“What is the matter, Adrian?” said Mary, in a low voice.
“Why?”
“You look annoyed.”
“I am not annoyed. But I am not quite satisfied with the way in which your household is managed in your absence by Mr Jack.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mary, “you too! Am I never to hear the last of Mr Jack? It is bad enough to have to meet him every day, without having his misdeeds dinned into my ears from morning till night.”
“I think an end should be put to such a state of things, Mary. I have often reproached myself for having allowed you to engage this man with so little consideration. I thought his mere presence in the house could not affect you — that his business would be with Charlie only. My experience of the injury that can be done by the mere silent contact of coarse natures with fine ones should have taught me better. Mr Jack is not fit to live with you, Mary.”
“But perhaps it is our fault. He has no idea of the region of thought from which I wish I never had to descend; but, after all, we have no fault to find with him. We cannot send him away because he does not appreciate pictures.”
“No. But I have reason to believe that he is not quite so well-behaved in your absence as he is when you are at home. When I arrived tonight, for instance, I, of course, went straight to your house. There I heard a musical entertainment going forward. When I went in I was greeted with a volley of oaths which a drunken soldier was addressing to Jack. The two were in the drawingroom and did not perceive me at first, Jack being seated at your pianoforte, accompanying the soldier, who was playing a flageolet. The fellow was using your table easel for a desk, and your palette knife as a paper weight to keep his music flat. Has Jack your permission to introduce his military friends whenever you are out?”
“Certainly not,” said Mary, reddening. “I never heard of such a thing. I think Mr Jack is excessively impertinent.”
“What is the matter?” said Mrs. Beattv, perceiving that her niece was vexed.
“Nothing, aunt,” said Mary hastily. “Please do not tell Aunt Jane,” she added in an undertone to Adrian.
“Why not’”
“Oh, she will only worry about it. Pray do not mention it. What ought we to do about it, Adrian?”
“Simply dismiss Mr Jack forthwith?”
“But — Yes, I suppose we should. The only difficulty is—” Mary hesitated, and at last added, “I am afraid he will think that it is out of revenge for his telling Charlie not to take his ideas of music from my way of playing it, and because he despises my painting.”
“Despises your painting! Do you mean to say that he has been insolent to you? You should dismiss him at once. Surely such fears as you expressed just now have no weight with you, Mary?”
Mary reddened again, and said, a little angrily, “It is very easy for you to talk of dismissing people, Adrian; but if you had to do it yourself, you would feel how unpleasant it is.”
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