FOR the first time West hesitated in his dealing with a woman. Partly it
was that Marian puzzled as well as attracted him, partly it was that the
precipitancy of his marriage with Agatha and its failure gave him pause
before he took the step of trying to win Marian away from Maddison. He
admired her, but he was by no means sure that the admiration was mutual;
indeed part of her attraction for him was that she had not in any way,
so far as he could see, endeavored to bring him to her side. Hitherto
the women whom he had met had made little effort to conceal the fact
that his money rendered him a welcome suitor.
It was his custom every morning to walk in Hyde Park before going to
business; it was usually the only hour in the day which was not
interrupted and in which, therefore, he could think clearly. This mental
constitutional was broken up one day by meeting Alice Lane. They came
suddenly face to face at a sharp turning close by the Serpentine.
“You’re most unfashionably early!” he said, falling into step with her.
“I’m unfashionable in everything, I think. I didn’t know you were in
town.”
“Is that a kind of way of reminding me that I ought to have called? I’ve
been awfully busy.”
“How’s Agatha? Is she still at Brighton?”
“Yes. She’s much better and beginning to enjoy herself. What have you
been doing?”
“Just nothing.”
“I can’t believe that of you. You’d go crazy if you hadn’t something to
do.”
“Why, I stopped weeks with you and didn’t do a single thing the whole
time.”
“That’s true,” he admitted, laughing; “but you always manage to give the
impression of being busy. Like one of my men, whom I had to fire out the
other day—he was always awfully busy and didn’t get any work done.”
“I’ve no work to do.”
West felt curiously constrained; not that anything in her tone or manner
jarred upon him; she was frankly kind as she always was to him. He did
not feel that he had anything to say to her and small talk failed him.
They walked on for some little distance without speaking.
“My brother’s engaged to be married,” she said suddenly.
“Really! That’s good. I must write and congratulate him. But it’ll be a
nuisance for you, won’t it? I suppose it will be the customary ‘two’s
company.’”
“I shan’t try to make it anything else. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”
“Fair to her! That’s like you; that’s you all over. I’d bet anything you
haven’t bothered to think about yourself. What a show up you good women
make of us men!”
“Don’t say things like that about me,” she answered, so fiercely that he
stared at her astonished, “_don’t_. It’s so utterly untrue. What on
earth does a man ever know about a woman? I’m hateful to myself, and I’d
be hateful to you if you knew me.”
“I’m sorry—something’s wrong and I’ve touched you on the raw; I’m
sorry. Not that I believe you a bit you’re worrying about something that
wouldn’t give me a twinge. I—suppose I can’t help you any way?”
“You—no, no, thanks.” She clenched her fingers tightly inside her muff.
“No one can help me and I can’t help myself.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You’re such a good sort, I hate to see you
suffering; I’m afraid it’s something pretty bad.”
“I’d rather not talk about myself. Tell me about yourself. Don’t you
feel lonesome up here without Agatha?”
“Oh, we’re settling down into conventional married life. Quite pleased
to be together, but not inconsolable when we’re apart. Aggy’s growing up
and finding other amusements in life besides honeymooning.”
“And you?” she asked, not looking at him, but fixing her gaze straight
ahead.
“I? Didn’t I tell you I’m very busy?”
“And that’s all you care about?”
“I’m beginning to think so. It’s really the only game worth playing.
Now, here we are at Hyde Park corner. Shall I take a turn back with you
and be late at the office? Or be a good boy, remember that work’s first,
pleasure second?”
“Be a good boy,” she replied, holding out her hand.
She stood still, watching him as he strode rapidly away, and when he was
out of sight, still stood there, her lips tightly pressed together,
suppressing the cry of hopelessness that tried to force its way from her
heart.
West telegraphed later on in the morning to Marian, saying that he would
call in the evening on the chance that she would be free to dine with
him and go on to a theater afterward, and Marian on her arrival from
Brighton found the telegram awaiting her and welcomed it. Her stay at
Rottingdean had rested her, had done good to her physically, but had
sent her back thirsty for amusement. She had intended to write to West,
but good fortune had brought him to her uncalled.
She dressed herself with peculiar care, and was ready for him when he
arrived.
“By Jove, this is luck,” he said, “unless you’ve dressed to go out
somewhere else? Don’t tell me that and turn a lonely man out on a lonely
world.”
“No, I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself when I found your
wire here. I only came up from Brighton to-day.”
“You’ve been down there? Well, where shall we go?”
“Anywhere, only somewhere where there are lots of people. I went down
there for a change; I’ve come up here for a change.”
“Aren’t I change enough? There’s conceit! Here, slip on your cloak, and
we’ll discuss our destination in the cab as we go along.”
Marian had chosen to go to the Gaiety and West had telephoned to the
theater, being lucky enough to secure two good stalls. The first act was
well under way when they entered the darkened theater, slipping quietly
into their seats, amid the more or less skillfully disguised annoyance
of their neighbors.
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.