"Moderate Terms."

"Very moderate and very select, no doubt," thought Hubert cynically.

"Now is that girl making a fool of me, or is she not? All those pretty airs might so easily be put on by a clever actress. I shall find her out to-morrow. She can act a little--I know that; but, if she can't sing, after what she has said, she may go to Jericho for me! And, if she does not come at all, why, then I shall know that she is an arrant little impostor, and that I am a confounded fool!"

"He stopped to light a cigar under a lamp-post, and a slight smile played over his features as he struck the match.

"She's a beautiful girl," he said to himself; "if she does turn out an impostor, I shall be rather sorry. But, by Jove, I don't believe she will!"

CHAPTER XIV.

"Shall I take off my hat before I sing?" said Miss West calmly.

She was in Hubert's sitting-room. Mr. Lepel had the drawing-room floor of a large and fine old house in Russell square--a floor which contained two drawing-rooms opening out of each other, a bed and bath-room, and a small den, generally called a smoking-room, although its master's pipes and cigars were to be found in all corners of the apartments. Hubert had partially furnished the rooms for himself, and thus done away with the bare and ungarnished appearance usually characteristic of a London lodging.

Miss West glanced around the room on her first entry with some astonishment largely commingled with admiration. The mixture of luxury and disorder which met her eyes might have surprised even persons more conversant with the world than Cynthia West. The golden-brown plush curtains between the rooms were half pushed back, and showed that the back-room had been turned into a library. Shelves crowded with books, tables heaped with them, a great writing-table and a _secretaire_ showed that Mr. Lepel used the room for what might be called "professional"

purposes. But in the front drawing-room there had been attempts--and not unsuccessful attempts--at more artistic decoration. The curtains were of exquisite brocade, some charming etchings adorned the walls, great porcelain bowls of flowers had been placed on the oddly-shaped little tables that stood about the room. A pianette had been pulled out from the wall, and an Algerian shawl glistening with gold was loosely thrown over its back. Other articles of decoration were suggestive of foreign travel. A collection of murderous-looking weapons had been fastened on the wall between the two windows, some Eastern embroideries were thrown here and there over the furniture, and an inlaid mother-o'-pearl stool, an enormous narghileh, and some Japanese kakemonos gave the room quite an outlandish air. In spite of its oddness, there was a brightness and pleasantness about the place, due to the gay tints of the Oriental stuffs, and the hue and fragrance of the flowers with which pots and bowls and vases were plentifully filled.

"Yes, take off your hat and cloak, please," said Hubert, "if you do not mind the trouble."

"It is no trouble at all; I can sing much better without my outdoor things," replied the girl promptly.

She took off her little black-and-white hat and her neat little jacket, and displayed herself in a closely-fitting black gown which suited her admirably, in spite of its plainness. There was no touch of color or sign of ornament; a rim of white collar around the neck and white cuffs at her wrists gave the only relief to the gown's sombre hue. And yet, with the vivid beauty of her face above the plain dark garment, it seemed as if she could not have found a garb that was more absolutely becoming. She stood beside the little piano for a moment with a roll of music in her hand, and looked at Hubert questioningly.

"Shall I play my own accompaniment?" she asked.

"I never thought of that; I could have judged better of your voice if we had had an accompanist," said her host. "I could play for you myself if you liked."

"No; I will do it," said Cynthia decidedly, "Go to the other end of the room, will you, please, Mr. Lepel? You will hear me better there."

There was a pretty air of command about her which amused Mr. Lepel. This young woman, he reflected, as he took up the position which she had recommended, was not one who would be contented with a secondary position anywhere. She evidently considered herself born to rule. Well, he would do her bidding; he had no objection to the rule of a pretty woman! He was not disposed to take Miss Cynthia West and her singing very seriously--as yet.

Cynthia seated herself at the piano, while Hubert flung himself into an easy-chair at the farther end of the room, and crossed his arms behind his head in an attitude of attention and endurance, which showed that he was not expecting much and was prepared to bear the worst. For the singing of an average girl of eighteen or nineteen, with an ambition to appear on a public stage, is apt to be trying to the sensibilities of the true music-lover; and Hubert Lepel was no mean critic of the art.

Cynthia played a few opening bars, and then began to sing a popular ballad of the day. When she had finished it, she did not look round, but went on fingering the notes, gliding gradually into another key. Then suddenly she broke out into a fine old Italian aria, which she sang with much fire and expression, availing herself of every opportunity of _fioriture_ and _cadenza_ afforded by the song. And thence, with only a few bars of symphony between, she launched herself upon one of Schubert's most passionate love-songs, and sang it in a style which brought the listener to his feet at its close in a musical rapture that almost defied expression.

"Why, good heavens," cried Hubert, with something not unlike a gasp, "who on earth taught you to sing like that? And your voice--do you know, Miss West, that your voice is simply magnificent?"

Cynthia kept her head down, and continued to finger the notes--mutely this time.

"I have been told that I might be able to sing at private concerts," she said demurely.

"Private concerts! You might sing at Her Majesty's or Covent Garden--with a little more training perhaps," said Hubert, trying to be cautious, but failing to hide the satisfaction which shone out of his eyes as he approached the piano. "Why have you never sung to any manager? At least you may have done so, but I never heard a word of it; and a voice like yours would be talked about; you know."

"I suppose it was old Lalli's fault," said Cynthia carelessly. "He always impressed upon me that I could not sing a bit, and that I must wait for years and years before I dare open my mouth in public."

"And who is old Lalli?" asked Hubert, gathering up her music and beginning to turn it over.

Cynthia crossed her white hands and looked down, a shadow flitting across her mobile face.

"He is dead," she said softly. "He was a very kind old friend. He lodged in the house where I am lodging now. As long as he lived I always had somebody to advise me--somebody to depend on."

Her voice faltered a little. Some moisture was visible on the long dark eyelashes as they hung over the fresh young cheeks. Hubert thought again that he had never seen a woman half so beautiful. The touch of emotion softened her loveliness--made it more human, more appealing. His tone was less light, but more simply friendly, when he addressed her again.

"Was he a musician?"

"He was a violinist in the Frivolity orchestra. He had been a singer once, I believe; at any rate, he knew a great deal about singing, and he used to give me lessons. He used to tear his hair, and frown and stamp a great deal," said Cynthia, smiling tenderly; "but he was kind, and I loved him very much."

"You met with him at the boarding-house where you live, I suppose?" said Hubert carelessly.

Cynthia gave him a sudden glance. The color came into her face.

"No," she said slowly; "he took me there." She raised her right hand and struck a few soft notes with it before she resumed her speech. "You would like to know how it was perhaps?" She made long pauses between her sentences, as if she were considering what to say and what to leave unsaid. "I came to London about four years ago, in great trouble. I had lost all my friends--not because I had done anything wrong, because of--other things. I wanted to get something to do in a shop or as a servant-girl--I did not care what. I tried all day, but nobody would give me work. I slept in the Park at night. Next day I began to search all over again, and again it was of no use. I had no money; I was very hungry and tired. I sat down on a step and cried, and at last some one said to me, 'What is the matter, my poor child?' And I looked up, frightened, and saw an old man with a long gray beard and very dark eyes and a kind face stooping over me. That was Signor Guido Lalli, of the Frivolity."

"I remember him in the band quite well," said Hubert. "He had a good face."

"Had he not?" exclaimed the girl, with sudden passion. "He was the kindest, wisest, best man I ever knew! I could not help trusting him, he looked so good. He made me tell him all about myself, and then he took me with him to the boarding-house in Euston Road where he lived, and said that he would be responsible to the landlady for me until I got something to do. And Mrs. Wadsley was so fond of him that she took me on trust for his sake. I don't believe she ever suspected how little he really knew about me. And next day he took me to some friends of his, and between them they got me a little engagement at a theatre; and then I had a small speaking part, and so on--you know as well as I do how young actresses go from step to step--so that I was able to support myself after a time, and be no longer a burden upon him."

"And would he not let you sing?"

"No; he gave me lessons every day, and made me practise a long time; but I had to promise him that I would not sing to anybody but himself unless--unless I were obliged. I used to be angry about it; but he was so good to me that I always gave in to him in the end. I fancy now that he had a purpose in it all. When I was sufficiently trained, he wanted to take me to Mapleson or some other great _impresario_, and get him to bring me out in opera."

"Very likely. But you say he died?"

"Yes," said the girl, with a sigh, "he died--suddenly too, so that he did not even say good-bye. He was found dead one morning in his bed.

Since then I have been all alone in the world; and I think Mr. Ferguson knew it, and wanted to take advantage of my position."

"No doubt of it."

"So then, as I had no engagement at the theatre, I thought I would see whether my voice would do anything for me. And, as I told you last night, I made up my mind to speak to you."

Hubert had stood with his arms on the piano, looking gravely down on the girl's bent face as she told her story. As she paused, she raised her head, and her great dark eyes looked straight into his with an expression of mute appeal which stirred his feelings strangely. It moved him so much that he was forced to take down his arms and turn aside from the piano for a moment or two; he scarcely wanted her to see how deeply he was touched. He soon came back to her side, however, and said--

"If I had refused to listen to you, what would you have done?"

"I don't know," she answered meditatively.

"You would have gone to some manager--some celebrated _impresario_?"

"And been snubbed and repulsed by one and all!" said, Cynthia, with sudden passion.

She rose from the music-stool and stood facing him; he saw her bosom rise and fall, he marked the varying color in her cheeks, the light and shadow in her troubled eyes, as she poured out the impetuous words with which her heart was charged.

"I could not have borne it! I do not know how to put up with insult and contempt. I feel that I hate all the world when it treats me in that way. I never could be meek and good like other girls. I don't mean that I want to be wicked--I hope I am not wicked--but, if you had failed me, I think that I should have gone straight away to London Bridge and thrown myself into the river--for I should have had no hope left."

"My dear girl," said Hubert, rather gravely, "with that voice of yours you would have been very wrong to feel so easily discouraged."