BOTH in situation and in itself, Stone’s Hotel is respectable and dull.
Desperately so, Marian found it, as she stood looking out of the drawing
room window on the sunlit, colorless street. She was alone.
It was an Early Victorian room; heavy, dingy red curtains hung down
starkly before the window from a heavy, gilded cornice. The carpet also
was dingy red, with faded roses of huge proportions displayed thereon;
the walls were covered with dirty gold-and-white paper, chastened by
oleographs in clumsy gold frames; over the mantelpiece there was a
fly-blown, gilt-framed mirror; the furniture was upholstered in
well-worn red velvet, and over the backs of the chairs and sofa were
draped dirty white crochet antimacassars; in the center stood a huge
round table covered with a green and black cloth and adorned with a
careful selection of assorted hotel guides and photograph albums, among
which a stray Tauchnitz volume looked sadly out of place; over the whole
lay the blight of dust and dreariness.
Marian had dressed carefully in black, the single touch of color being a
gold brooch at her neck.
She turned, with a gesture of impatience, away from the empty street to
the empty room, and sat down by the fire, the one spot of warmth and
brightness.
Her brows knit as she thought over the situation in which she had placed
herself. She was ready to cross the Rubicon; had gone so far that return
was unthinkable. It now depended upon Maddison whether her first fight
would be a victory or a disastrous defeat. But she felt stronger now
that she was free, and determinedly put aside all thought of what would
face her if she failed to win.
The sharp pulling up of a hansom and the ringing of the house-bell made
her listen eagerly. The subdued maidservant threw open the door and
Maddison came in.
“It is so good of you to come!” Marian said, rising and holding out her
hand. “I hope you didn’t mind my writing to you, but I’ve—no one else.”
The weariness and despondency in her voice and attitude hurt him.
“Of course I don’t mind—why on earth should I? Is—what’s happened?”
She sat down again, her back to the light, and he took the chair on the
opposite side of the hearth. He could not see her face very distinctly
in the dull room, but this very dimness gave an added charm to her
beauty. She did not answer his question immediately, though her lips
parted as if she were anxious but unable to speak.
“Now you’re here,” she said at last, “I’m frightened. I’d no right to
ask you to come, but—I’d no one else, and I’m——”
Tears came into her eyes, rolling slowly down her cheeks. Then she
covered her face with her hands, watching him very keenly between her
fingers.
He rose quickly and came over to her, resting his hand upon the back of
her chair and only by an effort restraining himself from catching her in
his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, “so sorry, and so glad you did send for me.
Don’t—don’t cry.”
“I’m so helpless!” she sobbed.
She dropped her hands on her lap disconsolately; he took them in his, as
he stooped over her.
“Come, come, you’re not helpless,” he said, “because you’re not alone.
Tell me, what has happened?”
She drew her hands slowly from his, as she answered—
“You must forgive me—crying; I’m not often so silly, but I couldn’t
help it. If you hadn’t come, I don’t know what I should have done.
Please sit down again and I’ll tell you.”
She paused as though she were trying how best to begin her story.
“I’ve left home. Left it altogether. I couldn’t stay there any
longer. I tried hard to get used to things, but they got worse and
worse. Then yesterday afternoon Edward was wild with me because I
couldn’t—_couldn’t_ help him in his work. I broke out and—there was a
regular scene between us. We quarreled—and—I came away here—what am I
to do?”
“Why here?”
“It’s the only place I know. My father brought me here years ago; it
wasn’t like this then, or didn’t seem so.”
“Have you no plans at all?” he asked.
“No, none. I must earn a living somehow. I’ve no money, and no friends,
except you, and I’ve no right to bother you. I suppose you think I’m mad
to run away like this—but the life there—it wasn’t life—it was
killing me.
“I don’t set up to judge people; don’t talk like that. The first thing
is—you mustn’t stop in this dingy hole.”
“Where else can I go?”
“We must hunt up some decent rooms somewhere. This place would kill
you.”
“Decent rooms—with a decent rent! You forget I’m a working woman. The
first thing to do is to find a way to earn my living.”
He hesitated for a moment; was she playing with him, or talking in
innocent earnestness?
“What about your husband?” he asked abruptly.
“Edward? I left a letter for him, telling him I had gone away and
that—nothing on earth would persuade me to go back.”
“Are you sure of that?”
Her hands clinched as she answered: “Nothing could ever persuade me to
go back to him. What would be the use of it? To begin it all over again?
There would be no change; he couldn’t change, and I couldn’t—not as he
would want me to. He’ll be miserable at first, but soon he’ll be all the
better for my being away. He never loved me really; it’s only his work
he loves.”
“Won’t he search for you?”
“I dare say. But he’d only preach again if he found me.”
“Did you—did you—care for him?”
“Love him? I thought I did when I married him, and didn’t know what he
was. I was a girl then and knew nothing. Gradually I came to hate him. I
couldn’t help it; you don’t know how heartlessly cruel a _good_ man can
be—they’re so utterly selfish. But don’t let’s waste time on what has
been. When I shut the door there last night, I shut it on the past.
Now—what am I to do now? Can you help me? Do you know of any work I
could do? Or how I could get it?”
“Let me think,” he said, walking slowly up and down the room. “Why—why
did you not keep your promise to come and see me at my studio?”
“I—can’t tell you.”
“Can’t tell me?” he said, surprised.
“No; please don’t ask me. I could make up an excuse—lie to you, but—I
shouldn’t like to tell you even the most innocent fib. So please don’t
ask. All I can tell you,” she said, looking up at him as he stood beside
her, “is that I had a very good reason.”
Their eyes met fully, and she dropped hers quickly and turned away.
“I went down to see you last night—just after you had left,” he said.
“I—well, I wanted you to help me.”
“To help you? How could I help you?”
“We’re a helpless couple,” he answered, laughing nervously. Then he drew
up a chair close to hers, so that he could see her face. “Yes, you can
help me, and it’s just possible I can help you. You remember when I came
down to see you that afternoon, and you told me something about your
life and how—bad it was for you. I’ve never forgotten what you told me.
It’s made me a good deal unhappy.”
“I don’t know why I told you,” she said doubtfully; “I suppose because
you were the only person I knew who I thought could understand. I didn’t
mean to worry you.”
“I’m very glad you did tell me. But something you _did_ worried me very
much—your not coming to see me. It made me angry at first and then
miserable, especially as you didn’t write to say why you hadn’t been
able to come.”
“I tried to write but I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t? What do you mean?” he asked keenly.
“Just, I couldn’t. Don’t ask me any more.”
“You _couldn’t_ come to see me—you _couldn’t_ write to me? I don’t
understand.”
“I—can’t explain. But—you were telling me about yourself?”
“You care to hear?”
“Of course I do.”
“When I went down to see you last night it seemed as if it would be so
easy; now, somehow I can’t say what I want.”
“Is it something I can do for you?”
“Yes—yes—look here, come down to the studio now. I’ll start that
picture, and while I work you can talk. Then we’ll lunch there, and talk
some more and see if we can’t put things a bit straight. Will you come?”
Little as he had said, his manner had conveyed an assurance to her that
she would quickly gain her object, and it required all her
self-restraint to enable her to conceal her relief and triumph. She did
not reply to him immediately, looking into the fire as though she were
thinking over what he had said, in reality waiting until she felt sure
of her voice and eyes. The conversation of the last few minutes had
shown him to be her captive and that the life she had been dreaming of
was now about to become a reality.
She stood up as she answered him——
“I’ll come; it will do me good. You’ve been awfully kind to me.”
While waiting for her, he paced quickly up and down the room. All
hesitation and all doubt had vanished; his pulse beat quickly; he longed
to be away with her: to see her seated before him, the rebel whom he
hoped to tame. Yet with this certainty there mixed a last remnant of
reason: before he gave himself he must be sure that she was his. He
could not bring himself seriously to mistrust her, but he realized that
he was holding out a rescuing hand to a lonely, desperate, possibly
cunning woman. She might clutch at it in helplessness; he longed that
she should clasp it in love.
Though the drive was long it seemed only too short to him. She scarcely
spoke at all, but looked straight ahead, wistfully, as it seemed to him,
as though she were watching a world of men and women in which she only
was sad. He, too, was silent, content to look at her, noting every
beauty of her face, the graceful carriage of her head, the evanescent
loveliness of her hair.
“Here we are!” he exclaimed, as he led the way into the studio. “Shan’t
I just make a nuisance of myself! You’ll have to sit still, though you
can talk. I can listen while I work.”
“What a lovely room!” she said, looking round at the deep archway before
the carved oak fireplace; the opposite arch, the recess with the daïs
and the wide expanse of latticed windows with the clear lights above;
the parqueted floor, strewn with rugs and skins; the carved chairs and
the luxurious settee—the display of somber, costly, beautiful things.
“What a lovely room! I couldn’t work in a room like this—but then I’ve
never found a room in which I could work, since I left the country.”
She threw off her wraps and flung them with her hat—recklessly—on a
couch, and then stood warming her hands at the fire.
“I don’t think you were made for working,” he said, standing close
beside her, looking down upon her as she bent to the blaze, which shed a
warmth of crimson over her face. “You were meant to help others to
work.”
“You?”
“Ever so much, I fancy.”
“Tell me what I’m to do, and I’ll try.”
He brought over to the fireside an old-fashioned, plain wooden chair,
with high, stiff back and broad, flat arms.
“There—sit there—straight up—I shan’t keep you like that for long at
a stretch; grip the ends of the arms slightly—and look into the fire;
look like you did, as far as you can, that afternoon when I called you
the rebel.”
She took the position he directed, while he sat down on a stool at a
little distance and began to sketch rapidly upon a block on his knee.
“I want to rough it out,” he said, as he tore off a sheet of the paper
and flung it on the floor, “until I’ve caught the pose, and then I’ll
start to get it on a canvas.”
At first he worked quickly, the while she watched him with keen
interest. She knew that if she had aroused deep emotion in him, he could
not continue this make-believe of absorption in his work, could not long
keep up this semblance of looking upon her simply as a model.
It was partly hatred of the surroundings in which he had found her this
morning, partly fear of precipitancy that induced him to act as he was
doing. If he spoke too soon he might not only lose her, but lose
also—he loved her too sincerely not to dread it—the opportunity of
helping her in her distress. But strive strongly as he could he was
unable to concentrate his mind upon the work. Every time he looked at
her and found her gaze fixed upon him it called for all his powers of
control to keep him from throwing discretion aside at once and for all.
“You’re watching me,” he said with a touch of impatience that troubled
her; “look at the fire, please.”
“I’m afraid you bully your sitters,” she replied, doing as he bade her.
“I’m _so_ tired of being told to do things. There are such lots of
things I should like to do—but nobody ever told me to do any of them.”
“What things? May I know?”
“You’ll only laugh at me. They’re the kind of things that a woman with
nothing a year and not much hope of earning anything much has to do
without and had better not even think about.” She spoke slowly,
wondering which of her ambitions it would be discreet to name to him. “I
should like a lot of friends, clever people who can talk and be jolly
and make me jolly too, if I haven’t forgotten how to be; and pretty
rooms. I should like to read and to see pictures, and to go to the
opera—and I want sympathy—and—and——”
As she broke off there was a catch in her voice that routed the remains
of his discretion. He threw away his pencil and went quickly over to
her, standing beside her chair.
“Look up at me,” he said eagerly. “What else do you want?
Sympathy—and—what else?”
Instead of looking up at him, she turned away, clasping her hands in her
lap.
“Look up at me,” he repeated. “Why don’t you?”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t again! Is it—is it for the same reason that you didn’t come
here; didn’t write me? Tell me!”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to guess—but I daren’t, for if my guess was wrong, you’d
never forgive me. But—I’ll risk it. I can’t wait any longer. It’s
because you care more for me than you care for a mere friend. If that’s
it, it’ll be all right and you shall have all your wishes.”
He noticed the quick heaving of her bosom and believed that it was love
for him that stirred her.
“It’s just this: I love you, Marian, and if you’ll trust me I’ll do all
I can to make you happy. Let me try.”
The revulsion from doubt to certainty was too great for her strength,
and she burst into hysterical sobs as she hid her face in her hands.
“Marian, Marian,” he said, kneeling beside her, “just tell me—do you
love me? Tell me, do you? Do you?”
At the moment she almost felt that she did love him.
“Tell me—do you?”
“You really love me?” she asked, turning her tear-stained face to him.
“Really love you?” he exclaimed, seizing her hands and covering them
with eager kisses. “What’s the use of telling you? Let me prove it.”