Merely Mary Ann

How on earth did we get on this tack?'

'I don't know,' said Peter, smiling. 'We were talking about Frau Sauer-Kraut, I think. And did you board with her all the time?'

'Yes, and I was always hungry. Till the last, I never learnt to stomach her mixtures. But it was really too much trouble to go down the ninety stairs to a restaurant. It was much easier to be hungry.'

'And did you ever get a reform in the hours of washing the floor?'

'Ha! ha! ha! No, they always waited till I was going to bed. I suppose they thought I liked damp. They never got over my morning tub, you know. And that, too, sprang a leak after you left, and helped spontaneously to wash the floor.'

'Shows the fallacy of cleanliness,' said Peter, 'and the inferiority of British ideals. They never bathed in their lives, yet they looked the pink of health.'

'Yes-their complexion was high-like the fish.'

'Ha! ha! Yes, the fish! That was a great luxury, I remember. About once a month.'

'Of course, the town is so inland,' said Lancelot.

'I see-it took such a long time coming. Ha! ha! ha! And the Herr Professor-is he still a bachelor?'

As the Herr Professor was a septuagenarian and a misogamist, even in Peter's time, his question tickled Lancelot. Altogether the two young men grew quite jolly, recalling a hundred oddities, and reknitting their friendship at the expense of the Fatherland.

'But was there ever a more madcap expedition than ours?' exclaimed Peter. 'Most boys start out to be pirates--'

'And some do become music-publishers,' Lancelot finished grimly, suddenly reminded of a grievance.

'Ha! ha! ha! Poor fellow'' laughed Peter. 'Then you have found them out already.'

'Does anyone ever find them in?' flashed Lancelot. 'I suppose they do exist and are occasionally seen of mortal eyes. I suppose wives and friends and mothers gaze on them with no sense of special privilege, unconscious of their invisibility to the profane eyes of mere musicians.'

'My dear fellow, the mere musicians are as plentiful as niggers on the sea-shore. A publisher might spend his whole day receiving regiments of unappreciated geniuses. Bond Street would be impassable. You look at the publisher too much from your own standpoint.'

'I tell you I don't look at him from any standpoint. That's what I complain of. He's encircled with a prickly hedge of clerks. 'You will hear from us.' 'It shall have our best consideration.' 'We have no knowledge of the MS. in question.' Yes, Peter, two valuable quartets have I lost, messing about with these villains.'

'I tell you what. I'll give you an introduction to Brahmson. I know him-privately.'

'No, thank you, Peter.'

'Why not?'

'Because you know him.'

'I couldn't give you 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 permeates you, that drags you down to it! Mary Ann! A transpontine drudge! whose lips are fresh from the coalman's and the butcher's. Phaugh!'

The fancy seized hold of his imagination. He could not shake it off, he could not sleep till he had got out of bed and sponged his lips vigorously.

Meanwhile Mary Ann was lying on her bed, dressed, doing her best to keep her meaningless, half-hysterical sobs from her mistress's keen ear.

II