The Pest 12

The Pest 12

CHAPTER IX

 

 

THE picture made good progress, Maddison working at it with his whole

heart. As her nature blossomed out before him, her joy in pleasure, he

realized clearly and more clearly how unbearable must have been her life

with Squire. His passion for her quickly settled down into an absorbing

love; his power and reason soon returned to him; he knew that he had

bought a beautiful and expensive toy; how long he could keep it, how

long he would care to keep it, he did not ask. Sufficient for the day

was the delight thereof.

 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked one morning, as she sat by the

studio fire while he painted.

 

“About you.”

 

“What about me?”

 

“I was thinking—I often think—that I am keeping you a great deal from

your friends. You’re with me almost every evening, and except when

you’ve a sitter I’m with you almost every day. I don’t want to be a tie,

a drag on you.”

 

“Don’t you know I’m happy that way?”

 

“Yes, George, I do. But it doesn’t do to try one’s happiness too hard.

 

“I won’t. Trust me. It’s partly accident that I’ve been nowhere lately,

partly my habit. People used to ask me everywhere, but gave it up when

they found I didn’t go anywhere. There are just a few houses always open

to me, and a few pals come along here whenever they choose. I used to

have jolly little informal suppers on Sundays last winter. We must start

them again. A few men and women——”

 

“But—” she interrupted, raising her eyebrows and expressing by a motion

of her hands that the women would consider her taboo.

 

“Oh, not that sort of woman, Marian. Good sorts, who believe that the

world was made for men and women, not men and women for the world. We’ll

send a line round to some of them: ‘Suppers begin again Sunday next.

Come whenever you don’t want to go anywhere else.’ Everything’s put on

the table and we wait on ourselves. Fred—Fred Mortimer—you’ll like

him—is a dandy man with the chafing-dish, and when he comes we indulge

in extravagant luxuries.”

 

“You’re quite sure about me?”

 

“Of course I am. Quite sure and quite proud. It’ll be awfully jolly

having a hostess. Hullo! I wonder who this can be—don’t move.”

 

The door opened and the servant announced Mr. Philip West.

 

“I beg your pardon——”

 

Marian rose.

 

“Mrs. Squire,” said Maddison, “let me introduce Mr. Philip West. Mrs.

Squire is helping me to paint a picture.”

 

“Helping!” she exclaimed. “I’m the fly on the wheel.”

 

West examined the picture and Marian critically.

 

“Have you a name for it?” he asked.

 

“Yes. ‘The Rebel.’”

 

“It’s good,” he said slowly, “very good; it’ll be the biggest thing

you’ve done. May I commission it? I’d like to have it”—he looked

straight at Marian as he spoke. “That reminds me why I came here this

morning. If you’ve time and inclination—I know what a particular cuss

you are—I should be glad if you’d paint my wife’s portrait. I should

think she might suit you. You remember her?”

 

“I am a particular cuss,” Maddison answered, smiling grimly at the

remembrance of various commissions rejected. “Have you said anything to

Mrs. West?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then don’t, till I know whether I can paint her or not.”

 

“Too late, coward, too late. She suggested it herself, and sent me here

to bear her—commands. You and she may settle it as you like. She’s

lunching at the Carlton with me—I wanted you to come, if you’re not

engaged.”

 

“Engaged, no; but I’m in the mood for work. Are you dining in town?”

 

“We weren’t, but we will, if you’ll join us. I know there’s no

persuading you to leave your work when you begin to talk about moods.

Settled—dinner then?”

 

“Yes, when? Where?”

 

“The Carlton will do. Eight. Good-by. Good-by, Mrs. Squire. I used to

know a parson of that name down in Kennington—an enthusiast——”

 

“My husband.”

 

“Really? Lucky man. Good-by.”

 

Maddison went with him to the front door, and when he returned found

Marian standing before the canvas.

 

“Yes! I’m a rebel!” she exclaimed. “My husband! Do you know, George, I’d

clean forgotten all about him; absolutely. All that life is just like a

dream, and I’m awake now. Even when you called me Mrs. Squire it did not

recall him to me. Yes, I’m a rebel! But they don’t call you rebels, do

they, when you’ve revolted successfully? Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

 

He slipped his arm round her waist as he answered——

 

“I didn’t like rushing off from you, so I told an artistic lie. I don’t

want to go to the dinner, but West’s a goodish fellow, and was wise

enough to buy my pictures when no one else would. So I’m a bit in his

debt.”

 

“Who is he?”

 

“He is _the_ West. ‘If you want to get the best—go West,’ you know.”

 

“Oh, West’s Stores. He’s a millionaire, isn’t he?”

 

“Awfully, horribly, disgustingly rich. But he doesn’t do as much harm

with his money as most rich men. He hasn’t bought pictures wholesale, or

built a gimcrack mansion in Park Lane. He gave tons of money once to a

royal hobby and then refused a knighthood. When I congratulated him, he

laughed and said it was good advertising. I believe he dabbles in

politics; he’s a socialist—only rich men can afford to be—and talks

about running the Empire on business lines. It’ll take a greater man

than even he to make politicians capable of any business transaction,

except buying votes with promissory notes. Chiefly notes blown on their

own trumpets.”

 

“There must be something fascinating about politics. I should love to

rule men!”

 

“Isn’t one enough?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length and looking

into her eyes.

 

“One like you—yes.”

 

As she sat alone that night, lazily smoking by the fireside, the thought

of Philip West was greatly in her mind. His strange, dark blue eyes had

looked at her searchingly and she had felt that behind them was power.

Had she any chance of knowing more of him?

 

She was tiring already of the luxurious sameness of her life. Maddison

was kind, thoughtful, attentive, and a sufficiently entertaining

comrade, but she desired more than that. To rule one man did not satisfy

her.

 

The odds seemed against her meeting West again, especially as he was

married. Maddison would doubtless tell her what the wife was like, and

it was rather upon her than upon West himself that the success of

Marian’s vague ambition depended. To win West in any circumstances would

doubtless be difficult; to win him from his wife would be a triumph.

 

Maddison came in late and threw himself full length upon the hearth-rug,

a favorite position of his when tired.

 

“Had a stupid evening?” she asked, sitting down beside him, and brushing

the straggling hair from his forehead.

 

“Fearful. I hate those big hotels at any time, but it was more than

usually deadly to-night.”

 

“I thought you liked Mr. West?”

 

“Oh, he’d have been all right alone; but his wife is an empty

chatterbox, insipidly pretty, and he adores her in a fatuous way. How

men of sense can—well, I suppose reason doesn’t count in such matters.”