Merely Mary Ann | Page 3

table and cover ruled paper with
hieroglyphics for hours together. His movements were erratic to the
verge of mystery. He had no fixed hours for anything; to Mary Ann he
was hopeless. At any given moment he might be playing on the piano,
or writing on the curiously ruled paper, or stamping about the room, or
sitting limp with despair in the one easy-chair, or drinking whisky and
water, or smoking a black meerschaum, or reading a book, or lying in
bed, or driving away in a hansom, or walking about Heaven alone knew
where or why. Even Mrs. Leadbatter, whose experience of life was
wider than Mary Ann's, considered his vagaries almost unchristian,
though to the highest degree gentlemanly. Sometimes, too, he sported
the swallow-tail and the starched breast-plate, which was a wonder to
Mary Ann, who knew that waiters were connected only with the most
stylish establishments. Baker's Terrace did not wear evening dress.
Mary Ann liked him best in black and white. She thought he looked
like the pictures in the young ladies' novelettes, which sometimes
caught her eye as she passed newsvendors' shops on errands. Not that
she was read in this literature--she had no time for reading. But, even
when clothed in rough tweeds, Lancelot had for Mary Ann an
aristocratic halo; in his dressing-gown he savoured of the grand Turk.
His hands were masterful: the fingers tapering, the nails pedantically
polished. He had fair hair, with moustache to match; his brow was high

and white, and his grey eyes could flash fire. When he drew himself up
to his full height, he threatened the gas globes. Never had No. 5 Baker's
Terrace boasted of such a tenant. Altogether, Lancelot loomed large to
Mary Ann; she dazzled him with his own boots in humble response,
and went about sad after a reprimand for putting his papers in order.
Her whole theory of life oscillated in the presence of a being whose
views could so run counter to her strongest instincts. And yet, though
the universe seemed tumbling about her ears when he told her she must
not move a scrap of manuscript, howsoever wildly it lay about the floor
or under the bed, she did not for a moment question his sanity. She
obeyed him like a dog; uncomprehending, but trustful. But, after all,
this was only of a piece with the rest of her life. There was nothing she
questioned. Life stood at her bedside every morning in the cold dawn,
bearing a day heaped high with duties; and she jumped cheerfully out
of her warm bed and took them up one by one, without question or
murmur. They were life. Life had no other meaning any more than it
has for the omnibus hack, which cannot conceive existence outside
shafts, and devoid of the intermittent flick of a whip point. The
comparison is somewhat unjust; for Mary Ann did not fare nearly so
well as the omnibus hack, having to make her meals off such scraps as
even the lodgers sent back. Mrs. Leadbatter was extremely economical,
as much so with the provisions in her charge as with those she bought
for herself. She sedulously sent up remainders till they were expressly
countermanded. Less economical by nature, and hungrier by habit,
Mary Ann had much trouble in restraining herself from surreptitious
pickings. Her conscience was rarely worsted; still there was a taint of
dishonesty in her soul, else had the stairs been less of an ethical
battleground for her. Lancelot's advent only made her hungrier;
somehow the thought of nibbling at his provisions was too sacrilegious
to be entertained. And yet--so queerly are we and life compounded--she
was probably less unhappy at this period than Lancelot, who would
come home in the vilest of tempers, and tramp the room with thunder
on his white brow. Sometimes he and the piano and Beethoven would
all be growling together, at other times they would all three be mute;
Lancelot crouching in the twilight with his head in his hands; and
Beethoven moping in the corner, and the closed piano looming in the
background like a coffin of dead music.

One February evening--an evening of sleet and mist--Lancelot, who
had gone out in evening dress, returned unexpectedly, bringing with
him for the first time a visitor. He was so perturbed that he forgot to use
his latchkey, and Mary Ann, who opened the door, heard him say
angrily, "Well, I can't slam the door in your face, but I will tell you in
your face I don't think it at all gentlemanly of you to force yourself
upon me like this."
"My dear Lancelot, when did I ever set up to be a gentleman? You
know that was always your part of the contract." And a swarthy,
thick-set