Acacia Grove, Kennington, was once upon a time, and not so many years ago, the home of snug citizens, who loved to dwell on the borderland of town and country. It is a wide road of two-storied houses, all alike: three windows to the top floor; on the ground floor, two windows and a hall door, painted green and approached by three steep steps; a front garden, generally laid out in gravel with a circular bed of sooty shrubs in the center and a narrow border of straggling flowers along each side, spike-headed railings separating the garden from the pavement. Few of the gates are there that do not creak shrilly, calling aloud for oil. In one of these houses, distinguished only from its neighbors by its number, lodged the Reverend Edward Squire, occupying the front “parlor,” a small den at the back of the same, and the front bedroom and dressing room on the upper floor. The furniture throughout was plain, inoffensive, somber, entirely unhomelike; faded green curtains with yellow fringe hung at the parlor windows, by one of which Marian sat in the gloaming two days after her meeting with Maddison. The fire shed a flickering light over the room and on the weary face of her husband, who lay back asleep in a heavy horsehair armchair. She glanced at him now and then, each time comparing his commonplace features with those of George Maddison, her meeting with whom had stirred tumult in her already mutinous blood.

Rousing himself at length, Squire looked at his watch.

“Half-past four! I must be off, Marian. Don’t you find it dismal sitting there in the dark?”

“You can dream in the dark.”

“Dream?” he said, standing up and stretching his lanky limbs, stamping his heavy feet as though cold. “Don’t you dream too much, dear? I wish parish work had more interest for you; there is so much to do, and——”

“I don’t do much!” she broke in sharply.

“I wasn’t going to say that. Wouldn’t it make life brighter for you if you spent more time in brightening it for others? However, I mustn’t stop to talk now. There’s a meeting of the Boot Club at a quarter to five, and several things after that. I can’t get back till about half-past six: will that be too late for tea?”

He stood beside her, feeling clumsily helpless to express his sympathy with her evident discontent, and unable to help her.

“No, I don’t mind what time,” she answered, turning her back toward him, and looking out at the dreary prospect of leafless trees and dim gas lamps.

He stooped to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

“Don’t be silly, Edward; everyone can see into the room. If you don’t go, you’ll be late.”

With a sigh he turned away and went out.

For months past hatred of her home life had been growing in her, and it had been intensified, brought to fever heat, by her meeting with Maddison. His prosperity had emphasized the dunness of her own career. Why had he ever made love to her, giving her a glimpse of brightness, and then left her to be driven by circumstances to accept her husband’s dogged love, to accept this life of struggle, to accept this daily round of distasteful tasks and hateful duties? In the country days she had accepted without energy to protest against the routine work of a clergyman’s daughter; but here in London, her blood had caught afire, the devil of revolt was astir, her whole heart and soul rebelled against the wasting of her youth and beauty. In the old home there had been none with whom to compare herself; but in town hundreds of women, with smaller gifts of body and mind than her own, led a full and joyous life. She raged to think that she should bloom and fade, never knowing the glory of living.

She rose slowly, let the heavy venetian blind run down with a crash, drew the curtains close, and lit the gas. She stood before the glass over the mantelpiece, looking at her reflection. Then with growing disgust she turned and glanced round the meager room. In a basket was a pile of accumulated mending waiting for her; on the small writing table—above which hung a crucifix—several account books, which would have to be made up this evening. She stood there, tall, fair, throbbing with rebellion, longing to escape. Again the question that she had so often asked herself during the last two days came to her: was it possible that George Maddison would offer to free her? He had nearly, if not quite, loved her once; were there any means by which she could lure him to her again?

A sharp knock at the house door startled but did not interest her, the caller doubtless being for Edward, and his visitors did not amuse her. Her conjecture was wrong. The neat little maid servant, who feared her master and adored his wife, opened the parlor door, stammering out—

“A gentleman wants to know if you’re at home, mum. He wants to see you, mum.”

“Are you sure he wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I do, if I may,” said Maddison, appearing in the doorway; “or are you not ‘at home’?”

“Of course I’m at home; we don’t indulge even in conventional fibs in Kennington. Do come in; I’m so glad to see you. I didn’t think you’d really come.”

“Why not?” he asked, shaking hands with her. “Could I resist such a persuasive description as you gave me? It was so alluring that I walked the whole way, and, upon my word, I declare you have done the neighborhood an injustice. I’ve been in worse.”

“Very likely it’s my fault.”

They sat at either side of the fire for some little while silent; he noting the room, and furtively examining her face as she stared into the fire. He could see the tears that hovered in the corners of her eyes.

“Your fault?” he said at length. “You look fagged; you want a change.”

“A change!” she exclaimed, laughing hardly.

She stood up, leaned her arm upon the mantelpiece, and looked down at him.

“A change! You don’t know the irony of what you’ve said, Mr. Maddison. A change! Do you realize that each day drags along just the same as the days before have been, and the days after will be? Never a shadow of a change! And so all the life is being crushed out of me. If I’d only known; but what’s the good of talking this way, and why on earth should I trouble you with my worries?”

She was a splendid rebel and Maddison’s pulse stirred with sympathy and attraction. She looked to him like some fine, wild animal, caged, eating out her heart for freedom.

“I almost wish I hadn’t met you the other day,” she continued. “I know that sounds rude; what I mean is, it’s bad enough to be here, but it makes it worse, ever so much worse, to realize what I’ve not got.”

“I wish I could help you,” he said.

She sat down again and again looked into the fire, which she stirred into a roaring blaze.

“It would have been better had I stopped on in the country; I was only half alive there. I just vegetated. Edward, my husband, had what he thought was a ‘call’ to come up and work among the poor in London, so he brought me here. I wonder do you know the kind of man he is?”

“I can guess.”

“He’s good, because he never has any temptation to be anything else. He’s content, and works, eats, drinks, sleeps; he tries to be kind and sympathetic, and—nearly drives me mad. Don’t you think it strange,” she asked, looking at him eagerly, “that I should be talking to you like this? I must—must talk to some one.”

“I’m glad you look on me as a friend. I wish I could help you.”

“You are helping me by letting me talk to you. I wonder do you understand a bit of what’s the matter? Can you understand? You’ve always been free, and could make your life for yourself. I’m strong, but I mayn’t even try to use my strength. I hate all this cant about women’s rights; every woman can have her rights if she only dares to take them. But we’re all bred up to be dependent cowards. Now, I suppose you’re shocked?”

“Why? I think I understand what you mean—what you feel. Does—your husband know?”

“He? He couldn’t understand! He would try to, and would advise me to go out and work here with him. I did do some work with him, but it only sickened me. And the people he works with! Gossiping, chattering, self-important humbugs. So now I sit all day with my hands in my lap and cry like a baby for a moon I could have if I dared take it. I’m young—and—what’s the use of not saying it?—pretty, and——”

She clenched her hands on the arms of her chair and set her teeth firmly. The fire shed a warm glow over the handsome, alluring face; he watched her with admiration. A picture ready to his hand. The dull, stupid room; the woman, splendidly rebellious. What was she going to make of her future?

“I’m going to ask you to help me!” he exclaimed. “Let me paint your portrait; not an ordinary portrait. The subject has been in my head for a long time, but I’ve never been able to grasp it until just a moment ago. I shall call it ‘The Rebel.’ Will you come up two or three times a week to my studio and sit for me?”

“Shall I?” she answered, looking doubtfully at him—“shall I? And then when it’s over, come back here—here!”

He had his thoughts and she had hers, but neither expressed them or guessed the other’s.

“It would only make me more angry with things,” she said; “no, you don’t understand me a bit. It must be all—or nothing. A sweet to-day and bread-and-butter every other day? No, no. Understand? It has been so bad with me that I stood on Westminster Bridge the other night after I left you, and looked at the water; I am such a coward that I came home to this.”

“So—you won’t help me to paint my picture?”

“I’ll think about it, and let you know. When shall I come?”

Maddison took out his engagement book and turned over the pages.

“You have to find time between one engagement and another,” she said, watching him; “I’m free every day.”

“To-day’s Tuesday; would Thursday, eleven, suit you? We could go and have lunch somewhere afterwards.”

“I can’t decide. Will you leave it open? I’ll just come, if I’m coming, and, if I don’t come, it will mean I’d rather you didn’t come here again.”

“I won’t worry about that. I’ll just hope you will come. Now, I must be going. Good-by, and—again—I wish I could help you.”

As Maddison drove home, he was in doubt as to what course he should pursue in this adventure so suddenly thrown his way. Marian greatly attracted him, both by her beauty and her brains, but he did not as yet feel disposed to face the scandal that must come if he took her away from her husband, should she care to come to him, and should he care to ask her. He felt certain that if he saw much more of her he would fall under her fascination, yet, weakly, he had given her this invitation rather than run the risk of not meeting her frequently, rather than have to meet her in the dismal surroundings of her home.

During the last few years he had drilled himself into not yielding to his every impulse. When he had first met her the desire bred in him by her country comeliness had almost led him into marrying her; its renewal urged him strongly to ask her to be his mistress. He believed that she would yield. What would be the outcome of such a course? She was evidently trembling on the brink of revolt, undecided whether or not to dare all. Should he tempt her? There could be no question as to her beauty, which was of a type that had always appealed to him. Tall, lithe, well-proportioned; elegant in face and figure—how lovely she would look daintily dressed! No mere animal, but a woman.

Between now and Thursday he must decide with regard to her.

Then the fear shot into his mind that perhaps she would not come.

When he had left the room, Marian sat down again by the fire, her face lit up by a smile of complete satisfaction.

She was not trembling on the brink of revolt. When she had met him that foggy afternoon she had been so, but only because she felt helpless. Now succor had come. She felt certain that she could win Maddison to her will, that she would be able to use him as the stepping-stone to the luxury and power for which she lusted. He had almost loved her in the old days, he nearly loved her now after these two brief meetings; at any rate he was sorry for her. She would tempt him and he would fall.

Again she looked at herself in the mirror; she was made to conquer. This man, and others, should be hers. She held the two most powerful of weapons, beauty and heartlessness, and would use both without scruple.

She laughed as she thought of her upbringing in the little country village, of her ever having believed that she could live content as a curate’s wife. Whence came this unruliness in her blood? She could understand the discontent with the physical conditions of her life, but her desires went far beyond that. It was not merely for love and luxury that she longed, but for power—power over the body and mind of men of power.

Maddison would not satisfy all her cravings; but he could take her away out into the world, and there she knew she could win.

She had in her the confidence of a conqueror.