THOUGH the days were lengthening out toward the spring, there were many
hours during each when the light was not clean and clear enough for
painting; these Maddison found unspeakably dreary. He was greatly
tempted often either to call Marian back to him or to run up to town to
see her, but he did not give way to the impulse, for he had determined
to test this plan of hers to the bitter end. He did not much believe
that she was right and that separation would enable him to do better
with his work. Rather to the opposite opinion he inclined, that constant
companionship would make them become one, all in all to each other, so
that no longer would her presence disturb him, but on the contrary would
inspire and spur him on to greater things than he had ever achieved
before.
The new picture, a view of the downs and the gray sea beyond, progressed
apace, but he was not satisfied with it. There was no defect in it that
he could name or which he felt he could amend, but there was something
lacking. The outward semblance was right; it was the inward spiritual
grace that was lacking. Probably no other than himself would notice it,
yet it hurt him. He felt as if some power had gone out of him, and that
he painted no longer with gusto or firm, imperative inspiration. His
skill had not deserted him, the coloring and the drawing satisfied his
exacting taste and his intimate knowledge of nature. But it was only the
outside of nature that he had caught and fixed; the heart of her was not
there, as it had been in the pictures that had brought him name and
fame. This was a dead thing—there was no life in it.
He could not understand why his love for Marian should have affected him
in this way or to so great an extent. Why should the absorption in her
of all his hopes in any degree depreciate his insight into and love of
nature? Surely a man might serve a woman and nature too? But though he
could not trace its working or even fix in what it lay, he knew that
some change had come over him, and that since he and Marian had been
together he was a different man. This love that he had fully counted on
to elevate and ennoble him, seemed to restrain him from reaching to that
which had before been easily within his grasp.
Perhaps, he sometimes thought, it was that he was not altogether free
from anxiety concerning her. To her this separation had not appeared to
be so miserable a thing as it was to him. She had suggested it, had
argued for it, had not admitted any of the drawbacks which he had seen
in it, and had absolutely refused to be shaken from her determination.
On the other hand, she might have felt it as deeply and as keenly as he
had done, while for his sake and to make it bearable for him, she had
just put on a brave face, smiling when tears would easily have come. If
this were so, how brave she had been and how cowardly he.
This thought had come to him one morning when he had found work
difficult, and was about to leave it for the day. It invigorated him; he
would not be outdone by her, or he would ever have to reproach himself
for not having faithfully abided by his word to work with all his might.
Work! Yes, not for himself, but for her. If that did not drive him on,
if that failed to inspire him, he was weak indeed.
Again and again, however, fears and doubts assailed him. He would wake
suddenly in the night, aroused by no apparent cause, and would start
thinking about her, wondering if she were well and happy. At first he
had written to her almost daily, until she had forbidden him to do so
any longer, urging that it was nearly, if not quite as harmful for him
to do this as to have her chattering and laughing by his side. Her
letters to him had grown more and more infrequent, shorter and shorter;
mere little messages now, that stimulated a hunger they did not do
anything to satisfy.
A curious change had come over his imaginings. In the early days after
her going away he had found no difficulty in conjuring up her face
before his mind’s eye. Gradually the image had grown vaguer and more
vague until at last, if he would think of her as she was, he had to look
at “The Rebel.” What memories the picture called back to him! The
meeting with her that foggy afternoon in Bond Street; years ago it
seemed, but in reality only a few brief months; the afternoon he had
first gone down to visit her at Kennington; the thought that he had then
that she was deliciously beautiful, and that he would love to have her
for his playmate; the birth of a better feeling, the growth of his deep
love for her; the finding her alone and lonely in that stuffy Bloomsbury
hotel; the long days and nights of delight that they had passed together
since. Again and again he reproached himself for little attentions that
he had failed to pay her, and for the few bitter words that he had
spoken to her once in a moment of irritation. He was so utterly unworthy
of her that in good truth he should have done for her all the little
that was in his power. He had kept her apart from his friends selfishly,
with the result that she must be very lonely now. He had written to
Mortimer asking him to do anything he could to relieve the monotony of
her existence. What a dear woman she was, he thought over and over
again, to put up with all the troubles and worries he had brought upon
her—all for love of him.
So whenever any slightest shadow of doubt of her entered his mind, he
gave it no resting-place there, but chased it away as an insult and a
deep wrong to the woman who had intrusted her life’s happiness to his
poor keeping.
As the picture drew near completion he worked every minute that the sun
gave to him, for when it was finished he would be free to go to her. It
was his letter telling her that but a few more days, a week at most,
kept them apart, which she had tossed aside unopened and had afterward
thrown upon the fire unread.
He had been painting patiently all one morning, almost angrily sometimes
because he could not exactly translate his thought to the canvas, when
he was surprised by a knock at the door of the cottage. Mrs. Witchout
had not yet returned from her morning’s marketing, so he went to the
door himself, expecting to find some casual visitor from Brighton who
had heard of his being down here. He was astonished to see Mortimer.
“My dear Fred, is it you or your ghost?”
“I don’t suppose any ghost ever had such a thirst on him as I have; show
me the way to the pump; I could drink buckets even of water.”
“Oh, we’re not so primitive as that—but, rot! you’ve been here before.
Come along, there’s whisky and a siphon in the locker here. Drink, smoke
and chat while I paint, only don’t mind if I don’t hear a word you say.
I’m at a ticklish point. How are you and what brings you down? Spread
your answer out as long as you can, so that I needn’t say anything for
at least five minutes.”
“I’m well. Came down because there was a rush of work in the office and
I was afraid I might be in the way,” Mortimer answered, with a chuckle.
He then lighted a cigarette, sat down on the window seat and looked
aimlessly out over the broad down. The sun was shining brightly, a lark
was singing somewhere high up in the blue, through the open window
drifted the keen, fresh air, full of the salt fragrance of the sea; the
world looked young down here to the eye of the Londoner. Then,
stealthily, he watched Maddison. At first he saw no change in him: he
appeared well and hearty; but later he noticed a tired, nervous look
about the eyes, and that every now and then he bit his lip as if
impatient at some difficulty he could not immediately overcome. He had
often before watched him at work and had always wondered at the vigorous
joy Maddison found in his labor.
“May I look?” he asked.
“Yes, I don’t mind your looking; you don’t imagine you really know
anything about pictures and so you don’t chatter bosh and think it
criticism.”
Mortimer stood in front of the easel, looking keenly at the picture—a
great stretch of the downs and the gray sea beyond, overhead a splendid
tumult of rain cloud.
“Well, say something, however idiotic!” exclaimed Maddison, after
impatiently waiting for Mortimer to speak.
“My dear boy, what’s up? Have I interrupted you at an awkward moment?
Why didn’t you tell me?” said Mortimer, turning quickly, surprised at
the tone in which Maddison had spoken.
“No, no, of course not.”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard you speak as if you were put out about
something. Nothing’s wrong?”
“No, no!” Maddison answered, laying his hand heartily on Mortimer’s
shoulder, “not a bit. But—what do you think of it?”
“And this is the first time you’ve ever _asked_ my humble opinion. I
like it.”
“That sounds rather dubious. Speak out—you mean you don’t like it.”
Mortimer looked again at the picture hesitatingly.
“You _don’t_ like it,” said Maddison again.
“Yes, I like it. But there’s something wanting; it doesn’t seem to me
quite you. It’s the only picture of yours I’ve ever seen that somebody
else might have painted.”
Maddison turned sharply away and strode over to the window.
“Oh, rot, old chap, you mustn’t mind what I say,” protested Mortimer.
“You hinted just now that what I don’t know about pictures would set up
half a dozen critics, and here you are getting the hump over my
nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense. You’ve seen straight off what I’ve been trying not
to see. You’re right, damnably right. It’s as dead as can be—not a
touch of life or light in it.”
He threw down his palette and brushes impatiently, crossed once again to
Mortimer and stood behind him, gazing gloomily over his shoulder.
“The critics will probably say I’ve eclipsed myself, all except Tasker,
who will say that, but mean total eclipse. But so long as it sells well,
what does it matter?”
“Look here, Maddison,” said Mortimer, sharply, “there _is_ something
wrong, or you couldn’t speak like that. This hermitizing down here don’t
suit you. Lock up the shop for to-day at any rate, and come into
Brighton for a blow off. Now, I know you’re going to say ‘no,’ but I say
‘yes,’ and if you’ll give me a shake-down I’ll bring my traps over to
stay the night here.”
Maddison hesitated a moment, then consented.
They drove back after dinner at the Metropole, where Mortimer had
intended to stop. The night was bitterly cold, and the huge fire which
Mrs. Witchout had made up in the studio was grateful.
“Now, I want to have a real yarn with you, George,” Mortimer said, as he
stretched his cold hands toward the warmth. “I told you a tarradiddle
this morning—I came down simply because I’ve something I want to talk
to you about.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Marian, is there?” Maddison asked, leaning
forward eagerly and speaking anxiously. “It’s not _that_?”
“She was quite well when I last saw her.”
Maddison sighed with relief and sat back again in his chair, puffing
steadily at his pipe.
“But tell me first,” Mortimer continued after a pause, “what’s wrong
with you? I know there is something; I saw it in your face this morning,
and though you’ve been as jolly as jolly all day, you’ve not been quite
your real self. What is it?”
“So I look different, and seem different, and my picture’s not mine.
There’s nothing wrong, Fred, nothing that I can lay a name to, but
you’re right. I’m changed. It’s this beastly separation from Marian that
doesn’t agree with me. I’ll come up to town with you to-morrow and fetch
her down here, or settle into the old place again.”
“You’re very fond of her,” Mortimer said meditatively, staring at the
blazing coals. “I was in love once, and I know what it means, old chap.”
“I never knew that——?”
“You’re the only one beside myself that does. She wasn’t for me. I’ve
told you this because I’ve something—very difficult to tell you, and I
want you to understand that—I understand.”
“It _is_ something wrong with Marian then?” Maddison exclaimed, starting
to his feet.
“Sit down, George, sit down. I’ll walk about in the dark while I tell
you; that’s why I asked you not to light the lamps. Sit down, and hold
on tight, grit your teeth, George; I’m going to hurt you.”
Mortimer paced slowly up and down, while Maddison sat down again, awed
into obedience.
“I’m going to hurt you, George; I needn’t tell you that I’d give a lot
not to have to do it. But you’d better hear it from me than find it out
for yourself.”
“Quick, quick, don’t beat about the bush. What is it?”
“It _is_ about Mrs. Squire. I knew it was no good talking to you until I
had facts to tell you. She’s—she’s—my God, it’s hard to tell
you!—she’s utterly worthless. She’s——”
“Don’t say another word, or I’ll kill you, on my soul I will!” Maddison
shrieked, leaping up, his eyes blazing with anger, his hands clenched.
“I must, I _must_,” said Mortimer, standing quietly before him, “and you
must hear me. It’s not suspicions, it’s facts. More than one man has
been with her while you’ve been down here. I suspected it; I had her
watched and there’s no room for doubt. I think you know
Geraldstein—he’s been with her; another man was with her only the other
night. I saw her myself come out of a disreputable public-house with a
man and drive off with him. It was sheer accident I saw her; I didn’t
follow—I knew enough already. I’m putting it brutally: there’s no good
mincing matters. If she was merely your mistress I wouldn’t have
worried, but——”
Maddison turned away, leaning against the mantelshelf, his face buried
in his arms; Mortimer went up to him.
“George, old man——”
“Don’t—don’t touch me! Leave me alone for a bit.”
Mortimer sat down. Not a sound broke the silence except the loud ticking
of the clock. It seemed to him hours and hours, though it was barely
more than a minute, before Maddison spoke.
“What a fool I am, and what a beast,” he said, turning fiercely, “to
believe a word of what you’ve said. It’s all some mad mistake. It can’t
be true.”
“Do you think I’d have told you if I weren’t absolutely certain?”
“You don’t know her as I do. She couldn’t. She loves me. Now look here,
I won’t hear another word, and to-morrow I’ll go to her. I’ll never
leave her again, open to such filthy suspicions. You know your room.
I’ll stop here. Good night.”
“Here are the reports from the agent,” said Mortimer, ignoring
Maddison’s anger and holding out a bundle of papers. Maddison snatched
them from him and flung them into the fire.
“Do you want me to murder you? Can’t you leave me? For God’s sake, leave
me.”
Mortimer realized that it would not avail anything to press matters at
that moment, so without another word he went out of the room.