Merely Mary Ann | Page 9

an introduction if I didn't. This is silly of you,
Lancelot."
"If Brahmson can't see any merits in my music, I don't want you to
open his eyes. I'll stand on my own bottom. And what's more, Peter, I
tell you once for all"--his voice was low and menacing--"if you try any
anonymous deus ex machinâ tricks on me in some sly, roundabout
fashion, don't you flatter yourself I shan't recognise your hand. I shall,
and, by God, it shall never grasp mine again."
"I suppose you think that's very noble and sublime," said Peter coolly.
"You don't suppose if I could do you a turn I'd hesitate for fear of
excommunication? I know you're like Beethoven there--your bark is
worse than your bite."
"Very well; try. You'll find my teeth nastier than you bargain for."
"I'm not going to try. If you want to go to the dogs--go. Why should I
put out a hand to stop you?"
These amenities having re-established them in their mutual esteem,
they chatted lazily and spasmodically till past midnight, with more
smoke than fire in their conversation.
At last Peter began to go, and in course of time actually did take up his
umbrella. Not long after, Lancelot conducted him softly down the dark,
silent stairs, holding his bedroom candlestick in his hand, for Mrs.
Leadbatter always turned out the hall lamp on her way to bed. The old
phrases came to the young men's lips as their hands met in a last hearty

grip.
"Lebt wohl!" said Lancelot.
"Auf Wiedersehen!" replied Peter threateningly.
Lancelot stood at the hall door looking for a moment after his
friend--the friend he had tried to cast out of his heart as a recreant. The
mist had cleared--the stars glittered countless in the frosty heaven; a
golden crescent moon hung low; the lights and shadows lay almost
poetically upon the little street. A rush of tender thoughts whelmed the
musician's soul. He saw again the dear old garret, up the ninety stairs,
in the Hotel Cologne, where he had lived with his dreams; he heard the
pianos and violins going in every room in happy incongruity,
publishing to all the prowess of the players; dirty, picturesque old
Leipsic rose before him; he was walking again in the Hainstrasse, in
the shadow of the quaint, tall houses. Yes, life was sweet after all; he
was a coward to lose heart so soon; fame would yet be his; fame and
love--the love of a noble woman that fame earns; some gracious
creature breathing sweet refinements, cradled in an ancient home, such
as he had left for ever.
The sentimentality of the Fatherland seemed to have crept into his soul;
a divinely sweet, sad melody was throbbing in his brain. How glad he
was he had met Peter again!
From a neighbouring steeple came a harsh, resonant clang, "One."
It roused him from his dream. He shivered a little, closed the door,
bolted it and put up the chain, and turned, half sighing, to take up his
bedroom candle again. Then his heart stood still for a moment. A
figure--a girl's figure--was coming towards him from the kitchen stairs.
As she came into the dim light he saw that it was merely Mary Ann.
She looked half drowsed. Her cap was off, her hair tangled loosely over
her forehead. In her disarray she looked prettier than he had ever
remembered her. There was something provoking about the large
dreamy eyes, the red lips that parted at the unexpected sight of him.

"Good heavens!" he cried. "Not gone to bed yet?"
"No, sir. I had to stay up to wash up a lot of crockery. The second-floor
front had some friends to supper late. Missus says she won't stand it
again."
"Poor thing!" He patted her soft cheek--it grew hot and rosy under his
fingers, but was not withdrawn. Mary Ann made no sign of resentment.
In his mood of tenderness to all creation his rough words to her
recurred to him.
"You mustn't mind what I said about the matches," he murmured.
"When I am in a bad temper I say anything. Remember now for the
future, will you?"
"Yessir."
Her face--its blushes flickered over strangely by the
candle-light--seemed to look up at him invitingly.
"That's a good girl." And bending down he kissed her on the lips.
"Good night," he murmured.
Mary Ann made some startled, gurgling sound in reply.
Five minutes afterwards Lancelot was in bed, denouncing himself as a
vulgar beast.
"I must have drunk too much whisky," he said to himself angrily.
"Good heavens. Fancy sinking to Mary Ann. If Peter had only seen----
There was infinitely more poetry in that red-cheeked Mädchen, and yet
I never---- It is true--there is something sordid about the atmosphere
that subtly