The Pest 24

The Pest 24

“Good mornin’, ma’am,” she said. “I was beginnin’ to worrit about the

food. Cookin’s cookin’, I always says, and doin’ things to rags is

’nother thing. But you’re justin time, which is more than Mr. Maddison

usually is.”

 

“Mrs. Witchout keeps me in grand order, Marian, and if you want anything

while you’re here, don’t ask me for it—I’m not boss of the show.”

 

“That’s the way he always runs on; don’t take anynoticeofhim, I

don’t. Would you like to go up to your room? It’s upstairs—if youcancall

these stepladdery things stairs. This way, m’m.”

 

Mrs. Witchout led the way upstairs, Maddison holding Marian back a

minute to whisper to her:

 

“By the way, you’re my _sister_! I’ve had a bed made up in the studio

for myself. Don’t give the show away.”

 

Marian laughed as she ran up, and Maddison turned into the living room.

Everything was ready, the table neat, cozy and pretty, a covered dish

and the plates warming by the fire, which blazed up cheerily; the

lattice windows were thrown wide open and the sun streamed in warmly.

 

“You don’t look much alike,” said Mrs. Witchout, coming in. “If you

takes arter your father she must take arter her mother, and a ’andsome

couple they must ’ave been, I’m thinkin’.”

 

“Don’t try to flatter me, Mrs. Witchout,” Maddison answered, with a

laugh, as he sat down on the window seat, watching her picking up the

dish with the assistance of her apron. “It’s no use your coming over me

and you mustn’t spoil her with compliments, though the biggest would

have been to have told her that she is nearly as good-looking as I am.”

 

“Lawks!” was Mrs. Witchout’s comment.

 

“What a jolly little room!” exclaimed Marian, pausing in the doorway and

looking round. “And what flowers! And the windows, wide open, just as if

it was springtime. It feels like it.”

 

“Yes—and termorrer you’ll have east winds and wet to bring out yer

rheumattics, leastways my rheumattics, beggin’ pardon.”

 

“Come along; I’m sure you’re hungry, Marian, everybody always is here.

And Mrs. Witchout, you just be off! We’ll look after ourselves and won’t

make your life a burden to you.”

 

“I’ll go when I’m ready, Mr. Maddison, not afore.”

 

“There, Marian, what did I tell you? You see what you can do.”

 

“Don’t show him up my first day here, Mrs. Witchout; let him have his

way, _for once_!”

 

“For once! They always do say it’s your own fam’ly who knows least about

yer! For once! He always do ’ave it.”

 

So saying, Mrs. Witchout hustled from the room with a pretense of anger

that was transparent.

 

“At last!”

 

Maddison strode across the room, laid his hands on Marian’s shoulders,

holding her at arm’s length while he gazed at her. Then he drew her

close to him, feverishly kissing her again and again, kissing her lips,

her hair, her eyes.

 

“Haven’t you a kiss for me, Marian?”

 

Their lips met, and his heart beat as though it would burst.

 

“Oh, Marian, Marian, we must never part again!”

 

For the moment his passion overcame her, and she lay close in his arms,

panting, forgetful.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI

 

 

ALICE LANE walked quietly along the pier toward the sea, having left

West alone with his wife, who was suffering from one of her racking

headaches that formed the chief symptom of her illness. Sedate, tall,

well-proportioned, with ample movements and strong, straight, alert

gaze, more than one man turned to look after her as she went by,

thinking that this was a woman upon whom a man could rely for sufficient

help in time of trouble. But calm as was her outward seeming, her brain

was busied over the problem which had become the great question of her

life, and which she believed would soon have to be answered. She did not

think that West had guessed the secret of her love for him, the secret

which she had so jealously guarded, but she feared that Agatha had

discovered it, for she had noticed lately a coolness in her manner and a

watchfulness that was new. She had noticed, also, a distinct change in

West’s bearing toward his wife, for which she was puzzled to account.

She had all along felt that he would not be able to find abiding content

in the companionship of Agatha; that to win his lasting affection

something more was needed than mere prettiness and winsomeness, but the

change had come sooner than she had expected, and she fancied that

perhaps there might be some external influence at work, perhaps another

woman. Had Agatha contented West and made him happy, Alice Lane would

have suffered silently, have made no sign, would never have attempted to

win his love. But if Agatha had lost him, she felt free to take him if

she could gain him, no matter at what cost to herself. Her love for him

was unselfish, and if by any sacrifice she could achieve his welfare,

she would gladly make it.

 

Both Agatha and he pooh-poohed any suggestion on her part that her visit

to them must come to an end, but she had decided that it must do so, and

at once. She could no longer bear the strain of guarding her every

action, look and word for fear that either of them should see into her

heart. That she had some way betrayed herself to Agatha she was assured,

but she must keep her secret from Philip until such time as he should

have a secret to confide to her. Leave them then she must, returning to

town and the companionship of her brother.

 

She watched from the end of the pier the soft glitter of the sunshine

upon the broken water. She tried to puzzle out her future course, but

the way was not plain to her. There was this added to her concern, that

apart from the breaking up of his love for his wife, West was restless

and evidently worried by some business care. It hurt her to think of him

alone with his trouble, with no one who, even without understanding,

could give him nourishing sympathy. She would have sacrificed her soul

to have been free to link her arm in his and to offer to walk the

difficult way by his side, not supported by him, not supporting him, but

mutually confident, comrades, allies.

 

She was suddenly aware of some one standing close beside her, and

turning slowly found that West was watching her with evident amusement.

Taking his cigar out of his mouth, he said:

 

“A penny for your thoughts!”

 

“Not for sale,” she replied. “I did not know you were coming out.”

 

“Neither did I. But Aggy was—out of sorts,” he said slowly, “out of

sorts. So I sent her off to lie down and rest; and came along here at a

venture, knowing how fond you are of drinking in the fresh air. Not that

you seemed to be doing so just now in any great quantities, for your

mouth was close shut, and you looked as if you were wanting to fight

somebody. How do you feel for a sharp walk? Let’s go along to Hove and

back, it’ll brisk us up; at least I want brisking up. You never seem to

vary, like a weatherglass fixed at ‘set fair.’”

 

“Blessed are good appearances,” she said, tacitly accepting his

suggestion; “I fancy it’s best not to show your emotions; so few people

know how to sympathize. Most of them talk, and that’s the least part of

sympathy—at least I think so.”

 

“Do I show my emotions?”

 

“I can only guess whether you do or not. I might think I knew what you

were feeling, and I might be quite wrong.”

 

“What am I feeling now?”

 

“Glad to be out in the fresh air; glad to be moving; hoping by talking

to me to be able to forget for a while—your worries.”

 

“My worries?” he asked, looking at her keenly, and wondering why she

turned her face away and gazed steadily out at the sea. “My worries?

H’m. I don’t think much of you as a thought-reader; you might say that

to any busy man, who has had a hard day and most of a night working in

town.”

 

“Yes—but you don’t usually carry your business worries about with you,

as you have been doing lately.”

 

“Oh! Lately. Those quiet gray eyes of yours are keen. Well, it’s quite

true, I am unusually worried just now, and you’ll be surprised to hear

that I hate having to bear my worries alone. I used not to mind that

when I was alone. You see, Aggy doesn’t understand business; it isn’t

her line exactly——”

 

He stopped short, for it occurred to him that it was an awkward thing to

discuss his wife with another woman, however intimate a friend she might

be of them both.

 

“Besides,” he went on quickly, “it isn’t fair to worry her just now;

she’s seedy and out of sorts and wants cheering, not depressing.”

 

“Depressing?”

 

“Well, so it would be to tell her I’m worried, for she knows I don’t

fidget about trifles. I must go up to town again to-morrow and tackle a

lot of old fossils who are driving me to exasperation.”

 

“I suppose you’ll be going by the early train?”

 

“Yes—why?”

 

“If you could wait till a bit later—you might escort me.”

 

“Why, what are you running up for? Can’t I do it for you?”

 

“I’m running away altogether. Now, don’t interrupt. I must go; I told

you I was going, and you wouldn’t believe me. So now you must both

accept your fate and make the best of me at a distance.”

 

“I jolly well won’t. Your brother said I was to take care of you and how

the doose can I do that if you won’t stay with us? Besides, I must be

away a good deal at present, and Aggy will be lonely——”

 

“She has other friends. And—I don’t think Aggy is quite so fond of me

as she used to be.”

 

“Oh, nonsense. She’s not quite herself now; you mustn’t mind her when

she’s a bit off color.”

 

“That’s not why I’m going; I merely mentioned it to show that there was

less reason for my staying than you supposed. It’s very good and very

kind of you—of you both—to have had me with you so long, and not to

have got tired of my sober-sidedness. But don’t you know yet how

obstinate I am?”

 

“Obstinate? I should hardly put it that way. Firm, I should say. Yes,

I’ve observed it; you generally have your own way.”

 

“I didn’t mean that. And how can you tell? Perhaps I’m wise enough only

to let my wishes be known when I feel pretty sure of getting them, and

to bottle them up tight when I know they’re hopeless.”