The Pest 17

The Pest 17

It was not until she had settled herself cozily into the deep armchair

that he broke the silence.

 

“How would you like to spend a month or so down at Rottingdean? I’ve got

a small cottage there; very comfortable, very lonely and very quiet.”

 

The unexpected question startled her. The proposal upset all her

schemes, and the call for an immediate reply tried her skill.

 

“What made you think of it?” she asked, temporizing.

 

“Well, I thought it might be—pleasanter, if we kept out of sight for a

while.”

 

“Oh, I see! I see! Do you like the idea?”

 

“I rather do. I’d like anywhere with you; best of all, anywhere, we

should always be together.”

 

“Until——”

 

“Until what?”

 

“Until you’re tired of me.”

 

He did not answer, and she went over to him and sat down at his feet,

her head resting on his knee. It was preferable to her to sit so, her

face hidden from him; eyes are traitors oftentimes.

 

“Always together,” she went on, “how good that would be for me; for me.

But, George, I don’t think it would be good for us both.”

 

“You mean what?”

 

“Why this, dear. The woman depends upon the man, always wants him near

her if not actually with her. Men, I think, are different; they only

depend upon us sometimes, and then they come to us.”

 

“Then you don’t know what I know, dear. You’ve taught me to depend upon

you—always, altogether, all day long. While I was waiting for you just

now, I was mad because the thought entered my head that perhaps you did

not really love me very much, after all.”

 

“What a silly thought! But I’m glad it hurt you; isn’t that horrid of

me?”

 

He leaned down and kissed her upturned face.

 

“Well,” he said, “what about Rottingdean?”

 

“George—before I tell you what I think—tell me right out, what put the

notion into your head? You think we should be safer there than here?”

 

“Why, of course——”

 

“I don’t agree with you. Your being there is sure to get into the papers

one way or another. He will see it there, or some dear, kind friend will

tell him, and he’d come down.”

 

“It’s funny we didn’t think of that!”

 

“We?” she asked quickly. “Who’s we?”

 

“Why, I—er—met Mortimer. He’s often done my thinking for me, so I

chatted my difficulty over with him.”

 

“Two great, clever men of the world, and one, wee, little foolish idea!

Why didn’t you come and talk it over with me?”

 

“Somehow—I didn’t like to.”

 

“Well, let’s forget clever Mr. Fred. Don’t you agree with me, it

wouldn’t do?”

 

“Ye-es, I do. We could go abroad?”

 

“That would only make his journey after us longer. He’s a saint, which

means one part of lunacy to nine parts of obstinacy. It’s this

pig-headedness that makes them martyrs. Who was it said that a ‘martyr

is a persecutor who has got the worst of it?’ Edward will persecute me

until I give in, or he dies.”

 

“He shan’t!” Maddison interjected angrily.

 

“Oh, no, he _shan’t_ indeed,” she continued, laughing, “because—I won’t

let him. Now, while you two wise men of the West End have been talking,

I’ve been thinking. Part of your plan fits in with mine. You must go

away——”

 

“Not without you!”

 

“If not without me, you may as well stay here. Don’t you want me to be

happy?”

 

“Of course I do. That’s the only want I have.”

 

“Then you must make me unhappy for a little while, so that I may be

quite happy by and by. If you go down to Rottingdean alone, I’ll manage

that Edward shall hear of it. He’ll watch you, find out that I’m not

with you, and leave you alone. I’ll stay here; I shan’t bother to hide

away; I don’t mind if he does find me out, and come to see me. I don’t

think he’ll do it twice. Besides, obstinate as he is, he must have some

pride somewhere, and some other woman may catch hold of him: I never

believed the story St. Anthony told. And there’s this hope too: he may

begin to think he’s neglecting his real work in hunting after me.”

 

“That’s what Mortimer thought.”

 

“Did he? Now—don’t you see that my way is the better?”

 

“It doesn’t make any difference. I won’t leave you.”

 

“Don’t you know I hate the mere thought of it? But, George, I won’t

sacrifice the future to the present, as you’re so ready to do. It isn’t

as if you were going millions of miles away. You can easily run up to

town every now and then—you needn’t go near the studio, just stop here

a night or two. I can run down to Brighton. You mustn’t be obstinate.”

 

“I shall hate it.”

 

“So shall I!” she exclaimed, jumping up, “so shall I. But it’s the best

way. Do you love me so little, George, that you don’t know that I’m only

thinking of how we can be happiest in the end? We must buy the future at

the expense of the present.”

 

Then, sitting on his knees, she took his face between her warm hands,

looked into his eyes, slowly put her lips to his, slowly kissed him.

 

“You witch!” he said. “You always have your own way!”

 

“How untrue! But, George,” she added quickly, laying her head on his

shoulder, “don’t misunderstand me, _don’t_. I want you, want you always,

and I shall be miserable while you are away. I shall just count the

days. But you’ll come up to see me and I’ll come down to see you; it

might be worse. And how lovely it’ll be when you come back.”

 

Maddison was dining out that night, and she made him resist the sudden

temptation to telegraph to his hostess, pleading illness as an excuse

for not keeping his engagement. They talked on until at the last he was

compelled to hurry off, the leave-taking abruptly ended by her

laughingly pushing him out.

 

Then she danced back to the drawing room, overjoyed that fate had played

so well into her hands, offering her the opportunity for which she had

been longing, of being free upon occasion to go whither she liked and to

do what she willed.

 

“If only all men were as easy to fool!” she thought; “perhaps they are,

when one knows them and they don’t know us.”

 

She picked up her hat which she had flung on the sofa, and pinned it on

quickly. Then she went out, closing the hall door quietly behind her,

but instead of going down, ran upstairs to the top floor, where Ethel

Harding lived, as she said, nearer heaven in this world than she was

likely to be in the next.

 

“Hullo, it’s you!” she said, answering herself to Marian’s ring. “Come

along in. The girl’s out and I’m all alone and lonely.”

 

She led the way into a small sitting room, comfortably but somewhat

gaudily furnished and decorated; a bright fire burned in the small

grate; an incandescent gas light glared on each side of the overmantel;

on the round table in the center were a dilapidated flower in a crimson

pot; an ash tray, full to overflowing with cigarette ends and ashes;

and, on a dirty cheap Japanese tray, a half-empty siphon of soda water,

a bottle of brandy three parts full, and a tumbler.

 

“I’m in an awful mess, I always am!” Mrs. Harding exclaimed, as she

picked a newspaper and a novel out of an armchair and flung them on the

sofa. “There, do sit down. Look at me too, but this old tea gown is

comfy. I hope you’ve had your tea?—Eh?”

 

“Just finished it.”

 

“Good, for there isn’t a drop of hot water ready. I’m not much of a tea

fighter myself—a B. and S. is more in my line. Have one? No? Well,

smoke anyway. Here’s a new sort the old man brought along: they’re not

bad; they’re like him, not bad but might be better. Though I mustn’t

grumble at him now, for he just ran up to give me these and to say he’s

off for a week.”

 

“Is he? Then I’m in luck, for I’m alone too. Can’t we go out and dine

somewhere?”

 

“Why, yes. We’ll go to the Inferno, as I call it; we’re sure to meet

some pals; at least I shall, and I’ll introduce them if you like.”

 

“Of course I should. I haven’t been there for an age, and I do want some

fun.”

 

“Getting tired of Georgie? He is a bit serious.”

 

“Well, I think I shall appreciate him all the more if I don’t see too

much of him.”

 

“And he’ll like you all the longer if he don’t see too much of you. That

sounds jolly rude, don’t it? But men are all alike in some things, and

one of them is that they’re always singing ‘When _other_ lips.’ And just

you beware when they begin to protest that they can’t get on without

you: that’s always a sign of the beginning of the end to my mind.

Right-oh! Have a B. and S.? No—well, daresay you’re right. I’ll have

one more and then I’ll dress and we’ll be off. The Inferno’s crammed

always and I hate sitting at a table with other people, unless I’m one

and _he_ the other,” she added, laughing.