THE next few days were to Marian days of tumult. Her abandonment of
herself to Geraldstein had wrought in her a far more serious and far
different change to that which had resulted from her leaving her husband
and going to live with Maddison. The latter loved her, Geraldstein did
not, indeed made no pretense of doing so, and her feeling toward him was
simply one of desire for physical excitement and abandon. With Maddison
it was, though of course she did not consciously argue it out as such,
an illegal marriage; with Geraldstein she stood merely on the footing of
a woman with a price. She now felt utterly adrift, floating upon the
ferocious stream of sensual pleasure, intoxicated with excitement, and,
as is always the case with every form of intoxication, the hours of
recovery, of struggling back to sobriety, were hours of pain,
half-regrets, half-formed resolutions toward future restraint, and of
deep depression and reaction.
She realized fully that she had sold herself to Geraldstein when she
received a letter from him inclosing her dressmaker’s bill receipted,
and an apology from him for having ventured without first asking her
permission, to take this care off her hands. Her first impulse was to be
indignantly angry; then with a half laugh, half shudder, she threw the
bill aside. As she had sold herself she would be foolish to reject any
portion of the price.
Very quickly all regret for what she had done, and for having committed
herself irretrievably to the life of a common woman, faded away. The
sensation of physical intoxication, of delight in the delirium of
yielding to every sensual impulse, was fresh and keen, and had not yet
lost anything of its savor. Momentary hesitations, indeed, came to her,
but arising solely from the fear that perhaps she might have jeopardized
her chances with West. She had not yet lost all ambition, though mere
love of pleasure was rapidly assuming imperious sway over her deeds and
thoughts.
Physical reaction and depression came to her now and again, as it must
come after all pleasures which are themselves entirely physical.
Lassitude, tiredness, irritability assailed her, and more and more
frequently she felt compelled to seek in stimulants an escape from
_ennui_ and weariness. She talked freely and with frank confidence to
Mrs. Harding, in whose companionship she no longer felt any restraint.
Hitherto this woman, with her outspoken brutality, had half amused, half
offended her; but now there was full community of aims and practice
between them; their lives were alike, so were their pleasures and their
longings.
She laughed with her over her dealings with Geraldstein and joked over
the gross deception she was practicing on Maddison. She canvassed with
her the schemes she had formed with regard to West, and the difficulty
and possibilities of accomplishing her aims. All this and more that she
observed for herself, Mrs. Harding reported fully to her employer Davis,
who in turn communicated it to Mortimer, who in turn kept his counsel,
believing it to be best to wait until a fitting opportunity arose for
opening Maddison’s eyes to the real character of the woman for whom he
was sacrificing so much of the present and perhaps all of the future.
Early one evening, about a week after the dinner at Goldoni’s, West
called upon Marian. Although it was only a little past six o’clock he
was in evening dress.
“I’m so glad to find you at home,” he said. “I’m all alone and have been
working like a nigger never does. I wonder will you take pity on me and
come and dine with me? We could go on to the theater or a music-hall
afterward, whatever you like best. I do hope you’re not already booked
up—and will take pity on a lonesome grass-widower.”
Marian had not hoped for any so early an opening as this, and felt that
she must be guarded in taking advantage of it. West, she felt assured,
was not a man who cared to buy his company cheaply.
“I should like it very much,” she answered. “I don’t often go
out—George doesn’t like my going about much while he’s away. But—I’m
sure he wouldn’t mind my dining with you. I’m a bit lonesome, too; it’s
rather dreary sometimes when he’s not here.”
“Well, let’s cheer each other up and be sociable. I got a regular scare
this afternoon; for the first time in my life I felt not young, and I’m
blowed if I’m going to grow old yet—not me. But work, work, work
and——”
He broke off without finishing his sentence and stared gloomily into the
fire.
“You old!” said Marian, laughing, “I can’t imagine you that. I thought
you were one of those men too full of energy ever to grow old. I expect
you’re tired.”
“I guess so, but I shall stay tired, unless I have something to stop my
stewing over business. I’ve had a tough fight for the last few days, but
I’ve downed a man who tried to down me; but he fought well and has tried
me. Young men ought to feel all the fresher after a fight.”
“Fight! It must be good to be a man and able to fight. A woman’s just an
onlooker—a silly, helpless onlooker. Oh! How I should love to be a man
and to fight! It’s sickening,” she exclaimed, pacing angrily up and down
the room, her fists clenched, her cheeks glowing, all for the moment
forgotten except the fiery ambition which had been smoldering and not
yet extinct. “It’s sickening to have one’s hands tied. A woman can’t
_do_ anything, she’s not allowed. She’s just a doll, an ugly doll or a
pretty doll, and she squeaks the words she’s expected to say.”
“You’re not like that, though,” West said, watching her with undisguised
admiration.
Here for the first time he was in contact with a woman both beautiful
and intellectually gifted. He envied Maddison, who, he felt assured,
could never call forth all that Marian could give a man. Maddison did
not deserve her, and if he could he would win her away from him. He
thought of his wife, the pretty doll; he looked at Marian. This was the
woman who could stir his pulse and who would spur him on to fight.
“You’re not like that,” he repeated; “you forget one thing. A man fights
for himself; a woman may not be able to do that, but she can make a man
fight for her as well as for himself. That’s the fight worth having.
Often and often, do you know, when I’ve scored heavily, I’ve just
dropped my hands and wondered what on earth I was working for. Ambition?
That’s not worth a damn. Money? I’ve got more now than I know how to
spend; I just spend it, risk it, for the sake of making more—a regular
wild gambler’s risk very often. But—well, be a good soul, pop on a
pretty frock and come along.”
“I’ll come. Would you like a drink? A B. and S., or anything—well, not
anything, for my cellar’s jolly low at present.”
“Not for me, thanks. Appetizers spoil my appetite, and I’ve a rattling
good one at the present moment. How long’ll you be—half an hour—or an
hour—eh?”
“Half an hour, really not more. I won’t keep you waiting.”
“Right. Well, I’ll be back in half an hour, sharp.”
“But won’t you wait here?”
“No, thanks; I’ll go for a stroll and a cigarette. _Au revoir._”
They were both punctual, in fact, Marian was waiting for him.
He held out a spray of green orchids.
“I went out to get you these—do wear them.”
She looked magnificent, he thought; a conqueror.
Under Maddison’s guidance she had cultivated her innate taste for
Oriental color and magnificence; gold and silver embroideries, touches
of brilliant flaming orange and scarlet seemed to defy, but in reality
enhanced, the splendid richness of her red-gold hair.
She stood before West in a strange greenish-blue cloak, with heavy gold
tassels and braid and with a hoodlike drapery of sable round her
shoulders. An antique Oriental silver comb, studded with green and blue
stones, held her hair.
“How strange,” he said, as she fastened the flowers in the corsage of
her amber gown, “how strange! If I’d known what you were going to put
on, I couldn’t have chosen the flowers better.”
“There’s one great pull you women have over us,” West said, as he looked
round the restaurant with its over-gorgeous gilding and its over-fed
crowd of men and women, “you can dress; men merely wear clothes. Just
look at all these silly black coats and blank white shirt fronts. What a
difference it would make if we weren’t afraid of colors and dressed for
effect!”
“It tempts women to wear what doesn’t suit them, though.”
“Either you’re not tempted, or you’re very clever and strong-minded.
Brave too—there are not many who could stand those colors you have, and
no one else I know who could wear them as if any other colors would be
wrong. You forget that among my many businesses I’m a man milliner. It’s
the most difficult job I’ve had to run that department. Men are easy
enough to content, no matter what they want to buy—clothes, cigars,
wine; they’ve no scope for choice, it’s just a question of good or bad;
but women—and dresses! My goodness! Now, I wonder if your taste in
dinners is—well, I was going to say as good as your taste in dress, but
what I really mean is—the same as mine. No soup; just fish, a bird and
a sweet and one wine?”
“I’m not going to give myself away. You’re my host; the guests don’t
choose but take. But I’ll tell you candidly afterward whether I’ve
enjoyed it or not. Unless you’d rather I’d say nice things whether I
mean them or not.”
He laughed.
“It’s difficult to know—difficult to choose between pretty insincerity
or candid—cold water.”
“I should have thought you would always choose candor.”
“Why?”
“A woman’s why; I’ve no reason, but I sort of feel it. Aren’t I right?”
“Do you really expect me to answer—candidly? To confess being fond of
being humbugged, or to tell a story and say I like candor always? Of
course I don’t; I like being made a fool of, so now you know and can act
accordingly.”
“I? You’ve handicapped me. It’s no fun being humbugged when you know it,
is it?”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said West, critically examining the _sole à
la Marguery_, which the waiter submitted for his inspection; “I fancy it
rather depends upon the humbugger. It’s funny in business to know a man
is trying to ‘do’ you, and to know that he doesn’t know you suspect him.
And—I think most men are rather pleasantly tickled when they find a
pretty woman who thinks it worth while getting round them. That’s where
you have a man; the greatest compliment you can pay a man is to flatter
him by trying to lay hold of him.”
“Doesn’t that depend upon the motive? A rich, ugly man must get rather
tired of being run after.”
“No, it’s one of the pleasant powers that money brings with it; there’s
compensation in thinking that the handsome poor fool longs in vain to
have what you can command.”
“You talk as if you were—” Marian broke off short.
“I _know_ you were going to say,” exclaimed West, laughing, “that I was
the rich, ugly man. You’re quite wrong,” he added, his eyes still
twinkling with fun; “I’m one of the exceptions: I’m rich, _and_ young
_and_ handsome. Don’t think me conceited, but I can’t bear mock
modesty.”
“And yet I’m sure you’re ready enough to call a woman conceited if she’s
pretty and shows that she knows it.”
“Not a bit; it’s part of the charm of a pretty woman that she cannot
hide her self-consciousness. Do you know I haven’t enjoyed a dinner so
much for ages.”
“They do cook well here.”
“Cook! Cook!” he answered, looking at her quizzically. “Do you really
think I referred to the food? Of course you don’t. You’re too sensible;
I can buy food of the best every day, but I’m sorry to say I—can’t have
you opposite me always. That’s very badly put, isn’t it? Never mind, a
compliment prettily paid is generally a stock one, trotted out on all
proper and some improper occasions; but joking apart, it is a treat to
meet with a woman who can keep up her own end in a game of conversation.
Especially if she’s——”
“I _know_ what you were going to say——”
“Then I needn’t say it. People are so desperately stupid, or if they’re
not then they’re so desperately in earnest. A clever woman who can
frivol is delightful.”
“So is a clever man.”
“Let’s drink our mutual admiration, then,” said West, looking at her
over his glass of sparkling Rhine wine; “let’s form a mutual admiration
society, strictly limited to two; the only rule being that we shall dine
together at suitable and short intervals. At present the club’s confined
to one member, myself; will you join it? And consider to-night the first
meeting—of many?”
“It would be very jolly. But I think you’d better wait till the evening
is over before you decide whether I’m a properly qualified member, don’t
you?”
“No—I don’t, and I guess that what you really mean is that you’re not
so sure about me. We’ll pass a new rule then at once: any member tired
of any other member is to confess candidly and to retire from the club.
Now you’re safe——”
“And—so are you.”
After due consultation with Marian and an evening paper, West had
telephoned for a box at the Empire, luckily securing one that had been
returned at the last moment, the house being otherwise full, it being
the first night of a new ballet. Marian was passionately fond of music
and sat behind the curtain of the box, feeling almost as if she were
alone in the vast, crowded theater, listening intently to the swinging
rhythms of the orchestra. West sat close beside her, watching her face
in the glow reflected from the brilliantly-lit stage. She looked
singularly lovely, her beauty soft and refined, a glow of quiet content
in her eyes; he noted the delicate molding of her arms and her tapering
fingers as she held up her opera glasses; he saw the gentle rise and
fall of the ruby star nestling in her bosom; she intoxicated him. He
old! No, young, young, young—an impassioned youth in love: his mistress
a goddess whom he scarce dared approach! Half unconsciously he laid his
hand on hers as it rested on her lap.
She drew it gently away.
“Don’t, please don’t. Please don’t spoil things.”
He did not speak for some time, while she apparently again became
absorbed in the _spectacle_.
“I suppose you’re very fond of Maddison?” he asked by and by.
“Fond of him? What a curious question to ask! Of course I am. Very.”
“Somehow—I thought you weren’t. I—hoped you weren’t.”
“I am.” Then turning full toward him, she said earnestly: “Why must you
spoil things by talking this way? What can you think of me?”
“Think of you? You make me afraid to tell you what I think of you.
I—won’t say anything more—I’ll be good.”
To a crash and uproar of applause the curtain fell and Marian quickly
rose.
“I don’t want to see anything more. That was beautiful. Will you put me
into a hansom?”
“Let’s go on to supper somewhere. We needn’t really have supper if
you’re not hungry. We can just pretend and have another chat.”
“I thought ours was a dining club,” Marian replied, smiling. “No, thank
you very much. I’ve had an awfully good time, but I’m tired.”
When she arrived home she was surprised to see that the dining room was
lit up, still more surprised to find Geraldstein ensconced there,
smoking a cigar, and a brandy and soda on the table beside him.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, turning round. “I believe I was half asleep. I
hope you don’t mind my having made myself at home?”
“I mind your being here at all,” Marian answered, angry at the thought
of what would have occurred if West had returned with her. “You
shouldn’t have come in when you found I wasn’t here.”
“My dear girl, what nonsense. Why not?”
“Because—I don’t like it.”
“You handsome little tyrant,” he said, laughing and lazily stretching
himself. “You look uncommonly like Cleopatra, but I can’t flatter myself
I’m an Antony. Don’t be cross.”
“I am cross. It’s late. Good night.”
“You’re alone, aren’t you?” he asked suspiciously.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t pretend to be young-missish. If you’re not alone, I won’t
leave you alone, that’s what I mean.”
The reply stung her as would a lash from a whip; he had a right to make
it, a right given to him by her—in that lay the sting. It was a mere
question of buying and selling now with her; and this man had bought and
demanded payment.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“It doesn’t concern you,” she replied fiercely. “I don’t belong to you.
Go away.”
“Go away! Don’t be rude, and don’t tempt me to be rude and remind you of
facts.”
“There is nothing to compel me to keep you here to-night. Will you go?”
He stood up, yawned, stretched his arms and then stood looking at her
insolently.
“You’re deuced pretty, as you know, and look splendid in those
clothes—but clothes cost money and money can’t be got for nothing.”
“You beast!”
“Beauty and the beast, capital!” Then he seized her by the wrists and
looked her up and down, as if she were something offered for sale of
which he was trying to appraise the value. “You little fool, you’re
young and pretty now, but in a few years you won’t be so proud. All
right. There are others in the market besides you, and they do pretend,
at any rate, to be glad to see me. But mind, she that will not when she
may. Well, I’m off. Ta-ta!”
She did not move until she heard the outer door shut behind him. He had
frightened her, and what was worse had driven home to her the fact that
she was for sale. For sale to any man who chose to buy—unless West
should rescue her.