The Pest 20

The Pest 20

“I think it’s a very interesting question and that this is excellent

beer. I hope it doesn’t ruin your reputation as a teetotaler your

purchasing beer?”

 

“It’s a poor sort of repitation as wouldn’t stand a dozen of bassordered

forsomeoneelse. Not that people don’t talk when they’ve got no reason

for to do so. If people only opened their mouths when there was

somethin’ worth comin’ out to come out most folks would go aboutwi’

their mouths shut. We didn’t expect you down afore the springtime

anyway, but I keeps everything ready, as you toldmeto, and pleasant nice

work it is lookin’ arter ’m. Stoppin’ long, sir?”

 

“A month or so, if you don’t get too tired of me.”

 

Mrs. Witchout smiled broadly, as who should say that the impossible had

been mentioned.

 

After lunch, leaving Mrs. Witchout to wash up and set things tidy and

ready for tea, Maddison devoted his energies to unpacking and putting

everything in order. He took “The Rebel” from its packing-case, and set

it up on an easel, and sat down before it. It was a good picture and he

knew it, but he knew also how much better he had meant it to be. In the

waning afternoon light the unfinished portions scarcely showed; there

sat Marian, the rebel, the queen of rebels, bright, beautiful—his, “The

Rebel!” Should he paint a companion picture?—Marian sitting by the

fireside—here in his cottage studio—the light of love in her eyes. He

looked across at the empty chair, a fellow of one that she often sat in

at home—there she was visible, to his mind’s eye, sitting there,

gracious and lovely—his and his only.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII

 

 

THE next morning all trace of mist on the distant sea had vanished, but

though the sun shone splendidly, the air still bit shrewdly. West rose

with the spirit of discontent in him, breakfasted early and alone, then

set out to walk to Rottingdean. Maddison, palette in hand, answered the

knock at the door.

 

“Hullo! The early bird does the work,” said West. “May I come in and

talk while you paint?”

 

“Come along. You’re a fairly early bird too. There are cigars and

cigarettes over there, and an unopened bottle of whisky and a siphon in

the locker by the window.”

 

West took a cigar, and then wandered aimlessly about the room, while

Maddison worked at “The Rebel.”

 

“Ah! _My_ picture!” exclaimed West, looking over his shoulder. “It’s the

best thing you’ve ever done, Maddison. Won’t the critics fight over it.

You hit on a thundering good model for it.”

 

“Your picture! I didn’t promise to let you have it. I’m doubtful if I

shall sell it at all.”

 

“Oh!” said West, with a queer intonation, “I didn’t know you ever felt

that way about your work. I thought you laughed at art for art’s sake,

and all that damned nonsense, and preached that the laborer is worthy of

his hire—eh?”

 

“As a rule. But—somehow this has got hold of me.”

 

“Or—the pretty model—eh? Well, I envy you; you’re a lucky devil.

What’s the poor curate say? Or is he guilty of the ignorance which is

bliss?”

 

Maddison bit his lips; this raillery which before would have amused him,

now made him angry. He felt that the best way to put an end to it would

be to speak outright and to show that he did not like West’s tone.

 

“Her husband does know. The facts are just these, West. Mrs. Squire has

left her husband; it was a far from happy marriage. He’s High Church or

something and won’t give her a divorce. So—we have to make the best of

it. I think it right you should know exactly how matters stand, as she

may, in fact, will, be coming down here, and your wife may chance to

meet her with me.”

 

“Oh, Agatha isn’t a prig. Nor is Alice.”

 

“Alice?”

 

“Miss Lane.”

 

“Oh, yes, I forgot that was her Christian name. So now you understand

why I may not wish to part with this picture. If anyone has it it shall

be you, if you don’t change your mind.”

 

“Change my mind! It’s not a thing I used often to do, but I seem always

to be at it now. I meant to go up to town this morning, but didn’t. If

I’d intended to come here, ten to one I should have run up to town. I’m

too young to be growing old, but I feel deuced old all the same, at

times.”

 

He was again strolling vaguely about the room, now pausing to look at a

sketch, now glancing out of the window at the undulating stretch of

green down.

 

“You look just as young as the first day I met you,” he continued;

“haven’t changed a hair. I suppose it’s care that kills men as well as

cats. There’s more real care in a successful career than in a failure. A

small shopkeeper can’t lose much, and doesn’t run many risks. Now

I—why, good Lord! I may go bust—sky high—any day. Big business is all

a big gamble, the margin between a huge profit and a huge loss is so

small—a puff of wind, and over you go on the money side. Now

you—you’re above fate now; you’re known; competition can never touch

you; the speculation is entirely on the part of those who buy your

pictures. In a hundred years they may be worth thousands or nothing.

Yes, you’re a lucky devil.”

 

“Luck. Do you believe in luck?”

 

“Luck? It’s the only real thing in the world. It rules the world!

Believe in it? Of course I do. I shouldn’t ever have been anything more

than a small shopkeeper if I hadn’t been lucky. I inherited a tiny

corner shop in a back street; fate—or the Metropolitan Board of

Works—decided to drive a new thoroughfare past my place. Wasn’t that

luck? Isn’t marriage all a matter of luck? What man can know anything at

all about his wife, until she is his wife and free to show him her real

self? Luck! I never trust the man who sneers at luck and talks about the

reward of honest labor; he’s a liar or a fool, both equally bad to deal

with in business.”

 

“I don’t believe in luck. Which am I, knave or fool?”

 

“Oh, you’re an artist, and the artistic temperament covers a multitude

of eccentricities.”

 

The hooting of a motor-horn drew him to the window again, from which a

glimpse of the road could be seen.

 

“Hullo! Here’s Alice and Agatha, early birds too. But she’s come to

bully you into starting the portrait. Are you going to do it?”

 

“Yes. Why not?”

 

He put down his palette, took the picture off the easel and set it in a

corner with its face to the wall, and then went out to welcome his

guests, followed by West.

 

“Oh, Mr. Maddison, I do hope you don’t mind my having come,” said Mrs.

West, leaning from the car, and holding out her small, daintily gloved

hand. “May I come in? I want to talk business.”

 

“Delighted, Mrs. West. Good morning, Miss Lane.”

 

“I guessed you’d come here, Phil,” Mrs. West went on, as Maddison helped

her to alight, “but you’re not to stay. You take Alice for a spin and

then come back for us. Perhaps Mr. Maddison will come back to lunch with

us?”

 

Maddison accepted the invitation, and West climbed into the car.

 

Mrs. West and Maddison watched them till a turn in the road put them out

of sight.

 

“Now, Mr. Maddison, do take me into your studio. I want you to tell me,

seriously, will you paint my portrait? Phil tells me I should look on it

as a great compliment if you do. I like compliments, don’t you?”

 

“Of course I do, everyone does; even when I know they are undeserved;

it’s pleasant to be able to please people, and only people who are

pleased pay compliments worth having.”

 

“What a jolly room!” Mrs. West exclaimed, as she sat down and looked

round critically. “There doesn’t seem to be anything really unusual

about it, except the swords and daggery things on the wall, but it looks

quite different to other studios. Now, will you paint my portrait, Mr.

Maddison?”

 

“I will, with pleasure, if you’ll let me paint it my own way. I always

make that condition.”

 

“I want to be painted just as I am. I don’t want to be flattered: I

really mean that.”

 

“I’m glad you do, for—that’s my way. Please sit straight up in that

chair, and look at me, so—yes, that’s it. I shan’t keep you in that

pose long at a time, and I shan’t do much this morning, just rough in

the head and figure if I can—if I’m in the mood. I never know whether I

am or not till I begin to work.”

 

“May I talk?”

 

“Not for a few minutes—just look straight at me—so.”

 

For some ten minutes he worked rapidly and surely, pausing every now and

again to examine her face intently. Only in the eyes lay anything of

character, and from them looked out, so he thought, not only the

struggling soul he expected to see, but a rebellious discontent.

 

“Now you can do what you like for a time, Mrs. West, and talk to me if

you’ll be so good—but you mustn’t expect me to answer much—I’ll go on

working.”

 

She did not, however, leave the chair, but relaxing her upright

attitude, sank back, and watched him steadily.

 

“Have you known Phil long, Mr. Maddison?” she asked suddenly.

 

“Yes, off and on, for years.”

 

“Has he changed much since you first knew him?”

 

“No, I don’t think so. He was always much the same.”

 

“He seems to me to have changed a lot since—we were married. Or perhaps

I knew nothing of him then—and am only getting to know him now. I

suppose everybody knows all about me the minute they meet me. I know you

won’t want to answer—but isn’t that so?”

 

“It’s a common mistake to think that one can know much about anyone

until one has known them intimately a long time—and then the

much—isn’t much. I’ve sometimes thought—at least I used to do so—that

I had put all a sitter’s character upon my canvas, but now I know

better. The face tells everything, if only one can read all its lines.”