CHAPTER XXV

"MR. RICH HAS GIVEN ME AN ENGAGEMENT"

Lavinia slept late and was only aroused by Betty hammering at her door.

"Get up--get up, Miss Lavvy. A fine gentleman's a-waiting to see 'ee.

'Tis him as I see go out with 'ee last night from the concert."

"Mr. Gay," said Lavinia to herself. Then aloud: "I won't be long. What's

the time?"

"Pretty nigh mid-day. I didn't wake 'ee afore 'cause I knowed you was

tired. He's a nice pleasant gentleman, sure. I wanted to hurry granny

out o' the room, but he wouldn't hear of it. I left 'em a-talking about

play matters. Once get mother on to _that_ she'll go on fur ever."

Lavinia sprang out of bed and hurried over her toilet. She presented

herself quite flushed and flustered. Gay received her with a smile and

noted her animation with pleasure. He unrolled a number of sheets of

music. The paper was rough and the notes, engraved and not printed as

to-day, were cramped and scratchy.

"You know some of these tunes may be, Polly; those you don't know you'll

soon learn. I'm going to speak to Mr. Palmer about your singing two or

three just to see how the people take 'em. The words will be the old

ones, not my new verse. You won't have to trouble about my words yet

awhile."

Gay ran over the titles of the old ballads--Purcell's "What shall I do

to show how much I love her?" "Grim King of the Ghosts," "Thomas I

cannot," "Now ponder well ye parents dear," "Pretty parrot say," "Over

the hills and far away," "Gin thou wert my ain thing," "Cease your

funning," "All in the Downs."

"Those are the principal songs," went on Gay.

"Yes, I know a few, but I've never heard of the others," cried Lavinia a

little dismayed. "How shall I learn the tunes?"

"You must come to my lodgings in the village and I'll play them over to

you on the flute. My friend, Dr. Arbuthnot, will be pleased to hear you

sing 'em. It will do him good--perhaps charm away his gout. The doctor

knows you."

"Does he, sir? I don't remember him."

"He was at Mr. Pope's villa the day you sang to us. I must have a

harpsichord and we must have Dr. Pepusch to tell us what he thinks."

Lavinia heard all this with great delight. She felt she was really not

only on the ladder of success but was climbing upwards safely.

Gay then fell to talking of other matters, and incidentally mentioned

that John Rich was back from Bath where he had been taking the waters,

and that he must be talked into engaging Lavinia permanently when the

season opened in October.

"It won't be singing yet awhile Polly, so don't be disappointed if you

have to continue to walk on the stage and come off again. I'm told his

'Harlequin' hasn't finished its run so he'll open with that and go on

till my opera's ready. I'm all impatience to see you in it."

Then patting her cheek and chucking her under the chin Gay took his

leave.

It would have been hard for Lavinia to say how the day passed. She

walked on the heath for no other purpose, so she said, save to revel in

the sunshine and pure air. She had a secret hope that she might

encounter Lancelot Vane, but embarrassment was mingled with that hope.

It would be better not, she felt, yet she was disappointed all the same

when after strolling about for half an hour she saw nothing of him, and

banishing her vain thoughts she went on to the concert room to inquire

if she were wanted to sing that night.

"Yes, to be sure," said Palmer. "You're all the talk. I've seen Mr. Gay,

and he tells me he's given you some songs he would like you to sing.

Suppose you go over a couple now for me?"

A harpsichord was in the room and Palmer asked her to sing what she

liked and he would fill in an accompaniment as best he could as she had

not brought the music. She selected "Now ponder well ye parents dear,"

the tender pathos of which had always appealed to her, and "Thomas I

cannot," a merry ditty which she knew from her old experience as a

street singer would be sure to please. Palmer was delighted with both.

The first he said brought tears to his eyes and the second put him in

good humour.

"My dear, you could not have made a better choice. I expect a crowded

room and you'll conquer 'em all."

And so she did. There was no longer coldness--no longer indifference.

Everybody was agog with expectation, everybody was pleased. Lavinia's

triumph was complete. Night after night it was the same. Palmer had

never had so successful a season. He put money in his pocket and he paid

his new star fairly well.

Two or three times a week for over a month Lavinia went to Gay's

lodgings and rehearsed the songs she did not know and those also with

which she was already acquainted. The words Gay gave her to sing were

not those to which she was accustomed and she found the change

confusing. Moreover, at each rehearsal some alterations in the words

were made, occasionally by Gay, occasionally at the suggestion of Dr.

Arbuthnot. But she never wearied, and so she was sufficiently rewarded

for her trouble when Gay bestowed upon her a word of praise.

But Lancelot Vane?

He came not in spite of his earnest entreaty that she would meet him. At

first she was wounded, then she was indignant. She remembered how

faithless he had proved, and all her bitterness against him and Sally

Salisbury revived. Then came a revulsion of feeling. Why should he not

be ill? Nay, he might even be dead. Perhaps worse. If he had carried out

his despairing threat? She pictured him floating on the surface of a

Hampstead pond and a shudder went over her at the gruesome thought.

Finally she subsided into dull resignation and strove to think no more

about him.

It was September; with the colder weather came the waning of the

Hampstead season, the fashionable folk were returning to London and

preparing for masquerades, ridottos, the theatres and the opera. The

Great Room concerts were but thinly attended and for a whole fortnight

Lavinia had not sung twice. But this did not matter to her. She had been

written to by John Rich, and he had engaged her at a little higher

salary than he had hitherto paid.

Lavinia sang for the last time at Hampstead and quitted the Great Room

not without regrets and doubts. Would she be as successful at the Duke's

Theatre? Would she have her chance? She well knew the rivalries a

rising actress would have to encounter. But what disturbed her most was

that Gay's enthusiasm over his opera did not seem so keen as it had

been. She dared not ask him the cause of his depression. She could only

watch his varying moods and hope the melancholy ones would pass.

Hitherto Betty had always been waiting for her to accompany her across

the heath, but this last night she was not in her usual place at the

door. Lavinia was not surprised as Betty had a bad cold. She hurried

out, anxious to get home. Some one a yard or so from the entrance shrank

into the darkness as she passed out but not so rapidly that he was not

noticed and recognised.

Lavinia was full of generous impulses that evening. Everything had gone

so well with her, and the future in spite of her doubts was so bright.

"Mr. Vane," she cried and moved a step towards him. "Do I frighten you

that you don't want to see me?"

"No," she heard him say, but it was with difficulty for his voice was so

low. "I'm not frightened but I'm afraid of what you might say or think."

"You don't give me a chance of the one or the other," she retorted. "You

don't keep your own appointments. 'Tis a bad habit of forgetfulness with

women, it's worse with men."

"You're right, but in my case 'tis not forgetfulness. I've seen you

every time you've sung. I've not missed once."

"And you've never acknowledged my presence! Thank you."

"I was at fault there, I suppose. I kept my happiness to myself. I ought

to have thanked you for the joy of seeing and hearing you but I was

doubtful whether I should not be intruding."

"It would have been no intrusion," rejoined Lavinia her tone softening.

"Then I hope my admiration is not an impertinence."

"Oh, you're too modest, Mr. Vane. You've no confidence in yourself--save

when you've need to strike a blow."

"I've no confidence that I'm acceptable to you and--but may I accompany

you across the heath? I notice that your usual bodyguard is absent

to-night."

"Oh, you've noticed _that_. May be that bodyguard prevented what you're

pleased to call your intrusion."

"It made no difference. Had you been alone I should have taken care that

you reached home safely but you would not have known that I was within

call. May I?"

He had offered his arm. She accepted it. Now that he was close to her

she could see that he had vastly improved. His unhealthy pallor was

gone, his eyes had lost their glassiness, his step was firm, his body

more elastic.

They set out. For a few yards not a word was said. Lavinia was the first

to speak.

"I hope the Hampstead ponds have lost their attraction," said she

lightly.

"Indeed yes--thanks to you. My mother says it is due to the Hampstead

air, but I know better. Is it true that I'm no longer to drink of the

elixir that is restoring me to health and sanity? Are you going to leave

Hampstead?"

"Yes, I'm returning to London. Mr. Rich has given me an engagement."

"I congratulate you. You're fortunate, but your fortune's not more than

you deserve. You're going to be famous. I'm sure of it."

"Well--and you? You'll be writing something soon, won't you?"

"I think not. I've no mind to court failure a second time. My father has

secured me a post at a mercers in Ludgate Hill. I'm still to mingle with

books but they're not of the sort which used to interest me. They have

to do with figures. I've undertaken to keep the accounts."

"I wish you success. Mind you keep 'em correctly. I've my doubts about

that," rejoined Lavinia with a little laugh. "But I mustn't discourage

you."

"You'll never do that. I love even your chiding."

"That's nonsense."

"It's true. I swear it."

The talk was drifting into a personal channel and Lavinia swiftly

changed the subject. The rest of the way was occupied in friendly chat.

At parting Lancelot would have kissed her hand but she adroitly avoided

his homage. Not because she was averse but because she thought it

discreet.

Lavinia went to bed that night content with the world and with herself.

She felt a secret pleasure that she had in a way brought Vane back to

life though how she had done it she could not explain. At any rate,

there was no magic about it. It was a very ordinary thing--no

romance--and certainly no love. So at least she argued and ended by

thinking she had convinced herself.

In London Lavinia went back to her old lodgings in Little Queen Street,

and revived her acquaintance with Mrs. Egleton. The latter received her

with much effusion, which puzzled Lavinia not a little. The cause,

however, was revealed when the lady explained how she had heard from

John Rich that when "The Beggar's Opera" was put into rehearsal he was

going to give her the part of Lucy.

"And you, my dear, are to play Polly."

"So Mr. Gay says, but I don't know for certain."

"Have you read the play?"

"No, I've only learned my songs."

"And the duet with me?"--"I'm bubbled."

"No. I know nothing about that."

"It's terribly hard, but there's plenty of time to get it by heart. I'm

dreadfully nervous though. We have to sing it without any instruments,

not even a harpsichord. All the songs are to be like that."

"Oh.... Won't it all sound very poor?"

"Of course it will. You see that mean hunks Rich won't go to the expense

of a band. He doesn't know how the opera will take the people. It may be

hissed off the stage the first night. I don't trouble my head about

politics--I can't say I know what the rubbish means--but I'm told

there's a good deal in the opera that's likely to give offence."

"I can't think Mr. Gay would write anything likely to offend anybody."

"Can't you? Well, if the Church can easily give offence, much more

likely a playwriter. Why, wasn't the Bishop of Rochester sent to the

Tower for what he said, and isn't he at this very moment in Paris and

afraid to show his nose in England? Oh, you can't call your soul your

own now-a-days. We poor playfolk may bless our lucky stars that we've

only got to say the words set down for us and not our own. Mr. Gay who

writes 'em for us'll have the worry and he's got it too, what with

Rich's scraping and saving and his insisting upon Mr. Quin playing in

the opera."

Lavinia now saw why Gay had been depressed. But Mr. Quin the surly, who

only played in tragedies, what had he to do with Gay's opera? She put

the question to Mrs. Egleton.

"Nothing at all. He hasn't any more idea of singing than an old crow.

It's ridiculous, but Rich will have his way. I tell you flatly, Lavinia,

if Quin plays the part of Captain Macheath he'll be laughed at and so

shall we, and the piece will be damned."

Lavinia thought so too. She had, as Mrs. Squeamish in Wycherley's play,

once acted with Quin on the occasion of his benefit and she well

remembered his stiff, stilted style and how he domineered over

everybody. She felt rather dismayed but she could only resign herself to

the situation. There was the consolation that the opera was not likely

to be staged for some time and things might alter. In the theatre any

sudden change was possible.

For weeks, indeed to Christmas, Lavinia remained one of the "lasses" in

"The Rape of Proserpine," but she was quite contented, for Lancelot Vane

was permanently in London in his new post and they were constantly

together. Every night he was waiting for her outside the stage door and

saw her across the Fields to Little Queen Street. It was not safe, he

protested, for her to be in that dark dreary waste alone at night and he

was right. Lincoln's Inn Fields was one of the worst places in London.

The most daring robberies even in daylight were of common occurrence.

Despite the short days of winter they took long walks together. On the

day "betwixt Saturday and Monday," like the lad and the lass of Carey's

famous ballad at that time all the rage, to them Sunday was the day of

days. Sometimes they strolled to the pleasant fields of Islington and

Hornsey; sometimes they revisited Hampstead, and occasionally by way of

the Westminster and Lambeth ferry to the leafy groves of Camberwell, and

the Dulwich Woods. They never talked of love; they were contented and

happy, may be because both were conscious they _were_ in love.