“ — and she is always bringing me stories of his misdoings, as if they were my fault. Then, when I try to defend him from obvious injustice, I am accused of encouraging and shielding him.”
“So you do,” said Mrs Beatty.
“I say whatever I can for him,” said Mary sharply, “because I dislike him too much to condescend to join in attacks made on him behind his back. And I am not afraid of him, though you are, and so is Papa.”
“Oh, really you are too ridiculous,” said Mrs Beatty. “Afraid!”
“I see,” said Mrs Herbert smoothly, “that my acquaintance the Cyclop has made himself a bone of contention here. Since you all dislike him, why not dismiss him and get a more popular character in his place? He is really not an ornament to your establishment. Where is your father, Mary?”
“He has gone out to dine at Eton; and he will not be back until midnight. He will be so sorry to have missed you. But he will see you tomorrow, of course.”
“And you are alone here?”
“Yes. Alone with my work.”
“Then what about our plan of taking you back with us and keeping you for the evening’”
“I think I would rather stay and finish my work.”
“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs Beatty. “You cannot be working always. Come out and enjoy yourself.”
Mary yielded with a sigh, and went for her hat.
“I am sure that all this painting and poetry reading is not good for a young girl,” said Mrs Beatty, whilst Mary was away. “It is very good of your Adrian to take such trouble to cultivate Mary’s mind; but so much study cannot but hurt her brain. She is very self-willed and full of outlandish ideas. She is not under proper control. Poor Charles has no more resolution than a baby. And she will not listen to me, alth—”
“I am ready,” said Mary, returning.
“You make me nervous — you do everything so quickly,” said Mrs. Beatty, querulously. “I wish you would take shorter steps,” she added, looking disparagingly at her niece’s skirts as they went out through the shrubbery. “It is not nice to see a girl striding like a man. It gives you quite a bold appearance when you swing along, peering at people through your glasses.”
“That is an old crime of mine, Mrs Herbert,” said Mary. “I never go out with Aunt Jane without being lectured for not walking as if I had high heeled boots. Even the Colonel took me too task one evening here. He said a man should walk like a horse, and a woman like a cow. His complaint was that I walked like a horse; and he said that you, aunt, walked properly, like a cow. It is not worth any woman’s while to gain such a compliment as that. It made Mr Jack laugh for the first and only time in our house.”
Mrs Beatty reddened, and seemed about to make an angry reply, when the tutor came in at the shrubbery gate, and held it open for them to pass. Mrs Herbert thanked him. Mrs Beatty, following her, tried to look haughtily at him, but quailed, and made him a slight bow, in response to which he took off his hat.
“Mr Jack,” said Mary, stopping: “if papa comes back before I am in, will you please tell him that I am at Colonel Beatty’s.”
“At what hour do you expect him?”
“Not until eleven, at soonest. I am almost sure to be back first; but if by any chance I should not be—”
“I will tell him,” said Jack. Mary passed on; and he watched them until Mrs Beatty’s carriage disappeared. Then he hurried indoors, and brought a heap of manuscript music into the room the ladies had just left. He opened the pianoforte and sat down before it; but instead of playing he began to write, occasionally touching the keys to try the effect of a progression, or rising to walk up and down the room with puckered brows.
He labored in this fashion until seven o’clock, when, hearing someone whistling in the road, he went out into the shrubbery, and presently came back with a soldier, not perfectly sober, who carried a roll of music paper and a case containing three clarionets.
“Now let us hear what you can make of it,” said Jack, seating himself at the piano.
“It’s cruel quick, that allagrow part is,” said the soldier, trying to make his sheet of music stand properly on Mary’s table easel. “Just give us your B fat, will you. Mister.” Jack struck the note; and the soldier blew. ‘“Them ladies’ singin’ pianos is always so damn low,” he grumbled. “I’ve drorn the slide as far as it’ll come. Just wait while I stick a washer in the bloomin’ thing.”
“It seems to me that you have been drinking instead of practising, since I saw you,” said Jack.
“S’ help me, governor, I’ve been practising all the afternoon. I only took a glass on my way here to set me to rights. Now, Mister, I’m ready.” Jack immediately attacked Mary’s piano with all the vigor of an orchestra; and the clarinet soon after made its entry with a brilliant cadenza. The soldier was a rapid expectant; his tone was fine; and the only varieties of expression he was capable of, the spirited and the pathetic, satisfied even Jack, who, on other points, soon began to worry the soldier by his fastidiousness.
“Stop,” he cried, “That is not the effect I want at all. It is not bright enough. Take the other clarinet. Try it in C.”
“Wot! Play all them flats on a clarinet in C! It can’t be done. Least ways I’m damned if I can — Hello! ‘Eire’s a gent for you, sir.”
Jack turned. Adrian Herbert was standing on the threshold, astonished, holding the handle of the open door. “I have been listening outside for some time,” he said politely. “I hope I do not disturb you.”
“No,” replied Jack. “Friend Charles here is worth listening to. Eh, Mr Herbert?”
Private Charles looked down modestly; jingled his spurs; coughed; and spat through the open window. Adrian did not appreciate his tone or his execution; but he did appreciate his sodden features, his weak and husky voice, and his barrack accent. Seeing a clarinet and a red handkerchief lying on a satin cushion which he had purchased for Mary at a bazaar, the looked at the soldier with disgust, and at Jack with growing indignation.
“I presume there is no one at home,” he said coldly.
“Miss Sutherland is at Mrs Beatty’s, and will not return until eleven,” said Jack, looking at Adrian with his most rugged expression, and not subduing his powerful voice, the sound of which always afflicted the artist with a sensation of insignificance. “Mrs Beatty and a lady who is visiting her called and brought her out with them. Mr Sutherland is at Eton, and will not be back till midnight. My pupil is still at Cambridge.”
“H’m” said Adrian. “I shall go on to Mrs Beatty’s. I should probably disturb you by remaining.”
Jack nodded and turned to the piano without further ceremony. Private Charles had taken one of Mary’s paint-brushes and fixed it upon the desk against his sheet of music, which was rolling itself up. This was the last thing Herbert saw before he left. As he walked away he heard the clarinet begin the slow movement of the concerto, a melody which, in spite of his annoyance, struck him as quite heavenly. He nevertheless hastened out of earshot, despising the whole art of music because a half-drunken soldier could so affect him by it.
Half a mile from the Sutherlands’ house was a gate, though which he passed into a flower-garden, in which a tall gentleman with sandy hair was smoking a cigar. This was Colonel Beatty, from whom he learnt that the ladies were in the drawing room. There he found his mother and Mrs Beatty working in colored wools, whilst Mary, at a distance from them, was reading a volume of Browning. She gave a sigh of relief as he entered.
“Is this your usual hour for making calls?” said Mrs Herbert, in response to her son’s cool “Good evening, mother.”
“Yes,”