The Pest 15

The Pest 15

She folded the gloves mechanically and laid them on the table beside

her. Then took off her hat and sank back in the chair, her hands

gripping the arms tightly.

 

The position seemed impossible, and she was angry that she had not

foreseen and provided for it. Either something must be done to prevent

her husband coming here again, or she must only meet Maddison elsewhere.

Was not this last the solution? If she only saw him at her flat—or

elsewhere—anywhere but here—it would free her sufficiently from him to

allow of her pursuing other ends and other pleasures, while she could

hold him to her sufficiently closely and for a sufficient length of time

to obtain all she required from him.

 

Then the thought struck her that Edward would probably be waiting

outside and might waylay Maddison and make a scene. This must be

avoided. The only chance of leading him away, if indeed he were waiting,

was for her to leave; he would follow her. She hastily made ready and

went out.

 

She looked cautiously up and down the dimly lit street, but could not

see him. She walked quickly, and as she turned into the main

thoroughfare, glanced back and saw that he was following her. She

hastened on, sure that he would keep her in sight. An empty hansom cab

came along; she got in, bidding the driver go to Piccadilly Circus.

 

No thought of the agony Squire was enduring came into her mind. She was

angry, excited, possessed by a spirit of malicious mischief. A bend in

the road enabled her to look back: there was no other vehicle in sight.

She pushed open the trap door above her head, told the driver that she

had forgotten something, and bade him drive to the studio. Then she

opened the lamp that was behind her, blew out the light, and then

huddled as closely as possible into the corner nearest that side of the

road along which Squire would most likely come.

 

She looked eagerly, and soon passed him, walking slowly, bent and bowed.

 

When she reached the studio Maddison was there.

 

“What’s up?” he said. “You rush in, I hear, have an interview with a

mysterious stranger, rush away and rush back again. But give me a kiss

before you answer. Now, sit on my knee and ’fess.”

 

“George, my husband’s been here.”

 

“The devil!”

 

“The devil would have been easier to manage; he doesn’t want to save

souls.”

 

She then told him most but not all of what had taken place.

 

“It _is_ awkward. Do you think he’ll come again?”

 

“Sure to, that’s the trouble. Nothing I can say—or you—will stop him.

You don’t know what he is. We’re safe for to-night, so you needn’t worry

about that, but what can we do? There mustn’t be a row, for your sake.

Hullo! there’s somebody, and not a thing ready.”

 

“All the better—all the more like a picnic. It’s Fred. Come along, we

appoint you chef. Marian shall be kitchen maid. I’ll lay the table.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI

 

 

MADDISON was not surprised at a visit from Squire early the next

morning; and if not armed he was at any rate forewarned.

 

He offered him a chair and a cigarette, both of which were curtly

refused.

 

“As you will,” Maddison said, seemingly careless and supercilious, but

in reality closely watching his opponent’s face. “I hope you will not

mind my both sitting and smoking; both are conducive to comfort, and

what’s life without comfort?”

 

“It will be better,” Squire said, shuffling awkwardly, “to talk simply

and without any remarks which are likely to be offensive. You know why

I’ve come?”

 

“Unless you tell me I shall never know. This visit seems as useless as

it is unpleasant. I can’t think what you have to say which wouldn’t be

better unsaid.”

 

“No, I suppose you cannot. I suppose we look at almost everything from a

different standpoint. I’ve come to say——”

 

“You are presuming, Mr. Squire, that I am willing to listen to you.”

 

“Naturally. You allowed your servant to show me in.”

 

“I beg your pardon, you’re _quite_ right. But I do wish you’d sit down;

it makes me feel so awkward to see you standing up.”

 

“I saw Marian last night,” Squire said, taking no notice of Maddison’s

remark; “I suppose she told you.”

 

“Yes. The meeting annoyed her very much. It was natural for you to

assume that I let you in because I was willing to listen to you. As a

matter of fact, it was because I must absolutely refuse to do so. But,

unless _you_ refuse to hear me, I’ve just this much to tell you. The

lady you mentioned is living under my care, and I will protect her

against annoyance. If you have any communication to make I will send you

my solicitor’s name and address. Now—you’d better go.”

 

“Even if she were not my wife, I’ve a right to do all I can to rescue

her from a life of sin.”

 

“Please don’t platitudinize to me.”

 

Squire reddened with anger and clenched his fists: recourse to brute

force suggests itself instinctively to the fighter who is mentally

weaker than his opponent.

 

“What right have you to say that?” he asked vehemently, “what right? I

believe what I say and do my best to act up to my beliefs.”

 

“Then live in charity, with all men, even with a sinner and a publican

like me, and judge not that ye be not judged. I don’t shove my beliefs

on you. You live in such an unpractical world that you do not realize

the stupidity of forcing yourself upon me. I’ve really no more to say.

The law gives you your remedy, but it won’t assist you to trespass here

or to force yourself upon your wife. Good morning.”

 

Squire realized that he was helpless against Maddison; denunciation

would achieve no good end; it would be equally useless to base an appeal

upon grounds of morality. But for Marian’s sake he was ready to humble

himself in a last endeavor.

 

“As man to man——”

 

“Oh, my dear sir!” Maddison exclaimed, “don’t talk that way. If you

tried to knock me down I could understand, if not respect, you. In these

affairs men don’t argue, they act, according to the law of nature or

preferably of man. Don’t let us indulge in a vulgar, unprofitable brawl.

Good morning.”

 

“Then I’ll go to her. Give me her address.”

 

“Certainly not. She does not wish you to know it.”

 

“Then I’ll watch.”

 

“As you please. But remember, you’ve no right to persecute her; though

many husbands think otherwise—that is not one of the privileges of

matrimony.”

 

Squire checked an angry retort and then abruptly went out.

 

Maddison spoke truly when he said that to him comfort was one of the

saving graces of life, indeed to him it was almost the only one. This

entry of Squire upon the scene and this turning a comedy into a domestic

drama vexed and annoyed him. It had not occurred to him that any man

would act so unconventionally as Squire had done. Marian had told him

that her husband would not divorce her, looking as he did upon marriage

as a sacramental bond which no man had a right to break; so Maddison had

thought that there might be an appeal to Marian if Squire discovered her

whereabouts, an angry scene very likely and then peace. But it had not

entered into his calculations that Squire would be so persistent; this

type of man was new and unknown to him, of a kind that he did not

understand how best to tackle. To discuss the situation with Marian

would be distasteful; there remained only Mortimer to whom he could

speak frankly, relying upon the good common sense of any advice he might

obtain from him.

 

At this hour of the morning Mortimer should be at his office, and there

Maddison rang him up.

 

“Is Mr. Mortimer in?”

 

“Which one?” was the brusque reply.

 

“Mr. Frederick.”

 

“Don’t know. Who is it?”

 

“Tell him Mr. Maddison wants to speak to him for a minute.”

 

“Hold the line.”

 

Mortimer gladly accepted Maddison’s invitation to lunch.

 

“But why on earth come down to this dreary part of town?” he asked.

“Don’t deprive me of a lovely excuse for leaving here early and coming

back late—if at all. Meet me outside the Palace, and I’ll take you to a

tidy little French restaurant I’ve just discovered and haven’t yet found

out. One o’clock—all right!”

 

Both were punctual, and Mortimer guided his friend through several small

and unsavory streets to a narrow court at the far end of which was

situated the humble restaurant bearing the high-sounding name La Palais.

 

“It’s not much to look at,” he said, as they went in through the swing

door, “like an ugly woman with a pretty wit. _Bon jour_, Madame.”

 

Madame, a stout, jolly-looking woman, greeted Mortimer cordially, and

nodded genially to his companion.

 

“Now, Madame, I’ve brought a friend with me and I’ve told him—well,

I’ve told him the truth about you. So don’t shatter my entirely

undeserved reputation for veracity. We’ll have this snug corner and

leave the menu to you. You know the kind of thing I like.”