The Pest 2

The Pest 2

“It’s quite early.”

 

“Yes, for you. But for me—Kennington and high tea; but you know neither

of them.”

 

“You’ve asked me to come——”

 

“Not to high tea. Come some afternoon or evening. Drop me a post card so

that we shall be sure to be in. My husband will be so glad to see you

again.”

 

“And you?”

 

“I _have_ seen you again.”

 

“Very well, I’ll drop you a line of warning. And how are you going

home?”

 

“By a clever and cheap combination of penny bus and halfpenny tram. Now,

good-by, and thank you.”

 

They lingered a moment in the shop entrance, warmth and coziness behind,

the darkness and the thickening fog before.

 

“I don’t like you’re going alone. The fog’s getting very thick.”

 

“Please don’t worry about me; if the tram can’t get along I shall walk.

Good-by, and, again, thank you.”

 

Nodding in a friendly manner, she walked quickly away, leaving him

irresolute. But he soon determined to follow her.

 

“You really must let me see you home,” he said, as he caught up with

her; “it’s going to be bad.”

 

“So am I, and insist on having my own way. Don’t spoil it for me. I

don’t often have my own way with anything or anybody.”

 

Again she walked quickly away into the darkness.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER II

 

 

ACACIA GROVE, Kennington, was once upon a time, and not so many years

ago, the home of snug citizens, who loved to dwell on the borderland of

town and country. It is a wide road of two-storied houses, all alike:

three windows to the top floor; on the ground floor, two windows and a

hall door, painted green and approached by three steep steps; a front

garden, generally laid out in gravel with a circular bed of sooty shrubs

in the center and a narrow border of straggling flowers along each side,

spike-headed railings separating the garden from the pavement. Few of

the gates are there that do not creak shrilly, calling aloud for oil. In

one of these houses, distinguished only from its neighbors by its

number, lodged the Reverend Edward Squire, occupying the front “parlor,”

a small den at the back of the same, and the front bedroom and dressing

room on the upper floor. The furniture throughout was plain,

inoffensive, somber, entirely unhomelike; faded green curtains with

yellow fringe hung at the parlor windows, by one of which Marian sat in

the gloaming two days after her meeting with Maddison. The fire shed a

flickering light over the room and on the weary face of her husband, who

lay back asleep in a heavy horsehair armchair. She glanced at him now

and then, each time comparing his commonplace features with those of

George Maddison, her meeting with whom had stirred tumult in her already

mutinous blood.

 

Rousing himself at length, Squire looked at his watch.

 

“Half-past four! I must be off, Marian. Don’t you find it dismal sitting

there in the dark?”

 

“You can dream in the dark.”

 

“Dream?” he said, standing up and stretching his lanky limbs, stamping

his heavy feet as though cold. “Don’t you dream too much, dear? I wish

parish work had more interest for you; there is so much to do, and——”

 

“I don’t do much!” she broke in sharply.

 

“I wasn’t going to say that. Wouldn’t it make life brighter for you if

you spent more time in brightening it for others? However, I mustn’t

stop to talk now. There’s a meeting of the Boot Club at a quarter to

five, and several things after that. I can’t get back till about

half-past six: will that be too late for tea?”

 

He stood beside her, feeling clumsily helpless to express his sympathy

with her evident discontent, and unable to help her.

 

“No, I don’t mind what time,” she answered, turning her back toward him,

and looking out at the dreary prospect of leafless trees and dim gas

lamps.

 

He stooped to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

 

“Don’t be silly, Edward; everyone can see into the room. If you don’t

go, you’ll be late.”

 

With a sigh he turned away and went out.

 

For months past hatred of her home life had been growing in her, and it

had been intensified, brought to fever heat, by her meeting with

Maddison. His prosperity had emphasized the dunness of her own career.

Why had he ever made love to her, giving her a glimpse of brightness,

and then left her to be driven by circumstances to accept her husband’s

dogged love, to accept this life of struggle, to accept this daily round

of distasteful tasks and hateful duties? In the country days she had

accepted without energy to protest against the routine work of a

clergyman’s daughter; but here in London, her blood had caught afire,

the devil of revolt was astir, her whole heart and soul rebelled against

the wasting of her youth and beauty. In the old home there had been none

with whom to compare herself; but in town hundreds of women, with

smaller gifts of body and mind than her own, led a full and joyous life.

She raged to think that she should bloom and fade, never knowing the

glory of living.

 

She rose slowly, let the heavy venetian blind run down with a crash,

drew the curtains close, and lit the gas. She stood before the glass

over the mantelpiece, looking at her reflection. Then with growing

disgust she turned and glanced round the meager room. In a basket was a

pile of accumulated mending waiting for her; on the small writing

table—above which hung a crucifix—several account books, which would

have to be made up this evening. She stood there, tall, fair, throbbing

with rebellion, longing to escape. Again the question that she had so

often asked herself during the last two days came to her: was it

possible that George Maddison would offer to free her? He had nearly, if

not quite, loved her once; were there any means by which she could lure

him to her again?

 

A sharp knock at the house door startled but did not interest her, the

caller doubtless being for Edward, and his visitors did not amuse her.

Her conjecture was wrong. The neat little maid servant, who feared her

master and adored his wife, opened the parlor door, stammering out—

 

“A gentleman wants to know if you’re at home, mum. He wants to see

_you_, mum.”

 

“Are you sure he wanted to see _me_?”

 

“Yes, I do, if I may,” said Maddison, appearing in the doorway; “or are

you not ‘at home’?”

 

“Of course I’m at home; we don’t indulge even in conventional fibs in

Kennington. Do come in; I’m so glad to see you. I didn’t think you’d

really come.”

 

“Why not?” he asked, shaking hands with her. “Could I resist such a

persuasive description as you gave me? It was so alluring that I walked

the whole way, and, upon my word, I declare you have done the

neighborhood an injustice. I’ve been in worse.”

 

“Very likely it’s my fault.”

 

They sat at either side of the fire for some little while silent; he

noting the room, and furtively examining her face as she stared into the

fire. He could see the tears that hovered in the corners of her eyes.

 

“Your fault?” he said at length. “You look fagged; you want a change.”

 

“A change!” she exclaimed, laughing hardly.

 

She stood up, leaned her arm upon the mantelpiece, and looked down at

him.

 

“A change! You don’t know the irony of what you’ve said, Mr. Maddison. A

change! Do you realize that each day drags along just the same as the

days before have been, and the days after will be? Never a shadow of a

change! And so all the life is being crushed out of me. If I’d only

known; but what’s the good of talking this way, and why on earth should

I trouble you with my worries?”

 

She was a splendid rebel and Maddison’s pulse stirred with sympathy and

attraction. She looked to him like some fine, wild animal, caged, eating

out her heart for freedom.

 

“I almost wish I hadn’t met you the other day,” she continued. “I know

that sounds rude; what I mean is, it’s bad enough to be here, but it

makes it worse, ever so much worse, to realize what I’ve not got.”

 

“I wish I could help you,” he said.

 

She sat down again and again looked into the fire, which she stirred

into a roaring blaze.

 

“It would have been better had I stopped on in the country; I was only

half alive there. I just vegetated. Edward, my husband, had what he

thought was a ‘call’ to come up and work among the poor in London, so he

brought me here. I wonder do you know the kind of man he is?”

 

“I can guess.”

 

“He’s good, because he never has any temptation to be anything else.

He’s content, and works, eats, drinks, sleeps; he tries to be kind and

sympathetic, and—nearly drives me mad. Don’t you think it strange,” she

asked, looking at him eagerly, “that I should be talking to you like this? I must—must talk to some one.”