The Pest 33

The Pest 33

“You’re forgetting me!” she said, an idea coming to her, which held out

promise of sufficient excuse for leaving him again soon.

 

“Forgetting you—do you think that I ever forget you for a single

moment? You know—I often used to think myself in love, but it never

lasted. Then I began to believe that love wasn’t very much after all,

and that people were fools or ignorant who said it was the only thing in

life worth having. You’ve taught me better, dear. But what did you mean

by saying I’d forgotten you?”

 

“You’ve—left me out of your plans!”

 

“Left you out? Why, you’re just everything!”

 

“Not quite. You couldn’t go on loving a woman who had no pride, could

you?”

 

“I could love you whatever you were.”

 

“But that’s not right, George. When I—came to you, you were a great

man, but not nearly so great as you were going to be. And now I have

spoiled all your future and you don’t seem to have any ambition left.

No,” she said, forcing herself away from him and with a gesture

forbidding him to follow her, “I’m _not_ going to spoil your life. If I

come between you and your work—I’ll—leave you.”

 

“Leave me!”

 

The agony in his voice startled her.

 

“Leave me!” he repeated, striding across to her and holding her fiercely

to him. “I think I’d kill you before I’d let you do that.”

 

“Don’t, George, don’t,” she gasped; “you’re frightening me.”

 

“I’m so sorry, love, but—why do you say such horrid things to me?”

 

“What I said was right. If I can’t help you with your work, George, I’ll

do this; if in a few days you can’t begin a picture without me in it,

can’t prove that you can work with me near you—I’ll go away and I’ll

stay away until you can tell me that I can come back safely to you.”

 

“So that’s your plan! But it will take two to carry it out, and I won’t

make the second. I simply _won’t_ let you go. So that’s settled.”

 

“You don’t want me to be happy? Is your love so selfish as all that?”

 

“So selfish!” he said, freeing her, dropping his arms, standing amazed.

“Selfish! Oh, my love, you’re right, right. It was damnably selfish; I

was just thinking of myself. But—are you happy when you’re not with

me?”

 

“You know I’m not, George. But—I’m so proud of you, and I should hate

myself if I knew I was standing in your way. I should be unhappy with

you then. Besides, dear, is—is——”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Is it right to love me like that? Love ought to help you, not harm

you.”

 

“Help me! It has helped me to understand what happiness is. I didn’t

know that before.”

 

“Well, George, you mustn’t kill my pride; keep me proud of you, proud of

having helped you, proud of myself. There, we’ll talk no more about it

now, and to-morrow, or the next day, you shall start another picture,

only I will not be your model.”

 

“But——”

 

“No! We’re not going to argue the first day we are together. Look, the

rain’s over and the sun’s trying to come out. I’ll run up and put on my

country boots and hat, and we’ll go for a walk over the downs.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII

 

 

FOR the first time West hesitated in his dealing with a woman. Partly it

was that Marian puzzled as well as attracted him, partly it was that the

precipitancy of his marriage with Agatha and its failure gave him pause

before he took the step of trying to win Marian away from Maddison. He

admired her, but he was by no means sure that the admiration was mutual;

indeed part of her attraction for him was that she had not in any way,

so far as he could see, endeavored to bring him to her side. Hitherto

the women whom he had met had made little effort to conceal the fact

that his money rendered him a welcome suitor.

 

It was his custom every morning to walk in Hyde Park before going to

business; it was usually the only hour in the day which was not

interrupted and in which, therefore, he could think clearly. This mental

constitutional was broken up one day by meeting Alice Lane. They came

suddenly face to face at a sharp turning close by the Serpentine.

 

“You’re most unfashionably early!” he said, falling into step with her.

 

“I’m unfashionable in everything, I think. I didn’t know you were in

town.”

 

“Is that a kind of way of reminding me that I ought to have called? I’ve

been awfully busy.”

 

“How’s Agatha? Is she still at Brighton?”

 

“Yes. She’s much better and beginning to enjoy herself. What have you

been doing?”

 

“Just nothing.”

 

“I can’t believe that of you. You’d go crazy if you hadn’t something to

do.”

 

“Why, I stopped weeks with you and didn’t do a single thing the whole

time.”

 

“That’s true,” he admitted, laughing; “but you always manage to give the

impression of being busy. Like one of my men, whom I had to fire out the

other day—he was always awfully busy and didn’t get any work done.”

 

“I’ve no work to do.”

 

West felt curiously constrained; not that anything in her tone or manner

jarred upon him; she was frankly kind as she always was to him. He did

not feel that he had anything to say to her and small talk failed him.

 

They walked on for some little distance without speaking.

 

“My brother’s engaged to be married,” she said suddenly.

 

“Really! That’s good. I must write and congratulate him. But it’ll be a

nuisance for you, won’t it? I suppose it will be the customary ‘two’s

company.’”

 

“I shan’t try to make it anything else. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

 

“Fair to her! That’s like you; that’s you all over. I’d bet anything you

haven’t bothered to think about yourself. What a show up you good women

make of us men!”

 

“Don’t say things like that about me,” she answered, so fiercely that he

stared at her astonished, “_don’t_. It’s so utterly untrue. What on

earth does a man ever know about a woman? I’m hateful to myself, and I’d

be hateful to you if you knew me.”

 

“I’m sorry—something’s wrong and I’ve touched you on the raw; I’m

sorry. Not that I believe you a bit you’re worrying about something that

wouldn’t give me a twinge. I—suppose I can’t help you any way?”

 

“You—no, no, thanks.” She clenched her fingers tightly inside her muff.

“No one can help me and I can’t help myself.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You’re such a good sort, I hate to see you

suffering; I’m afraid it’s something pretty bad.”

 

“I’d rather not talk about myself. Tell me about yourself. Don’t you

feel lonesome up here without Agatha?”

 

“Oh, we’re settling down into conventional married life. Quite pleased

to be together, but not inconsolable when we’re apart. Aggy’s growing up

and finding other amusements in life besides honeymooning.”

 

“And you?” she asked, not looking at him, but fixing her gaze straight

ahead.

 

“I? Didn’t I tell you I’m very busy?”

 

“And that’s all you care about?”

 

“I’m beginning to think so. It’s really the only game worth playing.

Now, here we are at Hyde Park corner. Shall I take a turn back with you

and be late at the office? Or be a good boy, remember that work’s first,

pleasure second?”

 

“Be a good boy,” she replied, holding out her hand.

 

She stood still, watching him as he strode rapidly away, and when he was

out of sight, still stood there, her lips tightly pressed together,

suppressing the cry of hopelessness that tried to force its way from her

heart.

 

West telegraphed later on in the morning to Marian, saying that he would

call in the evening on the chance that she would be free to dine with

him and go on to a theater afterward, and Marian on her arrival from

Brighton found the telegram awaiting her and welcomed it. Her stay at

Rottingdean had rested her, had done good to her physically, but had

sent her back thirsty for amusement. She had intended to write to West,

but good fortune had brought him to her uncalled.

 

She dressed herself with peculiar care, and was ready for him when he

arrived.

 

“By Jove, this is luck,” he said, “unless you’ve dressed to go out

somewhere else? Don’t tell me that and turn a lonely man out on a lonely

world.”

 

“No, I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself when I found your

wire here. I only came up from Brighton to-day.”

 

“You’ve been down there? Well, where shall we go?”

 

“Anywhere, only somewhere where there are lots of people. I went down

there for a change; I’ve come up here for a change.”

 

“Aren’t I change enough? There’s conceit! Here, slip on your cloak, and

we’ll discuss our destination in the cab as we go along.”

 

Marian had chosen to go to the Gaiety and West had telephoned to the

theater, being lucky enough to secure two good stalls. The first act was

well under way when they entered the darkened theater, slipping quietly

into their seats, amid the more or less skillfully disguised annoyance of their neighbors.