“Come,”said Jack sulkily, “Here is somebody happy at last.”
Mary looked and saw Herbert coming down the stairs with Aurélie. who was, like Jack, the subject of some whispering and pointing.
“Yes,” said Mary. “He is happy. I do not wonder at it: she is very gentle and lovely. She is a greater artist than Madge: yet she has none of Madge’s assurance, which would repel Adrian.”
“She has plenty of assurance in music, which is her trade. Miss Madge has plenty of assurance in manners, which are her trade.”
I am just thinking, Geraldine,” said Mrs Herbert, of the difference between Adrian and that girl — Madge Brailsford. She, capable, sensible, able to hold her own against the world. She is everything, in short, that Adrian is not, and that I have often wished him to be. Yet her father seems as far from being united to her as Adrian is from me. Query then: is there any use in caring for one’s children? I really don’t believe there is.”
“Not the least, after they have become independent of you,” said Lady Geraldine, looking impatiently towards the door. “Where is Williams? I think he must have gone mad.”
At this moment Aurélie, recognizing Mrs Herbert, made as though she would stop, and said something to Adrian which threw him into trouble and indecision at once. Apparently she was urging him, and he making excuses, taking care not to look towards his mother. This dumb show was perfectly intelligible to Mrs Herbert, who directed Lady Geraldine’s attention to it.
“It is all Williams’s fault,” said Lady Geraldine. We should have been out of this five minutes ago. You had better take the bull by the horns at once, Eliza. Go and speak to him — the vacillating idiot!”
“I will not, indeed,” said Mrs Herbert. “I hope he will have the firmness to make her go away.”
The question was settled by the appearance of Lady Geraldine’s servant, who hurried in, and began to explain the delay.
“There. I do not want to hear anything about it,” said Lady Geraldine. “Now, where is Mary. Mary was already hastening out with Jack. Herbert saw them go with a sensation of relief. When he reached his lodgings he was disagreeably relieved from some feelings of remorse at having avoided Mary. On the table lay a parcel containing all his letters and presents to her, with a note — beginning “Dear Mr Herbert” — in which she said briefly that on second thoughts she considered it best to follow the usual course, and begged him to believe that she was, sincerely his, Mary Sutherland.
CHAPTER XIII
Next day, in the afternoon, Jack left the room, the establishment of a celebrated firm of pianoforte manufacturers, where he gave his lessons, and walked homeward across Hyde Park. Here he saw approaching him a woman, dressed in light peacock blue, with a pale maize colored scarf on her neck and shoulders, and a large Spanish hat. Jack stood still and looked gloomily at her. She put on a pair of eye glasses; scrutinized him for a moment; and immediately shook them off her nose and stopped.
“You have finished work early to-day,” she said, smiling.
“I have not finished it,” he replied: “I have put them off. I want to go home and work: I cannot spend my life making money — not that I am likely to have the chance. Four lessons — five guineas — lost.”
“You wrote to them, I hope.”
“No. They will find out that I am not there when they call; and then they can teach themselves or go to the devil. They would put me off sooner than lose a tennis party. I will put them off sooner than lose a good afternoon’s work. I am losing my old independence over this moneymaking and society business — I don’t like it. No matter. Are you on your way to Cavendish Square?”
“Yes. But you must not turn back. You did not sacrifice your teaching to gad about the park with me. You want to compose. I know by your face.”
“Are you in a hurry”
“I am not; but—”
“Then come and gad about, as you call it, for a while. It is too fine a day to go indoors and grind tunes.”
She turned; and they strolled across the plain between the Serpentine and the Bayswater Road, crossing a vacant expanse of sward, or picking their way amongst idlers who lay prone on the grass, asleep, or basked supine in the sun. It was a warm afternoon and the sky was cloudless.
“You would not suppose, seeing the world look so pleasant that it is such a rascally place as it is,” said Jack, when they had walked some time in silence.
“It is not so very bad, though, after all, If you were a little of a painter, as I am, this sunlit sward and foliage would repay you for all the stupidities of people who have eyes, but cannot use them.”
“Äye, And painters suppose that their art is an ennobling one. Suppose I held up a lying, treacherous, cruel woman to the admiration of the painter, and reviled him as unimaginative if he would not accept her blue eyes, and silky hair, and fine figure as a compensation for her corrupt heart: he would call me names — cynical sensualist and so forth. What better is he with his boasted loveliness of Nature? There are moments when I should like to see a good hissing, scorching shower of brimstone sear the beauty out of her false face.
“Oh! What, is the matter to-day?”
“Spleen. I am poor. It is the source of most people’s complaints.”
“But you are not poor. Recollect that you have just thrown away five guineas, and that you will make ten tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Well?”
“Well, are guineas wealth to a man who wants time and freedom from base people and base thoughts? No: I have starved out the first half of my life alone: I will fight through the second half on the same conditions. I get ten guineas a day at present for teaching female apes to scream, that they may be the better qualified for the marriage market. That is because I am the fashion. How long shall I remain the fashion? Until August, when the world — as it calls itself — will emigrate, and return next spring to make the fortune of the next lucky charlatan who makes a bid for my place. I shall be glad to be rid of them, in spite of their guineas: teaching them wastes my time, and does them no good. Then there is the profit on my compositions, of which I get five per cent, perhaps, in money, with all the honor and glory. The rest goes into the pockets of publishers and concert givers, some of whom will go down halfway to posterity on my back because they have given me, for a symphony with the fruits of twenty years’ hard work in it, about one-fifth of what is given for a trumpery picture or novel everyday. That fantasia of mine has been pirated and played in every musical capital in Europe; and I could not afford to buy you a sable jacket out of what I have made by it.”
“It is very hard, certainly. But do you really care about money?”
“Ha! ha! No, of course not. Music is its own reward. Composers are not human: they can live on diminished sevenths; and be contented with a pianoforte for a wife, and a string quartette for a family. Come,” he added boisterously, “enough of grumbling. When I took to composing, I knew I was bringing my pigs to a bad market. But don’t pretend to believe that a composer can satisfy either his appetite or his affections with music any more than a butcher or a baker can. I daresay I shall live all the more quietly for being an old bachelor.”
“I never dreamt that you would care to