"But you did-her brother's death," said Lancelot. "That's what she's crying about."
Mrs. Leadbatter was taken aback by this obverse view of the situation; but recovering herself, she shook her head. "I wouldn't cry for no brother that lef me to starve when he was rollin' in two and a 'arf million dollars," she said sceptically. "And I'm sure my Rosie wouldn't. But she never 'ad nobody to leave her money, poor dear child, except me, please Gaud. It's only the fools as 'as the luck in this world." And having thus relieved her bosom, she resumed her panting progress upwards.
The last words rang on in Lancelot's ears long after he had returned to his room. In the utter breakdown and confusion of his plans and his ideas, it was the one definite thought he clung to, as a swimmer in a whirlpool clings to a rock. His brain refused to concentrate itself on any other aspect of the situation-he could not, would not, dared not, think of anything else. He knew vaguely he ought to rejoice with her over her wonderful stroke of luck, that savoured of the fairy-story, but everything was swamped by that one almost resentful reflection. Oh, the irony of fate! Blind fate showering torrents of gold upon this foolish, babyish household drudge; who was all emotion and animal devotion, without the intellectual outlook of a Hottentot, and leaving men of genius to starve, or sell their souls for a handful of it! How was the wisdom of the ages justified! Verily did fortune favour fools. And Tom-the wicked-he had flourished as the wicked always do, like the green bay tree, as the Psalmist discovered ever so many centuries ago.
But gradually the wave of bitterness waned. He found himself listening placidly and attentively to the joyous trills and roulades of the canary, till the light faded and the grey dusk crept into the room and stilled the tiny winged lover of the sunshine. Then Beethoven came and rubbed himself against his master's leg, and Lancelot got up, as one wakes from a dream, and stretched his cramped limbs dazedly, and rang the bell mechanically for tea. He was groping on the mantel-piece for the matches when the knock at the door came, and he did not turn round till he had found them. He struck a light, expecting to see Mrs. Leadbatter or Rosie. He started to find it was merely Mary Ann.
But she was no longer merely Mary Ann, he remembered with another shock. She loomed large to him in the match-light-he seemed to see her through a golden haze. Tumultuous images of her glorified gilded future rose and mingled dizzily in his brain.
And yet, was he dreaming? Surely it was the same Mary Ann, with the same winsome face and the same large pathetic eyes, ringed though they were with the shadow of tears. Mary Ann, in her neat white cap-yes-and in her tan kid gloves. He rubbed his eyes. Was he really awake? Or-a thought still more dizzying-had he been dreaming? He had fallen asleep and reinless fancy had played him the fantastic trick, from which, cramped and dazed, he had just awakened to the old sweet reality.
"Mary Ann!" he cried wildly. The lighted match fell from his fingers and burnt itself out unheeded on the carpet.
"Yessir."
"Is it true"-his emotion choked him-"is it true you've come into two and a half million dollars?"
"Yessir, and I've brought you some tea."
The room was dark, but darkness seemed to fall on it as she spoke.
"But why are you waiting on me, then?" he said slowly. "Don't you know that you-that you-"
"Please, Mr. Lancelot, I wanted to come in and see you."
He felt himself trembling.
"But Mrs. Leadbatter told me she wouldn't let you do any more work."
"I told missus that I must; I told her she couldn't get another girl before Monday, if then, and if she didn't let me I wouldn't buy a new dress and a pair of boots with her sovereign-it isn't suvrin, is it, sir?"
"No," murmured Lancelot, smiling in spite of himself.
"With her sovereign. And I said I would be all dirty on Monday."
"But what can you get for a sovereign?" he asked irrelevantly. He felt his mind wandering away from him.
"Oh, ever such a pretty dress!"
The picture of Mary Ann in a pretty dress painted itself upon the darkness. How lovely the child would look in some creamy white evening dress with a rose in her hair. He wondered that in all his thoughts of their future he had never dressed her up thus in fancy, to feast his eyes on the vision.
"And so the vicar will find you in a pretty dress," he said at last.
"No, sir."
"But you promised Mrs. Leadbatter to-"
"I promised to buy a dress with her sovereign. But I shan't be here when the vicar comes. He can't come till the afternoon."
"Why, where will you be?" he said, his heart beginning to beat fast.
"With you," she replied, with a faint accent of surprise.
He steadied himself against the mantel-piece.
"But-" he began, and ended, "is that honest?"
He dimly descried her lips pouting. "We can always send her another when we have one," she said.
He stood there, dumb, glad of the darkness.
"I must go down now," she said. "I mustn't stay long."
"Why?" he articulated.
"Rosie," she replied briefly.
"What about Rosie?"
"She watches me-ever since she came. Don't you understand?"
This time he was the dullard. He felt an extra quiver of repugnance for Rosie, but said nothing, while Mary Ann briskly lit the gas, and threw some coals on the decaying fire. He was pleased she was going down; he was suffocating; he did not know what to say to her. And yet, as she was disappearing through the doorway, he had a sudden feeling things couldn't be allowed to remain an instant in this impossible position.
"Mary Ann!" he cried.
"Yessir."
She turned back-her face wore merely the expectant expression of a summoned servant. The childishness of her behaviour confused him, irritated him.
"Are you foolish?" he cried suddenly; half regretting the phrase the instant he had uttered it.
Her lip twitched.
"No, Mr. Lancelot!" she faltered.
"But you talk as if you were," he said less roughly. "You mustn't run away from the vicar just when he is going to take you to the lawyer's to certify who you are, and see that you get your money."
"But I don't want to go with the vicar-I want to go with you. You said you would take me with you." She was almost in tears now.
"Yes-but don't you-don't you understand that-that," he stammered; then, temporising, "but I can wait."
"Can't the vicar wait?" said Mary Ann. He had never known her show such initiative.
He saw that it was hopeless-that the money had made no more dint upon her consciousness than some vague dream, that her whole being was set towards the new life with him, and shrank in horror from the menace of the vicar's withdrawal of her in the opposite direction. If joy and redemption had not already lain in the one quarter, the advantages of the other might have been more palpably alluring. As it was, her consciousness was "full up" in the matter, so to speak. He saw that he must tell her plain and plump, startle her out of her simple confidence.
"Listen to me, Mary Ann."
"Yessir."
"You are a young woman-not a baby. Strive to grasp what I am going to tell you."
"Yessir," in a half sob, that vibrated with the obstinate resentment of a child that knows it is to be argued out of its instincts by adult sophistry. What had become of her passive personality?
"You are now the owner of two and a half million dollars-that is about five hundred thousand pounds. Five-hundred thousand-pounds. Think of ten sovereigns-ten golden sovereigns like that Mrs. Leadbatter gave you. Then ten times as much as that, and ten times as much as all that"-he spread his arms wider and wider-"and ten times as much as all that, and then"-here his arms were prematurely horizontal, so he concluded hastily but impressively,-"and then FIFTY times as much as all that. Do you understand how rich you are?"
"Yessir." She was fumbling nervously at her gloves, half drawing them off.