The Pest 7

The Pest 7

“What’s she like?”

 

“You saw her at the wedding.”

 

“Saw her. I know what she looks like—an empty-headed plaything. But you

know her well, don’t you?”

 

“No man ever knows a woman.”

 

“Don’t be platitudinous.”

 

“I can’t always be lying. She—I really don’t know. I used to think her

a devilish little flirt; in fact she was; but women do change so after

they’re married. Besides, I may have been quite wrong, quite. Everyone

else thought her just a simple little maiden—who _knows_?”

 

“And after all, it doesn’t really much matter. But it will take a clever

woman to manage West. If she is just a doll he’ll soon grow tired of

her—as he has of other dolls, whom he didn’t need to marry.”

 

“That’s so. We shall see. I like West. He’s such a delightful contrast

to myself. How have you been jogging along? Anything new? Is the picture

getting itself upon canvas?”

 

“Not begun!” answered Maddison, putting down his cup and lighting a

cigarette.

 

“Refractory model, or what?”

 

“Just can’t get a start, that’s all. I can see it in my mind’s eye,

Horatio, but—” he broke off abruptly.

 

They chatted on about matters indifferent, but Maddison, feeling out of

tune with his companion, went away with an unwonted consciousness that

he was out of tune with his life.

 

He lingered for a few minutes on the Terrace, looking at the picture

spread before him: the blackness of the gardens below; the lamps on the

Embankment and of the passing cabs and carriages; the dim mystery of the

river; the black line of the railway bridge with its green and red

lights; over all, the gloom and glamour of London.

 

Then he walked up Adam Street and so on along the noisy Strand to

Charing Cross. As he walked, unconsciously directing his steps homeward,

there came over him that intense feeling of loneliness that must fall at

times upon any man who lives alone in London. He longed for some one,

some woman, to whom he could go, with whom he could stay, in whom he

could confide, from whom he could obtain the satisfying sympathy which

only a woman can give to a man. There never had been one who had in any

reality shared his life; he had never before suffered from the lack of

such a one. But now he was hungry for intimate, human companionship and

there was no one from whom he could obtain it. His thoughts turned to

Marian. He realized that he did not know anything of her nature; she

attracted him physically; she interested him. It did not appear

unreasonable that a woman of her temperament should rebel against the

circumstances of her dull, insipid life, but he wondered if it were

solely against that existence that she was revolting, or was she one of

those women who rebel against all restraint? Was she simply a

man-hunter? A woman who lusted for pleasure, excitement, change for

change’s sake? How greatly she had altered from the simple country girl

she had been when he knew her first.

 

Or had she qualities in her which would enable her to become devoted to

one man, to be happy with him? To be his comrade and ally? He must not

permit sensual impulses to overthrow his reason. He must not allow

Marian to become part of his life, only to find that he was not part of

hers.

 

It is a long walk from the Strand to St. John’s Wood, and it was

considerably after seven when he slipped his latchkey into the door and

went into the dark studio, turning up the light as he entered. Still the

sense of loneliness held him; the room, despite all its luxuriousness,

appeared comfortless.

 

He sat down and stirred the fire into a flame; sat there, smoking and

thinking.

 

Strength had gone out of him. During the last few days his work had

failed to satisfy him: it had been labored and dull. He had never before

suffered in this way. Painting had hitherto been the supreme thing in

his life, but now a woman’s face was always flitting between him and the

canvas. If she were with him, would it still be so? Or would she

strengthen and inspire him? It was the uncertainty that disturbed him;

to have and to hold her, then to find that she injured and did not aid

him—that would hurt, but the wound would quickly heal, he felt sure. It

would be wiser, then, to act promptly, to put an end to this state of

doubt.

 

Supposing she rejected him? Probably she had not come to him because she

did not care whether she met him again or did not. Or—it might be—she

wished so dearly to see him that she could not bring herself to come to

him.

 

He drove down to Acacia Grove.

 

As he strode up the crunching gravel path he saw that the parlor was in

darkness, or else the curtains were very closely drawn.

 

If her husband were with her his visit would be in vain, save that it

would show her that he was anxious to see her. His hand trembled as he

knocked, and he waited anxiously for the maid’s approach.

 

“Is Mrs. Squire at home?”

 

“No, sir. She’s just gone away, sir, in a keb, with her boxes. She was

a-goin’ on a wisit, she said.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“I dunno.”

 

He hurried away, shocked, angry. What silly trick was fate playing on

him? He must write, cautiously, perhaps to find that she was gone out of

his reach.

 

What an unutterably dreary part of the town was this in which he found

himself pursuing the more or less romantic! Dingy vice and dreary

respectability inextricably mingled, punctuated by blazing public

houses. He hurried through the continuous stream of wayfarers, wondering

if any of them knew the meaning of love. It startled him to find how

intense had grown his longing for Marian, whom he thought at first he

held in his hand, but who now eluded him so persistently.

 

A man passed him, walking rapidly in the opposite direction. Despite the

dim light, he recognized Edward Squire. Then the thought came to him

that perhaps Marian had come face to face with the great act of

rebellion and had found her courage fail, had fled for safety. He did

not believe that she would find safety; once her thirst for the fullness

of life had been excited she would quench it. If he did not win her some

other man would. He wanted her and would not leave anything undone to

possess her.

 

Again and again the echo of her voice rang in his ears as he hurried

along; again her face appealed to him. How glorious it would be to

loosen her red-gold hair around her shoulders, to hold her close to him,

looking deep into her eyes, his lips on hers; she and he alone.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VI

 

 

BOTH in situation and in itself, Stone’s Hotel is respectable and dull.

Desperately so, Marian found it, as she stood looking out of the drawing

room window on the sunlit, colorless street. She was alone.

 

It was an Early Victorian room; heavy, dingy red curtains hung down

starkly before the window from a heavy, gilded cornice. The carpet also

was dingy red, with faded roses of huge proportions displayed thereon;

the walls were covered with dirty gold-and-white paper, chastened by

oleographs in clumsy gold frames; over the mantelpiece there was a

fly-blown, gilt-framed mirror; the furniture was upholstered in

well-worn red velvet, and over the backs of the chairs and sofa were

draped dirty white crochet antimacassars; in the center stood a huge

round table covered with a green and black cloth and adorned with a

careful selection of assorted hotel guides and photograph albums, among

which a stray Tauchnitz volume looked sadly out of place; over the whole

lay the blight of dust and dreariness.

 

Marian had dressed carefully in black, the single touch of color being a

gold brooch at her neck.

 

She turned, with a gesture of impatience, away from the empty street to

the empty room, and sat down by the fire, the one spot of warmth and

brightness.

 

Her brows knit as she thought over the situation in which she had placed

herself. She was ready to cross the Rubicon; had gone so far that return

was unthinkable. It now depended upon Maddison whether her first fight

would be a victory or a disastrous defeat. But she felt stronger now

that she was free, and determinedly put aside all thought of what would

face her if she failed to win.

 

The sharp pulling up of a hansom and the ringing of the house-bell made

her listen eagerly. The subdued maidservant threw open the door and

Maddison came in.

 

“It is so good of you to come!” Marian said, rising and holding out her

hand. “I hope you didn’t mind my writing to you, but I’ve—no one else.”

 

The weariness and despondency in her voice and attitude hurt him.

 

“Of course I don’t mind—why on earth should I? Is—what’s happened?”

 

She sat down again, her back to the light, and he took the chair on the

opposite side of the hearth. He could not see her face very distinctly

in the dull room, but this very dimness gave an added charm to her

beauty. She did not answer his question immediately, though her lips

parted as if she were anxious but unable to speak.