“No, thanks, I couldn’t!” Marian answered, laughing apologetically.
“Couldn’t? Well, I used to say that once upon a time,” Mrs. Harding replied; then stretching out her shapely, strong arms and yawning desperately: “That’s the worst of taking a bit too much; one feels dead beat, but can’t sleep a twopenny wink; and you dream and toss about, and your mouth and tongue get so dry that they feel as if they were cracking all over. But the first drop in the morning pulls one together a bit. It makes a lot of difference what’s the lotion. Never get squiffy on phiz, my dear, it’s poison. Stick to brandy, it doesn’t hang about so much. So Master George is off to the country and you’ve got a holiday! What are you going to do with it?”
“That’s just what I don’t know. I’m running down to Brighton in a few days, but I don’t want to go to sleep till then. I came up to see if you could suggest anything. Are you free to-night? Couldn’t we go somewhere together?”
“Lots of places if you have any coppers. I’m cleaned out. My old man’s away, I’ve spent all he left me, so I’ll hunt for rhino while you hunt for fun; sometimes you can manage to haul in both, but it’s generally the stupid beasts who have the cash. Never mind, we’ll trust to luck, and if none turns up you shall liquidate the bill. Now I’m going to turn you out; just pull the curtains to, like a dear, and I’ll indulge in some more beauty sleep. I’ll look you up about tea-time, and we can talk over the plan of campaign. Ta-ta!”
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.