MARIAN was very angry at West’s unexpected desertion after the theater.
When she reached home she sat down by the bright fire in the drawing
room, which she had told the servant to keep up well, and gave full rein
to her disappointment.
It would soon be time to go down again to Rottingdean; Maddison had
written to say that work was progressing fast and well, and calling on
her to keep her promise to return to him when he could truly report that
things were going satisfactorily. She hated the very thought of him
now—without any reason, as she admitted to herself. She had looked to
West for rescue, and now he seemed about to fail her.
A ring at the outer bell surprised her, and, knowing her maid to be in
bed, she went to answer it herself.
“Hullo,” said Mrs. Harding, as Marian opened the door and looked
inquiringly out. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, come in.”
“Only for half a shake. I’ve got two boys upstairs, and I thought if you
were alone, you’d like to come up for a bit. They’re both pretty oofy,
and I can spare you one of them. Come along. You look spiffing.”
The angry blood in her jumped at this unexpected opportunity.
Mrs. Harding’s room reeked with cigarette smoke and the smell of
spirits. Two well-dressed young men lounged one on each side of the
fireplace, in front of which stood the sofa on which Mrs. Harding had
evidently been lying.
“Here, boys,” she said, ushering in Marian. “Now we shall be a four.
Two’s company, so’s four, when they split into twos. I’m not good at
introductions: Bobby Williams and Chawles Brewer, who never gets quite
so intossicated as his name suggests, and this is Marian, though I can’t
call her Maid Marian. Now, you sit down that end of the sofa and keep
your eye on Bobby or he’ll run you in before you know where you are.
Have a drink? I’ve only got B. and S.”
“Yes, thanks, I’m thirsty. I’ve been at the Gaiety, and theaters always
make me dry.”
Bobby, as a rule, was not at a loss for conversation in such society as
the present, but Marian’s beauty and style overawed him at first. As for
her, she was mad with the spirit of dare-devilry and threw away all
remaining sense of decency. She drank eagerly at the brandy-and-soda,
soon handing the glass to Bobby to be replenished.
“Say when,” he said, holding up the tumbler and the spirit decanter.
“When!” said Marian, stopping him when he had poured out a stiff
allowance, “and not too much water. And then you may mix quite a mild
dose for yourself.”
She laughed gayly as she took the glass from him, and Mrs. Harding was
not so engrossed in her companion’s talk as to fail noticing Marian’s
wildness.
“Been dining too—eh, Maid Marian?” she asked.
“Yes, so I’m not hungry, only thirsty. Now, Bobby, amuse me.”
“What shall I do?”
“Talk, tell stories, anything except be serious. I daresay Ethel told
you I was a serious young person, but I’m not. She don’t really know
me.”
“Nor do I,” said Bobby; his eyes adding that he would like to do so.
“That’s a misfortune that can be mended.”
Her color heightened and her eyes grew brighter as the brandy warmed her
blood, and a stray tress of hair fell deliciously down her neck. She put
up her feet on his knees as she repeated:
“Bobby, amuse me. I want amusing badly. You look full of fun. Look here,
Ethel, you play us a tune and we’ll dance. I must do something!”
She sprang up and was pushing the table aside with Bobby’s assistance,
when Mrs. Harding stopped her.
“For the Lord’s sake, no. We shall wake the people below, and they’re
goody-goody and will kick up a devil of a fuss.”
She tried to push Marian back on to the sofa, but she resisted.
“No, I won’t. You said the four had better split up. So we will. Come
along, Bobby, we’ll trot downstairs to my place and leave these two to
canoodle by themselves.”
* * * * *
The next day her head ached rackingly, and she had but dim recollections
of what she had done the night before. She remembered getting out a
bottle of wine, which she and Bobby had drunk together; remembered
having become uproariously merry; then quarrelsome over something he had
said or done; then madly merry again; she dimly remembered his embrace
and his going away in the dim gray of the early morning, making some
excuse about having to go back to his rooms to dress as he had to be at
the office early. Her head ached and her eyes were heavy and hot. Her
clothes were wildly tossed about the room and one of his white gloves
stared at her ridiculously as it lay on the dark carpet. Several
sovereigns lay on the dressing table. She rang the bell and the maid
brought her tea, which seemed tasteless, and a letter from Maddison,
which she threw impatiently aside, unopened.
The day seemed endless.
Mrs. Harding came down to her in the afternoon.
“Well, you’re a nice cup of tea, you are; you demure little monkey, do
you often carry on like that?”
“If I did, I suppose I shouldn’t have such a beastly headache.”
“Don’t know so much about that; I’m a pretty hardened vessel, but a
drink too much always gets back at you in the morning, I find. I don’t
feel too bright myself, and I don’t look much of a beauty,” she said,
looking into the glass. “This life knocks spots out of one, there’s no
doubt, but it’s the only one worth living—merry if it is short. Had a
hair of the dog that bit? If not, why not? I’ll have one too, he bit me
a bit.”
“Help yourself; you’ll find it on the sideboard in the next room.”
“Feel so cheap as all that? Buck up! Have one with me, and you’ll soon
feel spry again.”
Marian did not refuse.
“What are you doing to-night?” asked Mrs. Harding. “I’m dining out with
my old man, who’s just wired me he gets back this afternoon, or we could
have had a lark together somewhere.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“How’s your young man? George’s been away a long time. Wouldn’t he be
wild if he knew what a rollicking time the mouse has when the cat’s
away. It’s just like men; they expect us to be jolly when they want us,
and we jolly well have to be—but as for being jolly when they’re
away—oh, Lord, no, that’s shocking. My lord may carry on with as many
as he likes, but one woman one man. Thank goodness, they’re easily
bamboozled.”
Mrs. Harding did not remain for long. She did not care for dull company,
which Marian undoubtedly was this afternoon. She felt a trifle mean,
too. She did not know for what purpose Davis desired the information he
had asked her to obtain, but believed it to be for Maddison, and knew
that if such was the case, Marian’s next meeting with him would not be
pleasant.
Marian did not go out that day or the next, spending her time reading
and dozing over the fire. She hoped to hear from West, but no message of
any sort came from him.
On the third day, she dressed early in the afternoon, and went in the
omnibus down to Regent Street. As she stepped on to the pavement at
Oxford Circus, she knocked against a man who was passing. He did not
notice her, but she recognized West, and with him the woman she had seen
at the Gaiety. They were evidently absorbed in one another, so much so
that he did not apologize to Marian for an accident which was more than
half his fault. Her first impulse was to walk up to him and speak to
him. Then a sickening sense of the difference between the other woman
and herself stopped her; they could not be rivals. She had set her wares
before West, and if he did not wish to buy them, she could not force him
to do so.
She went slowly on past the shops, to look into the windows of which was
usually a pleasure to her, but now she saw nothing except a vague throng
going to and fro; she heard vaguely the roar of the traffic; she was
looking vaguely straight ahead at her future, and listening to its call.
This was then the end of her ambitions? Well, after all, did it matter
so much to her? There were other joys in life, and while she retained
her beauty, she need not want for luxury and ease. The future called to
her and her vicious blood soon answered almost gladly, almost eagerly;
she had sipped already at the cup of unruly pleasures, she would drink
deep of it now. The thought of reckless, unrestrained, unlicensed
enjoyment intoxicated her. As she passed a painted, over-dressed
Frenchwoman, she thanked God that she was not such as that one. Not such
to look at; but the very relics of decency in her seemed to drive her on
to acting like the lowest of them all. As for Maddison—she would write
and tell him she was tired of him. He would probably make a scene, but
that would not hurt her, and then she would be free.
She turned up a side street and went into a public-house to which Mrs.
Harding had once taken her late at night and which had then been crowded
with men and women. The saloon bar, with its pretentious decorations,
was empty and looked seedy and shabby by the light of day. She ordered a
liqueur of brandy and sipped it slowly, listening the while to a heated
controversy between two cabmen in the next compartment. As she went out
of the heavy swing doors, a man passed quickly by; he looked at her
surprised—she recognized Mortimer. She watched him as he walked on and
round the corner into Regent Street, and then followed in the same
direction, but did not catch sight of him again.
She was utterly at a loss what to do to while away the afternoon. Later
on she intended to dine and then go to a music-hall. Meanwhile, the
hours would hang heavy on her hands. The spirit she had drunk, too
strong and none too pure, filled her with spurious energy that a sharp
walk soon dispelled, leaving behind a feeling half of nausea, half of
faintness. She laughed as she remembered Mrs. Harding’s invariable
remedy on similar occasions, and went into another public-house, but
this time did not drink the brandy neat. A man was leaning over the bar
talking familiarly with the barmaid, and he turned to look inquisitively
at Marian. When she raised her glass to drink he did the same, looking
at her insolently, and followed her when she left the place.
“Well, my dear, where are you off to?” he asked, slipping his hand
through her arm. “If you’ve nothing better to do—and what could be
better?—take me to tea at your place. Here’s a hansom; let’s jump in.”
For a moment she hesitated. Then, with a laugh and look, stepped with
him into the cab.