The Pest 23

The Pest 23

It had not heretofore been Maddison’s habit of mind to weigh the wisdom

of any of his acts, or to analyze any of his emotions. He had been

frankly pagan, the joy of life was his while it was his with little if

any alloy of pain or doubt; questions of present action or future

conduct had not occurred to him. His emotions with regard to women had

not been deep; they were a beautiful provision of nature for adding

beauty to an already beautiful world; their voices, their graces, their

loveliness, their caresses had charmed him, but had never absorbed him;

not one of them had ever attained to any influence over him until his

renewed friendship with Marian. In fact, nature had been his real

mistress; when last at Rottingdean, for many weeks together he had led

practically the life of a hermit, working in the studio and rambling far

and wide across the country or along the coast. It was absolute joy to

him to lie on his back, watching the panorama of the sky; to stand on

the edge of the cliff, looking out over the sea, noting its subtle

changes of color. Everything in nature, big or little, was lovable to

him; the vast glory of a blood-red sunset; the minute perfection of a

weed; the tumult and splendid power of a storm-smitten sea; the dewdrops

upon a spraying fern; the cold, clear tones of sunrise or the trembling

mystery of midday heat. No season came amiss to him: winter, spring,

summer, autumn, there was no sameness in nature, save that of

unadulterated beauty.

 

But he understood now that a change had come over him; between him and

nature had come one woman.

 

The weather was cold, with days of biting, searching east wind; he could

not saunter about the countryside, but would stride along at a great

pace. What was it that had come into the foreground of every picture

upon which his eyes rested? It seemed to him as if he were never alone

now—Marian was always with him, persistently whispering in his ear:

“You love me—you love me!” She had taken entire and sole possession of

him; round her centered his every desire, every hope, every ambition.

 

One bright morning he stood at the edge of the cliff, some little

distance from the village, the gentle murmur of a calm sea far below,

and in his ears that weird muttering of vagrant winds which comes before

the breaking of a tempest. He stood looking down on the rocks and

shingle far below, thinking of Marian, counting the number of hours that

remained to pass before her approaching visit, for it had been arranged

that she should come down soon for a few days. Suddenly the thought came

into his mind of the horror of her standing there beside him, of her

being giddy, of her reeling, and clutching at his arm, missing her hold,

falling down—down—a shapeless mass on the stones below. The horror of

it sickened him.

 

Why had this woman come into his life? She had given him a supreme joy,

the like of which he had never even dreamed of before; but might not

that joy be too dearly purchased with the price of the contingent agony

her love might bring him?

 

One evening he went down the village street, down through the gap to the

edge of the sea, where the tumbling waves were bursting with sullen roar

and crash upon the shingle. The storm that had raged all the day and the

previous night was dying away, slowly, as if reluctant; the wind blew in

fitful gusts; the clouds scurried across the moon, which shot down

intermittent beams upon the tossing waters. His life, he thought, had

hitherto been calm; but now a tempest raged within him, rising in

strength day by day, hour by hour, so that there was but one thing in

his being—love of Marian, that first, that last, that all in all. Away

from the thought of her and his passion for her he could never tear

himself; it was always with him. When he painted, there was her face

before him, dim but insistent. Something of her features seemed to creep

even into the portrait he was painting of Agatha West. When he read, the

words conveyed no thought, no sense to his mind; he was thinking of her,

wondering where she was and what she was doing, with whom if not alone.

She possessed him, heart, soul and body; he was all hers.

 

More than once a frenzy of jealousy had attacked him: did she truly love

him? Or was she just play-acting, fooling him, deceiving him, betraying

him, laughing at him and his blind love? The impulse came on him

strongly to go up to town, without warning her, and to watch—watch,

unseen. But he dared not; in such a case, he thought, ignorance would be

bliss compared with knowledge.

 

At last dawned the wished-for day on which Marian was to come. He had

lain tossing awake all the night. Hours yet remained to be gotten

through somehow before he could set out to walk to the station. After

breakfast at nine, he set about tidying the studio, filling the vases

with flowers, and setting “The Rebel” in a place of honor by the window.

Then in the sitting room he cleared up the litter of pipes and books,

and helped to decorate the table for luncheon.

 

At length he felt that he could linger no longer indoors, and started

out to walk slowly along the cliffs toward Brighton. There was no stir

in the air, the sea lay placid, the sun shone down as if with a promise

of spring. He went slowly along, his heart light as a lad’s when going

out to meet his first mistress. He knew how it would throb when he

caught sight of her face. Would hers do so likewise? He knew how words

would fail him, and how he would stammer out some stupid commonplace.

Would it be so with her? He knew how anxiously he would await the

train’s arrival, how eagerly he would scan the alighting passengers,

seeking her. Would it be the same with her? Would she look on with

indifference at one and another until her eyes met his? Then—would hers

light up with the fire of love?

 

He reached the station half an hour before the train was due, and paced

impatiently up and down through the throng, cursing the clock, the hands

of which seemed to stand still. The train at last came in; out of one of

the first compartments stepped Philip West, who caught hold of Maddison

as he rushed by.

 

“All right, old chap, don’t be in such a hurry. I’ve had a

fellow-passenger, who knows you and wants to speak to you.”

 

Maddison checked himself impatiently, yet afraid to show his anger at

the interruption. He shook West’s out-held hand; and then looked, and

there was Marian.

 

“I met Mrs. Squire at Victoria, and took charge of her as she was all

alone. I got her heaps of magazines and papers, and books, and—she did

nothing but—talk all the way down. I never knew before how near

Brighton is to London.”

 

Marian laughed merrily, returning the close pressure of Maddison’s eager

hand. How deliciously pretty she looked, he thought; how wildly

aggravating that West should be there.

 

“Now I’m off; I’ve no luggage to worry about,” said West. “Good-by, Mrs.

Squire, and thank you for a very pleasant journey. Good-by, Maddison,

see you soon.”

 

West strode off through the bustling crowd. Then everything vanished for

Maddison save Marian.

 

“My dear, my dear,” he said, taking her hand in his again. “My dear——”

 

The tears started into his eyes as he strove in vain to speak.

 

“My dear old boy! It’s jolly to be together again, isn’t it? Come along.

Take me out of this. We can’t talk here.”

 

Soon they were driving along through the brisk air, he seated opposite

her so that he might see her the better.

 

“It was luck meeting Mr. West, wasn’t it? He’d been up for the night,

and it was much nicer than traveling alone.”

 

“Bother West,” said Maddison. “He’s nothing. What about yourself? Tell

me all about yourself.”

 

“All? All? Where shall I begin. From the moment you went off?”

 

“Till this minute! A few days ago! It seems years to me. It was all I

could do to keep from rushing up to town to see you.”

 

“You know I missed you dreadfully,” she said, leaning forward and

resting her hand on his knee. “It was just as bad for me as for you. But

now we’re together, don’t let’s worry about what has been; I’ve come

down to be happy, dear, to be happy.”

 

“Look here. We shall be out of the town soon. If you’re not tired, let’s

get out and walk along the cliff. The fly can take the traps along.

Shall we?”

 

“It’d be jolly. I’ve been sitting all the morning. What a lovely day! it

was foggy and horrid in town.”

 

So intense was Maddison’s happiness that he was content to be silent, as

he walked along by her side, as was she, for she went in fear of letting

him see that her pleasure at the meeting was not so great as his.

Moreover, the journey with West had given her food for thought, and the

knowledge that he was staying at Brighton had altered altogether the

plans she had made. A day or two alone with Maddison was all that she

felt she could endure, but with West near by it might be foolish to

return to town so soon.

 

Suddenly Maddison stopped and took her eagerly by the hands; stood close

to her, looking down into her eyes.

 

“I wonder if you know what this meeting means to me, Marian? I thought I

knew how much you are to me, but I didn’t—not till I came down here and

was without you. You’re all the world to me, Marian, just all the world.

There’s nothing else in the world for me but you. Are you _glad_? Very

glad——?”

 

“Very glad!” she answered softly.

 

“I used to laugh at men who went mad after a woman; but I’m mad for you,

Marian; crazy as can be! And you—I wonder, have you suffered as much as

I have done? I hope _not_ for your sake, but I’m selfish, and really

hope that you have. Have you?”

 

“How can I tell, dear? I know—I missed you very much, ever so much.

But, oh, why, George, worry about that? Isn’t the present good enough to

make us forget all about it?”

 

“You’re right! By Jove, you’re right. Let’s get on—I want to have you

all alone—in my arms, and to hold you so tight that you can never slip

away again.”

 

“That’s all right!” she answered, laughing, “but I’m not a man with

seven-leagued legs, so unless you want to get there before me, don’t

rush along like that!”

 

He slackened his speed, and they went along, he thinking of her, and

stealing look after look at her. She was wondering if she would have the

skill and the strength to play her game so that he should not discover

that what was so earnest to him to her was only make-believe. She

consoled herself with the thought that perhaps did he love her less his

penetration would be more keen and that the very excess of his ardor

would make him blind. Nevertheless, there was great need for care upon

her part, which would indeed have been unendurable to her had she not

known that the visit was to be brief and that in a few days’ time she

would be back in town, free. She was consoled, too, by the remembrance

that West had asked permission to call upon her.

 

When they reached the cottage Mrs. Witchout stood in the doorway,

anxiety writ large upon her wrinkled face and her nose more than usually rubicund.