“Indeed!” said Vansittart, with a scowl which did not invite further comment; but Sefton was not to be silenced by black looks.
“Did Mr. Hawberk bring Signora Vivanti from Italy?” asked Eve; and Sefton could see that she paled at the mere mention of the singer’s name.
“I think not. She was established in very comfortable quarters at Chelsea when Hawberk first heard of her. Some good friend brought her to London and paid for her training. The rest of her career is history. Hawberk finished her artistic education, and had the courage to trust the fate of a new opera to an untried singer. The result justified his audacity, and the Vivanti is the rage. She is original, you see; and a grain of originality is worth a bushel of imitative excellence!”
“I should like to hear her sing,” said Eve.
“Then you are in a fair way of being gratified. She is to sing tonight. Lady Hartley has engaged her.”
“Really! How odd that Lady Hartley never mentioned her when she was telling me about her programme.”
“The engagement was made only two or three days ago, after I met Lady Hartley at Lady Belle Teddington’s evening party. It was my suggestion. Musical evenings are apt to be so dismal—Mendelssohn, de Beriot, Spohr, relieved by a portentous Scotch ballad of nine and twenty verses by a fashionable baritone. Vivanti has sentiment and humour, chic and fire. She will be the bouquet, and send people away in good spirits.”
A duet for violin and cello began at this stage of conversation, and when it was over Vansittart moved away to another part of the room, and talked to other people. It was past eleven. He knew not how soon the Venetian might appear upon the scene; but he was determined to keep out of her way. He would not risk another effusive greeting; and with a woman of her type there was no reliance upon the restraints of society. She might be as demonstrative in a crowded drawing-room as on the river Thames. Of all irritating chances what could be more exasperating than this young woman’s appearance at his sister’s house, even as a paid entertainer? And it was Sefton’s doing; Sefton, who had seen him with Fiordelisa two years ago on the Embankment, and who doubtless remembered that meeting; Sefton, who had admired Eve and had been scorned by her, and who doubtless hated Eve’s husband.
Nothing could be more disquieting for Vansittart than that Sefton should have made himself the friend and patron of Fiordelisa—even if he were no more than friend or patron. If he were pursuing the Venetian girl with evil meaning it would be Vansittart’s duty to warn her. He had urged her to lead a good life—to redeem the error of her girlhood by a virtuous and reputable womanhood. It would be the act of a coward to stand aside and keep silence, while her reputation was being blighted by Sefton’s patronage. True that her aunt and son had been the companions of today’s river excursion; true that their presence had given respectability to the jaunt; yet with his knowledge of Sefton’s character Vansittart could hardly believe that his intentions towards this daughter of the people could be altogether free from guile. He hated the idea of an interview with Lisa; but he told himself that it was his duty to give her fair warning of Sefton’s character. She might have been Harold Marchant’s wife, perhaps, with a legitimate protector, but for his—Vansittart’s—evil passions. This gave her an indisputable claim upon his care and kindness—a claim not to be ignored because it involved unpleasantness or risk for himself.
He went back to Eve presently, and asked her to come into the inner drawing-room, where there were people who wanted to see her; an excuse for getting her away from Sefton, who still held his ground by her chair.
“I shall lose my place if I stir,” she said; “and I want to hear Signora Vivanti.”
“I’ll bring you back.”
“There’ll be no getting back through the crowd. Please let me stay till she has sung.”
“As you please.”
He turned and left her, offended that she should refuse him; vexed at her desire to hear the woman who had already been a bone of contention between them. He went back to the inner drawing-room, as far as possible from the piano and the clever German pianist who had arranged the programme for Lady Hartley, and who was to accompany—somewhat reluctantly—the lady from the Apollo, whose performance might pass the boundary line of the comme il faut, he thought.
Vansittart stood where he could just see Lisa, by looking over the heads of the crowd. She took her stand a little way from the piano, with admirable aplomb, though this was her first society performance. She was in yellow—a yellow crape gown, very simply made, with a baby bodice and short puffed sleeves; and on the clear olive of her finely moulded neck there flashed the collet necklace which represented the firstfruits of her success. Vansittart shuddered as he noted the jewels, for he had the accepted idea of actress’s diamonds, and he began to fear that Lisa had already taken the wrong road.
She sang a ballad from the new seriocomic opera, Haroun Alraschid, a ballad which all the street organs and all the smart bands were playing, and which was as familiar in the remotest slums of the east as in the gardens of the west.
“I am not fair, I am not wise,
But I would die for thee;
My only merit in thine eyes
Is my fidelity.
Oh, couldst thou kill me with thy frown,
That death I’d meekly meet,
For it were joy to lay me down
And perish at thy feet.”
It was the song of a slave to her Sultan, and glanced from the
