The Pest 37

The Pest 37

He had been painting patiently all one morning, almost angrily sometimes

because he could not exactly translate his thought to the canvas, when

he was surprised by a knock at the door of the cottage. Mrs. Witchout

had not yet returned from her morning’s marketing, so he went to the

door himself, expecting to find some casual visitor from Brighton who

had heard of his being down here. He was astonished to see Mortimer.

 

“My dear Fred, is it you or your ghost?”

 

“I don’t suppose any ghost ever had such a thirst on him as I have; show

me the way to the pump; I could drink buckets even of water.”

 

“Oh, we’re not so primitive as that—but, rot! you’ve been here before.

Come along, there’s whisky and a siphon in the locker here. Drink, smoke

and chat while I paint, only don’t mind if I don’t hear a word you say.

I’m at a ticklish point. How are you and what brings you down? Spread

your answer out as long as you can, so that I needn’t say anything for

at least five minutes.”

 

“I’m well. Came down because there was a rush of work in the office and

I was afraid I might be in the way,” Mortimer answered, with a chuckle.

 

He then lighted a cigarette, sat down on the window seat and looked

aimlessly out over the broad down. The sun was shining brightly, a lark

was singing somewhere high up in the blue, through the open window

drifted the keen, fresh air, full of the salt fragrance of the sea; the

world looked young down here to the eye of the Londoner. Then,

stealthily, he watched Maddison. At first he saw no change in him: he

appeared well and hearty; but later he noticed a tired, nervous look

about the eyes, and that every now and then he bit his lip as if

impatient at some difficulty he could not immediately overcome. He had

often before watched him at work and had always wondered at the vigorous

joy Maddison found in his labor.

 

“May I look?” he asked.

 

“Yes, I don’t mind your looking; you don’t imagine you really know

anything about pictures and so you don’t chatter bosh and think it

criticism.”

 

Mortimer stood in front of the easel, looking keenly at the picture—a

great stretch of the downs and the gray sea beyond, overhead a splendid

tumult of rain cloud.

 

“Well, say something, however idiotic!” exclaimed Maddison, after

impatiently waiting for Mortimer to speak.

 

“My dear boy, what’s up? Have I interrupted you at an awkward moment?

Why didn’t you tell me?” said Mortimer, turning quickly, surprised at

the tone in which Maddison had spoken.

 

“No, no, of course not.”

 

“It’s the first time I’ve heard you speak as if you were put out about

something. Nothing’s wrong?”

 

“No, no!” Maddison answered, laying his hand heartily on Mortimer’s

shoulder, “not a bit. But—what do you think of it?”

 

“And this is the first time you’ve ever _asked_ my humble opinion. I

like it.”

 

“That sounds rather dubious. Speak out—you mean you don’t like it.”

 

Mortimer looked again at the picture hesitatingly.

 

“You _don’t_ like it,” said Maddison again.

 

“Yes, I like it. But there’s something wanting; it doesn’t seem to me

quite you. It’s the only picture of yours I’ve ever seen that somebody

else might have painted.”

 

Maddison turned sharply away and strode over to the window.

 

“Oh, rot, old chap, you mustn’t mind what I say,” protested Mortimer.

“You hinted just now that what I don’t know about pictures would set up

half a dozen critics, and here you are getting the hump over my

nonsense.”

 

“It isn’t nonsense. You’ve seen straight off what I’ve been trying not

to see. You’re right, damnably right. It’s as dead as can be—not a

touch of life or light in it.”

 

He threw down his palette and brushes impatiently, crossed once again to

Mortimer and stood behind him, gazing gloomily over his shoulder.

 

“The critics will probably say I’ve eclipsed myself, all except Tasker,

who will say that, but mean total eclipse. But so long as it sells well,

what does it matter?”

 

“Look here, Maddison,” said Mortimer, sharply, “there _is_ something

wrong, or you couldn’t speak like that. This hermitizing down here don’t

suit you. Lock up the shop for to-day at any rate, and come into

Brighton for a blow off. Now, I know you’re going to say ‘no,’ but I say

‘yes,’ and if you’ll give me a shake-down I’ll bring my traps over to

stay the night here.”

 

Maddison hesitated a moment, then consented.

 

They drove back after dinner at the Metropole, where Mortimer had

intended to stop. The night was bitterly cold, and the huge fire which

Mrs. Witchout had made up in the studio was grateful.

 

“Now, I want to have a real yarn with you, George,” Mortimer said, as he

stretched his cold hands toward the warmth. “I told you a tarradiddle

this morning—I came down simply because I’ve something I want to talk

to you about.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with Marian, is there?” Maddison asked, leaning

forward eagerly and speaking anxiously. “It’s not _that_?”

 

“She was quite well when I last saw her.”

 

Maddison sighed with relief and sat back again in his chair, puffing

steadily at his pipe.

 

“But tell me first,” Mortimer continued after a pause, “what’s wrong

with you? I know there is something; I saw it in your face this morning,

and though you’ve been as jolly as jolly all day, you’ve not been quite

your real self. What is it?”

 

“So I look different, and seem different, and my picture’s not mine.

There’s nothing wrong, Fred, nothing that I can lay a name to, but

you’re right. I’m changed. It’s this beastly separation from Marian that

doesn’t agree with me. I’ll come up to town with you to-morrow and fetch

her down here, or settle into the old place again.”

 

“You’re very fond of her,” Mortimer said meditatively, staring at the

blazing coals. “I was in love once, and I know what it means, old chap.”

 

“I never knew that——?”

 

“You’re the only one beside myself that does. She wasn’t for me. I’ve

told you this because I’ve something—very difficult to tell you, and I

want you to understand that—I understand.”

 

“It _is_ something wrong with Marian then?” Maddison exclaimed, starting

to his feet.

 

“Sit down, George, sit down. I’ll walk about in the dark while I tell

you; that’s why I asked you not to light the lamps. Sit down, and hold

on tight, grit your teeth, George; I’m going to hurt you.”

 

Mortimer paced slowly up and down, while Maddison sat down again, awed

into obedience.

 

“I’m going to hurt you, George; I needn’t tell you that I’d give a lot

not to have to do it. But you’d better hear it from me than find it out

for yourself.”

 

“Quick, quick, don’t beat about the bush. What is it?”

 

“It _is_ about Mrs. Squire. I knew it was no good talking to you until I

had facts to tell you. She’s—she’s—my God, it’s hard to tell

you!—she’s utterly worthless. She’s——”

 

“Don’t say another word, or I’ll kill you, on my soul I will!” Maddison

shrieked, leaping up, his eyes blazing with anger, his hands clenched.

 

“I must, I _must_,” said Mortimer, standing quietly before him, “and you

must hear me. It’s not suspicions, it’s facts. More than one man has

been with her while you’ve been down here. I suspected it; I had her

watched and there’s no room for doubt. I think you know

Geraldstein—he’s been with her; another man was with her only the other

night. I saw her myself come out of a disreputable public-house with a

man and drive off with him. It was sheer accident I saw her; I didn’t

follow—I knew enough already. I’m putting it brutally: there’s no good

mincing matters. If she was merely your mistress I wouldn’t have

worried, but——”

 

Maddison turned away, leaning against the mantelshelf, his face buried

in his arms; Mortimer went up to him.

 

“George, old man——”

 

“Don’t—don’t touch me! Leave me alone for a bit.”

 

Mortimer sat down. Not a sound broke the silence except the loud ticking

of the clock. It seemed to him hours and hours, though it was barely

more than a minute, before Maddison spoke.

 

“What a fool I am, and what a beast,” he said, turning fiercely, “to

believe a word of what you’ve said. It’s all some mad mistake. It can’t

be true.”

 

“Do you think I’d have told you if I weren’t absolutely certain?”

 

“You don’t know her as I do. She couldn’t. She loves me. Now look here,

I won’t hear another word, and to-morrow I’ll go to her. I’ll never

leave her again, open to such filthy suspicions. You know your room.

I’ll stop here. Good night.”

 

“Here are the reports from the agent,” said Mortimer, ignoring

Maddison’s anger and holding out a bundle of papers. Maddison snatched

them from him and flung them into the fire.

 

“Do you want me to murder you? Can’t you leave me? For God’s sake, leave me.”