“Ah, no, not genius—I have no genius. My brother has genius. I know what it is to have genius. Tom tells me that he is in no way impressed by the presence of thousands listening to his playing on his violin. Mr. Garrick—he, too, has genius, and he has acted for Polly and myself quite as grandly as I have ever seen him act in his own play-house.”
“Your definition of genius is founded on a somewhat arbitrary basis, my dear. Indifference to the public does not invariably indicate genius. I have heard it said by some who know, that David Garrick spends the first ten minutes of his appearance on the stage every night calculating the sum of money there is in the house. That is beside the question. If you are not in the possession of genius, you have at your command a possession even more subtle, more delicate, purer—you have the sweetest soul that ever lived in woman, and every time you sing you communicate some portion of it to your hearers.”
She looked at him with some apprehension in her eyes.
“You promised me that I should never be forced to sing in public again,” she said. “Oh, surely you are not now going to tell me that you take back your promise?”
“Nay, nay, let no such apprehension weigh upon you, dear child,” said he. “Our conversation has drifted far from its starting-place. We were talking about that Mathews, and how easily he obtained admission to your father’s house. I wonder should I be wrong if I were to suggest that he was the suitor who found most favour in the eyes of your father?”
“For a time, only for a time,” she cried quickly, as if anxious to exculpate her father. “When my father became aware of how distasteful Mr. Mathews was to me, he ceased urging me to accept his proposals. Oh, I can assure you that my father has never been anxious for me to marry any one.”
“I can well believe that,” said Long drily. Only a day had passed since he had been sitting at a desk opposite to Mr. Linley, while the latter explained to him, by the assistance of certain memoranda on a sheet of paper, the exact amount of loss per annum, worked out to shillings and pence, that the withdrawal of Betsy from the concert platform would mean to her father. Mr. Long had been greatly interested in the calculation, for it represented the sum which he had agreed to pay to the devoted father by way of compensation for the loss of his daughter’s services. “And you—you have never been anxious to marry any one?” he added.
There was a little pause before she said:
“I have never been strongly tempted. I have never had a sleepless night thinking what answer I should give to the gentlemen who were good enough to ask me to marry them.”
“I feel flattered, my dear one,” said he.