THE days passed slowly and disagreeably for Maddison, the monotony
broken only by Mrs. West’s sittings.
He worked occasionally at “The Rebel,” but dared not touch the face or
hands. Marian’s absence, however, served to increase her influence over
him greatly; he longed with painful intensity to return to her; he wrote
long letters to her daily, and chafed at the brevity of her replies,
though he had not any fault to find with their tenor; she wrote
affectionately, warmly, sending messages of love and again and again
expressing the delight with which she was looking forward to seeing him
again.
It had not heretofore been Maddison’s habit of mind to weigh the wisdom
of any of his acts, or to analyze any of his emotions. He had been
frankly pagan, the joy of life was his while it was his with little if
any alloy of pain or doubt; questions of present action or future
conduct had not occurred to him. His emotions with regard to women had
not been deep; they were a beautiful provision of nature for adding
beauty to an already beautiful world; their voices, their graces, their
loveliness, their caresses had charmed him, but had never absorbed him;
not one of them had ever attained to any influence over him until his
renewed friendship with Marian. In fact, nature had been his real
mistress; when last at Rottingdean, for many weeks together he had led
practically the life of a hermit, working in the studio and rambling far
and wide across the country or along the coast. It was absolute joy to
him to lie on his back, watching the panorama of the sky; to stand on
the edge of the cliff, looking out over the sea, noting its subtle
changes of color. Everything in nature, big or little, was lovable to
him; the vast glory of a blood-red sunset; the minute perfection of a
weed; the tumult and splendid power of a storm-smitten sea; the dewdrops
upon a spraying fern; the cold, clear tones of sunrise or the trembling
mystery of midday heat. No season came amiss to him: winter, spring,
summer, autumn, there was no sameness in nature, save that of
unadulterated beauty.
But he understood now that a change had come over him; between him and
nature had come one woman.
The weather was cold, with days of biting, searching east wind; he could
not saunter about the countryside, but would stride along at a great
pace. What was it that had come into the foreground of every picture
upon which his eyes rested? It seemed to him as if he were never alone
now—Marian was always with him, persistently whispering in his ear:
“You love me—you love me!” She had taken entire and sole possession of
him; round her centered his every desire, every hope, every ambition.
One bright morning he stood at the edge of the cliff, some little
distance from the village, the gentle murmur of a calm sea far below,
and in his ears that weird muttering of vagrant winds which comes before
the breaking of a tempest. He stood looking down on the rocks and
shingle far below, thinking of Marian, counting the number of hours that
remained to pass before her approaching visit, for it had been arranged
that she should come down soon for a few days. Suddenly the thought came
into his mind of the horror of her standing there beside him, of her
being giddy, of her reeling, and clutching at his arm, missing her hold,
falling down—down—a shapeless mass on the stones below. The horror of
it sickened him.
Why had this woman come into his life? She had given him a supreme joy,
the like of which he had never even dreamed of before; but might not
that joy be too dearly purchased with the price of the contingent agony
her love might bring him?
One evening he went down the village street, down through the gap to the
edge of the sea, where the tumbling waves were bursting with sullen roar
and crash upon the shingle. The storm that had raged all the day and the
previous night was dying away, slowly, as if reluctant; the wind blew in
fitful gusts; the clouds scurried across the moon, which shot down
intermittent beams upon the tossing waters. His life, he thought, had
hitherto been calm; but now a tempest raged within him, rising in
strength day by day, hour by hour, so that there was but one thing in
his being—love of Marian, that first, that last, that all in all. Away
from the thought of her and his passion for her he could never tear
himself; it was always with him. When he painted, there was her face
before him, dim but insistent. Something of her features seemed to creep
even into the portrait he was painting of Agatha West. When he read, the
words conveyed no thought, no sense to his mind; he was thinking of her,
wondering where she was and what she was doing, with whom if not alone.
She possessed him, heart, soul and body; he was all hers.
More than once a frenzy of jealousy had attacked him: did she truly love
him? Or was she just play-acting, fooling him, deceiving him, betraying
him, laughing at him and his blind love? The impulse came on him
strongly to go up to town, without warning her, and to watch—watch,
unseen. But he dared not; in such a case, he thought, ignorance would be
bliss compared with knowledge.
At last dawned the wished-for day on which Marian was to come. He had
lain tossing awake all the night. Hours yet remained to be gotten
through somehow before he could set out to walk to the station. After
breakfast at nine, he set about tidying the studio, filling the vases
with flowers, and setting “The Rebel” in a place of honor by the window.
Then in the sitting room he cleared up the litter of pipes and books,
and helped to decorate the table for luncheon.
At length he felt that he could linger no longer indoors, and started
out to walk slowly along the cliffs toward Brighton. There was no stir
in the air, the sea lay placid, the sun shone down as if with a promise
of spring. He went slowly along, his heart light as a lad’s when going
out to meet his first mistress. He knew how it would throb when he
caught sight of her face. Would hers do so likewise? He knew how words
would fail him, and how he would stammer out some stupid commonplace.
Would it be so with her? He knew how anxiously he would await the
train’s arrival, how eagerly he would scan the alighting passengers,
seeking her. Would it be the same with her? Would she look on with
indifference at one and another until her eyes met his? Then—would hers
light up with the fire of love?
He reached the station half an hour before the train was due, and paced
impatiently up and down through the throng, cursing the clock, the hands
of which seemed to stand still. The train at last came in; out of one of
the first compartments stepped Philip West, who caught hold of Maddison
as he rushed by.
“All right, old chap, don’t be in such a hurry. I’ve had a
fellow-passenger, who knows you and wants to speak to you.”
Maddison checked himself impatiently, yet afraid to show his anger at
the interruption. He shook West’s out-held hand; and then looked, and
there was Marian.
“I met Mrs. Squire at Victoria, and took charge of her as she was all
alone. I got her heaps of magazines and papers, and books, and—she did
nothing but—talk all the way down. I never knew before how near
Brighton is to London.”
Marian laughed merrily, returning the close pressure of Maddison’s eager
hand. How deliciously pretty she looked, he thought; how wildly
aggravating that West should be there.
“Now I’m off; I’ve no luggage to worry about,” said West. “Good-by, Mrs.
Squire, and thank you for a very pleasant journey. Good-by, Maddison,
see you soon.”
West strode off through the bustling crowd. Then everything vanished for
Maddison save Marian.
“My dear, my dear,” he said, taking her hand in his again. “My dear——”
The tears started into his eyes as he strove in vain to speak.
“My dear old boy! It’s jolly to be together again, isn’t it? Come along.
Take me out of this. We can’t talk here.”
Soon they were driving along through the brisk air, he seated opposite
her so that he might see her the better.
“It was luck meeting Mr. West, wasn’t it? He’d been up for the night,
and it was much nicer than traveling alone.”
“Bother West,” said Maddison. “He’s nothing. What about yourself? Tell
me all about yourself.”
“All? All? Where shall I begin. From the moment you went off?”
“Till this minute! A few days ago! It seems years to me. It was all I
could do to keep from rushing up to town to see you.”
“You know I missed you dreadfully,” she said, leaning forward and
resting her hand on his knee. “It was just as bad for me as for you. But
now we’re together, don’t let’s worry about what has been; I’ve come
down to be happy, dear, to be happy.”
“Look here. We shall be out of the town soon. If you’re not tired, let’s
get out and walk along the cliff. The fly can take the traps along.
Shall we?”
“It’d be jolly. I’ve been sitting all the morning. What a lovely day! it
was foggy and horrid in town.”
So intense was Maddison’s happiness that he was content to be silent, as
he walked along by her side, as was she, for she went in fear of letting
him see that her pleasure at the meeting was not so great as his.
Moreover, the journey with West had given her food for thought, and the
knowledge that he was staying at Brighton had altered altogether the
plans she had made. A day or two alone with Maddison was all that she
felt she could endure, but with West near by it might be foolish to
return to town so soon.
Suddenly Maddison stopped and took her eagerly by the hands; stood close
to her, looking down into her eyes.
“I wonder if you know what this meeting means to me, Marian? I thought I
knew how much you are to me, but I didn’t—not till I came down here and
was without you. You’re all the world to me, Marian, just all the world.
There’s nothing else in the world for me but you. Are you _glad_? Very
glad——?”
“Very glad!” she answered softly.
“I used to laugh at men who went mad after a woman; but I’m mad for you,
Marian; crazy as can be! And you—I wonder, have you suffered as much as
I have done? I hope _not_ for your sake, but I’m selfish, and really
hope that you have. Have you?”
“How can I tell, dear? I know—I missed you very much, ever so much.
But, oh, why, George, worry about that? Isn’t the present good enough to
make us forget all about it?”
“You’re right! By Jove, you’re right. Let’s get on—I want to have you
all alone—in my arms, and to hold you so tight that you can never slip
away again.”
“That’s all right!” she answered, laughing, “but I’m not a man with
seven-leagued legs, so unless you want to get there before me, don’t
rush along like that!”
He slackened his speed, and they went along, he thinking of her, and
stealing look after look at her. She was wondering if she would have the
skill and the strength to play her game so that he should not discover
that what was so earnest to him to her was only make-believe. She
consoled herself with the thought that perhaps did he love her less his
penetration would be more keen and that the very excess of his ardor
would make him blind. Nevertheless, there was great need for care upon
her part, which would indeed have been unendurable to her had she not
known that the visit was to be brief and that in a few days’ time she
would be back in town, free. She was consoled, too, by the remembrance
that West had asked permission to call upon her.
When they reached the cottage Mrs. Witchout stood in the doorway,
anxiety writ large upon her wrinkled face and her nose more than usually
rubicund.
“Good mornin’, ma’am,” she said. “I was beginnin’ to worrit about the
food. Cookin’s cookin’, I always says, and doin’ things to rags is
’nother thing. But you’re justin time, which is more than Mr. Maddison
usually is.”
“Mrs. Witchout keeps me in grand order, Marian, and if you want anything
while you’re here, don’t ask me for it—I’m not boss of the show.”
“That’s the way he always runs on; don’t take anynoticeofhim, I
don’t. Would you like to go up to your room? It’s upstairs—if youcancall
these stepladdery things stairs. This way, m’m.”
Mrs. Witchout led the way upstairs, Maddison holding Marian back a
minute to whisper to her:
“By the way, you’re my _sister_! I’ve had a bed made up in the studio
for myself. Don’t give the show away.”
Marian laughed as she ran up, and Maddison turned into the living room.
Everything was ready, the table neat, cozy and pretty, a covered dish
and the plates warming by the fire, which blazed up cheerily; the
lattice windows were thrown wide open and the sun streamed in warmly.
“You don’t look much alike,” said Mrs. Witchout, coming in. “If you
takes arter your father she must take arter her mother, and a ’andsome
couple they must ’ave been, I’m thinkin’.”
“Don’t try to flatter me, Mrs. Witchout,” Maddison answered, with a
laugh, as he sat down on the window seat, watching her picking up the
dish with the assistance of her apron. “It’s no use your coming over me
and you mustn’t spoil her with compliments, though the biggest would
have been to have told her that she is nearly as good-looking as I am.”
“Lawks!” was Mrs. Witchout’s comment.
“What a jolly little room!” exclaimed Marian, pausing in the doorway and
looking round. “And what flowers! And the windows, wide open, just as if
it was springtime. It feels like it.”
“Yes—and termorrer you’ll have east winds and wet to bring out yer
rheumattics, leastways my rheumattics, beggin’ pardon.”
“Come along; I’m sure you’re hungry, Marian, everybody always is here.
And Mrs. Witchout, you just be off! We’ll look after ourselves and won’t
make your life a burden to you.”
“I’ll go when I’m ready, Mr. Maddison, not afore.”
“There, Marian, what did I tell you? You see what you can do.”
“Don’t show him up my first day here, Mrs. Witchout; let him have his
way, _for once_!”
“For once! They always do say it’s your own fam’ly who knows least about
yer! For once! He always do ’ave it.”
So saying, Mrs. Witchout hustled from the room with a pretense of anger
that was transparent.
“At last!”
Maddison strode across the room, laid his hands on Marian’s shoulders,
holding her at arm’s length while he gazed at her. Then he drew her
close to him, feverishly kissing her again and again, kissing her lips,
her hair, her eyes.
“Haven’t you a kiss for me, Marian?”
Their lips met, and his heart beat as though it would burst.
“Oh, Marian, Marian, we must never part again!”
For the moment his passion overcame her, and she lay close in his arms,
panting, forgetful.