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.”
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