“I will not be told so again. I played vilely. I will give up music. I hate it: and I never shall be able to play. I have tried and failed. It was a mistake for me ever to have attempted it.”
At this moment Adrian, hearing the footsteps of the old woman, who was coming up to listen at the keyhole, entered the room. Madame Sczympliça stared at him in consternation. He walked quickly across the room, and sat down close to his wife at the pianoforte.
“Aurélie,” he said: “you must forgive me.”
“Never, never, never,” she cried, turning quickly round so as to confront him. “I have this day disgraced myself: and it is your fault.”
“My fault, Aurélie?”
“Do not call me Aurélie. Now you smile because you have had your revenge. Am I not unhappy enough without being forced to see and speak to you, who have made me unhappy? Go: disembarrass me, or I will myself seek some other roof. What madness possessed me, an artist, to marry? Did I not know that it is ever the end of an artist’s career?”
“You cannot believe, “ he said, much agitated, “that I would wilfully cause you a moment’s pain. I love—”
“Ah, yes, you love me. It is because you love me that you insult me. It is because you love me that you are ashamed of me and reproach me with playing for hire. It is because you love me that I have failed before the whole world, and lost the fruit of long years of work. You will find my mother’s scissors in that box. Why do you not cut off my fingers, since you have paralysed them?”
Adrian, shuddering in every fibre at the suggestion, caught her proffered fingers and squeezed them in his hands. “My darling,” he said: “you pain me acutely by your reproaches. Will you not forgive me?”
“You waste your breath,” she said obdurately, disengaging herself petulantly. “I am not listening to you.” And she began to play again.
“Aurélie,” he said presently.
She played attentively, and did not seem to hear him.
“Aurélie,” he repeated urgently. No answer. “Do cease that horrible thing, my darling, and listen to me.”
This stopped her. She turned with tears in her eyes, and exclaimed, “Yes, it is horrible. Everything that I touch is horrible now.” She shut the piano as she spoke. “I will never open it more. Mamma.”
“My angel,” replied Madame Sczympliça, starting.
“Tell them to send for it tomorrow. I do not want even to see it when I come down in the morning.”
“But,” said Herbert, “you quite misunderstand me. Can you suppose that I think your playing horrible, or that, if I thought it, I would be so brutal as to say so.
“You do think it horrible. Everyone finds it horrible. So you are right.”
“It was only what you were playing”
“I was one of Chopin’s studies. You used to like Chopin. You would do better to be silent: every word you utter betrays your real thoughts.”
Herbert gently reopened the pianoforte. “If it were the singing of angels, Aurélie, it would be horrible to me as long as it delayed the assurance I am waiting for — of your forgiveness.”
“You shall never have it. Nor do I believe that you care for it.”
“Never is a long word. You have said it very often this evening, Aurélie. You will never play again. You will never speak to me again. You will never forgive me.”
“Do not argue with me. You fatigue me.” She turned away, and began to improvise, looking upward at the cornice with a determined expression which gradually faded and vanished. Herbert, discouraged by her last retort, did not venture to interrupt her until the last trace of displeasure had disappeared from her face. Then he pleaded in a low voice. “Aurélie.” The frown reappeared instantly. “Do not stop playing. I only wish to assure you that I was not jealous this morning.”
“O — h!” she ejaculated, taking her hands from the keyboard, and letting them fall supine in her lap. Herbert, taken aback by the prolonged and expressive interjection, looked at her in silent discomfiture. “Mamma: thou hearest him! He says he was not jealous. Oh, Adrian, how art thou fallen, thou, who wast truth itself! Thou art learning to play the husband well.”
“I thought you had deceived me, dearest; but I was not jealous.”
“Then you do not love me.”
“Let me explain. I thought you had deceived me in your account of — of that wretched boy whom we shall never allude to again—”
“There, there. Do not remind me of it. You were base: you were beneath yourself: no explanation can change that. But my failure at the Princess’s is so much greater a misfortune that it has put all that out of my head.”
“Aurélie,” remonstrated Herbert involuntarily.
“What! you begin to complain already — before I have half relented?”
“I know too well,” he replied sadly, “that your art is as much dearer to you than I, as you are dearer to me than mine. Well, well, I plead guilty to everything except want of love for you. Now will you forgive me?”
Instead of replying she began to play merrily. Presently she looked over her shoulder, and said, “You will promise never to commit such a sin again.”
“I swear it.”
“And you are very sorry?”
“I am desolate, Auré1ie.”
“Be pardoned, then. If thou art truly penitent, I will accompany thee to the Louvre; and thou shalt shew me the pictures.”
She played away without intermission whilst she spoke, disregarding the kiss which he, in spite of Madame Sczympliça’s presence, could not refrain from pressing on her cheek.
CHAPTER III
When the novelty of Mrs. Hoskyn’s first baby had worn off, she successfully resisted the temptation to abandon it to the care of her servants, as an exacting little nuisance; but her incorrigible interest in art, no longer totally eclipsed by the cradle, retook possession of her mind. This interest, as usual, took the form of curiosity as to what Adrian Herbert was doing. Now that her domestic affections were satisfied and centred by Hoskyn, and that the complete absorption of Herbert’s affections by his wife was beyond all suspicion, she felt easier and more earnest in her friendship for him than ever before. Marriage had indeed considerably deepened her capacity for friendship.
One morning, Hoskyn looked up from his paper and said, “Have you looked at the Times. There is something in it about Herbert that he won’t like.”
“I hope not. The Times always spoke well of him.”
Hoskyn, without a word, handed her the sheet he had been reading and took up another.
“Oh John,” said Mary, putting down the paper in dismay; “what is to be done?”
“Done! What about?”
“About Adrian.”
“I don’t know,” said Hoskyn, placably. “Why should we do anything?”
“I for one, shall be very sorry if he loses his position, after all his early struggling.”
“He won’t lose it. Who cares about the Times?”
“But I am greatly afraid that the Times is right.”