Though she
had tried to combat Vane's dismal forebodings a conviction was gradually
forcing itself upon her that he was right. He was a doomed man.
It was quite ten minutes before she was composed enough to enter the
cottage. Betty and her mother were tiptoe with excitement. The old woman
was too feeble to walk as far as the concert room, but her daughter had
gone and listened outside, and as it was a hot night and the windows
were open, she heard Lavinia's song perfectly.
"Mercy on me, child, why, an angel couldn't ha' sung more beautiful. La,
if it only be like that in Heaven! I'd ha' given anything for mother to
ha' been there. I see you come out with a gentleman, but I know manners
better than to stare at others as is above me."
"That was Mr. Gay, the poet. It was he who took me to the Duchess of
Queensberry. I told you how kind she was to me, didn't I?"
"Aye, so you did. Well, but sure how the folk did clap their hands and
roar for you to sing again. They loved to hear you purely an' no wonder.
I never heard anything like it. But bless me, Lavinia--beggin' your
pardon, which I ought to say Miss Fenton--you don't seem overjoyed."
"The girl's a-tired out," put in the old lady. "I mind it was just the
same with my poor mistress Molly. She sometimes couldn't move one foot
in front o' t'other when she comed off the stage."
"That's true enough," said Lavinia wearily.
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