"Why not? He would not employ you if he did not think it was to his own good. And have you promised?"

"No--not yet. He was persuading me just now but I've not consented."

"Then don't. He's a bad, a wicked man I feel sure. Have nothing to do with him."

"I swear to you I've no desire. But a penniless scribbler has no choice if he has to live--that is if life be worth living, which I sometimes doubt."

"You shouldn't think like that. It's cowardly. A man should fight his way through the world. Now a woman...."

"She's armed better than a man. Her charm--her beauty--her wit. Nature bestows on her all conquering weapons."

"Which she as often as not misuses and turns against herself. But Mr.

Vane," the note of bitterness had vanished; her voice was now earnest, almost grave, "you weren't despondent when you were facing an angry mob after doing me a service I shall never forget. You underrate yourself."

"Oh, I admit that when alone I'm like a boat at the mercy of wind and wave, but with some one to inspire--to guide--bah, 'tis useless talking of the unattainable."

Vane uttered the last words in a reckless tone and with a shrug of the shoulders. His eyes gazed yearningly, despairingly into hers, and there had never been a time in Lavinia's life when she was less able to withstand a wave of heartfelt emotion.

Her nerves at that moment were terribly unstrung. She had had a most exhausting day lasting from early dawn. The strain of the trying interview at Twickenham; the anxious ordeal of singing before such supreme judges as she deemed them; the jubilation of success and the praise they had bestowed upon her, and Gay's promises as to her future had turned her brain for the time being. Then the episode of the highwayman--that in itself was sufficiently disturbing.

As a matter of fact the girl's strength was ebbing fast when she reached Moor Fields, but she nerved herself to go on, confident of her reward in relieving the young author's anxiety and his joy at the success--up to a point--of her errand. Things had not quite turned out as she had pictured them. The sight of the coa.r.s.e speeched, malevolent-looking man with his squinting eye and unhealthy complexion, brought back the scene of the night before which she would willingly have forgotten, and down went her spirits to zero.

While she had been talking with Vane her heart was fluttering strangely.

She had eaten nothing since she had left Twickenham and she was conscious of a weakness, of a trembling of the limbs. That pa.s.sionate, yearning look in Vane's eyes had aroused an excess of tenderness towards him which overwhelmed her. She suddenly turned dizzy. She swooned.

When consciousness came back she was in his arms. He was as tremulous as she and was looking at her pallid face with eyes of terror--a terror which disappeared instantly when he saw life returning.

"My G.o.d," he cried, "I thought you were dead. I'd have killed myself had it been so."

Lavinia gazed at him mutely. It was pleasant to have his arms round her, and the feel of them gave her a sense of peace and rest. In her fancy she had gone through an interminable period of oblivion--in reality it was but a few seconds--and the struggle into life was painful. But she was strengthened by his vitality and she gently withdrew herself from his embrace, smoothed her hair and drew forward her hood which had fallen back. Despite her pallor, or may be because of it, she never looked more fascinating than at that moment with her hair tumbled, her large dreamy eyes, and the delicious languor so charmingly suggestive of helplessness, and of an appeal to him for protection.

"Are you better?" he whispered anxiously.

"Yes, thank you. It was very silly to faint. I don't know what made me."

"Take my arm; do, please. Why, you can hardly stand."

It was true, and the arm which went round her waist was not wholly unnecessary. She submitted without protest and they slowly walked a few paces.

"Though it's hard to part from you 'tis best you should get home quickly. Have you far to go? Shall I call a coach?"

These pertinent questions threw the girl into a sudden state of confusion. She had no home. She had but little money, for Gay's guinea was nearly gone after she had paid her fare from Hounslow and the incidental expenses of the journey. But she dared not say as much to her companion. He thought her a fine lady. It might be wise to keep him in this mind. If he knew she was as poor as he, there would be an end to the pleasure of helping him. She felt sure he would accept nothing more from her.

What was she to say? She could think of nothing. She felt bewildered.

At the same time the effort to face the difficulty did her good. It revived her energy.

"Indeed there's no necessity for me to ride. I can walk quite well and it is but a little distance to my home. You may see me across the fields if you will and then we will say good-night."

"I'd better walk with you beyond the fields," he urged. "The streets are just as dangerous for you as this desolate place."

"Oh no. There are sure to be plenty of people about! You shall go as far as Cheapside, but not a step further."

Vane accepted the compromise, but when Cheapside was reached it was full of a noisy throng and most of the crowd, both men and women, were the worse for drink. He easily overcame her protest that she could proceed alone and they went on to St. Paul's. Here it was comparatively quiet, and she flatly refused to permit him to accompany her beyond the Cathedral.

They pa.s.sed the Chapter coffee house. Lavinia's thoughts reverted to her warning to Vane on Moor Fields.

"You've not given me your promise to have nothing to do with that man--I don't know his name and I don't want to--who made you drink too much last night in there."

"I'll promise you anything," he cried pressing the arm which was within his.

"Thank you, but that's not all. Swear that you will never drink too much again. It makes me sad."

"On my honour I never will. I'd rather die than hurt you by word or deed."

"Are you sure?" she returned with more concern in her voice than she suspected.

"Sure? If I don't keep my word I should fear to face your anger."

"I shouldn't be angry, only sorry."

"I'd rather have your anger than your pity. I might pacify the first but the second--while you are pitying me you might also despise me. I could never endure that."

His voice trembled with genuine emotion. Lavinia put out her hand and he caught it eagerly and raised it to his lips.

"You've made me happy," he cried, "you've given me fresh hope. I'll promise you all you've asked. You must promise me one thing in return. I can't lose sight of you. It would be eternal torment. When and where shall we meet?"

"I don't know. Perhaps not at all," said Lavinia slowly and lowering her eyes.

"Don't say that. I've told you why. Not at my miserable lodgings, I grant you, but at some other place. What say you to Rosamond's Pond?"

Lavinia darted him a swift glance. The ghost of a smile played about her lips.

"The Lovers' Walk of London! Oh, no."

"But indeed yes. What have you to say against Rosamond's Pond? Its reputation justifies its romance."

"Neither its reputation nor its romance has anything to do with us."

"That is as it may be," he rejoined with an ardent glance. "But you haven't said no. Rosamond's Pond then to-morrow at sunset--seven o'clock?"

Lavinia was too exhausted in mind and body either to refuse or even to argue. She felt as she had felt many a time in her childhood that she was simply a waif and stray. Nothing mattered very much. It was easier to consent than to object.

"To-morrow at sunset," she faltered.

"It's a bargain," he whispered. "You won't disappoint me?"

"Haven't I given you my word? What more do you want?"