The Pest 34

The Pest 34

When the curtain fell, Marian looked round the well-dressed house, with

its atmosphere of well-to-do-ness and good dinners. West noted the

graceful curves of the arm as she held up her opera-glasses, and when

she laid them down on her lap and turned to him, noticed, too, how

brightly her eyes shone and how well her flushed cheeks became her.

 

“You do love pleasure, _don’t_ you?” he said.

 

“I do. Don’t you?”

 

“Yes. But somebody told me the other day that I was getting old. Perhaps

that explains why I don’t seem able to let myself go as I used to do.”

 

“Doesn’t that depend a good deal upon who you are with?”

 

“Yes, I’ve been keeping dull company lately, chiefly my own.”

 

“That’s not a pretty compliment to me!”

 

“I said ‘lately,’ not to-night. I don’t think even a plaster saint could

be dull with you.”

 

“I can be dull with myself.”

 

“That may be; it takes flint and steel to strike a spark.”

 

“Which am I?”

 

“Does it matter—so long as the flame comes?”

 

He was looking vaguely round as he spoke to her, but suddenly his eyes

rested on Alice Lane sitting in a box with two other ladies and her

brother. She saw and recognized him at the same moment. He felt

uncomfortable; he did not mind who else saw him, but he would have

preferred not having been seen by her in Marian’s company; he knew that

she would understand the character of the woman he was with, even if she

did not already know her by sight and reputation. Though after all, why

should it worry him? Women did not seem to take any account of such

things nowadays. But it did annoy him, argue as he would, for he was

sure that Alice was not one of the many.

 

“Have you found some friends?” asked Marian, following the direction of

his eyes.

 

“Acquaintances. One always meets some one one knows here.”

 

The electric bells were ringing for the beginning of the next act, and

in the bustle made by men returning to their seats, and the striking up

of the orchestra, conversation dropped, though Marian scanned curiously

the calm, strong face of the woman in the box, who, instinct told her,

was the one who knew West.

 

He had made up his mind to put his fortune to the touch with Marian this

evening, feeling fairly certain from her manner toward him at dinner

that she liked him and would desert Maddison for him. He had decided to

take another flat for her, it not being his taste to keep his lady-bird

in a nest that another man had feathered. At any rate, no real harm

could come of the experiment; if she proved difficult or dull, a check

would cut him loose.

 

He watched the performance without interest. The sight of Alice Lane had

stirred something in him that had taken away his relish of Marian’s

company. He could not but compare the two. Alice so strong, so trusty,

such a good, true comrade. Marian pretty, bright, empty-hearted, ready

to sell herself to anyone who could assure her luxury and pleasure, or

even luxury alone. Then his thoughts ran on to his wife, a nonentity to

him. What a difference it would have made had he not married her, had he

really known Alice first, and been able to make her love him. There

would be no tiring of her, he knew. Or if Marian were Alice—there had

been such women, or scarcely exactly such, but rather women like Alice,

who counted the world’s opinion as nothing, and were ready and happy to

throw aside every other joy in life, in exchange for the men they loved.

But Alice was not like that, and did he love her? Of that he did not

feel so certain. He was very fond of her, but surely not in love, or he

would have missed her more than he had done. He felt rather that, if he

were free to love her, he could and would do so, would do so

passionately and forever. But she was not for him; it was sheer folly to

let his thoughts stray toward the impossible. The possible sat beside

him, and with that he must try to content himself; try to be content

with pretty make-believe instead of a beautiful reality.

 

He would wait, however, until to-morrow or the next day. Marian would

not run away, and perhaps would behave all the better for finding that

he was not easily caught.

 

So as they went out of the theater he said:

 

“I hope you won’t think me very rude not asking you to supper, but I’ve

an appointment at my club I must keep.”

 

“I think it’s awfully kind of you to have given me such a jolly

evening—that’s all I think.”

 

But he knew well enough from the dark look that she could not keep out

of her eyes, that she was disappointed and angry. It amused him, and

assured him that he had only to ask and she would give.

 

She clenched her teeth angrily as the hansom spun along homeward. She

had meant that he should ride by her side this night.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII

 

 

THE next morning West walked as usual through the Park, and to his

surprise again met Alice Lane, who greeted him cordially.

 

“You offered me the chance of a talk with you yesterday,” she said

abruptly, “and I was rude enough to refuse. Will you give me another

chance?”

 

“Why, of course you know I will,” he answered, eyeing her keenly,

wondering if after all she were about to tell him that he could help her

in the difficulty created by her brother’s engagement; hoping, indeed,

that it was so.

 

He had walked home the night before, and had sat up late over the fire,

thinking the whole while about her. It had been borne in upon him that

in reality he did love her; not as he had loved other women from mere

physical attraction, but with a strong, deep affection that made her

necessary to him, as he now understood. So long as she did not care for

anyone else, so long as he could have her frequent companionship and

sympathy, he would, he hoped, be content. So far as anything else could

be, he had given a hostage to fortune; his wife stood between him and

the one woman who had raised his desires above mere sensuality.

 

“You were at the theater last night,” she said.

 

He laughed as he answered:

 

“So were you. I saw you and you saw me.”

 

“Yes, it was a stupid remark. I was going to say that I know who was the

woman with you.”

 

She spoke nervously, hesitatingly, in strong contrast to her usual

quiet, serene way of speaking.

 

“I saw her at Brighton with Mr. Maddison, and Agatha told me about her.

But even if I’d not heard anything about her, I should have known _what_

she is. Are you disgusted at my talking like this? Are you going to tell

me—quite kindly, I know—to mind my own business? I think it _is_ my

business. I’m your friend, and with me friendship doesn’t mean sitting

by and watching a friend—lowering himself.”

 

“You’re a real friend,” he said, holding out his hand and pressing

hers—“a real friend. But friendship’s blind as well as love. You put me

higher than I am; I’m not lowering myself.”

 

“Not higher than you were once, at any rate. And what you were once, you

can be again. You don’t love Agatha, then?”

 

He hesitated a moment before replying.

 

“No, and I see now I never did,” he answered. “I didn’t know anything

about her when I married her, or about myself either. I thought I could

go on loving her and that we should be happy together. We aren’t. I

can’t make her happy and she can’t make me. You knew that when you asked

me, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes, but I wanted to hear you say so.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You don’t care for that other woman?” she asked, ignoring his question.

 

“You know that too. You know I don’t.”

 

“And—you can’t live alone?” she spoke almost in a whisper so that he

could scarcely catch her words.

 

“That’s just it. I can’t bear being alone now. I used not to mind it a

bit, but somehow I seem to have been changing lately—since I found out

that Agatha couldn’t be a real companion to me. I never wanted one

before; I suppose thinking I had found one and finding I had not, has

made me long for one. So—don’t blame me too much.”

 

“I’m not blaming you,” she said fiercely almost. “You don’t think I’m

preaching to you?—don’t think that. How little you know of me! I

suppose you imagine I’m a cold-blooded saint? I’m not. I’m a woman. I

can forgive any man, or any woman either, anything that they do for

love, real love. But—women like the one you were with last night I

can’t forgive—they’re pests, beasts themselves and making beasts of

others. Is that the kind of thing you expected _me_ to say? I can see it

isn’t.”

 

West did not answer. He was utterly amazed at his complete ignorance of

one he believed he knew well.

 

“You’ve never—really understood what love means,” she went on; “I sometimes think that only women do.”