The Pest 3

The Pest 3

“I’m glad you look on me as a friend. I wish I could help you.”

 

“You are helping me by letting me talk to you. I wonder do you

understand a bit of what’s the matter? Can _you_ understand? You’ve

always been free, and could make your life for yourself. I’m strong, but

I mayn’t even try to use my strength. I hate all this cant about women’s

rights; every woman can have her rights if she only dares to take them.

But we’re all bred up to be dependent cowards. Now, I suppose you’re

shocked?”

 

“Why? I think I understand what you mean—what you feel. Does—your

husband know?”

 

“He? He couldn’t understand! He would try to, and would advise me to go

out and work here with him. I did do some work with him, but it only

sickened me. And the people he works with! Gossiping, chattering,

self-important humbugs. So now I sit all day with my hands in my lap and

cry like a baby for a moon I _could_ have if I dared take it. I’m

young—and—what’s the use of not saying it?—pretty, and——”

 

She clenched her hands on the arms of her chair and set her teeth

firmly. The fire shed a warm glow over the handsome, alluring face; he

watched her with admiration. A picture ready to his hand. The dull,

stupid room; the woman, splendidly rebellious. What was she going to

make of her future?

 

“I’m going to ask you to help _me_!” he exclaimed. “Let me paint your

portrait; not an ordinary portrait. The subject has been in my head for

a long time, but I’ve never been able to grasp it until just a moment

ago. I shall call it ‘The Rebel.’ Will you come up two or three times a

week to my studio and sit for me?”

 

“Shall I?” she answered, looking doubtfully at him—“shall I? And then

when it’s over, come back here—_here_!”

 

He had his thoughts and she had hers, but neither expressed them or

guessed the other’s.

 

“It would only make me more angry with things,” she said; “no, you

_don’t_ understand me a bit. It must be all—or nothing. A sweet to-day

and bread-and-butter every other day? No, no. Understand? It has been so

bad with me that I stood on Westminster Bridge the other night after I

left you, and looked at the water; I am such a coward that I came home

to this.”

 

“So—you won’t help me to paint my picture?”

 

“I’ll think about it, and let you know. When shall I come?”

 

Maddison took out his engagement book and turned over the pages.

 

“You have to find time between one engagement and another,” she said,

watching him; “I’m free every day.”

 

“To-day’s Tuesday; would Thursday, eleven, suit you? We could go and

have lunch somewhere afterwards.”

 

“I can’t decide. Will you leave it open? I’ll just come, if I’m coming,

and, if I don’t come, it will mean I’d rather you didn’t come here

again.”

 

“I won’t worry about that. I’ll just hope you will come. Now, I must be

going. Good-by, and—again—I wish I could help you.”

 

As Maddison drove home, he was in doubt as to what course he should

pursue in this adventure so suddenly thrown his way. Marian greatly

attracted him, both by her beauty and her brains, but he did not as yet

feel disposed to face the scandal that must come if he took her away

from her husband, should she care to come to him, and should he care to

ask her. He felt certain that if he saw much more of her he would fall

under her fascination, yet, weakly, he had given her this invitation

rather than run the risk of not meeting her frequently, rather than have

to meet her in the dismal surroundings of her home.

 

During the last few years he had drilled himself into not yielding to

his every impulse. When he had first met her the desire bred in him by

her country comeliness had almost led him into marrying her; its renewal

urged him strongly to ask her to be his mistress. He believed that she

would yield. What would be the outcome of such a course? She was

evidently trembling on the brink of revolt, undecided whether or not to

dare all. Should he tempt her? There could be no question as to her

beauty, which was of a type that had always appealed to him. Tall,

lithe, well-proportioned; elegant in face and figure—how lovely she

would look daintily dressed! No mere animal, but a woman.

 

Between now and Thursday he must decide with regard to her.

 

Then the fear shot into his mind that perhaps she would not come.

 

 

* * * * *

 

When he had left the room, Marian sat down again by the fire, her face

lit up by a smile of complete satisfaction.

 

She was not trembling on the brink of revolt. When she had met him that

foggy afternoon she had been so, but only because she felt helpless. Now

succor had come. She felt certain that she could win Maddison to her

will, that she would be able to use him as the stepping-stone to the

luxury and power for which she lusted. He had almost loved her in the

old days, he nearly loved her now after these two brief meetings; at any

rate he was sorry for her. She would tempt him and he would fall.

 

Again she looked at herself in the mirror; she was made to conquer. This

man, and others, should be hers. She held the two most powerful of

weapons, beauty and heartlessness, and would use both without scruple.

 

She laughed as she thought of her upbringing in the little country

village, of her ever having believed that she could live content as a

curate’s wife. Whence came this unruliness in her blood? She could

understand the discontent with the physical conditions of her life, but

her desires went far beyond that. It was not merely for love and luxury

that she longed, but for power—power over the body and mind of men of

power.

 

Maddison would not satisfy all her cravings; but he could take her away

out into the world, and there she knew she could win.

 

She had in her the confidence of a conqueror.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER III

 

 

ON Thursday morning Maddison waited impatiently for Marian, though he

never for a moment doubted but that she would come.

 

Absence from her had made her influence the stronger; each hour the

recollection of her face had grown more clear—the droop of the eyelids,

their sudden lifting and the keen, searching look of her eyes; the

dainty poise of her head, the masses of red-gold hair, the little mouth

with its moist, tempting lips; the tall figure, the clean, determined

movements.

 

He paced up and down the studio waiting for her.

 

Many pretty women had sat to him there, some of whom had tempted him and

to a few of whom he had fallen willing captive for a time. But Marian

held him by a stronger spell; it was not merely her beauty that called

so, imperatively to him. She was a complete woman, body and brain, and

to touch her heart, to win it, to keep it, to be able to hurt it—that

he must do.

 

But she did not come and the hour was past. Was she fooling him, luring

him on? He could not credit that; he had watched her keenly and it had

seemed to him that she was ready to rebel but did not dare revolt, and

that it remained for him to decide whether or not she should attain her

freedom. To him this world was a delightful dwelling place, in which

wise men gained all of pleasure upon which they could lay hands. To make

her his own would bring him complete satisfaction, at any rate for a

time. As for the future, only fools toted up bills that might have to be

paid. There was one cost, however, which he would have to pay, the

thought of which had at first given him pause. Doubtless Squire would

sue for a divorce, and, though the case would be undefended,

nevertheless it would cause considerable scandal. Afterwards, would she

ask him to marry her? That he would not do, for it was a part of his

creed that a woman who has left one man had best be left free to desert

the next.

 

As he waited impatiently, the question came to him more forcibly than it

had done before: did Marian care for him? Their two meetings had been

brief, and there had been no hint of love making. He thought that she

was desperate enough to grasp at any hand held out to her, that she

would be easy to win. The idea of the picture had suggested itself

opportunely, and he had seized on it as a convenient and plausible

excuse for their meetings. He fancied that she would accept the chance

eagerly, yet she had not seemed to do so, had hesitated, and now—he

laughed angrily at the state of irritated disappointment into which he

was working himself.

 

Perhaps she had been delayed, or detained at the last moment. Probably

she would write, or maybe come up in the afternoon to explain.

 

He had arranged to lunch in the studio, luckily, so would not be out if

she did arrive later. He looked at the pretty white table, which stood

so daintily in the broad alcove before the wide hearth, with the quaint

colored glasses and old silver. How delicious she would look against the

dark oak of the fireplace!

 

A ring at the door!

 

The housekeeper announced “Mr. Mortimer,” and Maddison fumed that he had

forgotten to say that he expected a sitter, and was not to be disturbed.

 

“Well, George,” said Mortimer, putting up his eyeglass as he walked into

the room. “I’m extra busy at the office, so it’s jollier than ever to

come up and waste an hour with you. It’s no fun lounging when there’s no

reason why you should not do so. Ah! you were expecting some one—me, of

course!”

 

He glanced at the luncheon table, quizzically. He was short, sturdy,

with a somewhat bullet-shaped head, covered—though thin at top—with

crisp, curly black hair. His features were Oriental in cast, with a

tendency toward coarseness, and his voice somewhat thick and heavy.