Part 43 (1/2)

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 sc.r.a.ping 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 d.a.m.ned.”

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 ”la.s.ses” 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 Sat.u.r.day and Monday,” like the lad and the la.s.s 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.

CHAPTER XXVI

”POLLY IS TO BE MY NAME FOR EVER AFTER”

The new year brought the first rehearsal of ”The Beggar's Opera.”