The Grey Wig: Stories and Novelettes

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-eet,' went the canary. 'Sw-eet.'

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 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-eet, sw-eet,' 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-by to you as well.'

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

'And then,' he said slowly, 'it will not be good-by-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-eet. Sw-w-w-w-w-eet.'

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-by. See you again when I come back; don't suppose I shall be away more than a month. Good-by!' And, having shaken his 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, opera innumerable. There was room in his portmanteau for everything-now he had no clothes. On the Monday the long nightmare would be over. He would go down to some obscure seaside nook and live very quietly for a few weeks, and gain strength and calm in the soft spring airs, and watch hand-in-hand with Mary Ann the rippling scarlet trail of the setting sun fade across the green waters. Life, no doubt, would be hard enough still. Struggles and trials enough were yet before him, but he would not think of that now-enough that for a month or two there would be bread and cheese and kisses. And then, in the midst of a tender reverie, with his hand on the lid of his portmanteau, he was awakened by ominous sounds of objurgation from the kitchen.

His heart stood still. He went down a few stairs and listened.

'Not another stroke of work do you do in my house, Mary Ann!' Then there was silence, save for the thumping of his own heart. What had happened?

He heard Mrs. Leadbatter mounting the kitchen stairs, wheezing and grumbling, 'Well, of all the sly little things!'

Mary Ann had been discovered. His blood ran cold at the thought. The silly creature had been unable to keep the secret.

'Not a word about 'im all this time. Oh, the sly little thing! Who would hever a-believed it?'

And then, in the intervals of Mrs. Leadbatter's groanings, there came to him the unmistakable sound of Mary Ann sobbing-violently, hysterically. He turned from cold to hot in a fever of shame and humiliation. How had it all come about? Oh, yes, he could guess. The gloves! What a fool he had been! Mrs. Leadbatter had unearthed the box. Why did he give her more than the pair that could always be kept hidden in her pocket? Yes, it was the gloves. And then there was the canary. Mrs. Leadbatter had suspected he was leaving her for a reason. She had put two and two together, she had questioned Mary Ann, and the ingenuous little idiot had naively told her he was going to take her with him. It didn't really matter, of course; he didn't suppose Mrs. Leadbatter could exercise any control over Mary Ann, but it was horrible to be discussed by her and Rosie; and then there was that meddlesome vicar, who might step in and make things nasty.

Mrs. Leadbatter's steps and wheezes and grumblings had arrived in the passage, and Lancelot hastily stole back into his room, his heart continuing to flutter painfully.

He heard the complex noises reach his landing, pass by, and move up higher. She wasn't coming in to him then; he could endure the suspense no longer. He threw open his door and said, 'Is there anything the matter?'

Mrs. Leadbatter paused and turned her head.

'His there anything the matter!' she echoed, looking down upon him. 'A nice thing when a woman's troubled with hastmer and brought 'ome 'er daughter to take 'er place, that she should 'ave to start 'untin' afresh!'

'Why, is Rosie going away?' he said, immeasurably relieved.

'My Rosie! She's the best girl breathing. It's that there Mary Ann!'

'Wh-a-t!' he stammered. 'Mary Ann leaving you?'

'Well, you don't suppose,' replied Mrs. Leadbatter, angrily, 'as I can keep a gel in my kitchen as is a-goin' to 'ave 'er own nors-end-kerridge!'