ON Thursday morning Maddison waited impatiently for Marian, though he
never for a moment doubted but that she would come.
Absence from her had made her influence the stronger; each hour the
recollection of her face had grown more clear—the droop of the eyelids,
their sudden lifting and the keen, searching look of her eyes; the
dainty poise of her head, the masses of red-gold hair, the little mouth
with its moist, tempting lips; the tall figure, the clean, determined
movements.
He paced up and down the studio waiting for her.
Many pretty women had sat to him there, some of whom had tempted him and
to a few of whom he had fallen willing captive for a time. But Marian
held him by a stronger spell; it was not merely her beauty that called
so, imperatively to him. She was a complete woman, body and brain, and
to touch her heart, to win it, to keep it, to be able to hurt it—that
he must do.
But she did not come and the hour was past. Was she fooling him, luring
him on? He could not credit that; he had watched her keenly and it had
seemed to him that she was ready to rebel but did not dare revolt, and
that it remained for him to decide whether or not she should attain her
freedom. To him this world was a delightful dwelling place, in which
wise men gained all of pleasure upon which they could lay hands. To make
her his own would bring him complete satisfaction, at any rate for a
time. As for the future, only fools toted up bills that might have to be
paid. There was one cost, however, which he would have to pay, the
thought of which had at first given him pause. Doubtless Squire would
sue for a divorce, and, though the case would be undefended,
nevertheless it would cause considerable scandal. Afterwards, would she
ask him to marry her? That he would not do, for it was a part of his
creed that a woman who has left one man had best be left free to desert
the next.
As he waited impatiently, the question came to him more forcibly than it
had done before: did Marian care for him? Their two meetings had been
brief, and there had been no hint of love making. He thought that she
was desperate enough to grasp at any hand held out to her, that she
would be easy to win. The idea of the picture had suggested itself
opportunely, and he had seized on it as a convenient and plausible
excuse for their meetings. He fancied that she would accept the chance
eagerly, yet she had not seemed to do so, had hesitated, and now—he
laughed angrily at the state of irritated disappointment into which he
was working himself.
Perhaps she had been delayed, or detained at the last moment. Probably
she would write, or maybe come up in the afternoon to explain.
He had arranged to lunch in the studio, luckily, so would not be out if
she did arrive later. He looked at the pretty white table, which stood
so daintily in the broad alcove before the wide hearth, with the quaint
colored glasses and old silver. How delicious she would look against the
dark oak of the fireplace!
A ring at the door!
The housekeeper announced “Mr. Mortimer,” and Maddison fumed that he had
forgotten to say that he expected a sitter, and was not to be disturbed.
“Well, George,” said Mortimer, putting up his eyeglass as he walked into
the room. “I’m extra busy at the office, so it’s jollier than ever to
come up and waste an hour with you. It’s no fun lounging when there’s no
reason why you should not do so. Ah! you were expecting some one—me, of
course!”
He glanced at the luncheon table, quizzically. He was short, sturdy,
with a somewhat bullet-shaped head, covered—though thin at top—with
crisp, curly black hair. His features were Oriental in cast, with a
tendency toward coarseness, and his voice somewhat thick and heavy.
He sat down on the steps that led up to the broad, deep bow window,
laying down his glossy hat and natty stick on the rug beside him.
“I had meant to stay at least half an hour, and possibly to carry you
off to lunch, but——”
“But you think I don’t want you,” answered Maddison, laughing. “I don’t
think I shall mind much. I was expecting an old friend, whom I met the
other day for the first time for years. She’s going to sit for me——”
“My dear fellow, why explain? Who would suspect you of being foolish
enough to lunch alone when good company was procurable? I notice you say
you _were_ expecting?”
“Mrs. Squire was to have been here at eleven; then two hours’ work, then
lunch. It’s now half-past twelve——”
“Did you fix any time for lunch?”
“Have a cigarette and don’t be cynical. You forget that pose don’t pay
with me. How people would laugh if they found you out! Not a cynical old
bachelor, but just as romantic and soft hearted as man could be.”
“They won’t laugh, because they never will know. Even if you told them,
they’d not believe you. Is it a portrait or a picture you’re starting
out on?”
“Picture. I won’t talk about it, though. As you know, I can’t talk about
my ideas; they must just boil over, and then, if possible, or as far as
possible, I get them on canvas. What a painter I should be if only I
could make facts of all my fancies. There’s the blank canvas, and in my
mind the picture. I wonder will you ever see it?”
“I wonder are you as impressionable as you used to be? And—it’s a
beastly word, but there is no other—and as romantic as you still appear
to be? As far as I know, you’ve never really been in love, George:
perhaps it’s better that way for a painter or a poet, never to feel very
deeply. He should understand deep feelings, but never experience them.
What do you think?”
“I don’t think about art. Art’s in us, and comes out as well as it can.
That’s all there is to it. There’s only one rule of art: don’t lie,
don’t make up things; and if you can hit on a new truth, or can tell an
old truth perfectly, you’re a genius. That’s all.”
“What are you?”
“How can I know?”
“You’re not in love, George?”
“What the deuce makes you say that? Who said I was?”
“Nobody. But I thought you were at first—with Mrs. What’s-her-name, who
should have been here. But you can’t be, or not badly, or you would not
have talked ‘shop’ so enthusiastically.”
“That’s no proof. I don’t think I could ever love a woman as much as I
do my work. I can’t believe that, if ever I had to choose between my
work and a woman, I should choose the woman.”
“Touch wood, old chap, touch wood; though even that powerful magic won’t
make you safe. Just wait till ‘she’ comes along, and then, Lord preserve
you! You—I can see you just mad for a woman.”
“You’re wrong. No woman I’ve ever seen has made me forget myself.”
“No woman—yet. That doesn’t insure the future.”
“No; but I haven’t any fears.”
“That’s what I used to say, once upon a time.”
“And——?”
“I’ve grown older and wiser. But that’s a story too stupid and too
common to be worth telling. You—you’re capable of sacrificing
everything for a woman, for _the_ woman; and, after all, it’s the only
thing worth making sacrifices for. Venus is the only goddess worth
worshipers.”
“You romantic old cynic!”
“Cynic! I wonder how that ever came to be a term of reproach? A cynic’s
simply a man who has learned that impulses should be restrained by
reason. Most men find that wisdom when their impulses have ceased to be
temptations. Good Lord! George, I came up here to lounge, and you
mislead me into talking art and philosophy. The least compensation you
can offer me is—lunch. I’m hungry.”
Mortimer went off after luncheon, and Maddison was once more free to
study the problem that faced him. Mortimer’s belief that he could ever
be induced to throw all else aside for the love of a woman had amused
him and instilled into him a spirit of dare-deviltry, of intense desire
to make hot love to Marian, for whom his longing grew keener and
keener—just to prove that he could play with fire without burning his
fingers.
Wonder at her not coming to him was now being supplanted by anxiety lest
some accident should have befallen her.
If he walked down to Kennington he would not be there until after three
o’clock, not too early an hour for a call in so unfashionable a
neighborhood.
He walked slowly, surprised at the keenness of the anxiety he was now
enduring. Had Marian, already, after two brief meetings, become so much
to him that the fear of any hurt having come to her filled him with
rage? How clearly he conjured up his last sight of her, as she stood
back to the fire, whose light glinted through her hair. How graceful and
gracious she had looked. Yes, he feared love unfulfilled, not love
unrequited.
The gate creaked dismally as he pushed it open. He walked quickly up the
gravel path, looking sharply up at the parlor window, through which in
the dusk he could see the firelight dancing on the ceiling.
“Mrs. Squire was not in. Would he wait?” said the little maid.
Curiously the chance that she might not be in had not occurred to him,
and he drew his breath sharply at the news.
“Is she likely to be in soon?”
“I dunno—shall I ask master?”
He told her not to trouble and turned away. He could not run the risk of
having to face Squire, bearing in mind the errand on which he had come.
Apparently nothing unusual had occurred. Why had she not kept her
appointment? Or, if unable to do so, why had she not written or
telegraphed to him? Had it meant so little to her that she had forgotten
it?
The best thing for him to do was to put the matter on one side, to wait
awhile, to watch. Perhaps she had written and the letter had been
delayed.
He walked some little distance before he could obtain a cab, and so,
home.
There came no letter.