Part 47 (2/2)
”Oh, well! I couldn't give it up altogether, but I do practically stick to the contract--it's all overtime, you know. It doesn't interfere a bit with business. Besides, as you'd say, it isn't music,” he said slyly.
”And just because I don't want it I make a heap of coin out of it--that's why I'm so vexed at your keeping me still in your debt.”
Lancelot frowned. ”Then you had no difficulty in getting published?” he asked.
”I don't say that. It was bribery and corruption so far as my first song was concerned. I tipped a professional to go down and tell Brahmson he was going to take it up. You know, of course, well-known singers get half-a-guinea from the publisher every time they sing a song.”
”No; do they?” said Lancelot. ”How mean of them!”
”Business, my boy. It pays the publisher to give it them. Look at the advertis.e.m.e.nt!”
”But suppose a really fine song was published, and the publisher refused to pay this blood-money?”
”Then I suppose they'd sing some other song, and let that moulder on the foolish publisher's shelves.”
”Great Heavens!” said Lancelot, jumping up from the piano in wild excitement. ”Then a musician's reputation is really at the mercy of a mercenary crew of singers, who respect neither art nor themselves. Oh, yes, we are indeed a musical people!”
”Easy there! Several of 'em are pals of mine, and I'll get them to take up those ballads of yours as soon as you write 'em.”
”Let them go to the devil with their ballads!” roared Lancelot, and with a sweep of his arm whirled _Good-night_ and _Good-by_ into the air. Peter picked it up and wrote something on it with a stylographic pen which he produced from his waistcoat pocket.
”There!” he said, ”that'll make you remember it's your own property--and mine--that you are treating so disrespectfully.”
”I beg your pardon, old chap,” said Lancelot, rebuked and remorseful.
”Don't mention it,” replied Peter. ”And whenever you decide to become rich and famous--there's your model.”
”Never! Never! Never!” cried Lancelot, when Peter went at ten. ”My poor Beethoven! What you must have suffered! Never mind, I'll play you your moonlight sonata.”
He touched the keys gently and his sorrows and his temptations faded from him. He glided into Bach, and then into Chopin and Mendelssohn, and at last drifted into dreamy improvisation, his fingers moving almost of themselves, his eyes half closed, seeing only inward visions.
And then, all at once, he awoke with a start, for Beethoven was barking towards the door, with p.r.i.c.ked-up ears and rigid tail.
”s.h.!.+ You little beggar,” he murmured, becoming conscious that the hour was late, and that he himself had been noisy at unbeseeming hours.
”What's the matter with you?” And, with a sudden thought, he threw open the door.
It was merely Mary Ann.
Her face--flashed so unexpectedly upon him--had the piquancy of a vision, but its expression was one of confusion and guilt; there were tears on her cheeks; in her hand was a bedroom candle-stick.
She turned quickly, and began to mount the stairs. Lancelot put his hand on her shoulder, and turned her face towards him and said in an imperious whisper:--
”Now then, what's up? What are you crying about?”
”I ain't--I mean I'm _not_ crying,” said Mary Ann, with a sob in her breath.
”Come, come, don't fib. What's the matter?”
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