Merely Mary Ann

philanthropic trick. No, he would advertise.

After he had spent his last gold breast-pin in advertisements, he realised that to get piano-forte pupils in London was as easy as to get songs published. By the time he had quite realised it, it was May, and then he sat down to realise his future.

The future was sublimely simple-as simple as his wardrobe had grown. All his clothes were on his back. In a week or two he would be on the streets; for a poor widow could not be expected to lodge, partially board (with use of the piano, gas), an absolutely penniless young gentleman, though he combined the blood of twenty county families with the genius of a pleiad of tone-poets.

There was only one bright spot in the prospect. Rosie's lessons would come to an end.

What he would do when he got on the streets was not so clear as the rest of this prophetic vision. He might take to a barrel-organ-but that would be a cruel waste of his artistic touch. Perhaps he would die on a doorstep, like the professor of many languages whose starvation was recorded in that very morning's paper.

Thus, driven by the saturnine necessity that sneers at our puny resolutions, Lancelot began to meditate surrender. For surrender of some sort must be-either of life or ideal. After so steadfast and protracted a struggle- oh, it was cruel, it was terrible; how noble, how high-minded he had been; and this was how the fates dealt with him-but at that moment--

'Sw-eêt' went the canary, and filled the room with its rapturous demi-semi-quavers, its throat swelling, its little body throbbing with joy of the sunshine. And then Lancelot remembered-not the joy of the sunshine, not the joy of life-no, merely Mary Ann.

Noble! high-minded! No, let Peter think that, let posterity think that. But he could not cozen himself thus! He had fallen-horribly, vulgarly. How absurd of him to set himself up as a saint, a martyr, an idealist! He could not divide himself into two compartments like that and pretend that only one counted in his character. Who was he, to talk of dying for art? No, he was but an everyday man. He wanted Mary Ann-yes, he might as well admit that to himself now. It was no use hum-bugging himself any longer. Why should he give her up? She was his discovery, his treasure-trove, his property.

And if he could stoop to her, why should he not stoop to popular work, to devilling, to anything that would rid him of these sordid cares? Bah! away with all pretences?

Was not this shamefaced pawning as vulgar, as wounding to the artist's soul, as the turning out of tawdry melodies?

Yes, he would escape from Mrs. Leadbatter and her Rosie; he would write to that popular composer-he had noticed his letter lying on the mantel-piece the other day-and accept the fifty pounds, and whatever he did he could do anonymously, so that Peter wouldn't know, after all; he would escape from this wretched den and take a flat far away, somewhere where nobody knew him, and there he would sit and work, with Mary Ann for his housekeeper. Poor Mary Ann! How glad she would be when he told her! The tears came into his eyes as he thought of her naïve delight. He would rescue her from this horrid, monotonous slavery, and-happy thought-he would have her to give lessons to instead of Rosie.

Yes, he would refine her; prune away all that reminded him of her wild growth, so that it might no longer humiliate him to think to what a companion he had sunk. How happy they would be! Of course the world would censure him if it knew, but the world was stupid and prosaic, and measured all things by its coarse rule of thumb. It was the best thing that could happen to Mary Ann-the best thing in the world. And then the world wouldn't know.

'Sw-eêt,' went the canary. 'Sw-eêt.'

This time the joy of the bird penetrated to his own soul-the joy of life, the joy of the sunshine. He rang the bell violently, as though he were sounding a clarion of defiance, the trumpet of youth.

Mary Ann knocked at the door, came in, and began to draw on her gloves.

He was in a mad mood-the incongruity struck him so that he burst out into a roar of laughter.

Mary Ann paused, flushed, and bit her lip. The touch of resentment he had never noted before gave her a novel charm, spicing her simplicity.

He came over to her and took her half-bare hands. No, they were not so terrible, after all. Perhaps she had awakened to her iniquities, and had been trying to wash them white. His last hesitation as to her worthiness to live with him vanished.

'Mary Ann,' he said, 'I'm going to leave these rooms.'

The flush deepened, but the anger faded. She was a child again-her big eyes full of tears. He felt her hands tremble in his.

'Mary Ann,' he went on, 'how would you like me to take you with me?'

'Do you mean it, sir?' she asked eagerly.

'Yes, dear.' It was the first time he had used the word. The blood throbbed madly in her ears. 'If you will come with me-and be my little housekeeper-we will go away to some nice spot, and be quite alone together-in the country if you like, amid the foxglove and the meadowsweet, or by the green waters, where you shall stand in the sunset and dream; and I will teach you music and the piano'-her eyes dilated-'and you shall not do any of this wretched nasty work any more. What do you say?'

'Sw-eêt, sw-eêt,' said the canary in thrilling jubilation.

Her happiness was choking her-she could not speak.

'And we will take the canary, too-unless I say good-bye to you as well.'

'Oh no, you mustn't leave us here!'

'And then,' he said slowly, 'it will not be good-bye-nor good-night. Do you understand?'

'Yes, yes,' she breathed, and her face shone.

'But think, think, Mary Ann,' he said, a sudden pang of compunction shooting through his breast. He released her hands. 'Do you understand?'

'I understand-I shall be with you, always.'

He replied uneasily: 'I shall look after you-always.'

'Yes, yes,' she breathed. Her bosom heaved. 'Always.'

Then his very first impression of her as 'a sort of white Topsy' recurred to him suddenly and flashed into speech.

'Mary Ann, I don't believe you know how you came into the world. I dare say you 'specs you growed.''

'No, sir,' said Mary Ann gravely; 'God made me.'

That shook him strangely for a moment. But the canary sang on:

'Sw-eêt. Sw-w-w-w-w-eêt.'

III

And so it was settled. He wrote the long-delayed answer to the popular composer, found him still willing to give out his orchestration, and they met by appointment at the club.

'I've got hold of a splendid book,' said the popular composer. 'Awfully clever; jolly original. Bound to go-from the French, you know. Haven't had time to set to work on it-old engagement to run over to Monte Carlo for a few days-but I'll leave you the book; you might care to look over it. And-I say-if any catchy tunes suggest themselves as you go along, you might just jot them down, you know. Not worth while losing an idea; eh, my boy! Ha! ha! ha! Well, good-bye. See you again when I come back; don't suppose I shall be away more than a month. Good-bye!' And, having shaken Lancelot's hand with tremendous cordiality, the popular composer rushed downstairs and into a hansom.

Lancelot walked home with the libretto and the five five-pound notes. He asked for Mrs. Leadbatter, and gave her a week's notice. He wanted to drop Rosie immediately, on the plea of pressure of work, but her mother received the suggestion with ill-grace, and said that Rosie should come up and practise on her own piano all the same, so he yielded to the complexities of the situation, and found hope a wonderful sweetener of suffering. Despite Rosie and her giggling, and Mrs. Leadbatter and her best cap and her asthma, the week went by almost cheerfully. He worked regularly at the comic opera, nearly as happy as the canary which sang all day long, and, though scarcely a word more passed between him and Mary Ann, their eyes met ever and anon in the consciousness of a sweet secret.

It was already Friday afternoon. He gathered together his few personal belongings-his books, his manuscripts,