The Complete Works of George Bernard Shaw. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
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.”
“If you think so, why, that’s another thing. In that case, Herbert had better work a little harder.”
“Yes; but he always used to work so hard.”
“Well, he must keep at it, you know.”
Mary fell amusing; and Hoskyn went on reading.
“Adrian should never have married,” she said presently.
“Why not, my dear”’
“Because of that,” she replied, pointing to the paper.
“They don’t find fault with him for being a married man, though.”
“They find fault with him for being what his marriage has made him. He neither thinks nor cares about anything but his wife.”
“That needn’t prevent his working,” said Hoskyn. “I contrive to do a goodish deal of work,” he added with an amorous glance, “without caring any the less for my wife.”
“Your wife does not run away from you to the other end of Europe at a moment’s notice, John. She does not laugh at your business and treat you as if you were a little boy who sometimes gets troublesome.”
“Still,” said Hoskyn reflectively, “she has a sort of fascination about her.”
“Nonsense,” said Mary, supposing that her husband had been paying her a compliment, whereas he had really referred to Aurel “I feel very much in earnest about this. It is quite pitiable to see a man like Adrian become the slave of a woman who obviously docs not care for him — or perhaps I should not say that; but she certainly does not care for him as he deserves to be cared for. I am beginning to think that she cares for nothing but money.”
“Oh, come!” remonstrated Hoskyn. “You’re too hard on her, Mary. She certainly doesn’t seem to concern herself much about Herbert: but then I fancy that he is rather a milk-and-water sort of man. I know he is a very good fellow, and all that; but there is a something wanting in him — not exactly stamina, but — but something or other.”
“There is a great want of worldliness and indifference in him; and I hope there always will be, although a little of both would help him to bring his wife to her senses. Still, Adrian is weak.”
“I should think so. For my part,” said Hoskyn, scratching his beard, and glancing at his wife as if he were going to make a venturesome remark, “I wonder how any woman could be bothered with him! I may be prejudiced: but that’s my opinion.”
“Oh, that is absurd,” said Mary. “She may consider herself very fortunate in getting so good a man. He is too good for her: that is where the real difficulty lies. He is neglecting himself on her account. Do you think I ought to speak to him seriously about it?”
“Humph!” muttered Hoskyn cautiously. “It’s generally rather unwise to mix oneself up with other people’s affairs, particularly family affairs. You don’t as a rule get