The Pest 28

The Pest 28

She broke away from him, laughing merrily, and slammed the parlor door

and locked it in his face as he ran after her, calling to him:

 

“Cook won’t have you in her kitchen! I must attend to the kettle and not

to you for once!”

 

She took off her heavy coat and then set about preparing the tea things,

and as she busied herself with them, thought over the events of the

afternoon. She was certain that West was to be caught only by making him

feel that he was pursuer, not pursued; by no art of coquetry on her

part, but by a show of absolute indifference to him, which would lure

him to win her out of pride if not for love. Once she could rouse his

interest in her, she was confident the game would be in her own hands.

She was pleased at the way in which she had made the most of West’s

innocent speech, and made up her mind that merely pleasant friendliness

must be her attitude toward him, until he sought to make her change it,

and even then he must find anything further difficult to gain.

 

West was in the studio when she carried in the tray, and insisted on

taking it from her, while Maddison drew up a table to the fireside.

Cakes were set close to the blazing fire to keep hot. Maddison drew the

curtains and struck a match.

 

“Don’t light the lamps yet, George,” said Marian, “unless you and Mr.

West dislike blindman’s holiday. Stir up the fire and make a big blaze

and we’ll have tea by firelight; it’s much more cozy—and artistic too,

so there!”

 

The rough cottage fireplace, with old-fashioned blue tiles and broad

grate; the rich blaze; the dark background of the studio; Marian, her

red-gold hair gloriously lit by the dancing flames, graceful, lithe;

Maddison, with his dusky, refined face and his midnight eyes; West,

long, lank, angular, with his shock of dark hair and his eyes of deep

blue: the man of art, the man of the world, and the woman; each man

wishing that the other were absent.

 

“Now, Mr. West, open the door,” said Marian, after tea, as she put the

cups and saucers together on the tray. “Please open the door—I’m off to

wash up. I always wash up the tea things, because it secures a lecture

from Mrs. Witchout in the morning, which is always delightful. You and

George can talk high art and smoke.”

 

Maddison lit a pipe, while West contented himself with a cigarette.

 

“When you told me about yourself and Mrs. Squire, I naturally thought

you’d made a fool of yourself or been made a fool of, Maddison,” West

said, as he prowled about; “but you’re a lucky devil. She’s a clever,

interesting woman. No wonder she couldn’t stick to the curate—I wonder

how she ever came to marry him. Hullo! Here’s ‘The Rebel.’ Can’t see by

this jumpy light—is it finished?”

 

“Yes—as far as _I_ can finish it.”

 

“If you can’t, who can? Anything else on hand beside the portrait of the

missis?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re getting lazy. You’re enjoying yourself too much. I must tell

Mrs. Squire to buck you up and make you work. Don’t forget, old chap,

that I want ‘The Rebel’ if you’ll let me have it. I don’t mind your

doing a replica for yourself, provided you never part with it. Think it

over. You haven’t much more than three months before you’ll have to send

in—I forgot you’re a blooming A.R.A.—but buck up, it don’t do to rest

on your oars nowadays, competition’s too keen and you must keep yourself

before the public if you don’t want to be forgotten.”

 

“That’s shop talk, West.”

 

“All the world’s a shop, my boy; always has been, always will be. Why,

even the socialist idea is to turn the country into a universal

provider. Don’t think it would help matters if poets and painters were

endowed by the State and hadn’t to work for a living. You can’t tell me

of any rich man—any man born rich—who has ever done any art work worth

talking about. If it weren’t for women and money the world would die of

inanition.”

 

“What rot you do talk sometimes, West; I suppose you find it a useful

habit in business; when a wise man can disguise himself as a foolish,

he’s sure to get on.”

 

“And the reverse also holds good, from which, logically, it must be

deduced that to appear other than you are is the first law of existence!

But as a matter of fact you know I’m not talking nonsense. If I were to

say to you: ‘I’ll give you an annuity of three thousand a year, on

condition that you give me all the pictures you paint, but you’ve only

to paint when you feel inspired to do so,’ why, my dear fellow, you know

as well as I do that your career would be over. Thank your lucky stars

you’ve got to work for your living. Well, I must be off, Aggy will

wonder what on earth’s become of me. She’s always expecting me to smash

myself. Do you think I may ‘walk into the parlor’ and say ‘good-by’

to—cook?”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX

 

 

HAD Maddison known that West’s advice had been inspired by Marian he

would have set it aside angrily, but in his ignorance he looked on it as

curiously coincidental with much of what she had said to him, when she

had urged upon him the necessity of their separating again. The fear of

Squire’s persecution had been thrust into the background, and he had

tried also to shake off the feeling that had gradually been growing upon

him, that his love for her was interfering detrimentally with his work.

“The Rebel” he believed, in fact he knew, to be the finest picture he

had yet painted, and the portrait of Mrs. West would, he believed, be

good; but beyond these two canvases he could not see. Marian seemed to

stand between him and his inspiration, upon which he had never before

called in vain, upon which, indeed, he had never before been compelled

to call, for it had always come unsummoned.

 

Many difficulties faced him. He could not bring himself to sell “The

Rebel,” even to West—it seemed like parting with Marian. The portrait

would bring him in a large sum, but not sufficient to meet the expense

of the coming year. His resources were low; he had always lived close up

to his income, saving scarcely anything, and that little had now been

drawn upon to the full. All this would not have mattered had he been

alone, with only himself to care for; though fond of luxury, he was not

a slave to it. But he had taken Marian into his charge, was responsible

for her well-being, not only now, but under compulsion of honor and love

not to leave her penniless if anything ill should chance to come to him.

The fact that faced him was that he must set to work at once, must work

rapidly and well. It was not essential that his pictures should be

exhibited at any of the spring shows—the dealers were always ready to

welcome and able to dispose of any work he could offer them.

Nevertheless time pressed, unless he borrowed upon work undone, so

mortgaging the future, of doing which he hated and feared the thought.

 

With Marian as model he could doubtless paint more than one picture, but

strive as he would he could think of no subject; it was Marian as Marian

who occupied him entirely, and to paint her portrait in this, that and

the other attitude would be not merely banal, but distasteful to him.

Further still, with her beside him, near him, within call, there seemed

to be no room in his life for any other desire than to be with her, just

to see her, to love her, to please her. On the other hand, if they

parted, did the experience of the short separation through which he had

gone hold out any promise of greater ability to work? Not much. But this

new separation would be different; it would be caused by the necessity

of work so that they might be together; the better, the quicker the

work, the shorter the separation; surely that great incentive would spur

him on to success? It was Marian alone whom he must consider. To go on

as he was meant being forced to ask her to make sacrifices, and that

idea he put behind him at once and finally. To go away for a while, with

only occasional meetings with her during the next few months, was her

own suggestion, based, indeed, upon other reasons than those upon which

he would act, and he appreciated what he believed to be the loving

unselfishness that inspired it, for to her, as to him, the parting and

the separation would be full of pain. But did not love for her demand of

him that he should pursue this course? After all, would not the

resultant reward be great? It seemed to him that it refined and purified

his love for Marian the making of this sacrifice for her sake. So far

his passion had been entirely selfish; he had thought so little of

herself and so much of himself; so much of what she gave him, so little

of what he gave her; so much of his future with her, so little of what

might come to her. It was hot passion at first, overwhelming passion for

a beautiful, desirable woman; this passion had not decreased, had not in

any way been satiated by possession, but added to it now was the other

part of love, which is as unselfish as passion is selfish. Her

happiness, her peace, her delight, how could he best secure them? It

shocked him at first when he tried to reduce this vague wish to

practicality, to find that the first thing he must do was to work for

money. There was no escaping from that—he must make money; he must

work. He could not work with her beside him—at least he could not do so

now; perhaps the time would come when he could not work apart from

her—perhaps that time had indeed come, though he did not know

it—perhaps—perhaps—; so round and round in this circle his thoughts

flew, and the one thing that came forth clear to him was that he must

agree to Marian returning to town and to his not seeing her for some

weeks.

 

He saw her off; stood looking after her, almost dazed, then turned away

like one blind, and walked slowly home to the empty studio and the empty

life.

 

Far different were Marian’s feelings on parting with him. His decision

had taken her by surprise, until he had put fairly before her the

reasons that were his motives. She had feigned willingness to share any

degree of poverty with him, well knowing that she did not risk anything

by so doing, but on the contrary fixed more firmly his determination to

ask her for no sacrifice. Of Squire they had not spoken. She was not so

inhuman as not to feel any touch of gratitude, or any spark of pity for

the man who loved her so truly and so unselfishly; she almost wished she

could have loved him; but being what she was, these emotions did not

make her for a moment hesitate to pursue the course she had mapped out

for herself. The love of power, which had once been her strongest

motive, was growing weaker day by day; the love of luxury and pleasure

growing in intensity; the world declining in its attractions; the flesh

and the devil in her increasing in their sway over her wishes and

actions. Philip West now attracted her chiefly as a rich man, only in

the second place because of the satisfaction it would be to reduce a

strong man to her command; Sydney Geraldstein appealed to all that was

basest in her. She had not seen West since he had driven her in his car,

but she knew that he would hear at once of her return to town, for

Maddison had decided to call on Mrs. West, in order to arrange for the

resumption of the sittings for the portrait. How soon would West come to see her? Would he come at all?