"Oh, I confess some are comic enough in all conscience. But that was not in my mind. It was that any sane man should waste time in writing a tragedy. The worst thing about a tragedy is that the playwright's friends are pestered to read it and audiences tired by sitting it out.

Aren't there tragedies enough in real life without men inventing 'em?"

"Indeed, I can't say, sir."

"I suppose not. You're not old enough. Tragedy doesn't come to the young and when it does they don't understand and perhaps 'tis as well. But I'll have to humour you or I shall never hear the last of it. Put the parcel up again and I'll look at the contents at my leisure. Now to a much more entertaining matter--yourself. Have you practised your singing? Have you attended to the instructions of your music master? I doubt it. I'll vow you've often driven the poor man half frantic with your airs and graces and teasing and that he hasn't had the heart to chide you."

"Oh, indeed he has," cried Lavinia, pouting, "though really I haven't given him cause and yet he was tiresome enough."

"I dare say. But you must let me hear. I want to be sure the good d.u.c.h.ess hasn't thrown her money away. My friends, too, are curious to have a taste of your quality. I've told them much about thee. You mustn't put discredit upon me."

"No sir, I wouldn't be so ungrateful. What would you have me do?"

"I want to hear one of your old ballads such as showered pennies and shillings in your pocket when I've heard you sing in Clare Market and St. Giles High Street. But first let us go back to Mr. Pope and the others."

Lavinia looked a little frightened at the idea of singing before musical judges who doubtless were accustomed to listen to the great singers at the King's Theatre--Signor Senesino, Signor Farinalli, Signora Cuzzoni, Signora Faustina, and may be the accomplished English singer Anastasia Robinson, albeit she rarely sang in the theatre but mainly in the houses of her father's n.o.ble friends among whom was the Earl of Peterborough, her future husband.

Perhaps Gay saw her trepidation, for, said he laughingly:

"You needn't fear Mr. Pope. He hasn't the least idea what a tune is and won't know whether you sing well or ill. Dr. Arbuthnot sitting next him is the kindliest soul in the world, and will make excuses for you if you squawl as vilely as a cat on the tiles. As for Dr. Pepusch--ah, that's a different matter. Pepusch is an ugly man and you must do your best to lessen his ugliness. He's all in all to Mr. Rich when Rich condescends to let the fiddles and the flutes give the audience a little music. If you capture Pepusch you may help me."

"Oh, I'd do that gladly Mr. Gay. Tell me how," cried Lavinia eagerly.

"Softly--softly, 'tis all in the clouds at present. Pepusch must hear you sing. Then--but I dare not say more."

Lavinia surveyed the hard face and the double chin of the musical director disapprovingly.

"I don't take to him," said she. "Is he an Englishman?"

"No--he comes from Germany. Like King George and Queen Caroline."

Lavinia frowned.

"Some of the people in St. Giles I've heard call the Royal Family Hanoverian rats," she exclaimed indignantly, "and those German women who pocketted everything they could lay their hands upon--the 'Maypole' and the 'Elephant,' the one because she's so lean and the other because she's so fat--they're rats too. Fancy the King making them into an English d.u.c.h.ess and countess. 'Tis monstrous. Why----"

"Hush--hush," interrupted Gay with mock solemnity and placing his finger on her lips. "You're talking treason within earshot of the 'Maypole,'

otherwise her Grace the d.u.c.h.ess of Kendal. Don't you know that she is a neighbour of Mr. Pope? Kendal House on the road to Isleworth is but an easy walk from here."

"Then I'm sorry for Mr. Pope. I hate the Germans."

"Oh, then you're a Jacobite and a rebel. If you would retain your pretty head on your shoulders keep your treason to yourself," laughed Gay. "But I confess I like the Germans no more than you do. Yet there are exceptions. Pepusch has made his home here--his country turned him out--and there's clever Mr. Handel. The English know more about his music than do his countrymen. I would love to see you, Polly, applauded in the Duke's Theatre as heartily as was Mr. Handel's opera 'Rinaldo' at the King's."

Something significant in Gay's voice and face sent the blood rushing to Lavinia's cheeks.

"I applauded!--I at the Duke's! Oh, that will never be."

"May be not--may be not. But one never knows. A pretty face--a pretty voice--an air--faith, such gifts may work wonders. But let us keep Mr.

Pope waiting no longer."

They approached the table beneath the cedar tree.

"Sir," said Gay with a bow to Pope, "I've prevailed upon my young madam here to give us a taste of her quality. I trust your twittering birds won't be provoked to rivalry. Happily their season of song is past."

"I warn you Mr. Gay, the age of miracles is _not_ past. What if the work you're toiling at sends the present taste of the town into a summersault? Would not that be a miracle?"

"You think then that my 'Beggar's Opera' won't do," broke in Gay, his face losing a little of its colour.

"You know my views. It is something unlike anything ever written before--a leap in the dark. But for Miss's ditty. We're all attention."

"What shall I sing, sir?" Lavinia whispered to Gay.

"Anything you like, my child, so long as you acquit yourself to Dr.

Pepusch's satisfaction."

"But I would love to have your choice too. What of 'My Lodging is on the Cold Ground?' My music master told me this was the song that made King Charles fall in love with Mistress Moll Davies. So I learned it."

"Odso. Of course you did. Then let old Pepusch look out. Nothing could be better. Aye, it is indeed a sweet tune."

Lavinia retired a few paces on to the lawn, dropped naturally into a simple pose and for a minute or two imagined herself back in the streets where she sang without effort and without any desire to create effect.

She sang the pathetic old air--much better fitted to the words than the so-called Irish melody of a later date--with delightful artlessness.

"What think you, doctor?" whispered Gay to Pepusch. "Can you see her as Polly--not Peggy mind ye--I'm fixed on Polly Peachum."

"De girl ver goot voice has. But dat one song--it tell me noting. Can she Haendel sing?"

"That I know not, but I'll warrant she'll not be a dunce with Purcell.

And you must admit, doctor, that your George Frederick Handel is much beholden to our Henry Purcell."

"Vat?" cried Pepusch a little angrily. "Nein--nein. Haendel the greatest composer of music in de vorld is."

"I grant you his genius but he comes after Purcell. Have you heard Purcell's setting of 'Arise, ye subterranean winds?' If not, I'll get Leveridge to sing it. Has not your Handel helped himself to that? Not note for note, but in style, in dignity, in expression? Ah, I have you there. But we mustn't quarrel. You must hear the girl again. Look 'ee here. Have we not agreed that 'Virgins are like the Fair Flower' in the first act shall be set to Purcell's 'What shall I do to show how much I love her?' I would have you play the air and Polly shall sing it."

"Sing dat air? But it most difficult is. It haf de trills--de appogiaturas. Has she dem been taught?"

"You will soon see. For myself I hold not with the Italian style and its eternal ornament and repet.i.tions."

"Aha--ha Mistare Gay, I haf _you_ now," chuckled Pepusch. "Your Purcell Engleesh is. He copy de Italian den."

"Oh, may be--may be in his own style," rejoined Gay hastily. "But here is my verse. Oblige me with the music."

During the discussion Gay had been turning over a pile of ma.n.u.script on the table. This ma.n.u.script was a rough draft of the "Beggar's Opera."

Pepusch had before him the music of a number of tunes, most of them well known, selected by Gay and himself as suitable for the songs in the opera. Poet and musician had had repeated differences as to the choice of melodies but things had now fairly settled down.

Lavinia meanwhile was watching the proceedings with no little interest and with not less nervousness. She had heard the talk and saw quite well that she was about to be put to a severe test. She was to sing something she had never sung before and possibly written in a style with which she was unfamiliar. Gay approached her with a sheet of ma.n.u.script which he put into her hand.

"You did very well, child," said he encouragingly. "But I want you to do better. Dr. Pepusch will play the music for these verses on the harpsichord. You must listen closely to the melody and take particular note of the way he plays it. Then you will sing it. Here are the words and the music. Study them while the doctor plays."

Lavinia looked at both in something like dismay. The music being engraved was plainer than Gay's cramped handwriting. She knew she had imitative gifts and that most tunes she heard for the first time she could reproduce exactly. But that was for her own pleasure. She at such times abandoned herself to the power of music. But for the pleasure of others and to know that she was being criticised was a different matter.

Already she felt distracted. Could she fix her attention on the music and think of nothing else?