THE picture made good progress, Maddison working at it with his whole
heart. As her nature blossomed out before him, her joy in pleasure, he
realized clearly and more clearly how unbearable must have been her life
with Squire. His passion for her quickly settled down into an absorbing
love; his power and reason soon returned to him; he knew that he had
bought a beautiful and expensive toy; how long he could keep it, how
long he would care to keep it, he did not ask. Sufficient for the day
was the delight thereof.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked one morning, as she sat by the
studio fire while he painted.
“About you.”
“What about me?”
“I was thinking—I often think—that I am keeping you a great deal from
your friends. You’re with me almost every evening, and except when
you’ve a sitter I’m with you almost every day. I don’t want to be a tie,
a drag on you.”
“Don’t you know I’m happy that way?”
“Yes, George, I do. But it doesn’t do to try one’s happiness too hard.
“I won’t. Trust me. It’s partly accident that I’ve been nowhere lately,
partly my habit. People used to ask me everywhere, but gave it up when
they found I didn’t go anywhere. There are just a few houses always open
to me, and a few pals come along here whenever they choose. I used to
have jolly little informal suppers on Sundays last winter. We must start
them again. A few men and women——”
“But—” she interrupted, raising her eyebrows and expressing by a motion
of her hands that the women would consider her taboo.
“Oh, not that sort of woman, Marian. Good sorts, who believe that the
world was made for men and women, not men and women for the world. We’ll
send a line round to some of them: ‘Suppers begin again Sunday next.
Come whenever you don’t want to go anywhere else.’ Everything’s put on
the table and we wait on ourselves. Fred—Fred Mortimer—you’ll like
him—is a dandy man with the chafing-dish, and when he comes we indulge
in extravagant luxuries.”
“You’re quite sure about me?”
“Of course I am. Quite sure and quite proud. It’ll be awfully jolly
having a hostess. Hullo! I wonder who this can be—don’t move.”
The door opened and the servant announced Mr. Philip West.
“I beg your pardon——”
Marian rose.
“Mrs. Squire,” said Maddison, “let me introduce Mr. Philip West. Mrs.
Squire is helping me to paint a picture.”
“Helping!” she exclaimed. “I’m the fly on the wheel.”
West examined the picture and Marian critically.
“Have you a name for it?” he asked.
“Yes. ‘The Rebel.’”
“It’s good,” he said slowly, “very good; it’ll be the biggest thing
you’ve done. May I commission it? I’d like to have it”—he looked
straight at Marian as he spoke. “That reminds me why I came here this
morning. If you’ve time and inclination—I know what a particular cuss
you are—I should be glad if you’d paint my wife’s portrait. I should
think she might suit you. You remember her?”
“I am a particular cuss,” Maddison answered, smiling grimly at the
remembrance of various commissions rejected. “Have you said anything to
Mrs. West?”
“No.”
“Then don’t, till I know whether I can paint her or not.”
“Too late, coward, too late. She suggested it herself, and sent me here
to bear her—commands. You and she may settle it as you like. She’s
lunching at the Carlton with me—I wanted you to come, if you’re not
engaged.”
“Engaged, no; but I’m in the mood for work. Are you dining in town?”
“We weren’t, but we will, if you’ll join us. I know there’s no
persuading you to leave your work when you begin to talk about moods.
Settled—dinner then?”
“Yes, when? Where?”
“The Carlton will do. Eight. Good-by. Good-by, Mrs. Squire. I used to
know a parson of that name down in Kennington—an enthusiast——”
“My husband.”
“Really? Lucky man. Good-by.”
Maddison went with him to the front door, and when he returned found
Marian standing before the canvas.
“Yes! I’m a rebel!” she exclaimed. “My husband! Do you know, George, I’d
clean forgotten all about him; absolutely. All that life is just like a
dream, and I’m awake now. Even when you called me Mrs. Squire it did not
recall him to me. Yes, I’m a rebel! But they don’t call you rebels, do
they, when you’ve revolted successfully? Why didn’t you go to lunch?”
He slipped his arm round her waist as he answered——
“I didn’t like rushing off from you, so I told an artistic lie. I don’t
want to go to the dinner, but West’s a goodish fellow, and was wise
enough to buy my pictures when no one else would. So I’m a bit in his
debt.”
“Who is he?”
“He is _the_ West. ‘If you want to get the best—go West,’ you know.”
“Oh, West’s Stores. He’s a millionaire, isn’t he?”
“Awfully, horribly, disgustingly rich. But he doesn’t do as much harm
with his money as most rich men. He hasn’t bought pictures wholesale, or
built a gimcrack mansion in Park Lane. He gave tons of money once to a
royal hobby and then refused a knighthood. When I congratulated him, he
laughed and said it was good advertising. I believe he dabbles in
politics; he’s a socialist—only rich men can afford to be—and talks
about running the Empire on business lines. It’ll take a greater man
than even he to make politicians capable of any business transaction,
except buying votes with promissory notes. Chiefly notes blown on their
own trumpets.”
“There must be something fascinating about politics. I should love to
rule men!”
“Isn’t one enough?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length and looking
into her eyes.
“One like you—yes.”
As she sat alone that night, lazily smoking by the fireside, the thought
of Philip West was greatly in her mind. His strange, dark blue eyes had
looked at her searchingly and she had felt that behind them was power.
Had she any chance of knowing more of him?
She was tiring already of the luxurious sameness of her life. Maddison
was kind, thoughtful, attentive, and a sufficiently entertaining
comrade, but she desired more than that. To rule one man did not satisfy
her.
The odds seemed against her meeting West again, especially as he was
married. Maddison would doubtless tell her what the wife was like, and
it was rather upon her than upon West himself that the success of
Marian’s vague ambition depended. To win West in any circumstances would
doubtless be difficult; to win him from his wife would be a triumph.
Maddison came in late and threw himself full length upon the hearth-rug,
a favorite position of his when tired.
“Had a stupid evening?” she asked, sitting down beside him, and brushing
the straggling hair from his forehead.
“Fearful. I hate those big hotels at any time, but it was more than
usually deadly to-night.”
“I thought you liked Mr. West?”
“Oh, he’d have been all right alone; but his wife is an empty
chatterbox, insipidly pretty, and he adores her in a fatuous way. How
men of sense can—well, I suppose reason doesn’t count in such matters.”
“So you are not going to paint her?”
“Not for worlds. I should turn out a chocolate box cover. I must have a
soul as well as a body. They were just a couple of honeymooners.
Disgusting.”
“It’s always disgusting to see other people in love.”
“Perhaps that has something to do with it. He’s simply lost his reason
for a while; he’ll grow sane again some day, soon probably, and then,
likely enough, she’ll cry her eyes out for a day or two, and then will
be quite happy for the rest of her unnatural life with her jewels and
dresses. She’s just a material little doll.”
“It must have been stupid—no one else?”
“Only another woman, a tall, sedate person; I didn’t quite understand
her.”
“Then you weren’t altogether bored?”
“She was too much of a puzzle. Either intensely dull, or dangerously
clever. At any rate, if I were Mrs. West I would not often have Miss
Lane by my side. I rather fancy she’s a woman a man might love
absolutely. And when West gets sick of his wife—Lord, what silly gossip
I’m talking. Do be a dear and make me a cup of chocolate; you know how,
and then we’ll talk about something more interesting than the Wests.”
When she came back with the steaming cup, she found him fast asleep. She
stood looking down on him, lithe, slender, well-formed, the neatly
trimmed beard, the heavy black hair, the long, delicate hands. She
wondered if she would grow to hate him. She believed that she could not
long keep from disliking intensely, or at any rate despising, a weak
man. He had been too easy a conquest, unable to withstand the subtle
flattery of a woman’s weakness and call for help.
He stirred uneasily as she watched him; then slowly opened his eyes.
“What a dull dog I am!” he exclaimed, springing up. “Why don’t you tell
me so?”
“Because I don’t think so. You’re tired, and you mustn’t think I only
care for you when you are doing something to amuse me.”
She sat down on the sofa, motioning to him to sit beside her, and while
he sipped the chocolate, she went on:
“You’re like all other men in one way. You fancy women are silly,
restless things, who either aren’t worth amusing or must be amused
always. If I’m only a child, just fit to be played with, what good can I
be to you? There are lots of pretty toys in the world. I thought you
thought better of me.”
“So I do, goose. Don’t fish for compliments, though I will pay you one
upon your chocolate. Is it too late for a song?”
“No, not for a quiet one.”
“Then turn out the lights and sing, will you?”
Her fingers ran almost aimlessly over the keys before she began to play,
softly, the melody of an old country song—a haunting, melancholy air.
Then she sang quietly, with a touch of tears in her voice, a simple
ballad of a country maid and her false lover. When it was ended her
hands dropped listlessly and there came over her a sudden gust of hatred
of this mumming—this making believe to love a man who was a mere tool
in her hands. But, until the work was complete, the tool must not be
thrown aside.
“There are few people who sing like you, Marian; very few I care to
hear. They’re mostly musical boxes, absolutely soulless. You—you sing a
jolly song and people feel jolly; a sad one—and make me sad. How do you
do it? What an inane question! As if you knew. There’s nothing in life
worth having except emotions.”
“What about painting?”
“Art? All art is the expression of emotions—that’s the beginning and
the finish of it, has been and ever shall be till the world’s end. Don’t
turn up the light. The glow of the fire is quite enough to chat by.”
“What emotions do you feel when you’re painting ‘The Rebel’?”
“Disappointment. I see your face at the tip of my brush, but every touch
I give is wrong—wrong.”
“I like it—Mr. West liked it.”
“Yes, but neither of you know what I mean it to be, or how far I am from
expressing my meaning. It’s little better than a dolly anecdote daub.
I’ve a good mind to paint Mrs. West after all; it would be fun.”
“How?”
“Why, this way. I’d just paint her absolutely true to life, show her
empty soul peeping out of her dolly eyes. And everybody would say: ‘What
a sweet, innocent face!’ Innocent! How many women are innocent because
they’re impotent even to desire to be wicked.”
“Then paint her, and we’ll enjoy the joke.”
“But I can’t let West pay me for it. I’ll make it a belated wedding
present.”
Marian made no comment, but marveled at the quixotry of man.