GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“Chut! I tell thee that I am not of a nature to fall in love. Becalm ; and do not talk of separation, and such silly things. Have I not been good to her and to you this day?”

“Upon my soul,” cried Adrian despairingly, “I believe you are either mad or anxious to make me mad.”

“He is swearing!” she ejaculated, lifting her hands.

“I am not in love with Mary,” he continued. “It is a gross and absurd libel on both of us to say so. If anyone be to blame, you are — yes, you, Aurélie. You have put the vilest construction on a perfectly innocent action of mine; and now you tell me with the most cynical coolness that you do not care for me.

Aurélie, implying by a little shrug that she gave him up, rose and went to the piano. The moment her fingers touched the keys, she seemed to forget him. But she stopped presently, and said with grave surprise, “What did you say, Adrian?”

“Nothing,” he replied shortly.

“Nothing!” she repeated incredulously.

“Nothing that was intended for your ears. Since you overheard me, I beg your pardon. I do not often offend you with such language; but tonight I do say with all my soul, ‘Damn that pianoforte.’”

“Without doubt you have often said so before under your breath,” said Aurélie, closing the instrument quietly.

“Are you going?” he said anxiously, as she moved toward the door. “No,” he exclaimed, springing forward, and timidly putting his arm about her, “I did not mean that I disliked your playing. I only hate the piano when you make me jealous of it — when you go to it to forget me.”

“It does not matter. Be tranquil. I am not offended,” she said coldly, trying to disengage herself.

“You are indeed, Aurélie. Pray do not be so quick to—”

“Adrian: you are worrying me — you will make me cry; and then I will never forgive you. Let me go.”

At the threat of crying he released her, and stood looking piteously at her.

“You should nut make scenes with me,” she said plaintively. “Where is my handkerchief? I had it a moment ago.”

“Here it is, my darling.” he said humbly, picking it from the floor where it had fallen. She took it without thanking him. Then, glancing petulantly at him, and seeing him dejected and wistful, she relented and stretched out her arms for a caress.

“Mon âme,” she whispered, as she rested her face against his.

“Ma vie,” he said fervently, and clasped her with a shudder of delight to his breast.

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Early in the afternoon of the following day, which was Sunday, Charlie Sutherland presented himself at Church Street, Kensington and asked Mrs Simpson, who opened the door, if Mr Jack was within.

“No, sir,” said Mrs. Simpson, gravely. “He is not in just at present.”

On being pressed as to when he would be in, Mrs. Simpson became vague and evasive, although she expressed sympathy for the evident disappointment of the visitor. At last he said he would probably call again, and turned disconsolately away. He had not gone far when, hearing a shout, he looked back, and saw Jack, uncombed, unshaven, in broken slippers, and a stained and tattered coat, running after him, bareheaded.

“Come up — come back,” cried Jack, his brazen tones somewhat forced by loss of breath. “It’s all a mistake. That jade — come along.” He seized Charlie by the arm, and began to drag him back to the house as he spoke. The boys of the neighborhood soon assembled to look with awe at the capture of Charlie, only a few of the older and less reverent venturing to ridicule the scene by a derisive cheer. Jack marched his visitor upstairs to a large room, which occupied nearly the whole of the first floor. A grand pianoforte in the centre was covered with writing materials, music in print and manuscript, old newspapers, and unwashed coffee cups. The surrounding carpet was in such a state as to make it appear that periodically, when the litter became too cumbrous, it was swept away and permitted to lie on the floor just it chanced to fall. The chairs, the cushions of which seemed to have been much used as pen-wipers, were occupied, some with heaps of clothes, others with books turned inside out to mark the place at which the reader had put them down, one with a boot, the fellow of which lay in the fender, and one with a kettle, which had been recently lifted from the fire which, in spite of the season, burnt in the grate.

Black, brown and yellow stains of ink, coffee, and yolk of egg were on everything in the place.

“Sit down,” said Jack, impetuously thrusting his former pupil into the one empty chair, a comfortable one with elbows, shiny with constant use. He then sought a seat for himself, and in so doing became aware of Mrs Simpsom, who had come in during his absence with the hopeless project of making the room ready for the visitor.

“Here,” he said, “Get some more coffee, and some buttered rolls. Where have you taken all the chairs? I told you not to touch anything in this — why, what the devil do you mean by putting the kettle down on a chair?

“Not likely, Mr Jack said the landlady, “that I would do such a thing. Oh dear! and one of my yellow chairs too. It’s too bad.”

“You must have done it: there was nobody else in the room. Be off: and get the coffee.

“I did not do it,” said Mrs Simpson, raising her voice; “and well you know it. And I would be thankful to you to make up your mind whether you are to be in or out when people call, and not be making a liar of me as you did before this gentleman.”

“You are a liar ready made, and a slattern to boot,” retorted Jack. “Look at the state of this room.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Simpson, with a sniff. “Look at it indeed. I ask your pardon, sir,” she added, turning to Charlie, “but what would anybody think of me if they was told that this was my drawing room?”

Jack, his attention thus recalled to his guest, checked himself on the verge of a fresh outburst, and pointed to the door. Mrs. Simpson looked at him scornfully, but went out without further ado. Jack then seized a chair by the back, shook its contents on to the floor, and sat down near Charlie.

“I should not have spoken as I did just now,” he said, with compunction. “Let me give you a word of advice, Charles. Never live in the house with an untidy woman.”

“It must be an awful nuisance, Mr Jack.”

“It is sure to lead to bad habits in yourself. How is your sister, and your father?”

“Mary is just the same as ever; and so is the governor. I was with him at Birmingham last autumn. We heard the Prometheus. By Jove, Mr Jack, that is something to listen to! The St Matthew Passion, the Ninth Symphony, and the Nibelung’s Ring, are the only works that are fit to be put behind it. The overture alone is something screeching.”

“You like it? That’s right, that’s right. And what are you doing at present? Working hard, eh?”

“The old story, Mr Jack. I have failed in everything just as I failed at the music, though I stuck to that better than any of the rest, whilst I had you to help me.”

“You began everything too young. No matter. There is plenty of time yet. Well, well. What’s the news?”

“I’m going to an at-home at Madge Lancaster’s — the actress, you know. She made me promise I’d call on my way and mention casually where I was going. She thought that you’d perhaps come with me — at least I expect that was her game.”

“She, asked me to come some Sunday; and I told her I would. Is this Sunday?”

“Yes, Mr. Jack, I hope you won’t think it cool of me helping her to collar you in this way.”

Jack made some inarticulate reply; pulled his coat off; and began to throw about the clothes which were heaped on the chairs. Presently he rang the bell furiously, and, after waiting for about twenty seconds for a response, went to the door and shouted for Mrs Simpson in a stunning voice. This had no more effect than the bell; and he returned, muttering execrations, to resume his search. When he had added considerably to the disorder, Mrs Simpson entered with ostentatious unconcern, carrying a tray with coffee and rolls.