"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, 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 naïvely 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!"
"Her own horse and carriage!" repeated Lancelot, utterly dazed. "What ever are you talking about?"
"Well-there's the letter!" exclaimed Mrs. Leadbatter indignantly. "See for yourself if you don't believe me. I don't know how much two and a 'arf million dollars is-but it sounds unkimmonly like a nors-end-kerridge-and never said a word about 'im the whole time, the sly little thing!"
The universe seemed oscillating so that he grasped at the letter like a drunken man. It was from the vicar. He wrote:
"I have much pleasure in informing you that our dear Mary Ann is the fortunate inheritress of two and a half million dollars by the death of her brother Tom, who, as I learn from the lawyers who have applied to me for news of the family, has just died in America, leaving his money to his surviving relatives. He was rather a wild young man, but it seems he became the lucky possessor of some petroleum wells, which made him wealthy in a few months. I pray God Mary Ann may make a better use of the money than he would have done, I want you to break the news to her, please, and to prepare her for my visit. As I have to preach on Sunday, I cannot come to town before, but on Monday (D.V.) I shall run up and shall probably take her back with me, as I desire to help her through the difficulties that will attend her entry into the new life. How pleased you will be to think of the care you took of the dear child during these last five years. I hope she is well and happy. I think you omitted to write to me last Christmas on the subject. Please give her my kindest regards and best wishes, and say I shall be with her (D.V.) on Monday."
The words swam uncertainly before Lancelot's eyes, but he got through them all at last. He felt chilled and numbed. He averted his face as he handed the letter back to Mary Ann's "missus."
"What a fortunate girl!" he said in a low, stony voice.
"Fortunate ain't the word for it. The mean, sly little cat. Fancy never telling me a word about 'er brother all these years-me as 'as fed her, and clothed her, and lodged her, and kepper out of all mischief, as if she'd bin my own daughter, never let her go out Bankhollidayin' in loose company-as you can bear witness yourself, sir-and eddicated 'er out of 'er country talk and rough ways, and made 'er the smart young woman she is, fit to wait on the most troublesome of gentlemen. And now she'll go away and say I used 'er 'arsh, and overworked 'er, and Lord knows what, don't tell me. Oh, my poor chest!"