Adrian looked grave and did not reply. After a short silence Mary rose; crossed the room carelessly; and began to play the piano. Herbert, instead of sitting by her and listening, as his habit was, went out and joined the Colonel in the garden.
“What have you quarreled about, dear?” said Mrs Herbert.
“We have not quarreled,” said Mary. “What made you think that.”
“Adrian is offended.”
“Oh, no. At least I cannot imagine why he should be.”
“He is. I know what Adrian’s slightest shrug signifies.”
Mary shook her head and went on playing. Adrian did not return until they went into another room to sup. Then Mary said she must go home; and Herbert rose to accompany her.”
“Goodnight, mother,” he said. “I shall see you tomorrow. I have a bed in the town, and will go there directly when I have left Mary safely at home.” He nodded; shook hands with Mrs Beatty and the Colonel; and went out with Mary. They walked a hundred yards in silence. Then Mary said:
“Are you offended, Adrian? Mrs Herbert said you were.”
He started as if he had been stung. “I do not believe I could make a movement,” he replied indignantly, “for which my mother would not find some unworthy motive. She never loses an opportunity to disparage me and to make mischief.”
“She does not mean it, Adrian. It is only that she does not quite understand you. You sometimes say hard things of her, although I know you do not mean to speak unkindly.”
“Pardon me, Mary, I do. I hate hypocrisy of all kinds; and you annoy me when you assume any tenderness on my part towards my mother. I dislike her. I believe I should do so even it she had treated me well, and shewed me the ordinary respect which I have much right to from a parent as from any other person. Our natures are antagonistic, our views of life and duty incompatible: we have nothing in common. That is the plain truth; and however much it may shock you, unless you are willing to accept it as unalterable, I had rather you would drop the subject.”
“Oh, Adrian, I do not think it is right to—”
“I do not think, Mary, that you can tell me anything concerning what is called filial duty that I am not already familiar with. I cannot help my likes and dislikes: I have to entertain them when they come to me, without regard to their propriety. You may be quite tranquil as far as my mother’s feelings are concerned. My undutiful sentiments afford her her chief delight a pretext for complaining of me.”
Mary looked wistfully at him, and walked on, down-east. He stopped; turned towards her gravely; and resumed: “Mary: I suspect from one or two things you have said, that you cherish a project for reconciling me to my mother. You must relinquish that idea. I myself exhausted every effort to that end long ago. I disguised the real nature of my feeling towards her until even self-deception, the most persistent of all forms of illusion, was no longer possible. In those days should have hailed your good offices with pleasure. Now I have not the least desire to be reconciled to her. As I have said, we have nothing in common: her affection would be a burden to me. Therefore think no more of it. Whenever you wish to see me in my least amiable mood, re-open the subject, and you will be gratified.”
“I shall avoid it since you wish me to. I only wished to say that you left me in an awkward position today by not telling her of our engagement.”
“True. That was inconsiderate of me. I intended to tell her; but I got no opportunity. It matters little; she would only have called me a fool. Did you tell her?”
“Yes, when I found that Aunt Jane had told her already.”
“And what did she say?”
‘Oh, nothing. She reminded me that you were not rich enough to marry.”
“And proclaimed her belief that I should never become so unless I gave up painting?”
“She was quite kind to me about it. But she is a little prejudiced—”
“Yes, I know. For heaven’s sake let us think and talk about something else. Look at the stars. What a splendid dome they make of the sky now that there is no moon to distract attention from them. And yet a great artist, with a miserable yard of canvas, can move us as much as that vast expanse of air and fire.”
“Yes. — I am very uncomfortable about Mr Jack, Adrian. If he is to be sent away, it must be done before Charlie returns, or else there will be a quarrel about it. But then, who is to speak to him? He is a very hard person to find fault with; and very likely papa will make excuses for him sooner than face him with a dismissal. Or, worse again, he might give him some false reason for sending him away, in order to avoid an explosion; and somehow I would rather do anything than condescend to tell Mr Jack a story. If he were anyone else I should not mind so much.”
“There is no occasion to resort to untruth, which is equally odious, no matter to whom it is addressed. It was agreed that his employment should be terminable by a month’s notice on either side. Let Mr. Sutherland write him a letter giving that notice. No reason need be mentioned; and the letter can be courteously worded, thanking him for his past services, and simply saying that Charlie is to be placed in other hands.”
“But it will be so unpleasant to have him with us for a month under a sentence of dismissal.”
“Well, it cannot be helped. There is no alternative but to turn him out of the house for misconduct.”
“That is impossible. A letter will be the best. I wish we had never Been him, or that he were gone already. Hush. Listen a moment.”
They stopped. The sound of a pianoforte came to their ears.
“He is playing still,” said Mary. “Let us go back for Colonel Beatty. He will know how to deal with the soldier.”
“The soldier must have left long ago,” said Adrian. “I can hear nothing but the piano. Let us go in. He is within his bargain as far as his own playing goes. He stipulated for that when we engaged him.”
They went on. As they neared the house, grotesque noises mingled with the notes of the pianoforte. Mary hesitated, and would have stopped again ; but Adrian, with a stern face, walked quickly ahead. Mary had a key of the shrubbery; and they went round that way, the noise becoming deafening as they approached. The player was not only pounding the keyboard so that the window rattled in its frame, but was making an extraordinary variety of sounds with his own larynx. Mary caught Adrian’s arm as they advanced to the window and looked in. Jack was alone, seated at the pianoforte, his brows knitted, his eyes glistening under them, his wrists bounding and rebounding upon the keys, his rugged countenance transfigured by an expression of extreme energy and exaltation. He was playing from a manuscript score, and was making up for the absence of an orchestra by imitations of the instruments. He was grunting and buzzing the bassoon parts, humming when the violoncello had the melody, whistling for the flutes, singing hoarsely for the horns, barking for the trumpets, squealing for the oboes, making indescribable sounds in imitation of clarionets and drums, and marking each sforzando by a toss of his head and a gnash of his teeth. At last, abandoning this eccentric orchestration, he chanted with the full strength of his formidable voice until he came to the final chord, which he struck violently, and repeated in every possible inversion from one end of the keyboard to the other. Then he sprang up, and strode excitedly to and fro in the room. At the second turn he saw Herbert and Mary, who had just entered, staring at him. He started, and stared back at them, quite disconcerted.
“I fear I have had the misfortune to disturb you a second time,” said Herbert, with suppressed anger.
“No,” said Jack, in a voice strained by his recent abuse of it, “I was playing by myself. The soldier whom you saw here has gone to his quarters.” As he mentioned the soldier, he looked at Mary.
“It