he never has any temptation to be anything else.
He’s content, and works, eats, drinks, sleeps; he tries to be kind and
sympathetic, and—nearly drives me mad. Don’t you think it strange,” she
asked, looking at him eagerly, “that I should be talking to you like
this? I must—must talk to some one.”
“I’m glad you look on me as a friend. I wish I could help you.”
“You are helping me by letting me talk to you. I wonder do you
understand a bit of what’s the matter? Can _you_ understand? You’ve
always been free, and could make your life for yourself. I’m strong, but
I mayn’t even try to use my strength. I hate all this cant about women’s
rights; every woman can have her rights if she only dares to take them.
But we’re all bred up to be dependent cowards. Now, I suppose you’re
shocked?”
“Why? I think I understand what you mean—what you feel. Does—your
husband know?”
“He? He couldn’t understand! He would try to, and would advise me to go
out and work here with him. I did do some work with him, but it only
sickened me. And the people he works with! Gossiping, chattering,
self-important humbugs. So now I sit all day with my hands in my lap and
cry like a baby for a moon I _could_ have if I dared take it. I’m
young—and—what’s the use of not saying it?—pretty, and——”
She clenched her hands on the arms of her chair and set her teeth
firmly. The fire shed a warm glow over the handsome, alluring face; he
watched her with admiration. A picture ready to his hand. The dull,
stupid room; the woman, splendidly rebellious. What was she going to
make of her future?
“I’m going to ask you to help _me_!” he exclaimed. “Let me paint your
portrait; not an ordinary portrait. The subject has been in my head for
a long time, but I’ve never been able to grasp it until just a moment
ago. I shall call it ‘The Rebel.’ Will you come up two or three times a
week to my studio and sit for me?”
“Shall I?” she answered, looking doubtfully at him—“shall I? And then
when it’s over, come back here—_here_!”
He had his thoughts and she had hers, but neither expressed them or
guessed the other’s.
“It would only make me more angry with things,” she said; “no, you
_don’t_ understand me a bit. It must be all—or nothing. A sweet to-day
and bread-and-butter every other day? No, no. Understand? It has been so
bad with me that I stood on Westminster Bridge the other night after I
left you, and looked at the water; I am such a coward that I came home
to this.”
“So—you won’t help me to paint my picture?”
“I’ll think about it, and let you know. When shall I come?”
Maddison took out his engagement book and turned over the pages.
“You have to find time between one engagement and another,” she said,
watching him; “I’m free every day.”
“To-day’s Tuesday; would Thursday, eleven, suit you? We could go and
have lunch somewhere afterwards.”
“I can’t decide. Will you leave it open? I’ll just come, if I’m coming,
and, if I don’t come, it will mean I’d rather you didn’t come here
again.”
“I won’t worry about that. I’ll just hope you will come. Now, I must be
going. Good-by, and—again—I wish I could help you.”
As Maddison drove home, he was in doubt as to what course he should
pursue in this adventure so suddenly thrown his way. Marian greatly
attracted him, both by her beauty and her brains, but he did not as yet
feel disposed to face the scandal that must come if he took her away
from her husband, should she care to come to him, and should he care to
ask her. He felt certain that if he saw much more of her he would fall
under her fascination, yet, weakly, he had given her this invitation
rather than run the risk of not meeting her frequently, rather than have
to meet her in the dismal surroundings of her home.
During the last few years he had drilled himself into not yielding to
his every impulse. When he had first met her the desire bred in him by
her country comeliness had almost led him into marrying her; its renewal
urged him strongly to ask her to be his mistress. He believed that she
would yield. What would be the outcome of such a course? She was
evidently trembling on the brink of revolt, undecided whether or not to
dare all. Should he tempt her? There could be no question as to her
beauty, which was of a type that had always appealed to him. Tall,
lithe, well-proportioned; elegant in face and figure—how lovely she
would look daintily dressed! No mere animal, but a woman.
Between now and Thursday he must decide with regard to her.
Then the fear shot into his mind that perhaps she would not come.
* * * * *
When he had left the room, Marian sat down again by the fire, her face
lit up by a smile of complete satisfaction.
She was not trembling on the brink of revolt. When she had met him that
foggy afternoon she had been so, but only because she felt helpless. Now
succor had come. She felt certain that she could win Maddison to her
will, that she would be able to use him as the stepping-stone to the
luxury and power for which she lusted. He had almost loved her in the
old days, he nearly loved her now after these two brief meetings; at any
rate he was sorry for her. She would tempt him and he would fall.
Again she looked at herself in the mirror; she was made to conquer. This
man, and others, should be hers. She held the two most powerful of
weapons, beauty and heartlessness, and would use both without scruple.
She laughed as she thought of her upbringing in the little country
village, of her ever having believed that she could live content as a
curate’s wife. Whence came this unruliness in her blood? She could
understand the discontent with the physical conditions of her life, but
her desires went far beyond that. It was not merely for love and luxury
that she longed, but for power—power over the body and mind of men of
power.
Maddison would not satisfy all her cravings; but he could take her away
out into the world, and there she knew she could win.
She had in her the confidence of a conqueror.