The Pest 16

The Pest 16

The room was long and low; clean, neat, with little attempt at

decoration; the walls covered with plain, dark gray paper, the electric

light pendants severely simple; flowering shrubs stood upon the pay desk

near the entrance, and similar plants or cut flowers upon the tables.

 

“I can’t make out how this place pays,” said Mortimer, “there are never

more than a handful of people here. I suppose it will suddenly become

popular and then rapidly deteriorate. That’s the history of all these

places. Meanwhile let us rejoice. We’ll have some Chianti, but will not

drink it neat as do the barbarians, but judiciously tempered with

Polly.”

 

Lunch finished, coffee and cigars produced, Mortimer announced that he

was ready to talk seriously.

 

“What’s up?” he asked. “You shall have all the advice I can give and I

shan’t be in the least hurt if you don’t follow any of it. Your mind’s

sure to be made up already and you simply ask for advice in the hope

that my view will be your view.”

 

“No, I don’t, Fred. Not such an ass. I’m in a bad corner and I’m damned

if I know how to get out of it. I don’t know whether you know that Mrs.

Squire has a husband?”

 

“I didn’t. I imagined the prefix to be entirely ceremonial.”

 

“He’s a parson.”

 

“The devil!”

 

“Worse, a saint. He doesn’t believe in divorce and is obstinately

determined to persecute Marian. He says he won’t leave a stone unturned

to save her. Please laugh. There’s a comic side to it, I know, but it’s

turned away from me.”

 

“I know the type. I’ve met one or two of them,” said Mortimer,

reflectively watching the smoke of his cigar; “I bet he’ll give you a

deuced lot of trouble. Unreasonable people are most difficult to deal

with, they never know how unreasonable they are. And a man who doesn’t

play according to the rules—But, tell me all about it.”

 

Maddison told him all that he knew of Squire and of Marian’s and his own

meetings with him.

 

“Beastly awkward!” was Mortimer’s comment.

 

“You can pretty well guess I’m stumped,” said Maddison. “I don’t know

what’s best to do.”

 

“Excuse my asking, I must know all the facts of the case: you don’t want

to break off with Mrs. Squire?”

 

“No!”

 

“All right! Don’t blaze up, we’re talking politics, not poetry. It’s not

one of those cases in which you can sit still and let fate play your

cards. The man will stick at nothing. Eventually he must meet her again,

even if she doesn’t come to your place. He’ll haunt you. Perhaps catch

you together in some public place and kick up—the saints’ own delight.”

 

“Yes, yes, I can see all that. I know what I’ve got to face—but I don’t

want to face it.”

 

“I was mentally marking time. If I knew what to suggest I would have

told you at once. Let’s be practical; there are three parties to the

business: you—she—he. The question is how to avoid you and she, or, at

any rate, you, being brought into contact with him. Could you both go

away for a while?”

 

“Easily.”

 

“In a time you and she would be safe. What would he do? Hunt after

you—find that you had left town——”

 

“That’s all very well, but we can’t stay away forever.”

 

“Forever!” murmured Mortimer, gazing sadly up at the ceiling. “Easy!

Easy! Leaving out of the question the possibility of your tiring of

her—he can’t spend the rest of his life chasing after you. Even if he

could, he wouldn’t. You don’t know the man as well as I do, although

I’ve never met him. It’s love—fleshly love—as well as duty that’s

urging him on now. Duty will regain the upper hand, and he’ll argue that

he has no right to leave undone the work that is _merely_ duty, in order

to pursue duty _plus_ personal interest. He’s actively engaged in trying

to save one particularly attractive soul now; he’ll soon swerve round

and work again on the multitude. As far as his wife is concerned, he’ll

fall back upon the masterly inactivity of prayer. I may be quite wrong,

but unless you can hit upon a better plan, I don’t see that you can do

better than—hook it. I have spoken.”

 

“I’ve still got the cottage down at Rottingdean; we could run down for a

month.”

 

“Where the stormy winds do blow! Poor, dear lady.”

 

“I can’t work in a racket.”

 

“Well, it’s as easy to leave as to go there. Three o’clock! by Jove, I

must get back. I’ve some letters to sign, and I’m going down to West’s

for dinner. She tells me you’re going to paint her portrait.”

 

“She tells the truth—although she draws upon her imagination. West

suggested my doing so, but I haven’t agreed yet.”

 

“Have you met Miss Lane?”

 

“Once, at dinner.”

 

“She’s worth studying. Worth painting too.”

 

“Oh!”

 

“Not I. I don’t even like her. A man never falls in love with a woman he

studies, but with the woman who studies him. I _must_ be off. See you

again soon. Let me hear from you if you run away.”

 

As he walked homeward, Maddison pondered over the problem, oblivious of

people and places. Squire’s intrusion into his life had brought home to

him that Marian and the joy of life were one for him. He had entered

into this intrigue to a certain extent deliberately, but had not

contemplated the possibility of Marian’s attraction for him becoming

anything stronger than a mere physical appeal to his sensuous nature. He

had always believed that art was the only impulse in his life, that in

all else he was governed by his reason. He did not drink too much,

because reason and experience told him that after a certain point wine

became a tasteless stimulant. He did not permit any woman entirely to

captivate him. Experience and reason—so he thought—taught him that

women were like wine.

 

But Marian had won a place in his life that no other woman had ever

approached. For a moment, the night before, Squire’s attack had made him

think that a temporary separation between himself and Marian might be

necessary, and the mere notion had struck him with a chill, sick fear.

Everything in his life belonged to her. All that he attempted or

accomplished in his daily round or in his work centered on her; she was

his motive power. Another matter had recently come home to him; he had

never been extravagant, but had always lived fairly up to his means. His

support of Marian had made heavy demand, not only upon his income but

upon the small amount he had saved, and he was now face to face with the

necessity of adding largely to his earnings.

 

He had never condescended to force his art, never painted for money

alone. Inspiration, not necessity, had been the mother of his invention.

Even in the painting of portraits he had held himself entirely free to

refuse any commission that was not entirely to his taste. Now, however,

he was no longer free; he must paint for money or curtail his

expenditure. To do the latter would mean depriving Marian of certain

pleasures and luxuries, the doing of which would be abhorrent to him.

Not for an instant did it occur to him to question Marian’s loyalty;

could he offer her only a cottage and country fare that would suffice

her. When she first came to him, he believed that his chief claim upon

her was that he offered her freedom. But he now felt assured that as his

love for her had grown deeper and deeper so had hers for him.

 

Therefore for more reasons than one, the idea of a country retreat

appealed to him strongly. While there he would be altogether with

Marian; he could at the same time work strenuously, he could live

inexpensively.

 

When he reached the flat he learned that Marian had gone out, but would

be home to tea, and he decided to wait for her return.

 

Smoking cigarette after cigarette, he paced up and down, from room to

room. Every detail seemed to bear the impress of her personality. He

stopped more than once before the pastel on the easel by the drawing

room window. He pulled back the curtain as far as it would go so as to

let in the full strength of the waning light. Striking as was the

likeness, he felt that he had failed to catch the whole charm of her

face; the beauty was there, but not the pleading fascination. He tried

to imagine how much he would suffer if she were to die. Drops of

perspiration broke out upon his forehead as he realized overwhelmingly

that perhaps he might have overestimated her love for him, and that

perhaps she would one day again take her freedom. The thought of it was

agony. He stood before the picture wrought into a tumult of emotion. She

came in, stood beside him unheard, until she spoke:

 

“What a loyal lover! When he can’t worship the original——”

 

“I do worship you,” he exclaimed, turning fiercely, seizing her hands

and crushing them between his own. “I do, that’s the only word for it,

that’s the very truth. Look at me—straight—you’re everything to me;

what am I to you?”

 

“You’re hurting my hand——”

 

“_I_ hurting you!” he said, loosening his hold, “and I am ready to do

anything to save you one moment’s pain. You haven’t answered me; am I

everything to you?”

 

“Do you need to ask?” she answered, looking boldly back at him, so that

as he gazed into her eyes, he seemed to see deep into her soul. “I never

asked you. You show me how much you love me, and I’ve tried to show you.

I suppose”—she faltered and turned away—“I suppose I’ve failed.”

 

“You’re right, Marian,” he said, catching her in his arms, turning her

face to him, and kissing her passionately again and again; “but I do

like to hear you say it. Would you like it if I never _told_ you how

much I love you?”

 

“No, no, dear, of course I shouldn’t. Somehow it’s not my way to _say_

it; I’ll try to sometimes, but don’t make me do so now. Let me say it

when it comes to my lips.”

 

“All right, dearie, you’re right.”

 

“Now, come along. We’ll have tea. I felt sure you were coming to-day, so

I ran out to get some of those cakes you liked so much.”

 

It was a fancy of his that she should always make the tea herself. The

room was growing dark. She looked very graceful, tenderly delicate, as

she knelt on the hearth-rug, the firelight playing hide-and-seek in her

hair and the folds of her dress. Her eyes looked dreamy as she stared

into the blaze, waiting for the kettle to boil up, which she had set on

the fire, too impatient to wait for the spirit-lamp to do its work.