The Grey Wig: Stories and Novelettes

'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 machina 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 reestablished them in their mutual esteem, they chatted lazily and spasmodically till past midnight, with more smoke than fire in the 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 candle-stick 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 Maedchen, 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.

It was a long time before Mary Ann came so prominently into the centre of Lancelot's consciousness again. She remained somewhere in the outer periphery of his thought-nowhere near the bull's-eye, so to speak-as a vague automaton that worked when he pulled a bell-rope. Infinitely more important things were troubling him; the visit of Peter had somehow put a keener edge on his blunted self-confidence; he had started a grand opera, and worked at it furiously in all the intervals left him by his engrossing pursuit after a publisher. Sometimes he would look up from his hieroglyphics and see Mary Ann at his side surveying him curiously, and then he would start, and remember he had rung her up, and try to remember what for. And Mary Ann would turn red, as if the fault was hers.

But the publisher was the one thing that was never out of Lancelot's mind, though he drove Lancelot himself nearly out of it. He was like an arrow stuck in the aforesaid bull's-eye, and, the target being conscious, he rankled sorely. Lancelot discovered that the publisher kept a 'musical adviser,' whose advice appeared to consist of the famous monosyllable, 'Don't.' The publisher generally published all the musical adviser's own works, his advice having apparently been neglected when it was most worth taking; at least so Lancelot thought, when he had skimmed through a set of Lancers by one of these worthies.

'I shall give up being a musician,' he said to himself, grimly. 'I shall become a musical adviser.'

Once, half by accident, he actually saw a publisher. 'My dear sir,' said the great man, 'what is the use of bringing quartets and full scores to me? You should have taken them to Brahmson; he's the very man you want. You know his address, of course-just down the street.'

Lancelot did not like to say that it was Brahmson's clerks that had recommended him here; so he replied, 'But you publish operas, oratorios, cantatas!'

'Ah, yes!-h'm-things that have been played at the big Festivals-composers of prestige-quite a different thing, sir, quite a different thing. There's no sale for these things-none at all, sir-public never heard of you. Now, if you were to write some songs-nice catchy tunes-high class, you know, with pretty words-'

Now Lancelot by this time was aware of the publisher's wily ways; he could almost have constructed an Ollendorffian dialogue, entitled 'Between a Music Publisher and a Composer.' So he opened his portfolio again and said, 'I have brought some.'

'Well, send-send them in,' stammered the publisher, almost disconcerted. 'They shall have our best consideration.'

'Oh, but you might just as well look over them at once,' said Lancelot, firmly, uncoiling them. 'It won't take you five minutes-just let me play one to you. The tunes are rather more original than the average, I can promise you; and yet I think they have a lilt that-'

'I really can't spare the time now. If you leave them, we will do our best.'

'Listen to this bit!' said Lancelot, desperately. And dashing at a piano that stood handy, he played a couple of bars. 'That's quite a new modulation.'

'That's all very well,' said the publisher; 'but how do you suppose I'm going to sell a thing with an