The Pest 8

The Pest 8

“Now you’re here,” she said at last, “I’m frightened. I’d no right to

ask you to come, but—I’d no one else, and I’m——”

 

Tears came into her eyes, rolling slowly down her cheeks. Then she

covered her face with her hands, watching him very keenly between her

fingers.

 

He rose quickly and came over to her, resting his hand upon the back of

her chair and only by an effort restraining himself from catching her in

his arms.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “so sorry, and so glad you did send for me.

Don’t—don’t cry.”

 

“I’m so helpless!” she sobbed.

 

She dropped her hands on her lap disconsolately; he took them in his, as

he stooped over her.

 

“Come, come, you’re not helpless,” he said, “because you’re not alone.

Tell me, what has happened?”

 

She drew her hands slowly from his, as she answered—

 

“You must forgive me—crying; I’m not often so silly, but I couldn’t

help it. If you hadn’t come, I don’t know what I should have done.

Please sit down again and I’ll tell you.”

 

She paused as though she were trying how best to begin her story.

 

“I’ve left home. Left it altogether. I couldn’t stay there any

longer. I tried hard to get used to things, but they got worse and

worse. Then yesterday afternoon Edward was wild with me because I

couldn’t—_couldn’t_ help him in his work. I broke out and—there was a

regular scene between us. We quarreled—and—I came away here—what am I

to do?”

 

“Why here?”

 

“It’s the only place I know. My father brought me here years ago; it

wasn’t like this then, or didn’t seem so.”

 

“Have you no plans at all?” he asked.

 

“No, none. I must earn a living somehow. I’ve no money, and no friends,

except you, and I’ve no right to bother you. I suppose you think I’m mad

to run away like this—but the life there—it wasn’t life—it was

killing me.

 

“I don’t set up to judge people; don’t talk like that. The first thing

is—you mustn’t stop in this dingy hole.”

 

“Where else can I go?”

 

“We must hunt up some decent rooms somewhere. This place would kill

you.”

 

“Decent rooms—with a decent rent! You forget I’m a working woman. The

first thing to do is to find a way to earn my living.”

 

He hesitated for a moment; was she playing with him, or talking in

innocent earnestness?

 

“What about your husband?” he asked abruptly.

 

“Edward? I left a letter for him, telling him I had gone away and

that—nothing on earth would persuade me to go back.”

 

“Are you sure of that?”

 

Her hands clinched as she answered: “Nothing could ever persuade me to

go back to him. What would be the use of it? To begin it all over again?

There would be no change; he couldn’t change, and I couldn’t—not as he

would want me to. He’ll be miserable at first, but soon he’ll be all the

better for my being away. He never loved me really; it’s only his work

he loves.”

 

“Won’t he search for you?”

 

“I dare say. But he’d only preach again if he found me.”

 

“Did you—did you—care for him?”

 

“Love him? I thought I did when I married him, and didn’t know what he

was. I was a girl then and knew nothing. Gradually I came to hate him. I

couldn’t help it; you don’t know how heartlessly cruel a _good_ man can

be—they’re so utterly selfish. But don’t let’s waste time on what has

been. When I shut the door there last night, I shut it on the past.

Now—what am I to do now? Can you help me? Do you know of any work I

could do? Or how I could get it?”

 

“Let me think,” he said, walking slowly up and down the room. “Why—why

did you not keep your promise to come and see me at my studio?”

 

“I—can’t tell you.”

 

“Can’t tell me?” he said, surprised.

 

“No; please don’t ask me. I could make up an excuse—lie to you, but—I

shouldn’t like to tell you even the most innocent fib. So please don’t

ask. All I can tell you,” she said, looking up at him as he stood beside

her, “is that I had a very good reason.”

 

Their eyes met fully, and she dropped hers quickly and turned away.

 

“I went down to see you last night—just after you had left,” he said.

“I—well, I wanted you to help me.”

 

“To help you? How could I help you?”

 

“We’re a helpless couple,” he answered, laughing nervously. Then he drew

up a chair close to hers, so that he could see her face. “Yes, you can

help me, and it’s just possible I can help you. You remember when I came

down to see you that afternoon, and you told me something about your

life and how—bad it was for you. I’ve never forgotten what you told me.

It’s made me a good deal unhappy.”

 

“I don’t know why I told you,” she said doubtfully; “I suppose because

you were the only person I knew who I thought could understand. I didn’t

mean to worry you.”

 

“I’m very glad you did tell me. But something you _did_ worried me very

much—your not coming to see me. It made me angry at first and then

miserable, especially as you didn’t write to say why you hadn’t been

able to come.”

 

“I tried to write but I couldn’t.”

 

“Couldn’t? What do you mean?” he asked keenly.

 

“Just, I couldn’t. Don’t ask me any more.”

 

“You _couldn’t_ come to see me—you _couldn’t_ write to me? I don’t

understand.”

 

“I—can’t explain. But—you were telling me about yourself?”

 

“You care to hear?”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“When I went down to see you last night it seemed as if it would be so

easy; now, somehow I can’t say what I want.”

 

“Is it something I can do for you?”

 

“Yes—yes—look here, come down to the studio now. I’ll start that

picture, and while I work you can talk. Then we’ll lunch there, and talk

some more and see if we can’t put things a bit straight. Will you come?”

 

Little as he had said, his manner had conveyed an assurance to her that

she would quickly gain her object, and it required all her

self-restraint to enable her to conceal her relief and triumph. She did

not reply to him immediately, looking into the fire as though she were

thinking over what he had said, in reality waiting until she felt sure

of her voice and eyes. The conversation of the last few minutes had

shown him to be her captive and that the life she had been dreaming of

was now about to become a reality.

 

She stood up as she answered him——

 

“I’ll come; it will do me good. You’ve been awfully kind to me.”

 

While waiting for her, he paced quickly up and down the room. All

hesitation and all doubt had vanished; his pulse beat quickly; he longed

to be away with her: to see her seated before him, the rebel whom he

hoped to tame. Yet with this certainty there mixed a last remnant of

reason: before he gave himself he must be sure that she was his. He

could not bring himself seriously to mistrust her, but he realized that

he was holding out a rescuing hand to a lonely, desperate, possibly

cunning woman. She might clutch at it in helplessness; he longed that

she should clasp it in love.

 

Though the drive was long it seemed only too short to him. She scarcely

spoke at all, but looked straight ahead, wistfully, as it seemed to him,

as though she were watching a world of men and women in which she only

was sad. He, too, was silent, content to look at her, noting every

beauty of her face, the graceful carriage of her head, the evanescent

loveliness of her hair.

 

“Here we are!” he exclaimed, as he led the way into the studio. “Shan’t

I just make a nuisance of myself! You’ll have to sit still, though you

can talk. I can listen while I work.”

 

“What a lovely room!” she said, looking round at the deep archway before

the carved oak fireplace; the opposite arch, the recess with the daïs

and the wide expanse of latticed windows with the clear lights above;

the parqueted floor, strewn with rugs and skins; the carved chairs and

the luxurious settee—the display of somber, costly, beautiful things.

“What a lovely room! I couldn’t work in a room like this—but then I’ve

never found a room in which I could work, since I left the country.”

 

She threw off her wraps and flung them with her hat—recklessly—on a

couch, and then stood warming her hands at the fire.

 

“I don’t think you were made for working,” he said, standing close

beside her, looking down upon her as she bent to the blaze, which shed a

warmth of crimson over her face. “You were meant to help others to

work.”

 

“You?”

 

“Ever so much, I fancy.”

 

“Tell me what I’m to do, and I’ll try.”

 

He brought over to the fireside an old-fashioned, plain wooden chair,

with high, stiff back and broad, flat arms.

 

“There—sit there—straight up—I shan’t keep you like that for long at

a stretch; grip the ends of the arms slightly—and look into the fire;

look like you did, as far as you can, that afternoon when I called you the rebel.”