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.

But he understood now that a change had come over him; between him and nature had come one woman.

The weather was cold, with days of biting, searching east wind; he could not saunter about the countryside, but would stride along at a great pace. What was it that had come into the foreground of every picture upon which his eyes rested? It seemed to him as if he were never alone now—Marian was always with him, persistently whispering in his ear: “You love me—you love me!” She had taken entire and sole possession of him; round her centered his every desire, every hope, every ambition.

One bright morning he stood at the edge of the cliff, some little distance from the village, the gentle murmur of a calm sea far below, and in his ears that weird muttering of vagrant winds which comes before the breaking of a tempest. He stood looking down on the rocks and shingle far below, thinking of Marian, counting the number of hours that remained to pass before her approaching visit, for it had been arranged that she should come down soon for a few days. Suddenly the thought came into his mind of the horror of her standing there beside him, of her being giddy, of her reeling, and clutching at his arm, missing her hold, falling down—down—a shapeless mass on the stones below. The horror of it sickened him.

Why had this woman come into his life? She had given him a supreme joy, the like of which he had never even dreamed of before; but might not that joy be too dearly purchased with the price of the contingent agony her love might bring him?

One evening he went down the village street, down through the gap to the edge of the sea, where the tumbling waves were bursting with sullen roar and crash upon the shingle. The storm that had raged all the day and the previous night was dying away, slowly, as if reluctant; the wind blew in fitful gusts; the clouds scurried across the moon, which shot down intermittent beams upon the tossing waters. His life, he thought, had hitherto been calm; but now a tempest raged within him, rising in strength day by day, hour by hour, so that there was but one thing in his being—love of Marian, that first, that last, that all in all. Away from the thought of her and his passion for her he could never tear himself; it was always with him. When he painted, there was her face before him, dim but insistent. Something of her features seemed to creep even into the portrait he was painting of Agatha West. When he read, the words conveyed no thought, no sense to his mind; he was thinking of her, wondering where she was and what she was doing, with whom if not alone. She possessed him, heart, soul and body; he was all hers.

More than once a frenzy of jealousy had attacked him: did she truly love him? Or was she just play-acting, fooling him, deceiving him, betraying him, laughing at him and his blind love? The impulse came on him strongly to go up to town, without warning her, and to watch—watch, unseen. But he dared not; in such a case, he thought, ignorance would be bliss compared with knowledge.

At last dawned the wished-for day on which Marian was to come. He had lain tossing awake all the night. Hours yet remained to be gotten through somehow before he could set out to walk to the station. After breakfast at nine, he set about tidying the studio, filling the vases with flowers, and setting “The Rebel” in a place of honor by the window. Then in the sitting room he cleared up the litter of pipes and books, and helped to decorate the table for luncheon.

At length he felt that he could linger no longer indoors, and started out to walk slowly along the cliffs toward Brighton. There was no stir in the air, the sea lay placid, the sun shone down as if with a promise of spring. He went slowly along, his heart light as a lad’s when going out to meet his first mistress. He knew how it would throb when he caught sight of her face. Would hers do so likewise? He knew how words would fail him, and how he would stammer out some stupid commonplace. Would it be so with her? He knew how anxiously he would await the train’s arrival, how eagerly he would scan the alighting passengers, seeking her. Would it be the same with her? Would she look on with indifference at one and another until her eyes met his? Then—would hers light up with the fire of love?

He reached the station half an hour before the train was due, and paced impatiently up and down through the throng, cursing the clock, the hands of which seemed to stand still. The train at last came in; out of one of the first compartments stepped Philip West, who caught hold of Maddison as he rushed by.

“All right, old chap, don’t be in such a hurry. I’ve had a fellow-passenger, who knows you and wants to speak to you.”

Maddison checked himself impatiently, yet afraid to show his anger at the interruption. He shook West’s out-held hand; and then looked, and there was Marian.

“I met Mrs. Squire at Victoria, and took charge of her as she was all alone. I got her heaps of magazines and papers, and books, and—she did nothing but—talk all the way down. I never knew before how near Brighton is to London.”

Marian laughed merrily, returning the close pressure of Maddison’s eager hand. How deliciously pretty she looked, he thought; how wildly aggravating that West should be there.

“Now I’m off; I’ve no luggage to worry about,” said West. “Good-by, Mrs. Squire, and thank you for a very pleasant journey. Good-by, Maddison, see you soon.”

West strode off through the bustling crowd. Then everything vanished for Maddison save Marian.

“My dear, my dear,” he said, taking her hand in his again. “My dear——”

The tears started into his eyes as he strove in vain to speak.

“My dear old boy! It’s jolly to be together again, isn’t it? Come along. Take me out of this. We can’t talk here.”

Soon they were driving along through the brisk air, he seated opposite her so that he might see her the better.

“It was luck meeting Mr. West, wasn’t it? He’d been up for the night, and it was much nicer than traveling alone.”

“Bother West,” said Maddison. “He’s nothing. What about yourself? Tell me all about yourself.”

“All? All? Where shall I begin. From the moment you went off?”

“Till this minute! A few days ago! It seems years to me. It was all I could do to keep from rushing up to town to see you.”

“You know I missed you dreadfully,” she said, leaning forward and resting her hand on his knee. “It was just as bad for me as for you. But now we’re together, don’t let’s worry about what has been; I’ve come down to be happy, dear, to be happy.”

“Look here. We shall be out of the town soon. If you’re not tired, let’s get out and walk along the cliff. The fly can take the traps along. Shall we?”

“It’d be jolly. I’ve been sitting all the morning. What a lovely day! it was foggy and horrid in town.”

So intense was Maddison’s happiness that he was content to be silent, as he walked along by her side, as was she, for she went in fear of letting him see that her pleasure at the meeting was not so great as his. Moreover, the journey with West had given her food for thought, and the knowledge that he was staying at Brighton had altered altogether the plans she had made. A day or two alone with Maddison was all that she felt she could endure, but with West near by it might be foolish to return to town so soon.

Suddenly Maddison stopped and took her eagerly by the hands; stood close to her, looking down into her eyes.

“I wonder if you know what this meeting means to me, Marian? I thought I knew how much you are to me, but I didn’t—not till I came down here and was without you. You’re all the world to me, Marian, just all the world. There’s nothing else in the world for me but you. Are you glad? Very glad——?”

“Very glad!” she answered softly.

“I used to laugh at men who went mad after a woman; but I’m mad for you, Marian; crazy as can be! And you—I wonder, have you suffered as much as I have done? I hope not for your sake, but I’m selfish, and really hope that you have. Have you?”

“How can I tell, dear? I know—I missed you very much, ever so much. But, oh, why, George, worry about that? Isn’t the present good enough to make us forget all about it?”

“You’re right! By Jove, you’re right. Let’s get on—I want to have you all alone—in my arms, and to hold you so tight that you can never slip away again.”

“That’s all right!” she answered, laughing, “but I’m not a man with seven-leagued legs, so unless you want to get there before me, don’t rush along like that!”

He slackened his speed, and they went along, he thinking of her, and stealing look after look at her. She was wondering if she would have the skill and the strength to play her game so that he should not discover that what was so earnest to him to her was only make-believe. She consoled herself with the thought that perhaps did he love her less his penetration would be more keen and that the very excess of his ardor would make him blind. Nevertheless, there was great need for care upon her part, which would indeed have been unendurable to her had she not known that the visit was to be brief and that in a few days’ time she would be back in town, free. She was consoled, too, by the remembrance that West had asked permission to call upon her.

When they reached the cottage Mrs. Witchout stood in the doorway, anxiety writ large upon her wrinkled face and her nose more than usually rubicund.

“Good mornin’, ma’am,” she said. “I was beginnin’ to worrit about the food. Cookin’s cookin’, I always says, and doin’ things to rags is ’nother thing. But you’re justin time, which is more than Mr. Maddison usually is.”

“Mrs. Witchout keeps me in grand order, Marian, and if you want anything while you’re here, don’t ask me for it—I’m not boss of the show.”

“That’s the way he always runs on; don’t take anynoticeofhim, I don’t. Would you like to go up to your room? It’s upstairs—if youcancall these stepladdery things stairs. This way, m’m.”

Mrs. Witchout led the way upstairs, Maddison holding Marian back a minute to whisper to her:

“By the way, you’re my sister! I’ve had a bed made up in the studio for myself. Don’t give the show away.”

Marian laughed as she ran up, and Maddison turned into the living room. Everything was ready, the table neat, cozy and pretty, a covered dish and the plates warming by the fire, which blazed up cheerily; the lattice windows were thrown wide open and the sun streamed in warmly.

“You don’t look much alike,” said Mrs. Witchout, coming in. “If you takes arter your father she must take arter her mother, and a ’andsome couple they must ’ave been, I’m thinkin’.”

“Don’t try to flatter me, Mrs. Witchout,” Maddison answered, with a laugh, as he sat down on the window seat, watching her picking up the dish with the assistance of her apron. “It’s no use your coming over me and you mustn’t spoil her with compliments, though the biggest would have been to have told her that she is nearly as good-looking as I am.”

“Lawks!” was Mrs. Witchout’s comment.

“What a jolly little room!” exclaimed Marian, pausing in the doorway and looking round. “And what flowers! And the windows, wide open, just as if it was springtime. It feels like it.”

“Yes—and termorrer you’ll have east winds and wet to bring out yer rheumattics, leastways my rheumattics, beggin’ pardon.”

“Come along; I’m sure you’re hungry, Marian, everybody always is here. And Mrs. Witchout, you just be off! We’ll look after ourselves and won’t make your life a burden to you.”

“I’ll go when I’m ready, Mr. Maddison, not afore.”

“There, Marian, what did I tell you? You see what you can do.”

“Don’t show him up my first day here, Mrs. Witchout; let him have his way, for once!”

“For once! They always do say it’s your own fam’ly who knows least about yer! For once! He always do ’ave it.”

So saying, Mrs. Witchout hustled from the room with a pretense of anger that was transparent.

“At last!”

Maddison strode across the room, laid his hands on Marian’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length while he gazed at her. Then he drew her close to him, feverishly kissing her again and again, kissing her lips, her hair, her eyes.

“Haven’t you a kiss for me, Marian?”

Their lips met, and his heart beat as though it would burst.

“Oh, Marian, Marian, we must never part again!”

For the moment his passion overcame her, and she lay close in his arms, panting, forgetful.