MARIAN locked herself into the bedroom and sat down before the glass,
laughing at her flushed, angry face. She was too astute to try to cajole
herself into believing that Edward had really done or said anything to
justify her leaving him. But in her present mood it pleased her to
behave like a spoiled child. When Edward knocked at the door, asking for
admission, she did not answer. She laughed again as she listened to his
heavy, weary footfall going down the stairs. He would have to work out
the accounts for himself; she had done with them.
She pulled out from beneath the bed her old-fashioned leather trunk and
began to pack such clothes as she meant to take with her.
He sat down wearily to the books, checking them mechanically, while his
mind was almost numb. He had never hesitated in his faith; it was not in
him to do so; but never before had he felt so helpless. Prayer had
brought softness to his anger, but as yet there was no light on the dark
path ahead.
Before he left the house he went upstairs again, but, as before,
obtained no answer to his knocking. From sheer habit he wrapped himself
up closely, and, taking the books, went out.
Marian heard the door shut behind him, and knew that it closed on her
married life.
* * * * *
This same day Maddison worked until the light failed, early in the
afternoon, and then stood before the fire in the darkening studio,
undetermined.
Marian’s intrusion into his life had rendered him dissatisfied, made him
at one moment feverishly anxious for activity, at another full of
longing for solitude and silence. As it chanced, the first was his
present mood, but he had no engagement and did not know where to go or
what to do.
It was only four o’clock. He could pay a visit to one or other of the
many friends who would meet him with quick welcome, but this prosaic
prospect did not allure him, nor did an afternoon of gossip or argument
at the club.
It occurred to him to go and see Marian, but he resisted the insistent
temptation. She had thrown him over without a word, either not wanting
to see him, or wishing him to woo her; both pride and wisdom told him
that he had best leave the next move to her. But if she made no move?
Were there not other women equally desirable! Another Marian?
The ringing of the telephone bell broke in on his thoughts. The call was
from Mortimer.
“Hullo! Is that you, George?”
“Yes.”
“I’m laid up with a sprained ankle. Can you come round for a chat? I’ve
no woman for you—only tea.”
“All right.”
“At once?”
“Yes.”
A hansom bore him down quickly to the Adelphi, where Mortimer lived in a
snug set of chambers overlooking the river. Maddison found him stretched
out on the sofa before the fire, reading a prettily-bound,
daintily-illustrated, wittily-written volume of French essays on
cookery.
“Good man!” he exclaimed. “Come round to the fire. I’ve had a most lucky
accident which will prevent me being able to go to the office this
abominable weather and will get me out of several engagements I don’t
want to keep.”
“You know you love going out!”
“No, I don’t. And as a matter of fact I don’t go out much. I used to,
but I’m growing up. For one thing, people are so stupidly flippant; at
best flippancy doesn’t sit well on English shoulders. You see I’m lucky:
I’m an Englishman with foreign parents and a Jew for a grandfather. Do
you mind ringing the bell?”
The servant brought in the tea table, which he set down beside the sofa;
a bright, copper kettle was put on one trivet and a dish of hot cakes on
the other.
“You old maid!” said Maddison, laughing, as he watched the trim
preparations.
“That’s a compliment. An old maid is usually delightful. She has the
ripeness of years without the rottenness of experience. And she’s free
to do what she likes.”
“Because she hasn’t been able to do what every woman likes best; so she
has to put up with the details of life.”
“Are there any details in life?” Mortimer asked.
“Yes; most important things are details.”
“I suppose you would call tea-making a detail? Three and a half minutes
exactly. I hope you always drink China tea, George!”
“I never thought about it.”
“An unhappy old age is before the man who does not consider the tea he
drinks? No doubt you are Vandal enough to take sugar? Art and
sensibility of palate seldom go together. By the way, West’s back from
his honeymoon. I had a line from him this morning. What a beggar he is
for writing! He gets through more work in a day than the average man
does in a week, and still has time to be married and write letters. He
wants me to go down for a week-end.”
“What’s she like?”
“You saw her at the wedding.”
“Saw her. I know what she looks like—an empty-headed plaything. But you
know her well, don’t you?”
“No man ever knows a woman.”
“Don’t be platitudinous.”
“I can’t always be lying. She—I really don’t know. I used to think her
a devilish little flirt; in fact she was; but women do change so after
they’re married. Besides, I may have been quite wrong, quite. Everyone
else thought her just a simple little maiden—who _knows_?”
“And after all, it doesn’t really much matter. But it will take a clever
woman to manage West. If she is just a doll he’ll soon grow tired of
her—as he has of other dolls, whom he didn’t need to marry.”
“That’s so. We shall see. I like West. He’s such a delightful contrast
to myself. How have you been jogging along? Anything new? Is the picture
getting itself upon canvas?”
“Not begun!” answered Maddison, putting down his cup and lighting a
cigarette.
“Refractory model, or what?”
“Just can’t get a start, that’s all. I can see it in my mind’s eye,
Horatio, but—” he broke off abruptly.
They chatted on about matters indifferent, but Maddison, feeling out of
tune with his companion, went away with an unwonted consciousness that
he was out of tune with his life.
He lingered for a few minutes on the Terrace, looking at the picture
spread before him: the blackness of the gardens below; the lamps on the
Embankment and of the passing cabs and carriages; the dim mystery of the
river; the black line of the railway bridge with its green and red
lights; over all, the gloom and glamour of London.
Then he walked up Adam Street and so on along the noisy Strand to
Charing Cross. As he walked, unconsciously directing his steps homeward,
there came over him that intense feeling of loneliness that must fall at
times upon any man who lives alone in London. He longed for some one,
some woman, to whom he could go, with whom he could stay, in whom he
could confide, from whom he could obtain the satisfying sympathy which
only a woman can give to a man. There never had been one who had in any
reality shared his life; he had never before suffered from the lack of
such a one. But now he was hungry for intimate, human companionship and
there was no one from whom he could obtain it. His thoughts turned to
Marian. He realized that he did not know anything of her nature; she
attracted him physically; she interested him. It did not appear
unreasonable that a woman of her temperament should rebel against the
circumstances of her dull, insipid life, but he wondered if it were
solely against that existence that she was revolting, or was she one of
those women who rebel against all restraint? Was she simply a
man-hunter? A woman who lusted for pleasure, excitement, change for
change’s sake? How greatly she had altered from the simple country girl
she had been when he knew her first.
Or had she qualities in her which would enable her to become devoted to
one man, to be happy with him? To be his comrade and ally? He must not
permit sensual impulses to overthrow his reason. He must not allow
Marian to become part of his life, only to find that he was not part of
hers.
It is a long walk from the Strand to St. John’s Wood, and it was
considerably after seven when he slipped his latchkey into the door and
went into the dark studio, turning up the light as he entered. Still the
sense of loneliness held him; the room, despite all its luxuriousness,
appeared comfortless.
He sat down and stirred the fire into a flame; sat there, smoking and
thinking.
Strength had gone out of him. During the last few days his work had
failed to satisfy him: it had been labored and dull. He had never before
suffered in this way. Painting had hitherto been the supreme thing in
his life, but now a woman’s face was always flitting between him and the
canvas. If she were with him, would it still be so? Or would she
strengthen and inspire him? It was the uncertainty that disturbed him;
to have and to hold her, then to find that she injured and did not aid
him—that would hurt, but the wound would quickly heal, he felt sure. It
would be wiser, then, to act promptly, to put an end to this state of
doubt.
Supposing she rejected him? Probably she had not come to him because she
did not care whether she met him again or did not. Or—it might be—she
wished so dearly to see him that she could not bring herself to come to
him.
He drove down to Acacia Grove.
As he strode up the crunching gravel path he saw that the parlor was in
darkness, or else the curtains were very closely drawn.
If her husband were with her his visit would be in vain, save that it
would show her that he was anxious to see her. His hand trembled as he
knocked, and he waited anxiously for the maid’s approach.
“Is Mrs. Squire at home?”
“No, sir. She’s just gone away, sir, in a keb, with her boxes. She was
a-goin’ on a wisit, she said.”
“Where to?”
“I dunno.”
He hurried away, shocked, angry. What silly trick was fate playing on
him? He must write, cautiously, perhaps to find that she was gone out of
his reach.
What an unutterably dreary part of the town was this in which he found
himself pursuing the more or less romantic! Dingy vice and dreary
respectability inextricably mingled, punctuated by blazing public
houses. He hurried through the continuous stream of wayfarers, wondering
if any of them knew the meaning of love. It startled him to find how
intense had grown his longing for Marian, whom he thought at first he
held in his hand, but who now eluded him so persistently.
A man passed him, walking rapidly in the opposite direction. Despite the
dim light, he recognized Edward Squire. Then the thought came to him
that perhaps Marian had come face to face with the great act of
rebellion and had found her courage fail, had fled for safety. He did
not believe that she would find safety; once her thirst for the fullness
of life had been excited she would quench it. If he did not win her some
other man would. He wanted her and would not leave anything undone to
possess her.
Again and again the echo of her voice rang in his ears as he hurried
along; again her face appealed to him. How glorious it would be to
loosen her red-gold hair around her shoulders, to hold her close to him,
looking deep into her eyes, his lips on hers; she and he alone.