"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."