CHAPTER XIV
Probably Maddison alone knew that Mortimer was not the empty-hearted cynic that he wished the world to believe him to be. Mortimer’s terrible handicap was that his character was for the most part a compound of tender-heartedness and shyness. A jeer, a jest at his expense, a snub, a misunderstanding, a rebuff of proffered sympathy cut him to the quick, and he had gradually schooled himself into presenting to his friends, even to those with whom he was intimate, an exterior of callous carelessness, not realizing that while by so doing he would save himself from much pain, he would inevitably also deprive himself of some of the highest joys a man can experience. A true-hearted woman’s love would have rescued him from his error, but the woman he had loved had sold herself to a Jew for diamonds and a house in Park Lane. Living so self-centered as he did, or rather so self-contained, Mortimer’s friends were few, while his acquaintances were innumerable. The one he knew best was George Maddison, to whom he was attached, and attached not so much because he found in him any true comradeship, but because he felt for him a certain pity. He knew how much there was of splendor in Maddison’s nature and he knew equally well how much there was of weakness. He looked upon him as a fair-weather sailor, a man who delighted to rove over sunlit, peaceful seas, who loved to listen to the voices of the sirens and who, if caught by Circe’s enchantments, might sink down among the beasts. Indeed, he counted him very much as a brilliant, passionate, wayward child. So far Maddison had met with no storms, the wind had always been fair, the sun unclouded, the sirens more attracted by him than he by them, but this attachment, this passion for Marian, frightened Mortimer. An absorbing love for a good woman might have been Maddison’s salvation, but Marian was utterly bad in his estimation, and he could not perceive ahead anything save misery. That Marian would not rest content with Maddison’s love and protection he was assured; already she might be playing false to him; when Maddison discovered—as discover one day he must—that he had adored and sacrificed himself to a false goddess, what would be the outcome? If Maddison had been strong, the stinging lesson might prove a purifying trial; but—Maddison being weak in all save his art and his passion, what could possibly be the upshot but tragedy? The greater the hold she gained upon him the greater the disaster. It delighted Mortimer that Maddison had left town; at any rate he would not constantly be under Marian’s spell; he might find that Marian was not, as he thought, entirely necessary to his happiness; absence might enable him to see in her faults to which the unbroken charm of her presence blinded him; he might gradually shake himself free, gradually waken from dreams of heaven to the realities of common sense. This was only a hope, however, and Mortimer felt impelled to do anything that in him lay to enable Maddison to regain his freedom. Things were bad, and the lapse of time might, of course, make them worse instead of better. Cruel as would be the cure, the best and surest way to liberate Maddison would be to open his eyes to Marian’s real character. For her Mortimer had no sympathy or pity; she was merely one more of those mortal pests born to kill men, body, heart and soul. Maddison was worth saving from her poisonous influence. It was not as a prude that Mortimer judged the matter. He enjoyed to the full the pleasures of the world and of the flesh, but Marian was a devouring devil. “Religion must have been invented by women,” he once said, “for the devil is always represented as a man.”
The single point was this: Maddison firmly believed that Marian loved him; that belief must be shattered; he must be shown, with proof and above doubt, that Marian loved herself only and cared for Maddison simply because he had enabled her to shake herself free from her husband, and had provided her with money and pleasure. Marian so far had been very guarded in her conduct, but Mortimer judged that there were two temptations, to one of which she would succumb, if not to both: a love of power, and a quickly growing, and in the end probably overwhelming, desire for gross pleasures. She was now alone; probably eagerly searching for temptation. The matter was simple; she must be watched.
So the day of Maddison’s leaving for Brighton, Mortimer went to see his solicitor, who could probably, he thought, tell him to whom it would be best to apply for the work he wished done.
“You want some one watched, carefully and discreetly. Man or woman?” asked the placid, well-groomed man of law, who looked more of a prosperous city merchant than an astute, busy lawyer.
“Does that make any difference?” asked Mortimer.
“A great deal. Set a thief to catch a thief—a man to catch a man—a woman to catch a woman.”
“Well, it’s a woman.”
“H’m,” said the lawyer, meditatively looking at his client. “What kind of woman? You mustn’t mind my asking all these questions. I can’t help you if I don’t know something of the circumstances.”
“The fact is,” said Mortimer, “I’m interfering in a business that has nothing to do with me. A friend of mine is entangled with a woman whom he believes to be sincerely fond of him. I believe her to be a thoroughly reckless, bad woman. I want to know.”